The Magdalen: walking baths and portable oceans
Richard
Crashaw, a Roman Catholic spiritual writer of the first half of the
seventeenth century, is not my favorite religious poet. The nature of his learned “metaphysical” wit, when employed in the
development of Italianate Counter Reformation piety, produces what I have
always thought of as a rather cloying “south of the border” effect. This is probably a personal prejudice,
which I might be able to make a little more tolerable by saying that I am
generally troubled by excesses of the Baroque in the visual arts as well. But one of Crashaw’s poems (“Saint Mary
Magdalene, or the Weeper”) has stuck with me. The tears of the ceaselessly weeping Magdalen are melted
crystal, falling stars, pearls, medicinal lozenges and a dozen other
things. Wherever Christ walks through Galilee, he
is followed by the Weeper with her “two faithful fountains/ two walking Baths, two
weeping motions/ portable and compendious oceans.”
I
had reason to recall all this recently when I heard a recording of the
remarkable Costa Rican-Mexican singer Chavela Vargas singing a version of a
popular traditional song called “La llorona” (“The Weeper”). The distinctive bittersweet timbre
of Vargas’s voice, combined with the clarity of articulation, could make “Jingle Bells”
sound spooky, and “La llorona” is grim enough to begin with. The Spanish word llorona
means “weeping woman” (Sp. llorar from Lat.
plorare). The denotative range seems pretty broad. At the one end llorona can be a trivial cry-baby, at the other the Weeper, Mary Magdalen. But the Llorona of this song is the central figure of a myth or folk tale apparently
widespread in Central America and the American Southwest. Like much folk literature and
balladry, a basic story or situation exists in many variants.* A beautiful woman of humble station is
seduced by an aristocrat. After
she had born his child (or children), he abandons her for a more suitable high-born mate. The abandoned mistress
becomes deranged and murders her children, often beside or in a river, before
taking her own life. She is then
doomed forever to weep, an apparition shrouded in white, as she searches the
earth for her dead children. To
encounter this llorona at the
midnight hour, or to hear her lamentation, is a frightening experience and a
terrible augury of impending disaster.
tele-llorona
There
are versions of the llorona myth both
in Spanish and in indigenous Amerindian languages. But the amazing Aarne-Thompson Motif Index of Folk Literature—which is exactly what it sounds
like, a vast catalogue of narrative themes—suggests that the “original” Weeper, possibly historical, was a late
medieval German woman. The rapid
mutation of obscure historical event into myth and narrative incoherence is a
general feature of folk music. We may
recall that the historical germs of so many of the traditional ballads in our
own tongue, most of which had their origins in the Border Country of northern
England and southern Scotland, were barely discernible to the musicologists who
lovingly searched them out in the Appalachian backwoods a hundred and fifty
years ago.
The
mind recoils before the concept of parental infanticide, but it is shockingly
common. “Indeed,” writes Kirtley, “amidst
the endemic violence of contemporary Western culture reports of distressed
individuals destroying their families and then themselves scarcely make the
front page of a large city’s newspaper, owing to their monotonous frequency.” But you probably recall two memorable
episodes that did make it there, perhaps because the murderers did not then
kill themselves. The first involved
a psychotic depressive in Texas, who drowned her five children seriatim in a bathtub in an hour, and a
South Carolina mother who, as her lover didn’t want to be saddled with kids, strapped
two infants she had created with an estranged husband into a car, submerged it
in a lake, and then raised a false cry of kidnapping.
Delacroix's Medea (Palais des Beaux Arts, Lille)
If
you seek the true essence of human tragedy, the first place you may want to
look is folklore, but the classical drama is hardly less opulent in domestic
gore. In the ancient texts a
mother’s murder of her children can be revenge against their father. Think of Jason and Medea. There is hardly a grander, more heroic
theme than that of the voyage of the Argonauts. But great heroes can also be great cads, and when Jason jilts
Medea she slaughters the children they have together created. Niobe does not perform the slaughter of
her own large brood, but it is her culpable pride that effects it. She actually becomes an architectural
“weeper”, the marble font of an ever-flowing stream. In Ovid the infanticidal revenge that Procne takes on her
husband Tereus, the rapist of her sister Philomela, is more violent and
grotesque yet. I withhold the
exact details from this family blog , even though they come from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, one of the most high-brow
masterpieces of Augustan literature.
David's "Slaughter of the Niobids" (Dallas Museum of Art)
In
Ovid Procne is transformed into a swallow, and Philomela into a
nightingale. In the western poetic
tradition Philomel is herself a kind of llorona,
a singer of great sweetness, but of no less sadness. On this topic Crashaw wrote one of his other most notable
poems, “Musicks Duell”. The theme,
an eternal one, is the commerce between Nature and Art. An expert lutanist seated on the
greensward near the Tiber hears a nightingale singing in a nearby wood, and he
challenges her to a musical duel.
The contestants battle mightily, but at length the power of many strings
overcomes the exhausted voice of the single frail bird, Philomela. “She failes, and failing grieves, and
grieving dyes.” In the version of “La Llorona” rendered
by Chavela Vargas the doomed singer signals the strange and paradoxical nature
of her allure—a deadly desirability—in an arresting TexMex gastronomic image: “Yo soy como
el chile verde, picante pero sobroso.”
I am like the green chile pepper,
stinging but delicious. I might describe that as contemporary Baroque.
*I find most of this in Bacil F. Kirtley, “‘La Llorona’ and
Related Themes” in Western Folklore
19 (1960): 155-168
