The continued presence of the Muslim world is also a fact of life that this one victory cannot overcome. The battle is won, but not the war, which would be possible only, as Carl Lofmark has suggested, if power, wisdom, and love could merge and achieve the ultimate goal of convincing the non-Christians all over the world to accept the new faith.36 As Barbara Sabel underscores, Rennewart represents the ideal of the noble heathen whose inner virtue, his knightly prowess, and his loyalty to Willehalm do not depend at all on his faith. Since everyone develops greatest respect for him both during the fighting and at the very end when he has disappeared from their view, the Christian fighters are no longer that far away from an attitude that we could describe at least as a form of toleration.37
Nevertheless, the entire premise of Wolfram’s war epic is predicated on the realization that despite all the differences, mankind constitutes one species and should really work toward the goal of forming a harmonious unit.38 This might sound curious for us today since the narrative deals with a long and very bloody war pitting Christians against their Muslim adversaries. Willehalm’s army is completely decimated at the end of the first round of fighting, and he survives alone because he knows how to speak Arabic and puts on the armor of a dead warrior from the opposing side (Arofel). The second battle leads to a very different outcome; this time Willehalm has the full support of his father and his brothers, and the entire French army. Moreover, the curious giant-like figure Rennewart assists him in his efforts and could be identified as the decisive force achieving victory over the Muslims. However, as I have already discussed, Rennewart at the end disappears from sight, and Wolfram’s Willehalm thus concludes rather fragmentarily, although the Christian victory is absolute and does not leave any doubt about the total superiority of the Christian faith, at least in military terms.39
Where and how would we thus recognize elements of toleration, if not even tolerance? Would it even make sense in the first place to search for those themes within a narrative poem predicated on the genre of the chanson de geste? Willehalm encounters a mighty warrior among the Muslim forces on his way back to his own castle, Arofel, who appears as a truly noble knight, being the King of Persia.40 The narrator describes him in most laudable terms, characterizing him as noble, generous, courageous, loved by women, and appreciated by his friends (ch. 78). In fact, Wolfram mentions his extraordinary “wertekeit” (line 9; worthiness) and praises him for his astounding generosity, which is only matched by Gyburg, Willehalm’s wife. The narrator does not hold back in characterizing him in most astounding terms, idealizing him in equal measures as he does with Willehalm. In this regard, Wolfram draws on the topos of the noble heathen, which can be detected a good number of times, especially in late medieval literature.41 However, because of his armor having fallen off to some extent by accident, he is exposed to Willehalm’s sword, which thus manages to throw him off the horse, making him fall to the ground.
Arofel immediately recognizes that he is basically lost since Willehalm had cut off his legs, so he offers enormous treasures to his opponent in order to save his life. Willehalm demonstrates his amazement, but he also thinks of his nephew Vivanz’s death. Yet, both men enter into a conversation, and Willehalm at first responds with great anger because Arofel is the brother of his wife’s first husband, and both men have done him already great damage in that war. The Persian king desperately offers anything in his country if Willehalm just would let him live, beginning with his most valuable horse Volatîn (ch. 81, verse 1). However, despite this very short lull in warring, Willehalm does not forget his personal loss and pain and rejects all offers, killing his opponent, even though, as the narrator interjects, this represents a great loss for all women whom Arofel had served everywhere, including Christian women (ch. 81, verses 21–22).
Both here and at numerous other passages Wolfram argues indirectly that despite the religious reasons for the war, in reality, both armies are made up of outstanding, highly admirable, respectable, very honorable, and worthy individuals. If not for the conflict over Gyburg, we might say, Willehalm might not even face those enemies. To be sure, the religious rhetoric is dramatically reduced here, especially compared to similar versions of Old French chansons de geste. Of course, conversion to Christianity is a conditio sine qua non for Gyburg, but not for Rennewart. And outside of the war scenario, Arofel, for instance, could have become Willehalm’s friend, just as we learned already much earlier about Feirefiz and Parzival in Wolfram’s Parzival, because they share the same values and are equals in knightly prowess and chivalry. Unfortunately, and tragically, Arofel embraces another faith, and hence he has to die at Willehalm’s hand because of the military confrontation.
The situation is most curious since Willehalm kills the most worthy opponent, whom he normally would have welcomed rather honorably, in a brutal fashion, although the narrator seems to portray him as a truly noble character. There are no religious disagreements between both men, except that they stand on the two opposing sides in this religio-military conflict that would motivate and justify this slaughter. In fact, religious differences are never really a point of discussion throughout Wolfram’s epic narrative, whereas love and heroism matter the most. Nevertheless, it is a terrible war situation in which individual decisions can hardly be reached, and Willehalm has no real chance of survival himself if he does not proceed the way he does. Only because he then robs Arofel of his armor and weapons, and rides away on his horse, does he manage to get across the battlefield safely without being accosted by anyone at first since he is mistaken for Arofel. But Arofel was an indirect family member since Gyburg, when she was still called Arabel, had been married to Arofel’s brother (ch. 76, verse 15).
However, because of the war situation, there was no personal agreement or truce possible for these two men. The narrator seems to appreciate the Persian king more than his own fictional character since Wolfram characterizes him in the most laudatory manner possible, indicating that he would have much to say about Arofel, undoubtedly his favorite figure on the opposing side (ch. 78, verses 8–11). By contrast, Willehalm simply proceeds, disregarding the monetary offer, and kills the other, no longer able to allow any feelings to rule his behavior. At that point, all of his own men have been slaughtered, and he, as the only survivor, must make every possible attempt to return to his own castle in order to survive.
The narrator has nothing to say about Arofel’s religion, and he identifies him only in terms of his military prowess and his stupendous generosity. Tragically, since these two men find themselves in a terrible situation, mercy is no longer possible, and death follows for miserable Arofel, the flower of the Muslim army. Of course, we must also consider that Arofel thinks only in terms of monetary gains and hopes to safeguard his life by means of his treasures that he would turn over to Willehalm. The latter, by contrast, is fighting for his own survival and is desperately trying to defend his wife who holds out in his castle against the enemy. Would there be any chance for toleration and tolerance to enter the scene? Raising this question immediately indicates that the opposite is the case; and yet, the narrator presents to us Arofel in most glowing terms and signals how much he lives up to the highest ideals of any knight, except for his different religion.
There are other non-Christian warriors, such as Tesereiz, whom the narrator identifies as “der minne ein blüender stam” (ch. 88, verse 12; a flowering stem of love), but since he also adheres to Islam, Willehalm has no chance but to kill him in battle as well. We could not really talk about toleration or tolerance, but Wolfram certainly projects a sense of tragedy involved in the war, which subtly undermines this binary opposition. Most worthy warriors have to die on both sides, and they kill each other because of the military conditions over which they have no influence. Curiously, however, despite the fact that they are forced to fight each other, the narrator himself has no problems in portraying Willehalm’s opponents in positive terms, indirectly lamenting that they are not Christians. But the way in which we as readers/listeners are ex
pected to perceive the non-Christian warriors and heroes specifically indicates that for Wolfram, there was a clear possibility of accepting foreigners as worthy characters irrespective of the differences in religion. We will see that the protagonist demonstrates this very attitude at the end of the epic poem when the Christian victory has been achieved and the opponents are terribly decimated and defeated.
The most crucial scene in Wolfram’s Willehalm consists of the war council at which Gyburg raises her voice and comments about the Muslim army. Scholars have debated this scene multiple times, sometimes welcoming her comments as expression of great sympathy, and perhaps even toleration, while others have gone so far as to ridicule her words as a thinly veiled reflection of the imperialist approach toward the hostile army.42 Does Gyburg speak honestly? Does she accept that there are and always will be two world religions in direct opposition to each other? Does she want to end the war and bring both sides to the negotiation table? What does she mean with the references to her own family members among the Muslim army?
The situation proves to be most intriguing since Willehalm’s father and his brothers have all come together and joined their forces with his own. They debate their military strategy and listen to each other before they start their campaign. In that moment, however, Gyburg also speaks up, and she formulates a number of simply amazing comments.43 The meaning of those words remains, however, hotly debated until today, a typical condition for an emerging sense of toleration, which is contested by at least some scholars.44 Ambiguity embraced indicates that one’s own position is no longer fully the only possible one, and it suggests that the radical binary opposition separating the Christians from the Muslims cannot be fully upheld because the former acknowledges the latter as members of the same humanity.45
At first, it is worth noting that, as a woman, she is allowed to speak after all in the men’s council, especially since she appeals to all the men to listen to her own words, which would be a good sign of their education and ethical standards (ch. 306, verses 4–5, “zuht” and “triuwen”). She admits that the entire war is focused on her, and as a result, the Christians and the heathens would feel envy of her (verses 14–15). Nevertheless, she urges the Christian princes to expand their fame and glory by winning the war against the other side. In fact, she wants them to avenge the death of the young and much loved man Vivianz (ch. 306, verse 22).46 They should not hold back in fighting against her own family and their men, but at the same time, Gyburg insists: “schonet der gotes hantgetat” (ch. 306, verse 28; have mercy on God’s own creation).47
Her subsequent argument in defense of this position follows a theological line, but she does not avoid ambiguity. Gyburg refers them to the fact that the first man, Adam, was a heathen as well and that the prophets Elias and Enoch are also regarded as heathens, that is, at least not as Christians (ch. 307, verse 2). Subsequently, Gyburg lists many other figures in the Bible, including the three Magi. Moreover, every child that is born is at first not baptized and hence belongs to the group of heathens (ch. 307, verse 19). The Jews are known to receive their baptism through circumcision. All people were heathens before they were baptized, at least in the case of Christianity (ch. 307, verse 25). And for God, the loss of any of His creatures would be most painful, especially because He could grant them all his mercy and allow them, after all, to enter paradise after their death.
Subsequently she compares the destiny of the angels with that of people and emphasizes that the former are determined by their own free will, whereas the angels chose from the beginning to enter heaven and to serve God. When the Christians were to consider that even Christ submitted Himself under the heathens and suffered His death, they should remember this in their fighting and feel a sense of pity: “lats iu erbarmen ime strît” (ch. 309, verse 6; have pity while you fight). However, Gyburg does not plead for peace, for submission under the enemy, or for an end of fighting. She is deeply in love with Willehalm, she has become a devout Christian, and she firmly believes in the justification of the Christian cause. Nevertheless, she is still related to the enemies, since her father, her former husband, and her own son are fighting outside of the castle and threaten to kill everyone inside. Those heathens are not presented here as kind and understanding; instead, they would be delighted if they could defeat and kill Willehalm and recapture Gyburg.
But her family members are not the issue here. In her famous speech, she argues, instead, for a different approach, even in military situations. There is no reasonable option to end the fighting; the two fronts are completely hardened and driven by deadly intentions. Still—and this has made Gyburg’s speech so famous and so fraught with ambiguity—she is on the fence between two cultures, two religions, two men, two families, two peoples, and probably also two languages (Arabic and French) and just wants to remind the military council of the fact that we are, as people, irrespective of the situation, despite all hostilities and enmity, still members of the same universal family.48
Gyburg trusts that the Christians will win the war, especially because God will not abandon his people. But she wants them all to remember that killing another person, whether justified and legitimized or not, means the killing of a human being. It might be impossible to translate the term that she uses for God’s love for all people properly into English, “erbarmede richiu minne” (ch. 309, verse 12), but she definitely means thereby the complex of ‘pity’, ‘love’, ‘mercy’, and also ‘community’. Human beings are simply frail and forgetful (ch. 309, verse 11), and hence they need help and divine grace, even, if not especially, in the situation of a war. God is the eternal helper (verse 15), and people cannot exist without Him (verse 18).
Gyburg then goes one step further and equates the human creatures with the planets since both were created by God. Hence she perceived a universal harmony, as established by the Christian faith. She herself had deliberately let go of the Muslim faith and turned to Christ (ch. 310, verses 1–4), and this forced her to distance herself from all of her family, whom she now actually rejects because they maintain their old, wrong belief.
Nevertheless, irrespective of her religious reorientation, she also emphasizes that she left love behind when she fled with Willehalm back to Europe (ch. 310, verse 9). She also abandoned great riches and even her own children, whom she had begotten with a virtually flawless husband, except that he had not been a Christian. As Gyburg emphasizes, Tybalt proves to be an ideal character (ch. 310, verse 16), but since she had found the Christian God, she could no longer stay married to him and had turned her love toward Willehalm. At the same time, she feels deep grief over the heavy losses that the latter had to suffer on her behalf, although she knows too well that the war concerns not only her own person, but also the universal conflict between Islam and Christianity.
On the face of it, Gyburg does not embrace toleration or tolerance, but she represents the suffering individual who understands both cultures/religions and whose heart is filled with pain, which is the result of many different reasons. She grieves over the death of many worthy Christian knights, and she also grieves over the loss of her own family in Arabian land. In other words, she emerges as a victim of world conflicts that cannot be overcome, neither by means of the sword nor by means of open communication: “sie weinde vil: des twanc si not” (ch. 310, 30; she cried much, tortured by great sorrow). In this sense, her speech does not emerge as one aiming for peace, for tolerance, or any effort to accommodate the enemies on Christian soil.
In fact, Gyburg cannot be claimed as a representative of tolerance at all, and yet her words speak a most vivid language, reminding all present in the council that war is not a good solution, that there are respectable and worthy people on both sides of the conflict, and that the killing of knights, or any other person, in a war causes deep grief because it represents a terrible loss. Gyburg speaks up for humanity, for a humanitarian approach, determined by sympathy, humility, mutual respect, and recognition, without forgetting her deep conviction that Christianity
is the only true faith. For her, there is no doubt that her first husband, her father, and her own son are good people, but because of their religious orientation, which she now rejects, she cannot rescue them, so she cries over this terrible loss.49
Most remarkably, as scholars have also noticed already for quite some time, her speech moves all those present deeply, even though her words do not change anything in terms of the war strategy and the concrete plans in dealing with the enemy the next day. Nevertheless, Willehalm’s brother Gybert jumps to his feet and hugs the queen, indicating how much her comments have appealed to them all, although they are all war-hardened individuals. There are no words exchanged among them; but Gyburg has had her chance, and her ideas have deeply moved everyone, as reflected by the appearance of tears on all their faces (ch. 311, verses 4–6). Those are not fake or deceptive tears; instead, they speak an authentic language and signal how much Gyburg has indeed formulated the most fundamental concern affecting them all.50 They are all Christian fighters and should abstain from violence, but even the Christian faith must be defended with all means available, including military. Taking all this together, we realize that Wolfram is moving in the direction of toleration, examining the relationship between Christians and Muslims and characterizing the latter as members of the same family. Killing them in war, as is necessary here in the present circumstances, proves to be tragic.51
The narrator himself underscores at the end how much the death of so many worthy men as a result of the religious conflict pained him deeply. Reflecting on the result of all the slaughter, Wolfram comments that there would be much lamenting over the loss of loved ones in many different languages (ch. 450, verses 12–14). Then the narrator raises the fundamental question: “ist daz sünde, / daz man die sluoc alsam ein vihe?” (ch. 450, verses 16–17; is it a sin to slay them like chattel?). Indeed, as he then admits, that is sinfulness since all people here on earth are created by God and deserve equal respect and treatment (ch. 450, verse 19). Of course, how could Willehalm help himself in that situation when the Admiral (or Emperor) Terramer brought his huge army, consisting of countless different groups from the Orient to Europe in order to colonize the Carolingian Empire, that is, the successor kingdoms. Terramer hence carried the greatest guilt, bringing death upon scores of his own men and those fighting for the Christian cause.
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