The inventors of these two imaginary orders were not serious or embittered moralists. Cokaygne lies upon the bonny road to Elfland; and Bel Eyse is a coarser, stupider Abbey of Theleme[1621], whose inmates lack that instinct for honour and noble liberty which makes Gargantua’s “Fais ce que vouldras” an ideal as well as a satire. As a rule the medieval satirists of monasticism deal in grave admonitions, or in violent reproaches. But one contemporary poem, hailing this time from France, may be added to the two English works in which the frailties of nuns are treated in a jesting spirit. This is a piece by the famous trouvère Jean de Condé entitled La messe des oisiaus et li plais des chanonesses et des grises nonains[1622]. The poem begins with an account of a mass sung in due form by all the birds and followed by a feast presided over by the goddess Venus. After this unwieldy introduction comes the main theme, which consists of a lawsuit brought by the nobly born canonesses against the grey Cistercian nuns, for the judgment of Venus. A canoness speaks first on behalf of her order, attended by several gentlemen and knights, who are proud to claim her acquaintance:
“Queen,” she says, “Deign to hear us and to receive us favourably, for we have ever been thy faithful subjects and we shall continue ever to serve thee with ardour. For long noblemen held it glorious to have our love; the honour cost them nothing and was celebrated by round-tables, feasts and tourneys. But now the grey nuns are stealing our lovers from us. They are easy mistresses, exacting neither many attentions nor long service and sometimes men are base enough to prefer them to us. We demand justice. Punish their insolence, that henceforward they may not raise their eyes to those who were created for us and for whom we alone are made.”
Venus then bids a grey nun speak and the grey nun’s words are dry and to the point:
Has not nature made us too for love? are not there among us many who are as fair, as young, as attractive and as loving as they. Do not doubt it. True their dress is finer than ours, but in affairs of the heart we serve as well as they. They say we steal their lovers. In truth it is they who by their pride and haughtiness drive those lovers away; we do but reconquer them by courtesy and gentleness. We do not seek them in love; but we have pleased them and they return to us. And, if they are to be believed, that studied elegance, which must be costly, has sometimes offered them a love less pure and disinterested than that which they find with us.
This last charge pricks the canonesses and their faces grow scarlet with rage:
What? do these serving girls add insult to injury? Do they dare to claim to be as good lovers as we, who have ever had the usage and maintenance of love? Their bodies, clad in wool, are not of such lordship as to be compared to ours and grave shame were it if a man knew not how to choose the highest. Bold and foolish grey-robes, great ill have you done. Without your importunities and officious advances no great lord or knight or man of honour would think of you. This is your secret and to the shame of love it is spoken, for you degrade thus the joys which he would have true lovers long desire in vain. You have your monks and lay brothers; love them, give them heavy alms and share your pittances with them: you are welcome to them for our part. But as to gentlemen, leave them to us, who are gentlewomen.
The grey nun replies quietly that her cause is too good to be weakened by insults, which can only offend the assembly and the respect due to the goddess, and that love considers neither birth nor wealth:
Our grey robes of Cîteaux are not as fine as your vair-lined mantles and rich adornments; but in such things we do not wish to compare ourselves with you. It is in the heart and in love that we claim to be as good as you.
There follows a hum of discussion in the assembly, some taking one side and some the other, but most favouring the grey nuns. Then Venus rises to give judgment and makes a long speech on the theme that all are equal in her eyes:
“White-robed canonesses,” she concludes, “I have always held your services dear. Your grace, your elegance, your fine manners will always bring you lovers; keep them, but do not drive from my court these modest nuns, who serve me with so much constancy and whose hearts burn for me the more ardently, owing to the constraint under which they live. You are finer and know better, perhaps, how to entertain; but sometimes the labourer’s humble hackney goes further than the palfrey of the knight. It lies with yourselves alone to keep your lovers. Imitate your rivals and be gentle and gracious as they are and you will not have to fear for the fidelity of a single lord.”