win out.4
But the third feature they have in common is that fate and the reception of Europeanists have proven this assumption to be illusory: The powers of “reason” and “fact” in this sphere (at least as they have seemed to many) have not succeeded in altering the assumptions that shape the view of the Middle Ages held by most medievalists. The power of the general view remains considerably stronger. It rarely allows for the acceptance of specific studies, the canonization of specific texts, or the integration of specific bits of knowledge into our working body of information about the period. I became increasingly convinced that those scholars who pointed out the blinders of the West in this regard were no less blocked from the field of vision of most of their colleagues for having done so.
The present study is thus based on the premise, and derived from the conviction, that no specific study of any of the theories called “Arabist” can be successful so long as the most general views we have of the medieval period are as hostile to the notions of such influence and interaction as they currently are. Obviously, the hypothesis or the fact of an Arabic etymon for trobar, for example, is unintelligible and ultimately undiscussable, at least productively, if a considerable number of Romance scholars find it unimaginable—and thus unresearchable and unproveable. And many do. Thus, part of this study is an exploration of that observation that has remained, by and large, just an observation: that European scholarship has an a priori view of, and set of assumptions about, its medieval past that is far from conducive to viewing its Semitic components as formative and central. The aim is to explore the causes and configurations, as well as the inadequacies and shortcomings, of such views and to set out what different views of the period might emerge if we are able to strip ourselves of some of our cherished notions of “Westernness,” notions we cling to quite strongly at times. The rest of the book is an attempt to reveal some of the different views of the literature of the medieval period that might emerge if such general views were revised as I suggest; if the myth of our literary heritage, in other words, were written differently. It attempts to glimpse what some of the configurations of medieval literary history and historiography would be if Arabist studies were not always unimaginable and thus usually marginal and on the defensive. That is, what would our study and recounting of that history be, for example, if all studies on this or that medieval Arabic “borrowing” were not so heavily shackled by the constraints of proving what is a priori unproveable to its readers and unreadable for the rest? What would our perceptions of medieval narrative be if the Disciplina clericalis and the Thousand and One Nights were part of the curriculum? Or our appreciation of the lyric of the twelfth century if our anthologies included the Hispano- and Siculo-Arab poets? What would it be if we did not have a simplistic notion, in this regard, of the complex phenomena of problematic cultural interaction and influence?
Thus I am reversing the priorities and emphases of my own predecessors. Rather than mention in passing that our views of the medieval period are hostile to a specific case of influence and then emphasize the proof that the influence is there all the same, I believe it is of primary importance to shift some of the emphasis to an exploration of the proposition that our view is hostile, to explore its deficiencies and inadequacies, and to consider the distortions it has created. Only then can one note, with any hope of being heard, that certain examples of influence seem to exist, for they will exist only if a different perspective has molded our appraisals. It is the vision of the period, the assumptions we hold, that must be explored first, for it is within such parameters that facts seem provable, theories logical, influence reasonable.
I undertake this study with the assumption that neither the case of trobar nor that of troubadour poetry is idiosyncratic. Moreover, literary historians have recently been coming to grips with the implications and effects of ideology on the telling of history, and it seems to me that the time is ripe for an exploration of some of the problematic aspects of medieval European literary history. I also undertake this enterprise in the hope that it may in some measure vindicate and return from exile some of the work of many others before me whose research I use gratefully, extensively, and unabashedly but who, I believe, overvalued the power of evidence and underestimated the power of the standards by which it is judged. I have made no great discoveries of undeniable links, constructed no new “proofs,” or found heretofore lost manuscripts showing the West’s indebtedness to medieval Arabic culture. I recount no facts that have been unknown or have remained unadduced by many in previous discussions. I will attempt merely to show why the texts, facts, and discoveries of others have seemed negligible or ignorable to so many Romance literary historians and to sketch out a perspective that would render them significant, that would bring them in from the cold and the oblivion to which they have so long been relegated.
This study, finally, is written in the belief that ṭaraba is as logical an etymon for trobar as tŭrbāre or tropāre, as worthy of a place in our interminable discussions and of an entry in the OED, only if we assume it to be thinkable in the first place. For Julián Ribera was wrong, and his theory quite naturally dismissable, in terms of the prevalent view of the medieval period. The question is whether that view is adequate, whether we wish to continue to spin such an ancestral myth.
Although writing a book is by and large a solitary exercise, it eventually seems to entangle any number of other people in the enterprise. Fortunately, prefatory acknowledgments allow us to release them from the snares (and all responsibility) and to thank them for having played their part. I happily acknowledge, first of all, the indirect but crucial role in the writing of this book played by the friends and colleagues whose unflagging moral support of my work in general, especially in difficult moments, made a greater difference than they perhaps realize. To pretend to name them all would be to invite some inadvertent omission, but I cannot fail to mention Victoria Kirkham, whose intellectual and personal generosity over the years has been decisive.
I am particularly endebted to those who have patiently read and reread any number of versions of this book, beginning with the doctoral dissertation from which it evolved into its present radically altered form. Without the criticisms, as well as the encouragement, of George Calhoun, Alan Deyermond, and James Monroe, it is unlikely that I would have had either the gumption to scrap what I started out with or the perseverance to devote the time and energy necessary for this project. My debt to Clifton Cherpack, who now knows far more about the matter of Araby in medieval Romance than any dix-huitiémiste alive—and far more than he bargained for—is not repayable. With everything from his unrelenting criticism of my style to his unflappable sense of humor that helped banish discouragement, he made this book possible. I hope he can live with that burden.
Some years before I was born, a young undergraduate at Princeton went to spend a summer in Cuba, in part to learn Spanish. As fate would have it, he was a guest in my grandparents’ home. Several years ago he recounted to me how my grandfather, a generous and kind soul, helped him practice his numbers in Spanish by sitting with him at the family finca out in the country and patiently making him read aloud his own students’ scores on exams he was correcting. The young man who profited by his love of teaching, in whatever shape it might take, would go back to Princeton and eventually become one of Américo Castro’s most gifted and accomplished students and, coming full circle, my own unstintingly generous teacher and mentor. Without Samuel Armistead, without the inspiration he has always provided and his magnificent, multifaceted teaching, I would not be in this field today. The anecdote he recounted about learning how to count in Spanish from my grandfather was touching, in part because it made me realize how much the older and the younger man were alike in their wonderful and limitless dedication to learning. I count myself very lucky to have benefited so abundantly from those characteristics of Sam Armistead, as have, I know, all the others who have studied and worked with him.
It has always been a source of considerable regret for me that my grandfather, a scholar and professor himself, did not live long enough for me to know him better than I could as a child. He would be pleased, I believe, to see this book, and even more pleased, no doubt, to know how fully his own minuscule but gracious act of instruction had been repaid a thousand times over. This book is thus dedicated to the memory
