knight and Osbern were walking together on a beach when the knight told him his story. Whatever the reason for the special treatment, Osbern’s account of the knight’s story provides a convenient springboard for a discussion of the complexities of the personal miracle story. Osbern did not have the benefit of the quotation mark (it had not yet been invented), but I will use it here for clarity. The chapter starts in Osbern’s own voice:
When I was on the isle of Thanet, I went walking along the seashore with a knight who had asked me there for his edification. We considered those things that were marvels of God there and drew from them material for good conversation. From there the conversation turned to father Dunstan, as every time I find occasion for speaking about him I always obtain the greatest benefit. Recalling that name, the knight paled, and breathing deeply as if in pain he said, “Oh, how ungrateful I am, I who am forgetful of his great kindnesses.”
“What is it that makes you breathe so heavily?” I said.
“Do you know,” he said, “how much the abbot of St. Augustine’s plagued me while he lived, as he wished to strip my inheritance from me?”
“I know.”
“And do you know that not only was he unable to do anything intemperate, but that it all turned out for my greater glory?”
“Nor is this unknown,” I said, “but I don’t know why you are recounting these things.”
“Know then,” said the knight, “that the night before the day set for the suit between him and me, I recalled how when I was in my house (which is nearby), you frequently used to extol father Dunstan by your accounts. Now, I said to myself, I have the chance to know by experience what I have heard, such that he might be praised. Kneeling in prayer, I said, ‘God of father Dunstan, favor my part today.’ Then giving my body to rest, I saw in my dreams the city of Canterbury, the basilica of the Savior, and the memorial of the father, as if I were resting upon it. I saw a man standing next to it, of decorous form and beautiful garments, holding a lamp of light in his hand. Terrified by his image, I said ‘Who are you, most glorious man?’ He said, “I am the one to whom you prayed for help a short time ago.’ ‘Incredible!’ I said, ‘how quick you are to comfort the suffering! Do you know what the lord threatens?’ He said, ‘Do not fear any of his threats, or weigh them as of any consequence.’”
So the knight spoke. Afterward he turned to me again and said, “you already know the rest, how you and I consulted together, fought, and triumphed.”
“On that day,” I said, “the saint gave a grand sign: while there were many there with polished wit, they left conquered by those few with less polish.” Then, seeing those who were present, I presented to them in words what I now produce in letters.48
The ubiquity and familiarity of personal stories can make them seem rather simple. The recitation of Beowulf by bards, the singing of ballads in the streets of medieval Paris, the fama or oral reputation that mattered so much in medieval law courts, the stories of sprouting oars and flowering staffs—this all feels exotic and complex, and has received substantial study from scholars.49 In contrast, personal stories can seem so straightforward, so reflective of experience itself, that it can appear there is nothing that particularly needs analysis. Scholars have usually assumed that the oral stories miracle collectors heard reflected reality quite closely, and that what needs attention is how collectors would have twisted and shaped these accounts to their own ends. But researchers in the social sciences have found that personal narratives are quite complex constructions—that they are more difficult to analyze, in many respects, than folktales.50 These researchers particularly stress the danger of failing to distinguish between a person’s lived experience and an oral story of that experience. Rom Harré comments, for instance, that “the telling of tales is more readily researchable than the living of lives.”51
Three contexts are essential for decoding the meaning of a personal story: the creator’s own personality and sense of himself or herself; the circumstances in which the story is articulated—place, audience, timing, and so on; and the oral and physical dimensions of the story’s telling.52 This is the kind of data we gauge automatically, often unthinkingly, when we hear and evaluate personal stories from people we know well. But without it, personal stories become extremely hard to dissect, harder, in fact, than stories—like that of the blossoming oar—with less personal content.53 Even with the richness of Osbern’s retelling of the knight of Thanet’s story, it is difficult to probe far into its meaning. We might be able to find out more about the abbot of St. Augustine’s, or inheritance law, or the number of knights on the isle of Thanet, or the position of Dunstan’s tomb in the cathedral, but this information is peripheral to the meaning of the knight’s story. The essential problem with analyzing a narrative like the knight of Thanet’s story at this distance is that we know so little about him. Osbern must have had a sense of what the knight’s inheritance entailed. How much did he need it? Did he have any previous dealings, good or bad, with the abbot of St. Augustine’s? Were other members of the family disputing the inheritance? A personal story is best grasped by someone who has known the teller for years, someone who can place a personal story in the context of others. Did the knight normally tell stories about his anxieties or his dreams? Had he told a story about a miracle before, or was this his first one? In the knight’s personal history, would this story rank its own chapter, or just a footnote? What did the knight’s wife, if he had one, think about all this?
One could multiply these questions, and ask them about any of the personal stories preserved in miracle collections. To catch the full resonance of the knight’s story, we would need to know more than this, however—we would also need to know more about the knight’s relationship with Osbern. The knight and Osbern appear to have been alone as the knight told his story. The two were well acquainted with each other. Not only had they had conversations before this particular walk on the beach, but Osbern had been personally involved in the knight’s lawsuit with the abbot of St. Augustine’s. It also appears that Osbern took the lead in this friendship. He came to talk with the knight at his special request and looks to have been directing the conversation where he wanted it to go. These kinds of things make an enormous difference in how a personal story is told, how it is received, and the meaning it conveys. So much eludes us, though. Did Osbern go to Thanet solely to meet with the knight, or did he have other business there? How did these two come to know each other? Who was the older? Trading personal stories is one of the chief ways people forge bonds with each other: as Sandra Dolby Stahl has commented, “the exchange of personal narratives [is] an emotionally satisfying experience for both the teller and audience…. This intimacy is more marked in the exchange of personal narratives than in other kinds of storytelling.”54 By telling Osbern his story, the knight exposed his anxieties, his dreams, his interpretations, and ultimately himself. Did the friendship between Osbern and the knight change after this story was told?
The specifics of how this all played out are beyond our reach. The complexities of oral performance present yet more difficulties. Personal stories are constructed through the voice, facial expressions, and body language of the teller as much as in the sense of the words. This is the case with the oral delivery of any kind of story, of course, but the stakes are heightened considerably with the personal narrative, stories of the self told by the self. Osbern gives us a few clues, writing that the knight “paled” and “breathed heavily” at the beginning of his story. But did the knight remain pale, or did he perk up? Did he speed up in certain places, slow down in others, speak more loudly, more softly? Did he pause, backtrack, misspeak? Personal stories root themselves in the self in ways even the teller might not grasp. We effortlessly absorb and process these nonverbal cues when we listen and see other people telling their stories, cues that may well contradict the meaning of the words being spoken. Though it is almost all gone now for the stories in miracle collections, we must try to imagine those flesh and blood speakers, to think of the expressions shifting across faces, eyes making contact or looking
