Culture

It was years ago now, but I shall never forget it. I had read an old little book (C.W. Mönnich, Pelgrimage, 1954), and so we had pitched our tent not far from Avallon in order to visit Vézelay, one of those French collines inspirées, this one crowned with a basilica for Sainte Madeleine.

It was Sunday morning; I had got into the car to attend the service. We had already explored the little town during the week: dreadful, such crowds. “Tourism destroys more than you hold dear.” I was late, decided to take the short way, and climbed the hill by a few narrow lanes and long flights of steps. Somewhat out of breath, I sat down at the back of the church, which had been subtly lit for the occasion. The stately arches and the warm colours of the stone were shown to particular advantage. The scent of incense filled the space, and the sisters did their best, by means of pinned-on microphones, to let us share in their prayer and so to make the celebration a “nice” religious experience. It went off flawlessly, but it left no lasting mark.

Disappointed, I left the church during the Eucharist. In the porch I looked once more at the tympanum, where Christ, surrounded by the strangest creatures, stares into the distance while spreading his arms in invitation. And I thought of the pilgrims who had gathered here in the Middle Ages, before daybreak, to touch the reliquary of Mary Magdalene in the crypt beneath the altar. I pictured them standing there, in the dark, damp, cold hall, and I wondered: what was it that moved those people? Santiago was still so far away.

Suddenly I heard a stir, and the great doors that separate the narthex from the church swung open, agonisingly slowly, and I saw the light. It streamed towards me from the church, so overwhelming, so physical, so mysteriously in league with the space around it, that I could do nothing but stand and look. This light, earthly through and through, was heavenly; the sun and the Son were in league. And while everyone else was leaving the church, I slowly went back in, and along a path of light “I went in unto the altar of God”.

Pilgrimage begins when church is done.

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The Dutch original / het origineel

Pelgrimage

’t Is al weer jaren geleden, maar ik vergeet het nooit. Ik had een oud boekje gelezen (C.W. Mönnich, Pelgrimage, 1954) en daarom hadden we onze tent opgezet niet ver van Avallon om naar Vézelay te kunnen gaan, één van die Franse collines inspirées, deze gekroond met een basiliek voor Sainte Madeleine.

Het was zondagmorgen; ik was in de auto gestapt om de dienst bij te wonen. We hadden doordeweeks het stadje al verkend: Verschrikkelijk, wat een drukte. “Toerisme maakt meer kapot dan u lief is.” Ik was laat, besloot de korte weg te nemen en beklom de berg via enkele smalle straatjes en lange trappen. Enigszins buiten adem zette ik me achter in de kerk, die voor de gelegenheid op subtiele wijze was verlicht. De statige bogen en de warme kleuren van de stenen kwamen bijzonder tot hun recht. De geur van wierook vulde de ruimte en de zusters deden hun best om – via opgespelde micro’s – ons te laten delen in hun gebed en zo van de viering een ‘fijne’ religieuze ervaring te maken. Het verliep vlekkeloos, maar beklijven deed het niet.

Teleurgesteld verliet ik tijdens de eucharistieviering de kerk. In de voorhal bekeek ik nog eens het timpaan, waarop Christus, omringd door de vreemdste creaturen, in de verte staart, terwijl hij uitnodigend z’n armen spreidt. En ik dacht aan de pelgrims die zich hier in de Middeleeuwen, voor dag en dauw, verzameld hadden om in de crypte onder het altaar de reliekschrijn van Maria Magdalena aan te raken. Ik stelde me voor, hoe ze daar stonden, in de donkere, vochtige, koude hal, en ik vroeg me af: wat bewoog die mensen toch? Santiago was nog zover.

Plots hoorde ik gestommel en de grote deuren, die de narthex van de kerk scheiden, zwaaiden tergend langzaam open, en ik zag het licht. Het stroomde mij vanuit de kerk tegemoet, zo overweldigend, zo fysiek, zo geheimzinnig samenspannend met de ruimte eromheen, dat ik niet anders kon, dan blijven kijken. Dit licht, door en door aards, was hemels; de zon en de Zoon spanden samen. En terwijl iedereen de kerk verliet, ging ik langzaam terug de kerk in, en over een pad van licht ‘ging ik op tot Gods altaren’.

Pelgrimage begint als de kerk is gedaan.

Dick Wursten

Freed from her demons by Jesus, Mary of Magdala became one of his most ardent followers. She was there when he was crucified, and on Easter morning she mistook the risen Jesus for the gardener, … and then became the apostola apostolorum — the apostle of the apostles. That is all the New Testament (f)actually says about the woman Mary of Magdala, The Magdalene.

Everything else — the jar of perfume (her attribute), the prostitute, the penitent, the voyage to Marseille, the cave, her long hair — is the result of a remarkably creative exercise in biblical and extra-biblical fusion, carried out over several centuries by the Western Church. The process began modestly enough. In the sixth century, in a sermon, Gregory the Great identified three distinct women from the Gospels as one and the same person:
1. Mary of Magdala,
2. An anonymous woman, ‘a sinner’ who washed Jesus’ feet.
3. Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha.
These three, merged into one, became La Madeleine. The Eastern Church never accepted this conflation; the West did, enthusiastically. The fusion of the three women was “a stroke of genius of the Latin Fathers” (Georges Duby*), because the composite portrait that emerged is so rich that she became one of the most influential female figures in European history. Later a fourth figure joined the composite: Mary of Egypt, a penitent desert hermit whose legend — complete with levitation, angelic communion — merged so smoothly with the rest that painters and sculptors found it impossible to disentangle them (and did not want to either, I suppose. Too enticing). When Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, the doyen of French humanism, tried to unmake the merger in 1517, the Sorbonne’s theologians condemned him for it.

The result is one of the most resonant and ambiguous figures in European culture. From Duccio and Fra Angelico to Titian, Donatello and Georges de La Tour, artists returned to her obsessively — and, not without a certain irony: the penitent Magdalenes they produced are often so sensuous that they seem to defeat the purpose entirely.

It is a history of pious invention, gender politics, relic fraud and aesthetic excess, with a proper historiographical punchline in Vézelay, Burgundy.

The full story, with a gallery of 18 works, is on my website.

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* ““Le génie des Pères de l’église latine les conduisit à confondre en une seule personnetrois des figures de femmes qui paraissent dans le récit évangélique.” Georges Duby’s opening phrase in the Preface to the Proceedings of the Colloquium Marie Madeleine dans la mystique, les arts et les lettres (1988):

English translation of the last section of an essay by Thomas Synofzik (German)

In late February 1854, Schumann attempted suicide. On 4 March he was admitted to the private psychiatric institution in Bonn-Endenich, where he spent the remaining two and a half years of his life. In September 1854, Schumann requested manuscript paper and in the period that followed was frequently engaged in writing music.¹ The last concrete work mentioned is the composition, in January 1856, of a now-lost fugue for piano.² Apart from an also lost piano reduction of Joseph Joachim’s Overture to Heinrich IV, op. 7, which Schumann presumably began in April 1855,³ only two concrete activities can be identified and are transmitted: the piano accompaniments to Paganini’s Caprices, composed between March and at least September 1855, and two chorale settings, probably dating from the final weeks of his life. In both cases, these are not new original compositions, but choral settings (four voices) to an existing tune.⁴

The last recorded instance of Schumann playing the piano appears in his medical files on 1 May 1856.⁵ On 21 June, there is an entry: “Reads in a book which he allows no one to see (probably the Bible),” and on the following day: “Leafs through the Bible while singing[!].” This may indicate that Schumann was occupying himself with church hymns. Since on 26 June Schumann is noted as being “writing again in the former manner,”⁶ it is possible that the preserved autograph of the Endenich chorales was written during this penultimate month of his life.

The original manuscript of the two chorale settings entered the Robert Schumann House in Zwickau in 1938 from the estate of Robert Schumann’s youngest daughter, Eugenie. The autograph was among the institution’s most valuable exhibition objects and was occasionally used—partially—as an illustration in books.⁷ It consists of a single sheet ruled with sixteen systems, of which only the upper six are notated. In the seventh and eighth systems clefs are entered, but no notes are written.

The first chorale is fully notated and provided with the text “Wenn mein Stündlein vorhanden ist.” The melody harmonized by Schumann is first documented in Frankfurt am Main in 1569; the text is by Nikolaus Hermann (1500–1561). Below the text. The full song with translation can be found here

Wenn mein Stündlein vorhanden ist, und ich soll hinfahren meine Strasse, geleite mich, Herr Jesu Christ, mit Hilf mich nicht verlasse: den Geist an meinem letzten End befehl ich, Herr, in deine Händ; du wirst ihn wohl bewahren.

If the hour of my death is at hand And I must travel on my way Accompany me, Lord Jesus Christ, With your help do not abandon me: At my final end my spirit I entrust, Lord, in your hands; You will preserve it well.

The second chorale has remained a fragment. It breaks off after only seven measures, in the middle of the fourth chorale line. The identification of the unknown chorale melody proved problematic, since no textual indication was present and the total number of chorale lines was also unknown. Thanks to the Saarbrücken musicologist Werner Braun, the melody could be identified as “Stärk uns Mittler, dein sind wir.”⁸ This chorale no longer appears in modern hymnals. The melody was first published in 1793 with a different text (“confirmation chorale”) and was composed by Justin Heinrich Knecht (1752–1817).⁹ It was not uncommon for chorales intended for very specific occasions to be supplied with several parallel texts, allowing the melodies to be reused. Accordingly, Knecht published his melody under a double title: “Stärk uns Mittler, dein sind wir” and “Mitten wir im Leben sind.” Knecht’s melody thus served as an alternative to the old Phrygian tune associated with the antiphon Media vita in morte sumus from the eleventh century, translated by Luther as “Mitten wir im Leben sind” (1524). In view of the thematic focus of the first chorale and Schumann’s life circumstances, it is more plausible that Schumann had this text in mind when setting the melody.

IMHO, this inference is made too readily. The text “Stärk uns, Mittler, dein sind wir” is the form under which the hymn appears in the hymnbooks Schumann may have known. By 1856, the hymn itself was quite common and widely included. The text also corresponds well to Schumann’s situation at the time. (Dick Wursten) – so, I’ll provide that text (Luther’s hymntext, see wiki).

Stärk uns, Mittler, dein sind wir! Sieh, wir alle flehen: Lass, lass, o Barmherziger, uns dein Antlitz sehen! Wach über unsre Seelen! Hier stehn und sprechen alle wir: Herr, dein Eigentum sind wir! Heiliger Schöpfer, Gott, heiliger Mittler, Gott, heiliger Gott, Lehrer und Tröster, dreieiniger Gott, lass uns nie vergessen unsern teuern, heilgen Bund! Erbarm dich unser!

Strengthen us, Mediator, for we are yours! See, we all implore you: Grant—grant, O Merciful One, that we may behold your countenance! Watch over our souls! Here we stand, and speak as one: Lord, we are your own! Holy Creator, God; holy Mediator, God; holy God, Teacher and Comforter, triune God, let us never forget our precious, holy covenant! Have mercy on us!

Edition: Thomas Synofzik, Endenicher Sterbechoräle, Edition choris mundi, 2006.
Transcription: IMSLP ;

Dr Thomas Synofzik has been Director of the Robert Schumann House in Zwickau since 2005.

1. Bernhard R. Appel (ed.), Robert Schumann in Endenich (1854–1856): Krankenakten, Briefzeugnisse und zeitgenössische Berichte, Mainz 2006.
2. Ibid., p. 351.
3. Ibid., p. 417.
4. Ibid., p. 31.
5. Ibid., p. 376.
6. Ibid., p. 383.
7. Georg Eismann, Robert Schumann. Eine Biographie in Wort und Bild, Leipzig 1956, p. 156; Thomas Synofzik, Briefe und Dokumente im Schumannhaus Bonn-Endenich, Bonn 1993, p. [75].
8. Margit McCorkle, Robert Schumann. Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, Munich 2003, appendix R18.
9. Justin Heinrich Knecht, Biberacher Choralbuch mit Choralmelodien im vierstimmigen Originalsatz, ed. Otto Herzog, Fritz Kolesch, and Ralf Klotz, Biberach [2002].

Lobt Gott, ihr christen allzugleich / Praise God the Lord, ye sons of men

German (ca. 1550) Nikolaus Herman oldest version incl. orthography	English translation (tr. Crull, adapted closer to the German)
1. Lobt Gott, ir Christen, alle gleich, In seinem höchsten thron, Der heut schleust auff sein Himelreich, Und schenckt uns seinen Son. (bis)	Praise God, ye christians, all in one, Before His highest throne; Today He opens heaven again And gives us His own Son.
2. Er kömpt aus seines Vaters schos Und wird ein Kindlein klein, Er leit dort elend, nackt und blos In einem Krippelein. (bis)	He leaves His heavenly Father’s throne, Is born an infant small, And in a manger, poor and and lone, Lies in a humble stall.
3. Er eussert* sich all seiner gewalt, Wird nidrig und gering und nimpt an sich eins knechts gestalt, Der Schöpffer aller ding. (bis)	He puts aside his power divine A servant’s form he takes; In want and lowliness he pines, Who heaven and earth did make.
4. Er leit an seiner Mutter brust, Ir milch, die ist sein speis, An dem die Engel sehn irn lust, Denn er ist Davids reis, (bis)	He nestles at His mother’s breast, Her milk His food must be Who all the saints with joy do bless, Of David’s house is He
5. Das aus sein stamm entspriessen solt In dieser letzten zeit, Durch welchen Gott auffrichten wolt Sein Reich, die Christenheit. (bis)	‘Tis He who in these latter days From Jesse’s branch should sprout, By whom the Lord our God will raise his Kingdom, and his Church.
6. Er wechselt mit uns wunderlich, Fleisch und Blut nimpt er an und gibt uns inn seins Vatern reich die klare Gottheit dran. (bis)	A wondrous change He makes for us! takes on our flesh and blood, That in his Father’s royal realm We shine in God’s own light.
7. Er wird ein Knecht und ich ein Herr, das mag ein Wechsel sein, Wie könnd er doch sein freundlicher, Das herze Jhesulein. (bis)	He serves that I a lord may be; A great exchange indeed! Could Jesus’ love do more for me, My sweet heart and my dear!
8. Heut schleust er wider auff die thür, zum schönen Paradeis, der Cherub steht nicht mehr darfür. Gott sey lob, ehr und preis. (bis)	He opens us again the door Of Paradise today; The cherub guards the gate no more, To God our thanks we pay.

This christmas song (“Lobt Gott ihr christen alle gleich”) was written ca. 1550 by Nicolaus Herman, schoolteacher and cantor at Joachimstal, destined explicitly for ‘his pupils’ at the local school (“die kinder in Joachimstal“).

Aside: most of the famous ‘lutheran hymns’ were initially not destined for liturgical use, but for private-communal devotion (at home and at schools). Didactical, pedagogical.

The original song has 8 stanzas (from which only 6 survive in modern hymnals). Apparently, the stanzas in which the language is most concrete and vivid (4 and 5) were considered primitive and inappropriate, in modern, so called enlightened times. Yet it is precisely this concreteness—this sense of physical tangibility—that stimulates the imagination and thereby makes the Incarnation palpable: Christ’s becoming fully human, even as a baby nursing at his mother’s breast, a scene that awakens tender and intimate feelings toward God, and thus also among human beings. The whole tradition of popular Christmas devotion was, and still is, rooted in and shaped by experiencing this.

Listen to the performance of 4 stanzas (music from the Cantional of J.H. Schein)

The most recent seminal contributions to the interpretation of the tympanum at Vézelay (i.e., the central sculpture in the narthex portal of Basilica of Sainte‑Marie‑Madeleine, Vézelay) are two articles by the eminent art historian Conrad Rudolph titled “Macro/Microcosm at Vézelay: The Narthex Portal and Non-Elite Participation in Elite Spirituality” (published in Speculum 96 (3) (July 2021): 601-661), later followed “Astrological Theory and Elite Knowledge in Non-Elite Public Art: Order in the Zodiacal Archivolt at Vézelay, in ”Studies in Iconography 44 (2023) 1-30. The First is a freemium article !

Who can read Dutch: a summary with images can be found here:

Vézelay – een kosmisch tympaan

Key points of Rudolph’s interpretation

• Rudolph argues that beyond the traditional readings (e.g., the scene of the Pentecost of the Apostles, the Ascension of Christ or the Mission to the Apostles) the portal is structured as a Neoplatonic macro/microcosm.
• In his reading, the portal integrates elements such as the four classical elements (fire, air, water, earth), the signs of the zodiac, the labours of the months, the representation of the peoples of the world, and Christ at the centre, so that the tympanum’s program can be read as something like mundus/annus/homo (world/year/human) — a schematic cosmology in which the pilgrim is invited to see themselves in relation to the cosmos via Christ at the centre.

• Rudolph further emphasises the audience: he suggests that given the complexity of the program, the average non-elites (pilgrims) would not have grasped all its theological or cosmological subtleties without mediation — e.g., guided explanation by a tour-guide or monastic mediator. Thus the portal functions not just as “visual theology” but as a participation in elite monastic spirituality made accessible (though mediated) to a wider audience.
• This interpretation shifts the emphasis from simply “what does the image depict?” (Pentecost/Mission/The Church) to “how does the image function in its cultural / monastic / pilgrimage context?”: cosmology, pedagogy, spiritual initiation.

Why this contribution matters

• It provides a fresh conceptual frame for the tympanum (macro/microcosm) rather than simply identifying the biblical scene, and discussing whether it depicts Pentecost or Ascension or Ephesians 2 (the Church).
• It addresses the ritual/experiential dimension of the sculpture: how pilgrims would engage with it, rather than only its formal iconography.
• It brings together iconography (zodiac, months, monstrous peoples, classical elements) with site-specific contextual function (monastic church, pilgrimage gateway) in a coherent reading.

A caveat

• While the macro/microcosm reading is compelling, it depends on identifying certain sculptural elements (e.g., the wavy “undulating components” as the four elements) which are not always convincing.

Now that the smoke surrounding the papal election has begun to clear, this may be the moment to take a more distanced look at the spectacle. And to see through it — for instance, by listening to a dissenting voice, in this case: Arnold of Brescia. Nine hundred years ago, he was already calling for a thorough reform within the Church. And he did not stop at words: he drove the pope out of Rome, proclaimed a republic, and transformed the Vatican into a commune. Edward Gibbon wrote about him:

‘He [Arnold of Brescia, 1143] presumed to quote the declaration of Christ, that His kingdom is not of this world; he boldly maintained that the sword and the sceptre were intrusted to the civil magistrate; that temporal honours and possessions were lawfully vested in secular persons; that the abbots, the bishops, and the Pope himself must renounce either their state or their salvation; and that after the loss of their revenues, the voluntary tithes and oblations of the faithful would suffice, not indeed for luxury and avarice, but for a frugal life in the exercise of spiritual labours.’ [The terror of successive popes, he was hanged, burnt, and his ashes cast into the Tiber, A. D. 1155]

The Quote in the above section is taken from Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Ch. 69.

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And introducing the 14th Century as a distant mirror to our present times, Babara Tuchman wrote: “By Constantine’s gift (The donatio constantini), Christianity was both officially established and fatally compromised. As William Langland wrote,
When the kindness of Constantine gave Holy Church endowments
In lands and leases, lordships and servants,
The Romans heard an angel cry on high above them,
“This day dos ecclesiae has drunk venom
And all who have Peter’s power are poisoned forever.”¹

That conflict between the reach for the divine and the lure of earthly things was to be the central problem of the Middle Ages. The claim of the Church to spiritual leadership could never be made wholly credible to all its communicants when it was founded in material wealth. The more riches the Church amassed, the more visible and disturbing became the flaw; nor could it ever be resolved, but continued to renew doubt and dissent in every century.

Barbara W. Tuchman, A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century

From the book, two tables

This overview is confirmed by a number of ‘church service orders’ (Kirchen Agende). Martin Petzoldt and Robin A. Leaver give similar overviews but with more detail and some variations (a motet at the beginning) and a ‘reading’ of the Passion from a gospel-harmonisation. Which Passion? Bach apparently was free to choose, from his own production and from colleagues. A list of what we know:

Want to ‘imagine’ the entire service, here an evocation of a vesper with the performance of the St Mattew Passion

For those interested in the context: A sermon by Erdmann Neumeister (1720), a lutheran pastor, who also wrote cantate libretto’s. It’s a vesper sermon for the Passion-tide

Below the facsimile of the sermon (with ‘introduction) from the book: “Epistolische Nachlese derjenigen Predigten, welche er ehedessen in der Fürstlichen Schloss-Kirche zu Weissenfelss, uber die Sonn- und Fest-Tags Epistel-Texte, gehalten, und nebst sechs Passions-Predigten, auf Ansuchen, zum Drucke gegeben. Gott der Herre ist Sonn und Schild” (Hamburg, 1720)

If you want to read: click on the images to enlarge

The text of this motet is Responsory from the Vigil of Holy Saturday (the Tenebrae). ℟ = Prophecy of Isaiah 57,1-2 = prima pars ; ℣ = Psalm 75:3 = secunda pars. NB: other verses also can be found (the original: tamquam agnus… continuing Isaiah 57). Texts are polyseme.

– The rubric in Hándl/Gallus’ publication is clear: De Passione Domini Nostri Iesu Christi.
– Martin Luther did something special with this responsorium. He included it (with gregorian chant) in his ‘hymnbook’ for funerals (1543), while adapting the verse: Psalm 17:5 (making it refer to the expectation of the resurrection and salvation.
In 1682 the setting of Gallus/Handl was published by Godfried Vopelius in the Neu Leipziger Gesangbuch providing a singable German text as well “Siehe, wie dahin stirbt der Gerechte”. The sexton of St. Thomas, describing the Good Friday Vespers service, indicates that it followed the Passion.”So, it seems quite probable that the choir in Leipzig—rather than the congregation, as is sometimes claimed—sang the Handl/Gallus motet after the Passion.
Jacob Hándl (or Gallus, 1550-1591) was born in Carniola (Kranjska), Slovenia. He flourished at the Habsburg court (Graz, Prague).

Just a note: the Latin text of this response differs from the standard Latin text in the most widespread translation (the Vulgate). Idem for the German translation by Luther of (Isaiah 57: ¹Aber der Gerechte kommt um, und niemand ist der es zu Herzen nehme; und heilige Leute werden aufgerafft, und niemand achtet darauf, denn die Gerechten werden weggerafft vor dem Unglück; ² und die richtig vor sich gewandelt haben, kommen zum Frieden und ruhen in ihren Kammern.

As said, the motet is based on the responsory of the vigils of Holy Saturday (Sabbato sancta – Tenebrae).
– See https://gregorien.info/chant/id/2698/10/fr.
Below a manuscript of the Tenebrae with this responsory. The lamentation that precedes it is also very famous (O vos omnes, qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor similis sicut dolor meus – Behold and see if there be any sorrow Handel’s Messiah)

Donum superadditum (the pages from Vopelius 1682, with the Latin/German text of Gallus’ motet). This gesangbuch was still in use in Bach’s times. It contains all texts for the celebration of the Char-Freytage. Passion-hymns, but also a complete score to sing the St. Matthew Passion (= precedes Gallus) – see images below

Fragment from Episode 4 of The Age of the Cathedrals

Georges Duby discusses the origins of science, with a particular focus on Pierre Abélard and the concept of ‘reasoning.’ During the broadcast, he pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket containing a quote from Historia Calamitatum about Abélard’s teaching method and reads it aloud. A standout moment on Antenne 2 (France) in 1980—still well worth watching, listening to, and reflecting on today. (English subtitles (cc) ; full text below the fragment.)

TRANSCRIPT (translation plus…)

“The construction of the cathedrals (at a rapid pace in the late 12th and early 13th centuries) was made possible by the growth of the urban economy. Certainly. But at the same time it is also due to another growth, which is inextricably linked to the first: the growth of knowledge (savoir). After all, every cathedral is flanked by a school, and the most dynamic schools are located around the cathedrals in Northern France. Certainly, lessons were also given in monasteries, but the monastery school was closed, the cathedral school was open. That has to do with its function. The cathedral is – by definition – the church of the bishop. The primary function of the bishop is (yes, really! DW) the proclamation of the Word of God and not only in his own church, no, in his entire diocese. He needs helpers, to preach with him. And therefore workshops (ateliers) to train preachers, to educate them. That implied good books (manuscripts), good teachers who could explain these books. And: in a society where travel became increasingly easy, we see intellectual adventurers roaming Europe in search of the best schools. These were precisely where the masterpieces of Gothic art were built: in Laon, Chartres, and Paris. I do not think it is a coincidence that the locations of these intellectual research centers coincide with the hotbeds of artistic creation (artistic = everything that man ‘adds’ to nature: skill, craft, artisanal art)

The cycle of study was the same as in the “first Renaissance” (under Charlemagne), the seven liberal arts – the artes liberales. These can be seen on one of the rose windows of the cathedral of Laon, where they surround the central flower where Wisdom sits enthroned. They form her court, enriching and enlightening. The seven artes consisted of three introductory disciplines: grammar (language), rhetoric (the art of speaking) and dialectic (the art of reasoning), followed by four more in-depth disciplines: the study of numbers, geometry, astronomy and the science of the ‘tones of music’ (and their mutual relationship).

These disciplines revealed the mysterious laws that govern the universe. This path, this road, this boulevard of knowledge, ultimately led to theology – the highest science because it helped man to fathom the secrets of God that he communicates in what he says (his Word) and in the visible signs, scattered in nature.²

In the second half of the 12th century, the schools of Paris were extremely successful. They became the breeding ground for skilled bishops; all the popes of that time came to study there. This success was largely due to the teaching of Abélard³). They started with the language, the words, but dialectics was central: understanding the meaning of the words through reasoning. Not by meditating on them in mystical contemplation, as in the monastery, but by analyzing them. The intellectual tools became increasingly refined. Clergymen traveled with the knights who reconquered Spain and Sicily from the Muslims, and they threw themselves into the magnificent libraries of Toledo and Palermo. They began – together with/at the same time as the Jews – feverishly to translate Arabic works into Latin – works that the Arabs had in turn translated from Greek. What they thus revealed was ancient science: Euclid, Ptolemy, and even more valuable to them: the logic of Aristotle.

The method was refined, perfected and enriched by Abelard. The first step? Doubting! Abelard said: “we arrive at inquiry through doubt, and through inquiry we discover the truth.” Pride, arrogance… Some fiercely condemned this attitude, notably Bernard of Clairvaux, who ultimately brought Abelard down. But what fertility there was in this approach! What enthusiasm arose in the schools. It was no longer a matter of simply listening to lessons, but of discussion. Dialogue, dialectic, debate! “My students,” said Abelard, “want to hear human reasons, explanations that they understand; not propositions and affirmations.” They believed that talking (teaching) was useless, unless one also conveyed the understanding of what one wanted to say, and also that one could not believe anything unless one first understood it.⁴

Ils disaient qu’il est inutile de parler si l’on donne pas l’intelligence de ses propos et que nul ne peut croire s’il n’a pas d’abord compris. Et toute notre science sors de là…

Georges Duby, Le temps des cathédrales – TV-series – 9 episodes, aired 1980.