The stories of this series derive from academic research I performed in 2014 on an ancient codex, ascribed to Fra Matthew Paris, a medieval chronicler, while I was living for a short while in London. The provenance of this work is far from straightforward. The dog-eared manuscript in the British Library, which I studied that spring and from which the following tales are based, was, in the opinion of the original documented curator Richard James (1592-1638), Sir Robert Cotton’s librarian, neither written nor signed in Matthew Paris’ own hand, but is a contemporary (early thirteenth century) copy, scribed by another. Present day scholars agree.
What I handled, that May, with the cotton gloves provided by the special sections attendant, was a shabby quarto volume of 172 pages, with several folios missing and others in which the copyist had occasionally made nonsense of the text. Nevertheless, as almost all modern researchers allow, it is written in the style of Matthew Paris and signed with his name; but then, as all present and most past scholars concur, the manuscript tells a story far too fantastical to be believed.
So, let’s take a moment and re-examine our inquiry and ask, what do we know of Matthew Paris? Well, we know that he was born in 1200 and died in 1259, was a Benedictine monk, an English historian, an artist in illuminated manuscripts and a cartographer, and that he was based at Saint Albans Abbey in Hertfordshire. We also know that he wrote a number of works, mostly historical, which he scribed and illuminated himself, typically in drawings partly colored with watercolor washes, sometimes called “tinted drawings”. Some of his manuscripts were written in Latin, some in Anglo-Norman, and some in French.
We also know that Matthew Paris was a dedicated historian, in that he attempted to report accurately of the events he wrote, and, that is a most important point, to which everyone, no matter how skeptical of the origin of this particular manuscript, agree. Present day scholars also concur that he derived much of his information from the letters of important people, which he sometime inserted into his writings, but much more from conversation with eyewitnesses of the actual events he discussed. For example, among his informants were Richard, Earl of Cornwall and King Henry III, with whom he appears to have been on intimate terms.
So, to continue our inquiry, what do we know about this specific work’s unique history of ownership? Chemical analysis performed by the British Library in the early 1970’s upon this particular manuscript confirms that both the vellum and inks are authentic to the thirteenth century, as is the scripting technique. However, possessory provenance can only be documented back to Sir Robert Cotton; thus, between the years of 1571 to 1631.
Now, as you may or may not know, it was during the mid-sixteenth century, at the order of Henry VIII, that the Dissolution of Monasteries occurred. As a result, many priceless and ancient manuscripts that had belonged to the various English monastic libraries began to be disseminated among various owners many, if not most, of whom were unaware of the cultural value of such documents. And it was at this point that Sir Robert’s unique skill in finding, purchasing and preserving these ancient documents is so important; and for which the people of England, and, frankly, the whole world, should give thanks, since it was the Cotton library which, the grandson, Sir John Cotton, later donated to Great Britain upon his death in 1702, that became the basis of what is now known as the British Library.
But back to the important question at hand. Is this story some type of hoax, arguably one a little over 800 years old, or is it true, or, as some would argue, just a fable of its time? For it is also well documented that one of the reasons the Cotton library is so important is that it did preserve the only copy of singularly important but nonetheless fantastical texts, two of the most famous being Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Therefore, perhaps, this tale, even if scribed in the thirteenth century by Matthew of Paris, should be considered in a similar light as the two just mentioned above.
In conclusion, I do not know the answer, and, honestly, I am full of doubts. Even so, I have studied this work thoroughly, the hand drawn illuminations, the marginalia, all of it, and, rightly or wrongly, have decided to present it as if it were authentic, although in modern narrative form. I do this, in part, because it is a tale of books and partly because of the intensity and impact of the account. Thus, in the end I leave it to the reader to make his or her final decision as to the tales’ legitimacy and conclude: ut inveniam te in veritate.
John A. Call
Dublin, 2017