meyermedievalallegoryandthebuilding of the new jerusalem

7/28/2019 MeyerMedievalAllegoryandtheBuilding of the New Jerusalem

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/meyermedievalallegoryandthebuilding-of-the-new-jerusalem 1/225

Medieval Allegory and

the Building of the New

Jerusalem

Ann R. Meyer

D. S. BREWER



Medieval Allegory and the Buildingof the New Jerusalem

This book investigates the concept of the New Jerusalem, the City of

God, as an architectural ideal during the Middle Ages, and the way inwhich it is represented allegorically in patristic writings, liturgy,

building, and later literature. The author begins by examining its concep-tual foundations in such sources as the Hebrew Bible, Bede’s exegesis,the religious philosophy of Plotinus, and Augustine’s theology. She thenexplores the influence and the expression of the New Jerusalem in liturgyand architecture, using the twelfth-century remodelling of the AbbeyChurch of St-Denis and its dedication liturgy to show how the building

serves as an eschatological and apocalyptic landscape. The chantrymovement in late medieval England is situated in this context, and leadsto a demonstration of the movement’s associations with the highly-wrought poem Pearl and its companion poems; the book analyses Pearl as medieval architecture, offering fresh perspectives on its elaborateconstruction and historical context.

A NN R. MEYER is an Associate Professor in the Department of Literature,Claremont McKenna College.



The Construction of the Temple in Jerusalem.Paris Bibliothèque nationale de France, Department of Manuscripts,

French 247 fol. 163 (Antiquities, Book VIII)Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

Illumination by Jean Fouquet, c. 1465



Medieval Allegory and the Buildingof the New Jerusalem

ANN R. MEYER

D. S. BREWER



© Ann R. Meyer 2003

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislationno part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system,

published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast,transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means,

without the prior permission of the copyright owner

First published 2003D. S. Brewer, Cambridge

ISBN 0 85991 796 7

D. S. Brewer is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer LtdPO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK

and of Boydell & Brewer Inc.PO Box 41026, Rochester, NY 14604–4126, USA

website: www.boydell.co.uk

A catalogue record of this publication is availablefrom the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data

Meyer, Ann R. (Ann Raftery), 1963– Medieval allegory and the building of the new Jerusalem / Ann R.

Meyer. p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.ISBN 0–85991–796–7 (hardback : alk. paper)

1. Jerusalem in Christianity – History of doctrines – Middle Ages,600–1500. 2. Architecture, Medieval. 3. Allegory. 4. Eglise abbatiale

de Saint-Denis (Saint-Denis, France) 5. Chantries. 6. Pearl (MiddleEnglish poem) I. Title.BT93.5.M485 2003246'.55 – dc21 2003009644

This publication is printed on acid-free paper

Printed in Great Britain by

St Edmundsbury Press Limited, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk



Contents

List of Illustrations vi

Acknowledgments vii

Editorial Note ix

Abbreviations x

Introduction 1

I. Philosophical and Theological Foundations

1 Foundations I: Plotinus’ Screen of Beauty 272 Foundations II: Augustine’s City of God 47

II. Liturgy and Architecture

3 Liturgy at St.-Denis and the Apocalyptic Eschatology of 69High Gothic

4 The Chantry Movement: An Intimate Art of the Medieval 98 New Jerusalem

III. Poetry

5 Taking Allegory Seriously: Ornament as Invitation in Pearl 1376 “Þe nwe cyté o Jerusalem”: Pearl as Medieval Architecture 155

Epilogue 187

Bibliography 189

Index 203



List of Illustrations

Frontispiece: The Construction of the Temple in Jerusalem

1. Chantry priests, Works Chantry, Lincoln Cathedral 1162. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh, Lincoln Cathedral 1183. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh 119

4. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh 1205. Shrine of Saint Werburgh, Chester Cathedral 1216. Percy Tomb (c. 1340–49), Beverley Minster 1227. Percy Tomb (detail) 1238. Percy Tomb (detail) 1259. Choir, Tewkesbury Abbey 127

10. Lierne Vault, Tewkesbury Abbey 128

11. Fitzhamon Chapel (c. 1395–97), Tewkesbury Abbey 12912. Warwick Chapel (1422), Tewkesbury Abbey 13013. Trinity Chapel (c. 1390–1400), Tewkesbury Abbey 13114. Kneeling Effigy of Edward Despenser, Trinity Chapel, 132

Tewkesbury Abbey

vi



Acknowledgments

I wish to thank the Mellon Foundation and the University of Chicago Divisionof Humanities for their generous support of this project in its earliest stages.For support of my research in England and France, I am grateful to theUniversity of Chicago’s Office of International Affairs, to the ClaremontMcKenna College Dean of Faculty’s Office, and the Benjamin J. GouldCenter for Humanistic Studies.

I especially wish to thank the following individuals at the University of Chicago: Michael Murrin, whose seminar on Medieval Allegory provided theinitial motivation and intellectual foundations for this project; DavidBevington for discerning criticism and professional acumen; Christina von

Nolcken for critical bibliographic advice; Anne Walters Robertson for expertadvice on medieval French liturgy; Peter Dembowski for suggestions ontranslation of Froissart’s poetry; and the late Michael Camille who gave valu-able guidance on how best to incorporate the art-historical components of this

project with my literary analysis. I also thank the faculty and students whoattended my presentation at the University of Chicago Medieval Workshop inDecember 1996.

Edward Foley of the Catholic Theological Union offered advice on litur-gical sources of Saint-Denis. Francis-Noël Thomas introduced me to the foun-dation scholarship of Émile Mâle and Louis Réau, to medieval Frencharchitecture sur place, and to the Institut d’Études Augustiniennes in Paris. Iam grateful to Jane Vadnal at the University of Pittsburgh for providing me

with the image of the Kneeling Knight in his canopy atop Trinity Chantry inTewkesbury Abbey. I also thank her colleague, Alison Stones, for permissionto reproduce that image in this book.

Special thanks go my colleagues at Claremont McKenna College: AudreyBilger, Steve Davis, Robert Faggen, John Farrell, Judith Merkle, JimMorrison, Jim Nichols, and Nicholas Warner, all of whom read the manu-script in its later stages, offered encouraging comments, and provided helpfulsuggestions for revision. I am also grateful to Connie Bartling and Sheri

McCain for assisting with the xeroxing of the final manuscript.I presented parts of Chapters One and Three at a conference, “Plotinus andHis Visions: The Alexandrian Intellectual World in Transition,” 26 February1999, which was hosted by Nancy van Deusen of the Claremont GraduateUniversity, the Claremont Consortium for Medieval and Early ModernStudies, and the Institute for Antiquity and Early Christianity. I read parts of Chapters Four and Six to the Medieval Guild Conference at Columbia Univer -sity in 1996.

Projects such as my own could not be completed without the collections of

vii



specialized libraries and the help of librarians. For my research on this book, Iam fortunate to have worked at the Joseph Regenstein Library at the Univer-sity of Chicago, the Newberry Library, the Huntington Library, the Honnold

and Denison libraries of the Claremont Colleges, the libraries of York Minster and Lincoln Cathedral, the Institute for Historical Research in London, andthe Institut d’Études Augustiniennes in Paris. For help with photographingmedieval funerary monuments and for kind permission to reproduce photo-graphs in this book, I am grateful to the Vicar and Churchwardens of BeverleyMinster, Tewkesbury Abbey, Lincoln Cathedral, and the Chapter of Chester Cathedral, and the Service reproduction of the Bibliothèque nationale deFrance.

Finally, I thank my colleagues at Boydell & Brewer, especially Derek Brewer, Caroline Palmer, Vanda Andrews, Pru Harrison and Michael Webb,who have made the process of publishing this book a smooth and gratifyingone for me. The anonymous reader for Boydell & Brewer provided expertsuggestions for revision that guided me in unifying the various disciplinaryareas of my subject and seeing this book through to its completion.

To my mother and father,my sister Patsy,

my brothers Bobby, Godfrey, and Thomas,and Auntie Ann,

for the love that builds Heaven on earth

viii

Acknowledgments



Editorial Note

This book relies extensively on quotations from writers of late antiquity andearly Christianity. In order to achieve a degree of brevity in this wide-rangingstudy, I have selectively omitted original Greek and Latin quotations exceptwhere a particular emphasis upon interpretation is crucial, such as in my closeanalysis in Chapter Three of liturgical texts and commentaries. I have

provided key Latin terms and phrases, such as those from the Vulgate andfrom Saint Augustine’s writings, when I thought it especially helpful for clari-fication. All standard Greek and Latin sources are listed in the Bibliography.Unless otherwise noted, biblical quotations in Latin are taken from theVulgate ( Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem, Stuttgart: DeutscheBibelgesellschaft, 1969). English translations of biblical passages are takenfrom the Douay (Rheims-Douay) Version (Baltimore and New York, JohnMurphy Co., 1899). Full bibliographical references for Augustine’s Decivitate Dei and Confessiones (abbreviations listed below) are provided in the

notes and Bibliography (Primary Sources). Bibliographical information on allother works by Augustine that I cite in this book may also be found in the Bib-liography (Primary Sources).

ix



Abbreviations

ACW Ancient Christian Writers, ed. J. Quasten and J. C. Plumpe(Westminster, MD.: Newman, 1946–)

ANF Ante-Nicene Fathers (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 1951–)ANCL Ante-Nicene Christian Library: Translations of the Writings of the

Fathers down to AD 325, ed. A. Roberts and J. Donaldson (Edinburgh:T. and T. Clark 1967–72)

AugStud Augustinian Studies (Villanova: Villanova UP, 1970–)CCL Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina (Turnhout: Brepols, 1953–)CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (Vienna: Tempsky,

1865–)civ. Dei Augustine, De civitate Dei (On the City of God), ed. B. Dombart and

A. Kalb, CCL (2 vols). I have used the English translation of thiscritical edition, which appears in R. W. Dyson, trans. and ed., The Cityof God against the Pagans. Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998).

conf . Augustine, Confessiones (Confessions), L. Verheijen, CCL 27.English translations I have consulted include H. Chadwick, TheConfessions (Oxford; New York: Oxford UP, 1991); and R. S.Pine-Coffin, Confessions (New York: Penguin, 1961).

Enn. Plotinus, The Enneads, Plotini Opera, ed. P. Henry and H.-R.Schwyzer (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964–1982). I use the facing-pageEnglish translation of this edition by A. Hillary Armstrong, Plotinus,in The Loeb Classical Library, 7 vols (Cambridge: Harvard UP,1966–88).

FC The Fathers of the Church, ed. R. J. Deferrari (Washington: CatholicUP, 1947–)LCC Library of Christian Classics, ed. J. Baillie, J. T. McNeill, and H. P.

van Dusen (Philadelphia and London: Westminster P, 1953–66) NPNF A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the

Christian Church (Oxford; repr., Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans,1994)

PL Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J. P. Migne (Paris,1844–64)

RechAug Recherches Augustiniennes (Paris: Études Augustiniennes) REtAug Revue des Études Augustiniennes (Paris: Études Augustiniennes,1955–)

SCM Student Christian Movement: SCM/Canterbury PressSPCK Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge PressVigChr Vigiliae Christianae. A Review of Early Christian Life and Language

(Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Co., 1947–)WSA The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, ed.

J. E. Rotelle (New York: New City P, 1990)

x



Introduction

According to the grace of God which is given unto me, as a wisemaster builder, I have laid the foundation, and another buildeththereon. (I Corinthians 3.10)

The foundation of the temple is to be understood mystically.(Bede, De templo 4.1)1

Architecture, allegory, and revelation: these three words communicate in aremarkably wide-ranging and complementary way the artistic, intellectual,and religious cultures of medieval Europe. If one wishes to understand medi-eval beliefs, fears, and aspirations, architecture offers the most commandingvisual sources of discovery. It is also an art form that is unsurpassed in its col-lective powers of expression, including its function as a location for secular and sacred liturgies. Allegory in turn is one of the chief philosophical, reli-

gious, and literary modes of medieval expression. From Origen to the sculp-tors of Chartres Cathedral to Dante, medieval theologians and artists choseallegory as the means of expression most effective and most worthy of communicating the relation between the divine world and human experience.Finally, revelation – and here I use the term to mean an intimate awareness of God’s presence – is the highest spiritual end, the definitive goal of human ex-

perience in the medieval world. Revelation is what medieval church architec-ture aspires to and what medieval religious allegory unveils.

This book is an investigation of how these aspects of medieval thought andexpression functioned simultaneously as form, method, and meaning – howarchitecture, allegory, and revelation worked together in an effort to representthe New Jerusalem on earth. As a way of usefully limiting this investigation, Ifocus my attention on the architectural approach to divine revelation in themedieval west, including its manifestation in liturgy and literature. This focuscontributes to the tradition of scholarship, especially in the last decade, thathas explored ways in which architecture and architectural motifs in other areas of medieval studies stand out as among the most pervasive and complexsignifications in medieval culture.

There are many ways of studying these medieval accomplishments. Muchrecent scholarship has focused on technical, sociological, and political ques-tions including, in the last twenty years, a whole range of theoretical perspec-tives that have stimulated discussion on the contexts and meanings of

1

1 D. Hurst, ed., CCL 119A (1969); trans. Seán Connolly, Translated Texts for Historians Series,Vol. 21 (Liverpool: Liverpool UP, 1995).



medieval art and culture. My focus is not meant to counter such approaches, tofit the great variety and complexity of medieval architectural expressions intoa restrictive or all-encompassing structure, or to impose from without artifi-

cial formulations. Such approaches have come to be regarded as inadequate,since they risk underestimating the richness of purpose and meaning theseaccomplishments from our distant past offer. I do not, in other words, suggestthat allegory is the only method or that divine revelation the only purpose rele-vant for understanding medieval art and architecture. Rather, by examiningselected works from the disciplines of philosophy, theology, liturgy, architec-ture, and literature, my aim is to direct closer attention to the pervasivenessand complexities of an extraordinary intellectual and cultural achievementand to suggest a method of interdisciplinary research that reaches well beyondsurface relationships between these disciplines.

My use of the term “allegory” also requires qualification. The word itself combines two Greek words: allos (other) and agoreuein (to speak). Thefundamental meaning conveyed by the word “allegory” (Gr. allegoria), then,is “to speak otherwise,” “to say other things,” “to say other than that which ismeant” (Lat. alia oratio). The single use of the word (as a participle,allêgoroumena) in the New Testament appears in Paul’s letter to the Galatians(4.24) to designate the relation between the Old and New Covenants. Jerome

(c. 347–420) translated Paul’s text as quae sunt per allegoriam dicta (“whichthings are said by an allegory”). Other Latin uses of the word and its relatedforms appear in writings of major theologians in the medieval west. Augus-tine (354–430), who identifies Saint Paul as his master in the craft andtransformational spirituality of biblical exegesis, cites the passage fromGalatians and glosses it with the phrase, quae sunt aliud ex alio significantia(“which things signify one thing by another”).2 Isidore of Seville (c. 560–636)used the term alieniloquium, the Latin equivalent of the Greek combination

allos + agoreuein (other-speaking), to describe allegory as a grammaticaltechnique. Hugh of St.-Victor (1096–1141) also used alieniloquium todescribe allegory, since aliud dicitur et aliud significatur (“one thing is saidand another thing is signified”).

The ancient and medieval writers used “allegory” and its related verbal andadjectival forms in conjunction with, and often as a substitution for, a wholerange of other terms to designate identical or closely related meanings. Theseterms include hyponoia (“under-sense”), symbolon (“symbol”), figura

(“figure”), signum (“sign”), imago (“image”), eikon (“icon”), and aenigma(“enigma”). It is important to emphasize that in the historical periods I treat inthis book, these terms were not often clearly distinguished from one another inmeaning. To cite one highly influential example in the western medievaltradition, Augustine demonstrates great flexibility in his use of allegoria and

figura in his biblical exegesis, not taking care in a consistent way to distin-

2

Introduction

2 De Trinitate XV 9; see also civ. Dei XV 18–19.



guish them from the Pauline terms typos (Lat. figura in I Corinthians 10.6)and typikôs (Lat. figura in I Corinthians 10.11) or from similitudo, umbra,

sacramentum, mysteria, and imago.3 Jon Whitman cites examples from

Hellenic and Hebraic writers: “The rhetorician Heraclitus uses both hyponoiaand allegoria to describe his interpretation of Homer. So does the great Jewishexegete Philo, at about the same period, only with reference to the Bible, notHomer.”4 That these terms were used indiscriminately among major ancientand medieval writers indicates that for them there was great overlap inmeaning. It is clear, however, that for these writers all of the terms “involvethe intention of conveying or constructing meaning.”5

In this book I follow the example of the ancient and medieval writers,demonstrating an informed Augustinian flexibility, for example, in my use of words like “sign,” “figure,” “image,” and “symbol.” One additional aspect of my own flexibility is that, unlike many of the ancient and medieval writers, Iselectively apply the multiple terms of allegorical language across the disci-

plines, so that these terms become part of my discussion not only of the biblical exegeses of Bede and Augustine, but also in my treatments of medi-eval liturgy, architecture, and poetry.

As is well known, the term “allegory” has often been used to designate atechnique or system of interpretation. Medieval theologians conceived a

multi-leveled system of biblical exegesis, with terms such as “typological,”“tropological,” and “anagogical” serving as specific designations for differentlevels of meaning. Dante famously adapted the allegorical system used by thetheologians for interpretation of his own great poem, La Divina Commedia.My interest in allegory also emphasizes the technique or system of conveying

3

Introduction

3 Cf. Galatians 4.21ff; De utilitate credendi 3.8. See David Dawson’s article, “Figure, Allegory,” in Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed. Allan D. Fitzgerald (Grand Rapids, MI andCambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans, 1999), 366–368. Dawson observes, however, that thereare instances when Augustine prefers figura to allegoria: “ figura . . . preserves the significance of a historical reality.” Allegoria emphasizes “the relationship between biblical words and their spiri-tual referents,” but “omits the intermediate category of physical or historical reality.” Nonetheless,as Dawson points out, Augustine is inconsistent in his use of the two terms. See, for example, DeGenesi ad litteram imperfectus liber 2.5; Conf . XXIV.37 and XXV.38.

4 Allegory: The Dynamics of an Ancient and Medieval Technique (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1997),266. My discussion here on the historical background of the term “alllegory” and related terms is

based primarily on Whitman’s study; see especially Appendix I: “On the History of the Term‘Allegory’.” The following sources have also been especially useful: Michael Murrin, The Veil of

Allegory: Some Notes toward a Theory of Allegorical Rhetoric in the English Renaissance(Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1969); Philip Rollinson, Classical Theories of Allegory and ChristianCulture (Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP: 1981; Brighton, UK: Harvester, 1981). Classic studies onancient and medieval uses of words and concepts designating symbolic meaning, such as meta-

phor, allegory, integumentum, and figura include Félix Buffière, Les Mythes d’Homère et la pensée grecque (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1956); M. D. Chenu, Nature, Man and Society in theTwelfth Century, trans. Jerome Taylor and L. K. Little (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1968); JeanPépin, Mythe et allégorie: les origines grecques et les contestations judéo-chrétiennes (Paris:Études augustiniennes, 1976); Henri de Lubac, Exégèse médiévale: les quatre sens de l’Écriture, 4vols (Paris: Aubier, 1959–64); and Winthrop Wetherbee, Platonism and Poetry in the TwelfthCentury: The Literary Influence of the School of Chartres (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1972).

5 Rollinson, Classical Theories, 18.



meaning, but it is also more specific: I focus on how the interpretive techniquefunctions as an epistemological process, how specific philosophical and theo-logical traditions define that process, and how it is manifested as a process –

as a vehicle of spiritual transformation – in medieval liturgy, architecture, andliterature. To clarify my interest even more specifically, I focus on the“screen” or veil of allegory itself in order to explore how it is philosophicallyand theologically possible to understand medieval architecture – includingarchitectural forms and motifs in liturgy and literature – as eschatologicallandscapes and images of apocalyptic revelation.

Finally, my frequent use in this book of the term “medieval culture,” mayalso require clarification. Here I follow the example of Richard K. Emmerson,who in his essay, “The Apocalypse in Medieval Culture,” explains that theterm “allows for a wide-ranging analysis restricted neither by disciplinarycategories nor by such artificial distinctions as religious/secular or elite/

popular.” The influence of the Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, Emmersonobserves, “is ubiquitous, all pervasive” and its “imagery is limited neither toreligious texts nor even to Christian settings.”6

Visio pacis: Allegory and John’s Vision in the Book of Revelation

The foundational biblical texts for the medieval building of the New Jeru-salem include the description of sacred architecture in the Hebrew Bible – especially the desert Tabernacle (Exodus 25–40) and Solomon’s Temple(I Kings 5–8; cf. Ezekiel 40–42) – Paul’s teachings in the New Testament onallegoresis and, of course, John’s vision of the New Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation.7

The apocalyptic eschatology of medieval Christianity was driven by a hope

to be reborn after divine Judgment into the eternal presence of a loving God,to become a child of Heaven, a worshipper of the Lamb in the New Jerusalem.The last chapters of the New Testament, chapters 21 and 22 of the Revelationto John, include a prophetic vision of the New Jerusalem and the state of beingof its inhabitants:

et civitatem sanctam Hierusalem novam vidi descendentem de caelo a Deo paratam sicut sponsam ornatam viro suoet audivi vocem magnam de throno dicentem

ecce tabernaculum Dei cum hominibus et habitabit cum eiset ipsi populus eius erunt et ipse Deus cum eis erit eorum Deuset absterget Deus omnem lacriman ab oculis eorumet mors ultra non erit neque luctus neque clamor neque dolor erit ultra

4

Introduction

6 The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn (Ithaca andLondon: Cornell UP, 1992), 294–95.

7 For Paul’s teachings on allegorical interpretation and on Pauline passages especially relevant for this study, see, for example, I Cor. 3.2; 3.10–17; 10; 16; II Cor. 5.1–10; Gal. 4.21ff; Eph. 2.19–22.



quae prima abieruntet dixit qui sedebat in thronoecce nova facio omniaet dicit scribe quia haec verba fidelissima sunt et vera.

(Revelation 21.2–5)

[And I John saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard agreat voice from the throne, saying: Behold the tabernacle of God with menand he will dwell with them. And they shall be his people; and God himself with them shall be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and death shall be no more, nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow shall

be any more, for the former things are passed away. And he that sat on the

throne, said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said to me: Write, for these words are most faithful and true.]8

In verse nine of the same chapter an angel speaks to John: veni ostendam tibi sponsam uxorem agni (Come, and I will show thee the bride, the wife of theLamb). The angel takes John up in spiritu in montem magnum et altum (inspirit to a great and high mountain) and shows him the New Jerusalemhabentem claritatem Dei (having the glory of God) and lumen eius similelapidi pretioso tamquam lapidi iaspidis sicut cristallum (his light like a

precious stone, as to the jasper stone, even as crystal) (21.9–11). The versesthat follow describe the city’s measurements, its twelve jeweled walls andfoundations, its twelve pearl gates, and in chapter 22, its crystalline river andfruit-laden tree of life.

The exquisite complexity of John’s apocalyptic vision of the New Jeru-salem has encouraged varied interpretations, both symbolic and historical,since it was first compiled and written down sometime in the first century.9

Biblical commentators, drawing on a rich tradition of Jewish and Christian

apocalyptic literature, have sought to understand the figurative limits of John’s account. Some of its interpretive difficulties include, for example, themultiple designations of the New Jerusalem, cited variously as the civitatem

sanctam (holy city) (21.2), the tabernaculum Dei (tabernacle of God) (21.3),the throno (throne) of God (21.5), and the sponsam uxorem agni (bride, thewife of the lamb) (21.9). Further, the detailed material descriptions of the NewJerusalem and the apparent imminence of the apocalyptic event – tempus enim

prope est (for the time is at hand) (1.3), when the New Jerusalem will descend

onto a high mountain – have challenged believers in their efforts to distin-guish literal from symbolic meanings. Explanations within the text itself – like the angel’s account of the woman sitting upon the scarlet beast with sevenheads and ten horns (17.7–18) – are, in fact, less than helpful, since these

5

Introduction

8 See editorial note for source details.9 For a survey of some of the most influential medieval interpretations of the Book of Revelation,

see the collection of essays and accompanying bibliographies in The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn.



explanations lead inevitably to still further questions. Of course, this methodof literary narrative – in which questions arise that prompt explanations,which in turn lead to more questions – is a common feature of apocalyptic lit-

erature.10

As we shall see later in this Introduction, medieval Christianexegetes, like Bede in his commentaries on the Mosaic Tabernacle and onSolomon’s Temple, viewed the multiple significations that John ascribes tothe New Jerusalem as a genuine experience of divine truth.

The cultural and intellectual achievements of the medieval Christian worldgive prolific evidence of the pervasiveness of this apocalyptic eschatology.Yet, it was the church buildings and their liturgical programs that mostcomprehensively and dramatically manifested a hope for eternal union withGod. After more than six centuries, the extant buildings – so many of themhaving survived neglect, corrosion, and various forms of desecration – remainamong the world’s most remarkable spectacles of visual and, through their liturgies, aural splendor. One motivation for this focus in medieval architec-ture and related art forms stemmed in great part from biblical accounts or descriptions – not the least of which was Revelation 21–22 – of God’s electcommunity, accounts that repeatedly emphasize an inseparable relationship

between salvation, sacramental liturgy, and architectural forms. The colors,the textures, the supremely authoritative instructions, the careful designs, the

intimate, familiar quality of the vessels for liturgical service, all providednourishment for the medieval imagination in its impressive drive to makemanifest a spiritual world.

The architectural expression of this spirituality and the complementaryliturgical expression played out within the buildings’ stone surroundings didnot, of course, spring ab ovo in the contemporary world of the Middle Ages.In this Introduction I turn briefly and selectively to important sources of influ-ence from ancient Rome and the Hebrew Bible. In addition, one enduring

subject of scholarship on the medieval period is the debate on the possible in-fluence of Platonic ideas upon the design and symbolic programs of medievalchurch architecture.11 Earlier in the last century, art historians working withina scholarly tradition whose representatives included Erwin Panofsky and Ottovon Simson argued that the great churches of the medieval period were visualmanifestations of Platonic ideas mingled with Christian beliefs.12 Influential

6

Introduction

10 The thirteenth-century Queste del Saint Graal demonstrates this technique well. Knights fromArthur’s court in search of the Holy Grail seek guidance from “helpful” hermits, whose explana-tions of their mysterious adventures send them (and readers) on their way with only more ques-tions. Albert Pauphilet, ed. (Paris: Librarie Honoré Champion, 1984); trans. P. M. Matarasso(London and New York: Penguin, 1969).

11 Throughout this study I use the terms “Platonism” and “Platonist” in a broad sense to refer comprehensively to the larger tradition that includes figures, like Plotinus, whom many modernscholars refer to as “neoplatonists.” Plotinus himself looked to Plato as the chief philosophicsource of his own ideas, and he called himself not a “neoplatonist” but a Platonist. The term“neoplatonism” can be misleading since it does not distinguish any particular development of Plato’s philosophy among many, both pagan and Christian.

12 Erwin Panofsky, ed. and trans., Abbot Suger on the Abbey Church of St.-Denis and its Art Trea-



as this thesis was to a generation of art historians, it was too general in its presentation and lacked sufficient practical or technical evidence to support it.

Scholars have continued, however, to study philosophical and theological

traditions that can inform us of both the conception and the interpretation of medieval church architecture. Nigel Hiscock, for example, in his recent studyoffers compelling evidence to support a reconsideration of Platonic philo-sophical traditions in studies not only of the design and symbolic programs of medieval church architecture, but also of the relations between architectureand other medieval art forms.13 His study of medieval number theory, geom-etry, and architecture leads persuasively to the conclusion that “the applica-tion of geometry to architectural design was an expression of metaphysical

beliefs and . . . these [beliefs] were fundamentally Platonic in content.”14

Complementing Hiscock’s work, musicologists provide liturgical evidencefor the Platonic influence on the symbolic meanings of medieval churches.Margot Fassler, for example, has studied Augustinian reform and thetwelfth-century liturgy at the Abbey of St.-Victor in Paris. Anne WaltersRobertson gives evidence for the influence of Pseudo-Dionysius’ writings onmedieval liturgy at the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis just outside of Paris.15 These

prominent examples of Platonically informed liturgies can only be fullyunderstood, of course, in terms of Christian salvation history. One clear litur-

gical confirmation of the apocalyptic and eschatological components of thathistory, and a subject to which I devote a chapter of this book, is the medievalliturgy for the dedication of a Christian church.

These examples of scholarly directions in the last decade or so on medievalarchitectural history and musicology support a premise of my own study: themedieval conception of the church building as a symbol of the New Jerusalemwas informed and strengthened by a Christian adaptation of Platonic teach-ings on the symbol. The most sophisticated tradition of Platonism that is

central to this adaptation is, I argue, represented in the writings of Plotinus(204/5–270). It is my contention, as well, that medieval liturgy facilitated theappropriation of Platonic thought by providing both a textual and a visualmeans for the builders and worshipers to qualify the Platonic symbol in termsof Christian faith.

In Part I of this study I provide a philosophical and theological foundationfor my analysis of liturgy, architecture, and literature in the later chapters. InChapter One, the philosophical focus is Plotinus’ masterful reworking of pre-

7

Introduction

sures, 2nd edn by Gerda Panofsky-Soergel (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1979). Otto von Simson, TheGothic Cathedral: Origins of Gothic Architecture and the Medieval Concept of Order , 2nd edn(Princeton: Princeton UP, 1962).

13 The Wise Master Builder: Platonic Geometry in Plans of Medieval Abbeys and Cathedrals(Aldershot, UK and Brookfield, VT: Ashgate, 2000), 39.

14 Ibid. 39.15 Fassler, Gothic Song: Victorine Sequences and Augustinian Reform in Twelfth-Century Paris

(Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993); Robertson, The Service Books of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis: Images of Ritual and Music in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991).



vious Hellenic ideas on art and the sensible world. Plotinus’ teachings,collected and edited by his disciple Porphyry under the title Enneads, havereceived too little attention in studies of western medieval traditions; yet, they

are the most important source for an understanding of Augustine’s Platonism.Augustine (354–430), the chief figure in the transmission of Platonism to themedieval Christian west, learned from Plotinus how cognition of the sensoryworld moves the soul to recognize and return to its spiritual source. Plotinus’teachings are, therefore, vital to an understanding of how Platonism wasappropriated by medieval Christians in the conception and symbolic interpre-tation of their church buildings. To further an understanding of medievalefforts to represent the New Jerusalem on earth, I begin this study, therefore,

by returning to the main source of Augustine’s Platonism, the writings of Plotinus.

Saint Augustine is the vital link between Plotinian metaphysics andwestern Christianity. In Chapter Two, I focus on Augustine’s transformationof Plotinus’ sacramental view of the cosmos. Augustine’s mature teachings in

De civitate Dei receive my primary attention, since it is in this work thatAugustine presents the most extensive theological foundation for the medi-eval representation of the New Jerusalem. As influential as Plotinus’ philo-sophical system was on Augustine’s understanding of the relations between

the invisible, sacred realm and the temporal, visible realm, it was nonethelessinadequate for Augustine the Christian theologian. Central to Augustine’stheology is a clear concept of Church, or a community of the faithful, whosemembers are full participants in the Christian drama of salvation history.Plotinus’ system, by contrast, does not rely upon a concept of religiouscommunity, always on pilgrimage to a desired apocalyptic end. Augustinetransforms the elaborate Plotinian journey of the soul to include an identifi-cation of the human being as a citizen of either one of two cities: the City of

Babylon or the City of God. The Church on earth serves as a sacramental sign,carrying out Christ’s incarnational mission.

Plotinian and Augustinian teachings on the symbol provide a philosophicaland theological foundation for later medieval liturgical, architectural, and lit-erary achievements that identify ecclesiastical buildings not only as sacredspaces, but more specifically as earthy representations of the New Jerusalem.Part II of this book treats liturgical and architectural contributions to the medi-eval effort to build Heaven on earth. In Chapter Three, I turn to an important

application of this tradition: the thirteenth-century liturgy for the feast of thededication of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis near Paris. This liturgy is a care-fully crafted work of literary and dramatic art that serves to manifest its chief

purpose as a model of applied theology. The prayers, readings, objects,images, ritual gestures, and processions all work together to identify thechurch building as an eschatological and apocalyptic landscape.

The medieval liturgy at St.-Denis is an especially appropriate one toexamine in this context. Abbot Suger’s famous writings on the twelfth-century rebuilding of this church, which include a commentary on its

8

Introduction



dedication liturgy, remain important documents for our understanding of St.-Denis’ formative role in the development of the Gothic style.16 In addition,even if Suger’s writings do not reveal, as scholars have argued, a specialized,

scholarly application of Dionysian Platonism such as we find in the writingsof his monastic colleagues at the Abbey of St.-Victor in Paris, they do demon-strate his familiarity with the liturgy celebrated in his church.17 This famil-iarity is especially evident in Suger’s comments on the dedication liturgyitself.18

My interest in medieval representations of the New Jerusalem led me to astudy of private chapels, which were an especially prevalent architecturalgenre in the later centuries of western medieval Europe. These miniaturechurches, most often built within existing churches, took formal – if notequivalent functional – inspiration from the royal chapels built in theIle-de-France and in London. In England, a whole architectural sub-genrearose – the chantry chapels, where Masses for the souls of the dead were sungor “chanted.” The chapels were the specific locations in which worshipers

practiced a distinct form of eschatology. Yet, the chapels and their accompa-nying spiritual components have been largely neglected in studies of architec-tural history and the literature of divine revelation.

The chantry movement in England, which I treat in Chapter Four, remained

a dominant strain of Christian piety until the religious reforms carried outunder Henry VIII (1491–1547) and Edward VI (1547–53). With the reforms,the chantry institutions were suppressed, and most of the chapels weredismantled or destroyed. As a result, little visual evidence exists today of thechantry movement’s widespread popularity in late medieval England. Thiswidespread loss of visual evidence of the architectural past partly explainswhy the chantry movement has received so little scholarly attention.19 Whatneeds to be more widely recognized, however, is that this movement repre-

sents a unique stage in the evolving medieval view of how the living and thedeparted faithful enter into the sacred community of the Celestial City.

An outstanding exception to the near disappearance of the chantry move-ment’s architectural expression survives in the Decorated choir of Tewkes-

bury Abbey in Gloucestershire, England. In Chapter Four I examineTewkesbury Abbey’s three stunning chantry chapels, two built in thefourteenth century, and one in the fifteenth century. The chapels were the

private, miniature churches of the abbey’s medieval patrons, the Despensers,

whose tombs are housed in them. Along with other superbly constructedfunerary monuments, the chapels are clustered around the high altar, facing a

9

Introduction

16 Liber de rebus in administratione sua gestis; Libellus alter de consecratione ecclesiæ sanctidionysii, Ordinatio A.D. MCXL vel MCXLI confirmata, in Panofsky, Abbot Suger , 40–137.

17 The First Ordinary of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis in France, Paris, Bibliothèque Mazarine 526(Fribourg, Switzerland: Fribourg UP, 1990).

18 Libellus alter de consecratione ecclesiæ sancti dionysii, in Panofsky, Abbot Suger .19 A general account of the chantry movement was introduced in 1947 by G. H. Cook, Medieval

Chantries and Chantry Chapels, rev. edn (London: Phoenix House, 1963).



fourteenth-century east window that depicts the Despensers standing along-side biblical figures at the Last Judgment. Directly overhead is a brightly

painted liern vault, whose intricate crossings resemble the patterns of a great

rose window. These architectural, iconographic, and decorative featuresidentify the church as a late medieval apocalyptic and eschatological land-scape. Not only does the Tewkesbury choir depend in part upon the earlier architectural innovations at St.-Denis, it also provides, I argue, an unusuallyspecific link with a late medieval literary tradition.

This book concludes where my interest in the relations between medievalarchitecture, allegory, and revelation began to take shape: the philosophicaland liturgical contexts of the late fourteenth-century English poem Pearl andits three companion poems, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight , Patience, andCleanness (or Purity). Since their earliest editions were published in the nine-teenth century, these poems, which are written in a north Midlands dialect andexist in a single manuscript (British Museum MS. Cotton Nero A. x), haveinspired a large body of scholarship. Most details about their creation,however, remain obscure. Overlooked by literary medievalists as a culturalforce associated with the creation of these poems is the all but vanished artand spirituality of the chantry movement.

This association is revealed especially in Pearl , the main focus of Part III.

A masterfully crafted dream vision, Pearl describes the spiritual progress of aman grieving over the death of a beloved young daughter. Near the end of the

poem, just before the dreamer awakens, he is granted a vision of the NewJerusalem that is modeled closely on the vision of John in the Book of Revela-tion. The poem, I argue, is a uniquely stunning and sophisticated literaryexample of the architectural approach to divine revelation in the medievalwest. Its author attempted to push the boundaries of literature beyond thespoken and the written word, to move literature aggressively into the realm of

the visual, the liturgical, and the architectural. Pearl is a work of ecclesiasticalarchitecture in literary form. Specifically, it is a remarkable attempt to give lit-erary expression to the chantry movement, including its specialized architec-tural component. In Pearl , poetry becomes a reader’s private New Jerusalem.The other three poems of the manuscript provide further evidence of theseassociations.20 Taken together, this special collection of fourteenth-centuryalliterative poems reveals the author’s immersion in the spirituality and archi-tectural environment of the chantry movement, drawing yet another area of

human endeavor into the medieval world of architecture, allegory, and revela-tion.21

10

Introduction

20 The fourteenth-century alliterative poem St. Erkenwald (British Library MS. Harley 2250 fols72v–25v) also demonstrates close association with the chantry movement. I include discussion of the poem in Chapter Six.

21 My study of the chantry movement, its manifestation at Tewkesbury Abbey and in the literary artof the Pearl poet, uncovers specific political contexts that helped shape late medieval apocalypticeschatology in England. In a recent article, I provide evidence that links the author of Pearl withthe Despensers of Tewkesbury Abbey and with the court of Richard II, placing this poet and at



Architecture and Allegory: Vitruvius, Virgil, and Bede

The complex relations between medieval architecture, allegory, and revela-tion may be usefully introduced by the writings of two Romans of classicalantiquity and by the exegesis of Bede, the eighth-century Northumbrian monk and scholar, on the sacred architecture of the Hebrew Bible. The Romanauthors, both motivated by the leadership of Augustus (63 BCE–14 CE),

produced texts that have become fundamental to our historical understandingof architecture and allegory: Vitruvius’ De architectura and Virgil’s Aeneid .Bede’s commentaries on the Mosaic Tabernacle (Exodus 25–40) and Solo-mon’s Temple (I Kings 5–8) initiated a rich medieval tradition of allegoricalinterpretations of the ancient Hebrew structures. When examined together,these writings of Vitruvius, Virgil, and Bede provide a conceptual way of entry into a vast and complex cultural achievement: the architectural approachto divine revelation in the medieval west.

The Roman Authors

After Octavian defeated Marc Antony at Actium in 31 BCE, the victorious

princeps, soon to take the sacral title of Augustus, engaged the talents andambitions of artists and public officials to restore Rome politically and cultur-ally. During the subsequent period of Roman peace, restoration, and creativity

– a period historians refer to as the Pax Augusta (or Pax Romana) – Octaviansought to create a new world order. He wished to show the Roman Empirethat peace and prosperity were the hallmarks of his reign, not civil wars,which had plagued the Roman world for more than two decades. Among themost powerful means Octavian used to convey these ideas were the public arts

of architecture and literature.22

Vitruvius (born c. 80/70 BCE) wrote his treatise De architectura libridecem (Ten Books On Architecture) during the first decade of the Pax

Augusta (c. 30–20 BCE).23 He had been a staff architect under Octavian’sadoptive father, Julius Caesar, and under Octavian, Vitruvius received acommoda, or stipend, which allowed him time to study and write. His comple-tion of De architectura, which he dedicated to Octavian, may have helpedsecure him a position as an architect on the cura aquarum, the system of

11

Introduction

least one of the alliterative masterpieces of the late English Middle Ages more firmly in a specificsocial and political context. See Ann R. Meyer, “The Despensers and the Gawain Poet: AGloucestershire Link to the Alliterative Master of the Northwest Midlands,” Chaucer Review 35(2001): 413–429.

22 P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. A. Shapiro (Ann Arbor: U of Mich-igan P, 1988), esp. ch. 3; D. Favro, The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: CambridgeUP, 1996), 110–111.

23 Frank Granger, ed. and trans., Vitruvius On Architecture, 2 vols. Loeb Classical Library 25(Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1970). For the most recent translation, see Ingrid D. Rowland,Vitruvius: Ten Books on Architecture (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999).



Roman aqueducts.24 In his preface to Book IV, Vitruvius takes fond credit for being the first author to set out ( producere) in a systematic, coherent way thediscipline of architecture “in its full order” (disciplinae corpus ad perfectem

ordinationem). It remains the only complete treatise on architecture thatsurvives from classical antiquity.Vitruvius’ work, perhaps conservative in its architectural vision compared

with the forms that emerged in the subsequent century, is a foundation text for a scholarly understanding of architectural history in the western world.25 Itsinfluence in classical antiquity and the Middle Ages was limited, butaccording to one architectural historian, a judgment that reflects scholarlyconsensus, “the whole literature on architectural theory from the Renaissanceonwards has been based on Vitruvius or on a dialogue with his ideas.”26

The vibrant political and cultural environment in which Vitruvius workedalso witnessed the great flowering of Augustan poetry, whose chief represen-tative is Virgil (70–19 BCE). According to one familiar tradition of interpreta-tion, Virgil’s epic poem, the Aeneid , is a literary monument to the glory and

promise of Rome’s rebirth under Octavian’s leadership. In Book VI Aeneas,led by the Sybil-prophetess at Cumae and with golden bough in hand, jour-neys to the underworld, to the world of the dead and yet unborn. He meets theshade of his father, Anchises, who shows him the Elysian fields, a place of

peace enveloped with its own light and reserved for souls judged to have livedvirtuously on earth. Anchises reveals to Aeneas the spiritual composition of the universe and the progress of human souls from death through purgation torebirth. These mysteries are disclosed to Aeneas through images specific tohis identity and to the nation he is to found. He views a pageant of Romanheroes – his own descendants – and learns of the divinely ordained destiny of Rome to rule the world. In Virgil’s poetry, the golden age of Augustus is oneof the most formidable glories of that destiny:

Hic vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis,Augustus Caesar, divi genus, aurea condetSaecula qui rursus Latio regnata per arvaSaturno quondam, super et Garamantas et IndosProferet imperium; jacet extra sidera tellus,Extra anni solisque vias, ubi caelifer AtlasAxem umero torrquet stellis ardentibus aptum. (791–97)

12

Introduction

24 L. Callebat, ed., Vitruve de l’Architecture (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1973), ix–x.25 See, for example, Rowland, 11–13 and Hanno-Walter Kruft, A History of Architectural Theory

From Vitruvius to the Present , trans. Ronald Taylor, Elsie Callander and Antony Wood (NewYork: Princeton Architectural P, 1994), 20–29. Kruft’s work was originally published under thetitle Geschichte der Architekturtheorie: Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Munich: Verlag C. H.Beck, 1985).

26 Kruft points out that one plausible example of Vitruvian influence on a medieval building is theOttonian architecture of St Michael’s, Holdesheim (31).



[This, this is the man, whom often you hear is to be promised to you,Augustus Caesar, the offspring of a god, who again shall build up thegolden age in Latium, through lands once ruled by Saturn, and shallextend his empire over the Garamantes and Indians; their land lies

beyond the stars, beyond the yearly course of the sun, whereheaven-bearing Atlas on his shoulder turns the heavens studded with

burning stars.]27

Book VI of the Aeneid , the pivotal center of the poem, is a book of prophecyand revelation where the mysteries of life, death, and rebirth are unveiled toAeneas. Whereas his time of love with Dido, Queen of Carthage, is a time soheightened by unseen forces that the advance of human civilization is

suspended, Aeneas’ journey to the underworld is a moment out of time when a beloved father discloses to his son the meaning of past, present, and future.Coinciding with the Pax Augusta in Rome was another revealed prophecy:

the birth of Christ in Judea (7–6 BCE).28 Medieval Christians in the westviewed this historical correlation not as mere coincidence but as a sign of divine Providence. Their allegiance to papal Rome found justification in theview that the princeps of the Christian church was the rightful, correctivesuccessor to the ancient Roman emperors. Further, the extraordinary influ-ence that Virgil’s poetry had on medieval literature was a result, in part, of thehistorical association between the Pax Augusta and the birth of Christ. In his

Fourth Eclogue, Virgil wrote verses that foretell the birth of a male child – aleader and savior. Medieval Christians interpreted these verses as a prophecyof Christ’s birth. Hence, the medieval west embraced the pagan Virgil as a

prophet in the Hebrew tradition, setting him in company with David andIsaiah.29

To defend Virgil’s poetry against its own pagan roots, medieval Christiansapplied to it the same interpretive methods they used to read the Hebrew

Bible. Allegory transformed Hebrew scripture into the Christian Old Testa-ment, a preparation for the fulfillment of the Old Law through Christ and hisChurch. Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue and the Aeneid thus became among the mostfrequently allegorized works of secular literature in the Middle Ages. Whilethe eclogue was interpreted as a prophecy of Christ’s coming, medievalcommentaries interpret Aeneas’ journey from Troy to Italy as an allegory of the soul’s ascent to divine truth.30 In the fourteenth century, Dante bestowed

13

Introduction

27 Translation mine.28 In the sixth century a Roman monk known as “Dennis the Short” calculated the birth of Christ to

have occurred in 754 of the Roman era (ab urbe condita [AUC] “from the founding of the city” of Rome), which is generally fixed in terms of the Christian era at 753 BCE. Dennis’ estimate has

been proven to be inaccurate; modern scholars set the birth date of Jesus at about 6 BCE). See, for example, the article, “Reckoning Time,” The New English Bible (New York: Oxford UP, 1976),35–37.

29 Domenico Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, trans. E. F. M. Benecke (Princeton: PrincetonUP, 1997), I, ch. VII, esp. pp. 102–3.

30 Bernardus Silvestris and Fulgentius produced two of the major medieval commentaries in thistradition. See The Commentary on the First Six Books of the “Aeneid” of Vergil Commonly Attrib-



upon Virgil the high honor of being the chief philosophical and literary guidefor his own Christian literary monument:

Or va, ch’un sol volere è d’ambedue:Tu duca, tu segnore e tu maestro.

[Now on, for a single will is in us both; you are my leader, you mymaster and my teacher.]31

For Dante the golden age of Augustus prefigured and prepared the world for the golden age of Christianity when Christ lived on earth and revealed to thefaithful God’s mercy and His promise of eternal salvation. Virgil walks in thedarkness of pre-Christian antiquity, but he carries the lantern that Dante

follows. Virgil provides the light of poetry that prepares Dante for his revela-tion of Christian mysteries.

Vitruvius’ De architectura did not achieve the exalted status that Virgil’s poetry did in the medieval west. It was not until the Renaissance thatVitruvius’ treatise was widely read, interpreted, and immortalized in the

buildings constructed by humanist architects.32 Yet, while Vitruvius’ medi-eval influence may not have been greatly distinguished architecturally, hisideas may be recognized in other forms of medieval artistic and intellectual

expression, in ways not unlike those that helped validate the pagan origins of Virgil’s poetry. For example, in his treatise Vitruvius endorses architecture asa “liberal art.” He insists that the professional architect be a lifelong student,as Vitruvius himself was, of the encyclos disciplina, the liberal arts, includinghistory, philosophy, music, and above all, letters (I.3.11). If the architect is toconstruct the ideal monument, the summum templum architecturae (the loft-iest sanctuary of architecture), he must be a master both in fabrica (craft or technical skill) and in ratiocinatione (theory or reasoning) (I.1.1).33

It is not only a result, however, of his broad education in the liberal arts thatVitruvius’ ideal architect achieves the summum templum architecturae. Inaddition, and more fundamentally, such a creation may be achieved because,in Vitruvius’ view, nature’s forms mirror cosmic designs. The architect’swork is, ideally, an image of the architecture of the universe. In Book IXVitruvius equates the laws that govern the cosmos and the planets with therules of architecture:

14

Introduction

uted to Bernardus Silvestris, ed. J. W. and E. F. Jones (Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1977), trans. EarlG. Schreiber and Thomas E. Maresca (Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1979); Fabius PlanciadesFulgentius, Expositio virgilianae continentiae secondum philosophos moralis, Opera, ed.Rudolphos Helm (Leipzig: Teubner, 1898); trans. Leslie George Whitbread, Fulgentius the

Mythographer (Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1971). For a discussion of the history of allegoricalinterpretation of the Aeneid from antiquity through the Renaissance, see Michael M. Murrin, The

Allegorical Epic: Essays in its Decline and Fall (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1980).31 La Divina Commedia, Inferno II (139–40); The Divine Comedy; Inferno, trans. Charles S.

Singleton, Bollingen Series LXXX (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1970).32 Kruft, 30–40.33 Trans. Rowland.



Mundus autem est omnium naturae rerum conceptio summa caelumquesideribus conformatum. Id volvitur continenter circum terram atque mare

per axis cardines extremos. Namque in his locis naturalis potestas itaarchitecta est conlocavitque cardines tamquam centra. (2)

[Now the cosmos is the all-encompassing system of everything in nature,and also the firmament, which is formed of the constellations and the coursesof the stars. This revolves ceaselessly around the earth and sea at the extremehinges of the axis. For thus the power of nature has acted as architect, and shehas placed the hinges as central axes.]34

An architect’s summum templum architecturae is, then, a mirror of thecosmos itself. Vitruvius never explicitly states this analogy; nor does he

include its tempting interpretive correlations: the corresponding analogies of God as architect and, in turn, the human architect as imitator of God. Nonethe-less, his identification of cosmic laws with the rules of architecture and hisdesignation of nature as architect of the universe prepared later readers tomake these extended associations for themselves. Indeed, these mirrored

parallels between divine or cosmic creation and human artistry becamefamiliar features of medieval aesthetic theory.35

The aspects of Vitruvius’ thought that endow the architect and his work

with absolute or ideal values also contribute to the treatise’s status as a hybridgenre.36 De architectura is, of course, a technical handbook, but it also has lit-erary and philosophical dimensions.37 Indeed, it may be possible to discover Vitruvian influence – if not primarily in medieval architecture – in medievalliterature, philosophy, and related disciplines. Stefan Schuler has recentlyshown, for example, how the physical location of Vitruvius’ work in a medi-eval library reveals much about the reception of that work’s ideas – how thework, in other words, was thought to be useful. Interestingly, a ninth-centuryinventory at Reichenau shows that Vitruvius’ treatise was first placed withworks by the church fathers; later it appears with related arts such as geometryand astrology.38

The treatise, in its reception and status as a hybrid work, combineselements of literature and rhetoric with philosophy and the mechanical arts,giving scholars fresh insight into one fundamental feature of medieval artisticand intellectual culture: the boundaries between the medieval disciplines of

15

Introduction

34 Trans. Rowland.35 Kruft, 24, 453 nn. 67–73.36 Rowland, 1.37 Ibid.38 Vitruv im Mittelalter: Die Reziption von “De architectura” von der Antike bis in die frühe Neuzeit

(Cologne, Weimar, and Vienna: Böhlau, 1999), 114. Schuler also argues that Vitruvius’ ideas weretransmitted to the Middle Ages and to the Renaissance through Vincent of Beauvais’ Speculummaius. It was through Vincent’s encyclopedia that Vitruvius became “a widely diffused source of knowledge for the practice of a mechanical art” (8). Cited in a review of Schuler’s book byChristine Smith, Speculum 76, no. 3 (July 2001): 790–91.



learning and human expression were remarkably fluid and dynamic. Architec-ture, together with its related arts, gives special credibility to this fluidity.

Sacred Architecture of the Hebrew Bible and the Exegesis of BedeOne area of study that reflects this dynamic relationship between architectureand other forms of medieval artistic and intellectual expression is the traditionof medieval biblical commentary. Biblical exegesis is also a hybrid genre,uniting the disciplines of literary criticism and philosophical inquiry withtheology. Allegorical expositions of biblical architecture may even provideevidence of Vitruvian influence and of the overall development and transmis-sion of architectural theory during the medieval period. One source of such

discovery may be found in the rich tradition of medieval exegesis on theMosaic Tabernacle (Exodus 25–40) and Solomon’s Temple (I Kings 5–8).Modern scholarship credits the Venerable Bede (673–735) with initiating in anotably ambitious way this exegetical tradition. Nor is it surprising that Bededid so, given the interest he displays in architecture and allegory throughouthis writings.

Of related interest are intriguing historical links between Bede’s monasticcareer and the manuscript tradition of Vitruvius’ treatise on architecture. The

oldest extant manuscript of De architectura, now in the British MuseumLibrary (Harleian 2767), dates from the eighth century. Its provenance isuncertain, but one familiar line of argument cites evidence that the treatisewas carried by Abbot Ceolfrith (or Ceolfrid), a mentor to Bede, from Italy tothe joint monastic communities at Wearmouth-Jarrow, England, where Bedespent his life as a monk and scholar.39 Here Vitruvius’ treatise would have

been copied, read, and circulated. Although we have no direct evidence thatBede read the treatise, we know that Alcuin (735–804), Bede’s younger

monastic neighbor and intellectual colleague, did. Alcuin refers to Vitruvius’text twice in his writings.40 Like Bede, Alcuin was an Anglo-Saxon monk and brilliant scholar from Northumbia. Born in the year Bede died, Alcuin becamethe most distinguished student and (later) master at the monastery school inYork, which had inherited Bede’s works. Under Alcuin’s direction the school

became one of the most celebrated centers of learning in late eighth-centuryEurope. Its brilliance was recognized by Charlemagne, who commissionedAlcuin as the intellectual leader of what we now refer to as the CarolingianRenaissance.

Alcuin may very well have come into contact with De architectura throughthe close ties that existed between his monastic school at York and Bede’s

16

Introduction

39 J. D. A. Ogilvy, Books Known to the English, 597–1066 (Cambridge, MA: Mediaeval Academy of America, 1967), 260–261; Ogilvy, Books Known to Anglo-Latin Writers from Aldhelm to Alcuin(670–804) (Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America, 1936), 90; L. W. Jones hasargued against the Wearmouth-Jarrow attribution of BM. Harleian 2767; see Jones, “The Proveni-ence of the London Vitruvius,” Speculum 7 (1932): 64.

40 See Ogilvy, 1967, 260–61.



scriptorium at Wearmouth-Jarrow. Further investigation is necessary, of course, on the question of Bede’s possible exposure to Vitruvius’ treatise, butan important point here is that the two authors are bound by a shared adher-

ence to a single principle of interpretation, one that Vitruvius also encouragesin Book I of his treatise:

Cum in omnibus enim rebus, tum maxime etiam in architectura haec duoinsunt, quod significatur et quod significat. (I.1.3)

[In all things, but especially in architecture, there are two inherentcategories: the signified and the signifier.]

Bede’s exegesis of biblical architecture elaborates upon the kinds of analogies

Vitruvius makes between cosmic creation and human artistry.41 In hiscommentaries De tabernaculo (c. 721–25) and De templo (c. 729–31) (on theExodus Tabernacle and Solomon’s Temple respectively) Bede embraces aChristian allegorical method to lead the reader from the ancient Hebrewformulations to contemplation of the New Jerusalem.42 These commentariesare the first in the medieval tradition to provide complete allegorical interpre-tations of the sacred Hebrew structures, and they exemplify the Northumbrianscholar’s “exceptionally architectural approach to Revelation.”43 As such,

these commentaries together with their biblical subjects serve as a fitting tran-sition from this introductory discussion of ancient concepts of architectureand allegory to an examination in the chapters that follow on how Christian

buildings in the medieval west were understood as great symbols of the NewJerusalem.

The church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople was the architectural jewelof medieval Byzantium. Its construction and partial reconstruction werecarried out during the reign of Justinian (527–65), who took special pride in

its technical and ornamental splendors. At the church’s consecration cer-emony in 537, the emperor, reveling in the achievement, attributed to himself

17

Introduction

41 Rowland points out that Vitruvius’ use of the terms “signified” and “signifier” is derived fromEpicurean philosophy, referring “to the necessity of beginning all scientific investigations with aclear definition of terms.” Vitruvius used these terms specifically to mark the difference betweenthat which one speaks about (quod significatur ), here a building, and the system of rational exposi-tion one employs in interpreting it (quod significat ). My suggestion here is that Bede anticipatedmodern critics by interpreting Vitruvius’ phrase, quod significatur as “the ‘passive’ work of archi-tecture itself” and quod significat as the meaning “it ‘actively’ expresses” (135). See also Arthur G. Holder, trans. Bede: On the Tabernacle, Translated Texts for Historians, vol. 18 (Philadelphia:U of Pennsylvania P, 1994), xv.

42 De tabernaculo, ed. D. Hurst, CCL, 119A (1969), trans. Holder, Bede: On the Tabernacle; Detemplo, ed. D. Hurst, CCL, 119A (1969), trans. Seán Connolly, Bede: On the Temple, TranslatedTexts for Historians Series, Vol. 21 (Liverpool, Liverpool UP, 1995).

43 On Bede’s architectural approach to Revelation, see Charles W. Jones, “Some IntroductoryRemarks on Bede’s Commentary on Genesis,” Sacris Erudi 19 (1969–70): 115–98. Quoted inHolder, xv.



even greater success than that of the earthly architect of Yahweh’s Temple:“Solomon,” he is reputed to have claimed, “I have surpassed thee.”44

Justinian’s sense of material achievement, immodest as it may have been,

highlights a fundamental aspect of the medieval view of sacred architecture.Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem and its original model, the Mosaic Taber-nacle described in Exodus, are the supreme sacred places of ancient Hebrewworship. Of even greater importance to medieval Christians is the biblicalauthority that identifies these edifices as earthly sanctuaries constructed byhuman hands, but whose design, function, and contents were dictated by God.Yahweh is the true architect, the divine genius behind it all. As a result, theTabernacle and the Temple are works of architecture that necessarily require

particular reverence from Christians, who, in accordance with New Testamentteachings, view the human body itself as a temple of the Holy Spirit, as theearthly fulfillment of Old Testament sacred architecture. One passage thatdemonstrates well a Christian reworking of the traditional Hebrew imagesoccurs in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians:

secundum gratiam Dei quae data est mihiut sapiens architectus fundamentum posuialius autem superaedificat

unusquisque autem videat quomodo superaedificetfundamentum enim aliud nemo potest ponere praeter id quod positumest qui est Christus Iesus. . .si quis autem templum Dei violaveritdisperdet illum Deustemplum enim Dei sanctum est quod estis vos.

(I Corinthians 3.10–17)

[According to the grace of God that is given to me, as a wise architect,I have laid the foundation; and another buildeth thereon. But let everyman take heed how he buildeth thereupon. For other foundation noman can lay, but that which is laid; which is Christ Jesus . . . But if anyman violate the temple of God: him shall God destroy. For the templeof God is holy, which you are.]

Of course, the ancient Hebrew buildings are no longer extant and can only beknown through their biblical descriptions. For medieval Christians, this

apparent limitation posed no difficulties of belief or understanding – quite thecontrary; the buildings’ uniquely scriptural existence ascribes to them an evenhigher sacred status than their earthly survival would have done. The sacred

18

Introduction

44 It has been argued recently that “the Justinian building with its first dome corresponded in thedimensions of its plan and height to the traditional proportions of Solomon’s Temple, in which theratio of length to width and of width to height was 3:1 and 1:15.” On this subject, see Kruft, 32.



architecture of the ancient Hebrews exists in the mind’s eye alone, beyondwhat is merely visible. It exists in the realm of faith.

In Exodus, chapters 25–35, Yahweh instructs Moses on the design, func-

tion, and contents of a portable tent, a tabernacle that is to be constructed andcarried by the Israelites in their desert wanderings. The structure is to serve asa sanctuary, a place of rest and worship. It will contain objects made from thefinest and most precious of earthly materials, such as linen and gold. Itsdeepest and most sacred chamber, the Holy of Holies, will be separated fromother chambers by a veil, behind which will be kept the Ark of the Covenant,the representation of God’s testimony to His people. The Tabernacle in itsentirety will establish God’s presence among them: Yahweh says to Moses,“ facientque mihi sanctuarium et habitabo in medio eorum” (“And they shallmake me a sanctuary, and I will dwell in the midst of them”) (Exodus 25.8). Inreturn, God’s people will obey and worship Him. The Tabernacle will be a siteof liturgical ritual and sacrifice, a place where the human longing for peaceand communication with God finds fulfillment. This longing is simply andeloquently expressed by the Psalmist:

Domine quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuoaut quis requiescet in monte sancto tuo. (Psalm 14.1)

[Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle? Or who shall rest in thy holyhill?]

This longing for a home with Yahweh is to be partially appeased by the portable nature of the Tabernacle. God’s house will not be static; it moveswith the ancient Israelites in their exile. It communicates, therefore, Yahweh’savailability to His people and His choice to make His home with them. TheTabernacle is a place where they can be assured of encountering divinity.

Solomon’s Temple, like the Exodus Tabernacle, is a place of mutualcontact between God and His people. Here Yahweh descends; here worshippers find refuge. The great theophany upon Mount Sinai was the necessaryimpetus for Moses’ mission, and that mission included the intent to move onfrom Sinai and wander in exile with Yahweh. The Temple of Jerusalem, strik-ingly similar to the Tabernacle in its function, design, and contents, was builton the summit of Mount Sion, a location that also recalls Yahweh’s revelationto Moses on Sinai. Yet the Temple is meant to be a place of actual physicalstability, of even more pronounced, concentrated rest and worship after Israel’s exilic wanderings. It is here, in the Jerusalem Temple, that Yahwehmakes his permanent home:

quoniam elegit Dominus Sionelegit eam in habitationem sibihaec requies mea in saeculum saeculi. (Psalm 131.13–14)

[For the Lord hath chosen Sion/ he hath chosen it for his dwelling./This is my rest for ever and ever.]

19

Introduction



Yahweh chooses Solomon – whose name means “man of peace” – as Templearchitect. The word for Temple itself becomes synonymous with its specificgeographical location, Sion and Jerusalem city:

Magnus Dominus et laudabilis nimis in civitatae Deinostri in monte sancto eiusfundatur exultatione universae terrae montes Sionlatera aquilonis civitas regis magni. . .sicut audivimus sic vidimusin civitate Domini virtutumin civitate Dei nostriDeus fundavit eam in aeternumsuscepimus Deus misericordiam tuamin medio templi tui. (Psalm 47.2–3, 9–10)

[Great is the Lord, and exceedingly to be praised in the city of our God,in his holy mountain./ With the joy of the whole earth is mount Sionfounded, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King/. . ./ As wehave heard, so have we seen, in the city of the Lord of hosts, in the cityof our God: God hath founded it for ever./ We have received thymercy, O God, in the midst of thy temple.]

Graven images of the deity are forbidden, but Yahweh insists that His pres-ence be represented architecturally. The Tabernacle and the Temple are thedesignated places built by human hands under God’s guidance so that God’s

people can experience His presence physically as well as spiritually. Thisassociation between a specific, enclosed space and liturgical worship is notonly validated by, but is a requirement of, the covenant between God and His

people.Bede, in his commentaries on these works of ancient Hebrew architecture,

adheres to a complex system of symbolic interpretation. Paul’s teachingexplains in deceptively simple terms a fundamental concept of how this inter-

pretive method works in reference to Old Testament events and images:

haec autem omnia in figura contingebant illis. scripta sunt autem adcorreptionem nostram in quos fines saeculorum devenerunt.

(I Corinthians 10.11)

[Now all these things happened to them in figure: and they are written in our

correction, upon whom the ends of the world are come.]

Bede quotes this passage from I Corinthians at the beginning of Detabernaculo, but his particular working out of a complex interpretive systemwas also inspired by Christian allegorists such as Origen, Ambrose, Augus-tine, and Gregory the Great. For them, like Bede, the sacred Hebrew struc-tures signify a whole host of New Testament realities: the incarnate Christ, theindividual soul, the community of the Church on earth, the Heavenly City.The desert Tabernacle and the Jerusalem Temple, apart from their status as

20

Introduction



historical, divinely commissioned works of architecture, are also among themost powerfully symbolic images ever created by human hands, since theyare associated with almost the whole of Christian salvation history, from

Moses’ theophany on Sinai to the descent of the New Jerusalem at the end of time.All of these meanings Bede attributed simultaneously to the ancient

Hebrew structures. This simultaneity is a natural compromise that resultsfrom the orthodox understanding that all significations of God are inadequate,and that God’s presence cannot be contained. Here it strikes me that the

portable nature of the desert Tabernacle, emphasizing God’s constant avail-ability and communication with His people – despite the geographical insta-

bility of the Israelites – and the contrasting material permanence of theJerusalem Temple, may have been viewed by Bede as two complementaryaspects of the divine presence on earth: God is both ubiquitous and eternally

present.For Bede it is also true that no actual material building could function as

God’s house on earth. In his writings, at least, he never interprets allegoricallya non-literary building. He does take the literal sense of the Old Testamentarchitecture seriously, fully exploiting the architectural components and

building materials, but always for metaphoric purposes. For Bede, the veil

before the Holy of Holies (Exodus 26.31–37) is the veil of allegory, a veil that both reveals and conceals the true signification of the ancient Hebrew struc-tures, which for Bede is the Christian revelation. Even while advancing hismost enthusiastic allegorical flourishes, and despite his “remarkably architec-tural approach to Revelation,”45 Bede had Isaiah’s censoring voice at his ear:haec dicit Dominus caelum sedis mea et terra scabillum pedum meorum quaeista domus quam aedificabitis mihi (Thus saith the Lord: Heaven is my throne,and earth my footstool: what is this house that you will build me?)

(Isaiah 66.1).46 Christians themselves are, after all, the living stones and pillars of the Church and, therefore, of any material church – no matter howsplendid, including Justinian’s Hagia Sophia.

This is where my project departs from Bede’s exegetical convictions. My purpose in this study is to examine a medieval interpretation of ecclesiasticalarchitecture that chose rather to acknowledge the anagogical potential of material objects: the notion that actual churches were understood as earthlyrepresentations of the New Jerusalem, and a notion that was encouraged to a

significant degree through images, liturgy, and the design of the architecturalspaces themselves.

21

Introduction

45 Charles W. Jones, “Some Introductory Remarks,” quoted in Holder, xv.46 New Testament passages that build upon this quotation from Isaiah include Acts 17.24 (“God, who

made the world, and all things therein; he being Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in templesmade with hands”) and II Cor. 5.1 (“For we know, if our earthly house of habitation be dissolved,that we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in heaven”). See also Heb.9.11–12, 24; Heb. 12.22; and Heb. 13.14.



Of course, there was great variety in the ways this concept was expressed,differences that depended, for example, on geography, social and politicalinfluences, revenues, and the developments of architectural styles – to

mention just a few possibilities. Bernard of Clairvaux’s vehement (andfamous) reproach of his Benedictine colleague, Abbot Suger, calls attention toone fundamental source for differences in expression. Bernard accused theabbot of vulgarity and theological irresponsibility in his supervision of thetwelfth-century rebuilding of St.-Denis. Whereas Suger seems to have takenliterally the descriptions in the Book of Revelation of a lavishly ornamented

New Jerusalem, for Bernard of Clairvaux, the unembellished beauty that wastypical of twelfth-century Cistercian churches was the appropriate setting for living a spiritual life and representing divine reality.47

The austere spirituality exemplified by the Cistercian architectural tradi-tion, and for which there is strong biblical precedent in such figures as the

prophet Isaiah and Stephen the proto-martyr,48 is a spirituality that has alwayscensored the other branch of the human spirit: the love of the beauty of the

physical world. Suger’s interpretation of his new church is a famous medievalexpression of this spirit: it reflects the abbot’s passion for rich ornamentation,yet it is a passion that was qualified, as well, by a theological consciousness.

Vitruvius’ “intellectual apprehension of architecture,”49 Virgil’s philo-

sophical allegory, and Bede’s biblical exegesis of sacred Hebrew architectureall contributed to the interpretation of medieval churches as complex symbolsof the New Jerusalem. In the chapters that follow, I discuss other contribu-tions to and versions of this concept, some as formative influences, others aslate developments, but I present them in a more historical and genericallywide-ranging, detailed way. While each chapter focuses on a different domainof medieval culture, an especially vital point of convergence among them isthe prayer and ritual of medieval liturgy, for it is through liturgical worship

that theology, architecture, and poetry unite in the Christian expression of hope for eternal salvation. As Jean Leclercq eloquently expressed it, the medi-eval liturgy was “the synthesis of all the artes”:

it is in the atmosphere of the liturgy and amid the poems composed for it, inhymnis et canticis, that the synthesis of all the artes was effected, of theliterary techniques, religious reflection, and all sources of informationwhether biblical, patristic, or classical. . . . In the liturgy, love of learning anddesire for God find perfect reconciliation. (250–51)50

22

Introduction

47 For recent studies of medieval Cistercian architecture, see Terryl N. Kinder, Architecture of Silence: Cistercian Abbeys of France, photographs by David Heald (New York: Harry N. Abrams,2000); Megan Cassidy-Welch, Monastic Spaces and their Meanings: Thirteenth-Century EnglishCistercian Monasteries (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001).

48 See, for example, Stephen’s speech of disapproval before his martyrdom (Acts 7.47–50). Here herebukes the council for their misunderstanding of the Christian revelation, especially as it appliesto interpretation of the Old Testament.

49 Kruft, 24.50 The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catherine



Leclercq’s wonderfully penetrating observation lacks only the articulatedawareness of how liturgy and medieval church architecture were conceived asreciprocal expressions of one another. To see that the medieval church was the

most comprehensive of the artes of technique and religious reflection is to seeit as a supremely sacred place that served primarily as the stage for liturgicaldrama.

23

Introduction

Misrahi (New York: Fordham UP, 1982), 236. Originally published as L’Amour des lettres et ledésire de Dieu: Initiation aux auteurs monastiques du moyen âge (Paris: Cerf, 1957).



left



Part I

Philosophical and Theological Foundations



left



Plotinus’ Screenof Beauty

1Foundations I: Plotinus’ Screen of Beauty

[T]o those who object . . . [to the idea that] Hellenic philosophyis human wisdom, that it is incapable of teaching the truth . . .have not read what is said by Solomon; for, treating of theconstruction of the temple, he says expressly, “And it wasWisdom as artificer that framed it; and Thy providence, Father,governs throughout.” And how irrational to regard philosophyas inferior to architecture and shipbuilding.

(Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis VI.11)1

Early Christian-Platonism: Introductory Remarks

THE influence of Platonism on the artistic culture of the medieval westremains a subject to which scholars return with renewed interest.2 Studies

by musicologists within the last decade, for example, examine relationships between medieval liturgy and architecture and have opened up new lines of inquiry on how Christian-Platonism was displayed aurally and visually.3

Nigel Hiscock’s recent scholarship intends to “re-open the enquiry andengage once more in the debate about the symbolic content of medievalgeometry and its possible role in medieval plan design.”4 Hiscock’s studyuncovers new evidence for how medieval architects used Platonic teachingsin the planning and design of church buildings. Although the “presence andinfluence” of Platonism are “well enough attested,” Hiscock argues, “insuffi-cient weight seems to be given to it in much of the literature that challenges aPlatonic connection with architectural design.”5

27

1 W. Wilson, trans. Stromata, in ANCL 12 (1869).2 For my use of the terms “Platonism” and “Platonist” see the Introduction, 6 n. 11.3 See, for example, Anne Walters Robertson, Service Books; and Margot Fassler, Gothic Song .4 The Wise Master Builder , 17.5 Chalcidius’ Latin translation of and commentary on Plato’s Timaeus was available to early medi-

eval scholars. Parts of the Timaeus were translated by Cicero, to reappear in Macrobius’Commentarii in Ciceronis Somnium Scipionis. The Summarium librorum Platonis is a thir-teenth-century (Latin) partial synopsis of Plato’s works. It is also thought to be a copy of an earlyCarolingian codex from Corbie Abbey in France, based on a Latin translation of a second-centuryGreek text. On the subject of the availability of Plato’s texts in the Middle Ages, see Ramond



With few exceptions, studies of Platonism in the medieval west haveconcentrated primarily on prominent Christian representatives of this tradi-tion, including Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–c. 215), Origen (c. 185–254),

Gregory of Nyssa (c. 332–95), Augustine (354–430), Pseudo-Dionysius(c. 500), John Scotus Eriugena (c. 810–77), and the twelfth-century theolo-gians of the Abbey of St.-Victor in Paris, especially Hugh (1096–1141) andRichard (d. 1173). Among these figures, scholars have recognized the chief role of Augustine in the transmission of Platonism to the Christian west.Through his great literary output and extensive readership in western Chris-tendom, Augustine became the primary channel of Platonism to the medievalwest; he is also the main figure responsible for securing the acceptance of Christian-Platonism by the medieval Latin Church.

Crucial to Augustine’s education and to his formulation of a Christiantheology were quosdam platonicorum libros (“certain books of thePlatonists”) that he read in Milan in the late 380s.6 The Platonici with whichAugustine was familiar included the Latin translations by Marius Victorinusof writings by Porphyry (234?–301?) and Plotinus (204/5–270), and probablyCicero’s Latin translation of Plato’s Timaeus. The names of Plato, Porphyry,and Plotinus all figure prominently in Augustine’s great work, De civitate

Dei, but among the chief Greek Platonists, Augustine judged Plotinus’ philos-

ophy as superior to the rest.7

In 1962 David Knowles remarked upon the general scholarly neglect of Plotinus’ influence upon later medieval philosophy in western Europe.Plotinus’ “greatness and his importance as a thinker,” wrote Knowles, “areeven now not widely understood.” The “legacy of what is loosely called

Neoplatonism, has been widely recognized,” but “what has not been so fullygrasped is the influence of . . . Plotinus himself upon those who were to be thesources of Western philosophy.”8 Knowles hoped to counter what he saw as

an avoidance of Plotinus among scholars of the western tradition by empha-

28

Medieval Allegory and the Building of the New Jerusalem

Klibansky, The Continuity of the Platonic Tradition During the Middle Ages, Supplement, Plato’s Parmenides in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: A Chapter in the History of Platonic Studies(Munich: Kraus International Publications, 1981), esp. 6–7, 51–2.

6 Conf . VII–X, XVI; VIII.2.3.7 De consensu Evangelistarum 1.22.35; civ. Dei I.22; VIII–XII; Augustine probably knew Plato’s

Phaedo, Phaedrus, and the Republic through encyclopedias and doxographies. The questionssurrounding Augustine’s familiarity with and use of Platonic sources continue to fascinatescholars. For an introduction to the subject, see A. H. Armstrong, Plotinian and Christian Studies

(London: Variorum Reprints, 1979); P. F. Beatrice, “Quosdam Platonicorum Libros: the PlatonicReadings of Augustine in Milan,” Vigiliae Christianae 43 (1998): 248–81; Stephen Menn,“Augustinian Wisdom,” Part One of Descartes and Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998),77; R. H. Nash, “Some Philosophic Sources of Augustine’s Illumination Theory,” AugStud 2(1971): 47–66; R. O’Connell, Saint Augustine’s Platonism (Philadelphia: Villanova UP, 1984); F.Van Fleteren, “The Ascent of the Soul in the Augustinian Tradition,” in Paradigms in Medieval Thought Applications in Medieval Disciplines: A Symposium, ed. N. Van Deusen, MedievalStudies, vol. 3 (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1991), 93–110; Van Fleteren, “Plato, Platonism,”

Augustine through the Ages, 651–54.8 The Evolution of Medieval Thought , 2nd edn. Ed. D. E. Luscombe and C. N. L. Brooke (London

and New York: Longman, 1988), 27–8.



sizing Augustine’s enormous debt to him: “if a reader of Augustine is in doubtas to the origin of a particular philosophical idea, he will usually find theanswer in Plotinus.”9

Reasons for the neglect of Plotinus’ influence by scholars of western medi-eval traditions have included the presumption that his writings are too early to be relevant for studies of later medieval philosophic, theological, or artisticformulations. Further, although Plotinus’ metaphysics represents a carefulsynthesis and refinement of the Greek philosophic traditions that he inherited,the literary style of the writings seems more suited – according to somereaders – to lyric poetry than to philosophic discourse. The “charismaticobscurity” of Plotinus’ expression stems in part from his favored use of complex paradoxes, highly concentrated metaphors, and enjambment.10 Inaddition, Plotinus’ writings do not give clear evidence that he was familiar with Christianity, and so scholars have been careful not to rely too heavilyupon them for an understanding of early Christian-Platonism, especially in thewest.11

Although Knowles made his comments over forty years ago, it is onlyrecently that a scholarly consensus has emerged that identifies Plotinus as thechief influence upon Augustine’s Platonism.12 It was primarily in Plotinusthat Augustine found a sophisticated and richly nuanced metaphysical world

view, one that deeply appealed to his ever-questioning intellect. In its coher-ence as a philosophical system that synthesized and refined earlier traditions,Plotinus’ metaphysics also suited Augustine’s inclination to apply intellectual

pursuits to practical matters, including those required by his pastoral vocation.Perhaps most importantly, however, Augustine recognized in Plotinus asuperb analytical mind whose whole purpose in intellectual engagement wasto find rest in spiritual contemplation, and in the summum bonum, or highestgood. In his own writings, we observe Augustine responding to Plotinus as a

fellow philosopher-mystic, a thinker who yearns for divine revelation andwhose entire philosophic aim was directed toward spiritual conversion.

29

Plotinus’ Screen of Beauty

9 Ibid. 32.10 John P. Kenny, Mystical Monotheism: A Study in Ancient Platonic Theology (Hanover and

London: Brown UP, 1991), 151.11 Plotinus’ writings have gained the attention of scholars interested in the relationship between

Platonic thought and medieval Byzantine aesthetics. See, for example, André Grabar, Les originesde l’esthétique médiévale (Paris: Macula, 1992), 29–88.

12 See especially, Robert J. O’Connell, St. Augustine’s Early Theory of Man (Cambridge: BelknapPress of Harvard UP, 1968); O’Connell, St. Augustine’s Confessions: The Odyssey of Soul (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard UP, 1969); O’Connell, 1984 ; O’Connell, The Origin of theSoul in St. Augustine’s Later Works (New York: Fordham UP, 1987); J. O’Meara, “Plotinus andAugustine: Exegesis of Contra Academicos II.5,” Review of International Philosophy 24 (1970):321–37; John Rist, “Plotinus and Christian Philosophy,” in The Cambridge Companion to

Plotinus, ed. Lloyd P. Gerson (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996), 386–413; Menn (1998)discusses the major scholarship on the subject. He notes that “the crucial work in this project” wasPaul Henry’s Plotin et l’Occident (Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, 1934). Peter Brownalso cites studies that have treated the influence of Plotinus upon Augustine’s thought: Augustineof Hippo; a Biography (Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1967), 95–98.



Augustine’s exposure to Plotinus’ religious philosophy allowed him tounderstand how it was possible for human beings to communicate with andhence participate in an invisible, ineffable divine realm. This is one important

reason why Augustine found it possible to assimilate key features of Plotinianmetaphysics with Christian doctrine. The effort to assimilate Hellenic philo-sophical traditions with Christianity began much earlier, of course, with theearliest followers of Christ’s teachings. The Gospel of John and Paul’s lettersare two prominent examples of foundational Christian texts that also giveevidence of having been influenced by Platonism. Although Augustine

became the figure primarily responsible for the transmission of Christian-Platonism to the medieval west, he was a relative latecomer to the tradition of early Christian writers who embraced and defended Platonism. It will beuseful, therefore, to introduce one major branch in the development of Christian-Platonism prior to Augustine’s reading of the Platonists.13

The quotation that begins this chapter reflects Clement of Alexandria’s(c. 150–c. 215) efforts to continue the ambitious process of synthesis andreconciliation that Philo Judaeus (c. 13–c. 45/50) had begun with Hellenismand Judaism. As both a philosopher committed to ancient Greek thought and aconvert to Christianity, Clement sought to reconcile Platonism with Christiantheology. In doing so he was especially attentive to what he viewed as

elements of Hellenic philosophy in the New Testament teachings of John’sGospel and the letters of Paul. In his writings, Clement defends Hellenic

philosophy as a vehicle of truth within the Judeo-Christian tradition. As heargues in the opening quotation, for example, philosophy cannot be inferior toarchitecture or shipbuilding, since Wisdom is the artificer of one of the greatarchitectural monuments of the Old Testament: Solomon’s Temple (I Kings5–6; Ezekiel 40–42).

As we have seen in our discussion of Bede’s exegesis, the sacred Hebrew

Temple atop Mount Sion was for the early Christians a prophetic symbol of the Church triumphant and the New Jerusalem.14 In addition to Solomon’sTemple and Moses’ Tabernacle, Noah’s Ark and the Ark of the Covenant also

became prominent complex symbols for the early Christians. Indeed, these biblical structures received enthusiastic attention from exegetes and artiststhroughout the Middle Ages. Textual and visual sources from late antiquitythrough the late medieval period provide evidence that these Hebrew struc-tures were understood as symbols of a specifically Christian revelation, since

they derive, like creation itself, from Wisdom, or Logos, which is Christ(John 1.1–17).15

30


13 A standard survey of the development of Christian-Platonism from late antiquity through the earlymedieval period is The Cambridge History of Later Greek and Early Medieval Philosophy, ed.A. H. Armstrong (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1967).

14 See the Introduction, 16–22.15 On the conceptual and etymological relations between reason, number, logos, and analogia, Nigel

Hiscock observes, “the Latin for both reason and ratio is ratio. Numerical ratios then are by defini-tion rational. This transmitted to the Roman world and to the Latin middle ages the Greek concept



One of Clement of Alexandria’s students was Origen (c. 185–254), whowas also – it is likely – a student of Ammonius Saccus, the Platonist teacher of Plotinus. Origen followed Clement’s efforts at synthesis between Platonic

philosophy and Christian thought. Though his mutual commitment to philos-ophy and theology resulted in condemnations of his views, Origen neverthe-less influenced considerably the acceptance of Christian-Platonism by theLatin Church.16 Perhaps the most vital historical connection between Origenand the transmission of Christian-Platonism in the west took place in Milan inthe fourth century. Ambrose (c. 339–97), bishop of Milan, read Origen’s writ-ings in their original Greek and assimilated Origen’s Platonism with his ownideas on the development of Christian thought. In addition, Ambrose usedOrigen’s allegorical methods of interpretation as a basis for his own exegesisof the Hebrew Bible.

Ambrose shared his enthusiasm for Christian-Platonism with Augustine,whom he baptized in Milan at Easter 387. In the Confessions Augustineexplains that it was Ambrose who introduced him to the books of thePlatonists. In De civitate Dei and Contra academicos, Augustine providesmore information on his Platonist education and identifies Plotinus as hisgreatest influence. According to Peter Brown, Plotinus’ concept of beauty“swept Augustine into the heart of the Platonic system.”17 Brown’s statement

is a good point of entry into our analysis of Plotinus’ teachings; but it needssome qualification, however. Plotinus’ concept of beauty is not just one idea;it is an inseparable part of a complex metaphysical system, a system thatAugustine embraced and transformed according to his commitment to aspecifically Christian revelation. Augustine’s discovery in Plotinus of a reli-gious philosophy that suited his intellectual rigor, his pastoral vocation, andhis mysticism is essential to an understanding of the western medieval effortto represent, through liturgical, architectural, and literary expressions, the

New Jerusalem on earth. But what further unifies these expressions of the New Jerusalem is Augustine’s transformation of Plotinian metaphysics usinghis great eschatological framework of the two cities, a framework that empha-sizes his fundamental commitment to the sacramental role of the Church inthe salvation of humankind.

The Platonism of late antiquity had an extraordinary influence on Augus-tine’s formulation of a Christian theology. But it is Plotinus’ fifty-four philo-sophical treatises, arranged and edited in 301 by his disciple Porphyry

31


of logos, or ‘the Word’, which also means both reason and ratio.” Analogia means “proportion, bythe Greeks. And proportion is also [to Augustine] by definition rational, the product of reason. . . .To Boethius, proportion and ratio were interchangeable terms” (104). See Augustine, De musicaI.12.24; VI.17.57; Boethius, De arithmetica 11–12.

16 As Rowan A. Greer has observed, “The charges against Origen boil down to the accusation that histheology was adulterated by his [Platonic] philosophy,” “Introduction,” in Origen: An Exhortationto Martyrdom, Prayer and Selected Works, trans. Rowan A. Greer (New York, Ramsey, Toronto:Paulist Press, 1979), 28–31.

17 Augustine of Hippo; a Biography, 95–98.



(233–305) under the general title Enneads, that are the vital links between adeveloped and complex Hellenic tradition and the tradition of Chris-tian-Platonism formulated by Augustine.18 It is to Plotinus, then, that we turn

to introduce the philosophical foundations for the symbolic representation of the New Jerusalem in poetry, prayer, and stone. The aspects of Plotinus’thought that are most relevant for an understanding of the relations betweenmedieval religious architecture, allegory and revelation include his articula-tion of the symbolism of light, his aesthetic of spiritual transformationthrough images, and his unique conception of a spiritually dynamic cosmos.An examination of Plotinus’ teachings on these subjects prepares us for afuller treatment in the next chapter of how Augustine adopted and trans-formed these teachings to serve his Christian theology of Church and salva-tion history.

“Light above light”:Emanation and Image in Plotinus’ Religious Philosophy

Part of Plotinus’ genius rests in his efforts to assimilate opposing elements of an immensely complex philosophical tradition.19 His achievement is an orig-

inal philosophy inspired by an intense religious experience, and one that is both more elaborate and more coherent than the philosophical systems heinherited. One key feature of his philosophy is the attempt to reconcile thePlatonic conception of a hierarchy of reality with an Aristotelian concept of anorganic universe. Plotinus’ theory of emanation makes this reconciliation

possible. It is through the mediation of partly-spiritual, partly-sensible realmsof light that an infinite, unknowable One is brought into the created cosmos,the means by which the levels of being continuously interact, and, therefore,

the means by which human beings may perceive, ascend, and return to theOne, the “light above light” (V.3.12,15).20

32


18 The authoritative critical edition of the Enneads was published in three volumes by P. Henry andH.-R. Schwyzer, Plotini opera (Paris and Brussels: Desclée de Brouwer, 1951–73). Henry andSchwyzer also published a study version of the edition in three volumes: Plotini opera (Oxford:Clarendon, 1964–82). This edition is printed with a facing page English translation, in sevenvolumes (The Loeb Classical Library, Harvard UP), by A. Hillary Armstrong, Plotinus(Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1966–88). My citations from Plotinus’ writings are taken fromArmstrong’s Loeb translation, which supersedes that by Stephen MacKenna, Enneads of Plotinus(Boston: Charles T. Branford Co., 1916), which was reprinted in abridgment by Penguin Books,with an introduction by J. Dillon, 1991. E. O’Brien in The Essential Plotinus (New York: NewAmerican Library, 1964) translates Enneads I.2, 3, 6; III.8; IV.3, 8; V.1, 2, 9; VI.9.

19 Little is known about the early life of Plotinus, but it is generally assumed that he was born inLycopolis, Egypt in 204 or 205 and died in 270. In 244, after studying Platonism for eleven yearsin Alexandria under Ammonius Saccus, Plotinus came to Rome to teach. In about the year 253,Plotinus began to write down his ideas. Our only reliable source of information about the life of Plotinus is the biography that Porphyry, his disciple and editor, wrote in 301. See Porphyry: On the

Life of Plotinus and the Order of His Books, in Plotinus, ed. and trans. A. H. Armstrong, vol. 1,1–87.

20 I use the phrases “levels of being,” “levels of perception,” and “levels of reality” or hypostases,



Plotinus’ writings are an extraordinary attempt to articulate precisely howthe spiritual and sensible worlds are united organically, but within a hierarchyof being, and how spiritual passage between these realms is possible. His writ-

ings provide not merely a description, but a method – a system of thought – designed to aid humans in their effort to perceive and participate in an invis-ible, sacred reality. Plotinus describes in detail ascending levels of perceptionand sanctification; he offers an analysis of how each stage functions in thesoul’s ascent and a model of how one moves progressively from the visibleworld to contemplation of immaterial beauty.

It is this method – this system of spiritual progression – that inspiredAugustine in his own thinking about cognition of the sense world and the lifeof the soul. Indeed, Plotinus’ systematic description of “progressive planes of spiritual existence”21 is a key feature of his teachings that allowed Augustineto embrace and adapt Platonism within a Christian theological framework.Stephen Menn observes rightly, I believe, that Augustine’s intellectualstruggle, which he famously describes in the Confessions, “is primarily astruggle to conceive God as something real yet incorporeal.” For Augustine,this way of conceiving God is a “necessary and almost a sufficient conditionfor coming to understand how the Catholic doctrine of creation could betrue.”22

Plotinus describes three hypostases, or levels of reality, beyond the visibleworld: the One or the Good, Intellect or Nous, and Soul. One ought not to takeliterally, of course, Plotinus’ spatial metaphors in his analysis of the levels; for him they are “only metaphors: the intelligible world is not above the stars; it isnot in space at all.”23 Plotinus adopted these levels from the Platonic-Aristote-lian tradition that he inherited and modified them according to his own visionof the cosmos. Plato, whom Plotinus cites as his beloved authority on mostmatters, is the main source for his understanding of the spiritual life and his

conception of reality as a hierarchy, consisting of the sensible and intelligiblerealms of perception.24

One way Plotinus departs from his predecessors, including Plato, is hisformulation of the One as infinite and beyond being – beyond the intelligible

33


throughout this discussion since Plotinus’ conception of the cosmos includes levels that are both“beyond” and “below” being. All levels, on the other hand, may be said to be levels of perceptionthrough which the aspiring and governing soul moves. It is through the soul's contemplation of thespiritual and material realms that the soul perceives. A fuller treatment of Plotinus’ teachings onthe soul will be taken up later in this chapter. On the problem of using the phrase “levels of being”to describe Plotinus’ ontology, see Kenny, 131.

21 Hiscock, 56.22 Conf. VII, ix, 13; xx, 26; Menn, 75–77.23 Armstrong makes this point as well in “Plotinus,” Cambridge History, 223.24 Plotinus draws most frequently on the dialogues of Plato, especially the Phaedo, Phaedrus,

Symposium, and Timaeus. When he makes reference to the Republic, Plotinus ignores Plato’s poli-tics, selecting passages mainly from Books IV, V and VII to provide authority, or to serve as pointsof departure for his own views. See, for example, Armstrong, “Plotinus,” Cambridge History,213–14; and Kenny, 111.



world of finite forms.25 He is the first Greek philosopher to articulate clearlythe ways in which the primary principle is thought to be both infinite and

beyond the nature of Intellect. In Ennead VI, Plotinus describes the effects of

the One as something outside of, or extra to, the nature of Intellect. Here, theradiation from the One is spoken of as a “bloom” upon Intellect (VI.7.22;VI.7.21, 31).26 The historical origins of this conception of the One can betraced to the mention of Plato’s “Idea of the Good” and the transcendent,self-thinking God of Aristotle.27 But Plotinus’ One is at once more elevated(metaphysically) and more accessible (spiritually) than either Plato’s “Idea of the Good” or Aristotle’s self-thinking deity. Plotinus presents the first clearlyarticulated concept of the One as not only the radiating source of the wholecosmos, but also as a primary principle different in kind – not merely indegree – from that cosmos.28

Plotinus’ One is beyond all classification of being, beyond all predication, beyond space and time. This “negative” conception of the One derives in partfrom the Pythagorean philosophy of numbers in which the first principle isunpredictable unity, the origin of number. In this system the One transcendsall that it measures or limits.29 Plotinus also believes that there is no humanexpression that can adequately express the reality of the One; yet, he choosesterms and phrases that emphasize its positive quality.30 Armstrong has

referred to this paradox of religious mystery as Plotinus’ “negative theologyof positive transcendence.”31 John Kenny offers further insight on how tounderstand Plotinus’ paradoxical conception of the primary principle: the Onecan be conceived in negative terms “not because it is deficient in any respect

but because it exceeds the capacity of finite description . . . the negationsstated are made to emphasize that the One positively transcends these descrip-tions.”32

Plotinus’ positive terms for the One include “pure will” (VI.8.13, 21),

“love” (V.6.6), and the “Good” (VI.7.22). The “Good” is an especially effec-tive designation, since it literally conveys Plotinus’ belief in the goodness of

34


25 Enn. I.6; III.8.1; V.1.6, 7; V.4.1; VI.8. This departure from tradition is the subject of John Kenny’schapter, “The Mystical Monotheism of Plotinus,” in Mystical Monotheism, 91–149.

26 The Infinity of the Plotinian One is not to be confused with indefinite multiplicity or formlessnessin the material world. The One generates multiplicity, but is not itself multiple (VI.8.8, 9, 11, 17).For Plotinus, “only the One or Good is infinite and in the absolute sense in which we speak of theinfinity of God” (Armstrong, “Plotinus’s Doctrine of the Infinite and its Significance for ChristianThought,” Downside Review 73 [1954–55]: 49–51, 53). Also, see Kenny, 99, 101–2.

27 Plato, Republic VI.508d; VII.517b; Aristotle, Metaphysics, VII.1072b; and De Anima III. 4. 429a,III. 5. 430a; A. H. Armstrong, The Architecture of the Intelligible Universe in the Philosophy of

Plotinus (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1940), 6, 12; Armstrong, “Plotinus’ Doctrine of the Infi-nite,” 47; Kenny, 99. Plotinus’ conception of a first principle as the ground of existence higher thanIntellect comes at the end of a tradition which attempted to assimilate the teachings of Plato andAristotle.

28 On this unique distinction, see Armstrong, Architecture, 5, 56, 115 and Kenny, esp. 132.29 See Armstrong, Architecture, 14, 29.30 Armstrong, “Plotinus,” 238.31 Armstrong, Architecture, 29–30, 56.32 Kenny, 143, 148–49.



the cosmos. While Plotinus is clearly identifying himself as a student of Platoin his use of such terms for the One, it is essential to recall, within this context,Plato’s famous allegory in Book VII of the Republic (514a–518b). Here Plato

describes the visible world as a cave and its inhabitants as prisoners; the thingsone sees in this world are dim shadows or illusions of intelligible truth. Plato’scave metaphor emphasizes, in other words, not only the difference but also thedistance – and hence the rupture – between the visible world and the transcen-dent world of forms.

Plotinus’ treatment of Plato on this fundamental point is less characteristicof his treatment of Platonic thought in general. Typically, he does not overtlydisagree with Plato; instead, Plotinus modifies and refines an idea that isunderstated or receives less emphasis in Plato’s writings. In this case,however, Plotinus’ divergence from Plato is striking, and it is a divergencewhich, by proving to be central to the medieval understanding of the symbol,

provided a philosophical grounding for the treatment of medieval ecclesias-tical buildings as images of the New Jerusalem.

While Plato views the visible world as a shadow or illusion of intelligibletruth, what is illusory for Plotinus is the concept of a drastic rupture or rigid

boundaries separating the sensible realm from the intelligible. A distinction between these realms exists, but the boundaries are extraordinarily blurred,

“[f]or nothing is a long way off or far from anything else,” he writes(IV.3.11).33 Plotinus’ whole project is, to a remarkable extent, a profoundlyoptimistic effort to demonstrate how the visible, sensible realm is a receptacleand reflection of the light and goodness of the One – how it too is good.34

Humans cannot know the Good in itself, but they can know of it through itsradiation of light and a proper knowledge of its images.

A key feature of Plotinus’ system is his emphasis on the eternally dynamicnature of the sensible and the spiritual realms. The fundamental communica-

tion between realms is described in terms of movement, a movement that is acorollary of the cosmos – that is, it makes possible the continued existence of the cosmos itself. Plotinus’ theory of emanation is central to this concept of cosmic dynamism, just as it is an expression of the positive aspect of the One.The cosmos is good because goodness proceeds from the One, without theOne being changed or depleted in any way. This procession, which Plotinuslikens to an outward flow of light, sets in motion the constant and necessarymovement of the cosmos. The continued existence of the cosmos depends, in

35


33 On the effacement of the contours of the hypostases see Emile Bréhier, La Philosophie de Plotin,Librairie Philosophique (Paris: J. Vrin, 1961), xi.

34 Scholars have long recognized that Plotinus’ account of the goodness of the cosmos is, in part, aresponse to the extreme Gnostic view that identifies the physical world with evil. See, for example,Pierre Hadot, Plotinus, or the Simplicity of Vision, trans. Michael Chase (Chicago: UP, 1993), 24,25, 31; Denis O’Brien, “Plotinus and the Gnostics in the Generation of Matter,” Neoplatonism and

Early Christian Thought; Essays in Honor of A. H. Armstrong , ed. H. J. Blumenthal andR. A. Markus (London: Variorum, 1981), 108–123; E. Bréhier, La Philosophie de Plotin, 193ff.



turn, upon a reciprocal movement, a movement of return or “conversion” tothe One.

It is this concept of a blurred distinction between the visible and invisible

realms – the concept of a metaphysical separation that is actually a passage – that medieval churches displayed in the multiple uses of those spaces thatwere designated not only as sacred but also as sacramental. The many featuresof the symbolic programs of medieval edifices called attention to the conceptof a dynamic cosmos. The Gothic designs, for example, allowed the interior spaces to be flooded with light. The imagery, often encyclopedic in its variety,served to keep alive in the minds of the living the memories of the dead, and tolook ahead to the events of the Eschaton. Liturgy was especially important inmanifesting the dynamic communication between the visible and invisiblerealms. The processions, the re-enactments of Christian salvation history, thechanting, and the liturgical gestures reinforced and encouraged belief in areciprocal communication between human beings and God.

A fundamental difference between the Christian and the Plotinian systems,of course, was the ontological nature of God, or the One. Traditional Chris-tianity in western medieval Europe recognized a God who entered historythrough the gift of Christ’s incarnation. While Plotinus’ visible, materialworld has been described by scholars as “sacramental,” without being panthe-

istic, Plotinus never goes so far as to recognize such a direct and profoundlyintimate presence of the One in the sensible world. Nonetheless, a closer look at the inner dynamism of Plotinus’ cosmos will aid in furthering our under-standing of these medieval presentations in poetry, prayer, and stone.

The Soul’s Recognition of Beautyand the Cyclical Procession of the Cosmos

Plotinus’ theory of emanation allowed him to assimilate the Platonic concep-tion of a hierarchy of reality with an Aristotelian organicism model. Light isthe means by which the transcendent, unknowable One is brought into thecosmos and unifies that cosmos. The theory allowed Plotinus to reconcileapparently incompatible theologies of the first principle (negative and posi-tive) and to make the paradox the central tenet of his religious philosophy:“[the divine] is by itself, and is with the world while remaining separate”

(IV.3.11).The first level of being to receive the One’s radiation is the intelligiblerealm of ideas, or Nous; Plotinus most often likens the relation between theOne and Nous to the sun and its light.35 For Plotinus, light is the manifestation

36


35 The word “radiation” is, perhaps, the English term that best conveys Plotinus’ conception of divineemanation. Although, as Armstrong has pointed out, this English word is an approximation of thedescriptions we find in the Enneads. The radiative effects of fire, snow, and perfume are lessfrequently used as similes ( Enn. I.7.1; V.3, 12, 5.8, 6.4; VI.8.18, 9.9). Plotinus’ rendering derives



of the spiritual realm, but it is not merely physical; it is the principle of form inthe sensible world. Fire is the most incorporeal of the physical elements andthus is also the most simple and the most beautiful:

fire itself is more beautiful than all other bodies, because it has the rank of form in relation to the other elements; it is above them in place and is thefinest and subtlest of all bodies, being close to the incorporeal. It alone doesnot admit the others; but the others admit it: for it warms them but is notcooled itself; it has colour primarily and all other things take the form of colour from it. So it shines and glitters as if it was a form. (I.6.3)

The sun receives special status in Plotinus’ theory of emanation, since it is themost appropriate physical receptacle for the incorporeal “light above light”(V.3.12, 15).36 The light of the sun is the intermediary between material andimmaterial realms of reality.

The One is known, in so far as it can be known at all, by its outward flow of radiance, and all that proceeds from the One is good. Even the lowest level of

perception, the level of the senses, is not without value in Plotinus’ system.The realm of sense perception, although limited, is nonetheless the world intowhich humans are born and, according to Plotinus, it is also a world rich withspiritual opportunity if perceived as a reflection of divinity. Indeed, Plotinus’

articulation of the soul’s movement toward divine radiance begins with hisvalorization of images. “Natural things are imitations” (V.8.1), he argues, and“as long as that higher reality gives its light, the rest of things can never fail:they are there as long as it is there; but it always was and will be” (V.8.12).

Plotinus’ affirmation of the sensible world’s spiritual potential gives anextraordinary optimism and vitality to his religious philosophy. There isvirtue in sense perception; there is virtue in bodies, in shapes, since theseserve as stepping stones to higher vision. The universe is, for Plotinus, “a sort

of great sacrament in the wide sense, a sign and collection of signs whichmakes the spiritual world effectively present as far as it can be here below.”37

It is Plotinus’ conception of divine emanation that makes possible the spiritual potential of the sensible world. The One is the source of spiritual motion in thecosmos; it is the standard of truth by which humans see images and desire to

37


in part from the account of color in Plato’s Timaeus (67D) and from the late Stoic theory of aunified cosmos: at the center of the cosmos is the visible sun from which flows its “fiery breath.”But the materialism of Stoic thought, as well the Aristotelian concept of light as primarily a

physical entity, is unacceptable to Plotinus, who emphasizes the incorporeality of light ( Enn.II.1.7; IV.5.6, 7; I.6.3; IV.5.6–7). In Enn. II.4.1 Plotinus criticizes the materialism of the Stoics andin IV.5.6–7, the Aristotelian doctrine ( De Anima 518A). For further discussion of this subject, seeArmstrong, Architecture, 52–54.

36 Plotinus follows the teaching about the sun in Republic VI–VII and the description of the divinityof the heavenly bodies in Timaeus 40B and in Laws 821B, 898D.f. Plotinus’ formulation, however,goes beyond what we find in Plato. He might also have been influenced by a passage in the

Hermetica, which is roughly contemporary with Plotinus. On this point, see Armstrong, Architec-ture, 56.

37 Armstrong, “Salvation, Plotinian and Christian,” Downside Review 75 (1975): 137.



see more than merely image. The image without that standard is powerless inits capacity to reflect divinity. The image is not, therefore, something to becontemplated in itself; instead, it is instrumental in passing from this world to

that other. It acts as a dynamic, often emotional force, an impulse for move-ment between the visible and invisible realms.The adequacy of images rests in the observer’s capacity and willingness to

receive divinity emanating from the spiritual realm. The observer perceivesthis divinity through forms, or presentations of ideas, not naturalistic repre-sentations of things seen in the visible world. Form is “beauty everywhere,”emanating from the “first immaterial one” (V.8.2):

all the Forms we speak about are beautiful images in that [other] world, of

the kind which someone imagined to exist in the soul of the wise man,images not painted but real. (V.8.5)

“Sense-perception,” writes Plotinus,

sees the form in bodies binding and mastering the nature opposed to it,which is shapeless, and [it sees] shape riding gloriously upon other shapes.

(I.6.3)

This submission of body to formative power is a coming into being (I.6.2), asubmission to freedom, since to yield to this power is to be released into avision of primary beauty. The job of the senses is to gather the multiple anddispersed parts of the visible object and present them as one – as form – to thesoul:

we do not yet see a thing while it is outside us, but when it comes within, itinfluences us. But it comes in through the eyes as form alone. (V.8.2)

Plotinus arrives here at the second level of perception, the level at which thesoul is influenced by form and begins its ascent.Since matter is not a “true substance,” because it does not, in itself, possess

wisdom and beauty (V.8.5), this world requires a beauty “brought in fromoutside in order to appear and in any way to be beautiful” (V.8.9). The unityand beauty of the visible realm is, therefore, not measurable. Here Plotinusdeparts from the widely accepted identification of beauty with good propor -tion, a conviction held by Plato, Aristotle and the Stoics. Plotinus held,

instead, that “Beauty is what illuminates good proportions rather than thegood proportions themselves, and this is what is lovable” (VI.7.22). The facesof living people, colors, lightning, stars, sounds, and virtue all derive their

beauty not from excellent symmetry of parts, but because they have been“coloured by the light of the Good” (I.6.1; VI.7.22).38 An aesthetic of beauty

based upon the concept of good proportion is inadequate for Plotinus, since

38


38 For a discussion of this distinctive feature of Plotinus’ conception of beauty, see Bréhier, xvi.



the beauty of the Good belongs ultimately to the realm of faith, not logic or physical measurement: “All that is here below comes from there, and exists ingreater beauty there: for here it is adulterated, but there it is pure” (V.8.7).

Every soul, according to Plotinus, desires an ascent to the beauty of theGood, since this beauty is the archetype and source of beauty in the visibleworld. Plotinus describes this ascent as one of divestiture and purification(I.6.7): as a soul rises it will “strip off” the “clothes” that were acquired in itsdescent to the material realm. But these “external additions” return each timethe soul descends, that is, each time one is separated from divine light by“wanting to perceive too much” through the senses (I.6.7; V.8.11).

Plotinus describes the soul’s ascent and its transformation of the sensibleworld with vivid expressions taken from sense experience. The soul, recog-nizing form as “something in tune with it and fitting it and dear to it” is moved

by the recognition (I.6.3). It is “delighted and thrilled,” he says, for it “returnsto itself and remembers itself and its own possessions” (I.6.2).39 The soul’srecognition of its likeness to the image is a recognition of form. The thingoutside the soul, the image in nature, participates in the higher reality throughform just like the soul does; as a result, the soul “knows” it. In other words, thesoul recognizes as its own possession the thing that the image imitates. Thisrecognition incites the soul to return to itself; it is a movement of remem-

brance, a re-identification of itself with Intellect and a recollection of its own beauty.

The soul’s return to self after having recognized the beauty of form issimultaneously an ascent to Intellect, the third stage of perception:

First the soul will come in its ascent to intellect and there will know theForms, all beautiful, and will affirm that these, the Ideas, are beauty; for allthings are beautiful by these, by the products of intellect and essence. (I.6.9)

In as much as the soul divides its attention between two realms, Plotinussuggests that the soul has two parts, each part operating continuously andsimultaneously on different levels of perception (II.1.5; VI.7.5). One part, thelower, perceives the visible world, and its job is to shape or govern thatworld.40 The material world without beauty of form – without the soul’sgovernance – is absolute shapelessness – a non-reality. The lower soulgoverns and creates the material world by contemplating its other part, thehigher soul, which belongs entirely to the immaterial realm. The term

“govern” in this context, however, needs some clarification: the soul does notact upon the sensible world “from the outside” as if it were painting a picture.Instead, all action of the soul depends upon contemplation of Intellect, just as

39


39 For a discussion of Plotinus’ description of the sensuality of the intelligible world, see Bréhier,xi–xii.

40 Hadot offers a somewhat different account of the soul’s divided attention in Plotinus’ system, onethat describes Plotinus’ formulation in terms of human psychology (29).



the action of Intellect upon the soul depends, in turn, upon its contemplationof the One. As Armstrong has observed, the soul

springs from Intellect as the spontaneous result of Intellect’s contemplationof the One, and its own production of and action upon body is thespontaneous result of its return in contemplation to Intellect. . . . This appliesat all levels.41

The job of the higher soul, then, is to receive light from Intellect and to shedthis light upon its lower half. The result, it should be emphasized, is a crucialfeature of Plotinus’ system: the movement or procession that makes possiblethe continued existence of the cosmos.

In Plotinus’ system, the procession of beauty from the radiating One is acarefully conceived elaboration of the Platonic hierarchy of being. In Plato’sview, this hierarchy of being unfolds from Intelligible truth to dim shadows or illusions of that truth. The Plotinian One is also the source of the Intelligibleworld of the forms, but it is without form itself, since it is beyond all limita-tion. The form that is put into (or upon) the visible image by its maker, the“first immaterial One,” or by the mortal craftsman, is presented to the soulthrough the senses not as a natural representation, but as an idea. This presen-tation triggers a recognition of Intelligible beauty. What results is a cyclicaltransference from one realm to the other, extraordinary in its possibilities for vision. The spiritual experience of the individual soul is initiated by the pres-ence and recognition of form, so that this recollection of beauty – this remem-

bering – links the visible world of sense perception with eternity. For Plotinus,then, to experience the beauty of form in the visible world is to return to formand, therefore, to ascend.

The “Screen of Intellect” and the Artist’s Canvas

Plotinus makes clear in his writings that beauty of form present in the visible,natural world is not as great as beauty of form in the mind of the maker whichthe soul possesses in itself. It is for this reason that Plotinus places the beautyof the image wrought by the human artist on a higher level of beauty than thenatural object. It may be said that for Plotinus, the artist improves upon nature.Here is another instance of Plotinus’ departure from Plato’s teachings in the

Republic. In Book X Plato describes the artist as a maker of copies twiceremoved from truth. It is important to understand, however, that Plotinus’departure from Plato on this point is a sophisticated modification and refine-ment of Platonic thought, and it is not a distinction isolated from the other innovations of his philosophy. There is a coherence to Plotinus’ system that

40


41 “Plotinus,” Cambridge History, 253–54. Armstrong also stresses the intellectual preparation of thesoul: “The supreme achievement of the intellect is to leave itself behind. But for Plotinus there isno way of passing beyond intellect other than through intellect ” (239).



makes the valorization of images inevitable, especially those wrought by theartist. The departure from Plato arises naturally from his conception of theOne, for the One is negative only in its supreme positiveness; this leads to the

generation of its Goodness, and all of created reality is instilled with desire toreturn to it.Plotinus’ concept of the “rational forming principle” allows him to distin-

guish beauty of form in nature from beauty of form in the human mind. Innature, the rational principle is present as the “archetype” of beauty, whereasin the “nobly good” soul it is a more intensively active beauty, “alreadyadvanced” and “more beautiful than that in nature” (V.8.3). The rational prin-ciple is a qualifying feature of Intellect; it acts as an intermediary between thesoul and the Good which is primary beauty:

That which is beyond this [Intellect] we call the nature of the Good, whichholds beauty as a screen before it . . . but if one distinguishes the intelligibles[from the Good] one will say that the place of the Forms is the intelligible

beauty, but the Good is That which is beyond, the “spring and origin” of beauty. (I.6.9)

The Good is beyond the realm of finite ideas and is, therefore, unknowable, but it holds beauty before it as a screen. This screen is the rational principlethat “adorns” the soul, “giving it light from a greater light” (V.8.3). The lightof the Good passes through the screen of Intellect and graces the soul,allowing the soul to see a likeness of the Good. The screen of Intellect “makesus deduce,”

by its very presence in the soul what that before it [the Good] is like, which isno longer in anything else but in itself.

“For this reason,” Plotinus continues,

it [the Good] is not an expressed forming principle at all, but is the maker of the first forming principle [the Intellect] which is the beauty present in thematter which is soul. (V.8.3)

In Plotinus’ teachings on the screen of Intellect, we find an articulation of howthe soul perceives beauty and light from two directions. The sensible worldand the rational principle serve as screens through which divine light passes.At one end is the sensible image, the visible object; at the other is the Good.Beauty in the object is presented to the soul in a form that the soul recognizes.This presentation of form is perceived initially through the senses, but it isrecognized as form, because the soul receives divine light through the rational

principle. In other words, the rational principle presents the light of the Goodto the soul in a form of beauty that the soul can recognize in itself as well as inthe object.

This conception of Intellect as a qualifying principle that adorns the soullike a “screen” of beauty is the foundation for the medieval understanding of

41




philosophical or apocalyptic allegory. Theology serves as the Christian“rational principle,” qualifying the image (i.e., the edifice, the painting, the

poem) so that it may in turn be understood as an anagogical symbol. An effort

to arrive at an understanding of the symbolic programs of medieval churchesleads us back to Plotinus’ reworking of the complex philosophic tradition thathe inherited. His valorization of images follows naturally from his uniqueconception of the radiating One: the colliding reflections upon the soul resultin an anagogical ascent and, thus, make possible not only the communication

between the material and the immaterial realms, but also the continued exis-tence of the cosmos itself. This communication or transference takes place atthe level of the image:

something like an imprint and image of that other [immaterial world]suddenly appears [to the soul], either by its direct action [the action of therational principle] or through the assistance of the soul. (V.8.7)

When the observer succeeds in transporting “what one sees into oneself” thecolliding reflections upon the soul become one, so that the soul dismisses theimage and sees “the whole”:

there is no longer one thing outside [primary beauty] and another outside[the archetype of beauty in nature] which is looking at it [the soul], but thekeen sighted has what is seen within. (V.8.10)

The colliding reflections give a unity to the cosmos that is different from theconcept of unity found in the Aristotelian organicism model that Plotinusinherited. It is a unity achieved by the procession of light from the One and thereturn of the lower levels of being to the One through contemplation.

This unity is always maintained within Plotinus’ revised Platonic hier-

archy. Plotinus also makes clear, however, that these collisions, these“blooms” of color, are not equal in their powers of reflection. The primary beauty of the One “blooms on the surface,” or screen, of the intelligible world,where “all is colour and beauty to its innermost part; for its beauty is notsomething different from itself like a surface bloom (V.8.10).” In so far as thematerial image does not possess beauty “to its innermost part,” it cannot besaid to act as an intermediary between the sensible and invisible realms.Instead, the adequacy of the image rests, on the one hand, in the soul’s ca-

pacity and willingness to receive light from above and, on the other, to bemoved spiritually by the presentation of form by the senses.Plotinus’ analysis of the soul’s ascent, concerned as it is with definitions,

instructions, and designated levels of perception, demonstrates not only anextraordinary effort to assimilate a complex Platonic-Aristotelian tradition,

but also an intense religious desire to express what he clearly believes is ulti-mately inexpressible. The apophatic or negative aspect of the One is never canceled by its positive radiance, since the One “exists before research and

before reasoning” (V.8.6). It is indeed remarkable that the philosopher who

42




broke from his tradition by placing the One beyond the realm of being iscompelled, nonetheless, to “signify our meaning.” What drives this compul-sion is an intense spiritual devotion.42 Plotinus articulates the movement

toward spiritual vision in emotionally charged language intended not only tostimulate the observer’s desire for spiritual ascent, but to mimic that ascent aswell. He seeks to inspire in his listeners a “piercing longing” (I.6.7) to becomeone of the “exceedingly blessed spectators” (V.8.5) and to share in a vision of “true light, not measured by dimensions, or bounded by shape into littleness”(I.6.9).

According to Plotinus, it is this compulsion, this desire for vision thatdefines one’s humanity. The gods, in contrast, do “not even want to be beau-tiful” since there is no lack of beauty in heaven. The soul’s yearning to beunited with “[t]hat alone” (I.6.7) is the most powerful manifestation of divinity within the human world, placed within the soul by the One eventhough that One is beyond human understanding: “the soul also loves thatGood, moved by it to love from the beginning” (VI.7.31).

It is also this yearning of the human soul that compels the artist to attemptto express the ineffable, futile as that project ultimately is. But the artist mustalways wrestle with the paradox: “what image could the primary principle of

beauty take?” How does one “manifest the non-discursiveness of the intelli-

gible world” (V.8.6)? What image created by the artist would be worthy evenof the beauty of intellect in the mind? Even in his valorization of images,Plotinus never dismisses their intrinsic inadequacy to represent the divine:“every image,” he says, “will be drawn from something worse,” worse, that is,than primary beauty (V.8.3). Nonetheless, they remain necessary images.

Plotinus’ philosophical solution provides a powerful justification for visualrepresentation. He believed that the artist improves upon nature by transfer-ring the beauty of intellect to the object, thereby bringing the object one step

nearer to primary beauty. For “the arts,” says Plotinus, “do not simply imitatewhat they see, but they run back up to the forming principles from whichnature derives.” It is the form or the idea that the artist transfers from his mindto the shapeless stone, mastering it, refining it, and bringing the stone “to

beauty of form by art” (V.8.1). “It is utterly unlawful,” Plotinus asserts,

that there should be no beautiful image of [intelligible] beauty and reality . . .for it [the image] has life and . . . it has [as] its being beauty since it comesfrom that higher beauty; (V.8.12)

Plotinus provides, however, an even more specific response to the artist’sdilemma: if one signifies wisely, like the Egyptians, “every image” will be “a

43


42 Armstrong views this tone of intense religious devotion as “the most clearly un-Hellenic thing”about Plotinus, and attributes it, in part, to the influence of the religious passion of the Stoics.

Nonetheless, “the exaltation of the remoteness and transcendence of the Supreme with the passionate devotion to the ruling principle of the universe seems to be,” according to Armstrong,“an original achievement of Plotinus” ( Architecture, 33).



kind of knowledge and wisdom . . . a subject of statements, all together inone” (V.8.6).43 The artist will make icons, and these icons will be taken fromIntellect, “so that one is not really apprehending it [primary beauty] through

an image.” Plotinus explains that the action is, instead,like taking a piece of gold as a sample of all gold, and, if the piece taken isnot pure, purifying it in act or word by showing that not all this sample isgold, but only this particular portion of the whole mass; (V.8.3)

This passage should be understood within the larger context of three closelyrelated tenets of Plotinus’ religious philosophy: first, if humans wish to seewhat primary beauty is like, they must become “godlike” by purifying their

souls. The purification of the soul begins with the individual’s self-concep-tion; that is, it depends upon the viewer’s ability to see his or her own inner beauty. If one looks within and does not see the beauty of a good soul, then the“statue” of ourselves must be brought to “self-mastery enthroned upon itsholy seat.” Through virtuous acts and words, one is able to “cut away excessand straighten the crooked and clear the dark and make it bright . . . till thedivine glory of virtue shines out on you” (I.6.9). In other words, Plotinus’ reli-gious philosophy is inseparable from his ethics.44 Secondly, to purify the soulis to purify what one sees in the visible world, since the formative power of Intellect can then shine its incorporeal light upon (or through) the object.Finally, we have seen how this purification is actually a “coming into being”and a movement toward divinity through contemplation.

Intellect acts as a qualifier of the Plotinian image. Words and actions must be extensions of Intellect so that the piece of gold can be purified and canfunction as a reflection of light from the Good. “[H]ere it is,” Plotinuscontinues,

from the intellect in ourselves when it has been purified, or, if you like, fromthe gods, that we apprehend what the intellect in them is like. For the godsare majestic and beautiful and their beauty is overwhelming: but what is itwhich makes them like this? It is Intellect, and it is because Intellect is moreintensely active in them, so as to be visible. (V.8.3)

Plotinus is suggesting, perhaps, that the Intellect of the gods, because of itsintense activity, is itself visible – visible, that is, to the mind’s eye. But humanintellect, since it is not so intensely active, is not readily available to the

mind’s eye. Humans, therefore, must take something that is materially visible,

44


43 Hadot has observed that Plotinus’ forms are like Egyptian hieroglyphics (40).44 Armstrong observes, “the critical purification of the mind is inseparably linked with the moral and

religious purification; you cannot have one without the other. Plotinian purification cannot beeffectively thought through without being lived through: though it is also true that, in distinctionfrom other less intellectualist mystics, Plotinus does not believe that you can live through itwithout thinking through it” (“Plotinus,” Cambridge History, 239).



like the piece of gold, and qualify it in such a way that it can stand as an imageof divine reality.

According to Plotinus, human beings are naturally compelled to represent

ideas through images, because they naturally desire to perceive more thanwhat is visible to the human eye alone. The visible world – removed, yet notseparate from the divine realm – is a world radiant with possibilities for reve-lation. For Plotinus, the world itself is an icon. If it is seen as such, theobserver becomes a “fellow-lover,” filled with the color and the light that

penetrates “through the whole of the soul” and shines “bright upon all”(V.8.10). Instead of one who sees, the observer becomes “an object of visionto another . . . shining out with thoughts of the kind which come from thatworld” (V.8.11). It is at this state of spiritual perception that the “exceedingly

blessed” spectator becomes sight itself (I.6.9; V.8.5).In the Confessions, Augustine describes with joy his discovery that the

Platonist articulation of a spiritually dynamic cosmos allowed him to perceivethe light of divinity, even though this was a light unavailable to the humaneye:45

These books [of the Platonists] served to remind me to return to my own self.. . . In I entered, and with the eye of my soul, such as it was, I saw the Light

that never changes casting its rays over the same eye of my soul, over mymind. . . . It was above me because it was itself the Light that made me. . . .All who know the truth know this Light, and all who know this Light knoweternity.46

Augustine remains committed to his belief that his own conversion to the“light above light” was a gift from the Christian God, but he also acknowl-edges that the Platonists provided an essential intellectual environment for hisconversion to that Christian faith.47 Plotinus’ writings in particular made it

possible for him to “take the first step of returning into himself” – of lookinginto his own soul and thus begin his journey to God.48 They provided Augus-tine with a sophisticated metaphysical plan that served his great formulationof a specifically Christian philosophy.

The Plotinian metaphysical process that Augustine adapted to serve hisown spiritual vision is also the intellectual basis for the medieval under-standing of the symbol. We are one step closer, then, to laying the foundationfor the building of the New Jerusalem in the medieval west. The medieval

churches served, like the religious philosophy of Plotinus, as powerful invita-tions to share in the best of visions. Their construction, iconography, decora-tion, and liturgy offered programs of anagogical transformation in which

45


45 Enn. V.3.12, 15; Conf. VII.9–16, 20; see also civ. Dei, X.1–2.46 Conf . VII.10, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin, Saint Augustine: Confessions (New York: Viking Penguin,

1961), 146–47.47 Conf. V.14.48 Menn, 82.



human desire for intimacy with an eternal goodness found direction andfocus. It was this effort to perceive and experience the divine realm througharchitecture and its accompanying arts that recalls the Plotinian desire to pen-

etrate the screen of beauty that separates the observer from full revelation.

46




Augustine’sCity of God

2Foundations II: Augustine’s City of God

We find, therefore, that the earthly city has two aspects. Under the one, it displays its own presence; under the other it serves byits presence to point towards the Heavenly City.

( De civitate Dei XV.2)

Ad imaginem Dei :1 Christ and the Elevation of the Human Body

AUGUSTINE’S transformation of Platonism according to Christiantconcepts of Church and salvation history is a necessary bridge between

Plotinus’ screen of beauty and the medieval representations of the New Jeru-salem in poetry, prayer, and stone. Augustine’s treatment of Platonism ingeneral and his indebtedness to Plotinus in particular are, of course, highlycomplex subjects. A thorough treatment of them requires full discussion of early Christian responses to Greco-Roman philosophical traditions.2 Myintention here is to concentrate primarily on Augustine’s mature and mostambitious theological work, De civitate Dei (On the City of God), turning to

key features of his thought that assist in our larger focus on the architecturalapproach to divine revelation in the medieval west.3 These features includehis views on the relation between the sensible and invisible realms, his specif-ically Christian response to Platonist teachings on the soul, his sacramentaltheology, and his great eschatological theme of the two cities or “orders,” intowhich he divides the human race: the civitas terrena (earthly city), symbol-

47

1 Gen. 1.27.2 In addition to the bibliographical suggestions listed in Chapter One, nn. 7 and 12, the following

sources are especially helpful: E. L. Fortin, The Birth of Philosophic Christianity: Studies in EarlyChristian and Medieval Thought, ed. Brian Benestad (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield,1996); H. J. Blumenthal and R. A. Markus, eds., Neoplatonism and Early Christian Thought (London: Variorum, 1981).

3 Unless otherwise noted, my English translations are taken from Augustine: the City of God against the Pagans, ed. and trans. R. W. Dyson, Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought(Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998). For Latin editions of Augustine’s works cited in this book, seethe Bibliography entries under Augustinus.



ized by Babylon, and its antithesis, the civitas Dei (City of God), symbolized by Jerusalem.

Compared with Augustine’s treatment of these subjects in some other of

his major works, they do not all receive Augustine’s fullest attention in Decivitate Dei. Nor are his teachings in this work always representative of hisviews in his other, especially earlier, works. De civitate Dei, however, isAugustine’s most comprehensive work, written between 413 and 427. It isone of the foundational texts of patristic literature and was one of the mostwidely read of Augustine’s works throughout western medieval Europe.Furthermore, with the exception of the Bible itself, it provides the mostimportant theological foundation for the architecture of the New Jerusalem inthe medieval west: Augustine grounds his encyclopedic presentation of theology in De civitate Dei in his interpretation of Jerusalem, the earthly city,as a figura that points toward Heaven.

To examine Augustine’s treatment of Platonism is to encounter his personal engagement with an age and place that experienced tremendous political, intellectual, and religious changes. His life coincided with what his-torians identify as an age of great transition, when the early years of medievalChristianity were emerging from late pagan antiquity. Augustine’s theolog-ical writings reflect, and in many cases were motivated by, this collision of

cultures and systems of belief. In his admiration and respect for certainaspects of Platonist thinking on the one hand and his steadfast commitment toa Christian revelation on the other, including the essential role of the Churchin making that revelation accessible, we recognize Augustine as a transitionfigure in the best sense, as one who belonged to a world that was crumbling,

but which for him had served as a preparation for the true religious philos-ophy, the Christian faith.4

Augustine’s response to the “books of the Platonists,”5 that he read in

Milan in the late 380s was one of joy and gratitude. From Plotinus, the chief source of his Platonism, he gained intellectual insights that prepared him toaccept the authority of the Christian faith, an authority he recognized in scrip-ture and in the early Christian tradition whose roots extend to Christ’s apos-tles. The theology of love, wisdom, conversion, and transcendence that hefound in the New Testament, especially in the Gospel of John and in theletters of Paul, had been anticipated, Augustine believed, in Plotinus’ intellec-tually informed religious devotion and in his carefully articulated metaphysics

48


4 R. A. Markus observes that the modern distinction between philosophy and theology is inappro- priate for an understanding of Augustine’s intellectual and religious environment: Augustine“included under [the heading of philosophy] everything that was of ultimate concern to man,everything relevant to the question: how is a man to attain his ultimate fulfillment, that is ‘blessed-ness’ (beatitudo)?” “Augustine. Biographical Introduction: Christianity and Philosophy,” inCambridge History, 334; cf. 353. On Augustine as a central figure for our understanding of thisgreat age of transition, see Markus, Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St Augustine(1970; repr., Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1970); J. Pelikan, The Excellent Empire: The Fall of

Rome and the Triumph of the Church (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987).5 Conf . VII.9–13.



of light. In his own intellectual journey from Manicheism, Platonism, andfinally to Christianity, Augustine discovered a special kinship with Plotinus asone whose entire philosophical enterprise was directed toward the summum

bonum.While he valued certain achievements of the pagan Platonists, especiallythe philosophical mysticism of Plotinus, Augustine worked to correct, refine,and transform this tradition so that it served what he believed was the true

philosophy. For Augustine, the inadequacy of pagan Platonism rested not inits philosophical aim, which is blessedness, but in its teachings on how toachieve that aim. In De civitate Dei, we find extended discussions of whatAugustine identifies as profound differences between the systems of belief,despite what he sees as striking parallels between those systems. In one

passage addressed to the Platonists, for example, Augustine explains,

[T]hough your use of words is incorrect, you do to some extent see as it werea kind of shadowy image of what we should strive towards. You do not,however, wish to acknowledge the incarnation of the immutable Son of God,

by which we are saved and through which we are able to come to the thingswe believe or in some small way understand. You see after a fashion,although at a distance, and with clouded vision, the country in which weshould abide; but you do not hold fast to the way that leads to it. (X.29)

For Augustine, spiritual transformation can be achieved only through belief inthe historical reality of the birth, death, resurrection, and ascension of JesusChrist. Augustine’s belief in the scriptural account of Jesus’ earthly history,and his equally committed acceptance of early Christian teachings that identi-fy the Church as the mystical body of Christ, are the key points of referencewhich he repeatedly invokes in his response to the Platonici.

Plotinus’ philosophical affirmation of the essential goodness of the visible,

sensible realm, an affirmation that was a natural corollary of his belief in the positive aspect of the One, was clearly, for Augustine, a powerful messagethat motivated his desire to achieve some harmonious understanding of Platonism and Christianity. In one passage that demonstrates well how heoften moves with ease between Plotinian and Christian thought, Augustineuses Jesus’ teachings on divine Providence to gloss Plotinus’ religion of thecosmos:

The Platonist philosopher Plotinus indeed discusses providence. He infersfrom the beauty of flowers and leaves that providence extends downwardeven to these earthly things from the supreme God, to Whom belong theintelligible and ineffable beauty; and he holds that all these lowly thingswhich fade away so quickly could not exhibit such an utter perfection of form were they not formed by Him Whose intelligible and immutable formendures in all things together. The Lord Jesus Himself shows this, where hesays, “Consider the lilies, how they grow. . . .” (X.14)6

49

Augustine’s City of God

6 Matt. 6.28ff.



With a remarkable lack of hesitation or awkwardness, Augustine invokesJesus’ authority to support what he understands as a Plotinian theory of divineProvidence. What is also striking about this passage is Augustine’s special

emphasis on the “downward” extension of the Plotinian One, even thoughPlotinus’ elaborate metaphysical apparatus places the One beyond the realmof being, beyond Intellect. When Plotinus uses language that might suggest aradical intimacy between the One and the created cosmos, he provides suffi-cient qualification to counter this possibility, lest his audience misunderstandhis ontology and assign too direct a communication between the One and thesensible world.

Yet this passage is just one example of many in De civitate Dei and in other works of how Augustine often stresses fundamental agreements between thetwo great traditions. In order to do so, as we have seen, he turns to passages inthe New Testament to gloss Plotinus’ teachings. To a certain degree, Augus-tine’s acceptance of traditional Christian teaching gave him proper justifica-tion for his attraction to Plotinus’ thought. The goodness that proceeds fromthe Plotinian One, which Plotinus likens to an outward flow of light, sets inmotion the spiritual dynamism of the cosmos; indeed, this radiation of good-ness is the source of life itself and upon which the cosmos is whollydependent. For Augustine, the specific source and fully accurate expression of

this teaching is the incarnation and resurrection of Christ. In other words, wefind Augustine accepting a fundamental feature of a Platonic model, but inorder to do so, he transforms that model with Trinitarian theology.7

What is most important for Augustine are not the parallels between the twotraditions, but the complete dependence of the sophisticated pagan modelupon the Christian revelation – a dependence that is necessary if that model isto have any significance at all. The Word (verbum) proceeds from the Father through the Holy Spirit and entered history with the birth of Christ. Through

the loving sacrifice of the Cross, the saving grace of the Resurrection, and thesacramental role of the Church, spiritual conversion and eternal salvation for humankind is made possible.8

The doctrines of the resurrection of Christ and of the resurrection of bodiesat the end of time made it necessary for Augustine to emphasize further afundamental departure from Platonist teachings on the sensible world, evenwhile acknowledging the value of those teachings:

50


7 civ. Dei X.29; XIV.8 Spiritual conversion and eternal salvation is made possible, but it is not, for Augustine, guaranteed.

In Augustine’s writings on predestination, most of which are specific responses to the Pelagiancontroversy, he stresses the inability of human beings to ever fully grasp the mysteries of God’sProvidence, especially on matters of election and damnation. Nonetheless, human beings arealways responsible for choosing to live according to the scriptural teachings on the redemptivelove of Christ and as members of the City of God on earth ( De dono perseverantiae, 22–60). I donot take up further discussion in this book of Augustine’s views on predestination. For some of hismost important works on this subject, see De dono perseverantiae, De gratia et libero arbitrio, and

De praedestinatione sanctorum.



The Platonists are not, indeed, so foolish as the Manichaeans; for they do notdetest earthly bodies as the natural substance of evil. On the contrary, theyattribute all the elements of which this visible and tangible world iscomposed, and their properties, to God the Creator. Nonetheless, they [thePlatonists] hold that souls are so influenced by earthly limbs and dyingmembers that they [the souls] derive from them [their bodies] their unwholesome desires and fears and joys and sorrows. (XIV.5)

Augustine insists that Platonist optimism toward the visible, sensible worlddoes not give adequate attention to the human body. Indeed, it is the human

body that must be the primary focus of such optimism, since human beings aremade ad imaginem Dei (in God’s image). The body is the temple of the Holy

Spirit, and scripture teaches that we will be reunited with our bodies on Judg-ment Day.9 When human beings sin, it is not the fault of the body, but of thewill, or soul, whose job it is to subject the body to proper governance.“[T]hose who suppose that the ills of the soul derive from the body are inerror,” Augustine states. “We are pressed down by the corruptible body . . . yetwe know that the cause of our being pressed down is not the nature andsubstance of the body, but its corruption.”10

Augustine’s discussion in De civitate Dei on the necessary elevation of thehuman body also demonstrates how his apocalyptic eschatology is a keyfeature of his transformation of the Platonist view: “we do not wish . . . to bedivested of the body, but to be clothed with its immortality.” At the end of time, “there will still be a body . . . but, because it will not be corruptible, itwill not be a burden.” To be clothed with a body is to be given the gift of spiri-tual opportunity; it is God’s visible invitation to his children to imitate Christ.To have a body, then, is to be a living sacrament in the Pauline sense: “I

beseech you, therefore, brethren, by the mercy of God, that you present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy, pleasing unto God, your reasonable

service.”11 Augustine’s commentary on the biblical passage, which he quotes,is strikingly Plotinian:

If, then, the body, which, being inferior, the soul uses as a servant or instrument, is a sacrifice when it is used rightly, and with reference to God,how much more does the soul itself become a sacrifice when it offers itself toGod, in order that, being inflamed by the fire of His love, it may receive of His beauty and become pleasing to Him, losing the shape of earthly desire,and being remoulded in the image of permanent loveliness? (X.6)

The body, like Plotinus’ piece of gold, can be reshaped or remolded to serveas a sacrifice, as a living sacrament.12 To be “clothed with a body,” is to be

51


9 I Cor. 3.10–17; I Cor. 15.35–54; II Cor. 4.16; 5.1–10. For Augustine’s theology on the resurrectionof bodies, see civ. Dei XXII.20–26; XIII.16–end.

10 civ. Dei XIV.311 Rom. 12.1.12 Enn. V.8.3. See Chapter One, 44–5.



colored, or adorned, with the light that radiates from heaven and which illumi-nates the body as an “earthly tabernacle.” In expressing his eschatology,Augustine mixes Paul’s architectural metaphors with the exuberance of

Plotinus’ mysticism. The body is, of course, susceptible to corruption througha misdirected will, and it is this corruption that is mere nakedness – the naked-ness that is our mortality and hence our burden. We desire Heaven, therefore,to shed its bloom upon the body: we “earnestly desire to be clothed upon withour house which is from heaven.”13

This process of being “clothed upon” with immortality, this building up of our bodies as “houses” from, belonging to, and turning towards Heaven is,ethically speaking, a training or education of the mind (exercitatio animae), a

process in which the merely naked – or mortal – body is purified and subju-gated to the soul. Once again, Plotinian terms are remarkably useful, asAugustine himself realized. The process of being “clothed” in this sense isactually a lifting off, an unveiling, a process whereby communication with thedivine is made possible, not hindered or prevented. It is to be clothed withHeaven’s light, with a veil that is neither burdensome nor a source of resis-tance; it is instead a screen of intellect or beauty in the Plotinian sense – a“location” and opportunity for higher vision.14 In other words, it is a

sacramentum, especially in the Augustinian sense. It is to live the earthly life

as an opportunity for revelation, since the body adorned with heaven is “sightitself.”15

Perhaps the finest medieval expressions of this spiritual “adding on,” or adornment, are not found in Augustine’s theology but in a pervasive applica-tion of Christian-Platonist apocalyptic eschatology: the building of the NewJerusalem in poetry, prayer, and stone. The Pauline teaching that Augustinequotes, that “we earnestly desire to be clothed upon with our house which isfrom heaven” recalls John’s apocalyptic visio pacis: “And he took me up in

spirit to a great and huge mountain: and he showed me the holy City of Jeru-salem coming down out of heaven from God.”16 One wonders how Augustinewould have responded to the remarkable building projects of western medi-eval Europe, churches like Notre Dame of Chartres and St.-Étienne inBourges, or the Sainte Chapelle in Paris and its now-lost English counterpart,St. Stephen’s Chapel in London’s Westminster Palace.17 Augustine knew inti-mately the liturgies that designated the buildings in which they were

52


13 civ. Dei XIV.3. Augustine quotes II Cor. 5.1ff: “For we know, if our earthly house of this habita-tion be dissolved, that we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in heaven.For in this also we groan, desiring to be clothed upon with our habitation that is from heaven. Yetso that we be found being clothed not be naked. For we also, who are in this tabernacle, do groan,

being burthened; because we would not be unclothed, but clothed upon, that that which is mortalmay be swallowed up by life.”

14 civ. Dei XIII.2115 Plotinus, Enn., I.6.9; V.8.5.16 Rev. 21.10: et sustulit me in spiritu in montem magnum et altum et ostendit mihi civitatem

sanctam Hierusalem descendentem de caelo a Deo.17 See my discussion in Chapter Four, 113–16, 117, 118, 119.



performed as sacred spaces, and he demonstrates in his frequent citations of ancient authors, especially Virgil, a great fondness and sensitivity towards

poetry. Could he have imagined, however, a great sacramental poem like

Dante’s La Divina Commedia or a great liturgical painting like The SevenSacraments by Rogier van der Weyden? In his writings, Augustine does notconsciously advocate these kinds of achievements, but he did transform thePlotinian screen of beauty according to Trinitarian theology and a specificallyChristian apocalyptic eschatology. He provided, therefore, a fully articulatedtheological foundation for the architecture of revelation in poetry, prayer, andstone. The architectural expressions were reciprocal responses to John’s visio

pacis in the Book of Revelation – earthly elevations designed to meet, at thelevel of the qualified image, the Second Coming of Christ.

Christiana libertas:Christian Freedom and the Soul’s Journey to God

Augustine used the hierarchical model that he inherited from the Platonists inways that supported his Christian faith, despite that model’s theological defi-ciencies. Augustine’s Christology made it essential that he adjust the status of

the Platonist body by rejecting the idea that a human body is in itself thesource of human corruption. “There is no need,” Augustine writes, “in thematter of our sins and vices, to do injustice to our Creator by accusing thenature of the flesh, which, of its own kind and in its due place, is good.” Sincehuman beings consist “of both soul and flesh” the “whole” human being “can

be signified by either ‘soul’ or ‘flesh’ alone.”18

In this passage we see Augustine struggling with the linguistic constraintsof the hierarchical model he adopted, but this struggle is also one that arises

from his efforts to express a religious mystery. Human beings, Genesisteaches, are made in God’s image. For Augustine, however, Genesis alsoteaches that the human will, or soul, is responsible for the turning away fromthe source of our likeness. It is only through Christ that bodies becomeendowed with new opportunity for sanctification; it is Christ who restores the

possibility for the soul’s ascent (acies mentis) to God.Plotinus’ efforts to synthesize a Platonist hierarchy of being with an Aristo-

telian organicism model would have been appreciated by Augustine, who

wrestled with the linguistic difficulties of formulating a coherent theologythat fully accepts the mystery of the incarnation and yet insists upon a subordi-nation of the body to an otherworldly spirituality.19 The body is a createdgood, yet a strictly otherworldly perspective must be maintained: “it is notgood for anyone to forsake the good Creator and to live according to a created

53


18 civ. Dei XIV.5.19 civ. Dei XI.26; De Trinitate XIV.8.11.



good.”20 To a degree, Augustine also recognized a special affinity betweenPlatonic and Christian teachings on the soul. Plotinus, as we have seen, offersa meticulous account of the soul’s central role in maintaining an otherworldly

perspective. The soul’s position in the hierarchy of being is the pivotal one,directing its attention “upwards” in recognition of its participation in theinvisible light of the One and “downwards” in its governance of the sensibleworld.

We have seen that Augustine corrects the Platonist emphasis on the body asa source of spiritual corruption. It is the soul that is the source of corruption,since its job is to govern the lower self. Those occasions of inadequate gover-nance are occasions of sin. The Christian belief in the inherent corruptibilityof the soul is a fundamental divergence from Plotinus’ teachings.21 For Plotinus, the soul neither sins nor suffers; it is in itself divine, although fullydependent on the One for its continued, immutable, and impeccable existence.For the Christian, by contrast, souls are created and are not in themselvesdivine; indeed, they bear the heavy burden of sin.

Adam’s sin, which is the archetype of all subsequent human sin, was aturning away from the light. In his disobedience, he acted “as if he werehimself light.” Had he followed that light instead of turning from it, “he wouldhimself have become light.”22 Human beings have been given the gift of

Christ as the redeemer. The journey of the Christian soul, then, is one of restoration, or divinization, achieved only through the intervention and savinggrace of the Trinitarian God. Nor is it a journey that can be completed in thisworld; the end of the pilgrimage, whether infernal or paradisal, will come atthe Last Judgment.23

Augustine rejects Plotinian teachings on the natural divinity of the soul, buthe refines Plotinus’ validation of the sensible world to serve his views on the

possibility of the soul’s sanctification. It is the job of the Plotinian soul to

qualify the sensible world through the rational principle so that the world can become a screen of beauty, a location for spiritual transformation, an icon, “asort of great sacrament in the wide sense.”24 Augustine’s teachings on thesensible world, including his sacramental theology, owe much to thisPlotinian formulation. But for Augustine, Christianity profoundly transformsthat sacramental world view: the redemptive love of Christ restores the human

being to its elevated condition as an image of God and makes the ascent possible.

54


20 civ. Dei XIV .5.21 Conf . XII.11; De Trinitate XII.22 civ. Dei XIV.13. Trans. Marcus Dods, Saint Augustine: The City of God , Introduction by Thomas

Merton (New York: Random House, 2000).23 For Augustine’s distinction between the first Judgment, after death, and the Last Judgment, see civ.

Dei XX. 6.24 Armstrong, “Salvation, Plotinian and Christian,” 137.



Ecclesia et sacramenta:Augustine’s Church and the Sacramental Signa

Whereas in Plotinus the transformation of the soul takes place at the level of the image, with the rational principle qualifying that image as the screen of

beauty, in Augustine the transformation of the soul must also take placethrough the great sacramental signum, or sign, that is Ecclesia, the Church.For Augustine, the Church assists in preparing the faithful for elevation to astate of sanctification, offering forgiveness of sins and the hope of resurrec-tion to eternal life.25 The Augustinian Church is, as one scholar has correctlyexpressed it, “simultaneously historical and eschatological, institutional andspiritual, visible and invisible.”26

The Church is the eucharistic community, the mystical body of Christ(corpus mysticum), and its members are bound in a community of love: God’slove for humankind and the two great commandments to love God andneighbor.27 Augustine defines the sacrifice of the Eucharist as “the visiblesacrament ( sacramentum) or sacred sign ( signum) of an invisible sacrifice.”28

It is a sign of the divine presence, but it is unlike other signs in that it is alsothat very presence. It is the most profound likeness of all, since it is itself the

reality it signifies.29 The boundaries – even those as fluid as Plotinus’colliding reflections of light – between the visible and invisible, the temporaland eternal, are erased in the miracle at the altar. For Augustine, the Eucharistis the radically intimate communication between God and human beings. It isthe sacrifice of the crucifixion, simply and profoundly expressed in Christ’sforetelling of his own death: “And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shalldraw all people to myself.”30

Augustine understood the sacraments of the Church as sacrificial ways of

furthering the journey toward the summum bonum, a journey that human sinhinders or prevents.31 The sacraments reopen paths toward sanctification,

55


25 civ. Dei XX.9. Augustine does not exclude virtuous people, unaware of the Christian revelation,from the City of God. Nor does the Church guarantee salvation to all its professed members. In civ.

Dei, see I.35; XI.1; XVIII.49; XX.9.1.26 Heikki Kotila, “ Memoria Mortuorum: Commemoration of the departed in Augustine,” Studia

Ephemeridis Augustinianum 38 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1992), 151.27 Matt. 22.37–40; Jn. 13.34–35; civ. Dei X.3.28 civ. Dei X.5. For an extended analysis of Augustine’s sacramental theology, see H.-M. Féret,

“Sacramentum. Res. dans la langue théologique de Saint Augustin,” Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques vol. 29 (1940): 218–43.

29 Epistulae 98.9; Enarrationes in Psalmos 33.1; Sermones 228B.2; 229.2; civ. Dei 17.20; Conf.10.43.70.

30 Jn. 12.32. The translation is from The New Jerusalem Bible (New York: Doubleday, 1990).31 Augustine’s Ad inquisitiones Januarii ( Epistolae 54–55) (Responses to Januarius, letters 54–55),

especially letter 55, is an important work for our understanding of Augustine’s views on the eccle-siastical sacraments, especially the Eucharist and baptism, and other church observances duringthe Easter liturgies. Also of importance for Augustine’s sacramental view of reality is

Enarrationes in Psalmos 105; and Sermones 4.



providing avenues of blessedness. The greatest sacrament is the Eucharist;indeed, for Augustine, it is the religious mystery through which human beingsmust perceive all visible reality. Without the Eucharist, the Plotinian religion

of the cosmos is ultimately, and at best, devoid of meaning; at worst it is idola-trous.32 For this reason, as Augustine concedes, it must be corrected or elserejected.

Sacramental signs ( signa) are a sub-category within Augustine’s theory of signs, which receives its most sustained and formal treatments in De doctrinaChristiana (396; 426–27) and De magistro (398).33 In these works, Augustine

presents his theory of signs as a theory of the acquisition and conveyance of knowledge through language. Specifically, it is presented as a theory of language applied to scripture. The divine pedagogy of scripture, Augustineexplains, includes two kinds of word-signs: first, the literal signs whosemeaning is clear, since signification refers to itself as a literal reality. Hence,Jacob’s stone in Genesis (28.10–19) is signified literally by the Hebrew wordfor “stone.” In the second category, signs are figurative; that is, they signifysomething beyond (other than) the literal meaning. The figurative meaning (or meanings) may not, therefore, be readily apparent. According to Augustine’stheory, Jacob’s stone has multiple significations. It is to be understood liter-ally as a detail in Genesis, and it is also to be understood as a complex figura

with simultaneous significations, including Beth’el (an “abode of God”),Solomon’s Temple, the City of God on earth, Ecclesia, and the visio pacis, or Heavenly Jerusalem. Jacob himself marks the place as a sacred sign when heanoints the stone with oil. In doing so, he formally identifies the place as alocation for communication between God and his people. It is, literally, astone on the ground where he lays his head, but figuratively, as his dreamteaches, it is a stairway to Heaven.34

The essential interpretive principle in the divine pedagogy of scriptural

signa is caritas: love of God and neighbor.35 Scripture teaches nothing other than caritas and condemns nothing other than cupiditas, which is love of anything other than God for its own sake. Sin is a perversion of caritas, since

56


32 Conf . VII.12. For a discussion on the early Christian opposition to the sacramental cosmology, or “cosmic religion” of the pagans, see A. H. Armstrong and R. A. Markus, Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy, esp. ch. 4 (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1964).

33 A full critique of Augustine’s theory of signs is beyond the scope of this study. My discussion hereis meant to provide fundamental tenets of the theory that are necessary for my larger discussion of

sacramentum and Ecclesia. Among the many, more thorough scholarly treatments of Augustine’stheory of signs, especially useful are Giovanni Manetti, ed., Knowledge through Signs: Ancient Semiotic Theories and Practices (Turnhout: Brepols, 1996); Markus, “St. Augustine on Signs,”and B. D. Jackson, “The Theory of Signs in St. Augustine’s De Doctrina Christiana,” in Augus-tine: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. R. A. Markus (New York: Doubleday, 1972), 61–91;92–147; Brian Stock, Augustine the Reader (Cambridge: Belknap, Harvard UP, 1996).

34 Cf. Ex. 23.24; I Kings 8.27.35 Augustine treats the Latin words caritas, amor , and dilectio as synonyms. In civ. Dei XIV.7 he

rejects the idea “that dilectio is to be taken in a good sense and amor in a bad.” Augustine turns tohis Latin translation of the New Testament for his authority on this treatment of the terms.



sinners substitute their own objects of love for love of God. To sign properlyis to be motivated by caritas, to understand that a mere thing (res), likeJacob’s stone, for example, is not to be deified as a thing (res) sacred in and of

itself. Its sacral status depends upon its communicative function as a sign of asacred reality beyond itself. One must also be aware of the inverse abuse of signs: one must not mistake a sacred sign for a mere thing. The perverse deifi-cation of the res on the one hand and the demystification of the sacred sign onthe other, are both examples, according to Augustine, of a carnal engagementwith God’s means of communication.36 Interpretation of scripture is, there-fore, an opportunity for moral choices, an opportunity to engage in acts of love, and all readings must be worthy of God’s love for human beings.

Although Augustine formally presents his theory of signs as a theory of language applied to scripture, we see that he applies it as well, in an analogousway, to God’s creation as a whole. Indeed, scholars have observed his “veryindefinite” use of the word sacramentum; he applies the term “to all things”that have “some spiritual meaning” and that are “externally visible.”37 Augus-tine’s broad application of the term is not, however, evidence of a lack of

precision in his thought or of sympathy with a pantheistic religion of creation.The freedom with which he uses the term certainly demonstrates his specialaffinity for Plotinus’ philosophical mysticism, but more importantly, it is

Augustine’s faith in the Church as the eucharistic community that allows himto exercise that freedom.38

Sacramental signa assist in the recovery from the fall into cupiditas.Augustine understood the ecclesiastical sacraments as powerful signa of sacred reality. Since the sacramental process is inherently reciprocal, Augus-tine often refers to sacraments as visible words (verba visibilia). The sacra-ment of the altar, however, is unique: it is not merely a sign that hints at,suggests, or points to a reality beyond itself; it is a miracle of the Word’s

actual presence. The Eucharist, as the greatest of the sacramental signa, is theway of our affections motivated by caritas. It is the sacrament that allowsAugustine to apply his theory of signs, with Plotinian-like inclusiveness, notonly to scriptural interpretation, but also to liturgical rites and gestures, tomiracles and theological mysteries, such as the Trinity and the resurrection of Christ – indeed, to any feature of God’s creation that, if perceived properly,may be understood as one understands the Hebrew term pasch, meaning“passage” from bondage to freedom, from death to life.39 Sacraments are

57


36 De doctrina Christiana III.5.9.37 Kotila, 118.38 For important studies of Augustine’s sacramental theology, see C. C. Courtier, “Sacramentum et

mysterium dans l’oeuvre de Saint Augustin,” Études Augustiniennes, ed. H. Rondet et al. (Paris:Aubier, 1953); Markus, 1972; B. Studer, “Sacramentum et exemplum chez Saint Augustin,”

RechAug 10 (1975): 87–141.39 Ex. 12.



vehicles for communication with God. They are invitations to participate inthe redemptive sacrifice, to be anointed, like Jacob’s stone, as a living templeof God.40

Oratio et laus: Prayer and Liturgy as Sacramental Actions

Augustine’s theory of signs, especially as it relates to scriptural interpretation,teaches how words may serve as signa of holy realities. God uses signs tocommunicate with human beings; sacramental signs are occasions of divineeloquence, whose purpose is to elevate the human soul. This is how Augustineunderstands Christ’s own words that he spoke on earth and which scripturerecords. Jesus spoke “in words of human speech, syllable by syllable, givingto each its brief moment of passing time; but in His own nature He speaks notin a bodily but in a spiritual way.”41 Scripture is a unique textual fulfillment of the Word. And so, Augustine argues, to further our sacramental journeys, wemust learn to read the words of scripture properly as a sacramental activity.

Augustine insists, as well, that although it is impossible for human beingsto articulate anything truly worthy of God – since God is beyond any merelyhuman predication – God has, nonetheless, given of Himself through the

human voice in Christ. Since God gave us scripture to reflect upon and taughtus to pray through Christ, we are to understand that God gave us language sothat we may experience the joy of praising Him (laus) and be comforted in our

prayers of petition (oratio). Prayer, therefore, is also a sacramental activitythat gives special emphasis to an articulated love in all communication

between God and human beings. Prayer is at once a human assertion of faith – often through linguistic formulations – and a receptivity to the Word, which isthe sacrificial love of Christ. Successful communication with God through

prayer or through reflection upon the inspired Word in scripture depends uponthis mutual love. Without the sacrificial love that joins Christ with the Church,there is mere nakedness of body and stagnation of soul.

Liturgical prayer is an especially appropriate way of acknowledging bothGod’s gift of creating humankind in His likeness – the now tarnished gift of Genesis – and the gift of restoration through Christ. Liturgical worship is a

public act of sacred recognition and, therefore, an edification of the soul.Liturgy is a service of the faithful offered to the Master Builder, so that the

faithful themselves may be restored as temples of God. In one of the most

58


40 The synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) present the Last Supper as a Passover meal(Mt. 26.17; Mk. 14.12; Lk. 22.7–8). Both meals are, therefore, commemorated in the eucharisticliturgy. See Jn. 19.36 and I Cor. 5.7, where the death of Jesus is described as the Passover sacrifice.

41 civ. Dei X.15. cf. “For the immutable Truth either speaks by itself, ineffably, to the minds of rational creatures, or it speaks through a mutable creature: either to our spirit by spiritual images,or to our corporeal sense by corporeal voices” (civ. Dei XVI.6).



extended discussions of liturgical worship in De civitate Dei, Augustinedescribes this service in architectural terms:

To Him, we owe the service which in Greek is called latreia, whether this beexpressed through certain sacraments or performed within our own selves.For we are His temple, each of us and every one of us together, since Hedeigns to dwell both in the whole harmonious body and in each of us singly.

( De civitate Dei X.3)

The worshipers become “His altar” when their hearts are lifted “up to Him.”Christ is at once the mediator, “the priest who offers,” and “the sacrificewhich is offered.”42 The love that joins Christ with His Church is symbolized

visually in the liturgical burning of incense, “when we devote and render toHim ourselves and His gifts in us.”43

The Church, with its central role in administering the ecclesiastical sacra-ments to the eucharistic community, is called in service to present scripturalsigns in ways that are nourishing to that community, of carrying out in visibleform Christ’s saving grace. One of the most important ways the Churchcarries out this service is through its great formulation of liturgies. The litur-gical organization of the life of the Church supported Augustine’s commit-ment to tradition and his faith in the Church as an authority of revealed truth.“By solemn feasts on appointed days,” Augustine writes, “we consecrate toHim the memory of His benefits, lest, as time rolls by, ungrateful forgetful-ness should steal upon us.”

But liturgy is more than a reminder of God’s gifts. It is a willingness toreciprocate, to return, to be part of a community that publicly asserts a desireto participate fully in God’s love. Indeed, Augustine writes, Christ “intendedthat there should be a daily sign [of his offering] in the sacrament of theChurch’s sacrifice. For the Church, being the body of which He is the Head, is

taught to offer herself through Him.”44 Worshipers, therefore, imitate Christin their offering “upon the altar of [their] hearts.” What they offer is “the sacri-fice of humility and praise, kindled by the fire of love.” It is a dramatization ina public setting of the Plotinian journey of the soul, with the profound differ-ence that Christ is the mystical priest that makes that journey possible. Liturgyis a communal sacramental activity that invites worshipers to “see Him,insofar as He can be seen . . . so that we may cling to Him . . . and are conse-crated in His name. For he is the fount of our blessedness, and He is the goal

of all our desires.”45

Christianity, as Augustine conceived it, is more than a belief; it is a pilgrimage to the City of God. The pilgrim’s journey is formally recognizedand celebrated in the sacred drama, or sacramental mystery, of the Mass, thecelebration and commemoration of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

59


42 civ. Dei X.20; Heb. 10.11ff.43 civ. Dei X.3.44 civ. Dei X.20.45 Ibid. X.3.



In his writings, Augustine provides no systematic discussion of liturgy. Litur-gical subjects are, instead, dispersed throughout his works. What is mostimportant, however, is the extent to which his views on liturgical worship are

fully integrated into his concept of human life itself as a sacred drama. Theliturgy of the Mass is a formalized expression of the sacramental – and there-fore sacrificial – experience of human life lived in and through Christ: “This isthe sacrifice of Christians: we, being many, are one body in Christ.”46

The sanctification of the eucharistic community is, for Augustine, a process, a pilgrimage not to be completed in this world. Sacramental signs arefundamentally eschatological, since the ultimate aim of perception throughsigns is union with God ( facies ad faciem), only to be hoped for in its comple-tion at the Last Judgment. In the daily celebration of the eucharistic liturgy,the Church affirms its role as the conveyor of that expectation and hope. Theliturgical settings themselves, typically church buildings, are, therefore,eschatological landscapes, not to be equated with the New Jerusalem, but to

be understood as figura that rise, like the liturgical burning of incense, inexpectation of completion in God at the end of time.47 Chapter Three of this

book will look more closely at how medieval liturgy defines the church build-ings as eschatological landscapes and how they are understood as sacramental

signa in the Augustinian sense. But first, to conclude this examination of

Augustine’s transformation of pagan Platonism in the service of the Christianfaith, we turn to his apocalyptic eschatology as he presents it in his greattheme of the two cities.

Ecclesia et Hierusalem: Allegories of Church and City

Augustine wrote De civitate Dei in response to pagan adversaries of Chris-

tianity who blamed the new religion for the collapse of Rome in 410. Augus-tine responded to the crisis with two major arguments. First, he presented theChristian faith as the true philosophy, whose religious aims are not in conflictwith respectable political aims of any earthly state. Secondly, he rejectedmillenarist ideas that identified the collapse of Rome as an apocalyptic sign.Rome, “the most excellent empire,” Augustine argued, is not a signum of theCity of God, and so its collapse contributes nothing to our knowledge of theEschaton.48 One does not gain knowledge of this event by interpreting histor-

ical events as if they were apocalyptic signa. The end will remain a mystery

60


46 Ibid. X.647 This point is beautifully expressed in the Lucernaire sung at vespers by the Fratérnités de

Jérusalem, the monastic community of St.-Gervais–St.-Protais in Paris: “Que ma prière s’élèvecomme l’encense devant Toi,/ l’élevation de [mes] mains soit un sacrifice du soir./ Exauce-moi,Seigneur!” (As my prayer rises like incense before You,/ let the elevation of [my] hands be anevening sacrifice. Hear me, Lord), Psaumes: Hymns et Cantiques de Jérusalem (Paris: Fratérnitésde Jérusalem, 1993), 316, verses 5–6.

48 civ. Dei V.15.



until Christ comes down from heaven to judge the living and the dead(Matthew 20.34–41).

Here Augustine expresses his eschatology in specifically apocalyptic

terms. To see in the fall of Rome the immanent event of the New Jerusalemcoming down from the heavens, as did Eusebius, Orosius, and other propo-nents of the “imperial theology,” is to be blind to the great signum that Godhas given in his love for humankind: the Church.49 This misinterpretation of ahistorical event is nothing less than a perversion of caritas, since a mere res(Rome) is mistaken as a sacramental signum. It is the Church that is the sacra-mental sign of the New Jerusalem, not Rome or any other secular body politic.Just as Augustine’s Ecclesia replaces even the best of the Greco-Roman

pagan philosophies, it also replaces the “most excellent” of earthly empires.50

Rome has no significance in salvation history; rather, it is Ecclesia that jour-neys forward in pilgrimage until the completion of history at the end of time.

Augustine did not reject millenarist interpretations of Rome’s collapse inorder to turn readers’ attention away from the recent historical catastrophe andto have them focus, instead, wholly on the unknowable future – at least notdirectly. In rejecting an apocalyptic view of Rome’s collapse, he emphasizedinstead the role of the Church as a sacramental sign, as the eucharisticcommunity made up of human beings who remain incomplete in their spiri-

tual journeys: “it is in hope that the City of God lives while it is a pilgrim here, begotten of faith in the resurrection of Christ.”51 Augustine’s De civitate Dei,his most ambitious theological work, is also, therefore, his most ambitious

pastoral project. His aim is to identify what the Church is here and now: whoits members are, how it serves, and what it signifies. As the mystical body of Christ, the Church serves its faithful by offering channels for salvation. TheChurch cannot guarantee salvation, but it offers preparation and hope in theexpectation of the Last Judgment. Its members are incomplete, always on

pilgrimage: “the Church is not a congregation of the holy here and now, but a

61


49 On Augustine’s rejection of imperial eschatology, see B. Daley, The Hope of the Early Church: A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991); Markus 1970/1979; J.Pelikan, The Mystery of Continuity: Time and History, Meaning and Eternity in the Thought of Saint Augustine (Charlottesville: U Press of Virginia, 1986); J. Daniélou, “La typologiemillénariste de la semaine dans la christianisme primitif,” Vigiliae Christianae 2 (1948): 1–16;Paula Fredriksen, “Apocalypse and Redemption: From John of Patmos to Augustine of Hippo,”Vigiliae Christianae 45 (1991): 151–83; W. Verbeke, D. Verhelst, A. Welkhuysen, The Use and

Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages, Mediaevalia Lovaniensia 15 (Leuven: Leuven UP,1988).

50 For specific identification of the Church with the City of God, see for example, civ. Dei VIII.24;XIII.16; and XVI.2. It is important to remember, however, that Augustine’s Church on earthneither guarantees eternal membership in the Celestial City nor is it fully representative of God’schosen on earth. The Church has a special role to play for the Christian pilgrim, but matters of Divine election and damnation are ultimately beyond human understanding (civ. Dei I.35; XI.1;XVIII.49; XX.9).

51 Ibid. XV.18.



corpus permixtum. The holiness of the Church is due to its essential relation-ship to the heavenly city, a matter of hope rather than of possession.”52

Augustine’s theology of Church, then, is fully informed by his apocalyptic

eschatology, and it is, as well, fundamentally pastoral. As a pastoral work,Augustine presents his moral theology as an inseparable feature of his teach-ings on the Church. As a corpus permixtum, the Church exists in the same

precarious present as the human soul: it is a mixture of otherworldly yearning(caritas) and carnal misdirection (cupiditas). He identifies these competingdirections as the opposing activities of two societies or cities, or of twoChurches within one Church. The activity itself – as Augustine defines allactivity, human and divine – is love:

Two cities . . . have been created by two loves: that is, the earthly by love of self extending even to contempt of God, and the heavenly by love of Godextending even to contempt of self . . . The one lifts up its head in its ownglory; the other says to its God, “Thou art my glory, and the lifter up of minehead. (civ. Dei XIV.28)53

Augustine refers to the city that lives for God as Jerusalem ( Ierusalem or Hierusalem). Its antithesis, the city that lives for self, Augustine callsBabylon. Citizens of Jerusalem look forward in hope and humility for eternalfreedom with God; citizens of Babylon, in their lust for power and self-sufficiency (libido dominandi) live in bondage. In Plotinian terms, one city

perceives the visible world as a screen of divine beauty; the other makesshadows where there should be light. In Augustinian terms, one enjoys thegoodness of creation as a sacramental sign through which one experiences thetrue, uncreated, and immutable goodness that is God alone; the other (ab)usescreation as a good in itself.

The term civitas is not, for Augustine, a designation for a defined or

isolated group of edifices built for the various needs of a society. Civitasrefers to the society itself. It designates a group of people, a community,whose individual members share in common the object of their devotion.54

Augustine’s civitas engages in a common pilgrimage toward a common desti-nation – the visio pacis – only to be achieved at the end of time.55 The termcivitas, then, may be applied to the place, or building, where the communitygathers; and the place, in turn, may be understood as a signum of theeucharistic community, or Ecclesia. A church building is a setting in which

the community gathers to reaffirm and manifest its beliefs through worship. Itis where the members of the community hope to become worthy of citizenshipin the Celestial City, where they may shape themselves as temples of God.

62


52 De doctrina Christiana I.35; Kotila, 127.53 Augustine quotes Psalm 3.3; civ. Dei XIV. 7, 9; cf. civ. Dei XV.1.54 civ. Dei XIX.24.55 Augustine translates “Jerusalem” from the Hebrew, meaning “vision of peace” ( De Genesi

adversus Manicheos II.10.13).



The terms and their applications are interchangeable, because they all participate in the common bond of caritas:

the bond of sign and reality is so close that the signifying thing takes thename of the thing signified, and that which contains [houses] is named bythat which is contained.56

The application of the term civitas to designate a single architectural structureis adopted by Augustine, as we shall see, in his figurative interpretation of Solomon’s Temple.

Augustine’s division of the human race into two “orders” or cities is basedupon his figurative understanding of Jerusalem, the biblical city. “Jerusalem”

is, indeed, the controlling signum for his theology of the two cities.57

Theancient city is “a kind of shadow and prophetic image of” the City of God. TheJerusalem of the Hebrew Bible is “also called the Holy City, not as being theexact likeness of the truth which is yet to come, but by reason of its pointingtowards that other City.”58 Augustine cites Paul as his teacher in the craft andtransformative spirituality of allegorical interpretation:

[t]his mode of interpretation, which comes down to us by the authority of theapostle, indicates to us how we are to understand the Scriptures of the two

covenants, the Old and the New. (XV.2)

Abraham’s two sons, Cain and Seth, are to be understood as allegories of thetwo covenants, the old one “from Mount Sinai” that “answereth” to the histor-ical Jerusalem, and the new one, which is Jerusalem “above,” “free,” andmother of us all.”59

According to Augustine, God’s covenant to Israel is “without doubt . . . a prophecy concerning Jerusalem on high, whose reward is God Himself.”60

63


56 Quaestiones Evangeliorum 573, quoted from Michael Cameron, “Sign,” Augustine through the Ages, 795.

57 For important studies on Augustine’s treatment of Jerusalem in De civitate Dei, see C. N.Cochrane, Christianity and Classical Culture: A Study of Thought and Action from Augustus to

Augustine (New York: Oxford UP, 1944); Émilien Lamirande, L’Église céleste selon Saint Augustin (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1963); J. van Oort, Jerusalem and Babylon: A Study into Augustine’s “City of God,” and the Sources of His Doctrine of the Two Cities (Leiden and NewYork: E. J. Brill, 1991).

58 civ. Dei XV.2; cf. In Johannis evangelium tractatus 11.8; Enarrationes in Psalmos 119, 121, 124.59 civ. Dei XV.18–19. cf. Gal. 4.21ff. In his exegetical use of the terms allegoria and figura, Augus-

tine “appeals to Pauline precedent: allêgoroumena (Lat. per allegoriam dicta) in Galatians 4:24,typos (Lat. figura) in I Corinthians 10:6, and typikôs (Lat. figura) in I Corinthians 10:11 ( Deutilitate credendi 3.8).” Augustine demonstrates great flexibility in his use of these terms, nottaking care, in a consistent way, to distinguish them from one another or from other related termssuch as “ similitudo, umbra, sacramentum, mysteria, and imago.” There are instances, however,when he prefers figura to allegoria: “ figura . . . preserves the significance of a historical reality.”

Allegoria emphasizes “the relationship between biblical words and their spiritual referents,” but“omits the intermediate category of physical or historical reality.” See, for example, De Genesi ad litteram imperfectus liber 2.5; Conf . 24.37 and 25.38. David Dawson, “Figure, Allegory,” Augus-tine through the Ages, 366–68. See also Dawson’s extended bibliography on this subject.

60 Cf. Heb. 8.8–10.



This affirmation of prophecy leads Augustine to identify Solomon’s Templeas an architectural fulfillment of God’s promise to the Hebrews. The Templeitself, as a house of God that is “a part” of the earthly city,61 is, by extension,

to be understood as a figura of the New Jerusalem:But when Jerusalem is called City of God and it is said that the House of Godis to be built there, a twofold reference is intended. For, on the one hand, this

prophecy is seen to have been fulfilled when King Solomon built his mostnoble temple there. But this was not only an event in the history of earthlyJerusalem: it was also a sign of the heavenly Jerusalem. (XVII.3)

Augustine’s elaboration upon the Pauline allegory completes the theological

foundation for the architecture of revelation in medieval poetry, prayer, andstone. The earthly image “displays its own presence,” a presence that is to betaken seriously as prophecy and as an invitation for higher vision. Solomon’sTemple, as an architectural symbol of the historical Jerusalem – as a citywithin a city – serves “to point toward the Heavenly City” and so serves, aswell, as an archetype for the medieval projects.62

Is it possible for Augustine’s City of God to exist on earth? If Plato’s idealrepublic had been Augustine’s model, then the answer would be no, sincePlato’s city exists only in thought and in speech.63 As a good Plotinian,however, Augustine’s answer must be an emphatic yes: Augustine sees thisworld as a dramatic opportunity for spiritual growth, as a profound invitationfor human beings to become living sacraments, and hence living temples of God. The earthly extension of the heavenly realm is, of course, not in perfectform; our vision of God is obscured, and spiritual growth must also be ac-companied by suffering and labor.

The church buildings themselves are houses of God where “the broadnessof the nations dwell,”64 and so they are “full of those who will be separated by

winnowing, as on the threshing floor.” Hence, they are eschatological land-scapes: “the glory of this house does not yet appear as fully as it will in time tocome, when everyone who is there will be there forever.”65 The medievalfaçades of France’s great churches illustrate Augustine’s emphasis on theEschaton: “the whole Church of the true God, then, holds and professes the

belief that Christ will come down from heaven to judge the living and thedead. This is what we call the last day, the day of divine judgment.”66 But

64


61 civ. Dei XV.2.62 Ibid. XV.2. The Ark of the Covenant, Noah’s Ark, the desert Tabernacle, and Jacob’s dream are all

signa at work in Augustine’s allegory of Jerusalem (civ. Dei XV.26; XVI.38). See my discussionsof these biblical images as models of the New Jerusalem in the Introduction, 4, 6, 11, 16, 18 and inChapters Three, 84–6, 89 and Six, 168, 169, 170.

63 Earnst L. Fortin makes this point in his article, “Civitate Dei, De,” Augustine through the Ages,199.

64 civ. Dei XVI.2.65 Ibid. XVIII. 48.66 Ibid. XX.1; Matt. 20.34–41.



heaven begins on earth. As figura of pilgrimage, as settings for liturgy, and asthe gathering places of the eucharistic community, the medieval edifices may

be understood as visual affirmations of Augustine’s belief, expressed

eloquently by Thomas Merton, that, “since the ascension of Jesus in heaven,”all of human history “is concerned with one work only: the building and perfecting of this City of God.”67

65


67 “Introduction,” Saint Augustine: The City of God , trans. Marcus Dods (New York: RandomHouse, 2000), xviii.



left



Part II

Liturgy and Architecture



left



Liturgy and ApocalypticEschatology

3Liturgy at St.-Denis and

the Apocalyptic Eschatology of High Gothic

For instance, the apostle says, “That Rock was Christ”, becausethe rock of which he spoke certainly symbolised Christ. Thus,the glory of this house, the new covenant, is greater than theglory of the former house, the old covenant, and it will appear even greater when it is dedicated. ( De civitate Dei XVIII.48)1

Abbot Suger and the Dionysian Tradition: An Overview

AUGUSTINE is the bridge between Plotinus’ metaphysics and a properlytChristian foundation for the architecture of revelation in poetry, prayer

and stone in the medieval west. As a transitional figure, Augustine drew uponthe pagan Platonists of late antiquity, especially Plotinus’ sacramental philos-ophy of the cosmos, to formulate a theology that makes the birth, death, andresurrection of Christ the means by which the cosmos is sanctified. Augustinedid not find in the pagan Platonists a formal theory of the relationship betweenreligious philosophy and historical events. In response, Augustine providedwhat Thomas Merton has called a “monumental theology of history . . . builton revelation, developed above all from the inspired pages of St. Paul’s epis-tles and St. John’s Apocalypse.”2

Through Augustine, the religious philosophy of Plotinus had evolved, bythe early Middle Ages, into a Christian-Platonism that embraced the concep-tion of a spiritually dynamic cosmos based upon a theology of light. Theimportance in Christianity of the historical event of Christ separates the Chris-

tian from the Hellenic philosophic tradition; with the incarnation, God enteredhistory. Augustine, having read and transformed Plotinus’ metaphysicalsystem, secured the acceptance of Christian-Platonism by the Latin Church,

but the Christian concept of history includes, as well, an apocalyptic vision of the end of time, a communal finality when all salvation history will be

69

1 Augustine cites I Cor. 10.4.2 Merton, xv.



revealed and fulfilled through Christ. This concept of history has no place inthe mysticism of Plotinus; nor do his writings include an articulated conceptof Church or an insistence on a system of rites or sacraments. Furthermore,

Plotinus never emphasizes a particular building or locus as an appropriatesetting for communicating with the divine realm.The great Gothic churches of the Middle Ages are, perhaps, the most

conspicuous examples of how Platonic concepts of light, image, and cosmoshad evolved and were fused with the Christian concepts of history andChurch. What distinguishes these edifices from other forms of medievalsacred art is that all their components – architectural design, iconographic

programs, use of light and liturgies – functioned together to an extraordinarydegree to create, in so far as it was possible, an earthly representation of the

New Jerusalem.The twelfth-century rebuilding of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis (now a

cathedral), just outside of Paris, and the writings of Abbot Suger (c. 1081– 1155) which record that building campaign, continue to hold a central place inour understanding of the development of Gothic architecture.3 The architec-tural innovations at St.-Denis that were carried out during Suger’s abbacy(1121–55) – and which Suger claims in his writings to have supervised – helped to inaugurate the Gothic style. The abbey church of St.-Denis has been

described as a work of theology expressed in material things: stone, glass, jewels, and precious metals. But the church is not merely a passive theology, adescription, or a creed; it is also an anagogical program giving expression tothe possibility of progression for the faithful to a state of sanctity. The famousverses that Suger had inscribed on the bronze doors at the church’s centralwest portals identified Christ as the “true door” to the “True Light”:

Bright is the noble work; but, being nobly bright, the work

Should brighten the minds, so that they may travel through the truelights,To the True Light where Christ is the true door.In what manner it be inherent in this world the golden door defines:The dull mind rises to truth through that which is materialAnd, in seeing this light, is resurrected from its former submission.4

The architectural innovation that best describes this aesthetic of radiance is“that elegant and praiseworthy extension,” the “circular string of chapels, by

virtue of which the whole [church] would shine with the wonderful and unin-

70


3 On Suger’s twelfth-century building campaign at St.-Denis, see Panofsky, Abbot Suger . For astudy of work completed on the abbey under Suger’s direction, see Sumner McKnight Crosby, The

Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis from its Beginnings to the Death of Suger, 475–1151, ed. andcompleted by Pamela Z. Blum (New Haven: Yale, 1987); The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis in theTime of Abbot Suger (1122–1151), exhibition catalog, edited by Sumner McKnight Crosby et al.(New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1981).

4 Trans. Panofsky, 46–49.



terrupted light of most luminous windows, pervading the interior beauty.”5

Suger removed the walls that obstructed light filtering through the coloredglass. Light from the eastern sky passed through the colored windows and

penetrated the church’s interior, falling upon the abundance of jewels used toadorn the liturgical fixtures and panels of the main altar. The colored reflec-tions within the building must have given the impression of a pervasive,visible energy and movement, mimicking the intended spiritual transforma-tion of the observer.

As is well known, the mystical writings of Pseudo-Dionysius (c. 500) had been a treasured possession of the abbey since the ninth century.6 As a result,St.-Denis remains an important focus for scholars interested in possible re-lations between Platonic traditions and the innovations of Gothic architecture.Indeed, a formidable body of scholarship exists that investigates the questionof whether Abbot Suger, in his architectural and decorative planning of thechurch, was consciously (and responsibly) motivated by some formal repre-sentation of Christian-Platonism.7 My contribution to this question differsfrom studies that have sought to identify or refute a specific Dionysian influ-ence in Suger’s writings, although, as we shall see, my work supports BernardMcGinn’s emphasis on the strong Augustinian background of the celebrated“Dionysians” of the twelfth century.8 My particular focus, however, is on the

medieval liturgy at St.-Denis and on Suger’s familiarity with that liturgy.9

71

Liturgy and Apocalyptic Eschatology

5 Trans. Panofsky, 101.6 Corpus Dionysiacum, ed. Beate Suchla, Gunter Heil, and A. M. Ritter. 2 vols. Patristische Texte

und Studien, vols 33 and 36 (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1990–91). Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid; forward, notes, and translationcollaboration by Paul Rorem, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York: Paulist Press, 1987).

7 For discussions of the Dionysian influence expressed in Suger’s writings (especially through JohnScotus Eriugena or Hugh of St.-Victor), see Werner Beierwaltes, “ Negati Affirmatio or the Worldas Metaphor. A Foundation for Medieval Aesthetics from the Writings of John Scotus Eriugena,”

Dionysius 1 (1977): 127–59; Crosby, The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis from its Beginnings,108–11, 117–18; Panofsky, Abbot Suger , 1–37; D. Moran, The Philosophy of John Scottus

Eriugena: A Study of Idealism in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, Cambridge UP, 1989); ConradRudolph, Artistic Change at St.-Denis; Abbot Suger’s Program and the Early Twelfth-CenturyControversy Over Art (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990); Paul Rorem, Biblical and Liturgical Symbols Within the Pseudo-Dionysian Synthesis (Toronto and Ontario: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1984), 144–46; Otto von Simson, Gothic Cathedral , 62–64; Grover Zinn,“Suger, Theology, and the Pseudo-Dionysian Tradition,” in Abbot Suger and Saint-Denis, ed.Paula Lieber Gerson (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1986), 33–40. See also the collec-tion of essays in Artistic Integration in Gothic Buildings, ed. Virginia Chieffo Raguin, KathrynBrush, and Peter Draper (Toronto, Buffalo and London: U of Toronto P, 1995), esp. BernardMcGinn’s essay, “From Admirable Tabernacle to the House of God: Some Theological Reflec-tions on Medieval Architectural Integration,” 41–56.

8 McGinn, “From Admirable Tabernacle,” 47–8.9 Suger’s political motivations, which I do not discuss here, have also been the subject of much

scholarship. Otto von Simson discusses Suger’s relationship with the French Crown and how hismingling of the theological drama with the political found expression in the church’s artistry:“Gothic . . . is so closely tied to the destinies of the Capetian monarchy . . . that we must assumethat Gothic was considered the expression of the ideas with which the crown wished to be associ-ated” (The Gothic Cathedral 64; see also 62, 73–74, 140). Conrad Rudolph has argued that Suger’s

primary goal was to “maintain claims of contemporaneity amid the controversy over monasticlife.” Conrad continues, “It seems that it was largely the pressure of opposition Suger faced [from



Specifically, I treat the liturgy for the feast of the dedication of St.-Denis as aliterary art informed by Christian-Platonism and put to use as a drama of reve-lation. I supplement this focus by examining twelfth-century commentaries

by Bernard of Clairvaux and Hugh of St.-Victor on church dedication litur-gies. My purpose is to demonstrate how the liturgy for the feast of St.-Denis’dedication, when examined together with associated commentaries, providesan especially rich and important body of evidence for the eschatological andapocalyptic symbolism of the medieval edifices.10

The tradition of scholarship that argues for specific connections betweenmedieval Christian-Platonism and great church architecture has long recog-nized the importance of Pseudo-Dionysius’ mystical writings, especially their

possible influence upon Abbot Suger and the twelfth-century rebuilding of St.-Denis. The Dionysian corpus was, as Panofsky described it, a revered pos-session of the Abbey, “no less than were the ‘Oriflame’ and the relics of theHoly Martyrs.”11 In the year 827 the Byzantine emperor presented Louis thePious with a codex containing Pseudo-Dionysius’ works.12 The book wastransferred to the Abbey of St.-Denis on 8 October 827, the eve of the feast of Saint Denis. Between 835 and 840 Abbot Hilduin translated these texts intoLatin, incorrectly identifying Pseudo-Dionysius with Saint Denis. In addition,the author of the mystical writings had been identified incorrectly with the

biblical Dionysius, the Areopagite who was converted to Christianity by SaintPaul (Acts 17.34). This confusion of identities persisted well into the MiddleAges, so that when Suger became abbot of St.-Denis in 1122 and beganrebuilding the church, he believed, along with most of his contemporaries,that Denis the martyr was both the author of the mystical treatises and adisciple of Saint Paul.13 As Anne Walters Robertson has shown, the medievalliturgy at St.-Denis attests to the central role of this legendary Denis in thedaily life of the abbey throughout the Middle Ages.14

Apart from the works of Augustine, the mystical writings of Pseudo-Dionysius were the most influential early Christian adaptations of Platonicthought. The Dionysian formulation of the presence and unveiling in thisworld of God’s absolute light has been eloquently described by historianGeorges Duby as “contient la clé de l’art nouveau, de l’art de France, dont

72


Bernard of Clairvaux] . . . rather than Pseudo-Dionysian light mysticism – that provided the major stimulus toward the meaning and means of Suger’s program” (33, 74–75). See also Lindy Grant,

Abbot Suger of St-Denis: Church and State in Early Twelfth-Century France (London and NewYork: Longman, 1998).

10 The medieval liturgy for the dedication of a church has been mentioned in studies on churchsymbolism, and Laurence Hull Stookey offers a general examination of the liturgical and theolog-ical sources for the concept of the church as the Heavenly Jerusalem: “The Gothic Cathedral as theHeavenly Jerusalem: Liturgical and Theological Sources,” Gesta 8 (1969): 35–41. My analysishere is a more ambitious study and one I apply to a particular edifice.

11 Panofsky, 18.12 This codex is now Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Grec, 437.13 Crosby, The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis from its Beginnings, 4.14 Service Books, 46–9, 235–48.



l’abbataile de Suger institue le modèle exemplaire. Art de clartés etd’irradiation processive.”15 Paul Rorem makes the additional argument that“[o]f all the Dionysian themes in the Middle Ages, those associated with The

Celestial Hierarchy were distorted the least.”16

In an early chapter of this trea-tise, Pseudo-Dionysius presents his understanding of how the sensible worldis to be interpreted as an anagogical symbol:

Material lights are images of the outpouring of an immaterial gift of light. . . .Order and rank here below are a sign of the harmonious ordering toward thedivine realm. The reception of the most divine Eucharist is a symbol of

participation in Jesus. And so it goes for all the gifts transcendentallyreceived by the beings of heaven, gifts which are granted to us in a symbolic

mode. . . . He revealed all this to us in the sacred pictures of the scriptures sothat he might lift us in spirit up through the perceptible to the conceptual,from sacred shapes and symbols to the simple peaks of the hierarchies of heaven. (121D, 124A)17

In this blending of light metaphysics with scriptural allegory and sacramentaltheology, Pseudo-Dionysius presents a Platonic conception of the sensibleworld that has been adapted for biblical interpretation and Christian worship.The sensible world is an invitation, an occasion to experience the immaterial,

sacred realm; but it is the word-pictures of the Bible – the sacramental signa,to use Augustine’s language – and the liturgical rites of the Church that are themost important visual manifestations of the divine realm.

Much scholarship has been devoted to identifying other possibleChristian-Platonist influences upon Abbot Suger. Grover Zinn, for example,emphasizes how the twelfth-century Victorines, especially Hugh (1096– 1141) and Richard (d. 1173) informed the thought of Suger and the symbolic

programs of his new church.18 Bernard McGinn has called Hugh of St.-Victor

“the great Dionysian of the twelfth century.” Nonetheless, McGinn argues,and correctly I believe, that Augustine was the most important influence upontwelfth-century Christian-Platonist thought. He argues further that there has

been “an over concentration on the Dionysian aesthetic tradition” in studies of Gothic architecture. Suger and the twelfth-century theologians, McGinn

points out, were “steeped in Augustine’s thought,” and the “Dionysianism”that characterizes the ideas of Hugh of St.-Victor and his pupil Richard, “can

be best described as “Augustinianized.”19

73


15 L’Europe des cathédrales 1140–1280, vol. 2 of Le Moyen Age (Genève: Skira, 1966), 14.16 Pseudo-Dionysius; A Commentary on the Texts and an Introduction to Their Influence (Oxford:

Oxford UP, 1993), 239; cf. 78–9. Paul Rorem also points out that John Scotus Eriugena, Hugh of Saint-Victor, Suger of St.-Denis, John Sarracenus, Robert Grosseteste, and Jean Gerson all“singled [this treatise] out for special attention,” (239). See also Stephen Gersh’s important study,

From Iamblichus to Eriugena: An Investigation of the Prehistory and Evolution of the Pseudo-Dionysian Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 1978).

17 Pseudo-Dionysius; The Complete Works, 146–7.18 Grover A. Zinn, Jr., “Suger, Theology, and the Pseudo-Dionysian Tradition,” 33–40.19 “From Admirable Tabernacle to the House of God,” 47–8.



Others have argued that Suger was influenced by Pseudo-Dionysiusthrough the Latin translation and commentary by John Scotus Eriugena(850–77). In Eriugena’s main work, the Periphyseon, and in his subsequent

commentary on Dionysius’ Celestial Hierarchy, Eriugena formulates asymbolic aesthetic by adapting many Dionysian themes, especially theconcept of theophania and the Platonic framework of procession and return.Eriugena combined these, in turn, with the teachings of Augustine. AsEdouard Jeauneau has observed, Eriugena was the first figure to synthesizethe teachings of Pseudo-Dionysius and Augustine, “becoming, therefore, thefounder of a new kind of Neoplatonism, typically medieval.”20

Eriugena saw a fundamental agreement between Pseudo-Dionysius andAugustine in their understanding of how the visible world can be read as amanifestation of the divine realm. Eriugena elaborates upon their formula-tions, however, by emphasizing, not unlike Plotinus, how art objects can serveas embodiments or vehicles of divine ideas. Eriugena “could speak of God asthe artist and the world as art. Because he viewed existence or being itself as atheophany and the world as metaphor, he also could view art as anagogy,more explicitly than Dionysius ever did.”21 One work of Eriugena’s that is es-

pecially relevant for the specific focus of this chapter is his poem of onehundred lines entitled Aulae sidereae (starry halls).22 It is an occasional poem,

written for the consecration of the church of St. Mary of Compiègne.23 In it wefind a concise illustration of how Eriugena interpreted the Platonic system of timeless procession and return in terms of Christian salvation history.Eriugena writes,

Verbum namque deus processit virginis alvoLucis in augmento, quam noctis vicerat umbra. . .Restaurare volens priscasque reducere sedes. (22–23, 30)

[For the God-Word proceeded from the womb of the Virgin in anincrease of the light that the darkness of night had over-come. . . . TheGod-Word willed to restore and give us back our former seats.]

Verses later in the poem draw even more explicitly on the Platonic vocabularyof procession and return, offering a model of spiritual movement that has beentransformed and is made possible by the incarnation of Christ:

74


20 “Pseudo-Dionysius, Gregory of Nyssa, and Maximus the Confessor in the Works of John ScottusEriugena,” in Carolingian Essays; Andrew W. Mellon Lectures in Early Christian Studies, ed.Uta-Renate Blumenthal (Washington: Catholic U of America P, 1983), 146.

21 Rorem, Pseudo-Dionysius, 80.22 Other possible translations include “gleaming,” “glittering,” or “heavenly” ( sidereae) “courts,”

“palaces,” or “dwellings” (aulae).23 The church was consecrated on 5 May 877. This church was one of the first to be modeled on the

church built by Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle. For the Latin text of the poem and an Englishtranslation, see John J. O’Meara, Eriugena (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 177–89.



Quae mens, quae virtus, superum quae facta sophiaIn carnem poterit descensum dicere verbi,Carnis et in verbum sublima bimata nosse?Ut deus aeternus factus caro lapsus ad ima,Sic caro facta deus vere levis evolat alta. (67–71)

[What mind, what power, what created wisdom of those above candescribe the descent of the Word into flesh, and know the ascentssublime of the flesh to the Word? As God eternal become flesh,descended to the lowest, so flesh, become God, is truly born lightly upon high.]

The last seventeen lines of Eriguena’s poem describe the church edifice in all

its artistic splendor; it is simultaneously an architectural, liturgical, and royaltribute to God:

Proxima sis Karolo tutrix, munimen et altum,Qui tibi mirifice praeclaram fabricat aedem,Aedes marmoreis varie constructa columnis,Alta domus pulcre centeno normate facte.Aspice polygonos flexus arcusque volutos,Compages laterum similes, capitella basesque

Turres, luriculas, laquearia, daedala tecta,Obliquas tyridas, ialini lulminus haustus,Intus picturas, lapidum pavimenta gradusque,Circum quaeque stoas, armaria, pastaforia,Sursum deorsum populos altaria circum,Lampadibus plenas faros altasque coronas.Omnia collucent gemmis auroque coruscant;Pallia, cortinae circumdant undique templum. (85–97)

[Charles who builds wonderfully for you a shining church, a churchconstructed with variety on marble columns, a lofty house, beautifullymade on the basis of a hundred. Look at the bendings of the polygonand the unrolling of the arches, the regular joinings of the sides, thecapitals, the bases, the towers, the balusters, the paneled ceilings, thecrafted roofs, the embrasured windows, drinking in light through theglass. Inside see the pictures, the pavements and steps of stone, andeverywhere around porches, closets, and sacristies, the people goingup and down around the altars, the light-holders full of torches, andlofty crowns. Everything sparkles with precious stones and gleamswith gold. Pallia and hangings clothe the temple everywhere.]

M. Foussard has argued correctly, I think, that in this poem Eriugena applieshis vision of art to the church edifice, seeing it in all of its detailed parts – structure, design, light, and liturgy – as an image of the New Jerusalem.24 Theoccasion of the consecration of a church would have been an ideal opportunity

75


24 “Aulae sidereae,” Cahiers archéologiques 21 (1971): 79–88. See also O’Meara, 180–81.



for Eriugena to express such a vision of art – a vision that is both Plotinian andapocalyptic.25 As a scholar familiar with both the Dionysian and the Augus-tinian traditions of Christian-Platonism, Eriugena would have found proper

theological justification for this kind of celebration of the material building.The following passage from Augustine’s De civitate Dei, for example, wouldhave sufficed:

[A]s for one who loves . . . according to Christ . . . God forbid that this loveshould be consumed as wood, hay, or stubble, and not rather be deemed a

building of gold, silver and precious stones! For how can a man love thosemore than Christ, whom he loves only for Christ’s sake?26

One conclusion that may be drawn from the history of scholarship on possiblesources of Abbot Suger’s Christian-Platonism is that the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis is a material translation of Plotinian aesthetics having passedthrough the minds of some of the most prominent and influential earlyChristian-Platonists: Augustine, Pseudo-Dionysius, Eriugena, and Hugh of St.-Victor. For the church building to function as a symbol of the New Jeru-salem, however, the Christian formulation must include a perception of theedifice as an eschatological and apocalyptic landscape. Interestingly,Pseudo-Dionysius places no emphasis on this particular theme in his discus-sions of divine symbols. This absence of an articulated apocalyptic escha-tology in the Dionysian writings recalls a similar Plotinian indifference to, or general lack of interest in, the symbolism of place, communal or private. Theabsence in Dionysius is more notable than that in Plotinus, however, given thesixth-century writer’s focus on Christian formulations of liturgical and eccle-siastical symbolism.27

While eschatological and apocalyptic themes are lacking in Pseudo-Dionysius’ writings, these themes are prominent in the writings of Augustine,

Maximus the Confessor (580–662) and Eriugena.28 Jeauneau has shown thatamong the Greek writers Maximus exerted the most influence on Eriugena – even more so than Dionysius. Jeauneau writes, “the Dionysius whom JohnScottus read was a Dionysius revised and corrected by Maximus.”29 Maximus

76


25 Panofsky argued that Suger used the writings of Eriugena to derive certain words and phrases of his own poetry. Paul Rorem agrees. Other scholars disagree, however, with Panofsky’s claim. SeePanofsky, 24.

26 civ. Dei XXI.26; cf. I Cor. 7.5, 32.27 This essential point has been largely overlooked by scholars arguing for a Dionysian influence in

the development of Gothic. Paul Rorem, however, is a notable exception: “The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy contained not a hint of such eschatological typology or correlation of the events of theliturgy with the future glory of heaven. In fact, the entire Dionysian corpus is devoid of escha-tology, except for one passage (592C), 52–3.

28 Jeauneau argues that Eriugena seems not to have noticed, or had deliberately overlooked this“striking” contrast between the world views of Dionysius and Augustine. Jeauneau writes,“Augustine is closer to Plotinus and Porphyry, Dionysius closer to Proclus . . . [he] consciously or unconsciously seems to have ignored the differences in order to stress the common tradition (145).

29 Jeauneau, 147. John Scotus’ admiration for Dionysius seems to have led him to read and translate



the Confessor interprets the church building variously as images of God, theuniverse, the material world, and the human being.30 He ascribes a symbolicmeaning to each part of the building and to the liturgical participation of the

faithful. These interpretations all contribute to his understanding of the sacrededifice as way of passage from the material realm to the spiritual and as a preparation for the celestial feast at the end of time. As Rorem observes,Maximus’ interpretive method is remarkably creative and original, showingno signs of Dionysian influence.31

The Abbey Church of St.-Denis and the Feast of the Dedication

Scholarship strongly suggests that Abbot Suger’s understanding of sacred artand architecture was influenced, either directly or indirectly, by one or moreof the Christian-Platonists who have been discussed briefly in this chapter.What I emphasize in the remaining pages of this chapter, however, is howAbbot Suger’s familiarity with the monastic liturgy celebrated in his ownchurch would have taught him to understand the building as a tabernaculumadmirabile, as a locus where the faithful gather, prepare for, and participate inthe joys of the Celestial City.32 While the concept of the church building as a

habitation of God and as an apocalyptic and eschatological landscape has itsroots in the Bible,33 the liturgy for the dedication of a church makes masterfuluse of these themes, and it is also the subject of one of Suger’s celebrated trea-tises.34

Anne Walters Robertson’s study of the service-books of St.-Denis, andMargot Fassler’s work on the twelfth-century liturgy at the Abbey of St.-Victor in Paris are testimonies to how the study of liturgy can assist in our understanding of the interaction between theological concepts and medieval

church architecture.35 Art historians and literary medievalists are also discov-ering the riches that liturgical sources can provide.36 Although a wealth of

77


Maximus and then Gregory of Nyssa. Among the works of Maximus that Eriugena translated werethe Ambigua ad Iohannem and the Quaestiones ad Thalassium. He also translated Gregory of

Nyssa’s De hominis opificio, which Eriugena called De imagine. But he thought the author of thiswork was Gregory of Nazianzus, also called the Theologian. See Jeauneau, 141–42.

30 See especially, “The Church’s Mystagogy,” trans. George C. Berthold, Maximus Confessor;Selected Writings (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1985), 181–225.

31 Pseudo Dionysius, 122. As stated above, it was Eriugena’s Latin translation of the Dionysiancorpus that Suger would have read.

32 I borrow the phrase tabernaculum admirabile from Bernard McGinn: “The humanly constructed beauty of a church building is meant to form an ‘admirable tabernacle’ which will lead to God,”“From Admirable Tabernacle,” 48.

33 See the Introduction, 4–6.34 Libellus alter de consecratione ecclesiæ; see Panofsky, Abbot Suger .35 Robertson, Service Books; Fassler, Gothic Song .36 See the excellent collection of essays in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, ed. Thomas J.

Heffernan and E. Ann Matter, Medieval Institute Publications (Kalamazoo: Western MichiganUniversity, 2001).



medieval liturgical books survives in libraries, however, relatively few of these have been edited and published. Roger E. Reynolds has therefore urgedmedievalists not to “wait for the handful of living liturgiologists to publish

these texts,” many of which could demonstrate important associations between the design and decoration of the monuments and the theology thatinforms the liturgies themselves. The liturgical sources that Reynolds es-

pecially recommends are the medieval pontificals, ordines, and customaries;these contain not only extensive ceremonial directions and prayers, they alsomention architectural and decorative features of the churches in which theliturgies were performed.37

Christopher Wilson, in his study of the technical aspects and stylisticdevelopments of medieval church architecture, calls attention to the languageof church dedication liturgies for evidence of the building’s function as anapocalyptic symbol. “Every medieval church,” Wilson writes,

was an evocation of the heavenly Jerusalem, the abode of the saved to beestablished after the completion of the Last Judgment (Revelation, chapters21 and 22). That this was the primary meaning of church buildings is clear from the service for their consecration, where frequent allusions are made toSt John’s vision.38

As is well known, Abbot Suger describes the consecration ceremony of hisnew church with fond enthusiasm for liturgical objects and elaborate celebra-tion. Unfortunately, no liturgical document contemporary with Suger’sabbacy survives that describes this ceremony in detail. The First Ordinary of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis (Mazarine 526) does, however, record the thir-teenth-century liturgy for the feast of the church dedication.39 Libri ordinariiwere auxiliary liturgical books, not to be used during the liturgies themselves;they provided instead the essential texts and directions for celebrating the

offices, the Mass, and the local rites that were arranged according to thechurch year for a specific community.

Mazarine 526 is a particularly rich liber ordinarius. In its descriptions for ceremonies it often mentions specific locations within the building wheresegments of the liturgy were to be carried out. The manuscript mentions

processions, gestures, the number of ministers to serve in a given rite, vest-ments, and a variety of liturgical objects.40 This ordinary, the first major litur-gical manuscript of St.-Denis to be published in its entirety, is an especially

78


37 “Liturgy and Monument,” in Artistic Integration of Gothic Buildings, 63. For an introduction toliturgical books and manuscripts, see Cyrille Vogel, Medieval Liturgy; An Introduction to theSources, rev. and trans. William G. Storey and Niels Krogh Rasmussen (Washington, DC: PastoralPress, 1981).

38 The Gothic Cathedral; The Architecture of the Great Church 1130–1530 (London: Thames andHudson, 1990), 8.

39 The First Ordinary of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis in France (Paris, Bibliothèque Mazarine 526,fols 111v–113r; ed. Edward B. Foley (Fribourg, Switzerland: Fribourg UP, 1990), 496–98.

40 See Foley, 27–8.



rich source for reconstructing liturgical practices at St.-Denis in the twelfthand thirteenth centuries.41 It is to this document, then, that we turn to gain agreater appreciation of how liturgy identifies the medieval church as an image

of the New Jerusalem. It is also an excellent textual source by which to eval-uate Abbot Suger’s comments on the symbolism of the new church.Before turning to the liturgical text itself, however, it will be helpful to

introduce briefly the main features of the history of the dedication ceremonyfrom the time of the early Christians to the Middle Ages. This introduction,while not a full summary of the work that has been completed on this topic byliturgical scholars, is meant to provide the necessary historical context for thededication liturgies at St.-Denis in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.42

The Liturgy for the Dedication of a Church: Early Christian Developments

In the first three centuries after the death and resurrection of Christ, Christiansgathered for communal worship in private homes, since fear of Roman perse-cution discouraged them from worshiping in public places. It was not until313, with Constantine’s Edict of Tolerance, that Christians were givenfreedom to worship publicly. In the following year, we find the first mention

of the dedication of a church: Eusebius describes the dedication of theCathedral of Tyre in 314. The celebration of the Eucharist is the only essentialfeature of this liturgy, and it would remain so for the next two centuries.43

At the end of the sixth century, the dedication of churches becamecommonly associated with the deposition of saints’ relics, which were carriedinto the building in procession and then enclosed in an altar before the cele-

bration of Mass. In the eighth century, the lustration, or anointing of the

79


41 Foley cites architectural evidence for this claim that the ordinary be used to reconstructtwelfth-century, as well as thirteenth-century, liturgical practices at St.-Denis: “It is generallyagreed that the thirteenth-century reconstruction of St.-Denis began in 1231 and was completed

before the consecration in 1281. Furthermore, it seems that the reconstruction began in the eastend, specifically with the chevet. . . . A [Mazarine 526] presumes virtually the same arrangementof the chevet as that which is found in the writings of Suger. Therefore, though copied a few yearsafter the beginning of the reconstruction, A reflects none of the changes in the chevet which thatreconstruction produced” (59–60).

42 For a fuller history of the dedication ceremony, from the time of the early Christians to the medi-eval period, see John G. Davies, “The Consecration of Churches,” in The Secular Use of Church

Buildings (London: SCM, 1968), 249–64; L. Duchesne, Christian Worship: Its Origin and Evolu-tion, 5th edn, trans. M. L. McClure (London and New York: Macmillan, 1919), 339–418; R. W.Muncey, A History of the Consecration of Churches and Churchyards (Cambridge: W. Heffer andSons, 1930); P. de Puniet, “Dedicace des églises,” in Dictionnaire d’archéologie Chrétienne et deliturgie, vol. 4 pt 1 (Paris: Librairie Letouzey et Ané, 1920), 374–406; G. G. Willis, Further Essaysin Early Roman Liturgy, Alcuin Club Collections, no. 50 (London: SPCK, 1968); Thaddeus S.Ziolkowski, “The Consecration and Blessing of Churches; A Historical Synopsis and Commen-tary,” Doctor of Canon Law diss., Catholic University of America Canon Law Studies, no. 187(Washington: Catholic U of America P, 1943).

43 For Eusebuius’ early description of the cathedral dedication see his Historia ecclesiastica, X.3–4, Patralogiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca, XX.847, ed. and trans. K. Lake and J. Oulto, TheLoeb Classical Library, 2 vols (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1926) vol. 2, 395.



edifice with holy water became another feature of the dedication ceremony.44

By the ninth century, the features of the Roman dedication rite consisted of the carrying of relics in procession and their deposition in the altar, the

anointing of the building, and the celebration of Mass. One recognizes in theRoman rite its funerary character, with the altar serving as a tomb for the saintwhose relics were deposed there.45

The rites of baptism and confirmation served as the primary models for theGallican dedication ritual, which displays clear Eastern Orthodox influence(Byzantine and Syrian) and also borrows directly from ancient Hebrew ritualsdescribed in Exodus 29.12–13, 18 and Leviticus 8.11. Although the deposi-tion of relics is also a common feature of the Gallican ritual, the lustrations of the altar and building takes precedence. The Gallican Ordo XLI (775–800)contains an added feature to the dedication ritual: the inscribing of the alpha-

bet on a St. Andrew’s cross that has been traced on the pavement of the navewith sand or ashes.46

In the tenth century, the Roman and Gallican rites were fused in the compi-lation of the Romano-Germanic Pontifical at Mainz (950–62). This fused ritegave prominence to the deposition of relics, but it also retained much of thelustration practices and the alphabet ceremony of the Gallican rite.47 Thetwelfth-century dedication ceremony for Abbot Suger’s new church would

have reflected this fusion of the Roman and Gallican traditions. Suger describes many of these traditional dedication rituals in his writings, includingthe transfer and deposition of relics, the splendid processions intus et extra,the lustration of the church’s walls, the blessing of the altar, and the concor-dant celebration of Masses in the upper choir and the crypt.48 Most of the litur-gical texts the Abbot cites for the dedication of his church and those listed inthe Mazarine ordinary for the thirteenth-century feast of the dedication alsohad become part of the standard liturgical tradition by the tenth century.49

80


44 Gregory the Great required the lustration of pagan temples that were to be converted and used for Christian worship. This is the origin for the term aqua Gregoriana for the type of lustral water used in the dedication ritual.

45 A detailed description of the Roman rite from the second half of the eighth century is found inMichel Andrieu’s Ordo XLII, which provides instructions for enclosing the relics in the altar,anointing the altar, and the lustration of the church; it concludes with a dedication Mass, to berepeated through an octave. Apart from this Mass, the dominant element in Ordo XLII is the elabo-rate burial of the relics. Andrieu, Les Ordines Romani du haut moyen âge, 4 (Louvain:“Spicilegium sacrum lovaniense” bureaux, 1931–61), 397–402. See also Vogel, Medieval Liturgy;

An Introduction to the Sources, 180–81.46 The main elements of the Gallican rite are found in the Angoulême Sacramentary (c. 800). See also

Andrieu, Les Ordines, vol. 4, 339–47.47 The fundamental structure of this fused rite, with added modifications such as the inclusion of the

seven penitential Psalms (Pss. 6, 31, 37, 50, 101, 129, and 141) was retained by the Roman Cath-olic Church until 1961, when it was simplified and abbreviated. Here and elsewhere I cite Psalmsaccording to the Vulgate, or medieval system of numbering.

48 See Panofsky, 112–21.49 Edmond Martène, De Antiquis Ecclesiae Ritibus, 4 vols (Rouen: G. Behourt, 1700–6), vol. 2,

244–72.



[The Lord has sanctified His tabernacle; for this is the house of God, inwhich His name will be invoked, as it is written: and my name will be there,says the Lord.]

Immediately following the opening antiphon, a chapter is read from Revela-tion:

Vidi civitatem sanctam, Jerusalem novam, descendentem de cælo a Deo, paratam sicut sponsam ornatam viro suo. (21.2)

[I saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down from heaven from God,made ready as bride adorned for her husband.]

This image of the New Jerusalem descending from heaven before John’s eyesand placed so prominently near the start of the liturgy, immediately introducesthe symbolic relation between the Heavenly Jerusalem and earthly church.

This chapter from Revelation served as a standard reading in virtually allconsecration rites and feasts for the dedication during the Middle Ages andcontinues to be central to dedication ceremonies today. During the anniver-sary liturgy at St.-Denis the passage was repeated twice more, once at laudsand again at the end of vespers on the feast. Additional passages that wereread from Revelation and from other New Testament writings served as inter-

pretive glosses on this central image of the New Jerusalem descending fromHeaven.

After the apocalyptic theme is introduced early in the vigil, the liturgyreturns to the concept of the church as the house of God. Here it is presentedwith added emphasis on the physical building and its stone foundation,together with the image of the church not only as the gate to Heaven but as a

palace, or court, of God. The following response, verse, and antiphon intro-duce these images, which are drawn from Old Testament readings:

Terribilis est locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta cœli: et vocabitur aulaDei.

[How terrible is this place: here is the house of God, and the gate of heaven:and it will be called the court of God.]

Hæc est domus Domini firmiter ædificata, bene fundata est supra firmam petram.

[This is the house of the Lord solidly built, it is well founded on solid rock.]O quam metuendus est locus iste: vere non est hic aliud, nisi domus Dei et

porta cæli. (Genesis 28.17)

82


Bradshaw Society, 1932), vol. 70; Roman Catholic Church, Benedictine Hours for Sundays and All Feasts of First or Second Class Rank; Terce, Vespers, Compline (York: Sidney Lee, 1934);Martène, De Antiquis Ecclesiae Ritibus, vol. 2, 244–72.



[How awesome is this place. Truly this is none other than the house of Godand the gate of heaven.]

The liturgy for matins introduces links between Solomon’s Temple and the New Jerusalem. Indeed, the matins liturgy presents a succinct history of inter - pretation of ancient Hebrew architecture according to Jewish and Christiantraditions. The liturgical voices represented in this interpretive history includeYahweh, the Psalmist, Jacob, Jesus, and Michael the Archangel.

The ancient biblical idea of a temple as the resting place, throne, or palaceof God serves as the conceptual basis for the use in the matins liturgy of specific psalms that extol Jerusalem, such as the psalms known collectively asthe Songs of Sion.53 Psalm 23, for example, is a liturgical psalm that was sung

by the ancient Israelites upon entering the Temple on Mount Sion and was probably used in connection with a procession of the Ark of the Covenant.The following verse from Psalm 23 was perhaps sung by a choir outside thetemple gates, requesting to be admitted:

Attollite, portas principes vestras, et elevamini, portæ æternales: et introibitrex gloriæ. (7, 9)

[Lift up your gates, O Princes, and rise up, eternal gates: and the King of

glory will come in.]At the dedication ceremonies in the Middle Ages, a bishop stood before thedoors of the church to be consecrated and recited this verse.54

Psalm 23 marked the beginning of the first nocturn of matins on the feast, but five additional psalms, each emphasizing the importance of Jerusalem andthe Temple, were also included during matins. Psalm 42, for example,contains the following verse:

Emmitte lucem tuam et veritatem tuam; ipsa me deduxerunt, et adduxeruntin montem sanctum tuum, et in tabernacula tua. (3)

[Send forth your light and your truth; they have led me, and they have brought me to your holy hill, and to your tabernacles.]

The phrase montem sanctum refers to the site of the Temple and recurs often

83


53 The psalms known collectively as the Songs of Sion are Pss. 45, 47, 75, 83, 86, and 121. The liturgyfor the feast of the dedication of St.-Denis employs Pss. 45, 47, 83, and 86. Ps. 121 is read duringvespers on the feast.

54 G. G. Wills provides historical background for this ritual: “The ceremony of receiving the bishopat the church door is Byzantine in origin, and was performed on 24 December 562 at the rededica-tion of St Sophia at Byzantium after the reconstruction of the dome, by the Patriarch Eutychius inthe presence of Justinian the Emperor . . . When the bishop arrives he knocks three times with hisstaff on the church door, crying out, Tollite portas principes vestras [Ps. 23.7] and the whole of Psalm 23, Domini est terra, is sung,” Further Essays, 161. Wills cites Ordo XLI, 2, ed. Andrieu,

Les Ordines Romani, IV, 340. On Justinian’s response to the reconstruction of St.-Sophia, see myIntroduction, 17–18.



in the Songs of Sion.55 Psalm 86 was sung during the second nocturn of matinsfor the feast; it extols Sion as the city most favored by God:

Fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis: diligit Dominus portas Sion super omnia tabernacula Iacob. (1–3)

[The Lord loves the gates of Sion more than all the dwellings of Jacob; Her foundations are laid upon holy hills.]

Although “Sion” refers to the montem sanctum upon which the Temple was built, and “Jerusalem” refers to the historical city, the uses of these terms in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament are, of course, rarely so precise. In the psalms, they are often used interchangeably to designate the

ancient city capital. But this historical designation acquires an additionalmeaning in the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible, as well as in such NewTestament passages as Hebrews 12.22 and Revelation 14.1. According to

prophecy, the montem sanctum is an image of Heaven and will be the locationfor the consummation of history.56

By adopting for the dedication of their churches the ancient Hebrewconcept of the Temple as the house of God, Christians assured the propheticand symbolic continuity of the Old and New Testaments. Solomon’s Temple

was thought to be the historical archetype of the Heavenly Jerusalem.Ezekiel’s vision (40–44) of the ideal temple, also inspired by the Temple of Solomon, and the description of the heavenly palace in the Book of Enoch,“built of crystals” and having walls “like a mosaic crystal floor,” are other sources that influenced medieval concepts of the Celestial City.57

Among the liturgical hours for the feast of St.-Denis’ dedication, matins isunique in its emphasis on the relation between the earthly sanctuaries of theHebrew Bible and apocalyptic visions of the montem sanctum. But matins

also presents a series of antiphons and responses, occurring at different inter-vals throughout the liturgy, which tell the story of Jacob’s ladder and hissubsequent erection of a shrine at Beth-El (Genesis 28.10–22). Many of these

prayers appear again in the liturgical hours that follow, but only in matins dowe find such a complete collection. Here are a few of the examples:

Vidit Iacob scalam, summitas ejus cælos tangebat, et descendentes Angelos,et dixit: Vere locus iste sanctus est.

[Jacob saw a ladder with its top reaching to the heavens, and angelsdescending, and he said, truly this place is holy.]

84


55 See for example, Ps. 47, 1–2.56 See Georges A. Barrois, “Zion” The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, ed. George A. Buttrick,

vol. 4 [R–Z] (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1962), 959–60.57 Otto von Simson made this observation on the connection between the New Jerusalem and the

description of the palace in the Book of Enoch (Gothic Cathedral , 11).



Mane surgens Iacob erigebat lapidem in titulum, fundens oleum sesuper;votum vovit Domino: Vere locus iste sanctus est, et ego nesciebam.

[When he arose in the morning, Jacob set up the stone as a memorial pillar

and poured oil over it. He made a vow to the Lord: “Truly this place is holy,and I did not know it.”]

O quam metuendus est locus iste: vere non est hic aliud, nisi domus Dei et porta cæli.

[How awesome is this place. Truly this is none other than the house of Godand the gate of heaven.]58

Jacob’s dream, together with his subsequent words and actions, offered a

special element to Jewish and Christian interpretations of their sacred build-ings. The stone on which Jacob rests his head, just before dreaming of theladder stretching from earth to heaven, was the same stone that he used toerect the shrine at Beth-El. This stone is mentioned three times: first, whenJacob chose it for a pillow (Genesis 28.11); second, when he set it up as a

pillar and poured oil over it (Genesis 28. 18); and shortly afterwards when he proclaims that the stone – that is, the pillar or shrine – will be a house of God(Genesis 28.22). Between the first and second references to the stone, Jacob

receives his vision of the angels going up and down the ladder and of Godstanding beside him, announcing His covenant with Jacob’s descendants. Thestone, then, plays an essential role in the organization and symbolic meaningof the story. It serves as the physical, local frame within which Jacob receiveshis vision, and it becomes the physical, local foundation for his shrine to God.

Jacob’s dream is a revelation of divine presence and of passage betweenthe sacred and the temporal realms. In realizing this presence and in partici-

pating in this passage, Jacob’s stone is at least as important as the ladder. In

other words, the locus of revelation is inseparable from the revelation itself. Itis a holy place, an awesome, fearful place. It also represents the gate of Heaven, the house of God, and the Church. Augustine provides commentaryon the multiple, symbolic meanings of biblical ideas of “place”:

[W]hen God said . . . ‘And I will give peace in this place’, the word ‘place’ isa symbol, and by it we are to understand that which it symbolizes. And so there-building ‘in this place’ stands for the Church which was to be built byChrist . . . For the Master Builder Who said, ‘Many are called, but few are

chosen’ . . . intended to show us a house built up of the elect, whichhenceforth shall fear no ruin.59

85


58 Andrieu shows that a selection of these quotations from Genesis on Jacob’s dream and verses fromPsalms 45 and 86 were part of the Roman dedication liturgy in the eighth century. See Les Ordines

Romani, IV, Ordo Romanus XLI (750–75), 336.59 civ. Dei XVIII, 48.



Those few who are chosen are the builders of a place that they inhabit for alltime. This place they build is their own, which is also part of the communal

place that is the Church, represented materially by the church building. Place

and salvation are, therefore, inseparable concepts. Jacob’s shrine is notintended to limit the presence of God, but to serve as a complex symbol of thesacredness of the place where he had laid his head. The pouring of oil on thestone is the formal, ancient gesture that confirms this sacred status. The impli-cation is, of course, that the shrine will act in the same way as the dream: as anoccasion for revelation.

In Augustinian terms, Jacob does not worship the stone as a res, whichwould be a perversion of caritas, but as a sacramental signum. In De civitate

Dei, Augustine makes clear the distinction and highlights the specificallyChristian allegory:

This was an act to which prophetic signification belongs. When Jacob poured oil over the stone he was not committing idolatry, as if making a godof it; for he did not bow down to the stone, or sacrifice to it. Rather this was asymbolic act conveying a great mystery; for the name of “Christ” is derivedfrom “chrism,” which means “anointing.” As for the ladder, we know thatthe Saviour Himself recalls this to our memory in the Gospel . . . “Verily,verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” (XVI.38)60

The story of Jacob and his ladder appears frequently in the iconographic programs of medieval churches. The organization of its main elements – stone, revelation, shrine – provided the Christians with a simple, yet efficientmodel for their own building projects. The soaring nave of the great Gothicchurch was the Jacob’s ladder of the Middle Ages. Light, liturgy, and artconveyed the divine presence and provided the opportunity for apocalyptic

vision. Abbot Suger understood the importance of the ancient models for thesymbolic program of his own church. This is clear from his quotation of a prayer in connection with the consecration of St.-Denis.61 At the feast for thededication it was introduced during matins and was repeated at lauds, terce,and vespers:

Lapides preciosi omnes muri tui, et turres Jerusalem gemmis ædificabuntur.

[All of your walls are precious stones, and the towers of Jerusalem will be

built with jewels.]This prayer was appropriate for Suger, who insisted that his new church belavishly decorated with jewels and precious stones. By including the prayer inthe dedication liturgy, it becomes a concise expression of how the church wasconceived as both the fulfillment of the ancient Hebrew Temple and a figura

86


60 Jn. 1.47–5161 In Panofsky, 102.



of the New Jerusalem.62 From the Christian perspective, the Hebrew Templewas an ossified eschatological landscape, whose chief limitation was the stoneframe – essential but undeniably temporal. Suger’s genius was to make the

most of this limitation by removing walls to let in light. But he also madeabundant use of special stones, stones that in their reflective propertiesseemed to possess more immaterial than material qualities.

The liturgy for matins for the feast of the dedication of St.-Denis is especially rich in its references to the sanctuaries of the Hebrew Bible. Chris-tians embraced the ancient concept of the Temple as a locus for divine

presence and as an opportunity for passage between the temporal and thesacred realms. Matins also includes two short passages from the New Testa-ment that are clear attempts to distinguish the ancient law from the new, whileassuring their prophetic, or eschatological agreement. Jesus Christ andMichael the Archangel are the representatives of the new Church. A verse istaken from Matthew 21.13 in which Jesus enters the Temple at Jerusalem anddrives out the money changers:63

Domus mea domus orationis vocabitur, dicit Dominus: in ea omnis qui petit,accipit; et qui quærit, invenit; Et pulsanti aperietur.

[My house will be called a house of prayer, says the Lord. In it, everyone

who asks, receives; and he who seeks, finds; And to him who knocks, it will be opened.]

Jesus was a Jew who worshipped in the Temple, but for Christians the comingof Christ is the irrevocable rupture in human history. His cleansing of theTemple in Jerusalem can be understood, in the context of the dedicationliturgy, as a gesture symbolizing this rupture.

Michael the Archangel holds a special place in the Christian vision of the

Second Coming. In the Bible he is presented as the champion and protector of Israel and the supreme symbol of justice destroying evil.64 The liturgy for matins on the feast of St.-Denis’ dedication includes a prayer based on

passages from Revelation that describe the sounding of the seventh trumpetand Michael’s war in Heaven against the dragon:65

Dum sacrum mysterium cerneret Joannes, Archangelus Michael tubacecinit: Ignosce Domine Deus noster, qui aperis librum et solvis signaculaejus.66

87


62 Suger also cites Ezekiel’s description of the temple when referring to the decoration of his ownchurch: lapis preciosus operimentum tuum, sardius, topazius, jaspis, crisolitus, onix et berillus,saphirus, carbunculus et smaragdus (Panofsky, 62).

63 Also in Mk. 11.15–19; Lk. 19.45–48.64 Dan. 10.13, 21; 12.1; Jude 9–10; Rev. 12.65 Rev. 11.12.66 This is a prayer that was, and still is, commonly said on 29 September, the Feast of St. Michael the

Archangel, or Michaelmas. In the Roman Catholic Breviary, it appears as an antiphon for vesperson that day. I find no other evidence for its use in other dedication ceremonies during or after the



[While John was beholding the sacred mystery, Michael the Archangelsounded the trumpet: Forgive us Lord our God, you who open the book andwho unloosen its seals.]

This prayer has little precise biblical authority. In Revelation, the blowing of the seventh trumpet (11.5) announces the consummation of God’s kingdom(10.7), but it is not clear if Michael actually blows this trumpet, since he isfirst mentioned in the following chapter waging war against the dragon. Nor does the appeal for forgiveness appear in the biblical text. Yet, the biblicalreferences were, nonetheless, the textual sources for the medieval legendsurrounding St. Michael, the legend that is depicted on façades and capitals of many medieval churches, especially in France. It is often difficult to measure

the extent to which existing iconographic conventions influenced medievalliturgy, but the prayer cited above is, I think, one example of such an influ-ence.

Perhaps St. Michael is most familiar to us as he is portrayed in late medi-eval illuminated manuscripts: he is shown as a knight in armor holding alance, a banner (often both), or a great sword. At his feet is a dragon or devil-like creature, whom Michael has vanquished. This image of Michael is alate medieval convention, not appearing until after the thirteenth century. In

the earlier iconographic programs of medieval churches, Michael is the prin-cipal actor in scenes of the Last Judgment. He holds the authority to judge thegood from the bad and to introduce them to the other world, leading them

before the great tribunal of God. In these scenes he is shown standing, not inchivalric armor, but dressed in a long, pleated robe. Suspended from his handis a balance that he uses to weigh the actions of the trembling soul that hascome before him, awaiting a verdict. The devil is also present, attempting totip the scale in his favor with one finger, but to no avail.67

Matins for the feast of the dedication of St.-Denis succeeds in illustratinghow the medieval church building is to be understood as an eschatological andapocalyptic landscape. It is a masterfully constructed liturgy combining the

88


Middle Ages. Perhaps it was not unique to St.-Denis, but was rarely included for dedicationliturgies.

67 This scene had been transmitted to southern France from the east through the intermediary of illu-minated manuscripts. It spread rapidly through the south. There is an eleventh-century representa-tion on a capital in the museum of Toulouse. Other locations in France include a capital at theAbbey of St.-Pon, on a portal of St.-Trophime at Arles, on a capital of St.-Eutrope at Saintes, atSt.-Nectaire in Auvergne, at Chartres, on the portals of Notre-Dame-de-la-Couture at Le Mans, atAmiens, and at Bourges. Émile Mâle explains, too, that the cult of St. Michael as the angel of thedead, and hence the principal actor in the judgment of the dead, can be traced to the first century of Christianity, when the Church ascribed to St. Michael attributes of the pagan god, Mercury:“Michael, who was already the messenger of heaven, became, like Mercury, the conductor of thedead.” See Mâle, Religious Art in France: the Thirteenth Century: A Study of Medieval Iconog-raphy and its Sources, trans. Marthiel Mathews. Bollingen Series XC: 2 (Princeton: Princeton UP,1984), 377. See also Mâle, L’art religieux du XIIe siècle en France. Etude sur l’origine del’iconographie du Moyen Age (Paris: Armand Colin, 1966), 413–414; L’art religieux du XIIIe

siècle en France. Etude sur l’iconographie du moyen âge et sur ses sources d’inspiration (Paris:Armand Colin, 1958), 380–88.



poetry of the Songs of Sion with passages taken from some of the most memo-rable and dramatic moments of the Bible: Jacob’s dream and his building of the shrine, Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple, and the sounding of the seventh

trumpet in The Book of Revelation. It also shows signs of having beenenriched by the iconographic programs of the churches themselves, especiallyin its use of St. Michael as the spokesman for matters of Final Judgment. Thearrangement and presentation of this liturgy is most impressive, perhaps,

because it succeeds in conveying multiple, interrelated meanings of the sacrededifice and establishes the historical and symbolic foundation for the conceptof the church as an image of the New Jerusalem. It is an excellent attestationto Roger E. Reynolds’ statement, “liturgy is and clearly was an art form.”68

The remaining liturgical hours for the feast of St.-Denis’ dedication repeateach of the themes first introduced during the vigil and at matins. A number of

passages from the story of Jacob, for example, are repeated, particularly theantiphon, O quam metuendus, and the response, Mane surgens. The prayer that Suger cited in connection with the consecration of St.-Denis, Lapides

preciosi, is repeated at lauds, terce, and vespers. The second verse of Revela-tion 21, Vidi civitatem sanctam, Jerusalem novam descendentem de cælo a

Deo, paratam sicut sponsam ornatam viro suo, which first appeared near the beginning of the vigil, recurs at lauds and just before the closing antiphon of

vespers. At sext, the quotation from chapter 21 of Revelation includes versethree:

Et audivi vocem magnam de throno dicentem: Ecce tabernaculum Dei cumhominibus, et habitabit cum eis; et ipsi populus eius erunt, et ipse Deus cumeis erit eorum Deus. (Revelation 21.3)

[And I heard a great voice from the throne saying: “Behold the tabernacle of God with men, and he will dwell with them; and they will be his people, and

God himself will be with them, their God.]This is just one of the numerous additional features of the liturgy that conveysthe relationship between the earthly church and the New Jerusalem. Enthrone-ment hymns (i.e., Psalms 95 and 98) that celebrate the kingship of God areincluded during the second nocturn of matins. Interestingly, Psalm 98 is usedas well in Chronicles 19.23–24 on the occasion of the movement of the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem. At terce we find a prayer from Isaiah 11.1describing the Tree of Jesse, which was also an iconographic subject of one of

Suger’s famous windows. Vespers on the feast day is a celebration of Jeru-salem, employing Psalms 121, 123, and 147.

Each canonical hour of the feast is a liturgical unit that emphasizes a partic-ular theological concept, but prayers are repeated and new ones added todemonstrate the conceptual relationships, the progression of meanings, andthe symbolic continuities among the hours. We have seen that in matins

89


68 “Liturgy and Monument,” 60.



special care was taken to illustrate the historical significance of the ancientsanctuaries of the Hebrew Bible and their role in the symbolic understandingof the Christian church.

The liturgy for terce is quite different. The third monastic hour traditionallyhas been the hour devoted to the Holy Spirit, since this was the hour when theSpirit descended upon the apostles at Pentecost (Acts 2.2–4). As a liturgicalunit, terce for the feast of the dedication may also be understood as an invoca-tion to the Holy Spirit. It begins most appropriately with the hymn Venicreator spiritus.69

This theme identifies the physical, temporal building with the spiritualrealm and it includes, as well, an understanding of how individuals in thecommunity of worshippers participate directly in the apocalyptic vision. Theepistle that was read at Mass during terce provides the most complete illustra-tion of these features. The incipit given in the manuscript to inform us of which epistle was to be read at terce is simply, Unusquisque propriam.Edward Foley has identified the biblical text to which this direction refers as IICorinthians 5.10. The full reading, however, would have included more thanverse ten, perhaps verses one through ten, an appropriate length for such a

purpose:70

Scimus enim quoniam si terrestris domus nostra hujus habitationisdissolvatur, quod ædificationem ex Deo habemus, domum non manufactam,æternam in cælis. Nam et in hoc ingemiscimus, habitationem nostram, quæde cælo est, superindui cupientes: Si tamen vestiti, non nudi inveniamur.

Nam et qui sumus in hoc tabernaculo, ingemiscimus gravati: eo quodnolumus expoliari, sed supervestiri, ut absorbeatur quod mortale est a vita.Qui autem efficit nos in hoc ipsum, Deus, qui dedit nobis pignus spiritus.Audentes igitur semper, scientes quoniam dum sumus in corpore,

peregrinamur a Domino: Per fidem enim ambulamus, et non per speciem.

Audemus autem et bonam voluntatem habemus magis peregrinari a corpore,et præsentes esse ad Dominum. Et ideo contendimus sive absentes sive præsentes placere illi. Omnes enim nos manifestari oportet ante tribunalChristi, ut referat unusquisque propria corporis, prout gessit, sive bonum,sive malum.

[For we know that if our house of this earthly habitation should be destroyed,we possess a building from God, a house not made, but eternal in theheavens. For indeed we lament our habitation here, longing to put on our

90


69 This hymn has been ascribed to Rabanus Marus (776–856), Charlemagne, St. Ambrose, and toGregory the Great. It is the traditional hymn for vespers and terce on Pentecost and throughout theoctave. According to Britt, there is no other hymn, with the exception of the Te Deum, that has

been used so extensively in the Roman Church (The Hymns of the Breviary and Missal , ed.Matthew Britt (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1922), 162–4).

70 The Latin text is from the Vulgate. This reading is not found in the Breviarium Romanum for thededication feast. Nor is it listed as a reading for the feast in Tolhurst’s edition of the Benedictine

breviary of Hyde Abbey (St.-Denis was a Benedictine monastery). Andrieu does not list it in his Les Ordines Romani du haut moyen age, vol. IV, Ordines XXXV–XLIX. Perhaps its inclusion inthe dedication ceremony at St.-Denis represents a rare usage.



habitation which is from heaven. So that if we are thus clothed, we shall not be found naked. For indeed we lament, we who are oppressed in this earthlydwelling: not because we wish to be unclothed, but to be covered over, sothat what is mortal may be absorbed by life [eternal]. He, however, who hasformed us thus, is God, who has given to us the Spirit as assurance.Therefore we are always eager, resolved, knowing that while we are in the

body, we wander from God: For through faith we walk, and not through thesight of our eyes. We are brave, however, and we possess the goodinclination to wander, rather, from the body, and to be in God’s presence.And, therefore, we strive to please Him, be it that we are at hand or away. For we all must be exposed and brought before the tribunal of Christ, so that eachindividual may account for all the deeds peculiar to the body, according towhat he has done, be they good or bad.]

Paul’s teaching in this passage, which, as we have seen, Augustine also quotesand comments upon at length, contains many images evoking movement toand from certain places or certain states of being.71 The possibility of transfor-mation and passage is presented from the perspective of the lamenting,striving human being who wanders from God but who possesses the faith andgood will to be in God’s presence sive absentes sive præsentes. Paul describesthe domum æternam as a putting on of clothes, a covering over of the mortal

self. Heaven comes down, just as John says: Vidi civitatem sanctam, Jeru- salem novam descendentem de cælo a Deo (Revelation 21.2). With a longingto be clothed in the heavenly dwelling, to be in the presence of God, oldclothes are not shed; instead, one recognizes the Spirit within. The “covering”is invisible, but it is not illusory. This image recalls the action of Plotinus’rational principle, adorning the soul with light from the One while facilitating

passage between the temporal and spiritual realms. As we have seen, it is alsothe controlling image of Augustine’s commentary on the elevation of the

human being as an image of God and the Church as a sacramental signum.Because of God’s gift of the Holy Spirit, the faithful possess within them-selves the kingdom of God: “[s]urely you know that you are God’s temple,where the Spirit of God dwells.”72

Twelfth-Century Commentaries on the Dedication Liturgy

Bernard of Clairvaux and Hugh of St.-Victor, both contemporaries of AbbotSuger, wrote commentaries on the liturgy for the dedication of churches. BothBernard and Hugh were especially interested in the central question raised inthe passage quoted above from II Corinthians: how can the building (or body)

be sacred, despite its inherent limitations?73 Bernard addresses the questiondirectly:

91


71 See Chapter Two, 52, 52 n. 13.72 I Cor. 16.73

Sancti Bernardi, Abbatis Claræ-Vallensis, In Dedicatione Ecclesiæ, Sermo I, PL 183, 517–21.



Quid enim lapides isti poterunt sanctitatis habere ut eorum solemniacelebremus? Habent utique sanctitatem, sed propter corpora vestra. An verocorpora vestra sancta esse quis dubitet, quæ templum sancti Spiritus sunt, utsciat unusquisque possidere vas suum in sanctificatione? Itaque sanctæ suntanimæ propter inhabitantem Spiritum Dei in vobis; sancta sunt corpora

propter animas; sancta est etiam propter corpora domus. (518–19 D)

[In what respect, however, were the stones able to have sanctity so that wecelebrate their solemnity? They certainly have sanctity, but on account of our bodies. In truth, who doubts that your bodies are holy, which are thetemple of the holy spirit, so that each individual understands to possess hisown vessel in holiness? Therefore souls are holy on account of the dwellingof the holy spirit in you; bodies are holy on account of souls; it is holy, in

fact, on account of the bodies.]

For Bernard, the stone building is holy, because human beings worship insideit.74 The human presence in the church together with the communal effort toserve and worship God render the stone edifice sacred. Furthermore, Bernardsuggests, God is not limited by being present in the building through theworshipers:

Mirabilis plane Deus in sanctis suis, non modo in cœlestibus, sed etiam in

terrenis. (519 D)[God is completely marvelous amidst his holy ones, who could be earthly aswell as heavenly.]

Here Bernard teaches, with Augustinian optimism, that heaven begins onearth.

For Hugh of St.-Victor the ceremony for the dedication of a church becomes a preparation for the visio pacis, a commemoration and earthly

manifestation of eternal, celestial liturgies:Ad hunc regem immortalem videndum facie ad faciem præparat se præsensEcclesia; et dum hic agit festa temporalia, patriæ suæ festiva et æterna recolitgaudia, ubi sponsus angelicis laudatur organis.75

[To behold this immortal King face to face, the Church below preparesherself: and while she celebrates here the temporal feasts, she remembers the

92


Appendix ad Hugonis Opera Mystica, Sermo III. De Dedicatione Ecclesiæ anagogice, PL 177,905–7.

74 Quando enim domus ista per manus pontificum dedicata est Domino, propter nos sine dubiofactum est; non solum qui tunc præsentes fuimus, sed et quicunque usque in finem sæculi Dominosunt in hoc loco militaturi (520 A). (When moreover that house was dedicated to God through thehand of the high priests, on account of us it was done without doubt; not only we who were at handat that time, but also all those who are in this place, ready to serve God until the end of time.)

75 Appendix ad Hugonis Opera Dogmatica, Speculum de mysteriis Ecclesiæ. Speculum Ecclesæ,Cap. I. PL 177, 338.



festivals of her native home and of eternity; where the bridegroom is praised by angelic instruments.]

Every visible liturgical act corresponds to an invisible movement of thesoul, a movement prompted by the Holy Spirit. Like Paul in II Corinthiansand Bernard of Clairvaux, Hugh maintains that the soul is the true temple of God. To sanctify the church, therefore, is to sanctify the soul:

Quæ autem hic fiunt visibiliter, omnia in anima per invisibilem virtutemDeus operatur, quæ verum templum Dei est, ubi fides fundamentum facit,spes erigit, charitas consummat. Ipsa etiam Ecclesia catholica, una ex multislapidibus adunata, templum Dei est, quia multa templa unum templum,quorum unus Dominus et una fides. Domus ergo dedicanda est animasanctificanda;76

[For those things that are done here visibly, God works all through invisible power in the soul, which is the true temple of God; where faith makes thefoundation, hope raises [the building], and charity finishes it. Also thecatholic Church herself, made one from many stones, is the temple of God;

because many temples make one temple, of which there is one Lord and onefaith. Therefore the house must be dedicated; the soul sanctified;]

Since individual souls make up the Church community, and since each soul isthe temple of God, Hugh believes, following Augustine, that the Church – thecommunity of worshippers – signifies the New Jerusalem on earth. The

people are its living stones:

Jerusalem civitas sancta, et civitas Sancti, sancta Ecclesia est, quae sicutcivitas aedificatur, et ædificata diversis ornamentis ornatur. Habet hæccivitas sancta, id est Ecclesia, lapides suos, murum suum, turres suas,ædificia sua, portas suas.77

[The holy city Jerusalem, and the city of Saints, is the holy Church, which is built like a city, and the structure is adorned with various ornaments. Thisholy city, that is the Church, possesses its own stones, its own wall, its owntowers, its own buildings, its own gates.]

Hugh identifies each part of the building with a particular feature of themembers of the Church: the walls represent a fortress of good morals, thetowers signify the sublime contemplatives, things in the church made of ivoryrepresent those who are chaste, and so on. The faithful members of the

community are the living temples of God – the ornaments of the New Jeru-salem. Once again, Hugh’s teaching demonstrates his debt to Augustine:

[A]nd a house is indeed now being built for the Lord in all the earth: the Cityof God, which is holy Church, after that captivity in which demonic forces

93


76 Speculum Ecclesiæ, Cap. II, PL vol. 177, 338–39.77 Sermo III , PL vol. 177, 905.



held prisoner those men who, because they believed in God, have becomeliving stones in His house.78

The medieval liturgy for the dedication of a church is a masterfully craftedelaboration upon biblical teachings and upon the allegorical readings of earlyChristian exegetes. Bernard of Clairvaux and Hugh of St.-Victor aretwelfth-century inheritors of this exegetical tradition. The liturgy itself identi-fies the building progressively as the habitation of God; the location for a

possibility of passage between the temporal and sacred realms; a confirmationand celebration of the events of Christ’s life; a reminder and preparation of theLast Judgment; and finally, a community of worshippers, whose individualmembers are the true temples, the living stones, the sacramental signa of the

Church. At the center of this liturgy is the concept of the church building as animage of the New Jerusalem; from this concept follow all other significations.Jean Hani eloquently expresses the synthesizing richness of the NewJerusalem image: “la Jérusalem céleste synthétise l’idée chrétienne de« communauté des élus » et « corps mystique » et l’idée juive du templerésidence de Très-Haut, et assure la continuité d’un Testament à l’autre et, par conséquent d’un temple à l’autre.”79

Abbot Suger and the Dedication of his New Church:Concluding Remarks

The unprecedented role of light in the design of Abbot Suger’s new church isa subject that never ceases to impress and stir the imaginations of specialistsand non-specialists alike, from the scholars and religious faithful on their respective pilgrimages to St.-Denis, to the novice tourist entering the great

nave for the first time. Suger believed that if a church was meant to be animage of the New Jerusalem, then it must be flooded with colored light. Thearchitectural features of the new church, especially the choir with its crown of adjacent chapels, the iconography of the western entrance depicting scenesfrom Matthew’s Last Judgment and the Book of Revelation, and the abundantuse of jewels and precious metals “radiant as the sun” are some of the promi-nent ways in which Suger’s church gave shape and color to the idea of theHeavenly Jerusalem.80

In his treatise De consecratione, Suger expresses his exhilaration for whatmust have been one of the most festive and splendid liturgical events of theMiddle Ages. He quotes frequently from prayers and psalms that were sung

94


78 civ. Dei VIII.24.79 Le Symbolisme du Temple Chrétien (Paris: Vieux Colombier, 1962), 26–7. (The Heavenly Jeru-

salem synthesizes the Christian idea of the elect community and the mystical body and the Jewishidea of the Temple [as the] residence of the Almighty, and [it] assures the continuity from oneTestament to the other and, as a result, from one temple to another.)

80 Panofsky, 107.



during the consecration liturgy, in particular from the Songs of Sion (Psalms45, 47, and 86) the great antiphon, Lapides preciosi omnes muri tui, and the

passage from I Corinthians 3.11.81 He specifically mentions the reading of the

office of matins the night before the consecration ceremony, and whendescribing the magnificence of the ceremony itself, he writes that theattending nobility had “believed themselves to behold a chorus celestial rather than terrestrial, a ceremony divine rather than human.”82

In the same treatise Suger also cites a passage from Ephesians 2.19–22, inwhich Paul describes the faithful as “the saints and household of God,” andChrist as the “chief cornerstone” of the temple. But Suger elaborates upon the

biblical passage, adding phrases of his own so that Suger’s text reads:83

Jam non estis, inquit, hospites et advenae; sed estis cives sanctorum et domestici Dei, superaedificati super fundamentum Apostolorum et

Prophetarum, ipso summo angulari lapide Christo Jesu, qui utrumqueconjungit parietem, in quo omnis aedificatio, sive spi – ritualis, sivematerialis, crescit in templum sanctum in Domino. In quo et nos quantoaltius, quanto aptius materialiter aedificare instamus, tanto per nos ipsosspiritualiter coaedificari in habitaculum Dei in Spiritu sancto edocemur.

[ Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, says he, but fellow

citizens with the saints and of the household of God; and are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone which joins one wall to the other; in Whom all the building – whether spiritual or material – groweth unto one holy temple in the Lord. InWhom we, too, are taught to be builded together for an habitation of God through the Holy Spirit by ourselves in a spiritual way, the more loftily andfitly we strive to build in a material way.]84

Panofsky argues that Abbot Suger twists “St. Paul’s metaphor into a justifica-

tion of superesplendent architecture” with his qualification of the word“building” by the phrase “whether spiritual or material.”85 Surely, however,Suger was also familiar with the passage from II Corinthians that was readduring Mass for the feast of the dedication of St.-Denis. In that passage, Paulused the earthly edifice as a metaphor for human bodies: the earthly edificerefers both to the church building and the human body; the heavenly habita-

95


81 Fundamentum aliud nemo potest ponere præter id quod positum est, quod est Christus Jesus(Panofsky, 88). Mazarine 526 shows that his chapter was sung during none. In De consecratione,Suger mentions the chanting of Psalm 86, Fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis, when the bishopslaid the first stones for the new church. He also cites from Psalms 45 and 47. All these are Songs of Sion that were sung during the feast for the dedication of the church, and which I discuss earlier inthis chapter. As I mentioned previously, Suger cites the antiphon from the dedication liturgy,

Lapides preciosi omnes muri tui (Panofsky, 102).82 Ibid. 115.83 The biblical text Suger quotes is italicized, following Panofsky.84 Panofsky’s translation, 105.85 Panofsky, 16.



tion is both the New Jerusalem and the Holy Spirit. Suger may very well haveused Paul’s own teachings to interpret the passage from Ephesians.

The liturgy for the dedication of Suger’s church was, in almost all respects,

not new, but the setting for that liturgy was new. In all likelihood, Suger wasmore intimately familiar with the monastic liturgy of his own abbey than hewas with the tradition of Christian-Platonism represented in the writings of the authors discussed earlier in this chapter. Nonetheless, Suger was suffi-ciently aware of this tradition to envision a more effective setting for thePlatonic drama of procession and return. Suger understood that throughliturgy the participants enter into mystery and mystery enters into the partici-

pants. As liturgy proceeds, participation in the drama changes from one of physical, exterior communication to an interior, invisible communicationuntil there is no longer anything to see or hear.

It was Otto von Simson’s view that at no time has the effort to create theHeavenly Jerusalem on earth been more successful than in the achievementsrepresented by the great churches of twelfth- and thirteenth-century France.One need not be an architectural historian to appreciate the merits of such aclaim; one need only to stand inside Notre Dame at Chartres on a brightmorning or to walk through the vast space at St.-Étienne at Bourges. Yet, itmust be remembered that these buildings were never built to be admired for

their material achievements alone – for the material shaping of color and light.The buildings were, above all, settings for an action and that action was aliturgical action. The material elements of the churches’ building programsare the static attributes of a spiritual movement, the movement of the soulfrom the earthly realm to the heavenly; that movement is expressed throughthe prayer and spectacle of liturgical worship. The processions, the chanting,the burning of candles and incense – these actions all had a specific functionwithin each liturgical celebration, within each liturgical expression of the

eschatological and apocalyptic drama of Christian history, whether the litur-gical occasion was the dedication of a church, a baptism, a Sunday Mass, or afuneral.

Architectural historians have often expressed frustration over how littleAbbot Suger actually had to say in his writings about the physical attributes of his church – about the building itself and his precise role in its design – prefer-ring, to be sure, that he would have had rather less to say about his fondnessfor jewels. What has not been sufficiently appreciated, however, is the extent

to which he did comment upon the liturgical celebrations within that churchand how these comments implicitly relate to the greater design of the building.From Suger, then, it is indeed possible to gain a greater historical appreciationfor how these great churches functioned not merely as picture bibles for theilliterate, or as convenient and grand gathering spots from which to convey

political agendas; they were, above all, settings for a liturgy, a space for asacred action that was a visual and aural manifestation of a movement, bothanagogic and apocalyptic, that cannot be seen.

In our attempt to gain a historical appreciation for the interaction between

96




medieval church architecture and liturgy, it is no less important to remember that the great churches that were built in the twelfth and thirteenth centurieswere just one stage of development in the medieval effort to manifest the

Heavenly Jerusalem in stone. As concepts of piety changed in the later MiddleAges the buildings in which that piety was expressed changed as well. Thedesire for a more personal form of worship among the faithful, in particular among the laity, led to a different notion of how best to create a liturgicalspace using stone, glass, light, and color.

In the later Middle Ages, the private chapel became the preferred setting inwhich to worship. First kings and then – following the royal example – thenobility built their Heavenly Jerusalems on intimate, personal scales. Even

people of far lesser means were able to enjoy a more private liturgical setting by joining a guild, where each member contributed to the establishment andmaintenance of a common chapel. Some of these chapels were free-standing

buildings, the most celebrated of which is the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris; otherswere part of the interior of an existing building, like a royal palace, a monas-tery, or a parish church. In fourteenth-century England, a great number of these private chapels were called “chantries,” built expressly for the singing,or “chanting,” of soul Masses, usually for a donor or members of a donor’sfamily. The religious and architectural expressions of the chantry movement

provide a little-studied, but important context for late medieval apocalypticeschatology, particularly in terms of how this spirituality was displayed in art,

both visual and literary. It is to the English chantry movement, therefore, that Inow turn.

97




TheChantryMovement

4The Chantry Movement:

An Intimate Art of the Medieval New Jerusalem

Private Worship and the Eschatology of Chantry Rites

I Richard’s body have interred new,. . . . . . . .

and I have builtTwo chauntries where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard’s soul.

THE verses quoted are from one of the king’s speeches in Shakespeare’s Henry V . They are part of a prayer in which Henry asks God to “think not

upon the fault” of his father, Henry of Lancaster, who had obtained the crown by murdering Richard II (IV.i.293–302). Shakespeare is probably drawing onHolinshed who says that Henry V (r. 1413–22), after his coronation, had the

body of Richard (r. 1377–99) moved “with all funerall dignitie convenient for his estate,” from King’s Langley to Westminster Abbey, where he was buriedwith his first queen, Anne of Bohemia, in a “solemn toome erected and set upat the charges of this king.”1 Holinshed records the historical event, butShakespeare gives us a glimpse, as well, of the religious belief and a whole setof liturgical practices associated with Henry’s actions. Here is a morecomplete citation from Henry’s speech:

I Richard’s body have interred new,And on it have bestowed more contrite tears,Than from it issued forced drops of blood.Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold upToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have builtTwo chauntries, where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard’s soul. (295–302)

98

1 Geoffrey Bullough, ed., Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, 7 vols (London:Routledge and Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1957–75), vol. 5, 281; cited from G. BlakemoreEvans, ed., The Riverside Shakespeare (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974), 958 n. 295.



Shakespeare’s portrayal here of Henry V’s response to the death of Richard II provides a rare as well as sympathetic description of the piety associated withthe late medieval chantry movement in England. The tears of contrition shed,

perhaps, at the dead king’s tomb, the poor mourners who have been hired byHenry to pray twice a day for the atonement of his father’s guilt, and the building of the chantry chapels to have Masses said daily for Richard’s soulare some of the religious and cultural features of the chantry movement thatrequire brief consideration before proceeding to a fuller consideration of themovement’s architectural expression.2

Approximately fifty years before Shakespeare wrote Henry V (c. 1599), theSuppression Acts of Henry VIII (1545) and Edward VI (1547) had dissolvedthe chantry institutions entirely. The revenues generated by these institutions

became the possession of the Crown and hundreds of chantry chapels that had been built throughout England in the later Middle Ages were dismantled or destroyed.3 But even while Richard II was alive (over a century before HenryVIII) the chantry movement had come under attack by the reformers of thefourteenth century. Thomas Walsingham, one of the chroniclers of theLancastrian revolution of 1399 and a monk at Saint Albans, gives an accountof a conversation between Richard II and Thomas Mowbray, in whichMowbray tells Richard that if he were considering resigning his throne, he

ought to hand over power to Henry Bolingbroke. Richard immediatelydismisses this suggestion, and his reason for doing so is worthy of note:Richard says that he would never yield the crown to Bolingbroke, because if Henry became king, he would want to destroy the Church.4

99

The Chantry Movement

2 The chantry movement is treated in the following studies: G. H. Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels rev. edn (London: Phoenix House, 1963); Joan Evans, “Chantries and Colleges,”Oxford History of English Art , 1307–1461 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1949), 172–220; Rosalind Hill,“ ‘A Chaunterie for Soules’: London Chantries in the Reign of Richard II,” The Reign of Richard

II: Essays in Honor of May McKisack , ed., F. R. H. Du Boulay and Caroline M. Barron (London:Althone Press, 1971), 242–55; Alan Kreider, English Chantries: The Road to Dissolution(Cambridge and London: Harvard UP, 1979); A. Hamilton Thompson, “Chantries and Colleges of Chantry Priests,” The English Clergy and Their Organization in the Later Middle Ages (Oxford:Clarendon, 1947), 132–60; K. L. Wood-Legh, Perpetual Chantries in Britain (Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1965). The chantry movement is included as part of the general discussion of Eamon Duffy’s The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c.1400–c.1580 (NewHaven and London: Yale UP, 1992); see especially the chapters, “Last Things” (301–37) and “ThePains of Purgatory” (338–76). Georges Duby includes a brief discussion of the chantry chapels inhis chapter “La Chapelle” in Le Moyen Age: Fondements d’un nouvel humanism 1280–1440(Genève, Skira, 1984), 93–96.

3 Edward VI completed the second wave of dissolutions and confiscations that Henry VIII had begun. “The chantry act of Henry VIII’s last Parliament (1545) – which was never carried outsystematically – placed at the king’s disposal all ‘colleges, free chapels, chantries, hospitals,fraternities, brotherhoods, guilds, and stipendiary priests having perpetuity for ever.’ To this listthe act of Edward VI’s first Parliament (1547) – which was most methodically put into effect – added priests for terms of years, obits, anniversaries, and lights, while exempting the hospitals”(Alan Kreider, 5).

4 Chronica Maiora, printed in the nineteenth century under the title of Annales Ricardi Secundi et Henrici Quarti, in Chris Given-Wilson, trans. and ed., Chronicles of the Revolution 1397–1400.The Reign of Richard II (Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 1993), 17.



A prominent feature of this Church that Richard feared losing was thechantry movement. The practice of endowing chantries (temporary or

perpetual) by members of the clergy, the royal family, the nobility, and the

guilds was the most remarkable manifestation of religious belief in late medi-eval England. It was remarkable not only because of its popularity in allregions of England, but also because of its importance as a form of individualreligious expression. The chantry movement provided an unprecedentedopportunity for religious and laity alike to participate in the organization of the church, the design of private liturgies, and the decoration of ecclesiasticalmonuments all for the purpose of facilitating personal salvation. Dependingupon the wealth of the chantry endowment, for example, the founder of achantry was free to choose the number of Mass priests and specific prayersthat were to be recited during the liturgies, as well as the number and character of liturgical objects that were to be used. But it was in the design and decora-tion of the private tombs and chantry chapels that the aspirations of an indi-vidual founder were most clearly and enthusiastically displayed, wherereligious awareness frequently mingled with a fondness for worldly ideals of wealth and authority.

The personal intercessory piety of the chantry movement drew sterncondemnation from Wyclif and his followers in the late fourteenth and early

fifteenth centuries. The establishment of private liturgies and the adorning of ecclesiastical monuments as a means of perpetuating the memory of thedeceased and securing the prayers of the living was seen by these earlyreformers as vain and spiritually corrupt attempts to buy one’s way intoHeaven. Wyclif wrote, for example, about the vanity of rich men who believethat God would find favor by means of tales cantarias and that to desire one’sname to be remembered forever on earth is the way to the devil, not to Para-dise.5 Such presumption about the benefits to be gained from founding a

chantry was self-deception and harmful to one’s soul:Many men ben disseyved in founding of chauntries, in coostli sepulcris, andin solempne sepulturis; and alle thes feden the world, and done no profit tothe soule; but as thei harmen men lyvynge, so thei done harm to the soul.6

A great many English people in the late Middle Ages did not, however, sharethis view.7

100


5 “Et quantum vel cantarias perpetuas per mundi divites fabricatas, patet, quod fundatores in fide primo deficiunt ac si crederent deum sibi et suo generi per tales cantarias singulariter suffragari. Etraro vel numquam deficit eis lucifernia superbia, qua cupiunt nomen suum in terris perpetuari.”

John Wiclif’s Polemical Works in Latin, ed. Rodolf Buddensieg I (Wyclif Soc. 1883), 272–73,cited in K. L. Wood-Legh, 305.

6 Cited in Wood-Legh, 305.7 See, for example, Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England

c. 1400–c.1580; Duffy’s purpose is to show that the religious reforms of the late Middle Ages andearly Renaissance in England were resisted by the great majority of English people. See especiallythe chapters, “Last Things” (301–37) and “The Pains of Purgatory” (338–76).



The chantry movement was part of an epoch in English culture and civili-zation that was destroyed in the sixteenth-century politically-directed churchreforms of Henry VIII and Edward VI. Lacking “the idealism of the monastic

movements” and “the romance of the crusades,”8

the movement has attractedfar less interest among modern historians than one might expect. Those whohave given the chantry movement some treatment, have, on the whole, under-estimated the centrality of the movement in the daily lives of medievalEnglish people.

The practice of saying prayers for the souls of the dead is at least as old asthe third century AD, when St. Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258) is reported tohave offered the celebration of the Eucharist for the repose of a soul of arecently deceased Christian.9 The writings of Tertullian (c. 160–c. 225) andGregory I (540–604) also record a tendency to observe the death of membersof religious orders by celebrating Masses on their behalf, sometimes over anumber of consecutive days. After the Synod of Attigny in 762, it becamecommon practice within religious communities to celebrate a specifiednumber of Masses for the souls of departed brethren, promising further Masses at the anniversaries of their deaths.10 The feast of All Souls’ Day wasinstituted by Abbot Odilo of Cluny in the eleventh century as an annual day of remembrance for all the souls of the faithful departed.11

Members of the laity, wishing to receive the spiritual benefits of soulMasses, sought to secure the prayers of the clergy by presenting alms andmaking endowments to monasteries and parish churches. The clergy wereexpected to recompense these temporal gifts by celebrating one or more soulMasses for individual benefactors at the time of death. Endowments oftenincluded provision for Masses to be recited on the anniversary of the benefac-tor’s death as well, not unlike the liturgical feast days celebrated annually inhonor and remembrance of the saints and martyrs of the church.12 In England,

each monastery kept a register known as Liber Vitae, which contained thenames and anniversaries of the benefactors for whom soul Masses were to besaid. In the parish churches it was called a “bede-roll” and was placed on thehigh altar. The names were announced at Sunday liturgies, on feast days, andduring requiem Masses for individuals.13

The monasteries of England became wealthy through the great expenditure

101


8 Wood-Legh, ix.9 As Kotila has observed, Cyprian wrote his treatise De mortalitate in 252 “to console his flock

during a dreadful plague”; it is “the first known work entirely devoted to the question of death, andit was left to Augustine to lay the theological foundations of burial and the commemoration of thedeparted in his work De cura pro mortuis” (35). The liturgical commemoration of the dead “wasan established part of the liturgy of Jerusalem during the later part of the fourth century” (42–43).For the biblical texts that have served to justify Christian practices of praying for and payingfunerary homage to the dead, see Kotila, 35–36.

10 Wood-Legh, 2–3.11 Evans, 173.12 Wood-Legh, 2–3.13 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 3–5.



of grants by members of the laity hoping to benefit from the intercessory prayers of the monks. But by the thirteenth century, the monk-priests couldnot meet the liturgical requests of their benefactors, since the wish for soul

Masses had become so great. At Durham, for example, the monks were under legal obligation to recite more than seven thousand soul Masses annually.14

The parish priest was similarly limited in his capacity to celebrate a daily,continuous succession of soul Masses, since meeting the private liturgicalneeds of benefactors was just one of his pastoral duties. Eventually it becamecommon to make bequests either to a monastery or to a secular church for a

private priest, whose primary liturgical obligation was to say Masses for therepose of the soul of a benefactor, the founder’s family members, or membersof a guild or fraternity.15 In England, these bequests came to be known aschantries.

In the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries the word “chantry,” derivedfrom the Latin, cantaria, was used in England to describe any ecclesiasticalservice performed by a private chaplain for the personal needs of an indi-vidual, household, or group of people. Such private services were often

performed for people at their own expense living at an inconvenient distancefrom the parish church. After the middle of the fourteenth century, however,the term “chantry” came to refer exclusively to an ecclesiastical benefice

whose founder made provision, in the form of endowments of land, rents,other kinds of possessions, and, on occasion, money, for private liturgies to be

performed at a designated altar in a church or in a chantry chapel built specifi-cally for the purpose. These private liturgies were celebrated daily, weekly,monthly, and annually by a succession of priests for the good-estate ( pro bono

statu) of particular individuals during their lifetimes and for the repose of their souls after death.16

Chantry foundations did not replace completely the monasteries as inter-

cessory institutions, but in the fourteenth century they became the mostcommon and most widespread form of individual religious expression inEngland. Historians estimate that over two thousand chantries were dissolvedunder the reforms of Henry VIII and Edward VI in the sixteenth century. AlanKreider has identified 2,182 intercessory institutions capable of supporting atleast one priest each at the time of their dissolution, but of these the greatmajority had been founded in the fifteenth century and include only those thatsurvived until the dissolution. “In view of the heavy toll exacted of medieval

institutions by the ravages of time,” writes Kreider, “the number of chantries

102


14 Evans, 175.15 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 7.16 Ibid. 9; Evans, 178–79; Wood-Legh, 1–2. Duffy has observed, “The language of memory

pervaded the cult of the dead: the obsequies celebrated for each departed soul on the seventh andthirtieth day after burial, and on the first anniversary, were called the week’s, month’s, and year’s‘mind’ or remembrance. The focal point of the church’s liturgy of supplication for the dead, AllSouls’ Day, was properly called the ‘Commemoration of All Souls’ ” (328).



actually founded in the fourteenth century must have been even greater thanappears from surviving documentary evidence.”17

Endowments for Masses to be sung for a living benefactor or for the repose

of the soul of a dead one increased greatly in the second half of the fourteenthcentury after war, plague, and famine had devastated the population of England. English people of all social classes – royalty, the nobility, ecclesias-tics, merchants, civil servants – responded to this daily encounter with death

by giving new force to already established forms of Christian piety. Fear of the sufferings of Hell and Purgatory, a belief in the intercessory power of thesaints and the healing power of their bodily remains, a belief in the spiritual

power of the prayers of the living, the desire for a personal, daily encounter with the divine, and, above all, a wish to find some way to keep the dead alivein the minds of the living are the features of late medieval piety that foundrenewed expression in the private liturgical rituals of the chantry movement.

The reign of Richard II saw a great multiplication of chantry foundations inEngland, with Richard II founding many of his own. He established chantriesat Carthusian, Dominican, and Benedictine institutions. The austereCarthusian establishments, King Richard’s favorites, were no less willing to

pray for the souls of their benefactors than were the mendicant orders, whose preaching friars did much to stir the fears of the people with their warnings of

post-mortem punishment.At one of the Carthusian institutions, the London Charterhouse, Richard II

is recorded in a list of benefactors, c. 1431, for whom the monks were obligedto celebrate soul Masses:

The chantry of Richard II. The King gave the advowson of Edlesburghchurch to the brethren, for which they were under obligation to sing masses

perpetually for the souls of Richard, Anne his Queen, his father Edward (theBlack Prince) and Joan his mother, his brother Edward, Edward III, etc.18

Richard also founded chantries at Mount Grace priory, Yorkshire – also aCarthusian house – and at Dartford priory, Kent, where he made provision for daily Mass to be said for its Dominican nuns, for his soul, and for the priory’sother benefactors.19 In 1385 Richard II established a college of twelve chantry

priests at St. Paul’s in London to pray for his soul, the soul of Queen Anne,and for their ancestors.20

Richard did not build a chantry chapel at Westminster Abbey even though

he had great admiration for the Benedictine monks there and even though somany of his ancestors and successors were buried in that church. His endowedgifts to the abbey, however, were abundant. These were mostly in the form of

property and made for the purpose of securing the prayers of the monks for

103


17 Kreider, 89.18 Cited in Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 35.19 Ibid. 36, 38.20 Evans, 188.



himself and for his queen. G. H. Cook cites a record of such an endowmentshortly before Richard’s deposition and murder in 1399:

for his healthful estate while he lived and for the health of his soul after hisdeath, and for the health of the soul of his consort, late queen of England,[Richard II gave] to God and the church of S. Peter, Westminster, all lands,tenements, rents and services called Hoddeford and Cowhous, in the ville of Hendon and Hamstede with appurtenances, in the county of Middlesex andelsewhere.21

Apparently not wishing to compete with Richard for the prayers of themonks at Westminster Abbey, Henry IV chose to be buried at CanterburyCathedral, also the burial church of the Black Prince. The first King of England to erect a chantry at Westminster was Henry V, who died in 1422.The chantries that he established for Richard to atone for the guilt of his father

– and to which Shakespeare refers in Henry V 22 – were founded in theCarthusian priory of Shene in Surrey and the Bridgetine nunnery of Syon inMiddlesex, both monastic houses that Henry himself had established in1414.23

Most people in late medieval England could not afford to found personalchantries and to build chapels for individual members of their families, but

historians have found that a lack of financial means did not deter a great manylaity, especially in the north and northwest of England, from securing prayersin the form of organized soul Masses and from erecting some chantry struc-ture – however simple – for the purpose. At the very least, a special altar would be designated for use by a particular religious guild. In the late four-teenth century, membership in the religious guilds rapidly increased, and thecollective material contributions of the guilds’ individual members were usedto establish “co-operative chantries.”24

Since the main purpose of chantries was to secure prayers for the souls of the dead, the requiem Mass was most frequently celebrated, alternating attimes with the Mass of All Saints, the Trinity, Corpus Christi, the VirginMary, a martyr, or the Mass of a given feast day. Such Masses were especiallycommon if a chantry had been established during the lifetime of the founder.25

But no matter which Mass was being said, the cantarist was always instructedto include special prayers for the benefit of souls. These additions to theliturgy were chosen by the founder and were recited together with the collect,

the Secret, and post-communion prayers of the day, according to the Use of Sarum.26

104


21 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 174.22 See 98–99.23 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 25.24 Ibid.25 Wood-Legh, 284–85.26 Ibid. 290.



Historians of the medieval English church have commented upon theformulaic and apparently shallow nature of the wills and other documents thatcontain instructions for the founding and maintenance of chantries. But

Eamon Duffy has rightly emphasized the ways in which these documents arefundamentally religious: they are the “concrete and practical expression of thetestator’s belief in the importance of providing for prayer and good works for the health of one’s soul.” Despite their formulaic character, they “offer evidence not of shallowness but of overwhelming social consensus in reli-gious convictions and priorities.”27 The elaborate instructions for private litur-gies that exist in foundation documents and wills is evidence not only of thedesire for the liturgies to be carried out conscientiously, according to the

precise wishes of the benefactor, but also of the overwhelming belief amongmedieval people from all ranks of society in the efficacy of prayer – particu-larly of the Mass – to assist in the “safe transition of the souls from this worldto the next.”28 It was believed that this safe transition depended upon one’s

preparedness at the time of death and the extent to which the deceased would be remembered in the prayers of the living.

These two concerns – preparation and remembrance – were the primarymotivating sources for all features of the chantry movement, from the

building of the most elaborate chapel to the burning of the smallest candle at

an altar where soul Masses were said. It is as if there was an unceasing effortto remain in constant communication with the dead, to speak for them throughtheir intercessory institutions and to be near them physically as well as spiritu-ally by burying them in their churches, using their tombs as altars, anderecting private chapels for them – as if to carve out their individual spaces inthe Heavenly Jerusalem.

The liturgies for the dead and their special architectural settings bound thetwo communities together for eternity: the living, upon entering the late medi-

eval English church, typically crowded with private funerary chapels, enteredthe space of the dead in order to speak to God on their behalf and to reflectupon the fate of their own souls after death. If Purgatory was thought to be the“antechamber” (Duffy’s term) of Heaven, the medieval church building,

particularly in late medieval England, must have been conceived as a locationdecidedly “closer” to Paradise, despite – or perhaps on account of – its earthlyties. For medieval Christians, the Platonic journey of the soul did not end after death: the chantry movement was an expression of the potential of this world

to assist in the ascent of the soul after death. For most of the departed, it was believed, this journey after death began in Purgatory and concluded, finally,in the blessedness of heaven. The chantry movement was an organized, delib-erate effort to take full spiritual advantage of life, the living, of ritual, and of artifact to establish an eternal communication with the sacred world and to

prepare to take one’s unique place in Paradise.

105


27 Duffy, 335.28 Ibid. 301.



According to Duffy, the wills which give proof of the widespread religious beliefs of late medieval people offer no evidence of a morbid obsession withdeath or hysteria over punishments that were thought to await most people in

Purgatory.29

It is also true, however, that a fear of Purgatory was a motivatingsource for the intercessory institutions of the Middle Ages. Interestingly,however, the liturgical and architectural features of the chantry movement donot obviously express such fear. Instead, they are an elaborate valorization of this world as an opportunity to prepare for one’s place in Paradise, an orga-nized effort to make this world an occasion for penance, purging, professingone’s faith, and for revelation.

Chantry Chapels and the Architecture of Late Medieval English Gothic

The practice of saying prayers for the souls of the dead had been commonthroughout medieval Europe for centuries, but in the late fourteenth century,

particularly in England, this practice had evolved into an elaborate and perva-sive religious movement that was driven by late medieval people’s assertiveconfrontation with death. In the words of G. H. Cook, the chantry movement

was “the most remarkable manifestation of religious belief” in late medievalEngland.30 By the Reformation more than two thousand chantry foundationshad been established throughout England with particularly strong concentra-tions in London, Yorkshire, and the northwest Midlands.

This late medieval religious movement – this heightened state of eschato-logical awareness – was expressed in England not only by the great number of chantry endowments, but also through the widespread building of privatefunerary chapels where soul Masses were sung and which often contained the

tomb of the donor. Those medieval people who could not afford to endow achantry foundation were familiar with the movement as a set of popular

beliefs and liturgical practices. The donors of chantry foundations, for example, regularly employed the poor to serve as mourners and to come dailyto the tombs to pray for the souls of the deceased. On Sundays and liturgicalfeast days the scores of people who filled the naves and aisles of Englishchurches and who were kept separated from the sanctuaries by choir screenscould hear and observe the soul Masses being sung in the chapels that

crowded the churches’ interiors.The chantry movement also provided many children with the onlyschooling they ever received, since the chantry priests – in addition to

performing their daily liturgical duties – commonly served as school teachers,using their chapels as classrooms. The Burghersh chantry (founded 1332) in

106


29 Duffy, 303, 347.30 Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, xii.



Lincoln Cathedral, for example, was served by five priests who were obligedto instruct six poor boys in grammar until they reached the age of sixteen.31

The priests who served the early Works chantry of Lincoln Cathedral were

bestowed with special recognition for carrying out their duties.32

The chapel isenclosed by a stone screen, and over its entrance reads the inscription, Oremus p. benefactorib. istius ecclesie. On each side of the screen’s entrance are twokneeling figures of chantry priests at prayer, each about six inches tall (fig. 1).Three of these figures are original. John of Gaunt (d. 1399) added a fourthfigure when he rededicated the chantry to St. Edward.

The chantry movement was a curious blend of private devotion and publicdisplay. The rich purchased the soul Masses and built the monuments; the

poor listened, looked on, learned their alphabet from the chantry priests, andwere hired to pray for the souls of dead men and women who enjoyed material

privileges while living. As an expression of personal display and material privilege on the one hand, the chantry movement also expressed the anxious belief that the prayers of the materially impoverished could transform wealthinto a means of worship and entrance into Heaven. This notion is not unlikeAbbot Suger’s belief that to construct a building filled with jewels and perme-ated with colored light for the purpose of liturgical worship was an appro-

priate way for humans to show reverence for God: only the most beautiful

materials of this world were worthy of the human effort to show such rever-ence and could serve as potential “locations” for spiritual awareness – invita-tions for the soul’s movement from the earthly realm to the divine. Alsoessential to Suger’s understanding of his building as an apocalyptic and escha-tological landscape, was his clear consciousness of the limitations of thisworld – of the dangers of lingering too long and too often on this side of thematerial threshold.

In the late Middle Ages those who could afford to build private chapels did

so in order to provide a setting for the liturgies they had purchased, liturgiesthat they believed would help them to avoid post-mortem suffering and exclu-sion from the divine realm. For Wyclif and the early reformers this effort to“buy” one’s way into heaven was worse than vanity or ignorance: it was thework of the devil.33 Seen from a historical perspective and as an expression of

107


31 This chantry was kept at the altar of St. Katherine in the northeast corner of the choir. The foundersof this chantry were Bartholomew, Henry (bishop of Lincoln), and Robert Burghersh. See Peter B.G. Binnal, “Notes on the Medieval Altars and Chapels in Lincoln Cathedral,” The Antiquaries

Journal 42 (1962): 74; and G. H. Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 134.32 The Works chapel is located in the most northern bay of the south transept. Peter Binnal dates the

chantry foundation to 1183–85 or 1203. The Lincoln Records give 1133–35, or 1203–6. Thechapel was originally dedicated to St. Guthlac. Subsequently it was rededicated to St. Anne(c. 1311), then to St. Edward, martyr, by John of Gaunt. The chantry was founded on behalf of thechurch’s benefactors, hence the name, Works chapel. See Peter B. G. Binnal, “Notes on the Medi-eval Altars and Chapels in Lincoln Cathedral,” 77; and G. H. Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 137–38.

33 See Joel T. Rosenthal, The Purchase of Paradise: Gift Giving and the Aristocracy, 1307–1485(London and Toronto: Routledge & Kegan Paul and U of Toronto P, 1972).



medieval eschatological awareness, the chantry movement is an unusualcombination of beliefs and practices: beliefs about how to confront death anddivine Judgment, about how to participate in the sacred realm through prayer

and liturgical worship, and, not least of all, about the appropriate architecturalsetting for such worship.When the Chantries Act was passed under Edward VI, the chantry endow-

ments became a significant source of revenue for the Crown.34 Of thehundreds of chantry chapels that were built throughout England in the latefourteenth and fifteenth centuries, most were dismantled or destroyed alongwith the removal or destruction of an untold number of liturgical objects(altarpieces, breviaries and books of hours, reliquaries, monstrances, and thelike) and statuary.35 Of the seventy chapels that do survive, their decorativefeatures have almost completely disappeared, having sustained variousdegrees of erosion, vandalism, and restoration.

It is difficult for the modern observer of English churches to imagine theextraordinary architectural and decorative impact the chantry chapels hadupon the churches in which they were built. “The present atmosphere of anEnglish Protestant church,” writes Nicola Coldstream, “would have beenwholly alien to medieval people,” since the decorative detail, bright color, andstatuary that have disappeared were integral features of the larger architec-

tural settings.36 The interior of the larger edifices were “transformed,” asChristopher Wilson put it, by the additions of these “elaborate internalfittings,” incorporating diverse “microarchitectural” genres that distinguishedthe English Decorated and Perpendicular styles within the larger Gothic tradi-tion.37

It is a curious fact of medieval architectural history that the widespread building of these chapels was a phenomenon almost entirely unique toEngland.38 No scholar has suggested a hypothesis for why this phenomenon

may be so; indeed, there has been only one attempt at a major study of thechapels by an art historian, G. H. Cook’s Medieval Chantries and ChantryChapels.39 Cook’s study is divided equally between a general discussion of

108


34 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 76–77, 213.35 See, for example, the beheaded and defaced figures of the mortuary tomb of Bartholomew

Berghersh (d. 1355) in Lincoln Cathedral (figs 2–4).36 “The Kingdom of Heaven: Its Architectural Setting,” in The Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet

England 1200–1400, ed. Jonathan Alexander & Paul Binski (London: Royal Academy of Arts,1987), 92.

37 The Gothic Cathedral , 190.38 Ecclesiastical benefices founded for the purpose of securing Masses for the souls of the dead were

not, of course, unique to England. G. H. Cook concluded, however, that the building of chantrychapels within existing edifices specifically for this purpose was unique to England. I have foundno evidence in subsequent scholarship that disproves his findings.

39 Less ambitious studies that are largely derivative of Cook’s are Joan Evans, “Chantries andColleges,” The Oxford History of English Art 1307–1461 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1949), 173–200;Georges Duby’s chapter, “La Chapelle,” Le Moyen Age: Fondements d’un nouvel humanism1280–1440 (Genève: Skira, 1984), 93–96. A chapter on chantry chapels in English parish churches



the chantry movement as a form of religious belief and descriptions of thearchitectural and decorative features of many of England’s extant chapels. Itis a reliable introduction to the chantry movement, and Cook is especially

instructive in his effort to see the architectural expression as inseparable fromthe religious beliefs and practices that took hold of late medieval Englandwith such fervor. What this study lacks, however, is an attempt to examinehow the chantry monuments function within the symbolic program of thelarger edifices. Absent, too, is any attempt to understand how this movementmay have penetrated other kinds of artistic and cultural achievements.

Although Eamon Duffy and other historians of late medieval English reli-gion have argued persuasively that prayers for the dead and soul Massesconstituted a major expression of the belief in the close relation between theliving and the dead,40 no one has argued strongly enough for the importance of the architectural settings in conveying that belief – the importance of a partic-ular space for the efficacy of that communication. The extant chantry monu-ments are at least as important as the chantry foundation documents as sourcesto which we can turn to understand the movement itself and to come closer tounderstanding this movement’s influence on other kinds of artistic andcultural endeavors, including medieval literature. To understand the chantrymovement in its entirety is to see it as a distinctive late medieval English

phenomenon that incorporated evolving concepts of earthly images of the New Jerusalem. For the remainder of this chapter, I focus on the monumentsthemselves, turning to their function (both practical and symbolic) as ecclesi-astical edifices within the larger Gothic architectural tradition. I examine their relationship to micro-architectural genres and to other kinds of funerarymonuments, such as tombs and shrines.

A study of the chantry monuments can lead to a greater awareness of thelives and aspirations of the individuals who built them. These edifices were

built to convey a particular religious devotion, but this devotional expression became inseparable from the patrons’ desire to display earthly ambitions and prestige. Furthermore, the individuals who helped spread the popularity of thechantry movement, especially the royal families and members of the nobility,were without doubt also responsible for the creation and dissemination of other cultural and artistic achievements.

Georges Duby’s brief chapter, “La chapelle,” in Fondements d’un nouvel humanisme, includes a reference to the English chantries and is an attempt,

however abbreviated, to see the architectural expression of the chantry move-ment within the larger tradition of private royal chapels.41 Robert Branner

109


is included in A. H. Thompson, The Historical Growth of the English Parish Church (Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1911), 24–50.

40 Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars. See also Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Func-tion in Latin Christianity (Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1981); and Patrick J. Geary,

Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1994), 77–92.41 Vol. 3 of Le Moyen Age, 95.



points out a stylistic alliance between the jewel of French Rayonnant, LouisIX’s Sainte-Chapelle, and “the miniature Gothic architecture in chantrychapels.”42 These references to the social and stylistic foundations of chantry

monuments have served as a starting point for my own analysis which treatsLouis IX’s Sainte-Chapelle and the succession of Sainte-Chapelle “imita-tions” as the conceptual and architectural prototypes of the English chantrychapels.

Private chapels for royalty were originally conceived as the central place of worship within a palace or castle. These royal chapels were personal shrinesfor secular rulers, a place for private worship for an anointed king and hisfamily. They often served, too, as was the case with the Sainte-Chapelle inParis, as reliquary buildings. Indeed, Louis Réau explains the specific link

between the term “chapel” (capella) and the piety associated with the medi-eval cult of relics, particularly in France. The cape (Fr. chape) of Saint Martin(326?–397), who was named patron saint of the French monarchy, wasconsidered by the Merovingian kings to be the most precious of all relics, anational safeguard (“un palladium national”) analogous to the oriflamme of St.-Denis.” The term chapelle originally designated the place where the chapeof Saint Martin was kept.43

This theme of private chapel as giant reliquary was manifested both

conceptually and stylistically by the shared accomplishments of the medievalmason and the metalworker.44 By the middle of the thirteenth century we findthe metalworker applying the mason’s architectural forms to his own craft sothat reliquaries resembled miniature churches made of gold, silver, and

bronze, complete with gables, pinnacles, and flying buttresses.45 The mason’scraft was likewise transformed by the decorative detail and technical virtu-osity that is characteristic of the metalworker’s micro-architectural projects.This exchange of expertise among specialists extended to other artistic

domains as well, like wall painting, manuscript illumination, woodwork,embroidery – even literature, as I will demonstrate later in this study.

The private royal chapels were spaces large enough to serve as settings for liturgy, yet small enough to exploit the technical virtuosity and material

preciousness of the metalworker’s craft. The royal chapel was something less

110


42 St Louis and the Court Style in Gothic Architecture (London: A. Zwemmer, 1965), 59. The obser-vation is noted in the phrase I quoted. Branner makes no further mention of the chantries.

43 “Martin de Tours (11 novembre),” Iconographie de l’art chrétien, vol. 4 (Paris: PresseUniversitaires de France, 1958), 902.

44 In the medieval period, “metalwork commonly meant goldsmith’s work, i.e. work in soft metals(in malleable sheets of gold and silver), as much as in the harder gilt-bronze” (Jean Bony, FrenchGothic Architecture of the 12th and 13th Centuries [Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: U of Cali-fornia P, 1983], 530 n. 55). On the sharing among craftsmen and artists of different specializations,see also Michael Camile, Gothic Art: Glorious Visions (New York: Abrams, 1996), esp. chaptersOne, Four, and Five.

45 The shrine of Saint-Taurin at Evreux, completed by 1255, is a well-known example of a reliquaryconceived in imitation of the most recent architecture. See, for example, Jean Bony, FrenchGothic, 400–1, 529 n. 50.



than a great church, yet something more than a shrine or liturgical ornament; itwas, as we shall see, a miniature Heavenly Jerusalem.46

The Sainte-Chapelle in Paris is the most familiar example of an ecclesias-

tical edifice that was at once a reliquary and a private royal chapel. It wascommissioned by Louis IX in 1240 to house the relic of the Crown of Thornswhich he bought from the Emperor of Constantinople in 1239.47 It is atwo-storied structure and replaced the old chapel of St. Nicholas in the Pari-sian palace. The lower level was used as a place of worship for the king’sretainers and was dedicated to the Virgin. The upper chapel served both as the

private space of worship for the king and his family and as a shrine for theCrown of Thorns, the Lance, and for other relics of the Cross that Louis IXhad acquired from Constantinople after the chapel was completed in 1248.

Louis IX’s Sainte-Chapelle is one of the outstanding achievements of French Rayonnant, the name given to the architectural style that appeared innorthern France in the mid-thirteenth century. The influence of Rayonnantupon all stages of late Gothic architecture is well known, but nowhere is thisinfluence more evident than in the Decorated and Perpendicular styles of latemedieval England. The term “Rayonnant” was first used by nineteenth-century archeologists who found the “radiating” rose windows, such as thoseon the transept façades of Notre Dame in Paris, to be the style’s most

distinctive feature.48 The striking, radiating effect was produced by tracerycompositions that divided the surface of a window or wall into a series of repetitive, lace like patterns. “In this new architecture conceived entirely asfiligree work,” writes Jean Bony, “all forms become almost indefinitelyrepetitive.”49 The repetition of linear motifs in the clerestory windows atAmiens and in the windows of the thirteenth-century nave at St.-Denis are“paragons” of the Rayonnant style and were meant to give the interior of the

buildings a greater sense of lightness and insubstantiality.50

The network of tracery typical of thirteenth-century French Rayonnant wasan “effort toward the immaterial.”51 It was an effort that included theslenderization of columns, the merging of triforium and clerestory mullions,the removal of interior supports to create more surface area for windows, andthe multiplication of gabled porches and canopied niches on the exterior of

buildings such as Saint-Nicaise in Reims, the north façades of Notre Dame in

111


46 Charlemagne’s palace chapel at Aachen is an early medieval example of such a royal edifice.47 There is controversy surrounding the precise dating of the Sainte-Chapelle. The chapel was begun

before 1244 (perhaps as early as 1241) and dedicated in 1248. See Branner, St Louis, 64–5 andJean Bony, French Gothic, 387.

48 Bony, French Gothic, 357, 36249 Ibid. 375.50 Ibid. 361–63. Christopher Wilson argues that the “most splendid” Rayonnant church is not French,

but German: Cologne Cathedral: “The choir of Cologne . . . is essentially a version of Amiensupdated in the light of [the thirteenth-century renovations] of St.-Denis” (Gothic Cathedral , 124;cf. 125 and 190). On the renovations at St.-Denis, see Caroline Astrid Bruzelius, The 13th-CenturyChurch at St.-Denis (New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1985).

51 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 362.



Paris, Tournai Cathedral and the Sainte-Chapelle.52 Like the growingcomplexity of tracery patterns in windows, the gables, canopies, and nicheson the exterior of French churches were designed to emphasize systems of

progressive subdivisions or small-scale forms set within larger frames.53

The Rayonnant craftsmen, no longer impeded by the technical cruxes thatchallenged the builders of the earlier great Gothic buildings, channeled their creative energy into achieving expert combinations of ornament and propor-tion. The Sainte-Chapelle is perhaps the monument that best displays theRayonnant expression of the Heavenly Jerusalem. Louis IX, the piouscrusader-king and future saint of the Church, made his Sainte-Chapelle theecclesiastical jewel of the Ile de la Cité, the monumental proof that Paris wasto be seen as the new holy land.54 It was a monument where concepts of king-ship, sacredness, and the church as a representation of the Celestial City were

perfectly blended in a single, private space of Rayonnant brilliance.The interior of the upper chapel has been described by one art historian as

“a casket of light,” by another as a “multifaceted diamond” and by stillanother as “fictive metalwork.”55 It is a single, open space uninterrupted byaisles and transepts and bounded on four sides by expansive, shimmeringscreens of stained-glass windows that depict narrative images of the stories of Moses, the Books of Kings, and the Books of Esther and Judith – all framed

within gilded medallions. The slender piers that support the vault are setagainst the walls and painted in colorful geometric patterns. Their capitalsdepict a great variety of carved representations of flora and fauna. The bays of the vault are painted with golden stars against a dark blue field, suggesting thecelestial canopy. At the level of the arcade beneath the windows are twelvegilded statues of the apostles set against the piers, with each apostle bearingone of the church’s consecration crosses. A choir of censing angels is carvedon the spandrels of the arcade. The relics of the Passion were displayed under

an ornate, raised canopy in the apsidal sanctuary, and a rose window adornedthe western end.

Louis IX’s Sainte-Chapelle became the revered model for a succession of chapels built by members of royalty and nobility in France throughout thelater Middle Ages. The English kings, for example, built St. Stephen’s chapelin Westminster Palace as a deliberate imitation of the Sainte-Chapelle inParis. Most of these chapels, like the Parisian model, were reliquary buildingsthat enshrined fragments of the Cross (given as gifts from Louis IX and his

112


52 Ibid. 373–75.53 Ibid. 363–64, 386–400, 411.54 The presence of the Passion relics invested the building and Louis with divine status. Archbishop

Gautier Cornut of Sens (d. 1241) believed that Christ had chosen France “for the more devoutveneration of the triumph of His Passion,” and in 1244, Pope Innocent IV said that Christ hadcrowned Louis with His Crown. Louis became rex christianissimus, imago Dei and patronusecclesiae. See Branner, St Louis, 56–57, also Michael Camille, Gothic Art , 46.

55 Joan Evans, Art in Medieval France 987–1498: A Study of Patronage (London, New York andToronto: Oxford UP, 1948), 195; Michael Camille, Gothic Art , 46; and Wilson, Gothic Cathedral ,130–31.



successors) or other relics of the Passion. The builders of these Sainte-Chapelle “imitations” sought to rival the Parisian original in architecturalvirtuosity and precision on a small scale, in lavish decoration, and especially

in their efforts to saturate the chapels’ interiors with colored light.56

Jean, Duc de Berry (1340–1416), was especially fond of emulating theSainte-Chapelle tradition. First he built a Sainte-Chapelle at Bourges to housea fragment of the Cross that had been a gift in 1372 from Charles V. Thischapel also served as the duc’s mausoleum. It does not survive, but a minia-ture replica is on display at the Palais Jacques Coeur in Bourges. Jean builttwo other Saintes-Chapelles, one at Rion, which does survive and resemblesthe Parisian model with the addition of two small side chapels, and another atMehun-sur-Nièvre. Each of these chapels was as much a tribute to the duchimself and to members of his family as it was a private setting in which toworship. Especially in these late medieval reliquary chapels, we find aconspicuous mingling of secular and sacred iconography, where “the portraitof the individual had invaded the iconography of the church.”57 It becamecustomary, for example, for the nobility to depict family members alongside

biblical prophets and angels holding heraldic shields. This was the practice inJean’s chapel at Bourges and in the more elaborate chantry chapels inEngland, like the chantry of Richard Beauchamp (d. 1439) in St. Mary’s

church in Warwick and the Warwick chantry (erected 1422) at TewkesburyAbbey (fig. 12).

The building of the Saintes-Chapelles continued in France into the fifteenthcentury.58 But more to our purpose is the great English rendition of the ParisSainte-Chapelle, St. Stephen’s chapel in the Palace at Westminster.59

St. Stephen’s was begun in 1292 by Edward I and became the most importantecclesiastical building project of the Plantagenet royal household for fifty-six

113


56 Joan Evans studied several of the French Saintes-Chapelles that were closely modeled on the Pari-sian monument. “Nowhere in the world,” she observed, “is the mature Gothic that makes the wallsof a building a succession of splendid windows of fairy lightness better exemplified than in theSaintes Chapelles.” Three early examples are the chapel added to the Benedictine abbey church of Saint-Germer to house a fragment of the Cross, the Lady Chapel of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, andthe reliquary and chapel at the abbey of Maubuisson commissioned by Louis IX’s great niece,Mahaut d’Artois, to house the bones of her deceased uncle. In 1379, Charles V founded a collegeof fifteen canons to serve a Sainte-Chapelle at the Vincennes château, just outside of Paris. Work on this Sainte-Chapelle began in the early years of Charles VI reign (1380–1422). France’s war with England halted building activities around the year 1400, but work resumed and wascompleted under François I and Henri II. ( Art in Medieval France, 196–98).

57 Evans, Art in Medieval France, 197. The chapel of the Holy Cross at Karlstein Castle, near Prague,was built to house the relics and regalia belonging to the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV(r. 1355–78). Camille has observed, “nowhere else in Europe is the claustrophobic opulence of sacro-political power made more manifest” (Gothic Art , 48–49).

58 One was begun in 1451 at Châteaudun by Dunois, Bastard of Orleans. Louis I of Bourbon built aSainte-Chapelle at Aigueperse and Anne, Duchess of Bourbon and daughter of Louis XI(1423–83), built one at Bourbon-l’Archambault (Evans, Art in Medieval France, 197–98).

59 See Maurice Hastings, St Stephen’s Chapel and its Place in the Development of Perpendicular Style in England (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1955); and H. M. Colvin, The History of the King’sWorks (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1963), 510–27.



years of their reign. Building activity progressed for more than twenty years,since the English wars with Scotland and France and the political crisis at theend of Edward II’s reign halted progress on St. Stephen’s chapel in 1297,

1325–26, and in 1334. The building was completed in 1348 following EdwardIII’s victories at Crécy and Calais, but the decoration of the chapel’s interior continued for another decade and a half.60

In their building of St. Stephen’s chapel, the Plantagenet kings sought notmerely to imitate the Paris monument; their wish was to convey to the worldan English royal sanctity and political prestige surpassing that of the Capetianrulers.61 The English chapel was approximately ninety feet long and thirty feetwide.62 It was a two-storied structure like its French predecessor, the main,upper chapel for the private use of the king and his family, and the lower chapel for the use of members of the Plantagenet court. The interior of theupper chapel was a marvelous display of color, imagery, and geometric

patterning. Colvin reports that between 1351 and 1360 “many thousand foilsof gold were used in the chapel, besides considerable quantities of silver,azure, vermilion, verdigris, white and red lead, and ochre” and that “[e]veryavailable surface was painted, gilded, diapered or stenciled.”63

The first master mason at St. Stephen’s was Michael of Canterbury,64 a pioneer of the English Decorated style who had been employed previously by

Edward I to build one of the twelve memorial crosses for his queen, Eleanor of Castile (d. 1290).65 The Eleanor Crosses, which were small-scale, three-dimensional polygons, had initiated England “into the delights of micro-architecture.” They were, like St. Stephen’s chapel, the children of Capetian

114


60 Colvin, The History of the King’s Works, 510–18.61 In 1548, during the reign of Edward VI, St. Stephen’s chapel became the property of the House of

Commons. Its secular use as a chamber for the Commons led to gradual deterioration and destruc-tion of its medieval architectural forms. In 1834 a fire destroyed the upper chapel and left the lower chapel in ruins. The architectural features of the upper chapel are known to us from drawings. Inthe 1860s, the lower chapel was badly restored by Sir Charles Barry and his son. See Colvin, 511,519–20, 523; and Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 192.

62 For comparison, the Paris Ste.-Chapelle is 131.2 feet long (40m), 39.36 feet wide (12m), and 65.6feet high (20m). The Ste.-Chapelle at Vincennes is 108.24 feet long (33m), 35 feet wide (10.70m),and 67.24 feet high (20.5m).

63 Colvin, 519. See also Nicola Coldstream, The Decorated Style: Architecture and Ornament 1240–1360 (Toronto, Buffalo: U of Toronto P, 1994), 96.

64 Michael of Canterbury worked on St. Stephen’s from 1292 to 1297. On the orders of Edward I,who wished to concentrate his resources on the wars in Scotland and France, building activity atSt. Stephen’s ceased on 4 July 1297 and was resumed on Michaelmas, 1320, once again under thedirection of Michael of Canterbury. Progress was halted again in the winter of 1325–26 during thefinal crisis of Edward II’s reign (Colvin 510–18).

65 Upon Eleanor’s death on 28 November 1290, Edward I ordered her body to be carried in proces-sion from Lincoln to Westminster in twelve stages. Elaborate memorial crosses were erected ateach stage of the cross-country funeral: at Lincoln, Grantham, Stamford, the royal manor of Geddington, Northampton, Stony Stratford, Woburn, Dunstable, St. Albans, Waltham, WestCheap in the City of London, and the King’s mews at Charing. Michael of Canterbury wascommissioned to make the memorial cross at Cheapside. Of the twelve crosses, only three survivetoday (at Waltham, Northampton and Geddington). See Colvin, 479, 484, 510–11.



monuments.66 This new phase of Gothic style emphasized further the conceptof the ecclesiastical monument as a sacred space made up of many smaller,sacred spaces – an earthly manifestation of “heaven’s many mansions” (John

14.2).67

The ogee arch (a reversed, S-shaped curve) was one of the style’s principal motifs; the earliest examples of ogees as an element of windowtracery appeared in the lower chapel at St. Stephen’s.68 Another principalmotif of the style was the canopied niche. The church, writes Paul Crossley,“could be made a more comprehensive image of Heaven by multiplying theseniches throughout the building.”69 Both of these forms had appeared on theexterior of French churches as elements of portals and buttresses, but atSt. Stephen’s they became prominent features of the upper chapel’s interior space.70

The second mason in charge of St. Stephen’s was Thomas of Canterbury, probably Michael’s son.71 Thomas was also the main architect in charge of remodeling the south transept of Gloucester Abbey (now a cathedral), a

project that began around the year 1331. The architecture of the southtransept is the earliest example of Perpendicular, which has much incommon with Decorated and is considered to be “the ultimate development of Rayonnant.”72

Both the English Decorated and Perpendicular styles were refinements and

elaborations of French Rayonnant. Architectural historians tend to see Deco-rated as a style that combined the concept of the reliquary building with anincreased emphasis on interior figure sculpture and imagery enshrined bycanopies. Geoffrey Webb viewed these stylistic tendencies as the definingfeatures of the “illuminated architecture” of Westminster Abbey.73 The term“illuminated architecture” calls attention to the interior, chromatic brillianceof the late medieval English monuments. Nicola Coldstream describes Deco-rated as a “fusion” of increasingly complex patterns of tracery (on vaults, as

well as windows and walls) with “highly ornamented, coloured and burnished

115


66 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 92. Twenty years earlier similar monuments were erected in honor of Louis IX and were used “to mark the funeral procession which carried the bones of St. Louis fromParis to St. Denis” (Colvin, 484–85).

67 For book-length studies of the English Decorated style, see Jean Bony, The English Decorated Style: Gothic Architecture Transformed 1250–1350 (Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1979) and NicolaColdstream, The Decorated Style.

68 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 194.69 “English Gothic Architecture,” in The Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400

(London: Royal Academy of Arts, 1987), 66.70 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 191–92. Wilson observes that the double-curved or ogee arch appeared

on the west portals of Auxerre Cathedral (c. 1260–80). See also Colvin, 514, 521.71 Edward III appointed Thomas of Canterbury as chief mason at St. Stephen’s chapel in 1331.

Thomas directed building activities at St. Stephen’s from 27 May 1331 until autumn 1334, whenthe king’s affairs with Scotland caused progress on the building to cease (Colvin 510–17).

72 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 208–10. For a book-length study of Perpendicular, but one that viewsDecorated as inferior to Perpendicular, see John Harvey, The Perpendicular Style 1330–1485(London: B. T. Batsford, 1978).

73 Coldstream, Decorated , 12–13.



interior[s].” According to Coldstream, “Decorated is not primarily concernedwith structure,” that is, with structural problems or with structural unity.Indeed, she describes one of its principal innovations, the S-shaped ogeecurve, as “anti-structural.”74

In the middle of the fourteenth century, Perpendicular appeared in thesouth transept of Gloucester Abbey under the direction of Thomas of

116


74 Ibid. 7, 9.

1. Chantry priests, Works Chantry (detail, early thirteenth century), LincolnCathedral. By permission of the Chapter Office, Lincoln Cathedral.



Canterbury. When contrasting Perpendicular with Decorated, architecturalhistorians describe the former as the more “austere,” “restrained,” and “pure”aesthetic, “accompanied by a marked concentration of figure sculpture near

altars and other focal points and . . . by the use of more and lighter stainedglass.”75 Above all, Perpendicular seems to have been a kind of “belatedacceptance” of the unifying principles of Rayonnant.76

The mason who had been in charge of the final stage of construction at St.Stephen’s chapel between 1340 and 1348 was William Ramsey of Norwich.Ramsey was also the master mason in charge of Old St. Paul’s smallchapter-house and double- storied cloister (begun in 1332; destroyed by theGreat Fire of 1666), whose architectural features, along with the innovationsat Gloucester, “embodied” the architectural style or “system” of Perpendic-ular.77 From the second half of the fourteenth century to the beginning of theRenaissance, this style prevailed in the work of one of the greatest masters of the period, Henry Yevele. From 1360 until his death in 1400, Yevele, who likeRamsey was from the English Midlands, had been the chief royal architect toWestminster Palace and St. Paul’s Cathedral, in addition to owning a tomb-making business.78

Although a good deal of scholarship has been devoted to distinguishing between the Decorated and the Perpendicular styles of late medieval English

Gothic, we must remember when we visit the monuments that much of thedecorative features has disappeared, along with most of the chantry chapelsthat crowded the interiors. Lavish ornamentation, whether in the form of traceried stained glass, elaborate canopy work, or painted and gilded statuarywas a prominent part of monuments now known for their Perpendicular “purity.”

In Gloucester Abbey, for example, the remodeling of the south transept byThomas of Canterbury converged with the display of two of the most ornate

structures in medieval Europe: the east walk of the cloister (begun c. 1360)with its famous fan vault, and the canopied tomb of Edward II. “There are fewmore poetic effects in Gothic architecture” writes Christopher Wilson, thanthe “surge” of geometric patterns produced by the fan vault of Gloucester’seast cloister. Here the traceried patterns of Rayonnant rose windows are trans-ferred to stone and repeated overhead in a series of trumpet-like conoids.79

Edward II’s tomb was set up in the choir after the fall of Mortimer in 1330 and became a site of veneration befitting a saint’s shrine. The elaborate,

multi-tiered canopy was imitated at Tewkesbury Abbey for the tombs of HughDespenser (d. 1349), and Guy de Brien (c. 1390), the second husband of

117


75 Ibid. 10; Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 212; see also Wim Swann, The Late Middle Ages: Art and Architecture from 1350 to the Advent of the Renaissance (Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1977), 26–7.

76 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 206–7.77 Ibid. 212. Edward III also appointed William of Ramsey as master mason of the king’s castles

south of the Trent (Colvin, History, 516). On Old St. Paul’s Cathedral, see G. H. Cook, Old S. Paul’s Cathedral: A Lost Glory of Medieval London (London: Phoenix House, 1955).

78 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 213.79 Ibid. 207–8.



Hugh’s widow. These English tombs served in turn as the models for the tombof Pope John XXII at Avignon.80

St. Erkenwald’s shrine in Old St. Paul’s Cathedral was designed accordingto Perpendicular principles and stood just a few yards away from one of themost lavishly decorated chantry chapels in England.81 The chantry chapels atTewkesbury Abbey, which have been described as “delightful specimen[s] of Perpendicular,”82 were brightly painted and gilded, and the choir in whichthey were built is one of England’s finest examples of early Decorated. I willhave more to say later about these monuments; for now I wish to emphasizethat the two stylistic tendencies existed and developed within the sameedifices, often under the supervision of the same craftsmen. Indeed, the lavishdecoration of the interior of St. Stephen’s chapel was carried out during thecareers of William of Ramsey and Henry Yevele, the “pioneers” of EnglishPerpendicular.

118


80 Joan Evans, Oxford History of Art , 165.81 The chantry chapel of Roger de Waltham (c. 1325).82 G. H. Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 171.

2. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh (d. 1355/6), Lincoln Cathedral.By permission of the Chapter Office, Lincoln Cathedral.



The principal architectural and decorative motifs of French Rayonnant andits English derivatives were applied with great enthusiasm across all domainsof visual media. Liturgical furnishings and objects (sediliae, fonts, choir stalls, and monstrances, for instance), shrines and tombs, choir screens,stained glass, embroideries, paintings, and ivory carvings all became

“façades” for tracery, diaper, foliage, fauna, ogee arches, canopies, andniches. Evidence for the conscious transfer of motifs across traditional artistic

boundaries is abundant. In the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey, for example, the original pattern of the south transept rose window is reproducedon a floor tile. The lierne vault of the choir at Tewkesbury (figs 9, 10) isflower-like in design and is said to evoke paradise symbolically; it too is anexample of how the radiating tracery of rose windows was adopted for displayin other visual media.

Scholars disagree over the primary direction of influence: did imitationtravel from the buildings to the so-called minor arts, like goldsmithing,woodworking, manuscript illumination, and embroidery, or were buildingslike the Sainte-Chapelle and St. Stephen’s chapel simply “full-scale embodi-ments” of micro-architecture?83 Jean Bony argues that the “shrine treatment”of the chapels is applicable only to the chapels’ interior, and that their archi-

119


83 François Bucher, “Micro-Architecture as the ‘Idea’ of Gothic Theory and Style,” Gesta 15 (1976):83.

3. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh.



tectural forms did not reflect metalwork. According to Bony, “[t]he onlymajor work of architectural composition that was truly treated in a shrine likespirit in its relief and modeling was the glorious west façade of ReimsCathedral” designed in the mid-1250s. “The actual influence of metalwork on

architectural forms,” Bony continues, “was probably more current in Englandthan in France.”84

Other scholars argue that this process of imitative exchange was morefluid. According to François Bucher, the “idea” of Gothic is most fullyexpressed in the “exemplary models” of micro-architecture; “[s]tylistic inven-tions were often developed in small works and transferred to architecture.”85

120


84 French Gothic, 400–3. Bony uses Wells Cathedral as an example.85 “Micro-Architecture,” 71, 83.

4. Tomb (detail) of Bartholomew Burghersh.



Robert Branner points out that while the alliance between these media – thecrafts and the architecture – appears “in all periods of western art” (for example, in Nero’s Golden House in Rome, Dagobert’s decoration of thesanctuary of St.-Denis, the façade of Angoulême Cathedral, the transept

porches at Chartres, the triforium at Amiens, and the dado arcade atSt.-Denis), in thirteenth-century France, the “metallic, precious quality” of themetalworker’s craft became “a fundamental part of the Court Style of Gothicarchitecture.” Indeed, the Sainte-Chapelle is “more precisely based upon theforms of a reliquary than the earlier buildings.”86

No matter what the primary direction of influence, it is clear that theconfines between architecture and other visual media were merging with oneanother and that the respective projects (large and small) were mutually illu-minating to their craftsmen. Buildings became settings for increasinglysmaller “versions” of themselves in the form of chapels, reliquaries, shrines,

liturgical vessels, and niches. These edifices reflected one another, not onlystructurally and stylistically, but conceptually as well, for each served as asacred enclosure for a Christian mystery, whether as a setting for liturgy or asa shelter for imagery, relics, or the eucharistic meal. Each space, however small, contributed to the concept of the church as the New Jerusalem by

becoming one of “heaven’s many mansions” (John 14.2).

121


86 St Louis and the Court Style in Gothic Architecture, 93.

5. Shrine of Saint Werburgh (early fourteenth century), Chester Cathedral.By permission of the Chapter of Chester Cathedral.



The mortuary tomb of Bartholomew Burghersh (d. 1355/6) at Lincoln

Cathedral displays well this conceptual interaction of large- and small-scaleforms (figs 2–4). Bartholomew Burghersh fought with the Black Prince atCrécy and is celebrated by Froissart as the old knight who repeated to QueenPhillippa’s maids Merlin’s prophecy from Layamon’s Brut , namely that thecrown of England will pass not to the sons of Edward III but to the House of Lancaster.87 Lord Burghersh’s canopied tomb niche is built into the north wall

122


87 Chronicles, ed. and trans. by Geoffrey Brereton (New York: Viking Penguin, 1968), 470. Froissart

6. Percy Tomb (c. 1340–49), Beverley Minster. By kind permission of the Vicar and Churchwardens of BeverleyMinster.



of the aisle, below the first window from the east, just a few yards from thesite of the Burghersh Chantry. Bartholomew’s armored effigy rests on top of

the tomb slab; at his head two angels hold his shield, and at his feet two moreangels receive his soul in a shroud (figs 2, 3).The first angel group stands with wings resting against a miniature church

edifice that is the same height as the angels themselves (fig. 4). The façades of the tiny structure are adorned with linear tracery and quatrefoils below

bulbous clusters of foliage. The wings of the angels merge with the miniature

123


reports that he heard this conversation in 1361, but sources indicate that Lord Bartholomew died in1355/6. Froissart seems to have made the dating error.

7. Percy Tomb (detail).



church so completely that they form a single unit, suggesting perhaps that thedivine realm in which they dwell is embodied by this varied collection of edifices: they are the guardians of Bartholomew’s canopied space from which

they convey his soul to Heaven, but their intercessory gifts extend to theinhabitants of the larger edifice, the miniature image of which they supportupon their wings.

In fourteenth-century England, the process of imitative exchange amongcraftsmen was stimulated by political crises and by the patronage of noblesand clergy. The wars with Scotland and France, as well as the ineffective andgrim intervals of Edward II’s reign, caused royal building activities to cease

periodically; this was the case, as we have seen, with intermittent building progress on St. Stephen’s chapel. In times of crisis the Crown’s resourceswould be reserved for essential building projects, like the fortification of royalcastles located on the Welsh and Scottish borders.88 Masons and other crafts-men who had been (or would otherwise have been) employed at the Westmin-ster workshops found professional opportunities at the parish churches andhouseholds of noble families. Creative energy became channeled, therefore,into an increasing number of small-scale projects, like chantry chapels, cano-

pied tombs, rood screens, Holy Sepulchers, baptismal fonts, and reliquaries.The small size of these projects “was counterbalanced by enrichment of

details, sophisticated treatment of materials and daring designs.” Certain litur-gical innovations grew out of or coincided with this professional movementamong court craftsmen to other civic or “privately financed architectural envi-ronments.”89 The cults of the Virgin and the Eucharist, for example, werestimulated or reinforced by the building of the Lady Chapels and the ornatedesigns of Easter sepulchers and liturgical objects.

The shrine of St. Werburgh, now in the Lady Chapel at Chester Cathedral,is a excellent example of an English shrine-reliquary constructed to resemble

a small chapel (fig. 5). The shrine was built in the early fourteenth century tohouse the relics of the popular, late seventh-century saint. It is a two-storied,free-standing structure. Its enclosed lower level, which probably served as thereliquary proper, has six deeply recessed niches framed under ogee arches.The upper story, now open at the top, is bounded on two of the four sides bytraceried screen arches. The corner piers of the shrine display arch and gablearcading at mid-level and capitals of canopied niches with gilded statuary.

The Percy tomb in Beverley Minster, Yorkshire (figs 6–8), is a recognized

masterpiece of English Decorated art. Constructed between 1340 and 1349,the canopied tomb is traditionally thought to have been erected by Idoine,wife of Henry, Lord Percy. It is located on the north side of the sanctuary

between a pier of the chancel and the enclosed spiral staircase attached to thealtar screen. The tomb chest is flat and could have served as an altar – perhapsas an Easter sepulcher. With its location in the church, its possible function as

124


88 For example, see Colvin, 234–35.89 See Coldstream, “Kingdom,” 93 and Bucher, “Micro-Architecture,” 74.



an altar, and its remarkable sculptural features, the tomb is a kind of interme-diary structure, linked both to the free-standing shrines, like St. Werburgh’s inChester, and to the tradition of chantry architecture. The finial of the giganticnodding ogee is a figure of Christ in Majesty receiving a shrouded, femalesoul from two angels (figs 7, 8). They are framed from behind by a richlycrocketed gable. Two larger angels holding instruments of the Passion flank the central group. The whole scene is crowned by a pinnacle which is a greatcluster of fruit and foliage. Enclosed within the cusps under the ogee arefigures of knights in armor bearing heraldic shields (fig. 8).

The late medieval chantry monuments provide visual evidence of a unique phase in the evolving concept of the church as an earthly representation of the New Jerusalem. As a special variety of small-scale architectural monumentsthat incorporate micro-architectural genres, the chantry monuments embodythe defining characteristics of late English Gothic. Unlike reliquaries, altar-

pieces, and other liturgical objects, however, the chapels were private settings

for funerary liturgies, where benefactors and family members sought to beremembered each day, individually, as participants in the eschatological andapocalyptic drama of Christian history.90

125


90 For an excellent treatment of the medieval merging of personal with the “universal” or “cosmic”eschatology and apocalyptic spirituality, see Richard K. Emmerson and Ronald B. Herzman, The

Apocalyptic Imagination in Medieval Literature (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1992). Intheir chapter on Dante, for example, the authors write: “As is typical of the apocalyptic imagina-

8. Percy Tomb (detail).



Many of the people who could afford to build chapels, to make provisionsfor soul Masses, and to furnish their miniature heavenly Jerusalems withornate liturgical objects were the same individuals who were patrons of other

cultural endeavors, like literary art. For example, the fourteenth-century allit-erative poet who wrote Pearl and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight must have benefited from precisely this kind of patron. The geographical areas that have been most often associated with the Pearl poet are the northwest Midlandsand London. Interestingly, these regions, along with Yorkshire, alsocontained the greatest concentration of chantry foundations in the late MiddleAges. In addition, scholars have recently offered compelling arguments thatlink this poet (or small group of poets) to the court of Richard II, perhaps as

part of the king’s newly formed principality of Cheshire. And as a poet of thecourt or of a prominent household, he would have traveled frequently betweenthe northwest regions and London. I will take up a more detailed discussion of the fascinating links between the chantry movement and the poems later inthis study. But before leaving the subject of chantries and poetry altogether,the fourteenth-century funerary monuments in St. Paul’s Cathedral deservespecial mention.

St. Paul’s Cathedral in London was the English church that contained thegreatest number of chantry foundations. One of the earliest and most elabo-

rately decorated chantry chapels in Old St. Paul’s belonged to Roger deWaltham (c. 1325) and was located just a few yards away from St.Erkenwald’s shrine, the same monument whose commemorative saintinspired the alliterative poem named after him: St. Erkenwald . The poem,which some scholars also attribute to the author of Pearl and Sir Gawain, tellsthe story of a miracle performed by Erkenwald who was made bishop of London in 675. When the bishop sheds tears upon the preserved corpse of a

judge who – since he lived in pre-Christian days – endures the torments of

Limbo, the tears act as baptismal water; the corpse turns to dust, and the judge’s soul is received into heaven.91

Early in the poem is a description of renovations to St. Paul’s Cathedralthat had begun around the year 1250. This “New Work” was dedicated in1314. The shrine of St. Erkenwald, which is represented in the poem, can bedated to 1313.92 It was one of the most revered shrines in England and was

built to resemble a miniature, late Gothic church.93 It was a three-tiered struc-

126


tion throughout the Middle Ages and particularly in Dante, the universal and the individual arehere [in cantos 14–18 of the Paradiso] merged with those of personal conversion” (143).

91 Clifford Peterson, ed., Saint Erkenwald (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1977).92 On the shrine of St. Erkenwald, see Maurice Hastings, St. Stephen’s Chapel , 6, 129–30; and G. H.

Cook, Old St. Paul’s Cathedral: A Lost Glory of Medieval London (London: Phoenix House,1955), 40–41.

93 The spectacular reception that took place in August 1392 to celebrate the reconciliation betweenLondon and Richard II, included a procession that ended at the shrine of St. Erkenwald in Old St.Paul’s. See John M. Bowers, Pearl , 124 and n. 59.



127


9. Choir (fourteenth century), Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of the Vicar and Churchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey.



ture supported by miniature flying buttresses and decorated with blind tracery,ogees, and crocketed pinnacles. A colored, gilded, iron grill standing nearlysix feet tall and crenellated with fleur-de-lis enclosed the shrine.

In its overall conception the shrine was constructed according to Perpen-dicular principles: the pronounced vertical lines of the large, central tier are

extended by the arcade behind the gable and are made even more conspicuous by the iron grill. Ogival figures appear in the tympanum of the gable and in theheads of the trefoil blind tracery. The three compartments of blind tracerywere probably filled with colored glass. The chest, or feretrum, containing thesaint’s relics was lavishly decorated with images and precious gems. Achantry foundation was added to the shrine in 1323.

Some of the least elaborate chantry chapels were canopies that had beenerected over tombs in the aisles or transepts of churches, the tombs themselves

serving as altars. The Percy tomb (figs 6–8) is an elaborate example of such acanopied, funerary monument, although it is not clear if this tomb structurewas ever used as a chantry. The niches and canopies of the “chantry tombs”rendered sacred the spaces they enclosed, since they were specific locationsfor private liturgies and were seen as smaller reflections of the churches inwhich they were built. Chaucer’s supposed tomb, which is set in a niche inthe east wall of the south transept of Westminster Abbey, is adorned with acanopy that was originally part of a chantry tomb at one of the Mendicantchurches of London. At the dissolution of the monasteries the canopy was

128


10. Lierne vault, Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of the Vicar andChurchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey.



removed from that church and in 1555 was set up in Westminster to adorn thetomb we call Chaucer’s.94

The more elaborate chantry chapels resembled small churches – miniaturesanctuaries for private worship within public settings. As Christopher Wilsonhas observed, these chapels “are frequently important works of architecture in

their own right, something which can hardly ever be said of the componentelements of 12th- and 13th-century Gothic great churches.”95 TewkesburyAbbey in Gloucestershire contains one of the finest collections of extant, four-teenth-century funerary monuments in England, including three exquisitechantries of the stone-cage type surrounding the high altar (figs 9–14).96

129


94 Cook, Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, 86. On the question of Chaucer’s burial in thetomb at Westminster Abbey, see Donald R. Howard, Chaucer: His Life, His Works, His World (New York: E. P. Dutton), 481–82.

95 Gothic Cathedral , 190.96 Compared with other medieval English churches that were comparable to Tewkesbury in artistic

and ecclesiastical importance, the latter has received little scholarly attention. There are a number of publications that provide general descriptions of the abbey and historical information. Theseinclude (listed in order of publication date): John Henry Blunt, Tewkesbury Abbey and its Associ-ates, 2nd edn (London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., 1898); H. J. L. J. Massé, The

Abbey Church of Tewkesbury with Some Account of the Priory Church of Deerhurst,Gloucestershire (London: George Bell & Sons, 1906); Edward Foord, Gloucester, Tewkesburyand District (London and Toronto: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1925), 93–132; F. B. Bradley-Birt, Tewkes-bury: The Story of Abbey, Town, and Neighborhood (Worcester: Phillips & Probert, 1931); Ernest

11. Fitzhamon Chapel (built c. 1395–97), Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of the Vicar and Churchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey.



Although the church’s fourteenth-century choir and funerary monumentssurvive relatively undamaged and physically integral, these features of the

building reflect a variety of medieval English thought and culture that hasalmost completely disappeared.

Most of the funerary monuments in the choir originally served the spiritual

needs of the medieval lords of Tewkesbury, the Despensers.97

In the four-teenth century the Despensers rebuilt the east end of the abbey in the Deco-rated style and used it as their mausoleum, placing themselves in anarchitectural and iconographic Paradise (fig. 9). The stone lierne vault of the

130


F. Smith, Tewkesbury Abbey, 2nd edn (Tewkesbury: R. A. Newman, 1934); James Bennet, The History of Tewkesbury (Dursley, Gloucestershire: Alan Sutton, 1976); Anthea Jones, Tewkesbury(Chichester, Sussex: Phillimore & Co., 1987). Scholarly publications on Gothic architecture atTewkesbury Abbey are, R. K. Morris, “Tewkesbury Abbey: The Despenser Mausoleum,” Trans-actions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society 93 (1974): 142–155; R. K.Morris, “Early Gothic Architecture at Tewkesbury Abbey,” in Medieval Art and Architecture at Gloucester and Tewkesbury (1985): 93–98; J. Philip McAleer, “Tewkesbury Abbey in the Later Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries,” Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeolog-ical Society 110 (1992): 77–86. See also Tewkesbury Churchwardens’ Accounts, 1563–1624, ed.C. J. Litzenberger, Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society, Gloucestershire Record Series, vol. 7 (1994).

97 On possible ties between the fourteenth-century Despensers of Tewkesbury and the Pearl poet’sart, see my article, “The Despensers and the Gawain Poet: A Gloucestershire Link to the Allitera-tive Master of the Northwest Midlands,” The Chaucer Review: A Journal of Medieval Studies and

Literary Criticism, vol. 35, no. 4 (2001): 413–29.

12. Warwick Chapel (built 1422), Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of theVicar and Churchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey.



choir is a wonderful example of early Decorated work (figs 9, 10); it is anelaborate, radiating pattern of intersecting ribs with tracery, cusping, andcarved bosses of foliage. This vault, with its gigantic, flower-like pattern, is asymbolic representation of the Paradise garden and is thought to be an earlyforerunner of later flamboyant flower vaults like the German examples atAnnaberg or Most.98

The iconography of the nave vault and the stained glass of the east end arefurther evidence of this symbolic intent. The carved bosses of the central ribalong the nave vault illustrate the main events of the life of Christ from birthto heavenly King. They are divided into three groups of five, beginning at thewest end with the nativity, the shepherds, the magi, the magi worshipping theChrist child, and the finding of Christ at the temple. Progressing eastward, thesecond group depicts the events of Holy Week: the entry into Jerusalem, theLast Supper, Christ’s betrayal, scourging, and crucifixion. The final group of

bosses at the church’s east end leads the observer visually to the divine realmand Last Judgment: Resurrection, Ascension, Pentecost, the Coronation of theVirgin, and Christ in Majesty.

The iconography and architecture of the choir, however, concentrate not on

131


98 Richard Morris observes that the symbolic meaning of the German vaults “has been morecommonly observed” than that of Tewkesbury, “because, by that date the image of the ParadiseGarden had been thoroughly developed in Flemish and German painting” (“Tewkesbury Abbey,”145).

13. Trinity Chapel (built c. 1390–1400), Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of the Vicar and Churchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey.



the life of Christ but on the Despenser family’s participation in the drama of Christian salvation history. It is simultaneously a display of self-glorificationin the Paradise garden and a confrontation of death and Judgment. The four-

teenth-century windows of the choir are among the finest in England of that period. The east window is a representation of the Last Judgment: in thecenter is Christ, on His right the Virgin, and on His left Michael the Arch-angel; underneath, the dead are summoned from their graves, and on theextreme right is the kneeling figure of Lady Eleanor de Clare, wife of HughDespenser the Younger (d. 1326), and who was responsible for completingthe fourteenth-century renovations of the choir. She is depicted here as sherequested – simply dressed in white. At the sides are the apostles and St. Johnthe Baptist. In the center of the rose at the top of the window is a representa-tion of the Coronation of the Virgin.

The stained glass of the choir clerestory depicts Hugh Despenser incompany with figures of secular and biblical authority. In the north window of the west bay Despenser is shown with Robert Fitzhamon, the founder of theabbey and cousin of William the Conqueror. To Despenser’s right is Gilbertde Clare, earl of Gloucester, whose wealth Despenser partially inheritedthrough marriage to Eleanor, one of Gilbert’s three daughters. Also shown isRobert Fitzroy, a son of Henry I, son-in-law of Fitzhamon, and the first lord of

Tewkesbury to assume the earldom of Gloucester. Immediately east of thisgroup are images of Old Testament prophets, patriarchs, and kings. All of thesecular figures depicted in these windows are clad in fourteenth-centuryarmor and are given sacred standing by the ornate canopies that shelter them.

Most of the outstanding funerary monuments in Tewkesbury Abbey areclustered around this sanctuary. Among them are the three stone-cage chantrychapels, which are small but exquisite demonstrations of the Perpendicular style. They are miniature, rectangular enclosures made by stone screens rising

to a height of approximately eight feet and erected between the Norman piersof the choir. The chapel of Robert Fitzhamon is located at the sanctuary’snorth side, in the second bay from the west (fig. 11). Fitzhamon’s remainswere transferred to this chapel, which was built between 1395 and 1397. Thechapel is enclosed by walls of stone screens, each screen consisting of tworectilinear windows. Below the screens are paneled bases with niches, and thewhole is crowned with oak-leaf cresting. Fitzhamon’s tomb stands in themiddle of the chapel’s interior, which is roofed with an early fan vault.

The Warwick chapel, of which Elizabeth Salter made particular mention inher reference to the “Decorated art” of Pearl , is also located on the north sideof the choir, in the bay immediately to the west of the Fitzhamon chapel(fig. 12).99 Isabella Despenser erected this chapel in 1422 for her firsthusband, Richard Beauchamp of Warwick (hence the name, Warwick chapel). The chapel is divided into two stories, both roofed with intricately

132


99 “The Alliterative Revival II,” Modern Philology 64 (1966–67): 236.



133


14. Kneeling Effigy of Edward Despenser (1335/6–1375), TrinityChapel, Tewkesbury Abbey. By permission of the Vicar andChurchwardens of Tewkesbury Abbey. Photograph © Alison Stones.



designed fan vaults, covered with tracery in a web-like pattern and with pendants. The chapel’s lower level is enclosed with stone screens of recti-linear windows. Below the screens are panels of niches displaying figures of

angels holding heraldic shields.Opposite the Fitzhamon chapel on the sanctuary’s south side is the Trinitychapel built between 1390 and 1400 by Elizabeth Despenser for her husband,Edward Despenser (1335/6–1375) (fig. 13). The Trinity chapel resembles theFitzhamon chapel; it is enclosed by stone screens of two windows with fivelights each. Below these screens is a paneled base with a series of niches andabove is a cornice with foliage cresting. On the exterior corners are figures of angels bearing scrolls. In both the Fitzhamon and Trinity chapels one candetect remnants of mural paintings, but the iconography can be recognizedonly in the Trinity chapel; here one finds a depiction of the Coronation of theVirgin and a representation of the Trinity. The chapel’s interior is roofed withone of England’s earliest fan vaults.

A distinctive feature of this chapel is the ornate canopy that wasconstructed on its roof (fig. 14). Within is a stone figure – probably a portrait – of Edward Despenser. He kneels with his hands together at prayer facing thealtar, fully clad in armor. This effigy is unique in that position. One additionaloddity is that while the raised canopy can be easily seen if one stands at a short

distance from the chapel, the effigy itself is almost completely hidden behindthe canopy columns and other architectural obstructions, like the Norman

piers – depending on where one stands. The kneeling knight, whose charm wecan appreciate only with the assistance of ladders and wide-angle cameralenses, is thus one of the most intriguing examples of medieval display thatwas meant for God’s eyes only.

The chantry monuments surrounding the sanctuary in Tewkesbury Abbey provide a late fourteenth-century English expression of the Sainte-Chapelle or

St. Stephen’s chapel, but with the added interest of having been built specifi-cally for funerary liturgy and by a noble family. The private chapel in Englandhad extended beyond the boundaries of the royal palace and become morethan a showcase for regalia and sacred relics. These chapels were the privatedwellings of the dead, whose memories were kept alive by soul Masses and

portraits created in paint, glass, and sculpture. The symbolic intent of thearchitectural motifs and the iconography is unmistakable. The Despensers

portrayed themselves as the companions of prophets and saints in a Paradise

garden both to display their temporal power and privileges and to expresstheir hopes beyond the grave: to secure a place among the elect on JudgmentDay and to complete their pilgrimage to the New Jerusalem.

134




Part III

Poetry



TakingAllegorySeriously

5Taking Allegory Seriously:

Ornament as Invitation in Pearl

Thou shalt make also a veil of violet and purple, and scarlettwice dyed, and fine twisted linen, wrought with embroideredwork, and goodly variety: And thou shalt hang it up before four

pillars of setim wood, which themselves also shall be overlaidwith gold, and shall have heads of gold, but sockets of silver.And the veil shall be hanged on with rings, and within it thoushalt put the ark of the testimony, and the sanctuary and the holyof the holies shall be divided with it. (Exodus 26.31–34)

[E]ven those myths in Plato . . . are to be expoundedallegorically, not absolutely in all their expressions, but in thosewhich express the general sense. And these we shall findindicated by symbols under the veil of allegory.

(Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis V.9)1

T

HE anonymous, fourteenth-century English poem, Pearl , is convention-ally said to be a dream vision. The nearly literal incorporation of the

dreamer’s vision of the New Jerusalem from the Apocalypse of John has beenviewed by some scholars as one of its least interesting features.2 My view isquite different. To say that Pearl is a dream vision, while true according toconventional categories of genre, helps to obscure the poet’s unusualemphasis on its presentation as an artifact: a local frame placed around avision of the New Jerusalem in an attempt to give that vision renewed force

137

1 Trans. W. Wilson, Stromata, in ANCL 12 (1969).2 A. C. Spearing and Patricia M. Kean are among the scholars of Pearl who have expressed a dissat-

isfaction with either the quality of the poetry in the portions describing the New Jerusalem or withits adherence to the biblical text. Kean, The Pearl: An Interpretation (London: Routledge, 1967),210, 215, 218; Spearing, The Gawain Poet: A Critical Study (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1970),165–66. See also, John Finlayson, “ Pearl : Landscape and Vision,” Studies in Philology 71 (1974):314–43. For scholars who are in general agreement with my own view, see Theodore Bogdanos,Pearl: Image of the Ineffable; A Study in Medieval Poetic Symbolism (University Park and London:Pennsylvania State UP, 1983); and Sarah Stanbury, Seeing the Gawain-Poet: Description and the

Act of Perception (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1991); see also Stanbury’s article “Spaceand Visual Hermeneutics in the Gawain-Poet,” The Chaucer Review 21 (1987): 476–89.



and immediacy. Indeed, this presentation of a literary work as an apocalypticartifact may be thought to be an unusual ambition in a poem. One might wellargue that the great medieval efforts to give the vision of the New Jerusalem a

local and dramatic immediacy were not mainly literary; they were architec-tural, and as we have seen, liturgical. It was the great churches, to begin with,that could become symbols of the New Jerusalem by shaping light and color within a space designed for liturgical celebration. In the later Middle Ages,the private chapel replaced the great church as the preferred setting in whichto worship, particularly for people of means; ecclesiastics, kings, and nobility

built their own miniature New Jerusalems. Pearl appears as the first of four poems in a unique manuscript dated not

later than 1400, now in the British Museum where it is catalogued as MSCotton Nero A. x. The other poems in this manuscript are Sir Gawain and theGreen Knight , Patience, and Cleanness (or Purity). Scholars remain uncertainwhether one or more poets wrote these four poems, but they are all written in adialect of the northern Midlands and seem, for most scholars, “at the deepest,most intimately sensed level of meaning, to be the work of one man’s imagi-nation.”3 Pearl and Sir Gawain, most scholars also agree, were written duringthe later years of Richard II’s reign (1377–99). Some scholars have argued, aswell, that the late fourteenth-century alliterative poem, St. Erkenwald (British

Library MS Harley 2250, fols 72v–75v) was written by the same author of theCotton Nero poems, a view based upon close similarities of dialect, themes,and imagery. Recent scholarship, however, seems almost unanimous indiscounting this possibility.4 Another position to take on these questions of authorship, as John Bowers and others have suggested, is that a small schoolof poets with a common literary language, shared stylistic techniques, andsimilar thematic interests were responsible for the creation of these poems.5

My own experience in working closely with the poems has led me to accept

a view of common authorship, if not for all five, then certainly for the four inthe Cotton Nero manuscript. St. Erkenwald , if indeed written by a different

poet, shares with the others – often remarkably so – features of language, style

138


3 Marie Borroff, Pearl: A New Verse Translation (New York and London: Norton, 1977), vii.4 For the most up-to-date scholarship on questions of authorship, manuscripts, and the historical

background of these poems see the essays in the Introduction to A Companion to the Gawain- Poet ,ed. Derek Brewer and Jonathan Gibson (Cambridge, UK: D. S. Brewer, 1997).

5 Among the scholars who reject the theory of common authorship for the five poems are RuthMorse, ed., St. Erkenwald (Cambridge and Totowa: Rowman & Littlefield, 1975), 45–8; and LarryBenson, “The Authorship of St. Erkenwald ,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 64(1965): 393–405. Those scholars who have argued in favor of the theory of common authorshipinclude Henry L. Savage, ed., Saint Erkenwald (New Haven: Yale UP; London: H. Milford,Oxford UP, 1926), liv–lxv; Sir Israel Gollancz, ed., St. Erkenwald (London: Oxford UP, 1932),lvi–lviii; and Clifford Peterson, ed., Saint Erkenwald (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1977),15–23. The five poems have been published in one volume under the title The Complete Works of the Pearl Poet (Berkeley, Los Angeles, Oxford: U of California P, 1993), trans. Casey Finch,facing page Middle English texts edited by Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron (The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript [Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978]) and by CliffordPeterson (St. Erkenwald [Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1977]).



and theme that support my arguments, especially those in the followingchapter. This supporting evidence in St. Erkenwald may, of course, be amatter of coincidence, but since a tradition of scholarship does exist that

argues for common authorship for all five poems, or for a small school of poets responsible for their creation, and given the striking ways in which St. Erkenwald coincides with the Cotton Nero poems in matters of architecturalinterest and familiarity with some of the most important ecclesiastical monu-ments in late medieval England, it is fitting that I include the poem as part of my analysis. Even without assuming common authorship for all the poems,there is indeed a common conceptual outlook and a common architecturalsensibility.

Literary medievalists have long recognized the exceptional workmanshipof these poems, especially Pearl , and have made casual connections betweenthem and the visual arts. In 1967 Elizabeth Salter even suggested an architec-tural itinerary that would assist readers in understanding more precisely theartistic and cultural background of the Pearl poet:

we have only to look at some of the wall paintings in St. Stephen’s Chapel,Westminster (1350–63); the fan-vaulted cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral(1351–1407); the Percy tomb in Beverley Minster (ca. 1350); or the

Warwick Chantry in Tewkesbury Abbey (1422) to see one thing clearly:even the most elaborate alliterative poem [and here Salter is referring to Pearl ] is central to one very important area of fourteenth-century sensibility.And this “area” has no firm geographical boundaries: there is nothing

provincial about it.6

Salter’s point is that although the dialect of the Cotton Nero poems suggeststhat their author was probably from the northern Midlands, he demonstratesthrough his poetry a sophisticated familiarity with the tastes and practices of

an aristocratic culture and seems clearly to have participated in a “sensibility”that is represented in the widespread achievements of late medieval EnglishGothic.

Salter’s suggested itinerary is specific as well as justified; the monumentsshe mentions are, as we have seen, among the finest representatives of the lateEnglish Gothic style.7 St. Stephen’s chapel, completed c. 1365 during thereign of Edward III (1327–77), was meant to be an English rival of theSainte-Chapelle in Paris. The fan-vaulted cloister at Gloucester is famous for

its “longitudinal surge” of trumpet-like conoids.8

The Percy tomb in BeverleyMinster and the Warwick Chantry in Tewkesbury Abbey, funerary monu-ments built within larger church buildings, are both recognized masterpiecesof late English Gothic.

Arriving independently at Salter’s suggestion that Pearl and its companion

139

Taking Allegory Seriously

6 “The Alliterative Revival II,” Modern Philology 64 (1966–67): 236.7 See Chapter Four, 112–19, 122–25, 130–34.8 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral , 208.



poems ought to be viewed within the context of late medieval English archi-tecture, I was surprised that she stopped short of pursuing possible, morespecific interactions between the Pearl poet and his architectural environment

– interactions that extend beyond a general participation in a common Gothic“sensibility.” The relations between Pearl , its companion poems, and medi-eval architecture are, in my view, specific and deliberate, based not merely onornamental or decorative qualities, although these qualities are essential, aswe shall see, to the anagogical potential of Pearl . The symbolic program of

Pearl in particular, including its eschatological perspective and conspicuousworkmanship, can best be understood by viewing its author as a master

builder whose aim was to create, in poetry, a literary expression of the churchas a complex symbol of the New Jerusalem. But the architectural connectionis even more precise: Pearl responds specifically, I argue, to the chantrymovement that took hold in England with such fervor in the late fourteenthand fifteenth centuries.

The author of Pearl demonstrates an awareness of how architectural space,like a dream vision, serves as an occasion for revelation. The poem is explic-itly apocalyptic in its detailed descriptions of the earthly Paradise and theHeavenly Jerusalem, and it incorporates concepts that found their major symbolic expression in Gothic architecture. The Pearl poet was, of course,

not a member of the religious culture that is represented by the great churchesof the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but he was fully immersed in the reli-gious and artistic culture of late fourteenth-century England when the chantrymovement and the building of chantry chapels flourished.

The focus of my study thus far has been some of the more important philo-sophical, theological, liturgical, and architectural traditions that have contrib-uted to the medieval expression of the church as a symbol of the NewJerusalem. These traditions are most important, as well, for understanding the

apocalyptic eschatology of Pearl and the poem as a whole as a literaryresponse to the religious and architectural expressions of the chantry move-ment. I begin my analysis in this chapter with an examination of how Pearl works as an epistemological process, like Plotinus’ screen of beauty andAugustine’s sacramental signa. I examine how the author uses poetry todisplay the veil, or what I will call the “mechanism,” of philosophical allegoryand how that mechanism serves as the theoretical foundation for the poem asarchitecture. My analysis in the next chapter builds upon this foundation,

demonstrating precisely how Pearl is to be understood as a literary edifice.The poet’s presentation of the image as a location for spiritual movementmakes Pearl a poetic descendant of Plotinus’ religious philosophy, Augus-tine’s Ecclesia, Abbot Suger’s new church, and the rich tradition of reliquaryand chantry chapels in western medieval Europe. The poem, as a display of the allegorical process, elaborates upon these models, however, in its unusualdramatization of the transformational power of the image from a psycholog-ical perspective. The poem considers the limitations of the human spirit andtakes seriously the possibility that human beings, standing before the screen

140




of beauty and yearning for intimate communication with the divine, fail none-theless to pass beyond, never fully grasping, while we live, that which givesus life.

The poet’s complex presentation of the image as a location for spiritualmovement includes a variety of interconnected symbolic forms: the poemitself as a structural and thematic whole, the jeweled images within the poem(such as the Paradise garden, the pearl maiden, and the New Jerusalem), andthe rich and complex word patterns that function as the linguistic frame of hisliterary architecture. The poet also incorporates the teachings and spectacle of liturgy, an art form that crosses visual, textual, and aural boundaries. With thelegions of angels worshipping the Lamb in the New Jerusalem and the poem’sfinal image of the consecration of bread and wine, the poem becomes, likeeucharistic liturgy, an image that is meant to be both temporal and sacred. Inmy effort to demonstrate the poet’s sophisticated understanding of his archi-tectural environment – the understanding with which he proceeded to buildhis own jeweled, literary space – I treat each of these images as “ornaments,”since it is ornament that serves as the medium by which Pearl becomes itsown “deuyse/ Bytwene myr þes” (139), a division that actually serves as aconduit between poetry, ecclesiastical architecture, and the medieval art of thegoldsmith.9

The “makellez perle” and the Ornamental Veil

The craft and transforming spirituality of allegoresis, from antiquity throughthe Middle Ages, is marked by frequent use of words like “ornament” and“adornment.” These words were often used to portray the progress of human

perception from an ignorant or profane state to a state of perfection or sanc-

tity. The words were also used to convey the final stage of that progression.Fulgentius, for example, uses them to describe the process of perfecting one’s

power of judgment through learning and then arriving at a state of “ornamen-tation.” Fulgentius writes:

[t]rifarius in uita humana gradus est, primum habere, deinde regere quodhabeas, tertium vero ornare quod regis.10

141


9 As the dreamer in Pearl looks into the jewel-filled stream in the Paradise garden, he hopes, or believes, that the water is a “deuyse/ Bytwene myr þez by merez made;” [a device made by pools between delights]. E. V. Gordon notes that “deuyse (used in the sense ‘division’ in Wyntoun’sChronicle vi. 1041, c. 1420) might alternatively be ‘device,’ referring to an artificial conduit.”

Pearl (Oxford: Clarendon, 1953), 52 nn. 139, 140.10 Fabii Planciadis Fulgentii V. C., Expositio virgilianae continentiae secundum philosophos

moralis, in Opera, ed. Rudolfus Helm (Leipzig: Teubner, 1898), 89. Hereafter cited as, Fulgentius, Expositio. Emphasis is mine. I follow the translation of Fulgentius’ Expositio by Leslie GeorgeWhitbread, “The Exposition of the Content of Virgil According to Moral Philosophy,” in

Fulgentius the Mythographer (Columbus: Ohio State UP: 1971), 124.



[there is a threefold progression in human life: first, to possess; then tocontrol what you possess; and, third, to ornament what you control.]

“Pay close attention to these stages,” he continues,

uirtus animi naturaliter data quae proficiat . . . secunda doctrina quaenaturam ornat cum proficit, ut est aurum; est enim natura in auro

productionis et decoris, sed ad perfectionem malleo proficit excudentis.11

[first, there is given by nature that courage of soul which may serve for advancement . . . second, there is the learning which adorns nature as itadvances, just like gold, for it is the nature of gold to be improved and to

become ornamental, and it advances to its perfect state through the

workman’s beating it out with his hammer.]

Learning, as Fulgentius understands it, is a process of refinement or purifica-tion that “adorns nature” in the same way that the piece of gold “advances toits perfect state” as the craftsman works upon it, refining it and mastering ituntil the object corresponds – in as much as it can correspond at all – to theidea in his mind.

According to Fulgentius, the gold is not “ornamental” until it is qualified by a process of “adornment” or purification. In other words, objects in nature,like the piece of gold or the human being, can qualify as images of a more

perfect state only in so far as they are refined. Note the paradox here: when wethink of ornament or adornment we usually think of something added, some-thing applied. But Fulgentius invests these words with an additional figurativemeaning, since what is “added on” actually corresponds to a process of disclo-sure, an adornment that is actually an unveiling of the object’s more perfect or truer self. This allegorical process of simultaneous adding on and disclosing isa fundamental feature of the transformational power of Plotinus’ screen of

beauty and Augustine’s sacramental signa. Adornment is the progressiontoward an idea; ornament is the representation or image of the idea itself.

The aesthetic properties, together with the philosophic or anagogic poten-tial of ornaments as images of perfection and sanctification stimulated thecraftsmen and literary artists of the Middle Ages. The mysteries and ineffabletruths of Christian faith were represented by objects thought worthy of suchrepresentation, worthy by virtue of their lovely appearance, their monetaryvalue, their rareness, and so on. The decoration of churches, paintings, and

liturgical books with statuary, precious gems, elaborate tracery patterns, andcolored glass are the most obvious examples of such ornamentation.According to Pseudo-Dionysius, however, these “positive affirmations” areless successful in assisting the soul in its ascent than are base or “dissimilar”representations:

142


11 Fulgentius, Expositio 90.



a manifestation through dissimilar shapes is more correctly applied to theinvisible. . . . High-flown shapes could well mislead someone into thinkingthat the heavenly beings are golden or gleaming men, glamorous, wearinglustrous clothing, giving off flames which cause no harm, or that they haveother similar beauties with which the word of God has fashioned theheavenly minds.

Dionysius is quick to add, however, that even “shameful” images possess ashare of beauty, since they are part of God’s creation, “for as scripture rightlysays, ‘Everything is good.’ ”12 Dionysius’ understanding of images, then,confirms the notion that even the grotesque figures of demons and beasts onthe exterior of medieval churches may adorn the Christian soul with desire to

communicate with God.Ornament was, of course, often employed in medieval art as a means todisplay secular authority or, more generally, for primarily decorative

purposes. In other words, medieval art commonly emphasizes secular – evenwhimsical – themes. What I wish to emphasize, however, is how ornament inmedieval art and literature was employed as a means to make the adornedobject (whether church, painting, or poem) sacramental in the Plotinian andAugustinian sense, a showcase for the soul’s movement through sensible andinvisible realms of light.

To put the matter in terms more typically literary, ornament served as the physical representation of the screen – or veil – of allegory. The allegoricalornament functions as the veil in essentially two ways: first, it is the materialimage through which multiple realities are thought to be absorbed, or collected, and released. Second, it stimulates the observer’s mind to move

between disparate realities or realms of meaning.13 What I am suggesting,then, is an additional rendering of the ornament’s dual properties.

In my initial discussion of Fulgentius’ understanding of ornare, I explained

how “ornament” is at once an “adding on” and a disclosure. The ornament,like the veil, conceals as well as reveals. It is like the involucrum, or integu-ment, described by Bernardus Silvestris:

a type of exposition which wraps the apprehension of truth in a fictionalnarrative, and thus it is also called an involucrum, a cover. One grasps theutility of this work, which is self-knowledge.14

Figuratively speaking, the cover needs to be removed for the meaning (or

143


12 This understanding of “dissimilar” images is an important element of Pseudo-Dionysius’ NegativeTheology. See, for example, The Celestial Hierarchy, in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works,150.

13 The observer could also be a reader or auditor who responds to the ornamental features of oral poetry and music, as in liturgy.

14 Commentary on the First Six Books of Virgil’s Aeneid, trans. Earl G. Schreiber and Thomas E.Maresca (Lincoln and London: U of Nebraska P, 1979), 5.



meanings) to be disclosed; hence, the allegory requires interpretation.15 The possibility of multiple meanings is essential to the act of interpretation, andthe number of those possibilities remains open-ended, even infinite. The

potential unveiling of a perfect or sacred state, then, ought not to be consid-ered something complete, final, or static; it would be a new beginning, a newlife in eternity. The veil is removed through a process of purification – through the ornatum aureum studii, “the golden ornament of learning,” asFulgentius put it.16 “Adornment” is a word used to describe this progression,which is a progression toward an idea – a gradual unveiling of nature’s perfector true self. “Ornament” is the representation or image of that idea.

By treating ornament as a physical representation of the screen, or veil of allegory, one may explore medieval concepts of the symbol by focusingdirectly upon the level of the screen.17 Ornament, like the screen, is at once aseparation between realms and a stimulus for passage between them. Thescreen, since it participates in both realms, allows the ineffable to be

perceived in so far as it can be perceived at all. Without the screen, the separa-tion between realms would be absolute; it is, therefore, the necessary barrier that absorbs dual realities and permits – even facilitates – movement betweenthem, while at the same time limiting the movement of the ignorant, the

profane, or the unwilling. Simply put, the screen is at once an invitation and a

limitation; vision is reserved for those who aspire to perfection and sanctitythrough “the jewel of learning.”

Pearl is a literary example of how this relationship is displayed in a spec-tacular way. What is of special interest, therefore, is how the poet displaysthrough ornament the mechanism of philosophical allegory, how the poet

presents symbolic meaning, rather than what those meanings may or may not be. I reserve the latter approach for the next chapter. In both cases, however, Iam concerned primarily with philosophical, theological, or what I will call

“vertical” allegory, as opposed to the “lower” or “horizontal” levels, such asmoral fable, irony, puns, and other plays on etymology.18 Vertical allegory – which Pearl strives to be – passes between temporal and eternal realms; theopen-endedness of this allegory is infinity itself. The lower levels are

primarily historical; past events may prefigure the present, which in turn maysignify future events, but the allegory remains within earthly time. Horizontalallegory is, in theory, open-ended as well, but the number of interpretationswill depend, of course, upon the number of questions one asks.19

144


15 Michael Murrin makes this point in The Veil of Allegory: Some Notes Toward a Theory of Allegor-ical Rhetoric in The English Renaissance (Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1969), 101.

16 Fulgentius, Expositio, 97.17 I favor the word “screen” rather than veil, curtain, cover, and so on, because it suggests more

directly a medium that serves as both separation and passage.18 I introduce the terms “vertical” and “horizontal” not to confuse the system further, but because I

sought a more lucid way of distinguishing philosophical, theological, or apocalyptic allegory fromthe many lower levels.

19 “If a critic concerns himself with the literal content of a story, he produces a literal interpretation



In his study of Pearl , Ian Bishop uses the term “Apocalyptic symbolism”for what I have chosen to call vertical allegory. Bishop explains,

A is spoken of in terms of B, not out of any desire to conceal A, but becausethere is no other way of speaking of it: we are confronted here with genuinemystery rather than deliberate mystification.20

Bishop’s definition is useful because it emphasizes the necessity of the screen(B) in the manifestation of divine mystery (A), but the “desire to conceal A”raises a new set of issues; for example, if A is the ineffable One, it is not clear how far the observer’s desire will take her in the ascent. Nor is it clear howmuch the observer wishes – or is able – to perceive when she is faced with the

possibility of full revelation. To put it another way, the invitation of the orna-ment can lead to terror – perhaps rejection, as in Pearl . Further, there is noway of knowing how much A “wishes” to reveal or be concealed. In Pearl , for example, it seems that neither full disclosure nor full concealment of A is

possible. When the dreamer asks the pearl maiden to take him to see her heav-enly dwelling, she responds:

Þat God wyl schylde;Þou may not enter wythinne Hys tor;

Bot of þe Lombe I haue þe aquyldeFor a syt þerof þur gret fauor. (965–68)21

[That (dwelling) God will shield; you may not enter within His strong-hold; but I have gained permission through great favor from the Lambfor you to have a glimpse of it.]

The dreamer must view the “bylde” (963) from without, at a distance. Theinvitation of the ornament remains before him, beckoning, but it does not lead

to a state of perfection or sanctity; the dreamer wakes up, still earthbound.The possibilities of meaning and subsequent tensions that occur at the levelof the screen, especially in representations of divine reality, are inherent to thenature of that reality. By treating Pearl as philosophical allegory, we are not,as Theodore Bogdanos has observed, dealing with “the invention of anymodern critical predilection for ‘tension’ and ‘paradox’” or “a modernattempt to rescue medieval literature from its dullness.” Instead, Bogdanoscontinues,

145


. . . moral questions . . . the moral allegory. But there is a limit in fact, though not in theory, to thenumber of levels which a critic could find in a work, for he cannot ask an infinite number of different questions” (Murrin, Veil 102).

20 Pearl in its Setting: A Critical Study of the Structure and Meaning of the Middle English Poem(Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1968), 68.

21 Unless otherwise noted, all quotations from Pearl are taken from The Poems of the Pearl Manu- script: Pearl, Cleanness, Patience, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. Malcolm Andrew andRonald Waldron (Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978), 53–110. The modernEnglish translations of passages from Pearl are my own, with assistance from the glosses and notesin Andrew and Waldron, and E. V. Gordon’s edition of Pearl (Oxford: Clarendon, 1953).



It finds its philosophical and . . . artistic justification in the medieval notionof analogy . . . it deals in ontological terms with the capacity or inadequacyof human similitudes to represent divine reality.22

Although God cannot be seen directly, the visible world is the image or reflected space that allows the observer to participate in the divine realm.What I wish to stress, however, is that the image permits reciprocal – thoughnot identical – movement between A and the reflection of A. The mimesis isnot, in other words, straight imitation; instead, it is a way of passage, and it isat the level of the image, or screen, that the spiritual transformation takes

place.The movement itself is of a spiritual nature but initiated through the senses,

just as it is in the Plotinian system. The Gothic edifice presented a visual,concentrated imitation of this movement, since it served as a grand setting for ornament and for the spectacle of processions and rituals that were part of medieval liturgy. From the medieval perspective, as Georges Duby explains:

the universe did not stand still. It moved with God’s own movement . . . andalthough architecture, sculpture, and painting were immobile by nature, theytoo had a mission to convey the universal movement.23

As modern observers, we consider architecture, sculpture, and painting to be“immobile by nature.” Indeed, the ostensibly “static” nature of these art formshas created difficulties for modern scholars – especially literary medievalists

– who seek to understand their allegorical qualities. As Jill Mann hasobserved, for example,

In recent times, writers on allegory such as Rosemond Tuve or MortonBloomfield have insisted that the complexity and originality of allegory liein narrative action rather than in the figures or objects which appear in that

action – in other words, that its metaphorical strength lies not in the noun butin the verb. . . . It is not just that the building does not do anything of itself,

but that it seems difficult for the writer to do anything with it, other than toattach labels to its various parts which will identify them with appropriateabstract qualities.24

Mann argues that literary edifices “from Ovid’s House of Fame to Chaucer’s”defy “the notion of stability” through their “fantastic” and “anarchic” quali-ties. She discusses their unstable foundations, their many open doorways,their glittering jewels, and the way they whirl about. She argues further thatthe “frigid symmetry” of visionary buildings, such as Ezekiel’s temple(40–44) and the New Jerusalem in Revelation 21 “becomes the essence of its

146


22 Pearl: Image of the Ineffable; A Study in Medieval Poetic Symbolism (University Park and London:Pennsylvania State UP, 1983), 5.

23 The Age of Cathedrals: Art and Society 980–1420; trans. Eleanor Levieux and Barbara Thompson(Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1981), 78.

24 “Allegorical Buildings in Medieval Literature,” Medium Aevum LXIII (1994): 192.



mystery” by suggesting “the stillness of a world beyond time.”25 I mustdisagree; it is my view, instead, that not only literary descriptions of objects,

but also the visible objects themselves were understood by their medieval

observers as neither frigid nor still; instead, they were believed to be inher-ently mobile. To adorn visual objects and literary descriptions of objects wasonly the most obvious method of conveying their participation in the sacra-mental movement of the cosmos.

As we have seen, the teachings of Plotinus and the early Christian-Platonists, and the church buildings as they were defined by the liturgies cele-

brated within them, are complex programs of transformation in which theobserver’s longing for perfection and sanctity finds direction and focus. Theseare ideal mimetic models, encouraging the observer to look for and to see thisworld as an opportunity for revelation. Abbot Suger’s use of ornament found

justification in the metaphysics of light that informed his theology; histheology, in turn, qualifies the ornament in the same way that Plotinus’rational principle and Augustine’s incarnational logos qualifies or “adorns”the image, so that the church becomes an ornament on a grand scale, “havingthe glory of God, its radiance like a most rare jewel, like a jasper, clear ascrystal” (Revelation 21.11).

These religious models point to the glorious possibilities of breaching the

distance between realms through mimetic reflection, and Pearl displaysclearly the influence of these ideal mimetic traditions. The meticulous crafts-manship of Pearl , together with its display of brilliant images and liturgicalfeatures, calls to mind the design and purpose of the Gothic edifice,suggesting that the poem, as artifact, can point the way toward higher vision.The alliterative, twelve-line stanzas combine with a complex rhyme scheme(a b a b a b a b b c b c), bringing together sound patterns of early English verseand poetic elements from continental traditions. The mingling of alliteration,

assonance, and end-rhyme creates rich sounds that are meant, perhaps, toimitate the “swete asent” of the birds’ song in the Paradise garden (94), or thesounds made in heaven by the “Legyounes of aungelez” who “Al songe toloue þat gay Juelle,” the Lamb (1121). The music of voices becomes an addi-tional ornament that serves as a conduit between different realms of theuniverse:

Þe steuen mot stryke þur þe vr þe to helleÞat þe vertues of heuen of joye endyte. (1125–26)

[The sound might strike through the earth to hell, that the virtues of heaven made for joy.]

The linking of stanza groups by key words such as “adubbemente” (adorn-ment, splendor), “jueler,” “blysse,” and “Jerusalem” gather the structural

parts into a self-contained unit, which suggests a sphere, or the pearl itself.

147


25 Ibid. 192–93.



This design, in turn, gives shape to the verbal surface where opulent images become channels of physical, emotional, and spiritual perception.

In its artistic representation of movement between the spiritual and

temporal realms, Pearl conveys the mystery of the ineffable better thandoctrine or straight exposition, since readers (or listeners) of the poem mayrespond with the dreamer to psychological tensions created at the level of thescreen. As the poem progresses, for example, its central ornament, the pearl, isapplied variously (and symbolically) to a lost child for whom the jeweler grieves, to the maiden who is beyond the dreamer’s reach in the Paradisegarden, to the grace of God that is the reward of Heaven, and to Heaven itself:

This makellez perle, þat bot is dere,Þe joueler gef fore alle hys god,Is lyke þe reme of heueness clere – (733–35)

[This matchless pearl, that is priceless, for which the jeweler gave allhis goods, is like the realm of bright heaven –]

What is especially intriguing about this poem, however, is the sustained exhibition of symbolic meanings in material form. In addition to the maiden’s pearl-encrusted crown and garments, a “wonder perle” is set like a great

brooch “Inmyddez hyr breste” (221–22; 740) – an adornment that she associ-ates with the merchant’s “perle of prys” (746) in Matthew’s parable(13.45–6). A similar pearl is also worn by the virgins in “prosessyoun” in theCelestial City:

Depaynt in perlez and wedez qwyte;In vchonez breste watz bounden bounÞe blysful perle with gret delyt. (1102–4)

[Adorned in pearls and white garments; in every breast was firmlyfastened the blissful pearl with great delight.]

The ground upon which the dreamer treads in the “Paradyse erde” (248) ismade of “precious perlez of oryente” (82), and the twelve gates of the NewJerusalem are all adorned with “A parfyt perle þat neuer fatez” (1038).

The poem’s central ornament, therefore, is a “location” that manifests bothrealms and serves as a point of departure for increasingly complex meanings.By implication the poem itself is an ornament designed to move the minds of

readers and listeners, just as the dreamer’s mind never ceases to be stirred atthe sight of a daunting “meruayle” (157), be it the approaching pearl maiden:

Þenne nwe note me com on hondeÞat meued my mynde ay more and more. (155–56)

[Then a new thing (the pearl maiden) came before me that moved mymind more and more.]

the New Jerusalem:

148




An-vnder mone so great merwayle No fleschly hert ne myt endeureAs quen I blusched vpon þat bayle.26 (1081–83)

[No mortal heart under the moon would be able to endure so great amarvel, as (I saw) when I gazed upon that castle wall.]

or the Lamb:

Delit þe Lombe for to deuiseWith much meruayle in mynde went. (1129–30)

[My delight in gazing upon the Lamb was coupled with much wonder in my mind.]

In Pearl , ornament is the literal manifestation of the screen – or veil – of alle-gory. It is both the material stimulus for higher vision and the screen throughwhich divine light shines.

“So madde e be!”The Dream of Getting on the Other Side of the Screen

As the dreamer responds to the opulence that he sees before him, his emotionsfluctuate between sorrow and joy, terror and ecstasy, yearning and resent-ment. It is ornament, most notably the pearl, that stimulates this emotionaldrama. Ornament is the site of both invitation and deficiency: the imagealways beckons, but is never grasped. The poem presents, therefore, a recog-nition that the ascent to higher vision cannot be sustained. As Barbara Nolanhas observed, the dreamer “must be content with partial vision and partialknowledge, still plagued by earthly desire.”27 Pearl stresses the distance

between realms, even while the work is presented as philosophical allegory.This distance is also the spiritual and psychological torment of Dante’sLimbo, a torment that arises from the frustration of not being able to knowcompletely what is beyond the screen – even with the help of allegorical orna-ment or, as in Dante’s case, the intellectual solace of ancient philosophy andVirgil’s epic poetry.

The soul’s yearning for vision, to be united with “that alone,” was, for Plotinus and the Christian-Platonists the most powerful manifestation of the

divine within the human world, for “the soul also loves that Good, moved by itto love from the beginning.”28 The dreamer’s yearning in Pearl for the maidenis a similar expression of this idea. Although she rebukes him for his misdi-

149


26 Here I follow Gordon’s edition: his “bayle” (rhymes with dayly, fayle, counsayle, see 313–15) andwhich he glosses as “castle wall” is preferred to Andrew and Waldron’s “baly.” See Gordon, 58nn. 313–15.

27 Barbara Nolan, The Gothic Visionary Perspective (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1977), 201.28 Plotinus, Enn. I.6.7, VI.7.31.



rected passion, she stands glittering before him as an image of Heaven,instructing him in Christian doctrine. His yearning for her is at once a humaninclination and a manifestation of the divine within him.

The poem, however, uses the ideal mimetic models to suggest possibilitiesother than the ascent to perfection, sanctity, and absolute glory. It displays anadditional view of what it might be like for the observer to stand before thescreen, yearning to accept its invitation. In structure, theme, and imagery itdisplays a yearning for higher vision, but at the same time illustrates the limitsof both image and mind. It does so not by dismissing the image as a poor copyof the ineffable – and here, in my view, is the genius of the Pearl poet – but byconsidering what it might be like for the observer to actually take that veryimage seriously.

The jeweler-dreamer travels gradually through his eschatological andapocalyptic landscapes, from the burial mound to the Paradise garden to thehill upon which he gazes at the New Jerusalem. The “erber grene” (37), inwhich the jeweler mourns over the loss of his “precious perle,” is a landscaperich with fragrance, pigment, and light, where “Blomez blayke [yellow] and

blwe and rede/ Þer schyne ful schyr agayn þe sunne” (27–8). The marvelousfragrance of these flowers causes him to slip into a “slepyng slate”(59), andin his dream he finds himself in an unearthly garden whose precious materials

and chromatic brilliance resembles the accomplishments of the medievalmetalworker. Here the dreamer encounters “crystal klyffez,” and “bryt” treeswith trunks “as blwe as ble of Ynde” (74–76). He sees the “schymeryngschene” of light reflecting off the “bornyst syluer” of leaves (78, 80), treadsupon the pearl-gravel (82), and comes to a stream that separates him from“paradyse” (137). The banks of the stream are made of “beryl bryte” (110),and when he looks into the water his gaze is met with an abundance of

precious stones: “emerad, saffer, and o þer gemme gente,” that shone as “Þur

glas þat glowed and glyt” (114, 118). He hopes or believes that this water is amere “deuyse” (139) that he can cross, but sees that it is too deep and that he“dorst not wade” (143). He looks all about him for a “for þe” (ford, 150) butsenses again that the dangers are too great to cross over:

Bot wo þez mo iwysse þer ware,Þe fyrre I stalked by þe stronde;And euer me þot I schulde not wondeFor wo þer welez so wynne wore. (151–54)

[But indeed there were more dangers, the farther I walked by theshore; and ever I thought that I should not shrink from harm, wherethere were such delights.]

The water cannot be crossed, only looked into. It acts like a screen placed between desire and fulfillment. It suggests, invites, and encourages wonder; itmakes the dreamer strangely aware, yet fearful too of the greater “maruaylez”(64) beyond the “bonkez brade” (138).

150




Standing upon the threshold of divine reality, the dreamer sees a maidenwith a “vysayge whyt as playn yuore” (178), whom he recognizes as his lost

pearl (156). This “meruayle” moves his “mynde ay more and more” (156–57),

from a sense of glory to that of fear or dread:On lenghe I loked to hyr þere;Þe lenger, I knew hyr more and more.

. . . . . .Suche gladande glory con to me glaceAs lyttel byfore þerto watz wonte.

. . . . . .More þen me lyste my drede aros:

I stod ful stylle and dorste not calle;Wyth yen open and mouth ful closI stod as hende as hawk in halle. (167ff)

[For a long time I looked at her there; the longer I looked I knew her more and more. . . . Such gladdening glory glided over me as I hadnever known before. . . . More than I wished my dread arose: I stoodcompletely still and dared not call out; With eye open and mouth shuttight I stood as still as a hawk in a hall.]

At times the dreamer grieves deeply over his isolation and distance from themaiden; he wonders about death, destiny, and our unclear relations with God.At other moments, as when he finds himself in the shining “londe” wherethere “[n]is no wy wor þé þat tonge berez” (100), the marvelous“adubbemente” makes him forget his grief (87).

For all its glory, however, there are several terrifying aspects of his vision:fear of the unknown nature of the spiritual reality; fear of getting beyond thescreen and staring into the face of eternity; and fear of the death that must

precede that confrontation:Þur drwry deth boz vch man dreue,Er ouer þys dam hym Drytyn deme. (323–24)

[Through cruel death must every man pass, before God allows himover this water.]

Finally, the dreamer fears that the vision will escape him:

I dred onende quat schulde byfalle,Lest ho me eschaped þat I þer chos,Er I at steuen hir mot stalle. (186–88)

[I was afraid about what would happen, lest she whom I beheld thereescaped me before I could stop and meet her.]

There is the constant peril as well of the dreamer being distracted by the beauty of his vision. Several details in the maiden’s appearance are borrowedfrom literary and visual portraits of ideal feminine beauty at the time: her

151




ivory skin, her golden hair, her gray eyes. Dressed in the white robes of theApocalypse virgins, the maiden is covered with pearls, even her “Hie

pynakled” crown “of cler quyt perle” (207); she is a kind of literary prede-

cessor of Jan van Eyck’s jeweled Virgin of the Annunciation. The pearlmaiden belongs to the sacred realm and is an image of the perfection and permanence of that world; indeed, her very words are ornaments:

A juel to me þen watz þys geste,And juelez wern hyr gentyl sawez. (277–78)

[A jewel to me then was this guest, and her noble words were jewels.]

The dreamer explains to her how he has suffered great “dystresse” (280) for

having lost his pearl, and he urges her to let him pass beyond the stream. Butshe rebukes him for his “tale mysetente” (257) and says that it is a “mad

porpose” (267) to be thus concerned about transitory things, for on earth shewas “bot a rose/ Þat flowred and fayled” (270). Thus she presents him with theaustere realization that nothing on earth partakes completely of the sacredworld.

The dreamer has erred in thinking that, because he now sees her, he candwell with her. She is wholly unsympathetic to his responses and says that his

error is fit for mockery. She accuses him of mortal pride, for wanting his lovefor her returned – or to put it in aesthetic terms – for taking the visual spectacletoo seriously. The dreamer believes that what he sees is available to him, andit is this belief that the maiden calls madness:

“Jueler,” said þat gemme clene,“Wy borde e men? So madde e be!” (289–90)

[“Jeweler,” said the bright gem, “Why do you jest? You are quite

mad!”]

As the maiden stands before him, she presents herself as an invitation for higher vision. She functions as a screen of beauty, Augustine’s sacramental

signa, and Fulgentius’ “jewel of learning,” for she is a reflection of thetheology that qualifies her own imagery, except that the dreamer has difficultyunderstanding and accepting that qualification. He sees her there and takes theallegory seriously, but complete passage to her is impossible, except through

death. For now, he must replace his grief with greater spiritual awareness: hemust recognize the limitations of earthly love and believe in God’s gift of Christ. So she guides him to the hill where he will be granted a glimpse of “Þenwe cyté o Jerusalem” (792).

But here is the paradox: the sacred world, which transcends time and space,is represented by its contradiction: an image that is an artifact of time andspace (the painting, the poem, the music, the church). The observer’s absorp-tion in that artifact ultimately betrays the transcendent aim. In other words, to

believe that you can rupture the screen and attain what it holds out to you – to

152




abandon yourself to the painting and think that you can get on the other side – is “madde” – just as the maiden says it is. Virgil (or rather Dante) said it too:

Matto è chi spera che nostra ragione possa trascorrer la infinita viache tiena una sustanza in tre persone.

State contenti, umana gente, al quia;ché, se potuto avest veder tutto,mestier non era parturir Maria;

[Foolish (or mad) is he who hopes that our reason may compass theinfinite course taken by One Substance in Three Persons. Be content,human race, with the quia; for if you had been able to see everything,

no need was there for Mary to give birth;]29

When the dreamer sees the maiden in procession in the “nwe cité” he is over-whelmed with “luf-longyng” (1152), abandons himself to the image, and triesto cross the water. The dreamer himself describes this abandonment asmadness:

Delyt me drof in ye and ere,My manez mynde to maddyng malte; (1153–54)

[Delight entered into my eye and ear, dissolving my mortal mind tomadness;]

And it is a madness that does not find favor with the Lamb of heaven:

Hit payed Hym not þat I so floncOuer meruelous merez, so mad arayd. (1165–66)

[It did not please him that I flung myself over marvelous waters in so

mad a manner.]At the moment when he thinks that nothing can prevent him from crossing thestream and attaining what he desires, the dreamer awakens with his headresting on the “hylle” where his “perle to grounde” had “strayde” (1173). In asense, the image betrays him, and in the end he shows considerable resent-ment over being “outfleme”:

Me payed ful ille to be outfleme

So sodenly of þat fayre regioun,Fro alle þo sytez so quyke and queme. (1177–79)

[It displeased me greatly to be turned out of that fair region sosuddenly, from all those sights so vivid and pleasant.]

153


29 Purgatorio III 34–9, The Divine Comedy, ed. and trans. Charles S. Singleton, Bollingen SeriesLXXX (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1973). Singleton translates “Matto,” as “foolish,” but “mad” isalso correct.



Love for his “perle” limits him to this world. Still, it was a love worthy and powerful enough to reflect – if inadequately – that other. All earthly lovesmust eventually bear the frustrations of human inadequacies – the inadequa-

cies of language, of body, of mind, and of course the inevitable separationthrough death. And the more deeply one loves, as the dreamer knows, themore crushing to one’s spirit these inadequacies can become.

Pearl , one might say, is a poem about the devastating limitations of humanlove and our yearning for it to be otherwise – the need for it to be somethingmore permanent, more perfect, free from disappointment, betrayal, apathy, or sickness of any kind. Free from all inherently human weaknesses. But the

poem is not by any means a rejection of this world, grounded as it is in jeweled brilliance and finely articulated craftsmanship. Rather, it recognizes brilliantly, if solemnly, that now we live here; this world is where we live andshape our lives until death. Still, it is an expression of human desire for perfec-tion, even if this desire can only be partly fulfilled through images; that is,even if the potential of images remains unrealized. More simply put, it is a

poem about the very best we are able to muster before we turn away – for whatever reason – or before we die. And so it is fitting that it should end withan image of bread and wine, the simplest visual and physical expression of Christian desire for perfect and permanent love in our midst and, therefore,

one that belongs to both worlds.

154




Pearl asMedieval Architecture

6“Þe nwe cyté o Jerusalem”:

Pearl as Medieval Architecture

Geometry moves between two things antithetical to it, namelythe point and the circle – and I mean “circle” in the broad senseof anything round, whether a solid body or a surface; for asEuclid says, the point is its beginning, and, as he says, the circleis its most perfect figure which must therefore be conceived asits end. . . . Geometry is furthermore most white insofar as it iswithout taint or error and most certain both in itself and in itshandmaid, which is called Perspective.”

(Dante, Il Convivio II.13)1

For I seemed to myself to behold the King’s son, John, in a green plain, appearing as though he were about to found a church. . . .after the fashion of surveyors, he marked the turf making lineson all sides over the surface of the earth, visibly drawing the

plan of a building. (Gerald of Wales, De rebus a se gestis)2

THE Pearl poet’s conception of the image as a location for spiritual move-ment and his use of ornament as the screen, or veil, of allegory is the foun-

dation for his presentation of the poem as a literary edifice. As I have argued,the poet’s sophisticated allegorical techniques establish remarkable affinities

between Pearl and the symbolic programs of the great churches of the twelfthand thirteenth centuries. These affinities are established further with a recog-nition of these edifices as figures of the New Jerusalem. But the Gothic visionof Pearl is, in my view, one that embodies a specifically fourteenth-century

religious, artistic, and political environment. It is to fourteenth-centuryEngland, therefore, that one must turn in order to understand more preciselythe Pearl poet’s Gothic visionary perspective.3

155

1 Dante Alighieri, Il Convivo (The Banquet ), trans. Richard H. Lansing, Garland Library of Medi-eval Literature, vol. 65, ser. B (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1990).

2 In H. Butler, The Autobiography of Giraldus Cambrensis (London: J. Cape, 1937), 89.3 I borrow the phrase “Gothic visionary perspective” from the book of the same title by Barbara

Nolan (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1977).



In his recent scholarship on Pearl , John M. Bowers attempts to place the poem more firmly within a precise historical and cultural context.4 Bowers’evidence consists of an impressive variety of documentary, literary, and

artistic components of Ricardian court culture. This “archive,” as he calls it,5

includes the library of Richard II’s uncle, Thomas, duke of Gloucester (thecontents of which form the literary background of the Pearl poet); thefourteenth-century group of Apocalypse wall paintings in the Chapter Houseat Westminster Abbey; the Wilton Diptych; and Philippe de Mézières’ alle-gorical Epistre to Richard II, written to secure peace between England andFrance and to promote a crusade to the Holy Land.6

Bowers’ argument succeeds, I believe, in demonstrating that the author of Pearl was an inspired participant in the court culture of Richard II, althoughthe poet’s courtly tastes certainly reflect an Edwardian influence as well.7

Neither Bowers nor other recent scholars who have sought to understand thesocial and political context of Pearl , however, have made use of late medievalarchitecture for assistance, even though the poet displays an explicit interestin his architectural environment, and even though the architectural workssponsored by the Plantagenet rulers were their grandest efforts to manifestvisually the power and prestige of their courts.8 As Jeffrey Hamburger observes: architecture in the Middle Ages “provided the governing context for

sacral and liturgical performance as well as an overarching metaphor for thesacred.”9 In addition, architecture was the most important visual medium usedto display the political aspirations of Church and Crown.

The Plantagenet kings, for example, wishing to proclaim to the medievalworld an English royal sanctity and political prestige surpassing that of theCapetian rulers, commissioned a series of architectural projects that displayed

156


4 The Politics of Pearl: Court Poetry in the Age of Richard II ; Bowers, “ Pearl in its Royal Setting:Ricardian Poetry Revisited.”

5 “ Pearl in its Royal Setting,” 114.6 Ibid. 122, 126, 128, 130–35. Philippe de Mézières, Letter to King Richard II , ed. and trans. G. W.

Coopland (Liverpool: Liverpool UP, 1975).7 Edward III’s reign lasted for fifty years (1327–77). As Sandra Pierson Prior has observed, Edward

III’s “influence on English culture and society was powerful enough that much of late four-teenth-century England is at least as ‘Edwardian’ as it is ‘Ricardian’.” The Pearl Poet Revisited (New York: Twayne, 1994), 4.

8 The most influential studies on the historical (especially Ricardian) background of the Cotton Nero poems include, Michael J. Bennett, “The Court of Richard II and the Promotion of Literature,”Chaucer’s England , ed. Barbara Hanawalt (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1992; Bennett, “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the Literary Achievement of the North-West Midlands: TheHistorical Background,” Journal of Medieval History 5 (1979): 63–88; Bennett, Community, Classand Careerism: Cheshire and Lancashire Society in the Age of “Sir Gawain and the Green

Knight ” (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983), esp. pp. 233–35); Bowers, The Politics of Pearl;Bowers, “ Pearl in its Royal Setting: Ricardian Poetry Revisited.” See also the important collectionof essays in Essays on Ricardian Literature in Honour of J. A. Burrow, ed. A. J. Minnis, CharlotteC. Morse, and Thorlac Turville-Petre (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997); and essays in A Companion tothe Gawain- Poet .

9 “Medieval Studies and Medieval Art History,” in The Past and Future of Medieval Studies, ed.John Van Engen (Notre Dame and London: U of Notre Dame P, 1994), 386.



this intention in an unmistakable and spectacular way. The grandest projectsincluded Henry III’s renovation of the interior of Westminster Abbey(1245–72), which was carried out to emulate – under one roof – the symbolic

programs (both sacred and political) of the two royal churches of France: theAbbey Church of St.-Denis and Notre Dame Cathedral in Reims; the twelvememorial crosses erected by Edward I after the death of his queen, Eleanor, in1290; St. Stephen’s Chapel, begun in 1292 by Edward I and completed in1348 by Edward III to rival the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris; the extensive

building and renovation of castles in England, Scotland, Wales, and Normandy; and the elaborate funerary monuments constructed for Eleanor of Castile, Edward II (c. 1330), Edward III (c. 1386), and monuments for Richard II and his queen, Anne (1395–97), which Richard had ordered built

before his death.10 By building their own private chapels and elaborate tombs,members of the nobility shared in the sacral, social, and political performancethat medieval architecture yielded.

Elizabeth Salter is a notable exception to the scholarly neglect of architec-ture as a source for understanding the craftsmanship and symbolism of Pearl ,as well as the poet’s social standing and political affiliations.11 Salter’ssuggestion in 1967 that we treat the poems of the Cotton Nero manuscriptwithin the context of late medieval English architecture was based on her

conviction that the author of Pearl and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight wasin no way provincial, even though the poems were written in a dialect of thenorthern Midlands. Instead, she argued that the anonymous author demon-strates through his poetry a mature understanding of late medieval art, es-

pecially English architecture.12

As we have seen, these architectural achievements were promoted enthusi-astically by the English rulers, either through projects they commissioned for themselves and their families or through projects carried out by masons,

carpenters, and metalworkers who, if hired by members of the clergy or nobility, were trained either in court workshops or by masters of those work-shops.13 My aim in this chapter is to demonstrate how the symbolic programof Pearl , including its apocalyptic and eschatological perspectives, its finelywrought craftsmanship, and its political associations can best be understood

by viewing this poet as a master builder, a literary architect whose aim was tocreate, in poetry, a late fourteenth-century expression of the Church as afigure of the New Jerusalem.14

157


10 See H. M. Colvin, The History of the King’s Works: for Henry III’s renovation of Westminster Abbey, see pp. 130–57; on the Eleanor crosses, see pp. 479–85; on St. Stephen’s chapel, see

pp. 510–72; for the funerary monuments, see esp. pp. 481–88. On the royal castles see esp. pp. 110–19, 228–41, 293–433, and 553–894.

11 “The Alliterative Revival II,” 233–37. See Chapter Five, 139–40.12 Ibid. 236.13 See, for example, Chapter Four, 103–4, 113–18, 124.14 The scholarship on the apocalyptic and eschatological features of medieval English literature is



“figures of ferlylé shappes”:Architectural Virtuosity and Exchange

in the Cotton Nero Poems and St. Erkenwald

In his study of the distinctive role of micro-architecture within the larger Gothic tradition, François Bucher provides a short list of what he considers to

be the basic tenets of Gothic architecture: “dazzling structural dexterity,intensely geometric complexity and a hypnotic dissolution of the structurethrough light.” It was micro-architecture, Bucher argues, that provided the“exemplary models” of Gothic, combining “formal bravado with theologicalcomplexity in a small space.”15 Bucher’s understanding of Gothic – while

perhaps not accepted universally among architectural historians – correspondsclosely, I believe, with the Pearl poet’s understanding of his own craft and of the poem’s participation in a tradition that views the ecclesiastical edifice asan apocalyptic landscape.

Bucher argues that fantastic descriptions of buildings in medieval literaturestimulated the craftsmen’s efforts to build micro-architectural expressions of the New Jerusalem, since it was impossible to construct large-scale renditionsof the imaginary edifices. Micro-architecture resolved “the dilemma between

the poetic and the realizable building.”16 Bucher’s argument is a compellingone for this study, since it supports the hypothesis of a close interaction

between literature and late medieval architectural developments. But Bucher appears to restrict his understanding of this influence to the view that it wascarried forward in one direction only: from literature to architecture. If fantastic verbal buildings did provide an impetus for late medieval architec-tural developments, it is also plausible that a literary artist attempted to repro-duce the conceptual and stylistic elements of late medieval architecture so that

158


vast. For excellent introductions to the subject and bibliographies, see Richard K. Emmerson andRonald B. Herzman, The Apocalyptic Imagination in Medieval Literature (Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P 1992); Emmerson and Herzman, “The Canterbury Tales in EschatologicalPerspective,” in The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages, ed. Verbeke, Verhelst, andWelkenhuysen, Mediaevalia Lovaniensia 15 (Leuven: Leuven UP, 1988), 404–24; Emmerson,“The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic, and the Study of Medieval Literature,” in Poetic Prophecy inWestern Literature, ed. Jan Wojcik and Raymond-Jean Frontain (Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson

UP, 1984), 40–54; Morton Bloomfield, Piers Plowman as a Fourteenth-century Apocalypse (NewBrunswick: Rutgers UP, 1961); Barbara Nolan, The Gothic Visionary Perspective; Mary J.Carruthers, “Time, Apocalypse, and the Plot of Piers Plowman,” in Acts of Interpretation, ed.Mary J. Carruthers and Elizabeth D. Kirk (Norman, OK: Pilgrim Books, 1982), 175–88; DouglasBertz, “Prophecy and Apocalypse in Langland’s Piers Plowman, B-Text, Passus XVI–XIX,”

Journal of English and Germanic Philology 84 (1985): 312–27; Kathryn Kerby-Fulton, Reformist Apocalypticism and Piers Plowman (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1990).

15 “Micro-Architecture,” 83.16 Ibid. 72. Verbal buildings of “fantastic architectural daring” include, Bucher argues, the tombs

described in the Roman de Troie, the domed vault and throne of Cosdroe in the Norman epic Eracle (1164), and the Grail temple in Albrecht von Scharffenberg’s Younger Titurel (c. 1270).



literature would work in conjunction with the visual arts to convey the escha-tological and apocalyptic symbolism of church buildings.

As a group, the Cotton Nero poems and St. Erkenwald demonstrate an

interest in all aspects of medieval architecture, from the laying of the ground-work for a medieval cathedral, to the ornamental creativity of micro-architec-tural structures, to the sacred edifice as an Apocalyptic landscape.17 At theextremes of these architectural portraits, we find in St. Erkenwald an apprecia-tion for the technical difficulties of building a great Gothic church, where

particular care must be taken to construct a foundation strong enough tosupport the massive weight of the completed edifice:

Mony grubber in grete þe grounde for to secheÞat þe fundement on fyrst shuld þe fote halde.18 (39–42)[Many dug in the earth to make the groundwork for the building, sothat the foundation from the start would hold the structural supports.]

This humble beginning of the ecclesiastical edifice as a large hole in theground reaches its anagogic fulfillment in the vision of the New Jerusalem in

Pearl :

As John þe apostel hit sy wyth syt,I sye þat cyty of gret renoun,Jerusalem so nwe and ryally dyt,As hit watz lyt fro þe heuen adoun. (985–88)

[As John the apostle saw it with his own eyes, I saw that city of greatrenown, Jerusalem so new and royally adorned, as it descended downfrom heaven.]

The Pearl poet had a particularly keen eye for the ornamental detail and tech-

nical virtuosity of micro-architectural forms. Bertilak’s castle in Sir Gawainand the Green Knight is a faithful rendition of the late medieval style, repre-sented in the latest fairy-tale fashion where the old need for defense has givenway to a profusion of little turrets and decorative ornaments:

And innermore he behelde þat halle ful hye,Towres telded bytwene, trochet ful þik,Fayre fylyolez þat fyed, and ferlyly long,With coruon coprounes craftyly slee.

Chalk-whyt chymnées þer ches he innoe,Vpon bastel rouez þat blenked ful quyte.So mony pynakle payntet watz poudred ayquere

159


17 For a discussion on the authorial status of St. Erkenwald and why I choose to include it as part of my literary analysis, see Chapter Five, 138–39, 138 n. 5.

18 St. Erkenwald , ed. Clifford Peterson. Unless otherwise noted, all citations from the Cotton Nero poems are taken from Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron, eds., The Poems of the Pearl Manu- script , 1978.



Among þe castel carnelez, clambred so þik,Þat pared out of papure purely hit semed. (794–802)

[And further in, he (Gawain) beheld that very high hall, (with) towers

erected, evenly spaced, thick battlements, fair pinnacles that werefitted, and exceedingly tall, with carved, ornamental tops skillfullymade. He perceived there many chalk-white chimneys, upon roofs of towers that gleamed all white. So many painted pinnacles were scat-tered everywhere among the embrasures of the castle, clustered sothickly, that it seemed to be cut out of paper.]

The best-known model for this kind of castle, and one that was contemporarywith the poet, was the Hôtel des Tournelles in Paris (built about 1388, now

destroyed), one of the seven Parisian residences of the kings of France.19 The Pearl poet, as a member of Richard II’s court or of the retinue of a noblefamily, may very well have seen the Parisan monuments, not unlike his liter-ary contemporary, Chaucer, who traveled on the continent as courtier, poet,and soldier.

The description of the “halle ful hye” in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight shows striking similarities to descriptions of miniature edifices in Cleanness.The author describes a collection of elaborately carved canopies, or “logges,”

for instance, that were placed over silver platters of food at the banquet inBaltazar’s palace:

Lyfte logges þerouer and on lofte coruen,Pared out of paper and poynted of golde,Bro þe baboynes abof, besttes anvnder,Foles in foler flakerande bitwene,And al in asure and ynde enaumayld ryche; (1407–12)

[Raised canopies over them and carved on top, cut out of paper and

painted with gold; grotesque gargoyles above, beasts underneath, birds in foliage fluttering between, and all in azure and indigo, richlyenameled;]

What the poet is describing here is an exotic genre of late medievalmicro-architecture: table decorations at sumptuous feasts.20 But unlikeBertilack’s castle, these raised “logges” seem actually to be made of paper.The poet employs the identical simile in Sir Gawain in order to emphasize theelaborate workmanship of the castle.21 Taken together, the two architecturaldescriptions are of particular interest, since they demonstrate the poet’sawareness of how larger medieval edifices, by incorporating micro-

160


19 See, for example, André Devèche, Les 7 Résidences Parisiennes des Rois de France (Paris:Tourelle, 1986), 19–24.

20 See Andrew and Waldron, 168 nn. 1407–12.21 This observation was noted by Tolkien and Gordon, eds, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight , 2nd

edn, by Norman Davis (Oxford: Clarendon P, 1967), 100 n. 802.



architectural elements, may rival smaller structures in “structural dexterity”and ornamentation.22

In Cleanness, the poet seems especially determined to convey a sophisti-

cated familiarity with his architectural environment. A passage that describesa collection of liturgical vessels reads like an article on medieval art treasuresin an exhibition catalogue:

Houen vpon þis auter watz a þel vessel,Þat wyth so curious a crafte coruen watz wyly.Salamon sete him seuen ere and sy þe more,Wyth alle þe syence þat hym sende þe souerayn Lorde,For to compas and kest to haf hem clene wrot.

For þer were bassynes ful bryt of brende golde clere,Enaumaylde with azer, and eweres of sute,Couered cowpes foul clene, as casteles arayed,Enbaned vnder batelment with bantelles quoynt,And fyled out of fygures of ferlylé schappes. (1451–60)

[Raised upon this altar were noble vessels that had been cleverlyshaped with such elaborate skill. Solomon had given himself sevenyears and a bit more, with all the knowledge that the sovereign Lordhad sent to him, in order to plan and to create, to have them perfectlymade; for there were very bright basins of clear, refined gold, enam-eled with azure, and ewers to match, very bright covered cups,adorned like castles, fortified under battlements with skillfully made

bantels, and carved out in figures of marvelous shapes.]

The poet is, perhaps, imagining a workshop whose masons and metalworkersdelight in an exchange of decorative creativity and structural techniques.Indeed, one imagines a mason in charge of constructing Bertilack’s castle inGawain as one inspired by the micro-architectural details of elaborate tableornaments, while the sacred vessels at Baltazar’s feast are said to be “ascasteles arayed” (1458). The structural details of Bertilack’s castle comeclearly to mind in the extended description of vessels in Cleanness, but thisdescription may be applied with equal visual effect to medieval church archi-tecture:

The coperounes of þe cauacles, þat on þe cuppe reresWer fetysely formed out in fylyoles longe;

Pinacles pyt þer apert, þat profert bitwene,And al bolled abof with braunches and leues,Pyes and papejayes purtrayed withinne,As þay prudly hade piked of pomgarnades; (1461–66)

[The tops of the covers that rose on the cups were artfully formed intolong turrets, pinnacles set there skillfully, which projected at intervals,

161


22 Bucher, 83.



and were completely embossed above with branches and leaves, andmagpies and parrots portrayed within, as if they proudly had peckedon pomegranates;]

The poet adorns these vessels with an extraordinary variety of gems and jewels, creating objects whose chromatic brilliance rivals even the most elab-orate medieval reliquary:

For alle þe blomes of þe boes wer blyknande perles,And alle þe fruyt in þo formes of flaumbeande gemmes,And safyres, and sardiners, and semely topace,Alabaundarynes, and amaraunz, and ammaffised stones,Casydoynes, and crysolytes, and clere rubies,Penitotes, and pynkardines, ay perles bitwene; (1467–72)

[For all the blooms of the boughs were gleaming pearls, and all thefruit was in the form of glowing gems, and sapphires, and sardianstones, and excellent topaz, almandines, and emeralds, and amethys-tine stones, chalcedonies, and chrysolites, and clear rubies, peridots,and carnelian stones, with pearls always in between;]

What is especially striking about these descriptions is that the details identify

the poet not only as a keen observer of the stylistic motifs of FrenchRayonnant and English Decorated, but also as one who advocates the use of adorned objects to convey ideas of sanctity that are applied to a specific objector place:

So trayled and tryfled atrauerce wer alle,Bi vche bekyr ande bolle, þe brurdes al vmbe;Þe gobelotes of golde grauen aboute,And fyoles fretted wyth flores and fleez of golde;

Vpon þat avter watz al aliche dresset. (1474–77)[(the vessels) were all traced and ornamented with trefoils from side toside, on every beaker and bowl, all around the rims; the goblets of goldwere engraved round about; and the cups were adorned with flowersand butterflies of gold. Everything was arrayed alike upon that altar.]

The poem further unflolds how Baltazar’s father, Nabugondenoar, had takenthese vessels from the sancta sanctorum (1491) of Solomon’s Temple in Jeru-

salem, and how afterwards they were hidden in “coferes” (1428). OnBaltazar’s orders, his treasurer retrieves the vessels by unlocking these“coferes” – elsewhere called “kystes” – with keys (1438), an image that, as weshall see, is repeated in St. Erkenwald . It is Baltazar’s wish for his knights and“ladyes,” or concubines, to enjoy their wine from the “jueles out of Jeru-salem” (1441). Thus the consecrated vessels become “fouled” (1495), andGod, in order to demonstrate his great displeasure with the festivities, sends achilling warning to Baltazar and his guests:

162




Þer apered a paume, wyth poyntel in fyngres,Þat watz grysly and gret, and grymly he wrytes;

Non o þer forme bot a fust faylande þe wrystePared on þe parget, purtrayed lettres. (1533–36)

[There appeared a hand, with a stylus in its fingers, that was horribleand great, and sternly it writes; no other form but a fist, lacking thewrist, cut into the plaster, portrayed letters.]

Baltazar is stunned with fear as he watches the floating hand carve mysterious“runisch sauez” (runish writings) (1544–45) in the wall.

The image in Cleanness of the treasurer unlocking with keys the “coferes”where the sacred vessels are kept and the motif of the mysterious, runish writ-

ings are both repeated in St. Erkenwald . Furthermore, the shared images arespecifically linked in both poems to either a larger or a smaller architecturalform or setting. In Cleanness the sancta sanctorum of Solomon’s Temple andthe liturgical vessels are presented. In St. Erkenwald , St. Paul’s Cathedral inLondon and an elaborate tomb within that church appear. As the edifice wherePerpendicular Gothic was introduced, and because of its importance as theecclesiastical center of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral stood as a rival to manyof the great churches of medieval Europe.23 Around the year 1250 a recon-

struction program was begun at St. Paul’s.24 St. Erkenwald records the building activities:

Mony a mery mason was made þer to wyrke,Harde stones for to hewe wyt eggit toles,Mony grubber in grete þe grounde for to secheÞat þe fundement on fyrst shuld þe fote halde. (39–42)

[Many a happy mason was made to work there, who cut hard stoneswith sharp tools, many dug in the earth to make the groundwork for the

building, so that the foundation from the start would hold the structuralsupports.]

The reconstructed building was dedicated in 1314.25 The author of St. Erkenwald was sufficiently familiar with the architectural history of thisedifice to refer to it in his poem as the “New Werke.”26

The architectural character of St. Erkenwald’s shrine, its tremendous popu-larity as a site of medieval pilgrimage, and its association with the English

chantry movement has been discussed in Chapter Four of this study.27

Theshrine was famous for the miracles that were said to have occurred there, and

163


23 See G. H. Cook, Old S. Paul’s Cathedral .24 Ibid. 33–36. See also, Maurice Hastings, St. Stephen’s Chapel and its Place in the Development of

Perpendicular Style in England , 5–12.25 The shrine of St. Erkenwald had begun the year before in 1313. A chantry was added to the shrine

in 1323. See Hastings, 6.26 Peterson, St. Erkenwald , 38.27 Pp. 118, 126, 128.



the author of the poem St. Erkenwald seems to have conflated a legend about amiracle performed by the seventh-century saint with his knowledge of thethirteenth-century New Work and the fourteenth-century shrine.28 The

building activities that the poem recounts lead to the uncovering in the churchof a marvelous tomb that contains the preserved corpse of an ancient judgewho suffers in Limbo for having lived and died as an unbaptized pagan:

For as þai dyt and dalfe so depe into þe ertheÞai founden fourmyt on a flore a ferly faire toumbe.Hit was a throghe of thykke ston thryuandly hewen,Wyt gargeles garnysht aboute alle of gray marbre. (45–8)

[Foras they workedand dug so deep into the earth, they found, built onthe floor, an exceedingly beautiful tomb. It was a coffin of thick stoneexcellently cut, decorated all over with gargoyles made of graymarble.]

The lid of this tomb is embellished with “bryt golde lettres” (51) whose“resones” or sentences were “roynyshe” (52), that is, mysterious, or rune-like.After hearing High Mass, the bishop arrives at the tomb and baptizes the judgewith his tears, thus providing for his passage into Heaven. Of interest from an

architectural perspective, and for its similarity to a passage in Cleanness, isthe image announcing Erkenwald’s arrival at the tomb:

As riche reuestid as he was he rayked to þe toumbe,Men vnclosid hym þe cloyster wyt clustrede keies,Bot pyne wos wyt þe grete prece þat passyd hym after. (139–40)

[Arrayed in rich vestments, he proceeded quickly to the tomb; menunlocked the cloister for him with keys in a cluster. But pain was withthe great throng that went after him.]

One can hear in the alliterative stresses of this passage the clanking sound of the keys against the iron grate surrounding the shrine.29

In the three poems we have been discussing, Sir Gawain and the Green

164


28 Clifford Peterson explains the anachronistic coupling in this poem about Erkenwald, who wasmade bishop of London in 675, and the thirteenth-century reconstruction of St. Paul’s Cathedral:“The first cathedral in London dedicated to St. Paul was built by King Æthelbert in the time of Bishop Mellitus, while ‘New Work’ was the name regularly given to a period of reconstruction atSt. Paul’s that began in the mid-thirteenth century. Erkenwald, however, was widely regarded asthe man who had set the original ecclesiastical foundation on a steady footing. . . . Erkenwald’sassociation with the New Work is . . . not as unlikely as the apparent anachronism of placingthirteenth-century work in the seventh century would make it seem.” Peterson concludes that aconnection between St. Erkenwald, a miracle that occurred at the saint’s shrine in 1087, and the

New Work “may have been in the poet’s mind when he associated the bishop with the New Work.. . . However, it may as well have been that the poet simply included familiar, if inexact, local refer-ences in order to give his poem a general sense of place.” St. Erkenwald , 36–37.

29 The keys that are used to unlock the grating are perhaps representative of the keys of the kingdomof Heaven that Christ gives to Peter to act as minister of his Church on earth (Matt. 16.19). SeeT. McAlindon, “Hagiography into Art: A Study of St. Erkenwald ,” Studies in Philology 67 (1970):



Knight , Cleanness, and St. Erkenwald , we find a series of architectural formsand settings that mimic one another in ornamentation and structural detail.These forms range in scale from canopied serving platters, liturgical vessels

stolen from the Temple of Solomon, a marble tomb embellished withgargoyles and enclosed with a gate as if “cloystered,” and a late medievalcastle modeled, perhaps, on a Parisian royal residence. These poems are a lit-erary record of a medieval artistic phenomenon that has been the subject of scholarly research for some of the most prominent architectural historians of our day.30 With a fond awareness of his architectural environment, the poetrecords the imitative exchange of ideas and techniques that occurred amongmedieval craftsmen of the visual arts. This imitation and interaction of stylesand concepts is underscored by common designations for different architec-tural spaces in the poems. I will discuss these linguistic connections at greater length below; for now let it suffice to point out that the word “cloyster” isapplied not only to the shrine in St. Erkenwald , but also to the castle inGawain (804) and to the New Jerusalem in Pearl : “Þat clene cloyster” (969).

By repeating images of micro-architectural detail in a variety of structures,each edifice becomes an alternative setting for the display of sanctity,mystery, and divine Judgment. The special association of architecture withthese themes is particularly evident in Cleanness and St. Erkenwald, where

human contact with architectural forms (canopied table settings, liturgicalvessels, shrine) provokes God’s favor or displeasure. The shared motif in thetwo poems of the engraved, rune-like message is an emblem of sacredmystery, a revelation of divine presence, and a concealment of God’s will.

The castle in Sir Gawain is not an architectural setting that conveys a senseof sanctity, but it is an edifice shrouded with the mystery of Gawain’s questfor the Green Knight, and it is – like all the edifices in the Pearl poet’s works – a setting for a moral drama that will lead to a confrontation with death.

Further, it must not be forgotten that the aim of Gawain’s quest is to find anedifice that is sacred – sacred, that is, by its designation as a chapel and by theact of penance staged before it upon Gawain’s arrival and subsequent trialwith the Green Knight.

Landscapes, Dwellings, Symmetries, and Circles:Laying the Foundation for the Apocalyptic Drama

While the Pearl poet uses images of architecture in his poems as settingsthrough which to convey concepts of sanctity, mystery, and divine Judgment,it is in Pearl itself that the poet’s fond awareness of architectural form and its

165


489; and Casey Finch, ed. and trans., The Complete Works of the Pearl Poet (Berkeley, LosAngeles, and Oxford: U of California P, 1993), 403 n. 140.

30 For example, see Jean Bony, French Gothic Architecture; Bony, The English Decorated Style;Robert Branner, St Louis and the Court Style in Gothic Architecture; Wilson, The GothicCathedral ; Coldstream, The Decorated Style; Michael Camille, Gothic Art: Glorious Visions.



potential as an anagogic symbol is most enthusiastically and carefullydisplayed. In short, what we find in Pearl is a sophisticated demonstration of the poet’s ambitions as a master builder, but one who chose words, rather than

stone, as his building medium, and who looked to fourteenth-century funerarymonuments for his architectural “scale” and presentation of eschatologicalthemes.

There are two principal ways in which the poet demonstrates his architec-tural ambitions in Pearl . The first of these ways is the feature for which the

poem is, perhaps, most justly famous, namely its complex structure with anetwork of word links, number schemes, and rich sound patterns. Second, the

poet presents his eschatological drama through a series of landscapes that inthe Middle Ages were laden with architectural significance. One-third of the

poem is devoted to a detailed description of the most revered literary edifice inChristian history: the walled city of the New Jerusalem. But this edifice – or complex of edifices – is only the grandest and most architecturally obvious of the three landscapes in the poem; the other two, the “erber grene,” or hortusconclusus, and the Paradise garden were favorite motifs for medievalexegetes, who employed them regularly in their fluid network of architecturalmetaphors. The anonymous author of Pearl demonstrates a familiarity withthis exegetical tradition, and he takes careful measures to exploit it for his own

ambitions as a poet-architect.The conspicuous and complex design of Pearl has received highest praise

from scholars of the poem. John Fleming, for example, called it “the moststructurally complex of the great vernacular masterpieces of the later MiddleAges,” and according to Marie Borroff, its complexity is “unmatched inEnglish poetry before or since.”31 The poem’s twenty sections each containfive stanzas of twelve lines, with section XV as the one exception, containingsix, instead of five stanzas. The stanzas in a given section are connected to one

another by link-words that are repeated in the first and last lines of the stanzas,often as part of a refrain. The sections themselves are joined by “concatena-tion,” or overlapping repetition; that is, the link-word of a given sectionappears in the first line of the first stanza of the following section. Finally, thelast word of the opening line, “paye” (pleasure), becomes the link-word in thelast stanza-group, thus joining the beginning with the end in a near-perfectenclosure. Even the exceptions to this overall scheme seem to be deliberate.The extra stanza (lines 901–12) of Group XV makes Pearl end with 1212

lines; 12 x 12, which equals 144, relates to the architecture of the New Jeru-salem (1029–32), and there are 144,000 virgins in the heavenly procession(869–70). This configuration is ornamented throughout by a combination of

166


31 John V. Fleming, “The Centuple Structure of the Pearl ,” in The Alliterative Tradition in the Four-teenth Century, ed. Bernard S. Levy and Paul E. Szarmach (Kent, OH: Kent State UP), 82; MarieBorroff ed., Pearl: A New Verse Translation, xvi. See also P. M. Kean, “Numerical Composition in

Pearl ,” Notes and Queries 12 (1965): 51.



alliterative techniques and a complex, end-rhyme scheme, creating rich patterns of sound to accompany the visual brilliance of the poem’s imagery.

This unusually deliberate and minutely controlled craftsmanship is the

frame within which the poet describes his eschatological landscapes withstunning, luminous detail. The author’s fondness for describing physicaldetail and his appeal to the senses through the sounds and images of his poetrymake Pearl , as John Gatta observed, “emphatically ornate.”32 The closestmedieval parallel to this combination of structural complexity, sound, andornament is the medieval ecclesiastical edifice – a parallel strengthenedfurther by the poem’s liturgical character, eschatological subject matter, andapocalyptic symbolism. Sound and symbolism are completely integrated withstructure, ornament, and theme, just as the music and spectacle of medievalsacred liturgy served as an aural and visual complement to the structure anddecoration of the stone edifices in which those liturgies were celebrated.

The structural and decorative qualities of Pearl that I have put forward asevidence for the poet’s ambitions as a master builder have prompted somescholars to argue for connections between the poem and medieval art objectssuch as altarpieces, reliquaries, and stained-glass windows.33 One aspect of the poem’s structure that has attracted considerable scholarly attention is the

poem’s cyclical nature, with its repetition of “echo” words that link the

stanzas and the first and last lines. This circularity corresponds metaphoricallyto the roundness of the poem’s central symbol, the pearl, and comparisonshave therefore been made between the poem and a kind of garland of linkedunits, or a corona candelabrum, itself “a gilded, jeweled circle that was takento represent the Heavenly Jerusalem.”34 But the poem is clearly symmetricalas well as circular. Louis Blenkner has described the poem as tripartite, with amiddle section – the “homiletic center” – flanked by two descriptive sections,the garden landscapes and the New Jerusalem.35 Britton J. Harwood, on the

other hand, sees in its patterns of symmetry a medieval diptych and dividesthe poem not into three sections, but into two halves of ten groups.36 John M.Bowers goes a step further, arguing that the themes and style of the WiltonDiptych (c. 1394–96), “closely match those of Pearl .”37

These readings of Pearl call attention to its fine craftsmanship and succeedin demonstrating how the author sought to expose himself as a keen observer,admirer, and imitator of objects and images of the visual arts. My own view,

167


32 “Transformational Symbolism and the Liturgy of the Mass in Pearl ,” Modern Philology 71(1973): 248.

33 See, for example, Borroff, xix; Heather Phillips, “Mediaeval Glass-Making Techniques and theImagery of Glass in Pearl ,” Florilegium 6 (1984): 195–215.

34 See Ian Bishop, Pearl in its Setting (Oxford: Blackwell, 1968), 29–30; and Britton J. Harwood,“ Pearl as Diptych,” in Text and Matter; New Critical Perspectives of the Pearl- Poet, eds. Robert J.Blanch, Miriam Youngerman Miller and Julian N. Wasserman (Troy, NY: Whitson, 1991), 61.

35 “The Theological Structure of ‘Pearl’,” Traditio 24 (1968): 44.36 “ Pearl as Diptych,” 61–78.37 “ Pearl in its Royal Setting,” 126.



however, is that the poet’s ambitions as a craftsman exceeded the desire toimitate in Pearl a corona candelabrum or a medieval diptych, while wishingto include such objects metaphorically in his architectural repertoire, as a way

of suggesting further his active participation in the exchange of ideas andtechniques of the visual arts.In order to appreciate fully the poet’s ambitions as a master builder in

Pearl , it is essential to view this poem not as an isolated expression, but as amature work within the small group of alliterative poems we’ve beendiscussing, a work whose pathos and artistic refinement surpass those of theother poems in its unusually sophisticated exploration of eschatologicalthemes and architectural motifs. We observe in each of the related poems afascination with geometric patterning and with finely crafted shapes andenclosures, both as images within the poems and as architectural frames for aninterior drama. This drama is always driven by an assertive confrontation withdeath and divine Judgment. Furthermore, the liturgical influence upon these

poems is great indeed, one that has been noted in the scholarship; but there has been no attempt to see this liturgical influence in conjunction with the poet’sinterest in eschatological space, enclosure, and ornament.

The great interest we find in these poems in the human confrontation withdeath and divine Judgment is expressed through a series of interconnected

landscapes, and I use the term “landscapes” broadly to mean enclosed spaces, buildings, and communities typically fraught with eschatological meaning.Some of the most obvious of these include the Ark of Noah, Solomon’sTemple, and the historical Jerusalem in Cleanness – a poem about divineJudgment. In Pearl , we have the “erber grene,” the Paradise garden, and the

New Jerusalem based on the account in John’s Apocalypse. The cathedralsetting and elaborate tomb of St. Erkenwald add significantly to this network of eschatological landscapes.

In his four–volume study, Exégèse Médiéval , Henri de Lubac includes achapter, “Symboles architecturaux,” in which he reviews the tradition of architectural motifs in medieval exegesis. Lubac writes,

la métaphore de l’édifice occupe une place privilégiée dans la littératurereligieuse, doctrinale ou spirituelle. ‘Pas de figures plus utilisée par lesmaîtres médiévaux de l’allégorie, que celles de la cité, du château, de lamaison, du temple.’ Ce sont là, d’ailleurs, déjà des images bibliques,évangéliques et pauliniennes, dont les Pères avaient fait grand usage.38

[the metaphor of the edifice occupies a privileged place in religiousliterature, doctrinal or spiritual. “There are no figures more utilized by themedieval masters of allegory, than those of the city, of the château, of the

168


38 Exégèse Médiévale; Les Quatre Sens de L’Écriture, Seconde Partie II (Paris: Aubier, 1962), 44.Lubac cites Ford Lewis Battles, “Hugo of Saint Victor as a Moral Allegorist,” Church HistoryXVIII (1949): 229. For a Pauline example, Lubac cites I Cor. 3.9.



dwelling, (or) of the temple.” We recognize these already in the biblicalimages, in the Gospels and in Paul, of which the Church Fathers made greatuse.]

Among his many examples of exegetical authorities on this subject, Lubaccites St. Augustine who, as we have seen, used the edifice metaphor in hiscommentary on Psalm 95. For Augustine, to sing the new song was, in fact, to

build: ipsum cantare, aedificare est.39

In his discussion of the popular motif of Noah’s Ark, Lubac cites Hugh of St.-Victor, who interprets the structure as a symbol for what the Christianmust build in his heart. Hugh also identifies the Ark both as a symbol of theworld’s axis and the tree of life. Saint Avit de Vienne delivered a homily on

the Ark in connection with the dedication of the basilica of Saint-Ireneus inLyon, the liturgy which, as we have seen, identifies the church building as afigure of the Heavenly Jerusalem.40 St. Ambrose saw in the construction of

Noah’s Ark the figure of the human body,41 while Augustine, elaboratingupon Ambrose’s ideas, interpreted the Ark as the edification of the Church:

Without doubt this [ark] is a symbol of the City of God on pilgrimage in thisworld: that is, of the Church which is saved through the wood upon whichhung “the Mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”

To emphasize the complex symolic relationship between the Ark, the human body, and the Church, Augustine continues:

Now the dimensions of the Ark, its length, height and breadth, symbolize thehuman body. . . . And all the other details mentioned in connection with the

building of the Ark are signs of things in the Church.( De civitate Dei XV.26)

The Temple of Solomon, as we have discussed in various parts of this book, was interpreted similarly as an edifice that the Christian was to recog-nize metaphorically (and alternatively) as the temple of Christ’s body, theorigin of the Church on earth, and a prefiguration of the Heavenly City.42 Butthe metaphorical interpretation of the edifice extended even further, beyond

biblical architecture, to include the human body, the Christian soul, and thespiritual life. The female body, for example, was “destiné à représenter l’Église” through Mary, the mother of Christ. The soul is commonly inter-

preted as the temple or the house of God, and the spiritual life is “un édifice ou

169


39 Exégèse Médiévale, 44. See Chapter Two of this book.40 See Chapter Three of this book.41 Exégèse Médiévale, 41–42.42 Exégèse Médiévale, 42–43. Solomon’s Temple is the subject of discussions in the Introduction,

16–21, Chapter Two, 56, 64, and in Chapter Three, 83–4.



une ‘structure’ céleste, qui s’élève dans le silence, comme jadis le temple deSalomon.”43

This last example is particularly interesting, for it combines the idea of the

spiritual movement of the soul toward God with the image of the constructionof a historical edifice. The great Gothic church, with its pointed arches,soaring naves, and liturgical processions seems to have been an attempt tomanifest visually this conflated image. But the principal construction,observes Lubac,

celle qui command toutes les constructions spirituelles, c’est la constructionde l’Église: universa spiritualis fabricae structura. . . .Lesymboleenestàlafois la maison de la Sagesse, l’arche de Noé, le tabernacle, le temple, la

maison des noces de la parabole évangélique. L’Église, qui est à la fois de laterre et du ciel, c’est Jérusalem; c’est le temple d’Ezéchiel, qui est à lui seulune cité; c’est la cité de l’Apocalypse, qui est tout entière un temple.44

[the one that commands all spiritual constructions, is the construction of theChurch: universa spiritualis fabricae structura. . . . The symbol is at thesame time the house of Wisdom, Noah’s ark, the tabernacle, the temple, thehouse of the wedding from the gospel parable. The Church, which is at thesame time of earth and of heaven, is Jerusalem; it is the temple of Ezekiel,which is itself a city, it is the city of the Apocalypse, which is in all itsentirety, a temple.]

And of this great Church, “l’église visible et matérielle est le signe.”45 As wehave seen in Chapter Three, the rituals and prayers for the dedication of aChristian church supply what is perhaps the most comprehensive and artfullydesigned demonstration of this play of metaphors, all pointing directly or indi-rectly to the concept of the church as a figure of the New Jerusalem.

It is indeed striking how many of the most common architectural motifs

found in the medieval exegetical tradition are included or referred to in theCotton Nero poems: Noah’s Ark, Solomon’s Temple, the house in the Gospel parable of the wedding feast, the historical and the Heavenly Jerusalem.46 Thetwo garden landscapes in Pearl also have architectural connotations that were

promoted by the medieval exegetes. The green “erber,” for example,described in the poem’s opening stanzas is an enclosed space that the

jeweler-dreamer must enter:

170


43 Exégèse Médiévale, 7. (Trans. An edifice or a celestial structure, which rises in silence, like informer times the Temple of Jerusalem.)

44 Ibid. 50.45 Ibid. 53. (The church visible and material is the sign.)46 Not unlike Dante, then, the poet has created not merely a literary extension but a literary imitation

of biblical texts. Ronald B. Herzman explores the question of whether Dante saw the Apocalypseas a model for his Commedia. This chapter is one way of investigating the extent to which the

Pearl poet used the Apocalypse as a model for his own literary art. See Herzman, “Dante and theApocalypse,” in The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, 398–413.



To þat spot þat I in speche expounI entred in that erber grene. (37–8)47

[To that spot that I describe in speech, I entered into that green

garden.]

By calling this enclosed garden “a spot of spysez” (25) and referring later tothe pearl maiden as “Þat special spyce” (235, 938) the poet links both gardenand maiden to the hortus conclusus, the enclosed spice garden from the Songof Songs (4.12).48 The location and physical attributes of the “erber” stimulatethe jeweler’s recollection, grief, and longing for his lost pearl. The maiden isan inhabitant of the heavenly realm; through her divine intercession, the “spotof spysez” takes on sacred associations and becomes an addition to the systemof mixed metaphors related to the biblical hortus conclusus. As Andrew andWaldron point out, the enclosed garden of the Song of Songs “was variouslyinterpreted as allegorically representing the Virgin Mary, Christ’s humannature, Christ’s resurrection, and the Church.”49

The “erber” is a locus in which the jeweler’s bereavement and longing for the pearl are isolated and concentrated, but the “erber” itself “does not exist inisolation,” since it is a prefiguration of both the Paradise garden and the NewJerusalem.50 Medieval conceptions of Paradise were part of the complex

system of metaphors that included architectural motifs. The garden of Eden,for example, was seen as a prefiguration of the Church, Heaven, and the Para-dise of the Christian soul. The Heavenly Paradise was understood by medi-eval exegetes as a kind of interpretive force, or standard, that transformed thescriptural events of Christian history into a panorama of sacred symbols, withthe New Jerusalem as the edifice that spans all meanings, earthly and spiri-tual.51 The Pearl poet’s metaphorical treatment of this impressive collectionof architectural motifs is excellent evidence that the poet was familiar with not

171


47 “The precise use of the prepositions should be observed: the poet goes into the herb garden to thespot in that garden where the grave is.” Gordon, 47 nn. 37–8.

48 See P. M. Kean, “The Pearl: An Interpretation (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1967), 16; C. A.Luttrell, “ Pearl : Symbolism in a Garden Setting,” Neophilologus 49 (1965): 160–76; Marie P.Hamilton, “The Meaning of the Middle English Pearl ,” Proceedings of the Modern Language

Association 70 (1955): 805–24. The tradition of medieval gardens as representatives of the terres-trial paradise or the garden of love can be traced to the classical conception of the locus amoenus;see Ernst R. Curtius, European Literature and Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask, BollingenSeries 36 (Princeton, Princeton UP, 1973), 192–200; and Derek Pearsall and Elizabeth Salter,

Landscapes and Seasons of the Medieval World (Toronto and Buffalo: U of Toronto P, 1973),56–118.

49 The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript , 53–54 n. 9.50 Pearsall and Salter, Landscapes and Seasons, 103. My discussion here of the symbolic relationship

between the garden landscapes and the New Jerusalem in Pearl owes much to the excellent obser-vations of Pearsall and Salter, 59, 102–3.

51 Derek Pearsall and Elizabeth Salter summarize this medieval perspective: “The teaching of theChurch on Paradise provided writers and artists, as it did preachers and students of theology, with arange of alternatives, rather than with a straightforward choice between literal and spiritual truth,

between history and exegesis. Above all, it provided for the simultaneous holding of beliefs whichto later ages might seem mutually exclusive,” Landscapes and Seasons, 59.



only their biblical significance but with how these motifs were treated allegor-ically by medieval exegetes. The New Jerusalem in Pearl is the architecturalspace that emits a light brighter than the sun, a light that penetrates the Para-

dise garden and beyond, to the “spot of spycez” where the jeweler lost his pearl. It is, therefore, the overarching symbol of the poem, the edifice thatgives “shape” to the garden landscapes and, ultimately, to the poem itself.

The wide range of architectural motifs included in the Cotton Nero poemshas not gone unnoticed by literary medievalists.52 Scholars have drawn atten-tion to ways in which smaller enclosures, like the boxes, chests, graves,houses, and arks, function as “microcosms of the larger enclosures of templesand cities.”53 Besides the architectural motifs already mentioned, one mayinclude in this catalogue of enclosures the curtained bed and the green chapelin Sir Gawain and the Green Knight , Lot’s house in Cleanness, and thewhale’s belly in Patience, which is presented as a kind of exotic grave for Jonah.

Previous studies on the poet’s use of enclosed spaces treat the subject primarily from a theoretical perspective. Beyond a general acknowledgmentof the poet’s delight in describing the external details of literary edifices, largeand small, the poet is thought to have conceived of space abstractly, withoutany specific, or specifically learned, interest in the architectural projects of his

own day. There has been no attempt, therefore, to understand the poet’sinterest in architectural motifs, eschatological themes, and ornament by takinga careful look at late medieval English architecture, except in a very generalway, as in the case of Elizabeth Salter’s observations on the poem. Mysuggestion that the poet was attempting to build, with Pearl , a kind of latemedieval ecclesiastical edifice – a literary church in miniature form – is,therefore, novel; yet the poem’s complex structure, ornamental qualities, andeschatological landscapes – informed by the themes and imagery of the other

poems – suggest this possibility. Further, no one has examined the role of liturgy in conjunction with the poet’s interest in architectural forms; in other words, the Pearl poet liturgists and the literary space theorists do not seem tohave benefited from their respective studies.54

172


52 A study by S. L. Clark and Julian N. Wasserman on the Pearl poet’s city imagery, and SarahStanbury’s work on space and visual perception in the poems are two prominent examples of thisscholarship: “The Pearl Poet’s City Imagery,” The Southern Quarterly XVI (1978): 297–309; seealso Sarah Stanbury, “Space and Visual Hermeneutics in the Gawain-Poet,” The Chaucer Review21 (1987): 476–89; Stanbury, “Visions of Space: Acts of Perception in Pearl and in Some LateMedieval Illustrated Apocalypses,” Mediaevalia 10 (1988): 133–58; Stanbury, Seeing theGawain-Poet; Description and the Act of Perception (Philadelphia, U of Pennsylvania P, 1991).

53 Clark and Wasserman, “The Pearl Poet’s City Imagery,” 300–1.54 For an excellent, recent survey on the uses of liturgy in medieval literature, see Evelyn Birge Vitz,

“The Liturgy and Vernacular Literature,” in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, ed. Thomas J.Heffernan and E. Ann Matter (Kalamazoo, Michigan: Medieval Institute Publications, WesternMichigan U), 551–618.



Burial Mound, Sion, Jerusalem:“it is the same thing” – “tout entière un temple”

For further evidence of the poet’s awareness of the forms and symbolicmeaning of Gothic architecture and of his ambitions as a master builder, it will

be helpful to examine some of the terms the poet uses to describe his land-scapes, as well as the close links between these terms and medieval ecclesias-tical structures.

Roughly one-third of Pearl is devoted to a detailed description of the NewJerusalem, its walls, foundations, precious stones, and the river of life. It is

presented as an elaborate architectural space, a city or a kind of castle, and alocus for liturgical celebration.55 In the Middle Ages the terms used to denotecities and buildings were used interchangeably.56 Augustine was an influen-tial guide to this linguistic flexibility in descriptions of sacred buildings:

It does not matter whether we call this house [of which Christ is thefoundation] the House of God or the Temple of God or the City of God, andnone of these names is at odds with customary Latin speech.

( De civitate Dei, XV.19)

According to Augustine, even Virgil “imitates” scripture when he calls theRomans “the house of Aeneas,” since in the Bible the Hebrews are called“The house of Jacob.”57 As Jill Mann has pointed out,

the walls of a city bound it into a single architectural entity, and conversely, acastle, which we might think of as a single building, was not so much anindividual dwelling as a centre of population.58

In other words, a walled city or a castle is first of all a community. The Churchitself is the exemplary community, the “house” of which Christ is the founda-tion and which has both spiritual and material representations. It is a“château-fort” as Lubac observes, since it remains standing – even flourishing

– while enduring besiegement on every side by the enemy.59 In RobertGrosseteste’s Chasteau d’Amour , the body of the Virgin is a figure of a castle,the point being that she is the protective sanctuary of God made flesh andfrom her springs the Church on earth and Heaven.60

173


55 For examples of instances when the poet refers to the New Jerusalem as a city, see lines 957, 1023,1048. For references to the New Jerusalem as a castle or medieval manor see, for example, lines1029 and 1083. For the New Jerusalem as a setting for liturgy, see lines 861–62, 1093–96, and1119–26.

56 See Roberta D. Cornelius, “The Figurative Castle: A Study in the Mediæval Allegory of theEdifice with Especial Reference to Religious Writings” (Ph.D. diss., Bryn Mawr, 1930), 10–13.

57 Cf. Eph. 2.20; Aeneid , I.284; III.97.58 “Allegorical Buildings in Mediaeval Literature,” Medium Aevum LXIII (1994): 193.59 Exégèse Médiévale, 53.60 See Cornelius, “The Figurative Castle,” 37–48 and Jill Mann, “Allegorical Buildings,” 198. The

middle English versions of Grosseteste’s poem have been edited by Kari Sajavaara, The Middle



The medieval fondness for viewing the Church, the temples of Solomonand Ezekiel, and the historical and Heavenly Jerusalem as alternative expres-sions of one another is, as we have seen, eloquently observed by Lubac.61 This

conception of the New Jerusalem as a temple “tout entière” is also clearlydemonstrated in Pearl :

Kyrk þerinne watz non yete,Chapel ne temple þat euer watz set;The Almyty watz her mynster mete,Þe Lombe þe sakerfyse þer to refet. (1061–64)

[Yet there was no church in that place, no chapel nor temple was ever built there; the Almighty was her noble minster, the Lamb, the sacri-

fice to refresh (the inhabitants) there.]

The poet qualifies his sacred city in this way so that his audience may notinterpret it as kind of earthly edifice. Although he describes its architecturaland decorative features in great detail, the city is, ultimately, beyond humanimagination. Although the church built by human hands is a representation of the New Jerusalem, one must not err in believing that the New Jerusalem can

be understood completely in human terms. Heaven does not contain a church,

because there is no need for one; it is “tout entière” a temple through the ever-lasting presence and worship of Christ.In the Cotton Nero poems and in St. Erkenwald , we find a conscious adher-

ence to this tradition of mingling medieval concepts of city, dwelling, castle,and temple. In addition, the poet expresses these concepts with terms denotingtombs or grave-sites, shrines, and cloisters. This practice is especially evidentin Pearl . In the maiden’s conversation with the dreamer, for example, shespeaks of the historical city of Jerusalem and uses designations from Hebrews12.22 and Revelation 3.12 (“ceté of God” and “syght of pes”) that denote theHeavenly City (950–52). Alternatively, she describes the New Jerusalem asthe “hyl of Syon, that semly clot” (789) (the hill of Sion, that fair “clot”), with“clot” denoting clay, earth, or hill. “Clot” incidentally is the same word usedto identify the spot where the jeweler-dreamer lost his pearl; in other words,this is a location associated with a burial mound, a grave. It is also the spot towhich the dreamer returns after he awakens and where he makes reference tothe eucharistic liturgy.

The pearl maiden’s activity in the New Jerusalem is identified as a specific

liturgical activity, a celebration of the Mass:

Þe Lombe vus gladez, oure care is kest;He myr þes vus all at vch a mes. (862)

174


English Translations of Robert Grosseteste’s ‘Château d’Amour ,’ Mémoires de la Société Néophilologique de Helsinki 32 (Helsinki: Uusfilologinen yhdistys, 1967).

61 See p. 170 above.



[The Lamb makes us glad, our care is removed; he (Christ) delights usall at every Mass.]

The Burial mound, Syon (Sion), and Jerusalem are all, therefore, locations for liturgy.

Other synonyms the poet uses for the Celestial City in Pearl are “bylde”(963), “mote” (936–37, 948–49, 973), and “wone(z)” (1049, Pl. 32, 917, 924,1027), the last term meaning “dwelling(s) or abode(s).” One occurrence of “wonez” seems to be a reference to the concept of Heaven as an abode of many mansions.62

Þe wonez withinne enurned ware

Wyth alle kynnez perré þat mot repayre. (1027–28)[The dwellings within (the Heavenly city) were adorned with all

precious stones that could be gathered there.]

In St. Erkenwald , “cenacle” (336) relates to the Latin “coenaculum,” theupper chamber or room, where the holy spirit descended upon the apostles.63

The cenacle is where the judge, after having been baptized by the bishop, iswelcomed into Heaven (336). The gate-enclosed space that contains the tombin St. Erkenwald is called a “cloyster” (140). In Pearl , Heaven is also called a“cloystor” (969), which some editors have glossed as “city” or “city wall.”The word “lome” in St. Erkenwald is used for coffin (68, 149); the same wordis used in Cleanness for Noah’s Ark. (149). In Pearl , the maiden tells thedreamer that she is enclosed in a “cofer so comly clente” (259) meaning theearthly Paradise, but as Marie Borroff points out, cofer could also mean“coffin.”64 The latter meaning of the word refers the reader back to theopening “clot” where the pearl is buried. The garden landscapes are meta-

phors for Paradise, and as the crowning image in this network of architectural

motifs, the New Jerusalem in Pearl is at once coffer, city, castle, cloyster,shrine, and pearl (735).

From Burial “huyle” to Apocalyptic Vision: The Shaping of Scripture and Light in Pearl

The medieval ecclesiastical edifice, like the dreamer’s vision in Pearl , was a

blended space designed to accommodate a display of sacramental ornamentand for commemorative, communal worship. The display of ornament and

175


62 Jn. 14.2.63 Acts 1.13–14.64 Pearl , xix. Borroff adds, “An analogy becomes irresistible: the verbal artifact called Pearl is itself

a kind of painstakingly crafted container, embellished with every device of language in order that itmay be worthy of its contents, the vision of the pearl-maiden and the precious teachings sheimparts . . . [ Pearl ] can be contemplated . . . as a patterned object.”



liturgical worship was contained within an architectural frame that was perceived, as Abbot Suger described it, as a space existing halfway betweenthe sacred and the temporal realms.65 From ancient times, ecclesiastical

edifices were constructed upon burial sites. St.-Denis outside of Paris is afamous example of this practice, for the medieval church is thought to have been built on the site where the third-century remains of Denis and hismartyred companions, Rusticus and Eleutherius, were buried.66 As we haveseen, Pearl adheres to this tradition of shaping an apocalyptic vision on a

burial site. The jeweler enters the enclosed “erber” and his vision rises upfrom or out of the “clot,” (20) “huyle” (41), or mound that covers the pearl andwhere the dreamer laments his loss:

I playned my perle þat þer wa spenned. . . .I felle vpon þat floury flat,Suche odour to my herne schot;I slode vpon a slepyng-slate. . .Fro spot my spyryt þer sprang in space;My body on balke þer bod in sweuen.My goste is gon in Gode grace

In aventure þer mervayle meuen. (53–64)67

[I mourned for my pearl that was imprisoned there . . . I fell upon thatflowery turf, such odor rushed to my head; I slipped into a deep sleep.. . . From that spot my spirit rose after a time; my body remained thereon the ground in sleep. My spirit rose up in God’s grace, on a questwhere marvels take place (literally, where marvels “move” or “stir”).]

The three main landscapes of Pearl – the “erber,” the Paradise garden, and the

vision of the New Jerusalem – correspond to the three main elements of atypical medieval ecclesiastical edifice: the main entrance (frequently the west portal), the nave, and the eastern choir and sanctuary. The “erber” is the loca-tion of entrance and exit; it is the gate that leads to the vision and it will be thespot to which he will return at the end of the poem.

The long, central portion of Pearl is a place of instruction, observation, and penance, where all the elements of the landscape are described in terms of medieval metalwork: rocks are crystal, leaves are silver, the dreamer’s path ismade of pearls, the banks of the stream that separate him from the maiden are

176


65 On Suger’s description of the church building as a blended space, see Chapter Three, 70–71, 95.66 In the fifth century, Sainte Geneviève is believed to have persuaded the priests to build a chapel

over the tombs of Denis and his companions, and this chapel became what was to be the mauso-leum of the kings of France. See Sumner McKnight Crosby, The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis fromits Beginnings to the Death of Suger, 475–1151, 3–7.

67 Here I follow E. V. Gordon’s edition of Pearl ; Gordon retains the MS reading “spenned” (asopposed to Andrew and Waldron’s “penned,” 53). Also Gordon does not insert terminal punctua-tion between “bod” and “in” (62), as Andrew and Waldron do.



made of gold, and the stream itself is filled with gems. Although the dreamer sees, hears, and responds to the maiden’s instruction, the glittering stream isthe boundary that separates him from the maiden and the divine realm she

represents. The stream, as boundary, serves as a poetic rendering of the medi-eval altar screen, on the “west side” of which the dreamer must remain:

e setten Hys wordez ful westernaysÞat leuez no þynk bot e hit sye; (307–308)

[You set his words completely awry, (you) who believe nothing unlessyou see it.]

The word “westernays” is probably a form of the Old French “bestorneis,”

meaning “awry” and modified by the poet “as a result of its application tochurches facing west instead of east.”68 The dreamer’s vague understandingof doctrinal matters is “westward” looking, and is opposed to the easternorientation of all the sacred figures in the poem. The various images of pearls

– from lost child and maiden, to the pearly gravel, and finally to the pearls of the New Jerusalem – are all said to be from the “oryente,” that is, from theeast. The association of Paradise with the east was a common medievalconvention, but its application here is particularly significant, for it positions

the dreamer’s spiritual journey as one that moves from west to east, returning,finally, to the original locus of departure.The most interesting aspect of the dreamer’s response to this landscape –

interesting, that is, from an architectural perspective – is that the dreamer thinks he sees Paradise beyond the stream:

For þy I þot þat paradyseWatz þer ouer gayn þo bonkez brade; (137–38)

[wherefore I thought that paradise was over against the broad banks;]When the dreamer encounters the maiden, he wonders why he does not see awalled city. She seems, to him, too precious to appear outside the limits of Jerusalem:

Haf e no wonez in castel-walle, Ne maner þer e may mete and won?Þou tellez me of Jerusalem þe ryche ryalle,

Þer Dauid dere watz dyt on trone,Bot by þyse holtez hit con not hone,Bot in Judée hit is, þat noble note. (917–23)

[Have you no dwellings in a walled-castle, no mansion where you maymeet and live? You tell me of the royal kingdom of Jerusalem, where

177


68 See Andrew and Waldron eds, The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript , 69 n. 307 and E. V. Gordon ed., Pearl , 57 n. 307.



worthy David was set on a throne, but by these woods it is not situated,it is in Judaea, that noble structure.]

The dreamer is disturbed by the thought that the maiden and the “motelezmeyny” (925) who are her companions “schulde ly þeroute” (930, sleep outof doors), for such a large retinue would require the shelter of “gret ceté”(927). What appears at first to be a misunderstanding of the maiden’s habita-tion, proves instead to be a metaphoric exchange of the spice garden for avision of the earthly Paradise, a Paradise that should – in all due respect for the“pakke of joly juele” (929) that dwell there – be a castellum.69 With themaiden’s explanation that she lives not in the “olde Jerusalem” (941), but inthe “nwe” (943), where “glory and blysse schal ever encres” (959), “the two

gardens, the two cities, the two concepts” merge; that is, the “web of referenceand change” comes full circle.70

At the apex of the dreamer’s vision is the Heavenly City, which serves asthe poem’s eastern window. It is not a sustained vision, but it is, nonetheless, along moment in which God’s presence is apprehended and commemorated inthe image of bread and wine at the poem’s closing. If we allow ourselves torecognize the structural similarities of Pearl with the typical, medieval church

building, the patterns of concatenation that link the poem’s stanzas begin to

look like the tracery patterns in late Gothic windows or the cross ribs of aGothic vault. The lierne vault of English Decorated and the fan vault of English Perpendicular (such as those in the choir and chantries at TewkesburyAbbey) reproduce the radiating patterns of Rayonnant windows on ceilingsand, therefore, provide near-perfect architectural parallels with the design of

Pearl . The individual bays of a Gothic vault are, perhaps, represented by the poem’s carefully proportioned, linked stanzas. Indeed, the fusion of circular and symmetrical geometric patterning, the abundant use of ornament and

color, and the presentation of smaller enclosures as microcosms of the larger edifice in which they stood, were precisely the features of late English Gothicthat the Pearl poet adopted and applied to his own art.

Given these striking similarities in both design and artistic purpose, the poet must have been familiar with Christian adaptations of Platonic number theory, such as we find in the following passage by Gregory of Nyssa,explaining the relationship between the Platonic fusion of geometric formsand the design of sacred architecture:

The form of the chapel is a cross, which has its figure completed throughout,as you would expect, by four structures. The junctions of the buildingsintercept one another, as we see everywhere in the cruciform pattern. Butwithin the cross there lies a circle, divided by eight angles (I call the

178


69 The exchange here is, according to Pearsall and Salter, “a familiar medieval variation upon thewalled garden of Genesis, particularly in the literature of the Alexander legends” ( Landscapes and Seasons, 104).

70 Ibid. 105–6.



octagonal figure a circle in view of its circumference), in such a wise that thetwo pairs of sides of the octagon which are diametrically opposed to oneanother, unite by means of arches the central circle to the adjoining blocks of the building; while the other four sides of the octagon, which lie between thequadrilateral buildings, will not themselves be carried to meet the buildings,

but upon each of them will be described a semicircle like a shell, terminatingin an arch above: so that the arches will be eight in all, and by their means thequadrilateral and the semicircular buildings will be connected, side by side,with the central structure. ( Epistolae XVI, 31)71

Mary Carruthers has treated literary buildings as occasions for “mnemonictechnique” and “meditational recollection.”72 She argues that literary descrip-tions of churches, monastery buildings, castles, towers, amphitheaters, and“smaller-scale forms,” such as trees, ladders, cloisters or enclosed gardenswere perceived as having been “built by an architectus or master builder,” andthat these builders were the writers themselves.73 Drawing on Geoffrey of Vinsauf’s Poetria nova (1202) in which he discusses the poetic craft in termsof constructing a building, Carruthers writes:

in the memory, things are enclosed as in a recess, a stronghold, or box (thewords commonly used for the idea of memory as a “storage chest” in which

memorial things are placed and contained. Composition begins with thelaying out of a mental diagram or picture: “intrinseca linea cordis” . . . [a]ninterior string, of the sort a master builder would use in laying out the plan of a building, measures out the work.74

According to Geoffrey of Vinsauf, this work is conceived “with a circular structure in mind, a common shape, often subclassified as a ‘rose’ or other sortof wheel, or . . . mappa mundi.”75

It is striking how closely Geoffrey’s conception of poetic composition

resembles the structural techniques in Pearl : the series of interconnectedenclosures, the verbal building, the interior string of linking words and

phrases, the structural and metaphoric circularity combined with a symmetryakin to a frame or progression of distinct symmetrical units, all leading towarda vision of the New Jerusalem. The mappa mundi, which depicts the NewJerusalem at the center of the world, is a particularly intriguing parallel to

Pearl .Another characteristic feature of the Cotton poems and St. Erkenwald that

lends even stronger credibility to the poet’s envisioning himself as an

179


71 Gregory of Nyssa’s Epistolae XVI survives in an eleventh-century manuscript in the LaurentianLibrary in Florence. Cited in Nigel Hiscock, The Wise Master Builder , 131.

72 The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1998); “The Poet as Master Builder: Composition and Locational Memory in theMiddle Ages,” 882, 886.

73 Carruthers, “The Poet as Master Builder,” 882.74 Ibid. 889.75 Ibid. 890.



architectus is the poet’s repeated designation of God as a craftsman or builder.In Cleanness, for example, God is “Þe Wy þat wrot alle þinges” (5). In

Pearl the deity is called “Þe Fader of folde and flode” (736), and in St.

Erkenwald, He is the “Maty maker of men” (283). Patience, the poem thatcontains the least number of explicit architectural motifs, contains the greatestnumber of references to God as builder. In one passage, God is He “Þat eresalle made” (123); in another, “Þe Welder of wyt” (129); and in an ardentspeech by Jonah, we find the following description:

Þat Wye I worchyp, iwysse, þat wrot alle þynges,Alle þe worlde with þe welkyn, þe wynde and þe sternes,And alle þat wonez þer withinne, at a worde one. (206–8)

[That Person I worship, indeed, that wrought all things, all the worldwith the sky, the wind, and the stars, and all that live in it, by a singleword.]

The supreme model for the dream vision in Pearl is John’s vision in the Book of Revelation. That the poet states repeatedly his allegiance to the biblical textsuggests, perhaps, that he saw himself as a participant in a kind of divineworkshop, where the word of God, “Þe Welder of wyt,” was revealed to John

and passed on to the poet, who recreates the vision for his listeners andreaders:

Tyl on a hyl þat I asspyedAnd blusched on þe burghe, as I forth dreued,Byonde þe brok, fro me warde keued,Þat schyrrer þen sunne with schaftez schon.In þe Apokalypce is þe fasoun preued,As deuysez hit þe apostel John. (979–84)

[Until on a hill I caught sight of the city, and gazed at it as I wentforward, having descended (from Heaven) at a distance from me,

beyond the brook, that shone with shafts of light brighter than the sun.In the Apocalypse is the fashion of it shown, as the Apostle Johndescribes it.]

If we apply the architectural qualities of Pearl to Carruthers’ theory of medi-eval ekphrasis, Pearl proves to be a grand exemplar of the medieval imagina-tive, mnemonic plan, with its painstaking attention to geometric form, itsrefrains and echo-words, its great variety of architectural motifs and minglingof architectural terms and concepts. One could argue that Pearl is, simply put,a poem about remembrance. On the one hand it serves as an architecturalelegy – a shrine to the maiden; on the other it is the task of the dreamer, after he has received his homiletic instruction and is shown the vision of the NewJerusalem, to remember how to act on his own behalf, to be a jeweler in thesense that Christ and the New Jerusalem are jewels. He must, in other words,

become the craftsman of his own soul.

180




Prayer, Homilies, and Procession:Liturgical Drama and the Literary Chapel

Pearl is a poem that literary medievalists have categorized as being simulta-neously elegy, consolatio, and dream vision. But it is also a highly liturgical

poem; like liturgy, Pearl offers a conception of individuality that is an ines-capable part of human experience, even within a concept of human existencethat looks to the spiritual realm beyond earthy experience and beyond time.The emotions of mourning and yearning that the poem expresses are noteffaced, not even by the knowledge conveyed to the dreamer by the maidenand in his vision of the Heavenly Jerusalem, where death is not a loss and adegeneration but a spiritual birth into a resplendent relationship with thedivine. Like the liturgy itself, which is presented and re-presented in anenduring artistic form, the dreamer, who lives in the world of human logic,must be reminded again and again of what gives meaning to his world in thefirst place.

Pearl incorporates through imagery and scriptural teachings the funda-mental divisions of the Mass: the liturgy of the Word and the liturgy of theEucharist.76 These divisions are complemented by displays of liturgical spec-

tacle, allusions to specific Christian rites, and to the liturgies of actual feastdays. The pearl maiden is the poem’s homiletic voice. As an intermediary

between the sacred and the earthly realms, she teaches the tenets of Christianfaith relating to repentance, death, and divine Judgment. Scripture is her

primary authority for instruction, with references or allusions to readings in both the Old and New Testaments, including Psalms 14 and 23, which, aswe’ve seen, were recited as part of the medieval liturgy for the dedication of aChristian church and cited by Abbot Suger in his commentary on the conse-

cration of his new church.77 The maiden’s biblical references also includeIsaiah 53, the Book of Wisdom (10.10), the Beatitudes (Matthew 5.3–10), thesynoptic Gospels (Luke 18.15–17; Matthew 19.13–15; Mark 10.13–16), theGospel of John (1.29), and especially the Book of Revelation.

The liturgy of the Mass is an explicit point of reference for the pearlmaiden in her role as intermediary and instructor:

As Mathew melez in your messeIn sothfol gospel of God almyt:In sample He can ful gray þely gesseAnd lyknez hit to heuen lyt. (497–500)

[As Matthew tells you in your Mass, in the true Gospel of AlmightyGod, in parable he “aptly conceives it” and likens it to a brightHeaven.]

181


76 See John Gatta, “Transformational Symbolism and the Liturgy of the Mass in Pearl ,” Modern Philology 71 (1973): 249–50.

77 See Chapter Three, 83–4.



The “sample” referred to here is the parable of the vineyard, whose lord in Pearl tends to his daily activities with an hourly precision reminiscent of amonk’s liturgical schedule. He rises “ful erly” (506) to hire his laborers, goes

to the market place “[a]boute vnder” (513), the third hour, or nones, andconverses with the “ydel men ful stronge” at “evensonge/ On oure byfore thesonne go doun” (529–31).

To be an inhabitant of Heaven in Pearl is to participate in an eternal liturgy,whose celebrant is the Lamb of the Apocalypse:

Þe Lombe vus gladez, oure care is kest;He myes vus alle at vch a mes. (861–62)

[The Lamb makes us glad, our care is removed; he delights us all atevery Mass.]

The Lamb is also the beloved recipient of continuous worship by the 144,000virgins who “harpen in her harpe,” sing “ful cler” the “nwe songe” (881–82),and pass in “prosessyoun” before the Lamb’s throne (1093–96). This litur-gical spectacle is completed by the “aldermen” who prostrate themselves

before the Lamb (1119–20) and by the “Legyounes of aungelez” (legions of angels) who offer “ensens of swete smelle” (sweet smelling incense)

(1121–22) and sing a “songe to loue” the Lamb, “Þat gay Juelle” (1124).The explicit reference to the blessing of bread and wine in the poem’s finalstanza completes the liturgical program of the poem, a program thatcommences with the jeweler clasping his hands in prayer in the openingstanzas (49), continues with scriptural instruction, procession, the offering of incense, and voices raised in song, and ends with the eucharistic meal. Thisdesign alone would qualify the poet as something of a liturgist, but we find, aswell, correspondences with the liturgies of specific feast days and with the

funerary liturgy for children.An important liturgical model for the Pearl poet was the liturgy for theFeast of All Saints’ (1 November) whose readings and themes are employednot only in Pearl (675–84), but also in Patience (11–28) and Cleanness(23–28). In Patience, the poet paraphrases the Beatitudes from Matthew 5 andsays that he heard the text “on a halyday, at a hye masse” (9). The “halyday”referred to here is probably All Saints’ Day, as Ordelle Hill and others have

pointed out, since after the eighth century the text of the Beatitudes served asthe Gospel reading for that feast.78 All Saints’ Day is also the last day that Sir Gawain is at Camelot before he sets off to find the green chapel. In Pearl , theauthor uses the readings from John’s Apocalypse that served as the epistlesfor All Saints’ Day. The theme of this feast corresponds remarkably well with

182


78 Ordelle G. Hill, “The Audience of Pearl ,” Modern Philology 66 (1968): 104; Susan J. Rastetter,“ ‘Bot mylde as maydenes seme at mas’: The Feast of All Saints and Pearl ,” Bulletin of the John

Rylands University Library of Manchester 74 (1992): 141–42.



that of the poem, since both commemorate the dead who have been grantedthe reward of heavenly salvation.79

While the liturgy for the Feast of All Saints’ figures prominently in the

Pearl poet’s works – a liturgy that fits well with the eschatological themesrepresented in them – the funerary liturgy for children seems to have been aneven greater source of liturgical influence in Pearl .80 Oakden has demon-strated how the funeral rites that were held on the occasion of the death of achild “under the age of discretion” were adopted by the Pearl poet.81 In theserites, flowers that adorn the altar, the child’s coffin, and the priest’s vestmentsare all white to symbolize the innocence of the deceased. There is no absolu-tion performed, and instead of a requiem there is a votive Mass of the holyangels. The pearl maiden was a child no more than two years old when shedied (483); the dreamer’s grief over her death “pervades the whole texture” of the poem,82 while white is the poem’s most pervasive color. Furthermore,much of the pearl maiden’s discussion with the dreamer is an account of whyshe was able to bypass post-mortem suffering and ascend after death to theHeavenly Jerusalem. The sadness that one encounters in reading Pearl is thesadness of the bereaved dreamer. The poem, argues Oakden, “is a long ‘De

profundis,’ which [the poet] has transferred from the Requiem to the rite of infants.” The influence of burial rites” Oakden continues, “is all-pervading.”83

These liturgies for the dead, especially the liturgy for the Feast of AllSaints’, are rich with passages from the Book of Revelation.84 Furthermore,they were the most common liturgies celebrated in chantry chapels built in theEnglish churches in the later Middle Ages. It should be recalled, as well, that

183


79 Rastetter also makes this point (141). There are a number of other feast days that scholars haverecognized as possible influences in the Pearl poet’s work. See Israel Gollancz’s Introduction andnotes to this passage in his edition of Pearl : Pearl: an English Poem of the XIVth century, ed. withmodern rendering together with Boccaccio’s Olympia (London: Chatto & Windus, 1921); see alsoGordon, ed., Pearl ; Andrew and Waldron, eds, Pearl . For additional arguments on the liturgical

background of the poems, see William J. Knightley, “ Pearl : The hy þ seysoun,” Modern Language Notes 76 (1961): 97–102; M. P. Hamilton, “The Meaning of the Middle English Pearl ,” Proceed-ings of the Modern Language Association 70 (1955): 37–59; Elizabeth Petroff, “Landscape in

Pearl : The Transformation of Nature,” Chaucer Review 16 (1981): 181–93; J. P. Oakden, “TheLiturgical Influence in Pearl ,” Chaucer und Seine Zeit: Symposium für Walter F. Schirmir , ed.Arno Esch. Buchreihe der Anglia, Zeitschrift für Englische Philologie 14 (Tübingen: Niemeyer,1968), 342, 348, 350–51; Santha Bhattacharji, “ Pearl and the Liturgical Common of the Virgins,”

Medium Aevum LXIV (1995): 37–50. For the liturgical features of St. Erkenwald , see Peterson (45,50, 132–33); Evelyn Birge Vitz, “The Liturgy and Vernacular Liturgy,” in The Liturgy of the

Medieval Church, 567–68.80 The discussion which follows is based on J. P. Oakden’s study, “The Liturgical Influence in

Pearl ,” 337–53.81 Ibid. 339.82 Ibid. 337.83 Ibid. 343.84 C. Clifford Flanigan has shown that the influence of John’s Apocalypse upon medieval liturgy is

especially rich (“pervasive” and “complex” are words he uses) in the liturgies for All Saints’ Dayand the Feast of the Holy Innocents, “The Apocalypse and the Medieval Liturgy,” The Apocalypsein the Middle Ages, 334–36. For my discussion of the liturgies of the chantry Masses, see Chapter Four, 101–2, 104–6, 134.



the chantry movement was most popular in the North, the northwestMidlands, and in London, the regions of England most often associated withthe author of Pearl and its companion poems.85 The liturgical connection,

therefore, between the chantries and Pearl could not be more explicit. Whilethere is no evidence in Pearl of a morbid fear of death or hysteria over thesufferings in Purgatory – and this would be the case in the death of youngchild – nor is it unequivocally an occasion of unqualified hope and pure ascentfor the dreamer.86 He is burdened by anxieties and frustrations resulting fromhis loss, his confusion over the maiden’s spiritual standing, and his urgentdesire to somehow keep her – who is beyond his reach – close to him.

Just as liturgy is an intrinsic part of the ecclesiastical edifice, so too is the Pearl poet’s presentation of liturgical features intrinsic to the architecture of his poem. The poem is, like the late medieval chantry movement, an occasionfor honoring, remembering, and communicating with the dead. But it is alsoan occasion for instruction, penance, and revelation for the dreamer himself. Itis thus a preparation for the dreamer’s own death, forcing him to confront theinevitable Judgment of his own soul. That he has a glimpse of the New Jeru-salem is no guarantee of his own future place in it, but it is, perhaps, akin tothe experience of a medieval person’s participation in the liturgy of a Mass for the dead within a setting designed to be a figure of the New Jerusalem, like the

choir of Tewkesbury Abbey, Gloucestershire.87 The elaborate workmanshipof the poem is the architectural frame, the “material” setting within which theremembrance, the communication, the instruction, the preparation, and theapocalyptic vision take place. The implication is that liturgical ritual andeschatological landscapes are the necessary “prescriptions” for the “mentaltask” of the dreamer to construct himself as a sanctuary – of being his ownchapel dedicated to the salvation of his own soul.88

It is my view that the author of Pearl wished to participate fully in the

structural and stylistic exchange among craftsmen of the late Middle Ages,that he sought, in particular, to create a literary alliance with the metalworker and the mason. This is why, for instance, he describes his gardens using theaesthetic vocabulary of metallurgy, presents his dreamer as a jeweler, and his

poem as a minutely controlled, richly ornamented frame for liturgy and a

184


85 See Chapter Four, 106, 126.86 Historians stress the close connection between the medieval chantry movement and fear of Purga-

tory. It is significant, however, that no visual evidence associated with the chantry movement (for example, the chapels’ wall paintings and sculpture) exists which shows evidence of a fear or hysteria over sufferings in Purgatory. In addition, the chantry foundation documents also containno references to fear of Purgatory, only with remembering the dead and the wish to be grantedentrance into Heaven. It should be noted, however, that scholars detect Dante’s influence on the

Pearl poet though the Purgatorio: Dante’s meeting with Beatrice (XXX 31–99) bears strongresemblance to the dreamer’s encounter with the pearl maiden (160–94).

87 See Chapter Four, 127, 128, 129–34.88 I quote “prescriptions” and “mental task” from Carruthers, who applies these terms to the

“ picturae and formae which we encounter in twelfth-century literature, such as in the meditationsof Hugh and Richard of St. Victor.” See Carruthers, “The Poet as Master Builder,” 900.



vision of the New Jerusalem. The Gothic influence upon the poem, then, is notgeneral or superficial; it is a literary project that is meant to be seen, as well asread and heard. Further, it is meant to be recognized as an alliance with a

specific ecclesiastical setting, namely the private chapel, or chantry, of latemedieval England. The courtly poems of the Cotton Nero manuscript andSt. Erkenwald were conceived by a poet (or small group of poets) whose lifewas touched daily by the chantry movement and whose creative effortsconveyed the same preoccupation with death, divine judgment, and material

preciousness.As we have seen, the author of Pearl was wonderfully sensitive to the

stylistic refinements that took place in the middle of the fourteenth century inchurches like Gloucester and Old St. Paul’s, for he understood his craft as heunderstood his architectural environment: systems of mutually illuminatingspaces, the large and small edifices reflecting one another stylistically andconceptually. He was keenly aware of the potential of architecture toexpress Christian beliefs and practices in an intense, concentrated, andexemplary way, for he conceived of his own poem as an architectural genrecombining lavish ornamentation with “structural dexterity” and “geometriccomplexity.”89 The argument I maintain is that the poet was familiar withsome – perhaps all – of the monuments I have discussed in this study, such as

the Sainte-Chapelle, St. Stephen’s chapel, Gloucester Abbey, and Tewkes- bury Abbey. The poet, therefore, was by no means “provincial,” but traveledto London and in the Midland regions between Cheshire and the southeast,

probably to France and perhaps as far as Italy. As a member of the court of Richard II or a member of the household of a noble family, the poet wouldhave had ample opportunities for such travel.90

When we consider the Cotton Nero poems and St. Erkenwald in light of thearchitectural developments in late medieval England, Pearl especially seems

to be an effort to combine the ornamental richness of Decorated with thestructural unity of Perpendicular. The meticulous craftsmanship of the poemand the landscapes defined within the structural framework are presented in aPlatonic language of geometric form: in the metaphor of the circle, for example (the abundant pearl imagery and the poetic structure itself), in thenumerical symmetry of the stanza groups, and in the description of the NewJerusalem. The poem is a literary expression of the Sainte-Chapelle, butupdated in light of English architectural developments and the chantry move-

185


89 Bucher, 83.90 I discuss the historical background of the Pearl poet in a recent article, providing more detailed

evidence for these assertions that point in a specific way to the poet’s likely travels and exposure tomedieval ecclesiastical architecture, especially his familiarity with chantry architecture. Theexquisite chantry chapels in the Decorated choir of Tewkesbury Abbey are, I argue, especiallycompelling subjects for studies that seek to gain a more accurate understanding of the Pearl poet’slocal courtly culture and architectural environment. See my article, “The Despersers and theGawain Poet: A Gloucester link to the Alliterative Master of the Northwest Midlands,” TheChaucer Review 35 (2001): 413–429.



ment, which helped to transform the private chapel from a space of worshipfor royalty to a liturgical space desired by all who could afford one, and wherethe daily confrontation with death was given a spatial and liturgical expres-

sion on an intimate, private scale.The nineteenth-century scholars who devised the architectural categoriesof Decorated and Perpendicular were largely interested in identifying differ-ences between styles, and so their divisions are perhaps more rigid than themedieval perspective. My aim has been to understand the monuments fromthe perspective of a fourteenth-century English poet who attempted to applytheir ornamental, architectural, and symbolic features to his own art. In Pearl ,ornament and structural unity – prominent stylistic features of the Decoratedand Perpendicular styles respectively – are not presented as competingsystems of expression. There is a balanced emphasis on ornament andcontrolled structure or space – equal contributors to the concept of the poemas an eschatological landscape and as a setting for a vision of the New Jeru-salem.

The spiritual journey in Pearl is described in a visually precise and elabo-rate manner, drawing on images and concepts that have unmistakable affini-ties with the symbolic programs of medieval church architecture. It is aminutely controlled presentation, in poetic form, of Platonic light meta-

physics. It is a demonstration of how the image may be perceived as an arti-fact of philosophical allegory; that is, as an invitation to spiritualtransformation. Finally, the Pearl poet was conscious of the function of eccle-siastical architecture as the setting for the dramatization of Christianmysteries. The beliefs and rituals that were expressed through medievalliturgy are essential to an understanding of the symbolic programs of theedifices and the stylistic developments that those edifices portray. In short,

Pearl is a “nexus” between architecture, goldsmithing, and literature, but it is

at the same time a dramatization of an action that derives its eschatologicalforce from the liturgical commemoration of the dead and a concern with thefate of the soul after death.91 These eschatological themes are presentedthrough the personal experience of the dreamer; it is this “private” escha-tology that links the poem so closely with the chantry movement of late medi-eval England and to the chapels that stood as its architectural expression.

186


91 Bucher had used the term “nexus” to describe the symbiotic relationship between architecture andgoldsmithing in three-dimensional, micro-architectural objects (73).



Epilogue

This book has explored how modern men and women are to understand theremarkable medieval effort to build Heaven on earth. Technical, sociological,and political motivations have entered into discussions in each of the chapters,

but my main interest has been the religious motivations that stood behind thearchitecture of revelation in the medieval west. By studying some of the mostimportant philosophical, theological, and liturgical traditions; by visitingsome of the extant buildings themselves; and by becoming familiar with someof the great literature of the period, we come closer to understanding the spiri-tuality that inspired these medieval achievements.

Sometimes one arrives at a greater understanding by accident. On 11 June2002, the feast day of Saint Barnabus, I attended a noon liturgy in theChapelle Mansart in the church of Saint-Séverin, located in one of the fewremaining sections of Paris’ Latin Quarter that retains the medieval pattern of streets. Later that afternoon, I studied at the Bibliothèque of the Institut

d’Études Augustiniennes. This library is located in what was the medievalAbbot’s Palace of the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The collection of approximately 45,000 volumes is dedicated to the study of Saint Augustine,including all aspects of the Augustinian theological tradition and, more

broadly, to the history of Christianity from late antiquity. The readers’ work areas are all in one small room and placed adjacent to open stacks of referencematerials. There is space enough for only about twelve readers, but mostdesks are situated so that one may look out at eye-level to the church’s famous

Romanesque bell tower, the oldest in the city, and onto the church’s nave. TheAbbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés was, of course, one of the most importantintellectual communities in western medieval Europe, and historians of artand architecture make the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés one of their

priorities when visiting Paris to see its medieval achievements.One of the books I pulled from the shelves that day was the Histoire de

L’Abbaye Royale de Saint-Denys en France.1 In it I read (and was reminded)that the great consecration of Abbot Suger’s new church had taken place on

11 June 1144, exactly 858 years before, on the feast of Saint Barnabé. Thecoincidence struck me then, as it does now, as remarkable, because it hadconnected my experience with something that happened so long ago. Thisstriking continuity of time and place had been established by the accidentalconvergence of a variety of stories and buildings: the story of a saint’s life; thestory Abbot Suger told of the building of his new church; the story of Augus-

187

1 Michel Félibien (Paris: Éditions du Palais Royal, 1973).



tine’s conversion and the monumental theological history that his works andinfluence represent; the simple, light-filled chapel in Saint-Séverin; the abbeychurch of Saint-Denis whose crown of chapels inaugurated medieval French

Gothic; and the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, whose medieval flèchestands out as a precious sign of one of the most intellectually vibrant andculturally rich cities in the world, in the twelfth century as in the present.

One of the many gratifying results of this project has been the insight Ihave gained on how the “disciplined” distinctions between philosophy,theology, liturgy, architecture, and literature so fluidly interacted with oneanother in the medieval effort to represent the New Jerusalem on earth. Iremain especially impressed by the anonymous, late medieval poem, Pearl ,extant in a single, unimpressive manuscript and written in a dialect of Englishthat was becoming obsolete even while it was being written. The poem,however, demonstrates this fluidity and convergence of medieval forms of expression with exquisite care and imagination, and with a religious sensi-

bility that belonged to a whole set of cultural practices that have all but disappeared.

The sacred architecture of the Hebrew Bible and the Book of Revelation provided the transformational image of the New Jerusalem, and medievaltheologians, liturgists, and artists responded to that image in ways that have

never been surpassed. The Hellenistic world that informs the teachings of St. Paul and the fourth Gospel provided the metaphysical foundation for thecraft and transformational spirituality of medieval allegory. Medieval liturgydramatized in a spectacular way the Christian-Platonic pilgrimage of the souland qualified the architectural spaces in which those liturgies were celebratedas Plotinian screens of beauty and Augustinian sacraments. An anonymous

poem about death and love places us at the apocalyptic threshold of the divinerealm and asks us to take the sacramental allegory seriously. In the beginning

was the Word, and what is left at the end of the poem is the burial mound andthe sacrament itself.

188

Epilogue



BibliographyPrimary Sources

Alighieri, Dante. The Divine Comedy. Ed. and trans. Charles S. Singleton.Bollingen Series LXXX. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1970.

Andrew, Malcolm and Ronald Waldron, eds. The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript:Pearl, Cleanness, Patience, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Berkeley and

Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978.Andrieu, Michel. Les Ordines Romani du haut moyen âge. 5 vols. Louvain:“Spicilegium sacrum lovaniense” bureaux, 1931–61.

Aristotle. The Complete Works of Aristotle. Ed. and trans. Jonathan Barnes.Princeton: Princeton UP, 1985.

Augustinus, Aurelius, Bishop of Hippo (Saint Augustine). Confessiones. PL 32;CSEL 33; CCL 27. Trans. R. F. Pine-Coffin. New York: Penguin, 1961; NPNF1; WSA I.i.

———. De civitate Dei. PL 41; CSEL 40; CCL 47–8. Trans. FC 8, 14, 24; NPNF

2; WSA I.6, 7; Marcus Dods. Saint Augustine: The City of God , with an Intro-duction by Thomas Merton. New York: Random House, 2000; R. W. Dyson. Augustine: the City of God against the Pagans. Cambridge texts in the historyof political thought. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998.

———. De consensu Evangelistarum. PL 34; CSEL 43. Trans. NPNF 6; WSAI.15.

———. De doctrina Christiana. PL 34; CSEL 80; CCL 32. Trans. WSA I.11.D. W. Robertson. On Christian Doctrine. New York and London: Macmillan,1958.

———. De dono perseverantiae. PL 45. Trans. FC 86; NPNF 5; WSA I.26. ———. Enarrationes in Psalmos. PL 36–7; CCL 38–40; Trans. ACW 29–30; NPNF 8; WSA III.14–17.

———. Epistulae. PL 33; CSEL 34, 44, 57, 58, 88. Trans. FC 12, 18, 20, 30, 32; NPNF 1; WSA II.1–3.

———. De Genesi ad litteram imperfectus liber . PL 34; CSEL 28.1. Trans. FC84; ACW 41–2; WSA I.13.

———. De Genesi adversus Manicheos. PL 34; CSEL 91; Trans. FC 84; WSAI.13.

———. De gratia et libero arbitrio. PL 44. Trans. FC 59; NPNF 5; WSA I.26. ———. In Johannis evangelium tractatus. PL 35; CCL 36. Trans. FC 78, 79, 88,90, 92; NPNF 4; WSA III.12.

———. De libero arbitrio. PL 32; CSEL 74; CCL 29. Trans. ACW 22; WSA I.3. ———. De magistro. PL 32; CSEL 77.1; CCL 29. Trans. LCC 6; ACW 9; WSA

I.3. ———. De musica. PL 32. Trans. FC 2; WSA I.3. ———. De praedestinatione sanctorum. PL 44. Trans. FC 86; NPNF 5; WSA

I.26.

———. Quaestiones Evangeliorum. PL 35; CCL 44B; Trans. WSA I.15.

189



———. Sermones. PL 38, 39; CCL 41. Trans. FC 81; WSA III.1–11. ———. De Trinitate. PL 42; CCL 50/50A. Trans. FC 45; NPNF 3; WSA I.5. ———. De utilitate credendi. PL 42; CSEL 25.1. Trans. LCC 6; NPNF 3; WSA

I.8.Beda Venerabilis. De tabernaculo. Ed. D. Hurst. CCL 119A. Trans. Arthur

G. Holder. Bede: On the Tabernacle. Translated Texts for Historians Series,vol. 18. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1994.

———. De templo. Ed. D. Hurst. CCL 119A. Trans. Seán Connolly. Bede: Onthe Temple. Translated Texts for Historians Series, vol. 21. Liverpool: Liver-

pool UP, 1995.Bernard of Clairvaux. Bernardi Sancti, Abbatis Claræ-Vallensis. Dedicatione

Ecclesiæ. PL 183.Bible. Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem. Stuttgart: Deutsche

Bibelgesellschaft, 1969. ———. Douay (Rheims-Douay) Version. Baltimore and New York: John

Murphy Co., 1899.Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus. De institutione arithmetica libri duo. Ed.

Godofredus Friedlein. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1867. ———. Philosophiae consolatio. Ed. L. Bieler. CCSL 94. Trans. Richard Green.

The Consolation of Philosophy. New York: Macmillan, 1962.Britt, Matthew, ed. The Hymns of the Breviary and Missal . New York: Benziger

Brothers, 1922.Chronica Maiora, Annales Ricardi Secundi et Henrici Quarti. In Chronicles of

the Revolution 1397–1400. The Reign of Richard II , trans. and ed. ChrisGiven-Wilson. Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 1993.

Cleanness. In The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript: Pearl , Cleanness , Patience , Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron,111–184. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978.

Clement of Alexandria. Stromateis. Trans. W. Wilson, Stromata. ANCL 4, 12.Eusebius of Caesarea. Historia ecclesiastica. Patralogiae Cursus Completus

Series Graeca 20. Trans. and ed. K. Lake and J. Oulton, The Loeb ClassicalLibrary, 2 vols. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1926.

Fratérnités de Jérusalem. Psaumes: Hymns et Cantiques de Jérusalem. Paris:Fratérnités de Jérusalem, 1993.

Finch, Casey, trans. The Complete Works of the Pearl Poet . Berkeley: U of Cali-fornia P, 1993.

Foley, Edward B., ed. The First Ordinary of the Royal Abbey of St.-Denis in France. Paris, Bibliothèque Mazarine 526. Fribourg, Switzerland: FribourgUP, 1990.

Froissart, Jean. Chroniques. In Oeuvres de Froissart . Trans. Kervyn deLettenhove. Bruxelles: Académie royale de Belgique, 1875. Trans. GeoffreyBrereton. Chronicles. New York: Penguin, 1968.

Fulgentius, Fabius Planciades. Fabii Planciadis Fulgentii V. C., Expositiovirgilianae continentiae secundum philosophos moralis. Opera. Ed. RudolfusHelm. Leipzig: Teubner, 1898.

———. “The Exposition of the Content of Virgil According to Moral Philos-ophy.” Trans. Leslie George Whitbread. In Whitbread, Fulgentius the

Mythographer . Columbus: Ohio State UP: 1971.

190

Bibliography



Given-Wilson, Chris, ed. Chronicles of the Revolution 1397–1400: The Reign of Richard II . Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 1993.

Gollancz, Israel, ed. Pearl: An English Poem of the XIVth Century: edited, With Modern Rendering, Together with Boccaccio’s Olympia. London: Chatto &Windus, 1921.

———. ed. St. Erkenwald . London: Oxford UP, 1932.Hugh of St.-Victor. Speculum Ecclesiæ. Cap. I. Appendix ad Hugonis Opera

Dogmatica. Speculum de mysteriis Ecclesiæ. PL 177. ———. Appendix ad Hugonis Opera Mystica. Sermo III. De Dedicatione

Ecclesiae Anagogice. PL 177.Litzenberger, C. J., ed. Tewkesbury Churchwardens’ Accounts, 1563–1624.

Gloucestershire Record Series, vol. 7. Gloucester: Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society, 1994.

Macrobius. Somnium Scipionis. In Commentary on the Dream of Scipio, trans. W.H. Stahl. New York: Columbia U P, 1952.

Martène, E. De Antiquis Ecclesiæ Ritibus. 4 vols. Rouen: G. Behourt, 1700–6.Maximus Confessor. “The Church’s Mystagogy.” In Maximus Confessor:

Selected Writings, trans. George C. Berthold, 181–225. Mahway, NJ: PaulistPress, 1985.

Mézières, Philippe de. Letter to King Richard II . Ed and trans. G. W. Coopland.Liverpool: Liverpool UP, 1975

Patience. In The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript: Pearl, Cleanness, Patience, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron.Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978.

Pearl . Pearl: A New Verse Translation. Trans. Marie Borroff. New York andLondon: Norton, 1977.

———. Pearl: An Edition with Verse Translation. Ed. and trans. WilliamVantuono. Notre Dame and London: U of Notre Dame P, 1995.

———. In The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript: Pearl, Cleanness, Patience, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron.Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978.

Plato. Plato: Complete Works. Ed. and trans. John M. Cooper and D. S. Hutch-inson. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997.

Plotinus. Enneads. Ed. and trans. A. Hillary Armstrong. Loeb Classical Library. 7vols. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1966–88.

———. Enneads of Plotinus. Trans. Stephen MacKenna. Boston: Charles T.Branford Co., 1916. Abr. edn, New York and London: Penguin, 1991.

———. The Essential Plotinus. Ed. Elmer O’Brien. New York: New AmericanLibrary, 1964.

———. Plotini opera. 3 vols. Ed. P. Henry and H.-R. Schwyzer. Paris andBrussels: Desclée de Brouwer, 1951–73.

———. Plotini opera. 3 vols. Ed. P. Henry and H.-R. Schwyzer. Oxford: Clar-endon, 1964–82.

Porphyry. On the Life of Plotinus and the Order of His Books. In Plotinus: Enneads, trans. A. Hillary Armstrong, Loeb Classical Library, vol. 1 of 7 vols.Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1966–88.

Pseudo-Dionysius. Corpus Dionysiacum. Ed. Beate Suchla, Gunter Heil, andA. M. Ritter. 2 vols. Patristische Text und Studien, vols. 33 and 36. Berlin and

New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1990–91.

191

Bibliography



———. Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works. Trans. Colm Luibheid.Forward, notes, and translation collaboration by Paul Rorem. Preface by RenéRoques. Introductions by Jaroslav Pelikan, Jean Leclercq, and KarlfriedFroehlich. Classics of Western Sprituality. New York and Mahwah: PaulistPress, 1987.

Queste del Saint Graal . Ed. Albert Pauphilet. Paris: Librarie Honoré Champion,1984. Trans. P. M. Matarasso. London and New York: Penguin, 1969.

Roman Catholic Church. Benedictine Hours for Sundays and All Feasts of First or Second Class Rank; Terce, Vespers, Compline. York: Sidney Lee, 1934.

Saint Erkenwald . Ed. Ruth Morse. Cambridge and Totowa: Rowman &Littlefield, 1975.

———. Ed. Clifford Peterson. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1977. ———. Ed. Henry L. Savage. New Haven: Yale UP, 1926.Silvestris, Bernardus. The Commentary on the First Six Books of the Aeneid of

Vergil Commonly Attributed to Bernardus Silvestris. Ed. J. W. and E. F. Jones.Trans. Earl G. Schreiber and Thomas E. Maresca. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P,1977.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight . In The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript: Pearl,Cleanness, Patience, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. Malcolm Andrewand Ronald Waldron. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1978.

———. Ed. J. R. R. Tolkien and E. V. Gordon. 2nd edn Norman Davis. Oxford:Clarendon P, 1967.

Suger, Abbot. Liber de rebus in administratione sua gestis, Libellus alter deconsecratione ecclesiae sancti dionysii, Ordination A. D. MCXL vel MCXLI confirmata. Ed. and trans. Erwin Panofsky. Abbot Suger On the Abbey Churchof St.-Denis and its Art Treasures. 2nd edn. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1979.

Tolhurst, John B. Monastic Breviary of Hyde Abbey, Winchester . London: HenryBradshaw Society, 1933.

Vitruvius. Vitruve de l’Architecture. Ed. L. Callebat. Paris: Les Belles lettres,1973.

———. Vitruvius On Architecture. Ed. and trans. Frank Granger. Loeb ClassicalLibrary, 2 vols. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1970.

———. Vitruvius: Ten Books on Architecture. Ed. Ingrid Rowland. Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1999.

Secondary Sources

Alexander, Jonathan and Paul Binski, eds. The Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400. London: Royal Academy of Arts, 1987.

Armstrong, A. Hillary. The Architecture of the Intelligible Universe in the Philos-ophy of Plotinus. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1940.

———. ed. The Cambridge History of Later Greek and Early Medieval Philos-ophy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1967.

———. Plotinian and Christian Studies. London: Variorum Reprints, 1979. ———. “Plotinus.” In The Cambridge History of Later Greek and Early Medi-

eval Philosophy, ed. A. Hillary Armstrong, 195–263. Cambridge: CambridgeUP, 1967.

192

Bibliography



———. “Plotinus’s Doctrine of the Infinite and its Significance for ChristianThought.” Downside Review 73 (1954–55): 47–58.

———. “Salvation, Plotinian and Christian.” Downside Review 75 (1975):126–39.

Armstrong, A. Hillary and R. A. Markus. Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy. New York: Sheed and Ward, 1964.

Aston, Margaret. “Richard II and the Wars of the Roses.” In The Reign of Richard II; Essays in Honour of May McKisack , ed. F. R. H. Du Boulay and CarolineM. Barron, 280–318. London: Athlone, 1971.

Barrois, Georges A. “Zion.” In The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, ed.George A. Buttrick, vol. 4, 959–60. Nashville: Abingdon, 1962.

Beatrice, P. F. “Quosdam Platonicorum Libros: the Platonic Readings of Augus-tine in Milan.” Vigiliae Christianae 43 (1998): 248–81.

Beierwaltes, Werner. “ Negati Affirmatio or the World as Metaphor: A Foundationfor Medieval Aesthetics from the Writings of John Scotus Eriugena.”

Dionysius 1 (1977): 127–59.Bennet, James. The History of Tewkesbury. Dursley, Gloucestershire: Alan

Sutton, 1976.Bennett, Michael J. Community, Class and Careerism: Cheshire and Lancashire

Society in the Age of “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight .” Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1983.

———. “The Court of Richard II and the Promotion of Literature.” In Chaucer’s England , ed. Barbara Hanawalt. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1992.

———. “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the Literary Achievement of the North-West Midlands: The Historical Background.” Journal of Medieval History 5 (1979): 63–88.

Benson, Larry. “The Authorship of St. Erkenwald .” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 64 (1965): 393–405.

Bertz, Douglas. “Prophecy and Apocalypse in Langland’s Piers Plowman,B-Text, Passus XVI–XIX.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 84(1985): 312–27.

Bhattacharji, Santha. “ Pearl and the Liturgical Common of the Virgins.” Medium Aevum 64 (1995): 37–50.

Binnal, Peter B. G. “Notes on the Medieval Altars and Chapels in LincolnCathedral.” The Antiquaries Journal 42 (1962): 68–80.

Bishop, Ian. Pearl in its Setting: A Critical Study of the Structure and Meaning of the Middle English Poem. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1968.

Blenkner, Louis. “The Theological Structure of ‘Pearl.’ ” Traditio 24 (1968):43–75.

Bloomfield, Morton. Piers Plowman as a Fourteenth-century Apocalypse. NewBrunswick: Rutgers UP, 1961.

Blumenthal, H. J. and R. A. Markus, eds. Neoplatonism and Early ChristianThought . London: Variorum, 1981.

Blunt, John Henry. Tewkesbury Abbey and its Associates. 2nd edn. London:Simpkin & Co., 1898.

Bogdanos, Theodore. Pearl: Image of the Ineffable; A Study in Medieval PoeticSymbolism. University Park and London: Pennsylvania State UP, 1983.

Bony, Jean. The English Decorated Style: Gothic Architecture Transformed 1250–1350. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1979.

193

Bibliography



———. French Gothic Architecture of the 12th and 13th Centuries. Berkeley: Uof California P, 1983.

Bowers, John M. “ Pearl in its Royal Setting: Ricardian Poetry Revisited.” Studiesin the Age of Chaucer 17 (1995): 111–55.

———. The Politics of Pearl: Court Poetry in the Age of Richard II . Cambridge,UK: D. S. Brewer, 2001.

Bradley-Birt, F. B. Tewkesbury: The Story of Abbey, Town, and Neighborhood .Worcester: Phillips & Probert, 1931.

Branner, Robert. St Louis and the Court Style in Gothic Architecture. London: A.Zwemmer, 1965.

Bréhier, Emile. La Philosophie de Plotin. Paris: J. Vrin, 1961.Brewer, Derek and Jonathan Gibson, eds. A Companion to the Gawain-Poet .

Cambridge, UK: D. S. Brewer, 1997.Brown, Peter. Augustine of Hippo; a Biography. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of

California P, 1967. ———. The Cult of the Saints: its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity.

Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1981.Bruzelius, Caroline Astrid. The 13th-Century Church at St.-Denis. New Haven

and London: Yale UP, 1985.Bucher, François. “Micro-Architecture as the ‘Idea’ of Gothic Theory and Style.”

Gesta 15 (1976): 71–89.Buffière, Félix. Les Mythes d’Homère et la pensée grecque. Collection d’études

anciennes. Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1956.Bullough, Geoffrey, ed. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. 7 vols.

London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1957–73.Butler, H., ed. The Autobiography of Giraldus Cambrensis. London: J. Cape,

1937.Cameron, Michael. “Sign.” In Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed.

Allan D. Fitzgerald. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge, UK: William B.Eerdmans, 1999.

Camille, Michael. Gothic Art: Glorious Visions. New York: Harry N. Abrams,1996.

Carruthers, Mary. The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000.

———. “The Poet as Master Builder: Composition and Locational Memory inthe Middle Ages.” New Literary History 24 (1993): 882– 90.

———. “Time, Apocalypse, and the Plot of Piers Plowman.” In Acts of Interpre-tation, ed. Mary J. Carruthers and Elizabeth D. Kirk, 175–88. Norman, OK:Pilgrim Books, 1982.

Cassidy-Welch, Megan. Monastic Spaces and their Meanings: Thir-teenth-Century English Cistercian Monasteries. Turnhout: Brepols, 2001.

Chenu, M. D. “ Involucrum: le mythe selon les thélogiens médiévaux.” Archivesd’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 30 (1955): 75–9.

———. Nature, Man and Society in the Twelfth Centry. Trans. Jerome Taylor andL. K. Little. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1968.

Clark, S. L. and Julian N. Wasserman. “The Pearl Poet’s City Imagery.” TheSouthern Quarterly XVI (1978): 297–309.

Cochrane, C. N. Christianity and Classical Culture: A Study of Thought and Action from Augustus to Augustine. New York: Oxford UP, 1944.

194

Bibliography



Coldstream, Nicola. The Decorated Style: Architecture and Ornament 1240–1360. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1994.

———. “The Kingdom of Heaven: Its Architectural Setting.” In The Age of Chiv-alry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400, ed. Jonathan Alexander and PaulBinski, 92–7. London: Royal Academy of Arts, 1987.

Colvin, H. M. The History of the King’s Works. London: Her Majesty’s StationeryOffice, 1963.

Comparetti, Domenico. Vergil in the Middle Ages. Trans. E. F. M. Benecke.Princeton: Princeton UP, 1997.

Cook, G. H. Medieval Chantries and Chantry Chapels. Rev. edn. London:Phoenix House, 1963.

———. Old S. Paul’s Cathedral: A Lost Glory of Medieval London. London:Phoenix House, 1955.

Cornelius, Roberta D. “The Figurative Castle: A Study in the Mediæval Allegoryof the Edifice with Especial Reference to Religious Writings.” Ph.D. diss.,Bryn Mawr, 1930.

Coutier, C. C. “Sacramentum et mysterium dans l’oeuvre de Saint Augustin.” In Études Augustiniennes, ed. H. Rondet. Paris: Aubier, 1953.

Cowling, David. Building the Text: Architecture as Metaphor in Jean Lemaireand the Rhetoriquers. Oxford Modern Languages and Literature Monographs.Oxford: Clarendon, 1998.

Crosby, Sumner McKnight. The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis from its Beginningsto the Death of Suger, 475–1151. Ed. and completed by Pamela Z. Blum. NewHaven: Yale UP, 1987.

———. The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis in the Time of Abbot Suger (1122–1151).Exhibition catalogue. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1981.

Crossley, Paul. “English Gothic Architecture.” In The Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400, ed. Jonathan Alexander and Paul Binski,60–73. London: Royal Academy of Arts, 1987.

Curtius, Ernst R. European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages. Trans. WillardR. Trask. Bollingen Series 36. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1953. Originally

published as Europäishe Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter . Bern: A.Francke AG Verlag, 1948.

Daley, B. The Hope of the Early Church: A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology .Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991.

Daniélou, J. “La typologie millénariste de la semaine dans la christianisme primitif.” Vigiliae Christianae 2 (1948): 1–16.

Davies, John G. The Secular Use of Church Buildings. London: SCM, 1968.Davies, R. G. “Richard II and the Principality of Chester 1397–99.” In The Reign

of Richard II: Essays in Honour of May McKisack , ed. F. R. H. Du Boulay andCaroline M. Barron, 256–79. London: Athlone, 1971.

Dawson, David. “Figure, Allegory.” In Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclo- pedia, ed. Allan D. Fitzgerald. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge, UK:William B. Eerdmans, 1999.

Devèche, André. Les 7 Résidences Parisiennes des Rois de France. Paris:Tourelle, 1986.

Duby, Georges. The Age of Cathedrals: Art and Society 980–1420. Trans. Eleanor Levieux and Barbara Thompson. Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1981.

195

Bibliography



———. L’Europe des cathédrales 1140–1280, vol. 2 of Le Moyen Age. 3 vols.Genève: Skira, 1984.

———. Fondements d’un nouvel humanism 1280–1440, vol. 3 of Le Moyen Age.3 vols. Genève: Skira, 1984.

Duchesne, Louis. Christian Worship; its Origin and Evolution: A Study of the Latin Liturgy up to the Time of Charlemagne. Trans. M. L. McClure. 5th edn.London: Macmillan, 1919.

Duffy, Eamon. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c.1400–c.1580. New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1992.

Emmerson, Richard K. “The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic, and the Study of Medi-eval Literature.” In Poetic Prophecy in Western Literature, ed. Jan Wojcik andRaymond-Jean Frontain, 40–54. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 1984.

Emmerson, Richard K. and Ronald B. Herzman. The Apocalyptic Imagination in Medieval Literature. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1992.

———. “The Canterbury Tales in Eschatological Perspective.” In The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages, ed. Verbeke, Verhelst, andWelkenhuysen, 404–24. Mediaevalia Lovaniensia 15. Leuven: Leuven UP,1988.

Emmerson, Richard K. and Bernard McGinn, eds. The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages. Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1992.

Evans, G. Blackmore, ed. The Riverside Shakespeare. Boston: Houghton Mifflin,1974.

Evans, Joan. Art in Medieval France 987–1498: A Study of Patronage. London:Oxford UP, 1948.

———. The Oxford History of English Art 1307–1461. Oxford: Clarendon, 1949.Fassler, Margot. Gothic Song: Victorine Sequences and Augustinian Reform in

Twelfth-Century Paris. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993.Favro, D. The Urban Image of Augustan Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1966.Félibien, Michel. L’Abbaye Royale de Saint-Denys en France. Paris: Éditions du

Palais Royal, 1973.Féret, H.-M. “Sacramentum. Res. dans la langue théologique de saint Augustin.”

Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques 29 (1940): 218–43.Field, Rosalind. “The Heavenly Jerusalem in Pearl .” The Modern Language

Review 81 (1986): 7–17.Finlayson, John. “ Pearl : Landscape and Vision.” Studies in Philology 71 (1974):

314–43.Flanigan, Clifford C. “The Apocalypse and the Medieval Liturgy.” In The Apoca-

lypse in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn,333–51. Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1992.

Fleming, John V. “The Centuple Structure of the Pearl .” In The AlliterativeTradition in the Fourteenth Century, ed. Bernard S. Levy and Paul E.Szarmach, 81–98. Kent, OH: Kent State UP, 1981.

Foord, Edward. Gloucester, Tewkesbury and District . London and Toronto: J. M.Dent & Sons, 1925.

Fortin, Earnst. L. The Birth of Philosophic Christianity: Studies in Early Chris-tian and Medieval Thought . Ed. Brian Benestad. Lanham, MD: Rowman &Littlefield, 1996.

———. “Civitate Dei, De.” In Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed.

196

Bibliography



Allan D. Fitzgerald, 196–202. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge, UK: WilliamB. Eerdmans, 1999.

Fredriksen, Paula. “Apocalypse and Redemption: From John of Patmos to Augus-tine of Hippo.” Vigiliae Christianae 45 (1991): 151–83.

Gatta, John. “Transformational Symbolism and the Liturgy of the Mass in Pearl .” Modern Philology 71 (1973): 249–50.

Geary, Patrick J. Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages. Ithaca and London:Cornell UP, 1994.

Gersh, Stephen. From Iamblichus to Eriugena: An Investigation of the Prehistoryand Evolution of the Pseudo-Dionysian Tradition. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1978.

Grabar, André. Les origines de l’esthétique médiévale. Paris: Macula, 1992.Grant, Lindy. Abbot Suger of St.-Denis: Church and State in Early Twelfth-

Century France. London and New York: Longman, 1998.Greer, Rowan A. “Introduction.” In Origen: An Exhortation to Martyrdom,

Prayer and Selected Works, trans. Rowan A. Greer, 28–30. New York,Ramsey, Toronto: Paulist Press, 1979.

Hadot, Pierre. Plotinus, or the Simplicity of Vision. Trans. Michael Chase.Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1993.

Hamburger, Jeffrey. “Medieval Studies and Medieval Art History.” In The Past and Future of Medieval Studies, ed. John Van Engen, 383–400. Notre Dameand London: U of Notre Dame P, 1994.

Hamilton, Marie P. “The Meaning of the Middle English Pearl .” Proceedings of the Modern Language Association 70 (1955): 805–24.

Hanawalt, Barbara, ed. Chaucer’s England . Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P,1992.

Hani, Jean. Le Symbolisme du Temple Chrétien. Paris: Vieux Colombier, 1962.Harvey, John. The Perpendicular Style 1330–1485. London: B. T. Batsford, 1978.Harwood, Britton J. “ Pearl as Diptych.” In Text and Matter; New Critical

Perspectives of the Pearl-Poet , ed. Robert J. Blanch, Miriam YoungermanMiller and Julian N. Wasserman, 61–78. Troy, NY: Whitson, 1991.

Hastings, Maurice. St Stephen’s Chapel and its Place in the Development of Perpendicular Style in England . Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP, 1955.

Heffernan, Thomas J. and E. Ann Matter, eds. The Liturgy of the Medieval Church. Medieval Institute Publications. Kalamazoo, MI: Western MichiganUniversity, 2001.

Henry, Paul. Plotin et l’Occident . Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense,1934.

Herzman, Ronald B. “Dante and the Apocalypse.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard K. Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, 398–413. Ithacaand London: Cornell UP, 1992.

Hill, Ordelle G. “The Audience of Patience.” Modern Philology 66 (1968):103–9.

Hill, Rosalind. “‘A Chaunterie for Soules’: London Chantries in the Reign of Richard II.” In The Reign of Richard II: Essays in Honor of May McKisack , ed.F. R. H. Du Boulay and Caroline M. Barron, 242–55. London: Althone, 1971.

Hiscock, Nigel. The Wise Master Builder: Platonic Geometry in Plans of Medi-eval Abbeys and Cathedrals. Aldershot, Hampshire; Brookfield, VT: Ashgate,2000.

Jackson, B. D. “The Theory of Signs in St. Augustine’s De Doctrina Christiana.”

197

Bibliography



In Augustine: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. R. A. Markus, 92–147. NewYork: Doubleday, 1972.

Jeauneau, Edouard. “Pseudo-Dionysius, Gregory of Nyssa, and Maximus theConfessor in the Works of John Scottus Eriugena.” In Carolingian Essays;

Andrew W. Mellon Lectures in Early Christian Studies, ed. Uta-RenateBlumenthal, 137–49. Washington, DC: Catholic U of America P, 1983.

Jones, Anthea. Tewkesbury. Chichester, Sussex: Phillimore & Co., 1987.Jones, Charles W. “Some Introductory Remarks on Bede’s Commentary on

Genesis.” Sacris Erudi 19 (1967–70): 115–98.Jones, L. W. “The Provenience of the London Vitruvius.” Speculum 7 (1932):

64–70.Kean, Patricia M. “Numerical Composition in Pearl .” Notes and Queries 12

(1965): 49–51. ———. The Pearl: An Interpretation. London: Routledge, 1967.Kenney, John Peter. Mystical Monotheism: A Study in Ancient Platonic Theology.

Hanover and London: Brown UP, 1991.Kerby-Fulton, Kathryn. Reformist Apocalypticism and Piers Plowman.

Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1990.Klibansky, Raymond. The Continuity of the Platonic Tradition During the Middle

Ages, Supplement, Plato’s Parmenides in the Middle Ages and the Renais- sance: A Chapter in the History of Platonic Studies. Munich: Kraus Inter-national Publications, 1981.

Kinder, Terryl N. Architecture of Silence: Cistercian Abbeys of France. Photo-graphs by David Heald. New York: Harry N. Adams, 2000.

Knightley, William J. “ Pearl : The hy seysoun.” Modern Language Notes 76(1961): 97–102.

Knowles, David. The Evolution of Medieval Thought . 2nd edn. Ed. D. E.Luscombe and C. N. L. Brooke. London and New York: Longman, 1988.

Kotila, Heikki. “ Memoria Mortuorum: Commemoration of the departed inAugustine.” Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 38. Rome: InstitutumPatristicum Augustinianum, 1992

Kreider, Alan. English Chantries: The Road to Dissolution. Cambridge andLondon: Harvard UP, 1979.

Kruft, Hanno-Walter. A History of Architectural Theory From Vitruvius to the Present . Trans. Ronald Taylor, Elsie Callander and Antony Wood. London:Zwemmer; New York: Princeton Architectural P, 1994. Orignially publishedas Geschichte der Architekturtheorie: Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart .Munich: Verlag. C. H. Beck, 1985.

Lamirande, Émilien. L’église céleste selon Saint Augustin. Paris: Étudesaugustiniennes, 1963.

Leclercq, Jean. L’Amour des lettres et le désire de Dieu: Initiation aux auteursmonastiques du moyen áge. Paris: Cerf, 1957. Trans. Catherine Misrahi. The

Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture. NewYork: Fordham UP, 1982.

Lubac, Henri de. Exégèse médiévale; les quatre sens de l’Écriture. 4 vols. Paris:Aubier, 1964.

Luttrell, C. A. “ Pearl : Symbolism in a Garden Setting.” Neophilologus 49 (1965):160–76.

198

Bibliography



Mâle, Émile. L’art religieux du XIIe siècle en France. Étude sur l’origine del’iconographie du Moyen Age. Paris: Armand Colin, 1966.

———. L’art religieux du XIIIe siècle en France. Étude sur l’iconographie dumoyen âge et sur ses sources d’inspiration. Paris: Armand Colin, 1958.

Manetti, Giovanni, ed. Knowledge through Signs: Ancient Semiotic Theories and Practices. Turnhout: Brepols, 1996.

Mann, Jill. “Allegorical Buildings in Medieval Literature.” Medium Aevum 63(1994): 191–210.

Markus, R. A. “Augustine. Biographical Introduction: Christianity andPhilosophy.” In The Cambridge History of Late Greek and Early Medieval

Philosophy, ed. A. Hillary Armstrong, 341–53. Cambridge: Cambridge UP,1967.

———. Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St Augustine. 1970.Repr. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989.

———. “St. Augustine on Signs.” In Augustine: A Collection of Critical Essays,ed. R. A. Markus, 61–91. New York: Doubleday, 1972.

Massé, H. J. The Abbey Church of Tewkesbury with Some Account of the PrioryChurch of Deerhurst, Gloucestershire. London: George Bell & Sons, 1906.

McAleer, J. Philip. “Tewkesbury Abbey in the Later Twelfth and ThirteenthCenturies.” Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society 110 (1992): 77–86.

McAlindon, T. “Hagiography into Art: A Study of St. Erkenwald.” Studies in Philology 67 (1970): 472–94.

McGinn, Bernard. “From Admirable Tabernacle to the House of God.” In Artistic Integration in Gothic Buildings, ed. Virginia Chieffo Raguin, Kathryn Brush,and Peter Draper, 41–56. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1995.

Menn, Stephen. Descartes and Augustine. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998.Merton, Thomas. “Introduction.” In Saint Augustine: The City of God , trans.

Marcus Dods. New York: Random House, 2000.Meyer, Ann R. “The Despensers and the Gawain Poet: A Gloucester Link to the

Alliterative Master of the Northwest Midlands.” The Chaucer Review 35(2001): 413–29.

Minnis, A. J., Charlotte C. Morse, and Thorlac Turville-Petre, eds. Essays on Ricardian Literature in Honor of J. A. Burrow. Oxford: Clarendon, 1997.

Moran, Dermot. The Philosophy of John Scottus Eriugena: A Study of Idealism inthe Middle Ages. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989.

Morris, R. K. “Early Gothic Architecture at Tewkesbury Abbey.” Medieval Art and Architecture at Gloucester and Tewkesbury (1985): 93–8.

———. “Tewkesbury Abbey: The Despenser Mausoleum.” Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society 93 (1974): 142–55.

Muncey, R. W. A History of the Consecration of Churches and Churchyards.Cambridge: W. Heffer and Sons, 1930.

Murrin, Michael. The Allegorical Epic: Essays in its Decline and Fall . Chicago:U of Chicago P: 1980.

———. The Veil of Allegory: Some Notes Toward a Theory of Allegorical Rhet-oric in the English Renaissance. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1969.

Nash, R. H. “Some Philosophic Sources of Augustine’s Illumination Theory.” AugStud 2 (1971): 47–66.

199

Bibliography



Nolan, Barbara. The Gothic Visionary Perspective. Princeton: Princeton UP,1977.

Oakden, J. P. “The Liturgical Influence in Pearl .” In Chaucer und Seine Zeit:Symposium für Walter F. Schirmir , ed. Arno Esch, 337–53. Tübingen:

Niemeyer, 1968.O’Brien, Denis. “Plotinus and the Gnostics in the Generation of Matter.” In

Neoplatonism and Early Christian Thought; Essays in Honor of A. H. Armstrong , ed. H. J. Blumenthal and R. A. Markus. London: Variorum, 1981.

O’Connell, J. St. Augustine’s Confessions: The Odyssey of Soul . Cambridge:Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1969.

———. St. Augustine’s Early Theory of Man. Cambridge: Belknap P of HarvardUP, 1968.

———. Saint Augustine’s Platonism. Philadelphia: Villanova UP, 1984. ———. The Origin of the Soul in St. Augustine’s Later Works. New York:

Fordham UP, 1987.Ogilvy, J. D. A. Books Known to Anglo-Latin Writers from Aldhelm to Alcuin

(670–840). Cambridge: Mediaeval Academy of America, 1936. ———. Books Known to the English, 597–1066 . Cambridge: Mediaeval

Academy of America, 1967.O’Meara, John J. Eriugena. Oxford: Clarendon, 1988.

———. “Plotinus and Augustine: Exegesis of Contra academicos II.5.” Reviewof International Philosophy 24 (1970): 321–37.

Oort, J. van. Jerusalem and Babylon: A Study into Augustine’s “City of God” and the Sources of His Doctrine of the Two Cities. Leiden and New York: E. J.Brill, 1991.

Panofsky, Erwin, ed. and trans. Abbot Suger on the Abbey Church of St.-Denisand its Art Treasures. 2nd edn. Ed. Gerda Panofsky-Soergel. Princeton:Princeton UP, 1979.

Pearsall, Derek and Elizabeth Salter. Landscapes and Seasons of the Medieval World . Toronto and Buffalo: U of Toronto P, 1973.

Pelikan, J. The Excellent Empire: The Fall of Rome and the Triumph of theChurch. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987.

———. The Mystery of Continuity: Time and History, Meaning and Eternity inthe Thought of Saint Augustine. Charlottesville: UP of Virginia, 1986.

Peterson, Clifford J. “ Pearl and St. Erkenwald : Some Evidence for Authorship.”The Review of English Studies 25 (1974): 49–53.

Petroff, Elizabeth. “Landscape in Pearl : The Transformation of Nature.” TheChaucer Review 16 (1981): 181–93.

Phillips, Heather. “Mediaeval Glass-Making Techniques and the Imagery of Glass in Pearl .” Florilegium 6 (1984): 195–215.

Pépin, Jean. Mythe et allégorie: les origines grecques et les contestations judéo-chrétiennes. Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1976.

Prior, Sandra Pierson. The Pearl Poet Revisited . New York: Twayne, 1994.Puniet, P. de. “La consécration des églises.” Revue des questions historiques 77

(1905): 596–603. ———. “Dedicace des églises.” In Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de

liturgie, ed. Fernand Cabrol. Tome quatrième, première partie, 374–406. Paris:Librairie Letouzey et Ané, 1920.

200

Bibliography



Raguin, Virginia Chieffo, Kathryn Brush, and Peter Draper, eds. Artistic Integra-tion in Gothic Buildings. Toronto, Buffalo, and London: U of Toronto P, 1995.

Rastetter, Susan J. “ ‘Bot mylde as maydenes seme at mas’: The Feast of AllSaints and Pearl .” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of

Manchester 74 (1992): 141–54.Reynolds, Roger E. “Liturgy and Monument.” In Artistic Integration of Gothic

Buildings, ed. Virginia Chieffo Raguin, Kathryn Brush, and Peter Draper,57–68. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1995.

Rist, John. “Plotinus and Christian Philosophy.” In The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, ed. Lloyd P. Gerson, 386–413. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996.

Robertson, Anne Walters. The Service Books of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis: Images of Ritual and Music in the Middle Ages. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991.

Rollinson, Philip. Classical Theories of Allegory and Christian Culture. Pitts- burgh: Duquesne UP, 1981; Brighton, UK: Harvester, 1981.

Rorem, Paul. Biblical and Liturgical Symbols Within the Pseudo-DionysianSynthesis. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1984.

———. Pseudo-Dionysius; A Commentary on the Texts and an Introduction toTheir Influence. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1993.

Rosenthal, Joel T. The Purchase of Paradise: Gift Giving and the Aristocracy,1307–1485. London and Toronto: Routledge & Kegan Paul and U of TorontoP, 1972.

Rudolph, Conrad. Artistic Change at St-Denis; Abbot Suger’s Program and the Early Twelfth-Century Controversy Over Art. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990.

Sajavaara, Kari. The Middle English Translations of Robert Grosseteste’s‘Château d’Amour .’ Mémoires de la Société Néophilologique de Helsinki 32.Helsinki: Uusfilologinen yhdistys, 1967.

Salter, Elizabeth. “The Alliterative Revival I.” Modern Philology 64 (1966):146–50.

———. “The Alliterative Revival II.” Modern Philology 64 (1966–67): 233–37.Schuler, Stefan. Vitruv im Mittelalter: Die Reziption von “De architectura” von

der Antike bis in die frühe Neuzeit . Cologne, Weimar, Vienna: Böhlau, 1999.Smith, Ernest F. Tewkesbury Abbey. 2nd edn. Tewkesbury: R. A. Newman, 1934.Spearing, A. C. The Gawain Poet: A Critical Study. Cambridge: Cambridge UP,

1974.Stanbury, Sarah. Seeing the Gawain-Poet: Description and the Act of Perception.

Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1991. ———. “Space and Visual Hermeneutics in the Gawain-Poet.” The Chaucer

Review 21 (1987): 476–89. ———. “Visions of Space: Acts of Perception in Pearl and in Some Late Medi-

eval Illustrated Apocalypses.” Mediaevalia 10 (1988): 133–58.Studer, B. “Sacramentum et exemplum chez Saint Augustin.” RechAug 10 (1975):

87–141.Stock, Brian. Augustine the Reader . Cambridge: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1996.Stookey, Laurence Hull. “The Gothic Cathedral as the Heavenly Jerusalem: Litur-

gical and Theological Sources.” Gesta 8 (1969): 35–41.Swann, Wim. The Late Middle Ages: Art and Architecture from 1350 to the

Advent of the Renaissance. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1977.Thompson, A. Hamilton. The English Clergy and Their Organization in the Later

Middle Ages. Oxford: Clarendon, 1947.

201

Bibliography



———. The Historical Growth of the English Parish Church. Cambridge:Cambridge UP, 1911.

Tuck, Anthony. “Carthusian Monks and Lollard Knights: Religious Attitudes atthe Court of Richard II.” In Reconstructing Chaucer , ed. Paul Strohm andThomas J. Heffernan, 149–61. Studies in the Age of Chaucer Proceedings I,1984. Knoxville, TN: New Chaucer Society, 1985.

Van Fleteren, F. “The Ascent of the Soul in the Augustinian Tradition.” In Para-digms in Medieval Thought Applications in Medieval Disciplines: A Sympo-

sium, ed. N. Van Deusen. Medieval Studies, vol. 3, 93–110. Lewiston: EdwinMellen Press, 1991.

———. “Plato, Platonism.” In Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed.Allan D. Fitzgerald. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge UK: William B.Eerdmans, 1999.

Verbeke, Werner, Daniel Verhelst, and Andries Welkenhuysen, eds. The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages. Mediaevalia Lovaniensia 15.Leuven: Leuven UP, 1988.

Vitz, Evelyn Birge. “The Liturgy and Vernacular Literature.” In The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, ed. Thomas J. Heffernan and E. Ann Matter, 551–618.Medieval Institute Publications. Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University,2001.

Vogel, Cyrille. Medieval Liturgy; An Introduction to the Sources. Rev. and trans.William G. Storey and Niels Krogh Rasmussen. Washington, DC: PastoralPress, 1981.

von Simson, Otto. The Gothic Cathedral; Origins of Gothic Architecture and the Medieval Concept of Order . 2nd edn. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1962.

Wetherbee, Winthrop. Platonism and Poetry in the Twelfth Century: The Literary Influence of The School of Chartres. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1971.

Whitaker, Muriel A. “ Pearl and Some Illustrated Apocalypse Manuscripts.”Viator 12 (1981): 183–96.

Whitman, Jon. Allegory: The Dynamics of an Ancient and Medieval Technique.Cambridge, Harvard UP, 1997.

Wilson, Christopher. The Gothic Cathedral: The Architecture of the Great Church 1130–1530. London: Thames and Hudson, 1990.

Willis, Geoffrey G. Further Essays in Early Roman Liturgy, Alcuin Club Collec-tions 50. London: SPCK, 1968.

Wood-Legh, K. L. Perpetual Chantries in Britain. Cambridge: Cambridge UP,1965.

Zanker, P. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Trans. A. Shapiro. U of Michigan P, 1988.

Zinn, Grover A. Jr. “Suger, Theology, and the Pseudo-Dionysian Tradition.” In Abbot Suger and Saint-Denis, ed. Paula Lieber Gerson, 33–40. New York:Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1986.

Ziolkowski, Thaddeus S. “The Consecration and Blessing of Churches; A Histor-ical Synopsis and Commentary.” Catholic University of America Canon LawStudies no. 187. Doctor of Canon Law diss., Washington: Catholic U of America P, 1943.

202

Bibliography



Index

Page numbers in bold type refer to illustrations and their captions. A note is normallyindexed only if the topic for which it is cited is not mentioned in the correspondingdiscussion in the body of the text.

Abraham 63ad imaginem Dei 47, 51adornment/ornament

as terms in allegoresis 141–2as unveiling of ideas/perfection/

revelation 51–2, 91, 142–4, 155 see also Augustine: sacramental theology;

Plotinus: sacramental cosmology, screenof beauty; veil/screen of allegory

Alcuin 16–17All Saints’ Day, liturgy 182–3All Souls’ Day, liturgy 101–2allegory (allegoria, alia oratio, allêgoroumena,

alieniloquium)

Dante, use of 1, 3as epistemological process 4etymology of the term 2God’s Covenant as 63–4in Homer 3interpretive and compositional traditions

of 2–4, 144–5in Latin and Greek grammarians and

rhetoricians 2–3Old Testament, Christian interpretations

using 13

Philo Judaeus, terminology for 27 n.5, 28Plotinus’ screen of beauty as veil of 41–2, 52related terms in ancient and medieval

texts 2–3requires interpretation 144–5St. Paul’s teachings on 4, 4 n.7, 64as a term in New Testament 2–3veil/screen of 4, 21, 52, 140, 143–6, 147–8,

155, 186in Virgil’s poetry 13, 22

see also under architecture (biblical);

architecture (medieval church);Augustine of Hippo; Bede, Venerable;

Pearl ; Plato see also Bede, Venerable: exegesis of

biblical architecture; Dedication liturgyat St-Denis: architecture/architecturalmotifs in, symbolism in; exegesis;imago; Jerusalem (historical city); NewJerusalem

Ambrose, Saint 20, 31on Ark of Noah 169

Amiens Cathedral (Notre Dame) 111, 121Ammonius Saccus 31, 32 n.19anagogy 42, 73

allegorical level of 3art/architecture, as means to 70, 74, 146liturgy, as means to 96, 146

see also adornment/ornament; Jacob’svision; movement/journey/pilgrimage;

New Jerusalem; Paradise; revelation;soul; theophania

analogia 31 n.15Angoulême Cathedral (St-Pierre) 121Anne of Bohemia, queen of England (under

Richard II) 98, 103, 157

Apocalypse see Revelation, Book of apocalyptic eschatology see eschatologyapocalyptic literature, interpretive complexities

of 6architect

God/logos/Wisdom as 15, 18, 19, 30, 74,180

ideal, in Vitruvius 14–15, 18 see also art/artist under Eriugena; Plotinus

architectural historyrenaissance 12

traditions of scholarship in (medieval) 1–2,6–7

and Vitruvius 12architectural theory

and biblical exegesis 16–17and Vitruvius 12, 22

architecture/architectural motifsand burial sites 176Cistercian 22Garden of Eden as 171humanist 14

as image of cosmos 14, 17and the liberal arts 14Paradise as 171Virgin Mary as 173

see also under Cotton Nero MS: poems;Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis; liturgy;St. Erkenwald ; titles of poems in theCotton Nero MS

see also architecture (biblical); architecture(Gothic); architecture (medieval church);Bede, Venerable: exegesis of biblical

203



architecture; chapels, chantry; chapels,royal; literary edifices; names/locationsof specific buildings

architecture (biblical)Christian allegories of 20–1, 83–4, 87,

89–90, 94, 170–1, 173, 188and liturgy 6, 87sacred Hebrew 4, 17–20, 87

see also architecture/architectural motifs;Ark of the Covenent; Ark of Noah;Augustine: Jerusalem/Babylon; Bede,Venerable: exegesis of biblicalarchitecture; Covenant (biblical);exegesis; Jacob’s vision; Jerusalem;literary edifices; New Jerusalem;Solomon’s Temple; Tabernacle

architecture (Gothic)Decorated, genre of 108, 111, 114–17, 118,

130–1, 162, 178, 185–6developement of 9, 73, 94, 124features of (general) 158, 185French Rayonnant, genre of 110–12, 115,

117, 119, 162, 178and light/Illumination 36, 70–3, 94, 112–13,

147as micro-architecture 108, 110, 114, 119,

125in Cotton Nero MS poems 160–2literary edifices, response to 158–9

nave as Jacob’s ladder 86Perpendicular, genre of 108, 111, 115–17,

118, 128, 132, 178, 185–6and Platonism 6–7, 27, 70, 178–9

politics, displayed through 96, 156–7reliquary buildings 110–11, 115

see also under Pearl /Gawain poet;Pseudo-Dionysius; St.-Denis, Abbey of

see also architecture/architectural motifs;architecture (medieval church); chapels,chantry; chapels, royal; literary edifices;names/locations of individual buildings;

New Jerusalem: church building, symbolof

see also architecture/architectural motifsunder Cotton Nero MS: poems; St.

Erkenwald ; titles of poems in Cotton Nero MS

architecture (medieval church)anagogical potential of 146as blended space 175–6and cosmic dynamism 36distinguished from other art forms 70eschatology of 4, 8, 60, 64–5, 88–9as God’s house 82–4as image of the New Jerusalem

biblical sources for 4, 53evolving concepts of 125, 134, 138inadequacy of 21–2, 92theological foundation for 8, 47–8

and liturgy 23, 77–8, 88–9, 124

see also Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis parts of, allegorized 76–7, 93–4as settings for communication with the

dead 109 see also under Pearl ; Pearl /Gawain poet see also architecture/architectural motifs;

architecture (Gothic); building, act of;chantry movement; chapels, chantry;chapels, royal; literary edifices; NewJerusalem; Pearl ; names/locations of individual buildings.

Aristotle/aristotelianism 32, 34, 36, 37 n.35, 42,53

Ark of the Covenant, in exegesis 30, 64 n.62,83, 89

Ark of Noah, in exegesis 30, 64 n.62, 168, 169,170

Armstrong, A. H. 40art/artist

anagogical experience through 70, 74, 146and craftsmen, enchange of ideas/techniques

with 110, 119–21, 124, 158–9, 161,165, 168, 184–5

Eriugena, theory of 74–5Plato, role of 40Plotinus, theory of 43–4

see also adornment/ornament; imago;liturgy/liturgical worship: as art/synthesis of artes

Augustine of Hippo, Saint 187–8use of allegoria, figura, and related

terms 2–3, 3 n.3, 63 n.59on Ark of Noah 169on body/being (human) 51–4, 91and caritas/cupiditas 56, 57, 61, 62, 63, 86and church (building)

allegories of 173Jacob’s stone as (Gen.28) 85–6

Church ( Ecclesia)Ark of Noah, figure of 169as corpus mysticum 49, 55as corpus permixtum 62, 64and eschatology 61–2as eucharistic community 55, 62Jacob’s vision (Gen.28), figure of 86role of 55, 61–2as sacramental signum 8, 55, 56, 61, 62,

91, 188Christology in 49–53, 54, 55, 69, 147cities (Jerusalem and Babylon), theology

of 8, 31, 47–8, 60–5, 173civitas (city), as a term 62–3Covenant (biblical), as allegory 63–4and Dionysians (twelfth-century), influenced

by 71–2on divine Judgment 54, 64Eriugena, John Scotus, influenced by 74, 76eschatology in 51, 60–2, 64Ethics in 52on the eucharist 55–6, 57

204

Index



Hebrew pasch, term and concept in 57and history, theology of 69and imperial theology 61on Jerusalem/Babylon, theology of the two

cities 8, 31, 47–8, 60–5, 173light/Illumination in 45, 52liturgical worship in 58–60and Manicheans 51Plato’s works, known to 28 n.7

platonism/platonistsreading of 28–9, 31, 45transmitter of, to medieval west 8, 28,

30, 69treatment of 47–51, 53

Plotinus, influence on/treatment by 8,28–31, 45, 48–9, 52

on prayer (oratio, laus) 58–60on predestination 50 n.8, 61 n.50on Psalm 95 169and religious mystery, linguistic struggle

with 53sacramental theology in 55–60, 86, 140,

142, 147on salvation 55, 55 n.25and screen of beauty 52, 53and sense-world, cognition of 33, 50–1, 54,

147signs ( signa), theory of 55–8, 86sin, defined by 54, 55on Solomon’s Temple 64on soul

ascent of, through Christ 53–4corruptibility of 54

St Paul as authority on allegory 2, 52,63–4

Suger, Abbot, influenced by 73Trinitarian theology in 50, 53, 54and Virgil 53, 173

De civitate Dei 31in age of transition 48and architecture of revelation,

theological foundation for 8, 47–8and Jerusalem, allegories of 48, 60–5,

173on liturgical worship 59as a pastoral work 61–2as a patristic work 48Platonism in 28, 31, 48and Rome, collapse of 60

Confessiones 31, 33Contra academicos 31

De doctrina Christiana 56 De magistro 56

Barnabus, Saint, feast of 187Bede, Venerable

and allegorical tradition 20exegesis of biblical architecture 6, 11,

16–21, 22and Vitruvius 16–17

De tabernaculo 17 De templo 1, 17

being, levels of, see Plato: hierarchy of being;Plotinus: hyposteses

Bernard of Clairvauxon Dedication liturgy (commentary) 72,

91–2reproach of Abbot Suger by 22

Beth’el /Beth-el 56, 84, 85Beverly Minster 122, 123, 124–5, 128Bible, the

New Testamentallegorical terminology in 2–3Hellenism in 30, 188

Acts 2 90Acts 17 72Chronicles 19 89Corinthians I.3 1, 18, 95Corinthians I.10 3, 20, 69Corinthians I.16 91Corinthians II.5 52, 90–1, 93Daniel 10, 12, 21 87 n.64Ephesians 2 19–22Exodus 12 57Exodus 23 56Exodus 25–40 4, 11, 16, 19Exodus 25 19Exodus 26 21, 137Exodus 29 80Ezekiel 40–5 4, 30, 84, 146Galatians 4 2Genesis 1 47, 51Genesis 28 56, 84, 85Hebrews 8 63Hebrews 10 59Hebrews 12 84, 174Isaiah 11 89Isaiah 53 181Isaiah 66 21John 1 30, 181John 12, 13 55John 14 115Jude 9–10 87 n.64Kings I.5 4, 11, 16, 30Kings I.8 56Luke 18 181Matthew 5 181Matthew 6 49Matthew 13 148Matthew 19 181Matthew 20 61, 64Matthew 21 87Matthew 22 55Psalm 3 62Psalm 14 19, 181Psalm 23 83, 181Psalm 42 83Psalm 45 95Psalm 47 20, 95Psalm 86 84, 95

205

Index



Psalm 95 89Psalm 98 89Psalm 121 89Psalm 123 89Psalm 131 19Psalm 147 89Psalms (Songs of Sion) 83–4, 95Revelation 1 5Revelation 3 174Revelation 10 88Revelation 11 87, 88Revelation 12 87 n.64Revelation 14 84Revelation 17 5Revelation 21–2 4–5, 6, 52, 89, 91, 146,

147Romans 12, 51Song of Songs 4 171Wisdom 10 181

Bishop, Ian 145Blenkner, Louis 167Bloomfield, Morton 146

body/being (human)church (building) as metaphor of 90–1, 95as living stones 21Manichean hatred of 51resurrection of 51 n.5as sacrament 51–3, 64St. Paul’s teachings on 18, 51, 52, 90–1as temple of God 18, 51–3, 64, 91–2

Bogdanos, Theodore 145–6Bony, Jean 111, 119–20Borroff, Marie 166, 175Bourges Cathedral (St-Étienne) 52, 96Bowers, John 138, 156, 167Branner, Robert 109–10, 121Brown, Peter 31Bucher, François 120–1, 158

building, act of as unveiling of ideas/perfection/revelation

51–2, 91, 142–4 see also adornment/ornament; anagogy;

art/artist; revelation buildings, in literature, see literary edifices burial sites, and church buildings 176

Cain and Seth, allegories of 63Canterbury Cathedral 104Capetian kings of France 114, 115, 156–7

see also individual monarchsCarolingian Renaissance 16Carruthers, Mary 179, 180Chalcidius 27 n.5chantry, as a term 102chantry movement 97

documents pertaining to 105, 109eschatology of 9, 108, 125, 134and fourteenth-century reformers 99, 107–8geographical areas of 106, 126, 183–4and language of memory 102 n.16

and liturgy 101–2, 104–6, 134, 183–4 priests’ role in 106, 107, 116religious and cultural features of 9, 99–108,

134, 184and Richard II 98–100and Shakespeare 98–9, 104and suppression acts 9, 99, 102, 108

see also under Cotton Nero MS: poems; Pearl /Gawain poet; St. Erkenwald ; titlesof poems in the Cotton Nero MS

see also chapels, chantry; St. Paul’sCathedral: chantry foundations/chapelsin; soul Masses; Tewkesbury Abbey:chantry chapels and tombs in

chapel/chapelle/capella/chape, as terms 110chapels, chantry 9, 97, 109, 125

architectural styles of 108, 110, 128–9, 132Beauchamp, Richard

tomb and chapel of (St. Mary’s church,Warwick) 113

chapel of (Tewkesbury Abbey) 113,130, 132, 134, 139

Burghersh, Bartholomewchapel and tomb of (Lincoln

Cathedral) 106–7, 108 n.35, 118,119, 120, 122–4

and church interiors 108as English phenomenon 108eschatological features of 109, 125, 134Fitzhamon chapel (Tewkesbury

Abbey) 129, 132inconography of 113Roger de Waltham, chapel of (St. Paul’s

Cathedral) 118 n.81, 126Trinity chapel (Tewkesbury Abbey) 131,

133, 134Warwick chapel (Tewkesbury Abbey) 113,

130, 132, 134, 139Works Chantry (Lincoln Cathedral) 107,

116

see also architecture (Gothic); architecture(medieval church); chantry movement;chapels, royal; Despenser family;Erkenwald, Saint: tomb of; St. Paul’sCathedral: chantry foundations/chapelsin

chapels, royal 52, 97, 110–13and chantry movement 9

see also architecture (Gothic); architecture(medieval church); chapels, chantry;Ste-Chapelle (Paris); Ste-Chapelle:imitations of; St. Stephen’s Chapel(Westminster Palace)

Charles V, king of France 113Chartres Cathedral (Notre Dame) 1, 52, 96, 121Chaucer, Geoffrey 160

tomb of 128–9Chester Cathedral 121, 124, 125Church ( Ecclesia)

as symbol in exegesis 170, 171, 173

206

Index



Virgin Mary, as symbol of 167 see also under Augustine of Hippo

Christ birth of, and Pax Augusta/ Romanaas hortus conclusus 171and Jerusalem temple, cleansing by 87and light/Illumination, theology of 70, 74and verbum (the Word) 50and Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue 13

see also Augustine of Hippo: Christology,Trinitarian theology; God; logos

Christiana libertas 53Christianity

divergence from Platonism 36, 69–70as pilgrimage 59

Christian-Platonism, 147, 149late ancient, early medieval 27–32and liturgy 7, 9, 27, 32, 72

see also under Suger, Abbot see also Ambrose, Saint;

Aristotle/aristotelianism; Augustine of Hippo; Bernard of Clairvaux; Eriugena,John Scotus; Gregory of Nyssa; Hugh of St-Victor; Maximus the Confessor;Origin; Plato; platonism/platonists/neoplatonism; Plotinus; Pseudo-Dionysius; Richard of St-Victor

Cicero 27 n.5, 28civitas (city) 47, 48, 62–3

see also Augustine of Hippo: cities(Jerusalem and Babylon); Jerusalem(historical city)

Cleanness ( Purity)architecture/architectural motifs in 160–2,

172, 175terminology for 175

authorship/dialect/manuscript 138and chantry movement 10divine Judgment in 165, 168

see also Cotton Nero MS: poems; Pearl /Gawain poet; St. Erkenwald

Clement of Alexandria 27, 28, 30, 31, 137Coldstream, Nicola 108, 115–16Colvin, H. M. 114Cook, G. H. 104, 106, 108–9corpus mysticum 55cosmic dynamism 35–6, 40, 69

see also movement/journey/pilgrimage;soul; Plotinus: sacramental cosmology

Cotton Nero A. x MSauthorship/dialect 138

poems in (Cleanness, Patience, Pearl , Sir Gawain and the Green Knight )architecture/architectural motifs in 165,

168, 170–2architectural terminology in 173–5and chantry movement 185eschatology in 165, 168, 182–3God as architect in 180liturgy in 168, 172, 182–3

moral dramas in 165 see also titles of poems in Cotton Nero MS;

St. Erkenwald Covenant (biblical)

allegories of 63–4and sacred architecture 20

Crossley, Paul 115

Dante Alighieri, 149use of allegory 1, 3and sacramental poetry 53and Virgil/limits of reason 14, 153

Il Convivio 155Dedication of churches, liturgy

Ark of Noah in 169commentaries on 72, 91–4early history of 79–8types of (Gallican, Roman,

Romano-Germanic) 80 see also Augustine: sacramental theology;

Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis;Eriugena, John Scotus: churchconsecration; liturgy; prayer

Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis 7, 8, 72, 181apocalyptic/eschatological language of 78,

88–9architecture/architectural motifs in 83–4,

87, 94network of metaphors 170

chief theme of 81duplex feast 81 n.50Enthronement hymns in 89and First Ordinary of St.-Denis (Marazine

526) 78–9as fusion of Roman and Gallican

traditions 80Holy Spirit, invocation to 90Jacob’s vision (Gen. 28.10–22) in 84–6,

89Jerusalem (historical city) in 84matins 83–9Michael the Archangel in 87–8, 89and the New Jerusalem/Visio pacis (Rev.

21–2) 82, 92–4symbolism in, summarized 94terce 90–1thematic progression in 81Tree of Jesse in 89vespers (vigil) 81–2

Despenser family (fourteenth-century)tombs and chantries of 9–10, 117–18,

130–4, 133 see also Tewkesbury Abbey

Dionysians (twelfth-century) 71–3 see also Christian-Platonism; Eriugena, John

Scotus; Hugh of St.-Victor;Pseudo-Dionysius; Richard of St.-Victor; Suger, Abbot

Duby, Georges 72, 109, 146Duffy, Eamon 105, 106, 109

207

Index



Eden, Garden of, as architectural motif 171Edward I, king of England 113, 114, 157Edward II, king of England 114, 124, 157

tomb of 117Edward III, king of England 114, 139,

157Edward VI, king of England, religious

suppression acts of 9, 99, 102, 108ekphrasis 180Eleanor of Castile, queen of England (under

Edward I) 114, 157Eleanor de Clare 132Eleanor Crosses 114, 157Emmerson, Richard K. 4enigma (aenigma)

relation to allegory (as a term) in ancient andmedieval texts 2

Enoch, Book of 84Eriugena, John Scotus

art/artist, theory of 74–5Augustine, influenced by 74, 76church consecration, subject of a poem

by 74–5Gregory of Nyssa, translated by 77 n.29Maximus Confessor, influenced by 76–7,

77 n.29Pseudo-Dionysius (Celestial Hierarchy),

translated by/commentary by 74 Aulae sidereae 74–5 Periphyseon 74

Erkenwald, Saintlegend of 164shrine of 118, 126, 128, 163–4

eschatologyand medieval Christianity 6merging of personal with

universal/cosmic 125–6 n.90and Pseudo-Dionysius, absent in 76

see also under architecture (medievalchurch); Augustine of Hippo; chantrymovement; chapels, chantry:eschatological features of; Cotton NeroMS: poems; Maximus the Confessor;St. Erkenwald

see also Judgment, divine/LastEschaton, see Judgment, divine/LastEusebius 61, 79exegesis

and architectural theory 16architecture/architectural motifs in 168–9,

170–1as hybrid genre 16

see also under Ark of the Covenant; Ark of Noah; Bede, Venerable; Pearl ; Pearl /Gawain poet

see also allegory: interpretive andcompositional traditions of; Augustine of Hippo; Dedication of churches, liturgy:commentaries on

Fassler, Margot 7, 77 figura (“figure”)

relation to allegory (as a term) in ancient andmedieval texts 2, 3

see also Augustine of Hippo: use of allegoria, figura, and related terms

Fitzroy, Robert, earl of Gloucester 132Fleming, John 166Foley, Edward 90Foussard, M. 75Fulgentius, Fabius Planciades 13 n.30, 142,

143, 144

Gawain poet, see Pearl /Gawain poetGeoffrey of Vinsauf, Poetria nova 179Gilbert de Clare 132Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald of Wales)

De rebus a gestis 155Gloucester Abbey (now Cathedral) 115, 117,

139, 185God

as architect/artist 15, 18, 19, 30, 74, 180and Covenant, Old/New 63–4and the Tabernacle 19–20and sacred world, cannot be represented 21,

21 n.46, 43, 92 see also Christ; Augustine of Hippo:

Christology in, Trinitarian theology in;imago: divinity, reflection of; imago:inadequacies of; logos; Plotinus: on theOne/Good

Gregory I, Pope, Saint (the great) 20Gregory of Nyssa 28, 77 n.29, 178–9Grosseteste, Robert, Chasteau d’Amour 173guilds 97, 102, 104Guy de Brien, tomb of 117–18

Hagia Sophia 17–18, 83 n.54Hamburger, Jeffrey 156Harwood, Britton 167Henry III, king of England 157Henry IV, king of England, duke of Lancaster

(Bolingbrooke) 98, 99, 104Henry V, king of England 104

see also Shakespeare, William: Henry V Henry VIII, king of England, religious

suppression acts of 9, 99, 102Heraclitus, on allegory in Homer 3Hill, Ordelle 182Hiscock, Nigel 7, 27history, theology of 69, 96Holy of Holies ( sancta sanctorum)

in Cleanness 162–3veil of allegory before 21

Homer 3Hôtel des Tournelles (Paris) 160Hugh of St.-Victor 28

and allegory (as a term) 2on Ark of Noah 169

208

Index



Dedication liturgy, commentary on 72, 91,92–4

as a Dyonisian 73hyponoia (“under-sense”), relation to allegory

(as a term) in ancient and medieval texts 2,3

icon (eikon) 44relation to allegory (as a term) in ancient and

medieval texts 2iconography, relation to liturgy 88–9imago (“image”)

anagogical potential of 140, 142and divinity/cosmos, represented by 14, 17,

38, 43, 45, 92, 147, 186inadequacies of 149, 152–4relation to allegory (as a term) in ancient and

medieval texts 2, 3 see also adornment/ornament; art/artists;

Augustine: sacramental theology, screenof beauty, signs ( signa); New Jerusalem:church building as symbol of; Plotinus:screen of beauty, images (validated by)

integumentum 3 n.4involucrum 143Isaiah, censor of images 21, 22Isidore of Seville 2

Jacob’s vision (Gen. 28.10–19) 56, 58, 64 n.62in Dedication liturgy 84–6, 89

Jan van Eyck 152Jean, Duc de Berry 113Jeauneau, E. 76Jerome, Saint 2Jerusalem/ Hierusalem/ Ierusalem (historical

city)allegories of 48, 60–5, 84, 170, 173in Cleanness 168in Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis 83–4, 87,

94, 170 see also Augustine of Hippo:

Jerusalem/Babylon; Bede: exegesis of biblical architecture; New Jerusalem; Pearl : architecture/architectural motifsin; Solomon’s Temple; temple(Jerusalem)

John of Gaunt 107Judaism, and Hellenism 30Judgment, divine/Last

in Cotton Nero MS poems 165, 168knowledge of (in Augustine) 60, 61 n.50, 64Michael the Archangel, role in 87–8

see also eschatology; Revelation, Book of Justinian, and Hagia Sophia 17–18, 83 n.54

Kenny, John 34Knowles, David 28–9Kreider, Alan 102

Lady chapels 124

Lancastrian revolution 99, 122Last Supper 58 n.40Leclercq, Jean 22liberal arts, and architecture 14light/Illumination

logos as 74and medieval architecture 36, 70–3, 94,

112–13, 147metaphysics/theology of 45, 52, 70–3, 147,

186 see also Plotinus: light/Illumination

Lincoln Cathedral 106, 107, 108 n.35, 116, 118,119, 120, 122–4

literary edificesinfluence upon architecture 158–9and sacramental view of reality 146–7

see also architecture/architectural motifs;architecture (biblical); Bede: exegesis of

biblical architecture; exegesis see also architecture/architectural motifs

under Cotton Nero MS: poems;Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis; St.

Erkenwald ; titles of poems in Cotton Nero MS

liturgical books, types of 78–9liturgical painting and poetry 53liturgy/liturgical worship

as applied theology 8and architecture 23, 77–8, 88–9, 124as art/synthesis of artes 22–3, 72, 89and chantry movement 101–2, 104–6, 134,

183–4and Christian-Platonism 7, 9, 27, 32, 72and cosmic dynamism 36and drama of revelation/movement of soul

72, 93, 96, 146early Christian 79–80and iconography 88–9and material weath 107and personal piety 97as sacramental activity 58–60

see also under Augustine of Hippo; Cotton Nero MS: poems; chantry movement;titles of poems in the Cotton Nero MS

see also All Saints’ Day; All Souls’ Day;Dedication of a church, liturgy;Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis; prayer;soul Masses

locus/place/settingas anagogical image 140and communication with the dead 109essential to revelation 70, 77, 85–6, 87

locus amoenus 171 n.48logos

as architect 30as light/Illumination 74and number/ratio/proportion 31 n.15

see also Christ; GodLouis IX, king of France, saint 111, 112love 154

209

Index



Lubac, Henri de, Exégèse Médiéval 168–9,173–4

Macrobius 27 n.5Mann, Jill 146, 173mappa mundi 179Martin, Saint, cape of 110Mary, Virgin

as castle/sanctuary 173as Church ( Ecclesia) 167cult of 124as hortus conclusus 171

Maximus the Confessor 76–7McGinn, Bernard 71, 73medieval culture, use of term 4medieval studies

distinctions between disciplines in 188theoretical approaches in 1–2

Menn, Stephen 33Merton, Thomas 65, 69Michael the Archangel, biblical and medieval

traditions of 87–8Michael of Canterbury, mason 114mimesis, dynamic/complex vs mere copy

146–7Mount Sinai 19, 21Mount Sion 19–20movement/journey/pilgrimage of the soul 71

in Augustine 53–4in liturgy 72, 93, 96, 146in Platonism 96, 105in Plotinus 38–42, 149

see also anagogy; Augustine of Hippo:sacramental theology; cosmicdynamism; liturgy; Plotinus:light/Illumination, saramentalcosmology

musicology 7mysteria, relation to allegory (as a term) in

ancient and medieval texts 3

neoplatonismas misleading term 6 n.11

see Ambrose, Saint;Aristotle/aristotelianism; Augustine of Hippo; Barnard of Clairvaux;Christian-Platonism; Eriugena, JohnScotus; Gregory of Nyssa; Hugh of St.-Victor; Philo Judaeus; Origin; Plato;

platonism/platonists; Plotinus;Pseudo-Dionysius; Richard of St.-Victor; Suger, Abbot

New Jerusalem (Visio pacis: Rev. 21–2) 4–5,52, 53, 56, 62, 188and adornment/ornament 91in Augustine 8, 31, 47–8, 60–5, 173church building as symbol of

biblical sources for 4, 53evolving concepts of 125, 134, 138inadequacy of 21–2, 92

theological foundation for 8, 47–8as Church ( Ecclesia) 60–1, 170in Dedication liturgy 82, 91, 92–4in exegesis, as controlling metaphor

in 168–9, 170–1as New Covenant 63–4and Pearl 10as temple 170traditions of interpretation 5

see also architecture (biblical); architecture(Gothic); Bede, Venerable: exegesis of

biblical architecture; Jerusalem(historical city); literary edifices;Paradise; revelation; Revelation, Book of

see also architecture/architectural motifsunder Pearl ; Dedication liturgy atSt.-Denis

Nolan, Barbara 149

Oakden, J. P. 183Octavian (Ceasar Augustus) 11Origen 1, 20, 28, 31

Palais Jacques Coeur (Bourges) 113Panofsky, Erwin 6, 95Paradise

as architectural motif 171as castellum 178and the East/orient 177–8

Paris Cathedral (Notre Dame) 111, 112 pasch/Passover 57–8, 58 n.40 Patience

architectural motifs in 172authorship/dialect/manuscript 138and chantry movement 10

see also Pearl /Gawain poet; Cotton NeroMS; St. Erkenwald ; titles of poems inCotton Nero MS

Paul, Sainton allegorical interpretation 2, 4, 4 n.7, 20,

52, 63–4on church (building) as metaphor for human

body 90–1, 95on human body/being as sacrament/holy

temple 18, 51, 52, 90–1on God as architect 18

Pax Augusta/ Romana 11, 12, 13 Pearl

allegorical technique in 144–5, 147–8,188

apocalyptic/eschatological features of 137,140, 151–2, 166, 176, 178, 180, 184–6,188eschatological landscapes 150, 165,

176–8as architecture 10, 137–8, 140, 155, 172,

176–8, 184–6architecture/architectural motifs in 165,

171, 174, 176–8terminology for 174–5

210

Index



architecture, English Gothic, links with 132,139–40

and Augustine’s sacramental signa 140and chantry movement 10, 126, 140, 184–6and exegesis 165and Geoffrey of Vinsauf ( Poetria nova) 179homiletic center of 167, 181–2light metaphysics in 186liturgical features of 141, 174–5, 178,

181–4, 186, 188as love poem 153madness in 153and mappa mundi 179and metalurgy 176, 184–5as mixed genre 137, 180–1mnemonic plan of 180and ornament

as veil/screen/mechanism of allegory140, 147–8, 155, 186

inadequacies of the veil 149, 152–4 pearl symbolism in 141and Platonic number theory/geometry 185and Plotinus’ screen of beauty 140

psychological tensions in 140, 145, 148,149, 151–4, 183–4

and Ricardian court culture 156, 160and space, theoretical perspectives on 172structural and ornamental features of 139,

147–8, 165–7and visual arts 167–8, 186

see also Cotton Nero MS; Pearl /Gawain poet; St. Erkenwald ; titles of poems inthe Cotton Nero MS

Pearl /Gawain poetas architect 157, 180and chantry movement 9, 10exchange of ideas/techniques with

artists/craftsmen 168, 184, 188and exegesis, knowledge of 171–2and Gothic architecture, knowledge of

itinerary 157, 160, 168, 185–6forms/techniques/symbolic programs of

159, 161–2, 172, 178, 185–6identity, questions of 138–9, 184

political and geographical associationsof 126

and Ricardian court culture 10, 156, 160,185

see also Cotton Nero MS; St. Erkenwald ;titles of poems in Cotton Nero MS

Percy Tomb (Beverly Minster) 122, 123,124–5, 128, 139

Philippe de Mézières 156Philo Judaeus

allegorical terminology in 27 n.5, 28Hellenism and Judaism, synthesis by 30

Philosophy, and theology, modern distinction between 48 n.4

Plantagenet kings of Englandarchitectural projects of 113–14, 156–7

see also individual monarchsPlato

hierarchy of being in 32, 40, 53negative (apophatic) theology in 34Plotinus, influenced by 33–5, 37 n.36Timaeus, Latin translations of 27 n.5, 28

Republicallegory of the cave in 35role of artist in 40

see also Aristotle/aristotelianism;Christian-Platonism; platonism/

platonist/neoplatonism platonism/platonist/neoplatonism

Christian divergence from 69–70drama of the soul (procession/return)

in 38–42, 96, 105, 149medieval church architecture, influenced

by 6–7, 27, 70, 178–9medieval liturgy, evidence of 7, 9, 27, 32,

72as terms 6 n.11

see also Ambrose, Saint;Aristotle/aristotelianism; Augustine of Hippo; Christian-Platonism; Eriugena,John Scotus; Gregory of Nyssa; Hugh of St-Victor; Maximus the Confessor;Origin; Philo Judaeus; Plato; Plotinus;Pseudo-Dionysius; Richard of St-Victor;Suger, Abbot

Plotinus, EnneadsAugustine’s Platonism, informed by 8,

28–9, 31, 45Aristotle/aristotelianism, influence in 37

n.35, 42, 48–9and art/artist, theory of 40–5Byzantine aesthetics, influenced by 29

n.11Christian adaptation of 7–9, 32, 35–6, 41–2,

45–6concept of beauty in 31cosmic dynamism in 35–6, 40, 69and Egyptian heiroglyphics 43–4Ethics in 44and Forms 38, 40and the Gnostics 35 n.34hierarchy and organicism models united

by 33, 40, 42hyposteses in 32 n.20, 33, 36, 38, 39–42images, validated by 37–8, 41–5and Intellect/Nous/rational forming

principle 36, 39, 44–5, 91, 147life of 32 n.19light/Illumination (emanation theory)

in 32–7, 50, 69negative (apophatic) theology in 42as (neo)Platonist 6 n.11as religious mystic 34, 42–3, 76, 149scholarship, neglect of 28–9on the One/Good 33–5, 37, 40, 42–3, 50optimism in 37

211

Index



and Plato, as authority for/departure from by 33 n.24, 35, 37 n.36

proportion theory (for beauty), rejected by 38

sacramental cosmology in 8, 36–7, 49–50,56

and sense-worldcognition of 35, 37–8, 41, 146, 147

and screen of beauty (Intellect) 41, 46, 52,53, 62, 140, 142, 188

on the soulascent/decent of 38–42, 149dual nature of 39–41, 54incorruptibility of 54

purification of 44and Stoicism 37 n.35, 43 n.42

Porphyry 8, 28, 31–2 prayer

for the dead 101–2, 104–6as oratio/laus 58

see also All Saints’ Day; All Souls’ Day;Augustine of Hippo: sacramentaltheology; Dedication of churches,liturgy; Dedication liturgy at St.-Denis;liturgy/liturgical worship; soul Masses

prophecy 12–14in Aeneid 13 n.30

proportion theory of beauty 38–9Protestant Reformation 106

chantry movement, suppressed by 9, 99,102, 108

Pseudo-Dionysiusand Christian adaptation of Platonism

72–3on dissimilar similitudes 142–3eschatology, absent in 76Gothic architecture, influenced by 73and light/Illumination, theology of 72–3liturgy at St.-Denis, influenced by 7, 72mistaken identity of 72negative (apophatic) theology in 142–3sacramental theology in 73Suger’s writings, influenced by 9, 71–4writings of, possesion of St.-Denis 71–2Celestial Hierarchy

commentary on/Latin translations of 74

themes in 73Purgatory 105–6, 184

see also chantry movement; soul MassesPythagorean philosophy of numbers 34

Quest del Saint Graal , as apocalypticliterature 6 n.10

Ramsey, William, mason 117, 118Réau, Louis 110Reformation, see Protestant ReformationReims Cathedral (Notre Dame) 120, 157relics, cult of 110, 111, 112, 113

revelation building (act of)/adorning, as means

to 51–2, 91, 142–4locus/place/setting, essential to 70, 85–7as a term 1

see also adornment/ornament; anagogy;Jacob’s vision; movement/journey/

pilgrimage; New Jerusalem; Revelation,Book of; soul; theophania

Revelation, Book of 188medieval religion and culture, influenced

by 4 see also New Jerusalem

Reynolds, Roger E. 78, 89Richard II, king of England

chantry movement, involment in 98–100,103–4

Pearl /Gawain poet, connections with courtof 10, 126, 138, 157

Richard of St.-Victor 28, 73Robertson, Anne Walters 7, 72, 77Rogier van der Weyden 23Rome, in Aeneid 12Rorem, Paul 73, 77

sacramentumrelation to allegory (as a term) in ancient and

medieval texts 3 see also Augustine of Hippo: sacramental

theology; body/being (human): assacrament; liturgy: as sacramentalactivity; Plotinus: sacramentalcosmology; Pseudo-Dionysius:sacramental theology

Salter, Elizabeth 132, 139–40, 157, 172Schuler, Stefan 15screen of beauty, see under Augustine of Hippo;

Plotinus see also veil/screen of allegory

sense-worldand anagogy 73

see also under Augustine; Plotinus see also art/artist; imago; veil/screen of

allegoryShakespeare, William, Henry V and the chantry

movement 98–9, 104 signum (“sign”)


see also Augustine of Hippo: signs ( signa);imago

Silvestris, Bernardus 13 n.30, 143 similitudo


Sir Gawain and the Green Knight architecture/architectural motifs in 159–61,

165, 172authorship/dialect/manuscript 138moral drama in 165

212

Index



see also Cotton Nero MS; Pearl /Gawain poet; St. Erkenwald ; titles of poems inCotton Nero MS

Solomon’s Temple 6, 11, 56, 168in Cleanness 162–3Hagia Sophia, as image of 18significations of

in exegesis 4, 16, 30, 64, 169–70in Dedication liturgy 83–4

purpose and construction of 19–20, 21 see also architecture (biblical); Bede,

Venerable: exegesis on biblicalarchitecture; exegesis; literary edifices;Tabernacle

soul journey of, mirrored in liturgy 72, 93, 96,

105, 146and platonic drama of procession and

return 38–42, 96, 105, 149as temple of God 93, 169

see also under Augustine; platonism/ platonist/neoplatonism; Plotinus

see also anagogy; cosmic dynamism; soulMasses

soul Masses 9, 134 belief in efficacy of 105early Christian tradition of 101–2, 104

see also All Saints’ Day; All Souls’ Day;chantry movement: liturgies for;liturgy/liturgical worship; Pearl : liturgyin; prayer; purgatory

St.-Denis, Abbey of anagogical program of 70on ancient burial site 176as applied theology 70chevet 94choir 70–1and consecration of Suger’s new

church 187Gothic style of 8, 9, 70–1, 94, 111, 121, 188as New Jerusalem 94and Pseudo-Dionysius 7, 71–2and Westminster Abbey, political

counterpart to 157 see also architecture (Gothic); architecture

(medieval church); Dedication liturgy atSt-Denis; Suger, Abbot

St. Erkenwald 126architecture/architectural motifs in 159,

163–4, 165, 168terminology of 175

authorship/dialect/manuscript 138and chantry movement 10 n.20, 185–6and Cleanness, architectural/linquistic links

with 162–3, 164and Cotton Nero MS poems

general connections with 138–9eschatological features of 165, 168liturgical aspects of 164, 168moral drama in 165

and Ricardian court culture 10 n.21 see also Cotton Nero MS; Erkenwald, Saint;

titles of poems in the Cotton Nero MSSt.-Germain-des-Prés, Abbey of (Paris) 187,

188St.-Gervais–St.-Protais (Paris) 60 n.47St. Mary’s church (Warwick) 113St.-Nicaise church (Reims) 111St. Paul’s Cathedral (London)

chantry foundations/chapels in 103, 117,118 n.81, 126

“New Work” of 126, 128and Perpendicular Gothic 163in St. Erkenwald 163–4St. Erkenwald’s shrine in 118

St.-Séverin church (Paris), Chapelle Mansartin 187, 188

St. Sophia, see Hagia SophiaSt. Stephen’s chapel (Westminster Palace)

architectural styles/decoration of 114–15,118, 119

chantry chapels, associations with 134construction history of 113–14, 118, 124as imitation of the Ste-Chapelle (Paris) 52,

112, 114as Plantagenet display of

power/authority 157St.-Victor, Abbey of (Paris)

and Christian-Platonism 9medieval liturgy at 7

see also Hugh of St-Victor; Richard of St-Victor

Ste-Chapelle (Paris) 52, 97, 111–12, 139, 185chantry chapels, associations with 110, 119,

121, 134imitations of 112–13

see also architecture (Gothic); architecture(medieval church); chapels, royal

Stephen, Saint, as censor of images 22Suger, Abbot, 175

Bernard of Clairvaux, reproach of 22and Christian-Platonism, knowledge of 9,

70, 71–4, 76–7, 91–4, 96and liturgy, knowledge of 9, 71–2, 77,

94–6, 181and material opulence, passion for 22, 78,

87, 96, 107, 147Pseudo-Dionysius, influenced by 9, 71–4writings by 8, 70, 87, 187

De consecratione 94–6 see also St.-Denis, Abbey of; Dedication

liturgy at St-Denissymbol ( symbolon)


theology, as qualifyer of 42

Tabernacle (Exod. 25–40) 6, 11, 18 purpose and construction of 19–20, 21as symbol 4, 16, 30, 64 n.62, 170

213

Index



see also architecture (biblical); Bede,Venerable: exegesis on biblicalarchitecture; exegesis; literary edifices;Solomon’s Temple

temple body/being (human) as 18, 51–3, 64, 90–2,

95 New Jerusalem as 170soul as 93, 169

see also architecture (biblical); temple(Jerusalem); Solomon’s Temple

temple (Jerusalem), Christ’s cleansing of 87Tewkesbury Abbey (Gloucestershire) 185

choir 9, 127, 178chantry chapels and tombs in 9, 113,

117–20, 129–34, 178

Victorinus, Marius 28Veni creator spiritus, hymn 90Vincent of Beauvais 15 n.38Virgil

and Augustine 53, 173and Dante 14, 153as imitator of scripture 173and Pax Augusta/ Romana 12

Aeneid 11Christian allegories of 13, 22

prophecy and revelation in 12–13 Fourth Eclogue, Christian allegories of 13

Visio pacis, see New JerusalemVitruvius

career of 11–12and Epicurian philosophy 17 n.41

Index

meyermedievalallegoryandthebuilding of the new jerusalem

Documents