[In the following essay, Nepaulsingh presents a detailed exploration of the biblical Song of Songs as a source for the Razón de amor.]

[The] garden in the Song of Songs was by no means the only one that impressed its symbolism upon the minds of medieval writers. The garden of Ave in the Song was frequently compared with the garden of Eva in Genesis, or, as Alfonso el Sabio of Spain put it in his 'cantiga de loor': 'Ca Eva nos tolleu / o Parays' e Deus / Ave nos y meteu.' In Spain there also existed knowledge of the luscious gardens described in the Koran, a veritable paradise through which flowed magic rivers of water and of wine. And there were other literary gardens, gardens of song, like the one described by Todros Abulafia as a preface to his book of poems, and the one described by Moses ben Jacob Ibn Ezra: …

All who are sick at heart and cry in bitterness
Let not your soul complain in grief.
Enter the garden of my songs, and find balm
for your sorrow, and sing there with open
  mouth.

Honey compared with them is bitter to the
 taste,
And before their scent, flowing myrrh is rank.
Through them the deaf hear, the stutterers
 speak,
The blind see, and the halting run.
The troubled and grief-stricken rejoice in them,
All who are sick at heart, and cry in bitterness.

The countless earthly gardens where ordinary mortal lovers held their trysts and ordinary workers sought, from the heat of the noon-day sun, the shade of a brook-watered tree were, of course, commonplace in Spain as anywhere else in the world. Toss these elements into the air a thirteenth-century Spanish poet breathed and, with the help of twentieth-century hindsight, it should be not unexpected that out of Ave, Eva, magic wine and magic water, lustful song and ordinary debate, should arise a poem of consummate medieval artistry—the Razón de amor. All the details of Razón de amor cannot be made to coincide with those of the Song of Songs or with the garden of Eve in Genesis, or with any other garden of either courtly literature or folklore where 'boy meets girl'; but the Song of Songs is such an important locus classicus for all such details, including ideas about courtly literature (King Solomon's court), that it would be worthwhile to examine how works far removed from it vary its contents.

The composition of the Razón de amor has been a subject of much debate ever since A. Morel-Fatio published the work as two separate poems in 1887. In 1905 Ramón Menéndez Pidal argued convincingly, in the introduction to his edition and facsimile reproduction of the manuscript, that the two parts of the poem constitute a unit. In 1950 Leo Spitzer declared that Menéndez Pidal's arguments for unity were definitive, and he added to those arguments his own aesthetic reasons for believing that the work was one single, complete poem composed on the medieval principle of the harmony of contraries, sic et non. Nevertheless, as recently as 1974, it has been correctly pointed out that literary historians and anthologists remain divided in their opinions about the unity of the work, a fact that is reflected in the failure to drop the second part, 'Denuestos del agua y el vino,' from the bipartite title normally used for the work.

The search for the unity of the Razón de amor has led many able critics into several interrelated sources of information. Spitzer argued for Roman mythology, and other critics have tried to show how Christian symbolism, cathar heresy, grail legends, troubador poetry, linguistics, folk lyrics, and structural analysis can be used to prove or disprove the unity of the poem. All of this critical material includes many convincing insights about the lyrical tradition to which the Razón de amor belongs, and yet no single source that has been cited, nor any eclectic combination of those sources, can claim to have satisfied the critical queries that have arisen out of the search for the unity of the poem. There are missing links.

I should like to suggest that one of these missing links is the Song of Songs, which is mentioned only in passing in the critical material on the Razón de amor, except by Alicia de Colombì-Monguió [De Amor y Poesìa], who states explicitly that 'ningún clérigo-es-colar pudo ignorar nunca el Cantor de los Cantares. Cierto es que, de darse algun eco suyo en el Razón de amor, se da tan quedo que debe llegar de muy lejos. Pero la posibilidad de su presencia ayudaria a explicarnos ese manzanar-malgranar, árbol de la fecundidad, de la unión amorosa, del paraìso terrenal y de la salvatión.' I shall not claim that the Song of Songs is a direct source for the composition of the Razón. Rather, I hope to illustrate that many of the problems left unanswered by searches elsewhere, including the problem of unity, can be resolved by a careful reading of the Song of Songs and its commentaries.

I shall attempt to justify my reference to the Song of Songs by listing some of the main motifs that it has in common with the Razón de amor. On the basis of this justification I shall then discuss the question of unity. By listing common motifs I do not mean to suggest exact relationships between the Song of Songs and the Razón. My point is that from the widespread tradition of the Song, the poet had available to him many motifs that could be repeated exactly, or altered, to suit artistic purposes. In other words, my emphasis is on identifying the tradition itself correctly, not on finding exact parallels. I am convinced that mutations take place constantly within the same tradition, and I do not believe that medieval artists were capable of only imitating a source exactly.

I should also make clear from the outset that if it can be established satisfactorily that the Razón was composed in the tradition of the Song of Songs, the ambiguities in the Razón, to which critics like Colombì-Monguió have correctly referred would be adequately explained. Scholars of the Song have always omnilaterally conceded its inherent ambiguity, and there has never been universal agreement among biblical scholars that the Song should be included among the canon of holy books. Advocates of its holiness, like Rabbi Akiva and St Bernard, were keenly aware of the erotic qualities of the work, but considered it holy in spite of, even because of, its erotic content. Other scholars, of course, have refused to concede any divine content to the Song, choosing to consider it simply as a collection of erotic wedding songs. So a similar debate about the content of the Razón helps to confirm its composition within the tradition of the Song.

It has been noted that the invocation to the poem ('Sancti spiritus adsid nobis gratia amen') is different from the invocations in the works of other medieval Spanish authors. But its appropriateness becomes clear if this invocation is interpreted within the context of medieval attempts to understand the Song of Songs. The invocation to the Razón de amor is most probably a direct reference to the Book of Wisdom: 'Spiritus enim sanctus disciplinae effugiet fictum.' Because Solomon was believed to be the author of both the Book of Wisdom and the Song of Songs, this verse was used by commentators to explain how Solomon was divinely inspired to write the Song of Songs. St Bernard cites the verse from the Book of Wisdom in his sermon on the title 'Song of Songs,' and Abraham Ibn Ezra makes oblique reference to it in his interpretation of the title: 'Quoniam autem testificatur contextus scripturae Dominum Salomoni bis apparuisse, quid eum mirum est vaticinatum de re futura, cum praesertim afflatu Spiritussancti hunc librum fuderit." I shall have reason to return to the invocation when I discuss the unity of the Razón. At that time I will also explain how the second line of the poem ('qui triste tiene su coraçón benga oir esta Razón') is related to the Song, and how that relationship helps to clarify the problem of unity.

In line 3 the motif of a perfect composition ('razón acabada') is clearly linked to interpretations of the title of the Song of Songs. Abraham Ibn Ezra, for example, in his commentary on the title refers to the excellence of the Song of Songs above all other songs of Solomon, and to its perfection ('Hoc enim sive carmen sive canticum dignius excellentiusque est caeteris … Itaque cum sit suis numeris perfectum, illud exposui tribus modis.' St Bernard also refers to its excellence in his sermon on the title. The idea that this perfect composition was 'feyta d'amor' (1. 3) is one that medieval poets associated with the Song of Songs seem to have known; a twelfth-century French version of the Song of Songs explains in its introductory lines 'Quar d'amor est li livres faiz.'

In line 4 the author of the Razón is described in terms that apply as well to the author of the Song of Songs: Solomon was well known as one who 'siepre dueñas amó.' In the context of 'loving women,' if the word tyranca in line 5 has a negative connotation (meaning trials, tribulations, or bad dealings), the author of the Razón shares this motif with that of King Solomon: 'Rex autem Solomon adamavit mulieres alienigenas multas, filiam quoque Pharaonis, et Moabitidas, et Ammonitidas, Idumaeas, et Sidonias, et Hethaeas: de gentibus, super quibus dixit Dominus filiis Israel: Non ingrediemini ad eas …' (1 Kings 11:1-2). In spite of differences in geographical locations (Lombardy, Moab), the tradition is discernible in the Razón: Solomon's court was considered to be a court of love and wisdom, and it must have been, ultimately, one of the models for other students of courtly love, like Andreas Capellanus.

The spring motif in line 7 ('en el mes d'abril') echoes one of the most famous passages of the Song of Songs: 'Iam enim hiems transiit; imber abiit et recessit. Flores apparuerunt in terra nostra' (2:11-12). In the same line of the Razón the motif of the noonday meal ('depués yantar') is reminiscent of 'Indica mihi, quem diligit anima mea, ubi pascas, ubi cubes in meridie' in the Song of Songs (1:6).

The olive tree, named in lines 7 and 54 of the Razón, is not found in the Song of Songs, but the apple tree and its shade are mentioned twice in a manner that reminds one of lines in the Razón; ('Sicut malus inter ligna silvarum, sic dilectus meus inter filios. Sub umbra illius quem desideraveram sedi … Sub arbore malo suscitavi te' 2:3, 8:5). By referring to the olive tree the poet probably seeks comparison with the great songwriter David, who described himself as an olive tree growing in the house of God: 'Ego autem sicut oliva virens in domo Dei' (Psalms 51:10). The likelihood of this comparison increases if it is noted that St Bernard refers to this verse of the Psalms in his sermon on Song of Songs 1:3. In addition, the olive was probably more common in Spain at the time of the poem's composition than were the palms and pomegranates and other exotic trees mentioned in the Song of Songs. Impey suggests that the olive is the tree of wisdom, as in the Siervo libre de amor.

The motifs of the wine, water, 'dueña,' and their special qualities appearing in lines 9 to 17 of the Razón are central to, and will be treated in, the discussion of unity. The siesta mentioned in line 18 is echoed in Song of Songs 1:7, a verse one modern commentator explains in this way: 'The violent heat of noonday compels people in the East to desist from labour, and recline in some cool part of the house. Shepherds especially, being more exposed to the burning rays of the sun, lead their flocks under some shady tree near wells and streams. We have beautiful descriptions of the same custom by Greeks and Romans.' The motif of disrobing is common to both works, but in the Razón both lovers disrobe—the man in the heat of the siesta (1. 19), and the woman in heat of passion at the sight of her lover (1. 66); in the Song, only the woman disrobes, not in a siesta but after she has gone to sleep ('Ego dormio, et cor meum vigilate … Exploliavime tunica mea, quomodo induar illa' 5:2-3).

The locus amoenus of the Razón (11. 20-8) with its fountain, flowers, and aromatic herbs, belongs clearly to the tradition of the hortus conclusus described in the Song (4:12-16). The description of a beautiful woman, from the top down, in this locus amoenus is also common to both works (11. 29-39; 4:1-5), although the descriptions differ in detail. It has been noted that the 'doncela' of the Razón is like most other medieval women except that she wears a hat to shield her from the sun (1. 38). There is a curiously close relationship between this descriptive detail of the beautiful white doncela of the Razón and the fact that the famous woman of the Song of Songs is beautiful but black because she had been scorched by the sun in the vineyards she had tended ('Nigra sum, sed formosa … Nolite me considerare quod fusca sim, quia decoloravit me sol. Filii matris meae pugnaverunt contra me; posuerunt me custodem in vineis,' 1:4-5).

Several motifs in the song sung by the doncela in the Razón (11. 41-50) are found also in the Song of Songs. The doncela's song expresses the desire of a woman to be with a lover about whom she has heard much but whom she does not know (11. 41-4); similarly, the ancient commentators described the entire Song of Songs as the desire of a wife (Israel) to be united with her husband (God) whom she has long forsaken and now knows only through the sayings of her forefathers. In line 45 the doncela sings that she would rather be with her lover than be queen of Spain; she repeats a similar choice in line 75 ('no vos camiar por un emperad—'). With regard to the doncela's preference, at least one medieval Spanish commentator of the Song of Songs noted that the story concerned a love triangle in which the woman chose her shepherd lover instead of King Solomon.

The doncela of the Razón has one fear resulting from her jealousy of another woman who is said to be deeply in love with the same lover (11. 46-9); but in spite of her jealousy she is confident that the lover will choose her (1. 50). This combination of jealousy and self-confidence is found also in the Song of Songs where the woman first acknowledges that other women love her lover; but towards the end of the book she is described as a confident winner by her lover ('Oleum effusum nomen tuum; ideo adolescentulae dilexerunt te … Sexaginta sunt reginae, et octoginta concubinae, et adolescentularum non est numerus. Una est columba mea, perfecta mea … Viderunt earn filiae, et beatissimam praedicaverunt; reginae et concubinae, et laudaverunt earn' 1:2; 6:7-8).

The motif in line 51 of the Razón—of the woman who goes into a garden to work and is surprised there by a man—is found also in the Song of Songs ('Descendi in hortum nucum, ut viderem poma convallium, et inspicerem si floruisset vinea, et germinassent mala punica. Nescivi: anima mea conturbavit me, propter quadrigas Aminadab,' 6:11-12). Because the woman in the Razón has never seen her lover she cannot describe him precisely. Nevertheless, her description of him as intelligent and circumspect (11. 56-9) fits the more detailed description of the lover in the Song of Songs: 'Dilectus meus candidus et rubicundus; electus ex millibus … Guttur illius suavissimum, et totus desiderabilis' (5:10-16). The fact that the lover has made expensive gifts to the woman (11. 60-9) is yet another motif found in the Song of Songs ('Murenulas aureas faciemus tibi, vermiculatas argento, 1:10). Finally, the kiss in line 66 of the Razón and the long time the lovers spend savouring their love reflect motifs in the Song. 'Osculetur me osculo oris sui … Ut inveniam te foris, et deosculer te … Adiuro vos, filiae Jerusalem … ne suscitetis, neque evigilare faciatis dilectam, quoadusque ipsa velit' (1:1; 8:1; 2:7; 3:5).

Thus far I have commented on the Razón de amor line by line, and in the first seventy lines of the poem I have found very few sections that are not echoes of the Song of Songs. These echoes do not necessarily mean that the poet was working with a version of the Song of Songs in front of him; many of the motifs I have mentioned are ordinary themes that the author could have culled from numerous sources. Yet, by going directly to a mother lode of sources for medieval love lyrics, I believe I have been able to demonstrate that half of the Razón de amor belongs to the tradition of the Song of Songs. If it can be demonstrated that the second part of the poem, which has come to be known as the 'Duenestos del agua y el vino,' is also related to the Song of Songs, another reason will have been added to those arguments already made for the poem's unity. It does not much matter now when such a unity may have been conceived and executed, and by whom, whether by one poet before the composition of the entire poem or by another poet who attached a second part and reworked an earlier poem. The question is whether or not the poem in its present state is an artistic unit, and more specifically, whether or not the Song of Songs can help to clarify such thematic unity.

The second part of the Razón consists of three main elements, all of which can be related to the Song of Songs: the actions of a dove, a debate between wine and water, and the superiority of wine over water mainly because of wine's relationship to Christ. The dove is mentioned in several passages in the Song of Songs, and its behaviour in Razón, as represented by the spirit of wisdom, is clearly connected with the tradition of the Song of Songs. The idea that wine and water are adversaries and should be made to debate with each other can be derived from the Song of Songs. Wine is repeatedly compared with love in the Song ('Quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino … Memores uberum tuorum super vinum … Pulchriora sunt ubera tua vino … Guttur tuum sicut vinum optimum,' 1:1,3; 4:10; 7:9). In the Song of Songs wine is the favoured drink of lovers ('Bibi vinum meum cum lacte meo. Comedite, amici, et bibite; et inebriamini, carissimi,' 5:1), and water is placed in an adversary position to love ('Aquae multae non potuerunt extinguere charitatem,' 8:7). The narrative unity of the Razón seems to be based on a question implied by the poet: Which substance leads to true love ('fin amor'), water or wine? The protagonist drinks water and immediately experiences an amorous encounter which, though pleasant enough while it lasts, leaves him sad and almost kills him (11. 76-7). A dove then appears to the poet and in a debate teaches him the wisdom of choosing wine over water.

The wise choice of wine over water is based on both wine's relationship to Christ and the equation found in commentaries on the Song of Songs that love is equal to wine because Christ is the true vine. We can be certain that medieval readers associated love with a special kind of wine because St Bernard, in his sermon on the Song of Songs verse beginning 'Introduxit me in cellam vinariam' (2:4), says explicitly that love is wine: 'Respondit mirum minime esse, si vino aestuaret, quae in cellam vinariam introisset. Et secundum litteram ita. Secundum spiritum quoque non negat ebriam, sed amore, non vino, nisi quod amor vinum est.' St Bernard's interpretation cannot be surprising since it is common in Christian commentaries that Christ is the bridegroom in the Song of Songs. If, therefore, in the Razón there are indications that love is equivalent to wine, the equation that love is wine (because of Christ) and water is the enemy will be seen as common to the Song of Songs and the Razón.

The language of both halves of the Razón de amor indicates that, in the mind of the poet, love is equivalent to wine. Wine is described in the first half of the poem as 'fino' (1. 9), and this is the same adjective used to describe love ('fin amor,' 1. 29). Moreover, it is evident that the courtly-love concept of amor purus and amor mixtus is based on an analogy to pure and mixed wine. This and many other courtly-love concepts are rooted ultimately in the Song of Songs. It is even easier in the second half of the Razón de amor to demonstrate that love is wine, because here everything that is said about wine applies equally to love. It can reasonably be said that love dislikes to be weakened by bad companions (11. 88-90); love does strange things to people's heads, making good people sceptical and wise ones mad (11. 95-8); love has no hands or feet and yet it has the power to conquer valiant men even as it conquered Sampson (11. 113-18); a table set without love is worthless (1. 117); any rustic Romeo, giddy with love, will, if unassisted, stumble and fall  (11. 120-2); love alters perception (11. 123-5); love is always stored as an honourable possession (1. 132); and that love works miracles, making the blind man see, the lame man walk, the dumb man speak, the sick man well, just as it says in the Bible that Jesus Christ, the source of love, worked miracles (11. 133-7). There can be no doubt that in the second half of the Razón de amor love is wine. Since, in the same section of the poem, water is engaged in verbal combat with wine, it follows logically that water is enemy to love.

Once it has been demonstrated that the equations that love is wine (because of Christ) and water is the enemy are common to both the tradition of the Song of Songs and the Razón, the thematic unity of the Razón can be considered established. The entire poem, not just the first half, is a 'Razón acabada feyta de amor'— a title that reflects the title Canticum Canticorum Salomonis, The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's. The poet captures the full meaning of the biblical superlative with his 'acabada,' and uses the same enigmatic genitive that kept medieval commentators wondering whether the Song was written by Solomon, about him, or both. The title 'Denuestos' could be dropped, and the poem could be called Razón (compare Song), Razón acabada (compare Song of Songs), or Razón de amor (compare Song of Solomon).

With the wine-love-Christ equation in mind, a number of difficulties that have plagued previous interpretations of the poem can be clarified. Again I comment line by line, highlighting those lines that have not been sufficiently explained in the first part of this [essay]. I do not intend interpretations that precede or follow as definitive readings of Razón; nor do I mean to suggest that Razón must henceforth be understood always in the tradition of the Song of Songs. As Alicia de Colombi-Monguio has correctly pointed out, ambiguity in Razón is a necessary poetic device without which much of the work's artistry would be lost. I use the tradition of the Song of Songs throughout this chapter only as an heuristic tool to help explain the poem's unity, but other meanings and interpretations are surely elicited by this polysemous text. What follows, therefore, is a test to see if a reading of Razón in the tradition of the Song of Songs can be sustained justifiably throughout the poem.

Some editors follow Morel-Fatio and omit the invocation in line 1 entirely ('Sancti spiritus adsid nobis gratia amen'); others, after Menendez Pidal, include it, but apart from the rest of the poem. But there seems sufficient reason to follow London's edition and count the invocation as the first line of the poem. The poet writing in the tradition of the Song of Songs chooses an appropriate invocation closely related to King Solomon. King Solomon asked God for wisdom (1 Kings 3:6-9), and in return he received divine inspiration to compose his works, including, according to the medieval commentators, the Song of Songs (1 Kings 4:29-32). Likewise, the poet of the Razón invokes the presence of the Holy Spirit and by implication, like Solomon, appeals for wisdom. Since both wisdom and the Holy Spirit are represented in the poem, this invocation, in so far as it foreshadows the appearance of wisdom and the Holy Spirit, ought to be considered an integral part of the whole work.

A careful analysis of the invocation alerts the reader to the fact that what seems commonplace in the poem might be of greater aesthetic significance. This is certainly true of line 2 of the poem, which on the surface seems to be a minstrel's stereotyped invitation to listeners. In fact, this line is a direct reference to the text in the Psalms beginning 'Et vinum laetificet cor hominis' (103:15), and is appropriate in the Razón for two reasons. First, the text was quoted by commentators on the passages about wine in the Song of Songs; St Bernard, for example, quotes it in his sermon on the third verse of the first chapter of the Song. Second, the same text forms a part of the literary tradition of the debate between wine and water; it is found, for example, in one of the Hebrew wine-and-water debates. The poet has therefore told careful readers in the second line of the poem exactly what the outcome of the Razón will be: they should drink wine if they are sad at heart because 'wine makes the heart glad.' There is, in the second half of the poem, a similarly subtle use of cliche when the poet makes wine say 'placem de coraco'  (1. 112); it is fitting, according to Psalm 103:15, that wine should say that it is pleased at heart.

The poet promises in lines 3-6 to tell from experience why those who are lovesick should drink wine; not any kind of wine (note 'qui de tal vino,' 1. 13), but a special kind of clear, red, fine wine that he once saw in a silver vessel, covered from the heat, in the bough of an apple tree; it had been placed there by the lady who owned the garden. Now these details do not make complete sense if they are to be taken only literally. How could the poet see what was inside a vessel in the bough of a tree if he was under another tree ('so un olivar,' 1. 7)? Either he had prior knowledge of the contents of the vessel and of how it got on the bough, or his words are not to be taken only literally. If the poem was composed in the tradition of the Song of Songs, and it is accepted that this tradition is at the very core of allegory in Western literature, it can be safely assumed that the poet means these words to be taken figuratively as well as literally, as appropriate. What then do the apple tree, the covered silver vessel of wine, and the lady of the garden represent on the figurative level?

The apple tree is like the tree of knowledge of good and evil mentioned in Genesis 2:9-17. By choosing the tree from the book of Genesis the poet has not left the tradition of the Song of Songs. It was accepted medieval practice to compare the gardens of the Song of Songs with the gardens described in Genesis; and more importantly, when Solomon asked for wisdom he asked to be able to choose between good and evil ('Dabis ergo servo tuo … discernere inter bonum et malum,' 1 Kings 3:9).

The 'senora del huerto,' like the bride in the Song of Songs, is, in a Christian context, like the Church. In the Song of Songs she prepares a special wine for her lover ('Et dabo tibi poculum ex vino condito,' 8:2), and therefore was identified, by commentators on the Song, with wisdom who, in Proverbs 9:1-5, invites all to partake of her specially mixed wine: 'Sapientia aedificavit sibi domum … miscuit vinum, et proposuit mensam suam. Misit ancillas suas ut vocarent … "Venite … et  bibite vinum quod miscui vobis.'" The wine in the silver vessel therefore is the good fruit placed on the apple tree of knowledge of good and evil; it is the wine of wisdom, the wine prepared by the Church. Note that the vessel of wine does not grow naturally on this tree but has been placed there (1. 11). The poet affirms that whoever drinks of this communion chalice every day while taking the host ('quan comiesse,' 1. 13) shall never again fall ill. The poet probably knows this at first hand as a result of the experience about to be narrated; the words in lines 11-14, like those in the opening and closing lines (11. 1-6, 145-6), refer to the moment of narration and must be distinguished from words referring to the events that occurred before the moment of narration (for example, 11. 7-10, 15-144).

The passage about the cup of water (11. 15-29), like the one about wine, must be interpreted figuratively as well as literally because it is not explained how the poet could literally see the contents of the cup; it is not important to decide whether or not the poet fell asleep after line 19 and experienced in a dream what is related after that line. The entire passage is figurative as well as literal. So is the rest of the poem, for that matter, since wine and water cannot be understood, literally, to have debated with each other.

The cup of water represents the evil fruit on the tree of knowledge of good and evil. But water is not always evil. Since it is born of the tree of good as well as of evil water sometimes serves good purposes. For example, water nurtures the very tree on which it was born; it feeds the miracle-working aromatic herbs and flowers around the fountain (11. 20-23); it makes the long-dried-up mother vine pregnant again (11. 105-10); it cleans up dirty places (11. 127-31); and it is used in the sacrament of baptism to give new life to Christians (11. 139-44). But in spite of its good life-giving qualities, this water represents evil and is associated with death (note 'encantado,' 1. 17, 'omme muerto,' 1. 26, and 'muerta,' 1. 118) because in Genesis 2:17 God promised man that if he ate of the evil fruit, he would surely die. Water is also associated with nakedness and with sex or carnal knowledge, because Adam realized his nakedness after he ate the fruit and 'knew' his wife, Eve. In this carnal sense, this water gives new life, in the form of sexual potency, to 'dead' lovers, a potency that, in terms of some common interpretations of Genesis, is the ultimate cause of death among mankind. Note that, unlike the vessel of wine, this evil fruit grows naturally on the tree ('en el mançanar s-nacia,' 1. 16).

The water cup itself is not described as being of a precious metal, as is the silver vessel of wine, and wine later reminds water of this: 'C'a mi siepre me tiennen ornado de entro en buenna cubas condesado'  (1. 132). The cup of water, unlike the vessel of wine, is uncovered, naked like Adam after he had eaten the fruit. So when the man (1. 19) and the woman (1. 66) disrobe, they align themselves symbolically with the cup of nakedness and carnal knowledge. For all these potentially evil reasons, the cup of water is described as being farther away from man's reach than the wine ('arriba del man9anar, 1. 15), not simply, as some have supposed, to facilitate the spilling of the water into the wine; if the water were below the wine, the dove—if it flew upwards out of the water—would still have been able to spill water into the wine.

There are, it seems, two fountains: one that rises out of the apple tree of knowledge of good and evil (1. 16), and another that feeds the herbs and flowers (11. 20-8). This interpretation of two fountains is later supported by lines 81-2 in which the dove avoids one fountain and flies to another, but the meaning of the text here is not as clear as it might be. These fountains, if there are two, are alike, since both contain a special kind of cold water  (11. 16 and 21-2) which is to be compared with the two kinds of fountain waters described in the Song of Songs: the well of living waters (4:15), and the waters associated with death that cannot quench love (8:6-7). As with the tree of good and evil in Genesis and the waters of life and death in the Song, the waters of the fountains in the Razón can serve a double purpose. When the fountain is a baptismal font the purpose is good and the water gives new spiritual life to a spiritually dead person. But when the fountain is used for ordinary purposes, the water acts as an aphrodisiac which, through the smell of the flowers it feeds, arouses a sexually inactive man ('a omne muerto Ressucytarya,' 1.26) without being able to quench his thirst for love.

It is crucial to the understanding of the Razón de amor to note that the man, an 'escolar,' does not use the water of the fountain for good, baptismal, purposes. Clearly, since he is a 'clergyo' (1. 57), he is already baptized. When he drinks of the water, ignoring the special wine of the church, he uses the fountain for ordinary purposes and the consequences of this use are immediately predictable. First of all he suffers a thorough chill (1. 27). (This is what biblical scholars and clerics described as the 'chill of Satan.') Then he takes a flower in his hand. The smell of this flower, under good, baptismal circumstances, would have given him a spiritual resurrection and he would have then been able to sing of 'fin amor.' Instead, he is unable to sing of 'fin amor' (1. 29) because the sight of the 'doncela,' the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, sets his carnal waters flowing; the 'fin amor' this woman represents is unable to quench the escolar's thirst for love.

This beautiful 'doncela' is, like her surroundings, not evil; some of her qualities are like those of the wine: her complexion is clear and ruddy (11. 31-2, 35), and she is clothed. But she also possesses some qualities of the evil fruit: her face is as fresh as an apple (1. 32), reminiscent of the apple with which Eve tempted Adam, and her eyes are black and smiling (1. 34), not unlike the water described later in the poem as 'muerta Ridiendo' (1. 118). It becomes clear from the woman's song, and especially from her repeated use of the verb conocer, that the love she represents is not a spiritual 'fin amor,' but the carnal, perhaps illicit, love for a cleric. She is, in fact, Scientia, and she must be distinguished from Sapientia, the 'senora del huerto.' Scientia is not wisdom, which is probably represented by her rival, the 'duena cortesa e bela e bona' (1. 47); she is worldly, carnal knowledge that comes but does not linger (compare 1 Corinthians 13:8), the noonday devil to whom St Bernard dedicates an entire sermon on verse 6 of the first chapter of the Song of Songs. Scientia, like the waters of the Song, cannot quench love's thirst, and, as a consequence, leaves the love-sick cleric as sad ('desconortado,' 1. 76) as the listeners to whom he appeals in line 2, and almost dead (1. 77).

It is a well-worn theme in medieval literature that someone who has come very close to death experiences a visionary insight into truth. Such an experience is often described as taking place in the twilight world between sleep and wakefulness, which is why the cleric explains that he really wanted to sleep ('por verdat quisieram adormir,' 1. 78). Because of the visionary nature of this experience, the dove and its actions should be interpreted both literally and figuratively.

The dove is mentioned several times in the Song of Songs (1:15, 2:14; 4:1; 5:2, 12; 6:9), but the verse that fits most closely the scene in the Razón is the one in which the lover's eyes are described as doves, bathed in milk, beside streams of water ('Oculi eius sicut columbae super rivulos aquarum, quae lacte sunt lotae, et resident iuxta fluenta plenissima,' 5:12). The motifs of whiteness (1. 79) and bathing (1. 82) are present also in the Razón. In order to understand what the dove represents on a figurative level, one must note that, on the literal level, the dove's behaviour is exactly the opposite of that of the doncela. The cleric is certain that the doncela, although she does not know him, will not flee when she sees him (1. 52); but this is exactly what the dove does ('en la funte quiso entra mas quando a mi vido estar / etros' en la del malgranar,' 11. 81-2). The fact that the dove flees from the cleric makes it easy to identify the bird on the figurative level. In Solomon's Book of Wisdom, in the sentence before the one to which the invocation of the Razón refers, the wisdom of the Holy Spirit is described as refusing to enter a sinful body or soul and fleeing from deceit ('Quoniam in malevolam animam non introibit sapientia, nec habitabit in corpore subdito peccatis. Spiritus enim sanctus disciplinae effugiet fictum').

The dove, therefore, is the wisdom of the Holy Spirit, which rejected the sinful cleric when he was a disciple of water and taught him to be a disciple of the right wine. The dove does not attempt to drink the water of evil. It enters the fountain/cup and, like the poet, feels or pretends to feel the chill of cupidity (1. 85), but it flies out immediately ('festino,') 1. 86), shaking the water from its body on to the wine of wisdom. The dove thus gives a graphic lesson to the cleric about how he should behave, and the lesson is further impressed upon the cleric's mind by wine's victory in the debate with water.

Before some points in the debate are clarified, it would be well to examine closely two 'mistakes' attributed to the poet or to the scribe. It has been noted that the vessel of wine is never uncovered; at least one critic believes that this detail is an error because, if the vessel remained covered, the water could not have been spilled into it. But we have already shown that the vessel of wine remains covered for very sound aesthetic and symbolic reasons related to the nakedness of Adam and Eve. Clearly the wine must have been covered with a fine porous cloth (like a ritual corporal) through which water would pass as easily as through a sieve. The poet is also supposed to have erred in lines 82-3 in which 'malgranar' should have been 'manganar.' Since this passage is not only repeated but also garbled, there is good reason to suppose the cause was either scribal error or the poet's bad memory. However, the poet might have deliberately used 'malgranar' for at least two valid reasons: first, pomegranates are mentioned three times in the Song (4:12, 7:12; 8:2), twice juxtaposed with reference to wine; second, the Latin name for pomegranate (malum granatum) describes a kind of apple that, because of its first by syllable in Spanish (mal-), connotes evil.

We have seen how the subtlety of the debate between wine and water lies mainly in the facts that everything said about wine applies equally well to love, and everything said about water belies its dual function as a fruit on the tree of knowledge of good and evil. As early as the poem's second line, we have seen a subtle anticipation of the outcome of the debate, namely, that those who are sad at heart should drink wine, not water. Not everyone will agree that this is the outcome of the debate. Some will want to agree with Spitzer that the outcome of the debate is a reconciliation between two warring elements, a concordia discors: 'C'est comme si l'auteur, fine mouche, nous disait, "L'eau est aussi necessaire que le vin—donnez-moi donc du vin!'" Others may want to claim that water has won the debate because it seems to have the last word. This claim rests on the assumption that the extant version is complete, which is not necessarily true. It remains to be demonstrated, therefore, even in spite of all that has been said about the wine of wisdom and the water of evil, precisely how water has been made to concede defeat.

Water's final claim (11. 139-44) is characteristic of its duplicitous nature throughout the poem: what seems like a solid defence and victory is, in fact, a self-de-feating argument. It seems conclusive for water to imply that since baptism is essential in Christianity, wine must be baptized (hence watered down) in order to be called a child of God—a very clever argument on the surface. But wine does not need to reply to this argument because water has already conceded, in line 106, that everybody knows that wine is the child of God ('que no a homne que no lo sepa que fillo sodes de la cepa'); everybody knows that Christ is reported to have said, 'I am the true vine' (John 15:1); so everybody also knows, as water admits, that wine, the fruit of the vine, is the child of God.

Wine does not need to repeat itself because it has already said precisely that it is the child of God in its much misunderstood climactic argument in line 137 ('asi co dize en el scripto de fazem' el cuerpo de iesu Xo'). This line is normally assumed to refer directly to the sacrament of Communion, but this cannot be, because in this sacrament wine becomes the blood of Jesus, not the 'cuerpo de iesu Xo' (Matthew 26:26-8). The subject of 'fazem' is 'el cuerpo de iesu Xo,' not 'el scripto.' So the meaning of the line is, 'just as it tells in the Scripture about the body of Christ making me,' not 'where it [the Scripture] makes me the body of Christ.'

It is clear that the poet intends to refer vaguely to Communion with the well-known phrase 'cuerpo de iesu Xo,' but he means to refer specifically to instances where the body of Christ associates itself with wine. The most memorable of such instances is at the wedding at Cana where Jesus worked the miracle of changing water into wine (John 2:1-11). We can be certain that line 137 refers to this miracle because it comes at the end of references to other miracles Christ performed—making the blind see, the lame walk, the dumb speak, and the sick well (11. 135-6). Another memorable instance where Christ associates himself with wine is when he says, in John 15:1, 'I am the true vine.' So line 137 must be interpreted to mean 'just as it tells in the Scripture about the body of Christ, the true vine, making me, wine.' In other words, since the body of Christ, the true vine, made wine, everybody knows that wine is the child of God, which is exactly what water concedes in line 106 ('que fillo sodes de la cepa').

The poet's ending of the debate after water's self-defeating argument is, therefore, by no means abrupt. What water says in lines 138-44 not only has no effect on wine's argument but also proves wine correct, quod erat demonstrandum. Similarly, what water says in lines 138-44 not only has no effect on the narrator's experience, but also proves the decision artistically correct to end the debate and call for wine in line 145 ('Mi Razón aqui la fino e mandat nos dar vino'). What water says about baptism convinces the narrator that he should end the debate and call for wine because he knows that when he drank the water he could not possibly have been thinking about baptism. Baptism is a sacrament usually performed only once, and not only was he, a cleric, already baptized, but (if Jacob is right about a Lenten setting) baptism was forbidden during Lent. The narrator is forced to concede that water and baptism, though essential, are not sufficient to cure his lovesickness, because even though baptized, he drank water and ended up sick again ('desconortado,' 1.76). This is theologically sound in a Christian context: baptism is essential for salvation, but is not sufficient to guarantee it. Spitzer is therefore not correct in asserting that the poet orders wine because, since both water and wine are essential, either will suffice. The poet orders wine because he has learned that water will make him sick again, and that only wine can cure his illness, as claimed in lines 14 and 136 of the poem.

Line 146 offers further proof of why the narrator orders wine. In the light of how subtly the poet has used stereotyped expressions throughout the poem, it would be unwise to treat this line as a mere cliche typical of an explicit. Like the invocation, which also reads like a cliche, the explicit is an integral part of the poem. When the text says, 'Seper cum Domino bibat,' the poet is not just punning ('bibat' for 'vivat'), nor does the text mean, 'May he drink [either water or wine] forever with the Lord.' Instead he is referring specifically to the promise Christ made to his disciples that they would drink wine with him in the Kingdom of Heaven: 'Dico autem vobis: non bibam amodo de hoc genimine vitis usque in diem ilium, cum illud bibam vobiscum novum in regno Patris mei' (Matthew 26:29). The key word in this text, 'vobiscum,' is what causes the poet to write 'cum Domino.'

It would be equally unwise to dismiss the signature of the poem ('Lupus me fecit de moros') as simply the name of a poet from a town, in Saragossa, north of Ateca. There is ample reason to suppose that even if Lupus de Moros were a real person, the name also alludes to the fact that the poem thus signed is an attack on Moorish customs, written by a wolf among the Moors. It is well known that Muslims are prohibited from drinking wine on earth, and a poem that urges the drinking of wine on earth obviously flies in the face of a Muslim religious precept. It is also well known that although Muslims are prohibited from wine on earth, they are repeatedly promised wine in Paradise. (Indeed, numerous passages of the Koran sound much like the scene in the locus amoenus of the Razón de amor.) Here are three typical examples:

The righteous shall surely dwell in bliss … They shall drink of a pure wine, securely sealed … a wine tempered with the waters of Tasnim, a spring at which the favoured will refresh themselves. (83:22-8)

Allah … will reward them for their steadfastness with robes of silk and the delights of Paradise. Reclining there upon soft couches, they shall feel neither the scorching heat nor the biting cold. Trees will spread their shade around them, and fruits will hang in clusters over them. They shall be served with silver dishes, and beakers large as goblets; silver goblets which they themselves shall measure: and cups brim-full with ginger flavoured water from the Fount of Selsabil. (76:12-17)

They shall recline on jewelled couches face to face, and there shall wait on them immortal youths with bowls and ewers and a cup of wine (that will neither pain their heads nor take away their reason); with fruits of their own choice and flesh of fowls that they relish. And theirs shall be the dark-eyed houris, chaste as hidden pearls: a guerdon for their deeds. (56:15-23)

The pure wine securely covered, the springs, the special water, the silver vessels, the heat and cold, the shady trees, the dark-eyed houri, all are reminiscent of the Razón de amor. As well, the Koran has a passage about disrobing at noon: 'Believers, let your slaves and children ask your leave when they come in to see you before the morning prayer, when you have put off your garments in the heat of noon, and after the evening prayer' (24:57).

The Koran alludes to the twofold function of water— as the original good substance from which all life was created, and as the dirty substance in carnal love: 'Are the disbelievers unaware that the heavens and the earth were one solid mass which We tore asunder, and that We made every living thing of water? (21:31) … 'Let man reflect from what he is created. He is created from an ejected fluid, that issues from between the loin and the ribs' (86:57). The descriptions of Paradise in the Koran are filled with streams of pure water. Since water is such an important substance in the Muslim pre-prayer ritual (wudu), one wonders whether the references in the Razón to water and baptism are not also attacks on Muslim ablutions, which have been compared to Christian baptism. It is important to note that these quotations from the Koran are by no means a departure from the tradition of the Song of Songs. The descriptions of Paradise in the Koran are either directly dependent upon the Song of Songs and its parallel in Genesis or, if not directly dependent, at the very least were written in the same Semitic tradition. The Razón de amor could hardly have been written other than in Spain where Jews, Christians, and Muslims scrutinized each other's religious practices for centuries.

To sum up: the Razón de amor is a Judaeo-Christian poem written (perhaps in an environment in which there were many Moors) to warn clerics against the sin of luxuria. Additional circumstantial support for this claim exists in the document attached to the poem and written in the same hand. This document on the Ten Commandments was attached to the Razón de amor probably because both works are aimed at the instruction of priests and both sets of instructions deal mainly with luxuria. The Razón de amor tells priests how to avoid luxuria themselves, while the attached document tells priests how to deal with luxuria when they hear the confessions of their parishioners. Consequently, although the general tendency in Razón de amor criticism has been to ignore the attached addendum, this document merits a more careful examination to see if it reveals how a priest who read it might have interpreted the Razón.

The document can be divided into two parts. The first part lists the Commandments one by one and explains how sins are committed against each one, in order that the priest will know how to question the confessant concerning each commandment. The second part instructs the priest how to probe the confessant about sins committed through the five senses, on the job, with the body, mind, and soul, through omission, and with one's wife. This second part also reminds the priest that sins are of three kinds (against God, against one's neighbour, and against oneself), and explains how to exact proper penance for sins, to process serious sins, to dismiss the confessant, and lastly, how to pray for the scribe who wrote the work.

It is not surprising to read in this document that the priest is instructed to probe for luxuria in the commandments against fornication and coveting a neighbour's wife. But it is revealing to observe that luxuria is discussed even under a commandment like 'keeping the Sabbath holy,' where the priest is told to ask if the confessant 'canto cantares luxoriosos en vigilias.' Luxuria is also implied in the commandment against murder: 'E quinto es: Non mataras. En este peca qui mata de feito o de voluntat o por mal exemplo, o, si, pudo, que no liuro de muerte a so cristiano, o si mato nino chiquielo [en] el vientre de so madre, o ensenno erbas con que lo matasen o dieu erbas a alguno con que mories.'

It is well to remember that instructions like these were written partly because they were ignored. Nevertheless, since the medieval Christian world was made up of confessors and confessants in constant contact with each other, it is easy to imagine an ordinary priest who took his job seriously wondering, as he read the Razón de amor, if the doncela ever sang lustful songs on the Sabbath, or if she had anything to do with the special water her lover drank that almost killed him, or if she collected special flowers and herbs for purposes of abortion. If he were a more learned priest, he would, of course, understand the tradition of allegorized lust in which the poem was written.

In the second part of the document an entire paragraph is devoted to lust, even lust between husband and wife. Here the priest is instructed that the third category of sin (against oneself) is committed 'por comer e por beber e por luxuria,' that the penance for this category is fasting, flagellation, and pilgrimage, and that the sin of lying with a virgin is serious enough to be referred to the bishop. But the most revealing passage of this part is the one about the five senses:

E deve demandar el preste al pecador si va veder fornicaciones o las mulleres, como non deviese bolver sos olios a la vanidat, e demandel si vaveder lo[s] juegos los dias domingos o de las fiestas; el del odor: si porta con si musco [o] otras odores; del odir: si ode buenaminetre cantares o otros omnes que dicen paraulas feas, que los pecadores enujan se de odir la misa e las paraulas de Dios, e de los cantares de la[s] cacurias non se enuyan e beven el vino puro e las carnes calentes e muytas por racon de luxuria e beven huevos por exa racon, ed es mayor pecado que si quebrantas la quaresma: del taner: si toco muller en las tetas o en otro lugar de vergonca.

Again it is easy to imagine a literal-minded priest wondering, as he read the Razón, if the locus amoenus where the lovers disrobed was a favourite spot for voyeurs, if anything in the garden smelled of lustful musk oil, if the cleric enjoyed listening to the doncela's song as much as he enjoyed listening to mass. He might also wonder where the cleric touched the doncela, and, especially, if the cleric drank pure wine for lustful aphrodisiac purposes.

The priest would probably classify the cleric's offence in the category of sins against oneself (since it involved eating, drinking, and luxuria), and would have either ordered the confessant to fast and flagellate (but not go on pilgrimage since that is where he seemed to have met a lot of duenas). For lying with a virgin, the priest would have referred the poet to the bishop. The bishop, a more learned reader, would probably have been pleased that the poet had either confessed his sin or invented a cleric who could narrate a subtle and learned autobiographical testimony for the benefit of other clerics; he would have probably reminded the poet of how God punished King Solomon for his lustfulness, and urged him to continue taking Holy Communion daily to either avoid recidivism or prevent his autobiographical fiction from ever becoming fact.

As far as the Moorish environment is concerned, the evidence in the document on confession is as slight as it is in the Razón de amor. This evidence is implied in the translation of the biblical neighbour in the first part of the document on confession. The Vulgate uses 'proximus' for 'neighbour,' and the author of the document was aware of this because he used 'proximo' twice in the second part, in the paragraph about the three kinds of sins. But in the first part of the document 'neighbour' is translated as 'cristiano' (for example, 'que no livro de muerte a so cristiano,' 'Non cobdiciaras ren de to cristiano,' and 'Non cobdiciaras de to cristiano la muller'). The implication is that the author was probably writing in a context in which one's neighbour was not necessarily Christian.

In the history of literary composition in medieval Spain, the document on confession is, of course, more important to the study of works that are arranged around the Ten Commandments and the five senses (like Talavera's Corbacho) than to the study of the Razón de amor. Nevertheless, the document does demonstrate that luxuria was a subject important enough to cause a prosaic tract on confession to be copied in the same manuscript in the same hand as a subtle allegorical poem written in the tradition of the Song of Songs. This juxtaposition adds support for the working hypothesis that questions posed from a European perspective about Christian symbolism, Cathar heresies, grail legends, troubadours, classical traditions, and goliards, though often essential, are not always sufficient without questions about luxuria and the biblical tradition in the composition of certain medieval Spanish works. This is not to say that in the rest of Europe confession is incompatible with lust, but simply to suggest that in medieval Spain the universal debate about wine, women, and song (common to both the document on confession and the Razón de amor) sometimes has a special biblical and Semitic flavour.

The pagan paradise described in the Razón de amor, although resembling the locus amoenus of world literature, has a greater affinity with the Koran than with European literature; this is the negative paradise that later evolved in Spain into the 'infierno de los enamorados' so popular with Santillana and his fifteenth-century contemporaries. After the Razónde amor, medieval Spanish writers did not forget the exegetical tradition of the Song of Songs. Santillana, for example, refers to the Church, in one of his sonnets, as 'la sancta esposa'; he quotes the Song directly in his 'Gocos de nuestra Senora'; in his 'Canonization de los bienaventurados sanctos' he dresses the Virgin Mary in the words of Solomon; and he begins his 'Triunfete de amor' with a noonday vision. In fact it can be said with fairness of Santillana and his contemporaries that their constant reference to classical literature is in large measure a superficial varnish, a thick 'fermosa cobertura,' for their fundamental commitment to biblical themes, and especially to the Song of Songs, which the Spanish love lyric imitates. Even in Celestina, in which there is so much Petrarch, the prime mover of the story is that Calisto has dared to transform the hortus conclusus and the Virgin Mary of the Song of Songs into his own church/garden and god ('Melibeo so e a Melibea adoro e en Melibea creo e a Melibea amo … Por Dios la creo'). But although the Song and its motifs remain present in medieval Spanish literature, they do not predominate aesthetically and artistically after the Razón de amor until, of course, the work of the mystics in the sixteenth century, beyond the medieval period.

In the light of this strong reliance in Spain on the Bible, it is not surprising that the references in the Razón de amor are, in its first part, to the Old Testament, and in its second part to the New Testament, and that events in the first part prefigure those in the second part. The bipartite composition, which has caused critics to consider it two poems, is therefore precisely what lends it unity, a unity reflected in the composition of the Christian Bible and its exegesis. This method of composition remains faithful to the tradition of the Song of Songs because Christian exegetes have interpreted Christ, the true vine in the New Testament, to be prefigured as the bridegroom in the Song.