EPICS
for Students
EPICS
for Students Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Epics
Sara Constantakis, Project Editor Meg Roland, Columbia Gorge Community College, Advisor Foreword by Helen Conrad-O’Briain, Trinity College, Dublin
Epics for Students, Second Edition, Volume 1 Project Editor: Sara Constantakis Rights Acquisition and Management: Margaret Chamberlain Gaston, Savannah Gignac, Tracie Richardson, Jhanay Williams Composition: Evi Abou El Seoud Manufacturing: Drew Kalasky Imaging: John Watkins Product Design: Pamela A. E. Galbreath, Jennifer Wahi Content Conversion: Katrina Coach Product Manager: Meggin Condino
ª 2011 Gale, Cengage Learning ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Since this page cannot legibly accommodate all copyright notices, the acknowledgments constitute an extension of the copyright notice. For product information and technology assistance, contact us at Gale Customer Support, 1-800-877-4253. For permission to use material from this text or product, submit all requests online at www.cengage.com/permissions. Further permissions questions can be emailed to
[email protected] While every effort has been made to ensure the reliability of the information presented in this publication, Gale, a part of Cengage Learning, does not guarantee the accuracy of the data contained herein. Gale accepts no payment for listing; and inclusion in the publication of any organization, agency, institution, publication, service, or individual does not imply endorsement of the editors or publisher. Errors brought to the attention of the publisher and verified to the satisfaction of the publisher will be corrected in future editions.
Gale 27500 Drake Rd. Farmington Hills, MI, 48331 3535 ISBN 13: 978 1 4144 7621 6 (set) ISBN 13: 978 1 4144 7622 3 (vol. 1) ISBN 13: 978 1 4144 7623 0 (vol. 2)
ISBN 10: 1 4144 7621 3 (set) ISBN 10: 1 4144 7622 1 (vol. 1) ISBN 10: 1 4144 7623 X (vol. 2)
This title is also available as an e book. ISBN 13: 978 1 4144 7624 7 ISBN 10: 1 4144 7624 8 Contact your Gale, a part of Cengage Learning sales representative for ordering information.
Printed in the United States of America 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 14 13 12 11 10
Table of Contents GUEST FOREWORD . . (by Helen Conrad O’Briain) INTRODUCTION
. . . . . . . xi
. . . . . . . . . . xv
LITERARY CHRONOLOGY .
. . . . . . . . xxvii
AENEID (by Virgil).
. . . Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
BEOWULF (Anonymous) .
Author Biography Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . .
xix
. . . . . . . xxiii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS CONTRIBUTORS .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . .
1 2 2 5 8 11 12 15 17 24 24 24
. 25 26 26 29 32 34
v
T a b l e
o f
C o n t e n t s
Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . .
THE CANTOS (by Ezra Pound) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms EL CID (Anonymous) .
. . Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
DIVINE COMEDY (by Dante Alighieri) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
v i
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . .
36 38 39 49 49 50
. 51 . 52 . 53 . 55 . 56 . 58 . 59 . 61 . 62 . 83 . 83 . 84
. . 85 . . 86 . . 86 . . 89 . . 91 . . 94 . . 95 . . 98 . . 99 . 122 . 123 . 123
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
124 125 126 130 131 133 135 137 139 152 152 152
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
153 154 154 157 159 162 164 166
EPIC OF GILGAMESH (Anonymous) .
Author Biography Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . . Historical Context Critical Overview .
. . . . . .
E p i c s
f o r
Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
187 188 189 191 193 195 196 198 199 215 216 216
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
217 218 219 221 223 225 226 227 228 246 247 247
THE FAERIE QUEENE (by Edmund Spenser). .
. . Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
GERUSALEMME LIBERATA (by Torquato Tasso) . . .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
ILIAD (by Homer) .
. . . Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
KALEVALA (by Elias Lo¨nnrot).
Author Biography Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . . Historical Context
. . . . . . . . . . .
E d i t i o n ,
167 185 186 186
.
248 249 249 253 257 260 261 263 264 282 282 282
.
283 284 285 288 292 295 296
V o l u m e
1
T a b l e
Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
317 318 319 323 328 331 332 334 335 352 352 353
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
354 355 355 360 365 367 368 369 370 376 376 376
THE LORD OF THE RINGS (by J.R.R. Tolkien) . . . .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
MAHABHARATA (Anonymous, attributed to Vyasa) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
LES MISE´ RABLES (by Victor Hugo)
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
LE MORTE D’ARTHUR (by Thomas Malory). . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . Author Biography . . . Plot Summary . . . . . Characters . . . . . .
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
299 301 315 316 316
.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
S e c o n d
377 378 378 380 383 385 386 389 390 417 417 417
419 420 420 424
E d i t i o n ,
Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . .
o f
. . . . . . . .
C o n t e n t s
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
NIBELUNGENLIED (Anonymous) .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . Author Biography . . . . . . Plot Summary . . . . . . . . Characters . . . . . . . . .
. . .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms ODYSSEY (by Homer) .
. . Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
OMEROS (by Derek Walcott).
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
ON THE NATURE OF THINGS (by Titus Lucretius Carus) . . .
V o l u m e
1
428 430 430 432 433 455 455 456 .
457 458 458 466 469 472 473 474 476 484 484 484
.
485 485 486 490 494 497 498 500 501 514 514 514
.
515 516 517 520 523 526 528 530 531 547 547 548
.
549 550 550 552
v i i
T a b l e
o f
C o n t e n t s
Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
578 579 580 583 587 589 591 593 595 608 608 609
SONG OF ROLAND (Anonymous) .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
610 611 611 614 616 618 620 622 623 643 643 644
SUNDIATA (by Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´) .
645 646 647 650 656 659 659 662 663 681 681 681
TA´ IN BO´ CU´ AILNGE (Anonymous) .
PARADISE LOST (by John Milton) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
PHARSALIA (by Marcus Annaeus Lucan) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms POETIC EDDA (Anonymous) .
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
THE SONG OF IGOR’S CAMPAIGN (Anonymous) . . . . . . . .
. . Author Biography . . . . . . Plot Summary . . . . . . . . Characters . . . . . . . . .
v i i i
552 555 555 557 558 576 577 577
. . . .
E p i c s
682 683 683 686
f o r
Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
Author Biography . . Plot Summary . . . . Characters . . . . . Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms THE TALE OF GENJI (by Lady Murasaki Shikibu)
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . Author Biography . . . Plot Summary . . . . . Characters . . . . . .
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
688 690 691 693 694 701 701 702 .
703 704 704 706 709 711 712 715 716 726 726 727
.
728 729 729 731 735 738 739 741 742 744 744 745
.
746 747 747 750 753 755 756 758 759 768 769 769
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
770 771 772 775
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
E d i t i o n ,
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
V o l u m e
1
T a b l e
Themes . . . . . . Style . . . . . . . Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . .
WAR AND PEACE (by Leo Tolstoy) .
Author Biography Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . .
E p i c s
f o r
. . . . .
. . . . .
S t u d e n t s ,
. . . . .
. . . . .
S e c o n d
781 783 784 787 787 811 811 811 .
812 812 813 815 817 820
E d i t i o n ,
Historical Context . . Critical Overview . . . Criticism. . . . . . Sources . . . . . . Further Reading . . . Suggested Search Terms
. . . . . .
o f
. . . . . .
GLOSSARY OF LITERARY TERMS . AUTHOR/TITLE INDEX .
V o l u m e
1
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
820 822 823 845 845 845
. . . xxix
. . . . . . . liii
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY INDEX SUBJECT/THEME INDEX
C o n t e n t s
. . . . lv
. . . . . .
lvii
i x
Guest Foreword I am reliably informed that no one ever reads introductions these days, and it was not so very long ago that I was reliably informed that no one reads epics either. Nevertheless, this second edition of Epics for Students prompts me to hope that the epic still exerts a pull on modern readers and the introduction as a form retains its appeal as well. So in a world where entertainment does not require anything as strenuous as holding a book or turning a page, why should anyone sit down and read an epic? Perhaps the ancient Greeks had the answer: They believed all literary genres, including oratory and the various forms of lyric poetry, originated in the epic, and there is a certain truth to this claim. Greek literature, philosophy, and science, including Greek historical and geographical material, begin almost as footnotes to the Iliad and the Odyssey. Methods for establishing a correct text and principles of literary analysis were invented specifically to preserve and understand the Iliad and Odyssey. The fact that modern students study great works of literature has its origins in the ancient Greek appreciation of the Homeric epics. However, Homer and his literary descendants are not the whole of the epic tradition, nor are his works the earliest. The Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh was old long before the siege of Troy occurred in the twelfth century BCE . In India, sometime between 400 BCE and 400 CE ,
the epic Mahabharata was composed, a work as important to the Indian culture as Homer’s works have been to the West. Epics have such an important cultural role because they depict the larger patterns that shape human history and account for changes in society. In epic literature, characters may seem bigger than life, not because they are superhuman, but because they are intensely human. The most universal of stories are rooted in epic literature. Moreover, beyond being entertaining, epic literature is didactic. It is meant to leave the audience with an important lesson, a way of looking at the world, a method for meeting life with dignity. Sometimes it delivers a warning; sometime it gives concrete form to an ideal. Always it leads back to real life, not away from it. Through the centuries, people have returned to the epic because it delivers something that is true about the human condition. The epic lives. It is by no means dead, although at times between the seventeenth and the twentieth century it has seemed to be sleeping. Having turned the novel to good account in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, it moved into film, for example in the trilogy based on Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, where it has used methods of visual storytelling, which derive from its traditional verbal techniques. The epic was meant not merely to be read, but to be heard. Modern readers may enjoy
x i
G u e s t
F o r e w o r d
reading aloud short scenes from the epics covered in this book. Students may enliven their study by facing their epic hero’s problems and asking their fellow students to do the same. Getting into the skins of these epic characters by speaking their lines is likely to help modern readers conceptualize the ancient work, making it their own modern reality. Doing so may show students that the epic characters are not so different from modern ones and that learning about the similarities and differences may be enriching. Transposing epics into the readers’ own world and seeing the constants of human nature and societies can be fascinating. The form of the epic, rather than its content, can put off modern readers. Trying to rewrite an episode from any one of the following epics as a scene in a movie or television show may help bridge the cultural gap between the world of the literature and the media students enjoy today. Students may even try to recreate for the screen the special effects that the authors of epics produced with their words. Doing so may help readers appreciate all the more the epic author’s talent and craftsmanship. Casting even Paradise Lost (maybe especially Paradise Lost) is guaranteed to provoke rowdy discussion. Some critics, particularly when facing modern versions of epics, may say that its popularity is based on escapism, the happy ending, the clear-cut good guys triumphing over bad guys, the simple certainties. But, in fact, epics do not present these features. Rather, epics explore what is noble and what is excellent despite human limitations and self-defeating expectations; they point out what is the flawed but limitless potential of human nature, not in terms of things but in terms of spirit. Epics seldom have a happy ending, although the epic spirit does not refuse the possibility of happiness. Epics are not escapist; real aspects of human nature are included in the action and in the apparent victories. The inexorable physical laws of the earth or the galaxy, even of a remote galaxy, set the action in motion. These never go away, and they are never defeated, only contained. The Ring may be destroyed, but the human quest for power continues. Fame may last forever, but it does not bring back the dead. Lover finds beloved, but even love is challenged by an imperfect world. Victory is never final, only a temporary respite, because hate, fear, loss, and change persist, even in the mirror
x i i
E p i c s
f o r
universes of literature. Odysseus makes it home, but in the process, the poet reminds the audience that the homeless man always reappears on the doorstep. Epics are both profoundly pessimistic and profoundly optimistic. The fight may be endless, the solutions temporary, but the process of simply keeping the enemy at bay creates its own energy and exuberance. The epic, for all its grandeur, expansive setting, and constant ideals, confronts readers with the larger patterns in real life that every day possesses but that people cannot always see. Epics invite people to consider ways of understanding and evaluating experience that is not their own. Somehow the epic defines a familiar place where the human heart can rest, one that looks like home. From this point of recognition, the epic enlarges rather than contracts readers’ sympathy. The far away, the long ago are no longer alien; they are now human scale and close at hand. Students who pick up any of the texts that are analyzed in this book will be swept into another world, separate from their own but surprisingly able to clarify it. The epic does not ignore the everyday or the trivial. Somehow it provides a context in which triviality is banished. Small things ignored in readers’ daily lives can be articulated beautifully in the epic. Individuals who read On the Nature of Things, by Lucretius, will never again look at dust particles moving in sunlight and fail to wonder at the implications. The epic assumption that there is more to life than the immediate insures that the immediate is filled with meaning. Does this sound just like what one would expect from a class assignment, all duty and decisions, simple pleasures and the dying of the light, with a five-thousand-word paper at the end of it? There are many ways of reading epics, and each of them in its own way is correct. Unfortunately, students usually first read these works as school assignments with an eye to papers and exams. But those individuals who have read them for pleasure know how an epic can sweep them away. If literature provides vicarious experience, there are few experiences to match those provided by the epic. There are armies as strong as forces of nature and winters that bring conquerors to their knees. There are lovers who cross death itself for the beloved. There are places of breathtaking beauty and places of stomach-wrenching horror.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G u e s t
I was twelve when I first read Spenser’s Faerie Queen. It was one amazing, convoluted adventure after another, and I loved it. As an adult, I taught this epic for nearly ten years. Year after year, I found something more, something profound, something that forced me to reevaluate my own convictions or lack of them, but I could never convey to my students the zest I felt in reading Spenser’s epic for the first time, the sheer excitement of the narrative, the startling
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F o r e w o r d
moments when a particularly well-written line or puzzling idea captured my imagination. Great epics pull readers along; they pull them in and pull them through. When readers finish these epics, their only regret is likely to be that however many times they reread these works, it will never again be the first. Helen Elizabeth Conrad-O’Briain Trinity College, Dublin
V o l u m e
1
x i i i
Introduction Purpose of the Book This second edition of Epics for Students (EfS) is designed to provide students with a guide to understanding and enjoying epic literature. Part of Gale’s ‘‘For Students’’ Literature line, EfS is crafted to meet the curricular needs of high school and undergraduate college students and their teachers, as well as the interests of general readers and researchers. This edition contains entries on the works of epic world literature that are most studied in classrooms.
Selection Criteria The epics covered in EfS were selected by surveying numerous sources on teaching literature and analyzing the course curricula of various school districts. Some of the sources surveyed included literature anthologies; Reading Lists for CollegeBound Students; The Books Most Recommended by America’s Top Colleges; and textbooks on teaching literaure. Input was solicited from an advisor, high-school teachers and librarians, and the educators and academics who wrote the entries for the volumes. From these discussions, the final entry list was compiled, featuring the epic works that are most often studied in high-school and undergraduate literature courses.
How Each Entry Is Organized Each entry in EfS focuses on one work. The heading lists the title of the epic, the author’s name (when known), and the date that the epic first
appeared. In some cases, this date is known; in others, a range of dates is provided. The following elements appear in each entry: Introduction: A brief overview which provides general information about the epic, such as its place in world literature, its significance within its national culture, any controversies surrounding the epic, and major themes of the work. Author Biography: Includes basic facts about the author’s life. In the case of anonymous works, speculative scholarship about the anonymous author or authors is summarized here. Plot Summary: A description of the major events in the epic, with interpretation of how these events help articulate the primary themes. Characters: An alphabetical listing of the epic’s main characters. Each character name is followed by a description of that character’s role, as well as discussion of the character’s actions, relationships, and motivations. Themes: A thorough overview of how the principal themes, topics, and issues are addressed within the epic. Style: This section addresses important stylistic elements, such as setting, point of view, and narrative method, as well as literary devices such as imagery, foreshadowing, and symbolism. Literary terms are explained within each
x v
I n t r o d u c t i o n
entry and can also be found in the glossary at the end of each volume. Historical Context: This section outlines the social, political, and cultural climate in which the author lived and the epic was created. Descriptions of related historical events, pertinent aspects of daily life in the culture, and the artistic and literary sensibilities of the time in which the work was written are provided here. Critical Overview: Supplies background on the critical and popular reputation of the epic. Offers an overview of how the work was first received and how perceptions of it may have changed over time. Criticism: This section begins with an essay commissioned for EfS, designed to introduce the epic work to the student reader. This section also includes excerpts from previously published criticism that has been identified by subject experts as especially useful in explicating each work to students. Sources: an alphabetical list of critical material quoted in the entry, with full bibliographical information. Further Reading: an alphabetical list of other critical sources which may prove useful for the student. Includes full bibliographical information and a brief annotation. Suggested Search Terms: a list of search terms and phrases to jumpstart students’ further information seeking. Terms include not just titles and author names but also terms and topics related to the historical and literary context of the works. In addition, each entry contains the following highlighted sections, set apart from the main text as sidebars: Media Adaptations: if available, a list of audio recordings as well as any film or television adaptations of the poem, including source information. Topics for Further Study: a list of potential study questions or research topics dealing with the poem. This section includes questions related to other disciplines the student may be studying, such as American history, world history, science, math, government, business, geography, economics, psychology, etc. Compare & Contrast: an ‘‘at-a-glance’’ comparison of the cultural and historical differences between the author’s time and culture and late twentieth century or early twenty-first
x v i
E p i c s
f o r
century Western culture. This box includes pertinent parallels between the major scientific, political, and cultural movements of the time or place the poem was written, the time or place the poem was set (if a historical work), and modern Western culture. Works written after 1990 may not have this box. What Do I Read Next?: a list of works that might give a reader points of entry into a classic work (e.g., YA or multicultural titles) and/ or complement the featured poem or serve as a contrast to it. This includes works by the same author and others, works from various genres, YA works, and works from various cultures and eras.
Other Features EfS includes a foreword by Helen ConradO’Briain, Trinity College, Dublin. This essay provides an enlightening look at how readers interact with literature and how teachers and students can use EfS to enrich their own experiences with epic literature. An Author/Title Index lists the authors and titles covered in the volumes. A Nationality/Ethnicity Indexlists the authors and titles by nationality and ethnicity. A Subject/Theme Index provides easy reference for users studying a particular subject or theme within epic literature. Significant subjects and themes are included. Each entry features illustrations, including author portraits, depictions of key scenes, and maps.
Citing Epics for Students When writing papers, students who quote directly from EfS may use the following general forms. These examples are based on MLA style; teachers may request that students adhere to a different style, so the following examples may be adapted as needed. When citing text from EfS that is not attributed to a particular author (i.e., the Themes, Style, Historical Context sections, etc.), the following format should be used in the bibliography section: ‘‘Aenid.’’ Epics for Students, 2nd ed. Ed. Sara Constantakis. Vol. 1. Detroit: Gale, 2011. 1–24. When quoting the specially commissioned essay from EfS (usually the first piece under the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I n t r o d u c t i o n
‘‘Criticism’’ subhead), the following format should be used: Looper, Jennifer E. Critical Essay on ‘‘El Cid.’’ Epics for Students, 2nd ed. Ed. Sara Constantakis. Vol. 1. Detroit: Gale, 2011. 99–103. When quoting a journal or newspaper essay that is reprinted in EfS, the following form may be used: Sasson, Jack M. ‘‘Some Literary Motifs in the Compostion of the Gilgamesh Epic.’’ Studies in Philology LXIX, No. 3 (July, 1972): 111– 16. Excerpted and reprinted in Epics for Students. Ed. Sara Constantakis. Vol. 1. Detroit: Gale, 2011. 266–69. When quoting material reprinted from a book that appears in EfS, the following form may be used:
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Williams, R.D., and Pattie, T.S. ‘‘Virgil Today.’’ Virgil: His Poetry through the Ages. British Library, 1982. 177–80, 191. Excerpted and reprinted in Epics for Students. Ed. Sara Constantakis. Vol. 1. Detroit: Gale, 2011. 22–24.
We Welcome Your Suggestions The editorial staff of Epics for Students welcomes your comments and ideas. Readers who have suggestions are cordially invited to contact the editor via e-mail at:
[email protected]. Or write to the editor at: Editor, Epics for Students Gale 27500 Drake Road Farmington Hills, MI 48331-3535
V o l u m e
1
x v i i
Literary Chronology 2000 BCE: Approximate date of the original composition of the Epic of Gilgamesh.
29 BCE : Publication of Virgil’s Georgics.
1250 BCE –1184 BCE : Traditional (approximate) dates during which the Trojan War, chronicled in the Iliad and the Aeneid and alluded in the Odyssey, probably took place.
19 BCE : Publication of Virgil’s Aeneid.
850 BCE –700 BCE : The Iliad and the Odyssey were probably composed during this span of time, as part of a long tradition of bardic composition. c. 500 BCE : Approximate date of the setting of Beowulf. 400
BCE –300 BCE : The development of literary criticism in Greece, typified by Aristotle’s Poetics, features frequent references to the works of Homer.
400 BCE –400 CE : Approximate range of dates of the composition of the Mahabharata. 94 BCE : Titus Lucretius Carus, known as Lucretius, is born in Rome. 70 BCE : Publius Maro Vergilius, known as Virgil, is born at Andes near Mantua in northern Italy. 60
BCE :
Formation of the First Triumvirate: Julius Caesar, Pompey, and Crassius.
c. 58 BCE : Lucretius writes De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things).
19 BCE : Virgil dies at Brindisi. 39: Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, better known as Lucan, is born in Cordova, Spain, on November 3. 65: Lucan writes the epic Pharsalia. 65: Lucan commits suicide at the order of the emperor Nero on April 30, following a failed assassination attempt on the Roman leader. 675–1000: Dating of the composition of Beowulf. 757–796: Reign of King Offa of Mercia, proposed by some scholars as a possible alternate era for the composition of Beowulf. 778–803: Period of historic unrest between Emperor Charlemagne and Suleiman ibnal-Arabi of Spain, which provides some historical foundation for events in the Song of Roland. 800–1100: The thirty-nine poems that comprise the Poetic Edda are written by author or authors unknown. 973: Lady Murasaki Shikibu is born in Kyoto, Japan. c. 1000: Approximate date of transcription for the only known extant copy of Beowulf.
55 BCE : Lucretius commits suicide.
c. 1000: Murasaki Shikibu’s epic-length novel, Tale of Genji, is written.
37 BCE : Publication of Virgil’s Eclogues.
1031: Murasaki Shikibu dies.
x i x
L i t e r a r y
C h r o n o l o g y
1100: Approximate date of transcription for the earliest extant manuscript of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. 1130–1170: Probable range of dates for the manuscript of the Song of Roland. 1150–1250: The Poetic Edda is first written down. c. 1185: The Song of Igor’s Campaign is written. c. 1200: The Nibelungenlied is written. 1200–1400: Estimated range of dates during which Sundiata was first passed on by griots. 1201–1207: Estimated range of dates during which El Cid was probably composed. 1265: Dante Aligheri is born (probably in May). 1270: Thirty-four of the poems in the Poetic Edda are copied into the Codex Regius (King’s Book), in Iceland. 1307: Dante begins writing the Divine Comedy. 1321: Dante dies at Ravenna, on September 14. 1405: Thomas Malory is born. 1470: Malory completes Le Morte d’Arthur while imprisoned for numerous alleged criminal acts. 1471: Malory dies and is buried in Newgate, just outside London, England.
1596: Only known extant manuscript of El Cid is copied by Juan Ruis de Ulibarri y Leyba. 1599: Spenser dies in London, England, (some say of starvation) on January 13. 1608: John Milton is born on December 9, in London, England. 1643: The Codex Regius, containing the Poetic Edda, comes into the possession of Bishop Brynjo´lfr Sveinsson. 1649: In the year that rebels execute King Charles I of England, Milton publishes his Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, which defends the rights of citizens to kill tyrannical rulers. Milton is appointed Latin Secretary of Foreign Affairs in Oliver Cromwell’s interregnum government. 1658: Milton probably begins writing Paradise Lost. 1667: Milton’s Paradise Lost is published in a ten-volume edition. 1671: Milton’s Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes are published. 1674: Milton dies in London. Later this year, Paradise Lost is published in its final form in twelve volumes.
1481: Publication of the Christophoro Landino edition of the Divine Comedy, including Antonio Manetti’s detailed maps of Hell based on Dante’s descriptions.
1795: The Song of Igor’s Campaign, written much earlier by an anonymous author, is discovered.
1485: William Caxton first publishes Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
1802: Elias Lo¨nnrot is born in Sammatti, Finland (then a part of Sweden).
1488: The first printed edition of Homer’s works appears.
1815: First printing of an edition of Beowulf.
1544: Torquato Tasso is born in Sorrento, Italy, on March 11. 1552: Edmund Spenser is born in London, England. 1562: Tasso begins writing his epic poem Gerusalemme Liberata, which will take him thirteen years to complete. 1579: Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata first appears in a pirated edition. 1581: Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata is officially published. 1590: Spenser publishes the first three books of The Faerie Queene. 1595: Tasso dies in the convent of Saint Onofrio in Rome on April 25, following a serious illness.
x x
E p i c s
f o r
1802: Victor Hugo is born in Besanc¸on, France.
1828: Leo Tolstoy is born to an upper-class Russian family at the family’s estate in Tula province, Russia, on September 9. 1833–1834: Lo¨nnrot prepares an early manuscript version of the Kalevala (published as the Proto-Kalevala in 1929). 1835: Publication of Kalewala, taikka Wanhoja Karjalan Runoja Suomen kansan miunosista ajoista (the Kalevala; or, Old Karelian Poems about Ancient Times of the Finnish People). 1837: Francisque Michel publishes La Chanson de Roland ou de Roncevaux (The Song of Roland). This is the first published edition of the epic, although it has been known for more than seven hundred years. 1849: An enlarged second edition of Lo¨nnrot’s Kalevala is published.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L i t e r a r y
C h r o n o l o g y
1862: Hugo publishes Les Mise´rables during a nineteen-year exile on the Isle of Guernsey in the English Channel. 1866: Tolstoy publishes War and Peace.
1939: Archaeological dig at an Anglo-Saxon burial site from approximately 625 BCE at Sutton Hoo, England, yields armaments that resemble those mentioned in Beowulf.
1871: Archaeological excavations near Hissarlik, Turkey, reveal what may be the ruins of Troy. 1884: Lo¨nnrot dies in Sammatti, Finland (then a part of Sweden).
1954–1955: Tolkien publishes The Lord of the Rings in three volumes.
1973: Tolkien dies in England on September 2.
1885: Ezra Pound is born in Idaho. 1885: Hugo dies in France. 1892: J.R.R. Tolkien is born January 3 in South Africa. 1910: Tolstoy dies of pneumonia on November 20. 1917: Pound begins work on his epic poem The Cantos, comprised of one hundred and twenty shorter poems, which he will work on for over fifty years. 1929: Publication of Lo¨nnrott’s Proto-Kalevala. 1930: Derek Walcott is born on the island of St. Lucia, the site of his later epic poem Omeros. 1936: Tolkien publishes The Hobbit, a story he writes for his children.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
1972: Pound dies in Venice, Italy.
E d i t i o n ,
1990: Walcott’s poem Omeros, one of the few twentieth-century works in the epic form, is published. 1992: Walcott is awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. 1997: Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is voted the greatest book of the twentieth century in a poll run by major British booksellers. 2001–2003: A major motion-picture trilogy of films directed by Peter Jackson and based on Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is released to critical and popular appeal, reinvigorating interest in Tolkien’s works.
V o l u m e
1
x x i
Acknowledgments The editors wish to thank the copyright holders of the excerpted criticism included in this volume and the permissions managers of many book and magazine publishing companies for assisting us in securing reproduction rights. We are also grateful to the staffs of the Detroit Public Library, the Library of Congress, the University of Detroit Mercy Library, Wayne State University Purdy/Kresge Library Complex, and the University of Michigan Libraries for making their resources available to us. Following is a list of the copyright holders who have granted us permission to reproduce material in this edition of EfS. Every effort has been made to trace copyright, but if omissions have been made, please let us know. COPYRIGHTED EXCERPTS IN EfS, Second Edition, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING PERIODICALS: The Christian Century, v. 110, February 24, 1993. Copyright Ó 1993 by the Christian Century Foundation. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—The Chronicle of Higher Education, v. 54, May 16, 2008. Copyright Ó 2008 by The Chronicle of Higher Education. This article may not be published, reposted, or redistributed without express permission from The Chronicle.— Classical Antiquity, v. 15, October, 1996 for ‘‘Ethical Contradiction and the Fractured Community in Lucan’s ‘Bellum Civile’’’ by Matthew B. Roller. Copyright Ó 1996 by The Regents of
the University of California. Reproduced by permission of the publisher and the author.— CLA Journal, v. xx, December, 1976. Copyright, 1976 by The College Language Association. Used by permission of The College Language Association.—College Literature, v. 34, spring, 2007; v. 35, fall, 2008. Copyright Ó 2007, 2008 by West Chester University. Both reproduced by permission.—Comparative Literature Studies, v. 45, 2008. Copyright Ó 2008 by The Pennsylvania State University, University Park, PA. Reproduced by permission of The Pennsylvania State University Press.—Contemporary Review, v. 288, summer, 2006. Copyright Ó 2006 Contemporary Review Company Ltd. Reproduced by the permission of Contemporary Review Ltd.—EireIreland, v. 35, spring-summer, 2000. Copyright Ó 2000 by the Irish American Cultural Institute. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.— The Explicator, v. 54, summer, 1996 for ‘‘Tolkien’s ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’’’ by James Obertino. Copyright Ó 1996 by Helen Dwight Reid Educational Foundation. Reproduced by permission of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC, http://www.taylorandfrancis.com.—The French Review, v. 54, April, 1981; v. 67, December, 1993. Copyright Ó 1981, 1993 by the American Association of Teachers of French. Both reproduced by permission.—Helios, v. 27, spring, 2000. Copyright Ó 2000 by Texas Tech University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Italica, v. 84, summer-autumn, 2007. Copyright Ó 2007
x x i i i
A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
by The American Association of Teachers of Italian. Reproduced by permission.—Journal of Romance Studies, v. 6, winter, 2006. Copyright Ó 2006 Berghahn Books. Reproduced by permission.—Journal of the American Oriental Society, v. 127, April/June, 2007 for ‘‘Looking at the Other in ‘Gilgamesh’’’ by Keith Dickson. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Journal of the Australian Early Medieval Association, January 1, 2008. Reproduced by permission.—Forum for Modern Language Studies, v. 18, 1982 for ‘‘Appearances and Reality in ‘La Mort le Roi Artu’’’ by Donald C. MacRae. Copyright Ó 1982 Oxford University Press. Reproduced by permission of the publisher and the author.— MLN, v. 108, 1993. Copyright Ó 1993 by The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Modern Philology, v. 97, November, 1999. Copyright Ó 1999 University of Chicago Press. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.— Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, v. xix, summer, 1986. Copyright Ó Mosaic 1986. Acknowledgment of previous publication is herewith made.—Mythlore, v. 27, fall-winter, 2008. Reproduced by permission.—Of Poetry and Politics: New Essays on Milton and His World, v. 126, 1995. Reproduced by permission.—Philological Quarterly, v. 78, summer, 1999; v. 83, spring, 2004. Copyright Ó 1999, 2004 by The University of Iowa. Both reproduced by permission.—Ramus–Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature, v. 24, 1996. Reproduced by permission.—Raritan, v. 22, spring, 2003. Copyright Ó 2003 by Raritan: A Quarterly Review. Reproduced by permission.—Russian Literature, v. 42, 1997. Ó 1997 Elsevier Science B. V. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission from Elsevier Science.—Scandinavian Studies, v. 73, fall, 2001 for ‘‘Narrative Expectations and the Sampo Song’’ by Thomas A. DuBois; v. 77, summer, 2005 for ‘‘Undermining and En-gendering Vengence: Distancing and Anti-feminism in the Poetic Edda’’ by David Clark. Copyright Ó 2001, 2005 Society for the Advancement of Scandinavian Study. All rights reserved. Both reproduced by permission of the publisher and the respective authors.—Slavic Review, v. 39, June, 1980. Copyright Ó 1980 by the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, Inc. Reproduced by permission.—Studies in Philology, Vol. 69, No. 3, 1972; v. 106, winter, 2009. Copyright Ó 1972, 2009 by The University of North Carolina Press. Both reproduced by permission of the publisher .— Twentieth-Century Literature, v. 47, fall, 2001. Copyright Ó 2001, Hofstra University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Utopian Studies,
x x i v
E p i c s
f o r
v. 10, spring, 1999; v. 15, winter, 2004. Copyright Ó 1999, 2004 Society for Utopian Studies. Both reproduced by permission.—World Literature Today, v. Vol. 67, spring, 1993. Copyright Ó1993 by World Literature Today. Reproduced by permission of the publisher. COPYRIGHTED EXCERPTS IN EfS, Second Edition, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING BOOKS: Anderson, William S. From ‘‘Virgil Begins His Epic,’’ in The Art of the Aeneid. Edited by William S. Anderson. Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969. Copyright Ó 1969 Prentice-Hall, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Clark, George. From Beowulf. Twayne Publishers, 1990. Copyright Ó 1990 by G. K. Hall and Company. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of Gale, a part of Cengage Learning.—Duggan, Joseph J. From ‘‘Legitimation and the Hero’s Exemplary Function in the ‘Cantar de Mio Cid’ and the ‘Chanson de Roland,’’’ in Oral Traditional Literature: A Festschrift for Albert Bates Lord. Edited by John Miles Foley. Slavica Publishers, 1981. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Griffin, Jasper. From ‘‘The Poem,’’ in Homer: The ‘Odyssey’. Edited by Jasper Griffin. Cambridge University Press, 1987. Copyright Ó Cambridge University Press 1987. Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press.—Griffin, Jasper. From Homer on Life and Death. Clarendon Press, 1980. Copyright Ó 1980 by Jasper Griffin. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the Oxford University Press.—Hollander, Lee M. From The Poetic Edda. Revised edition. Translated by Lee M. Hollander. University of Texas Press, 1962. Copyright Ó 1962, renewed 1990. By permission of the University of Texas Press.— Huston, Arthur E. and Patricia McCoy. From Epics of the Western World. J. B. Lippencott Company, 1954. Copyright Ó 1954 by Arthur E. Hutson and Patricia McCoy. Renewed 1982 by Eleanor Huston. Reproduced by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.—Jacobson, Thorkild. From ‘‘Second Millennium Metaphors: ‘And Death the Journey’s End,’ The ‘Gilgamesh, Epic,’’’ in The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion. Edited by Thorkild Jacobson. Yale University Press, 1976. Copyright Ó 1976 by Yale University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Jones, Peter V. From an Introduction to The Odyssey. Edited by Homer. Translated by E. V. Rieu, revised
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
translation by D. C. H. Rieu (Penguin Classics 1946, Revised translation 1991). Copyright 1946 by E. V. Rieu. Revised translation copyright Ó the Estate of the late E. V. Rieu, and D. C. H. Rieu, 1991, 2003. Introduction and Index and Glossary copyright Ó Peter V. Jones, 1991. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books, Ltd.—Kay, Sarah. From ‘‘Adultery and Killing in ‘La Mort le Roi Artu,’’’ in Scarlet Letters: Fictions of Adultery from Antiquity to the 1990s. Edited by Nicholas White and Naomi Segal. Macmillan Press Ltd., 1997. Editorial matter and selection Ó Nicholas White and Naomi Segal 1997. Text Ó Macmillan Press Ltd. 1997. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.— Kenner, Hugh. From ‘‘Pound and Homer,’’ in Ezra Pound among the Poets. Edited by George Bornstein. The University of Chicago Press, 1985. Copyright Ó 1985 by The University of Chicago. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Knowles, A. V. From ‘‘War and Peace: Overview,’’ in Reference Guide to World Literature, second edition. Edited by Lesley Henderson. St. James Press, 1995. Reproduced by permission of Gale, a part of Cengage Learning.—Magoun, Francis Peabody Jr. From
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Kalevala: or Poems of the Kalevala District. Edited by Elias Lonnrot, translated by Francis Peabody Magoun, Jr. Harvard University Press, 1963. Copyright Ó 1963 by The President and Fellows of Harvard College. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Porter, Laurence M. From Victor Hugo. Twayne Publishers, 1999. Copyright Ó 1999 by Twayne Publishers. Reproduced by permission of Gale, a part of Cengage Learning.—Rexroth, Kenneth. From Classics Revisited, New Directions. New Directions Publishing, 1965. Copyright Ó 1965 by Kenneth Rexroth. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.—Rosebury, Brian. From Tolkien: A Critical Assessment. St. Martin’s Press, 1992. Copyright Ó Brian Rosebury 1992. All rights reserved. 1992. Reproduced with permission of Palgrave Macmillan.—Rowe, William W. From Leo Tolstoy. Twayne Publishers, 1986. Reproduced by permission of Gale, a part of Cengage Learning.—van Nooten, B. A. From Mahabharata. Edited by William Buck. University of California Press, 1973. Copyright Ó 1973 by The Regents of the University of California. Reproduced by permission.
V o l u m e
1
x x v
Contributors Bryan Aubrey: Aubrey holds a PhD from Durham University, England, and is a freelance writer specializing in literature. Entry on The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Original essay on The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Greg Barnhisel: Barnhisel holds a PhD in English and is an associate professor of English and director of the first-year writing program at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Entry on The Cantos. Original essay on The Cantos. Jennifer Bussey: Bussey holds a BA in English literature and an MA in interdisciplinary studies and is a freelance writer specializing in literature. Entry on On the Nature of Things. Original essay on On the Nature of Things. Anne-Sophie Cerisola: Cerisola is a former teacher at the Lyce´e Franc¸ais de New York. Original essay on Les Mise´rables. Helen Conrad-O’Briain: Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD in English from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. Entries on Aeneid, Beowulf, Poetic Edda, The Lord of the Rings, Pharsalia, and Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Original essays on Aeneid, Beowulf, Poetic Edda, The Lord of the Rings, Pharsalia, and Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge.
Donald G. Evans: Evans holds an MFA in fiction writing from Syracuse University and is an adjunct instructor for Continuum, the continuing education program at Loyola University of Chicago, and the executive director of the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame. Entry on The Tale of Genji. Original essay on The Tale of Genji. Robert D. Hamner: Hamner holds a PhD in English from the University of Texas at Austin and is professor emeritus of Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene, Texas. Entry on Omeros. Original essay on Omeros. Catherine Innes-Parker: Innes-Parker holds a PhD in English from Memorial University in Newfoundland and is a professor at the University of Prince Edward Island. Entry on Paradise Lost. Original essay on Paradise Lost. Sheri Metzger Karmiol: Karmiol holds a PhD in English and is a lecturer in the University Honors Program at the University of New Mexico. Entries on The Faerie Queene and Le Morte d’Arthur. Original essays on The Faerie Queene and Le Morte d’Arthur. David Kelly: Kelly holds an MFA in creative writing from University of Iowa and is an adjunct instructor at Oakton Community College and at College of Lake County, both in Illinois. Entry on War and Peace. Original essay on War and Peace.
x x v i i
C o n t r i b u t o r s
Daniel T. Kline: Kline holds a PhD in English from Indiana University and is an associate professor of English at University of Alaska Anchorage. Entry on Epic of Gilgamesh. Original essay on Epic of Gilgamesh. Laurelle LeVert: LeVert holds a PhD in English from the University of Toronto and is the university registrar at Nova Scotia College of Art and Design in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Entry on Nibelungenlied. Original essay on Nibelungenlied. Deborah Jo Miller: Miller received her PhD in English from Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. Entry on Kalevala. Original essay on Kalevala. Gail Nelson: Nelson holds an MA from the University of Chicago. Entry on Les Mise´rables. Lynn T. Ramey: Ramey holds a PhD in French literature and is an associate professor of French and chair of the Department of French and Italian at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. Entries on Song of Roland and Sundiata. Original essays on Song of Roland and Sundiata.
x x v i i i
E p i c s
f o r
Michael Rex: Rex holds a PhD in English from Wayne State University and teaches in the Department of English at Cumberland University in Lebanon, Tennessee. Entry on Gerusalemme Liberata. Original essay on Gerusalemme Liberata. Michael J. Spires: Spires holds an MA in classics from the University of Colorado at Boulder and an MA in modern European history from Northern Illinois University. Entries on Iliad and Odyssey. Original essays on Iliad and Odyssey. Daniel Terkla: Terkla holds a PhD in comparative literature from the University of Southern California and is a professor of English and the humanities coordinator at Illinois Wesleyan University in Bloomington. Entry on Divine Comedy. Original essay on Divine Comedy. Susan Andersen, Lois Kerschen, Melodie Monahan, Claire Robinson, Pam Revitzer, Carol Ullmann, and Ann Yager contributed to the preparation of this second edition.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Aeneid When Virgil was dying in 19 BCE , he asked for the unfinished Aeneid to be destroyed. The emperor Augustus refused the request. This decision affected the course of literary history and the development of western culture. Even in his own lifetime Virgil’s poetry had become a school text. Early Christian writers who attempted to reject Virgil could escape neither his style nor his attitudes. Christian thought assimilated them both. The Aeneid and the Bible were probably the two most consistently read books in Western Europe for two thousand years.
VIRGIL 19 BC
The Aeneid was composed at least in part to promote the rebirth of the Roman way of life under Augustus. The Aeneid also universalizes Roman experience, ideals, and aspirations. It represents a pivotal point in western literature: Virgil drew on the whole of Greek and Latin literature to create this epic. He expanded the range of the Latin epic, using elements from most types of late classical literature, while refining the linguistic and metrical possibilities of the epic genre. Because of its generic inclusiveness and linguistic brilliance, the Aeneid spread its influence across every form of written discourse for centuries. In the past two thousand years the Aeneid has been a pagan bible, a Latin style manual, a moral allegory, a document of European unity, a pacifist document, and one of the most-read and studied works of world literature of all time. Entering its third millennium, the Aeneid can still speak
1
A e n e i d
Virgil was described by Suetonius as tall and dark and rather countrified in his mannerisms. He was sickly and shy as well. At least one modern biographer has suggested that he was invalided home from the army of Brutus and Cassius before the battle of Philippi. Virgil’s family property was confiscated to help settle war veterans. He had friends in high places, however, who intervened with the young ruler Octavian Caesar (later called Augustus) to restore the property. Virgil’s Eclogues were written between 42 and 37 BCE , partially in gratitude to his friends and the young Octavian. He followed with the Georgics, written between 36 and 29 BCE , a long poem on farming and country life. Virgil lived most of his later life near Naples. He became ill on a trip to Greece and returned to Italy only to die there. Suetonius suggests that Virgil was acutely concerned with leaving behind an unrevised Aeneid. He asked his friend Varius to burn the work if he died before it was finished. Varius emphatically refused. Augustus, who had heard parts of it read, ordered its preservation. He delegated Varius and Tucca, another friend of Virgil, Tucca, to edit the poem for publication.
Virgil (The Library of Congress)
immediately to the reader. One of the many translations available is that of Robert Fagles, published by Penguin Classics in 2009.
Virgil was a painstaking writer. Suetonius claims that Virgil wrote out the whole of the Aeneid in prose and then worked it up into verse.
PLOT SUMMARY AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Book 1
Virgil, also known as Publius Vergilius Maro, was born near the village of Andes not far from Mantua in northern Italy on October 15, 70 BCE . He died on September 21, 19 BCE at Brindisi on the heel of the boot-shaped peninsula. The earliest biography of the poet, written by Suetonius in the second century CE , states that Virgil was from a poor and obscure family. However, evidence pieced together from contemporary sources and from Suetonius makes it seem more likely that his family was at least of the landowning class. Further, Virgil was given an excellent and expensive education, including training for the Roman bar, which suggests that he might have been of the equestrian (middle) class and that his family was ambitious for political and social advancement. In fact, he was preparing for the same sort of career, which earlier brought Cicero, the great master of Roman oratory and Latin prose, from a country town to the consulship. Virgil gave up legal practice after pleading one case and began to study philosophy with an Epicurean master.
2
E p i c s
f o r
Aeneas and his Trojans are seven years into their journey home from the Trojan War to Italy when Juno, queen of the gods and arch-enemy of the Trojans, has Aeolus, god of the winds, blow up a violent storm that drives their ships off course. Aeneas, with some of the Trojan fleet, lands in North Africa. Aeneas is a nearly broken man, but he pulls himself together and encourages his people. The scene switches to the home of the gods on Mount Olympus. Aeneas’s mother, the goddess Venus, begs Jupiter, her father and king of the gods, to aid her son. Jupiter replies with serene optimism. He promises the Trojans, through their descendants, not only empire, but a new golden age. Venus departs from Olympus and, disguised as a huntress, meets her son. She sends him to Carthage. There he finds the Trojans who were separated from him in the storm and meets Queen Dido, the founder of the city. Dido takes pity on the Trojans. Meanwhile, Juno and Venus, each for their own purposes, scheme to have Aeneas and Dido fall in love.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
Book 2
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The Aeneid was the basis for many operas, including English composer Henry Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. The libretto was written by Nathan Tate and the opera was first performed in 1689 in London. Many audio recordings and some filmed performances are available, including a 2009 adaptation by the Royal Opera House, directed by Wayne McGregor. It is available on DVD from BBC/Opus Arte.
The early television series Wagon Train (1957– 1965) has been compared to the Aeneid, with its similar small band of people leaving behind one way of life and traveling in search of a place where they can make another. The complete series is available on DVD from Timeless Media Group.
Scholars have suggested that the television series Star Trek (1966–1969), which has been called ‘‘Wagon Train to the stars,’’ also closely resembles Virgil’s basic plot. In the series, major characters such as Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Spock quote directly from classical literature, including the Aeneid. The three seasons of the original series is available via streaming video from the CBS Website or on DVD from Paramount. The Odyssey is an Emmy-award winning three-hour miniseries that aired on NBC in 1997. It stars Armand Assante as the titular character. Homer’s Odyssey is an important primary source for Virgil’s Aeneid. Available on DVD from Warner Home Video, the 2004 action film Troy, directed by Wolfgang Petersen and starring Brad Pitt, Eric Bana, and Orlando Bloom, tells the story of the war between the Greeks and the Trojans, depicted in part in Homer’s Iliad. Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief is a 2010 film based on a popular young adult series by Rick Riordan. Directed by Chris Columbus, it stars Logan Lerman as Percy, a boy who discovers that he is the son of Poseidon.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
At a banquet given in his honor, Aeneas narrates, at Dido’s request, the story of Troy’s last day and night. He tells the famous story of the Trojan Horse, left outside the city gates when the Greeks supposedly departed but actually filled with Greek warriors. The Trojan priest Laocoon warned: ‘‘I fear the Greeks even when bearing gifts.’’ When Laocoon and his young sons were crushed by two enormous serpents who came out of the sea, the Trojans took this as a sign from the gods and brought the horse into the city during their celebration of what they assumed was the Greek withdrawal. That night the Greek warriors emerged from the horse and opened the gates to their returned comrades. Aeneas is warned by the ghost of his cousin Hector, the greatest of the Trojan warriors (killed by Achilles in the Iliad), who tells him to flee the city. As this section ends, Aeneas watches helplessly as Neoptolemus kills King Priam’s youngest son before his father, and King Priam himself in front of his daughters and wife, Queen Hecuba. Aeneas returns home to persuade his father to leave the city. He carries the crippled Anchises. Ascanius, his son, holds his hand while his wife Creusa and the servants follow. When Aeneas reaches the refugees’ meeting point, he finds Creusa has been lost in the confusion. He rushes back into Troy frantically looking for her. Finally he is met by her ghost. The ghost tells him that the mother of the gods (Cybele) has taken her under her care.
Book 3 Aeneas continues the story of the Trojans’ wanderings. Slowly Anchises and Aeneas learn more about the promised land of Italy and the future that the gods foretell for them there. The book ends with the death of Anchises. Aeneas is left alone with his young son to carry out the will of the gods as best he can.
Book 4 Aeneas’s story is finished. Dido, touched by Venus, is now hopelessly in love with Aeneas. Her sister Anna persuades her to forget her vow of fidelity to her dead and dearly beloved husband, Sychaeus. She loses all interest in governing her city. The ongoing construction of Carthage comes to a halt. Juno and Venus arrange for Dido and Aeneas to have to shelter together overnight in a storm-bound cave. Jupiter sends Mercury, the messenger of the god, to remind Aeneas of his
V o l u m e
1
3
A e n e i d
duty to travel on to Italy. Aeneas is miserable but accepts that he must follow the will of the gods. Dido begs him not to leave her and ultimately commits suicide as the Trojans set sail, cursing them with her last breath and vowing her people to eternal war with those of Aeneas.
Book 5 The Trojans land in Sicily and hold commemorative games. Aeneas relaxes briefly, but disaster strikes again. Juno, in disguise, leads the Trojan women to burn the ships. At Aeneas’s prayer, Jupiter quenches the fire, but four ships are destroyed. Aeneas is broken by this blow. He wonders whether he should give up trying to reach Italy. The ghost of his father appears. He tells him to continue and to visit him in the underworld. Leaving behind four boatloads of families who have decided to settle where they are, the remaining boats of the Trojan fleet again set sail.
Book 6 At this halfway point in the epic, the Trojans reach the promised land of Italy. This book falls into three parts: the preparations for the descent into the land of the dead, a tour of the land of the dead, and the meeting between Aeneas and the ghost of his father Anchises. In the first part, Aeneas seeks out the Sibyl of Cumaea, a priestess-prophetess of Apollo who will be his guide into the underworld. He finds her at Apollo’s temple. There she gives him instructions. He must first bury his comrade Misenus, who has just died. Then he must find a talisman, the golden bough, to present to Persephone, Queen of the Dead. In part two, Virgil sends Aeneas through the traditional geography of the underworld. Aeneas and the Sibyl encounter the three-headed guard dog Cerebrus, the river Styx, the boatman Charon, Tartarus, the abyss of hell for the vilest souls, and finally the fields of Elysium, where the blessed reside after death. Here Aeneas meets his father. On the way he meets the ghosts of Palinurus; of Dido, who refuses to speak to him and pointedly returns to the ghost of her husband; and Deiphobus, his cousin who was killed on the night of Troy’s fall. These meetings fill Aeneas with sorrow, guilt, and remorse for what his mission has already cost in human terms. In part three, Aeneas meets Anchises. His father explains to Aeneas how the souls of all but the very evil and the very good are purified of their sins and reincarnated for another chance. Those
4
E p i c s
f o r
who have led lives of exceptional goodness and benefit to humanity are allowed to remain forever in Elysium. Finally, he shows Aeneas the souls who will return to the upper world to become the great figures of Roman history. It is for these souls and what they represent that Aeneas has suffered and will continue to suffer.
Book 7 This book opens peacefully, building to an incident of tragic reversal of fortune. The Trojans are welcomed by King Latinus, who sees their arrival as the fulfillment of a prophecy that foreigners will come to intermarry with the Latins and found a great empire. Latinus promises his daughter Lavinia to Aeneas in marriage. Juno, however, stirs up Turnus, a local chieftain and Lavinia’s suitor, against the Trojans and the proposed marriage. She also influences Lavinia’s mother, Queen Amata, who had favored Turnus for her daughter’s hand, to reject her husband’s decision. Juno organizes an incident to spark fighting between the men—the accidental killing of a pet deer by Ascanius. Virgil, however, leaves in question how much of the subsequent action is due to Juno’s meddling and how much is due to humans giving in to their anger. After war has broken out between the Italians and Trojans, the poet lists the Italian armies opposing the Trojans, in celebration of local traditions and heroes of Italy.
Book 8 Fighting is at a standstill. Aeneas visits Evander, king of Pallanteum, a little settlement on one of Rome’s seven hills. Aeneas is shown the wild landscape where the great civic landmarks of Rome will be. Evander as a teenager had met and admired Aeneas’s father, Anchises. He offers Aeneas help and sends his son, young Pallas, with a band of warriors. The book ends with Venus having new armaments made for her son by her husband, the smith god, Vulcan. Vulcan makes Aeneas a great shield on which are pictured the major events of Roman history with the battle of Actium, where Augustus defeated the forces of Antony and Cleopatra, in the center.
Book 9 The war begins in earnest. In Aeneas’s absence, Turnus attacks the Trojan camp with great success.
Book 10 Aeneas and Pallas return to the Trojan camp. Pallas enters the fighting on the Trojan side. Turnus
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
immediately chooses Pallas for single combat. Pallas, promising and courageous, but still hardly more than a boy, is killed. Turnus exults over his death, wishing Evander were there to see the deed. This event recalls Neoptolemus killing Priam’s youngest son before his father and mother in Book 2. Aeneas goes into a rage when he learns of Pallas’s death. He behaves as savagely as Turnus, mowing down all who stand before him, taunting them as they die, deaf to pleas for mercy in a passion of bloodlust. Revulsion finally recalls Aeneas to reason. A young man, Lausus, attempts to defend his father against Aeneas’s onslaught. Aeneas kills him, but as he does he realizes that he would have done exactly the same. Full of anguish and regret, Aeneas carries the boy’s body to his comrades.
Book 11 The book begins with Aeneas presiding over the funeral of Pallas. A messenger comes from the opposing Italian forces asking for a truce to bury the dead. Aeneas replies that he wishes for a truce not just for the dead, but for the living. He wants to come to some sort of accommodation with the Italians. The action of the poem is now dominated by Turnus. He debates with his allies, defending his determination to destroy the Trojans. The battle begins again and focuses on the warriormaid Camilla, one of Turnus’s chief allies. When she is killed, the Italian allies fall back in retreat.
CHARACTERS
Book 12 When Book 12 opens, Turnus welcomes the challenge of settling the whole war in single combat with Aeneas. He rejects the pleas of King Lavinius and Queen Amata and arms himself with eager anticipation. Aeneas promises that if he is defeated he will leave Italy and if he wins he will not seek dominion over the Italians, but the two peoples will be united under the same laws. The Rutilians, Turnus’s people, feel it is shameful to commit their fortunes to what they believe is an unequal combat and break the truce. General fighting begins again. Aeneas tries to stop the renewal of hostilities. His attempts are ended when a chance arrow wounds him. The wound is healed by divine intervention, but it enrages him. He rages over the battlefield. Turnus does the same in a different part of the field. The description of the slaughter they make leaves very little difference between them. Juno, still protecting Turnus, keeps him away from the worst fighting. In his absence, the Trojans surround the Latin capital. Queen Amata commits
E p i c s
f o r
suicide. Turnus becomes aware that his chariot is being driven by his disguised sister, the nymph Juturna, who with Juno’s help is keeping him away from real danger. Turnus learns of the queen’s suicide and the siege of the city. The single combat between Aeneas and Turnus begins but is suspended in mid-narrative as the scene switches to Olympus and a confrontation between Juno and Jupiter. Jupiter forbids Juno to intervene any further against the Trojans. She accepts this order, but she begs Jupiter for three things. She asks that the eventual descendants of intermarried Trojans and Italians be called Latins; that they speak the native language, Latin; and that they wear the native Latin dress, the toga. Jupiter grants this and more, promising that not only the Latin mode of dress but the whole way of life will be derived from the native Italians. Juno, then, is described as being responsible for the particular character of the Romans, and the audience understands at last that this is the reason for all the horror and bloodshed she caused. The narrative returns to the combat between Aeneas and Turnus. Aeneas wounds Turnus and Turnus begs for mercy. Aeneas is about to spare him when he notices that Turnus wears the vest of his victim Pallas. Overwhelmed by a thirst for vengeance, Aeneas kills Turnus.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Adromanche Adromanche is the widow of Hector, given as a prize of war to Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles. She later marries Helenus. In a twist of fate, She and Helenus come to reign over part of Pyrrhus’s kingdom after Pyrrhus is killed by Orestes, son of Agamemnon. She never forgets either her adored Hector or their little boy Astyanax, whom the victorious Greek threw from the walls of Troy for fear he would grow up and avenge his father.
Aeneas Aeneas is a prince of Troy and chief protagonist of this epic. There are as many interpretations of his character as there are readers of the Aeneid. Virgil’s narrative repeatedly puts Aeneas into situations in which he finds his duty to the gods and to the future in conflict with his own personal desires, freedom, and autonomy—when he wants to stay with Dido, queen of Carthage, for example, and the god Jupiter sends a messenger
V o l u m e
1
5
A e n e i d
reminding him that it is his destiny to leave and lead his people on to Italy. Aeneas often seems at a loss about what he should do. He sometimes makes choices that seem clearly wrong to many readers. The classic epic pattern generally shows its protagonist becoming a true hero by learning through experience the importance of wisdom, tolerance, compromise, and justice. While Aeneas shows these qualities intermittently, some interpretations of the Aeneid indicate that at the end all his painfully acquired knowledge is thrown way in an act of revenge when he slays Turnus.
Aeolus Aeolus is the god of the winds. He is indebted to Juno for his role among the gods and, at Juno’s request, causes the storm that drives Aeneas’s fleet onto the coast of North Africa in Book 1.
Amata Amata is Lavinius’s wife. The goddess Juno encourages her to think of Aeneas and the newly arrived Trojans as dangerous interlopers on Italian soil. She opposes the proposed match between Aeneas and her daughter Lavinia.
A warrior maiden, Camilla is the child of the exiled tyrant, Metabus. Her father pledged her life in service to Diana, goddess of the hunt, after Diana protected her when Metabus bound her to his spear and threw her across a river as he fled from pursuers. She is an ally of Turnus. Her death in battle is a severe blow to the Italian cause.
Cerberus Cerberus is the three-headed watchdog of the underworld. When the Sibyl escorts Aeneas through the underworld, she throws the dog a drugged honeycake so that they can pass him safely while he sleeps.
Charon Charon is the ferryman of the dead. Souls of the dead must cross the River Styx to enter the underworld. If they have been properly buried, Charon will ferry them across the river. The dead were buried with coins to pay Charon.
Creusa Creusa is the first wife of Aeneas. She is killed when Troy falls to the Greeks.
Deiphobe See Sibyl
Anchises Anchises is a prince of Troy, Aeneas’s mortal father and Priam’s second cousin. The goddess Venus visited Anchises in the guise of a mortal; their son Aeneas is thus descended from the gods. One tradition holds that Anchises was crippled by Jupiter’s thunderbolt when he boasted of being Venus’s lover.
Anna Anna is Dido’s sister. She persuades Dido that an alliance with Aeneas is in her best interest as well as that of her city, Carthage.
Ascanius Ascanius is the son of Aeneas and Creusa. He was also known as Iulus and the Roman tribe or family of Julius claims him as an ancestor. He is the founder of Alba. His boyish joke in Book 7 about the Trojans eating their tables together with their food recalls Anchises’s prophecy that his people would find their foretold home in Italy only when they were reduced to eating their tables.
Cacus Cacus, the monstrous son of the smith god Vulcan, terrorizes the kingdom of Evander from a cave on the Aventine hill. He is killed by Hercules.
6
Camilla
E p i c s
f o r
Dido Dido is a Phoenician princess who flees with many of her people from the tyranny of her ruling brother. She founds the city of Carthage and rules there as queen until, under the influence of the goddess Venus, she falls in love with Aeneas. When Aeneas deserts her to continue his journey to Italy on the orders of Jupiter, she kills herself, cursing Aeneas and the nation he will found. Her disintegration from a strong, virtuous, and capable woman and ruler to a distraught, love-sick suicide is based on her character, circumstances, and the interference of the gods in her life.
Ganymede Ganymede is a Trojan prince whom Jupiter abducted to be the cup-bearer of the gods.
Hector Hector is the greatest of Priam’s sons. He is a loving husband and father, generous and conscientious, a great warrior who does not glory in war, and the bulwark of the Trojans. He is killed by Achilles, who desecrates his body. Aeneas in many ways takes on some of his dead cousin’s attributes as well as his position of leadership among the Trojan refugees.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
Hecuba
Lavinia
Hecuba is the queen of Troy and wife of Priam. She is forced into slavery after the city of Troy falls to the Greeks and she has witnessed the deaths of her husband and son.
Lavinia is the only child of Lavinius and Amata of Italy. Queen Amata hoped that Lavinia would marry Turnus, but the gods send signs that show she is fated to marry Aeneas, thus founding the Roman line.
Helenus Helenus is a son of Priam. He is made a slave of Pyrrhus after the Trojan War. When Pyrrhus is killed by Orestes, son of Agamemnon, Helenus comes into possession of part of his kingdom where he and his wife Adromanche recreate the city of Troy on a small scale. Helenus is a prophet who assures Aeneas that he will eventually reach Italy and make a home there.
Hercules Hercules is a great hero, known for his feats of strength and bravery. He is the son of Jupiter and the mortal woman Alcmena. He rescued the people of Evander from the monster Cacus.
Lavinius Lavinius is king of the Italians. He welcomes Aeneas and the Trojans and offers his daughter Lavinia to Aeneas in marriage because he believes that it is the will of the gods.
Mezentius Mezentius is an Etruscan king, whom Virgil calls a ‘‘scorner of the Gods.’’ He rules Argylla until his incredible cruelty cause his people to drive him from the city. Turnus shelters him. The Etruscans join Aeneas, urged by Evander, in order to seek revenge on Mezentius.
Misenus Misenus is Aeneas’s trumpeter. He is killed when he challenges Triton’s pre-eminence on the trumpet. Aeneas must bury him and ritually purify the fleet before he can descend to the underworld.
Iulus See Ascanius
Juno Juno is queen of the gods, both wife and sister of Jupiter. She is the patroness of married women and of the cities of Argos and Carthage. Juno sided with the Greeks in the Trojan War because she was offended when the Trojan warrior Paris pronounced Venus rather than Juno the most beautiful of the goddesses.
Jupiter ‘‘Father of gods and men,’’ Jupiter is the king of the gods and the most powerful among them. He is bound only by his own word and by fate.
Juturna Juturna is Turnus’s sister and the spirit of springs. She was given immortality by her lover Jupiter.
Lausus Lausus is a young Italian killed by Aeneas as Lausus defends his father, the tyrant Mezentius. Aeneas regrets this killing immediately, realizing that he would have defended his own father Anchises with the same valor. When Aeneas carries the boy’s body to his companions, this act of compassion leads to a temporary truce between the warring Trojans and Italians.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Neoptolemus See Pyrrhus
Neptune Neptune, god of the sea, favors the Trojans in their attempt to reach Italy. He is annoyed when he finds that without their consulting him, Juno and Aeolus cause the storm at sea that shipwrecks Aeneas’s fleet on the African coast.
Palinurus Palinurus is Aeneas’s helmsman. He is washed overboard just as the Trojan fleet reaches Italy and is murdered when he reaches the shore. His death is described by Neptune in Book 5 as a sacrifice to guarantee the safe landing of the rest of the Trojans: ‘‘One shall be given for the many.’’ His shade (spirit or ghost) meets Aeneas in the underworld and begs for his help in crossing the River Styx even though he was not properly buried and does not have money to pay the boatman Charon. The Sibyl who is guiding Aeneas through the underworld promises that the people who killed him will come to understand their grievous error and will bury him with the necessary honors to ensure his passage across the river to Elysium.
V o l u m e
1
7
A e n e i d
Pallas Pallas is Evander’s son, a young man on his first real battle campaign. Aeneas is drawn to the father and son and acts as a mentor and protector of Pallas. When Pallas is killed in the climactic battle between the Trojans and Italians, Aeneas goes wild with grief. He had been about to spare Turnus’s life, but when he is reminded that Turnus killed Pallas, he in turn kills Turnus.
part of his kingdom comes into the hands of his slave, Helenus, a brother of Hector.
Sibyl The sibyls were priestesses and prophetesses of the god Apollo. Aeneas visits the Sibyl of Cumaea, also known as Deiphobe, in southern Italy before his trip to the underworld.
Sychaeus Paris Paris is a prince of Troy and son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. At his birth it was prophesied that he would someday cause the destruction of Troy, so his parents sorrowfully abandon him as an infant to die on Mt. Ida. He is found and raised by a shepherd. Paris grows to be an exceptionally handsome young man, and the goddess Venus offers him his choice from among the most beautiful woman in the world. He selects Helen, unfortunately already married to Menelaus of Greece, and abducts her. Helen’s former suitors, who include all the major warriors of Greece, had sworn an oath to her husband to always protect their beloved lady. The Trojan War begins when Greek troops attack Troy to recover Helen.
Persephone Persephone is Pluto’s wife and queen of the underworld and of the dead.
Sychaeus is Dido’s first husband, murdered by her brother.
Turnus Turnus is prince of the Rutulians and a brilliant young warrior deeply conscious of his honor and standing. The Sibyl compares him to Achilles. He is a descendant of the royal house of Argos and is a favorite of the goddess Juno. Turnus seems to find war his most natural and satisfying occupation.
Venus Venus is the goddess of love and of beauty. In the Aeneid, she is also the mother of the Roman people, since it is her son, Aeneas, who finally leads his Trojan fleet to Italy where he marries the Italian princess Lavinia, thus beginning the Roman ancestral line. Venus is a devoted mother in the distant way that many of the gods who have children with mortals remain somewhat involved in the lives of their offspring.
Pluto Pluto is king of the dead and the brother of Jupiter and Neptune.
THEMES
Polydorus
Social Order
Polydorus is a son of Priam who is sent abroad to be raised in the court of the king of Thrace. When Troy falls, the king of Thrace kills him for his treasure. His ghost appears to Aeneas when the Trojans stumble upon his burial mound.
The moral center of the Aeneid is the Roman way of life, which Augustus was attempting to revitalize during Virgil’s lifetime. This system was ideally based on duty to the gods, to country, and to family and friends. It was powered by a deep sense of humanity. Virgil was aware of the social cohesion, order, even the personal happiness, which this ideal could produce. He was also aware of the sorrow and cruelty that could result from the clash of these duties. Private experience and duty are often placed in tension against public duty. This tension is at the heart of the parting of Dido and Aeneas.
Priam Priam is king of Troy. He dies while defending his family on the night Troy falls to the Greeks.
Pyrrhus Pyrrhus, also known as Neoptolemus, is the son of the famous Greek warrior Achilles, the hero of the Iliad. During the fall of Troy, Pyrrhus kills Priam’s son Polites and then Priam himself with great cruelty in the presence of Queen Hecuba and her daughters. Adromanche, widow of Hector, is forced to become his mistress. When he is killed by Orestes,
8
E p i c s
f o r
On a historical level, Virgil expressed this tension with an allusion to Brutus, the first consul, who drove the tyrant king Tarquin out of Rome and ordered his own sons executed for attempting to reinstate Tarquin. These tensions are foregrounded
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
The Etruscans, who join Aeneas as allies, also claimed to have come from Asia Minor. Research the Etruscans and the ways in which they influenced the essential character of Roman society. Write a research paper based on your findings.
Can the wanderings of Aeneas and his Trojans be found to have any basis in fact? There are strong archaeological indications that many established kingdoms were in fact destroyed around the traditional date of the fall of Troy (c. 1193). Research this period and try to determine if there is any archaeological evidence for the legends of the Trojan refugees. Using a computer, create a presentation, including a map, that shows the movement of Aeneas from Troy to Italy and shares some of the archaeological evidence that may substantiate the reality behind the Aeneid. Virgil locates the origins of Rome and Carthage’s long period of warfare in the spiteful actions of the goddess Juno and Queen Dido’s broken heart and suicide in response to Aeneas’s leaving her. Compare and contrast Virgil’s imaginative account with the more concrete historical reasons behind the three Punic wars between Rome and Carthage. In small groups, discuss your findings and prepare a presentation to share with your class.
hero with some traditional literary, legendary, or mythic considerations of what a hero must be, think, or do (handbooks of literary terms will supply some definitions). In an essay, discuss ways that Aeneas either lives up to or falls short of both your idea of a hero and the traditional view of one. Share your essay with a classmate. How are your opinions different? How are they similar?
Virgil used plot elements and even characters from the earlier Odyssey and Iliad of the Greek poet Homer. Generations of readers and critics have responded in various ways to this socalled borrowing. Is it creative license, plagiarism, or something in between? Are the events both Virgil and Homer wrote about large enough to support more than one literary retelling? Write an essay arguing your point of view. Cite examples of this kind of recycling of themes and subjects from contemporary literature.
Define the concept of a hero from your own point of view. Give historical or contemporary examples that illustrate your concept. Compare your idea of what it takes to be a
Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief (2005), by Rick Riordan, is the first book in a series that revives the ancient Greek gods and their stories for a new generation of readers. The Romans adopted many of the Greek gods as their own, giving them new, Roman names. Read this book and compare the gods and characters to those in the Aeneid. Write a short story or play that uses the Roman gods in a modern context much like Riordan did in his series.
in the poem. Nevertheless, it remains clear that Virgil believed that the ideals of Roman life and public service remain worth the often difficult struggle with oneself. In Book 1, the god Jupiter summarizes what the Roman way of life could and would give, not only Rome, but all of humanity, a world-rule which brings universal peace and humane civilization. This world is not expressed
in political terms, but ethical ones. It is available to all who follow the Roman way. Without this and similar prophecies, the suffering of Aeneas, Dido, Creusa, Palinurus, Pallas, and others are nearly unbearable. Aeneas must be brought to understand the promise that is given through him. The pageant of Roman history in Book 6 and the pictures on his shield illustrate the moral
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
9
A e n e i d
qualities of the Roman way of life. Nevertheless, Virgil often undercut this glorious possibility—in the lament for Marcellus in Book 6, for example, and in the end of the poem itself when Aeneas abandons his highest principles in grief for Pallas and kills Turnus, to whom he had considered granting mercy.
Sorrow The theme which dictates the tone of the Aeneid for modern readers is that of human loss and regret. The theme can be defined by two remarks in Book 1. In line 203 Aeneas says, ‘‘Perhaps even this will be something to remember with joy.’’ In the most quoted passage of the Aeneid, Aeneas exclaims, ‘‘Here are tears for things and human mortality touches the heart.’’ The first passage, however, is set in the context of promised destiny of Aeneas and his followers in lines 204–207: ‘‘Through many circumstances and various troubles we travel towards Italy where the fates point out a place of rest. There it is decreed for Troy to rise again. Endure and keep yourself for prosperity!’’ In the second passage the tears and thoughts of which Aeneas is mindful are themselves a reflex of fame. ‘‘What region is not full of our distress? Here,’’ he says in lines 460–461, ‘‘is the reward of praise.’’ The sorrows of the individual heart caught in conflicting duties are seen in the setting of a divinely granted destiny and the immortality of fame.
Private and Public Ideals The tension between Virgil’s two ideals of individual human felicity and the mission of Rome has sometime been characterized as the tension in Virgil’s own ethical ideals between Stoic and Epicurean philosophies. Stoicism was a philosophy of self-sacrifice in public service, of a heart unmoved yet rationally compassionate. Epicureanism was a form of philosophical quietism, a retreat from the world. It was not a search for sensual pleasure, as is sometimes believed, but for an absence of pain. The tension in the poem, however, is more complex. There is a tension between individual happiness and public mission and a frightening tension between the ideal and its fulfillment. Roman history was not a litany of broken loves, abandoned friends, and rage. Conjugal love, friendly fidelity, justice, and magnanimity toward strangers were, for the Romans, the essence of the Roman way of life. The Romans tended not to delude themselves about the difficulties of family life and commonwealth life. Aeneas is on one level the symbol of the difficulties that beset even an essentially decent man in maintaining the
1 0
E p i c s
f o r
Illustration depicting the departure of Aeneas and Dido’s death (Ó The Art Gallery Collection / Alamy)
humanity which was necessary if Rome was going to be the great civilizing force the gods intended rather than simply another great power in a long line of great powers.
Kinship Kinship, or family relationships, are crucial to the story of the Aeneid. For example, Venus, Aeneas’s mother, asks Jupiter to intervene on her son’s behalf in Book 1. Even though she is a goddess, she wants only the best for her half-mortal child. Aeneas loses his wife, Creusa, while they are feeing Troy and soon thereafter also loses his father, Anchises, who was unwell when they fled. These losses are difficult for the hero, but coping with them make him more sympathetic and heroic to the audience. Lost is not gone as Aeneas is able to talk to the ghosts of his wife and his father to get advice. Book 7 introduces Lavinia’s family. In marriage to Lavinia Aeneas will secure a place for the Trojans in Italy. The importance of this step cannot be emphasized enough. Through marriage, Aeneas becomes kin to the Latins, and warfare alone will not get rid of the Trojans. This tension adds vigor to the fight between Aeneas and Turnus, who is also a suitor to Lavinia.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
Over and over, Virgil chooses to describe the killing of one person as it happened in front of a family member, which only heightens the pathos and horror of the moment. For example, Neoptolemus kills the youngest son of King Priam in front of his father and then kills King Priam in front of his daughters and wife. In these ways, kinship ties and devotion are dramatized and underscored.
STYLE Point of View Point of view in the Aeneid incorporates two perspectives. The personal vision, from Aeneas’s point of view, emphasizes the human element in the story. The patriotic vision, concerned with both human and divine events combining to form the genesis of the Roman Empire, is concerned with presenting a mythic and idealized view of Roman history. The tension between these two approaches creates a sense of breadth that affects both the work at hand and, because of its importance to western European culture, the development of literary expectations in the genre among countries in the West.
Protagonist and Antagonist The protagonist is the central, sympathetic character of a story. This is often, but not always, also the main character of the story. In the Aeneid, the protagonist and main character is Aeneas. He is the hero of the Trojan people, leading them on a sea adventure from the ruins of their former home to a new land, Italy, where he is fated to found an empire. Although he struggles against adversity as all heroes must, his fortune is predetermined. The antagonist in a story is the character who works against the protagonist, trying to stop the protagonist from achieving the goal. The antagonist is also often a central character and is not necessarily inherently evil just because of this opposition to the protagonist (who is not necessarily inherently good). The antagonist in the Aeneid is Turnus, although he does not appear until Book 7. Turnus is competing with Aeneas for Lavinia’s hand in marriage but also trying to keep the Trojans from settling in and taking over Italy. This motivation is understandable. Virgil has also made Turnus a bloodthirsty warrior, which makes him less sympathetic than Aeneas.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Imitation Virgil drew heavily on Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey in composing his own epic. Almost the whole of the first book is constructed from the Odyssey. The storm, the despair of Aeneas, the landing on a strange shore, the meeting with a disguised goddess, the reception by the ruler of the foreign land, the banquet, the minstrel’s song leading up to the hero’s narration of his adventures—all these elements are patterned on events in Odyssey. In addition to repeating these key elements, Aeneid shows other parallels and differences from Homer’s work. In the Odyssey, the Greek Odysseus is trying to return home from the Trojan war to reunite with his wife and to take up his old and much-missed way of life. He succeeds, as his followers do not, by showing great resources and endurance. He is the ultimate individualist. Aeneas, however, is fleeing his home after the city’s destruction in that same war. He loses wife, family, and home, and starts out to find the place ordained by the gods in which to build a new life and to found a new empire. His first duty is to bring his people to that haven. Underscoring the connection between the two works, Virgil even has Aeneas rescue one of Odysseus’s men on his way. Virgil’s original audience knew Homer’s narratives well. They had their memories of and opinions about the Greek poet’s earlier work to supplement their understanding and enjoyment— or criticism—of the Aeneid. This practice of building on an established tradition still takes place in popular entertainment: Modern audiences, for example, will watch a movie sequel or a television show featuring a crossover guest performer from another series partly because they already know what to expect and enjoy seeing the familiar in a new setting.
Divine Interference The gods have a number of roles in the Aeneid. Jupiter represents the providential divine intention for the human characters, whereas his wife Juno represents the seemingly irrational hostile forces that stand between characters and their goals. Venus represents the divine nurturing of the Roman people and state. Sometimes gods are the direct catalyst for action, and they always have some influence on events, which never unfold purely by coincidence or chance. Whether Virgil’s audience actually believed in them or not, the gods function in the epic as a powerful artistic symbol. The entire body of Greek and Roman art and literature is infused with demonstrations and
V o l u m e
1
1 1
A e n e i d
explanations of the role of the gods in the affairs of humankind. This shared cultural referent was reinforced by affection among Virgil’s audience for the ancient faith of their ancestors, with its overtones of rural simplicity and straightforward vigor.
Imagery Virgil’s imagery in the Aeneid derives power from the repetition and sometimes startling variation of particular images through one or more books. Virgil exploits the repetition of imagery to constantly recall past events from the narrative. In the present, the past is being repeated or the future foreshadowed. The use of serpent and fire imagery in Book 2 provides an excellent demonstration of this facet of Virgil’s technique.
Structure The structure of the Aeneid has interested a number of critics in the twentieth century. It has been suggested that the poem is divided between books of intense action (even numbered books) and diffuse action (odd numbered books). In this view Books 3 and 5 function partly to release the tension of Books 2 and 4. The Aeneid has been described as a trilogy, with the tragedy of Dido, told in Books 1–4 and that of Turnus, in Books 9–12, flanking the central Roman section in Books 5–8. Another way of looking at the structure suggests that the first six books are patterned after Homer’s Iliad, and the second six resemble his Odyssey.
Diction, Rhetoric, and Meter Virgil’s word choices and meter have been studied and copied for at least two thousand years. It is hard to understand this aspect of the Aeneid without having also studied Latin, but it is possible to make a few basic generalizations. Quantity is the time it takes to pronounce a syllable. In Latin, a long syllable takes twice as long to pronounce as a short one. The Aeneid is written in quantitative hexameters; that is, each line has six metrical feet. These feet are a combination of short and long syllables. A hexameter line is made up of dactyls—one long syllable followed by two short syllables (the name ‘‘Ludwig van Beethoven’’ is an English double dactyl, for example) and of spondees—two long syllables (‘‘blackboard’’ is an English spondee). This may sound restrictive, but within the relatively narrow rhetorical structure the Aeneid displays great variety. Lines can be jagged and abrupt. They can flow with lulling smooth sound.
1 2
E p i c s
f o r
Virgil often used commonplace words in fresh ways. Sometimes he deliberately used outdated terms that would attract attention because of their quaintness. Virgil also chose and combined words that enlarge the reader’s range of perception. His essential tool is variation within a symmetrical pattern, even within individual lines. Adam Parry, in his essay ‘‘The Two Voices of Virgil,’’ demonstrates some of the effects that occur in less than two lines with an example from Book 7: ‘‘For you Angitia’s woods wept, For you Fucinus’s glassy waters, For you the transparent lake.’’ Here he has used repetition (of the phrase ‘‘for you,’’), personification (the weeping of the woods and the lake), and levels of variation (first, woods, then water; second, water), mentioned first by proper name (‘‘Fucinus’s glassy waters’’) and then by the common noun ‘‘lake’’).
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Historic Troy, Carthage, and Latium According to Homer’s Iliad, the Greeks waged war against the Trojans after the Trojan prince Paris kidnapped Helen, beautiful wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta. Although the Trojan War Homer wrote about is considered legendary, historians have long known that there was an historic Troy and a protracted conflict that formed the kernel of this grand story. The archaeological site of Hisarlik in modern Turkey is believed by many to be ancient Troy. A layer of destruction dated to approximately 1183 BCE , known to archaeologists as VIIa, corresponds to the sacking of Troy by the Greeks. This date also generally agrees with the twelfth century dating of the war by ancient scholars. Aeneas was Priam’s nephew and fought in the Trojan War until the city was sacked and the Trojans were forced to flee for their lives. En route to Italy, Aeneas landed in Carthage, a city Roman sources say was founded by Phoenician Queen Elissa (also known as Dido) shortly before the Trojan War began. Modern scholars have dated the actual settlement to the ninth century BCE , three hundred years later. In the Aeneid, Aeneas was ultimately guided by divine intervention and prophecy to the shores of Italy where he met with tribes of Latins in the land of Latium. Archaeological evidence shows that the city of Rome was founded in the eighth century BCE upon the site of a Latin occupation that dates back to the tenth century BCE . Virgil, in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
COMPARE & CONTRAST
First century BCE : Displaced people like the Trojans travel to new lands to settle. If they encounter natives, they either intermarry or conquer them. Aeneas seeks to intermarry with the Latins rather than fight with them but war breaks out anyway. Today: Displaced people seek political asylum from countries that can afford to absorb people who are without resources. For example, after the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003, social order breaks down and two million people become refugees, seeking asylum in countries such as Syria, Jordan, Egypt, the United Kingdom, and the United States.
First century BCE : Literate people are enormously interested in poetry. The Roman tradition of patronage and the lack of copyright law means that many poets are subsidized by wealthy and politically powerful men. Under the patronage system, some exceptional poets, such as Virgil and Horace, can have both financial independence
writing the Aeneid, was drawing a connection between the ruling family of Troy and the Julian tribe of Rome.
Roman Government Rome was founded in 753 BCE . For nearly 250 years it was a monarchy. The last king was a tyrant whose son Tarquin raped the wife of a Roman noble. (One of the most famous accounts of this event is found in Shakespeare’s long narrative poem ‘‘The Rape of Lucrece.’’) Outraged by this crime, the Romans, led by L. Junius Brutus (an ancestor of the Brutus who assassinated Julius Caesar), drove the Tarquin family out and set up a republic. For the next 450 years, Rome was ruled by the Senate and consuls. The Senate, chosen from the patrician (highest) class of citizens decided on government policies and the use of public money. The equites (middle class) and plebeians (working class) had their own assembly,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
and comparative artistic freedom to create their works. Today: Poetry is no longer a common medium for conveying history, ideas, or elements of a shared cultural experience. Most poets depend on university appointments or grants from various cultural institutions or agencies. Others hold down full-time jobs to support their writing. First century BCE : Wealthy Rome has a paid military force that is famous for being well trained and outfitted. Some political leaders are expected to take part in the fighting to prove that they are worthy to lead in both war and in peacetime. Today: The armies of most industrialized nations are professional. Politicians are no longer expected to have served in the military although having done so is a recommendation to some voters. The military’s highest leaders and officers are not expected to take part in actual combat.
which could accept or reject the proposals of the Senate. After 287 BCE , Senate proposals had the force of law. The executive posts in the government from the consuls down were elected by the vote of all male citizens. The consuls were elected in pairs for one year only to protect against the rise of another tyrant. Later they were joined by the tribune of the people, who looked after the interests of the equite and plebeian classes. Even after Rome entered a period of imperial rule (ruled by emperors), some forms of republicanism were maintained.
Rome and War Many wars during the Roman Republic (509–44 BCE ) were fought simply for survival. Many, however, were wars of expansion. Military achievements were important to all levels of Roman society. Upper-class men who hoped for political careers needed to demonstrate personal courage
V o l u m e
1
1 3
A e n e i d
and organizational ability in the ultimate test of war. Men of the lower classes could improve their place in society by gaining a reputation for courage, loyalty, and intelligent obedience in warfare. Of all the wars Rome fought, few were as important as the three Punic wars against Carthage (264–146 BCE ), the city founded by Dido. These wars saw Rome’s greatest triumphs as well as greatest defeats. Even when Italy itself was invaded by the Carthaginian general in 218 BCE , the Romans refused to capitulate. After over a century of warfare, Roman forces eventually destroyed Carthage. Virgil alludes repeatedly in his narrative to these ongoing wars. Roman commentators believed that Dido’s death scene in Book 4 was full of references to the Punic Wars.
Renewal under Augustus Julius Caesar’s assassination threw Rome and its empire back into civil war, which continued until the defeat of Caesar Augustus (64 BCE –14 CE ) by Antony and Cleopatra at Actium in 31 BCE . Augustus had attempted to revitalize the traditional Roman way of life and recruited poets to help. Virgil was commissioned to write in part to remind the Romans of the circumstances that created them and their society and the part the gods played in it. He defined their sense of having been chosen and led by divine wisdom. It has been suggested that Virgil knew Jews living in Rome and that his view of history was affected by their own sense of mission as chosen people with a specific preordained destiny.
The Roman Way of Life Roman Society under Pressure At the end of the Punic Wars in 146 BCE , Rome was the major power in the Mediterranean. The Romans themselves believed that as long as Carthage had remained a threat, Rome was strong because of the need to stay united in the face of this powerful enemy. Social problems were quickly dealt with so that the city could focus its attentions on opposing the Carthaginian threat. When this single-minded focus was removed, Rome began to fall apart. Originally, most Roman citizens had at least a small farm that could generally support a family. The wars devastated these family holdings. Many men were away for long periods of fighting. Many never returned. It was difficult for the women and children left behind to do all the heavy farm work. Further, many Romans had to flee the countryside and band together in the safety of the cities when Hannibal (248–183 BCE ) invaded Italy. Further, international trade sprang up in the peace that followed the Punic Wars, and many small family farms could not compete with a flourishing trade in agricultural. Returning Italian soldiers, as well as the wealthy Roman senators, were able to buy up failed farmland cheaply and amass huge estates. Instead of planting grain, they chose to raise sheep, grapes, or olives, all of which needed fewer farmhands. The collapse of traditional Roman agrarian (or agricultural) society and the enlargement of the empire made it more and more difficult for the government to function effectively. Civil disturbances between various factions grew worse and worse. By the time Julius Caesar (100–44 BCE ) assumed personal control with the grudging acceptance of the Senate after a bloody civil war, Roman society needed drastic action.
1 4
E p i c s
f o r
The Roman way of life, the mos maiorem (‘‘manners of the ancestors’’) had both a religious and a social aspect. Roman religion was based on two sets of gods. There were the Olympian gods, of whom Juno, Jupiter, Venus, Neptune, Vulcan, Diana, and Pluto play a role in the Aeneid. The Lares and the Penates (‘‘household gods’’) were the protective spirits of the family, the hearth (emblematic of the center of the household), the storeroom, and the countryside. Each family had its own personal household gods. Like the brownies or elves of fairy tales, but much more powerful, the household gods were believed to watch over each family. In the Aeneid, Aeneas’s father is described carefully carrying his family’s household gods away from the destroyed city of Troy. Traditional Roman families prayed to their Lares and the Penates everyday. Roman society was based on family and friends bound by mutual ties of respect and aid and on the patronage system. While patronage may seem strange or even distasteful to a modern sensibility, to the Romans, it was a perfectly honorable and practical way of life. A patron stood by his clients, ensured that they received justice under Roman law, offered advice, and helped their careers. Clients of a patron in turn would support and advise him and live up to the recommendations he had given them. This pattern of give and take was expected at all levels of society. Aeneas and Misenus illustrate the relationship of patron and client. Letters of recommendation from Roman patrons promoted their clients as personal assistants, political candidates, even as potential sonsin-law. These young men would be expected to live up to their patron’s recommendations. Prominent
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
and powerful men expected to be asked to serve as mentors promising young men, as had been done for them in their youth. This practice connected families in a web of mutual responsibility and gratitude. A man might be asked to help the career of the nephew or son of a man who had done the same for him or his father years before. The connections down the generations among Anchises, Evander, Aeneas, and Pallas in the Aeneid offer examples of these kinds of multigenerational relationships. Emperor Caesar Augustus functioned as a patron of the poet Virgil. Virgil’s great epic is a preeminent example of a kind of work-for-hire product that served the purposes of his patron while enabling the poet to advance his own career. The system was clearly open to misuse, but it served Roman society and administration well for nearly a millennium.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The earliest critics concentrated on the style in which Virgil wrote and the sources from which he drew. The Aeneid was written for a cultured and educated, extremely well-read audience and almost immediately became a school text. Many Roman critics wrote treatises explaining the book’s historical, religious, philosophical, and literary allusions to make it easier for teachers and students to understand it. Others wrote explanations of difficult words or unusual grammar. In the fourth century, a teacher named Donatus published excerpts from many of these works to produce a kind of general reader’s guide. A generation later, another teacher, Servius, relying in part on Donatus, produced a similar commentary for schools.
he read the Aeneid. In the end, western Christianity simply co-opted Virgil. In his Fourth Eclogue, Virgil wrote about the birth of a wonderful child who would end war and bring back the golden age. For this, Virgil was popularly (if not officially) accepted as a prophet of Christ. During the early Middle Ages, the Aeneid was used as a schoolbook for the study of Latin. Servius’s commentary, with or without extra material from Donatus, was reprinted many times. In the late fifth or early sixth century, a Christian wrote a short treatise in the form of a rather humorous vision of Virgil in which the poet explained the Aeneid as an allegory—an extended narrative metaphor—about the soul’s growth to maturity and virtue. From the late eleventh century on, Virgil’s reputation for enormous learning, a few allegorical passages in Servius, and the popularity of allegory as a literary form changed the way people read the Aeneid. It was often treated as a sort of coded message, full of hidden meaning. This approach was popular until the time of Shakespeare. It had a big impact on how other epic works were written. Writers such as Torquato Tasso and Edmund Spenser wrote epics according to this allegorical model, with the action and even characters all serving as metaphors or symbols for something else. Throughout all the changes in literary and critical fashion, the Aeneid remained popular simply as a story. The earliest French romance was not about Lancelot and Guinevere, but Aeneas and Lavinia.
Macrobius’s Saturnalia, written in the first half of the fifth century CE , treated Virgil’s works as a Roman bible. Macrobius depicted actual historical figures, including Servius, discussing the Aeneid. These figures were members of the last generation of educated Roman pagans, attempting to defend their gods, their way of life, the very nature of Rome, from the growing cult of Christianity.
Modern criticism of the Aeneid began in the seventeenth century. Late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century French and English critics began to interpret the Aeneid not as an allegory, but as a narrative that conveyed meaning in the same way as history. The narrative was seen as providing models of the highest qualities of conduct for both princes and their subjects. In the dedication to his translation, the poet John Dryden stressed these elements, which appealed to the readers of his time, who were looking for royal leadership into an era of national renewal.
Early Christian reaction to Virgil was mixed. On one hand, he was the poet of the Roman state and religion, which Christians sought to usurp. On the other hand, his work was an essential part of a complete education, and he was widely considered the finest poet writing in Latin. Christian poets such as Prudentius used Virgil as a model. Saint Augustine of Hippo (354–430) admitted crying over Dido’s tragic end when as a schoolboy
Proponents of literary romanticism in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries reacted against the classicism of the 1600s and 1700s, when Greek and Latin texts from Virgil’s era were highly praised and imitated. The romantics found Aeneas a poor hero and were not impressed with Roman destiny as a theme. When they praised Virgil at all, they did so for his style or for the same emotional sensitivities they admired in their own poetry. This
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
1 5
A e n e i d
Map of the voyage of Aeneas
approach led readers to examine what critics had come to call Virgil’s private voice. For much of the nineteenth century, romantic critics and commentators focused on examining Virgil’s treatment of individual human beings caught up in the larger issues of Rome’s destiny. In the twentieth century, criticism of the Aeneid became increasingly more sophisticated in its understanding of the literary, social, and political realities of Virgil’s world. Modern critics still reflected as much of their own world as of Virgil’s. Two world wars and the end of colonialism affected reader responses to the events depicted in the work. A critical arena that developed was the study of readers’ changing attitudes about Virgil over the centuries. Kenneth Quinn, in his 1968 critical companion to the Aeneid, observed that Virgil ‘‘is rarely completely on the side of any character in his poem and completely against the character opposing him.’’ This is one of the most important observations any reader can bring to the Aeneid.
1 6
E p i c s
f o r
Late twentieth and early twenty-first century criticism largely focused on the vagaries of translation. Virgil wrote his works in Latin. In some cases the Latin is translated into Italian and then into English, potentially creating more opportunities for misunderstanding or mistranslation. Renowned classics scholar Robert Fagles published his translation of the Aeneid in 2006 to critical acclaim. Brad Leithauser, writing for the New York Times Book Review compared Fagles’s flowing free verse to the tight iambic pentameter of Robert Fitzgerald’s 1983 translation, concluding that Fagles’s version set the new standard. Amid this crowded field, in 2008 Yale professor Sarah Ruden published her translation of the Aeneid. New Criterion reviewer Richard Garner lauded Ruden for taking on what other translators dared not do: She translated Virgil’s dense Latin lines one-for-one using iambic pentameter. Most translators, including Fagles, had translated Latin to English in a two-to-three line ratio. Ruden’s work is a respected addition to the library of English translations of Virgil’s epic.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain offers a general assessment and an overview of the Aeneid. It is impossible to imagine western literature without Virgil’s Aeneid. After the Bible, perhaps no other book has had more direct effect on western literature and culture. For four hundred years the Aeneid had the place in Latin education that could be compared only to the King James Version of the Bible and the works of Shakespeare in English. Virgil’s language, presentation, the subjects he found important, the subjects over which he simply lingered, all of these sank deep into the heart of Latin literature. The Aeneid became a part of the Christian tradition. Even in the so-called Dark Ages in European history students were exposed to Virgil. Education in Europe and later in the Americas meant Virgil. Whenever writing about the Aeneid, a critic is writing about ideas and forms that have application for all areas of western literature. The story of Aeneas offered real possibilities, involving as it did big ideas in the distant past. Its main outline was fixed, but many of its larger details were fluid. Material could be added or subtracted. It could be used to reflect on recent events but was far enough in the past to be neutral. The Aeneid is characterized by inclusiveness. It is a public Roman epic, written for a particular audience. It is also Virgil’s epic. It represents a series of rapprochements between what the establishment wanted and what Virgil, the thinking Roman, wanted. In the process of fulfilling both sets of expectations, Virgil wrote an epic not just for Rome, but for generations to come. Virgil’s epic is on one level a conflation of the Iliad and the Odyssey, but a conflation that is radically directed away from largely self-centered, self-sufficient heroes to a hero and a chosen people. Virgil reinvented the epic for an exploration of human nature in a social and political situation. He and his original audience would have been conscious of a sense of coming age of Latin literature with such a controlled reuse of Homer, but this was not the poem’s real purpose or even his main reason for using Homer. Virgil manipulated
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
The Eclogues, Virgil’s first published collection of poetry, published about 38 BCE , are pastorals, poems set in an idealized countryside among herdsmen and small landowners. Reality intrudes in Eclogues 1 and 9, which concern the confiscation of Virgil’s farm.
Virgil wrote the Georgics in four sections. This handbook of agriculture, published about 29 BCE , was also intended to promote the revival of traditional Roman pastoral and agrarian life, with an emphasis on family life, hard work, practical patriotism, and simplicity of manners and pleasures.
David Wishart’s I, Virgil (1995) is a fictional autobiography of Virgil. It assumes that Virgil was ambivalent toward his protagonist Aeneas and the scope and plot of the Aeneid because he had reservations about the rule of Caesar Augustus.
Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007) is a novel about a teenage Native American boy who switches to a rich white school to increase his opportunities and must deal with the consequences of being an outcast in both communities.
Ursula Le Guin’s novel Lavinia (2009) tells the story of Aeneas and the Trojans landing in Italy from Lavinia’s point of view. Lavinia is almost an afterthought in Virgil’s epic where the men solve their problems on the field of battle, but she is a crucial connection between Rome, Troy, and Italy.
the earlier material to write a commentary on the heroic life into his own poem. The Aeneid was written to explore the source and meaning of the Roman way of life, the tool of divine providence. Against this providential social history is the history of the heart—and not Aeneas’s heart alone. All the private human plans and hopes of characters great and small are caught within the
V o l u m e
1
1 7
A e n e i d
larger sweep of the will of the gods. These personal passages in the Aeneid have generated interest because paradoxically Virgil’s treatment of the individual conveys the universal in the particular. The vision of what the providential role of Rome in human history could be is just and dignified. It was the gods’ offer of a humane society for the world, in which evil would be overcome by the concerted physical and ethical courage of the Roman people. Unfortunately, even in the poem’s projected future that role remains only a possibility, doomed to be frustrated, not only by those who do not understand it, but by the character who is expected to bring it into being, Aeneas. The reader is constantly confronted with the paradox that in pursuit of this Roman ideal, Aeneas becomes less than he was. Kenneth Quinn wrote in his book Virgil’s Aeneid: A Critical Description, that Virgil is ‘‘rarely completely on the side of any character in his poem and completely against the character opposing him.’’ It is impossible to find a character in the epic who does not show some ambiguity. Nevertheless, criticism, particularly of the major characters, has too often attempted to read characters as either good or bad and not as Virgil meant them to be read, human and fallible. The characters make their own lives and deaths with their decisions. Like all great literature, the Aeneid is about characters’ reactions to events and to each other. Moral responsibility cannot be shirked. Tears are not only shed by men and women, and caused by them. Presiding over human action and choices are the gods. Divine providence is as ambiguous and dark as human nature in the Aeneid. Critics and readers focus on Juno’s rage. More disconcerting is the chilling picture of the gods destroying Troy on the night of the city’s fall. The vision of these vast beings pulling up the walls of Troy, while antlike humans fight and flee is terrifying. Troy is not innocent, but on that night it hardly seems to matter. Only Jupiter rises above this divine terror. His is the vision, his is the disposition of all things toward a plan, but it is only late in the poem that he masters the other divine powers in the poem’s universe. The new world order is being mapped out not merely on earth, but in heaven. Thematic discussions take up a large part of critical analysis, particularly those aimed at firsttime readers who meet the poem in translation. Virgil’s characters and themes are memorable because they tap into constants of the human
1 8
E p i c s
f o r
situation and because of his technique. For readers who do not know Latin, a good entry into Virgil’s technique is his use of imagery. It has been remarked that Virgil has a small vocabulary of images. What Virgil does with that relatively restricted range of images is more important. Virgil in his chosen dactylic hexameter was perhaps the most technically skilled poet in the history of western literature. It has even been suggested that Virgil’s perfection exhausted the possibilities of the hexameter at the same time it created an expectation for it. This perfection cannot be experienced in a translation. What can be seen in a good translation, and even more clearly with a good translation and a little Latin, is the way Virgil chooses and arranges his words and ideas within a pattern of symmetry and variation. The meaning of the whole is always greater than the meaning of the individual words. From individual lines up to the poem as a whole, Virgil constantly balances ideas, images, characters, and actions against one another. Within that balancing he uses variety. This variety is not an exact one-on-one replacement. Instead Virgil’s variation extends meaning and action a little at a time. It occurs from the level of the line to the level of verse paragraphs to whole books and in the poem as a whole. For example, one short passage in Book 1 (lines 1.490–504), which introduces Dido for the first time, shows Virgil at his best. Aeneas is looking at a representation of Penthesilea, an Amazon queen who died helping her Trojan allies. This work of art begins to function as a simile as the narrative moves on to the approach of Dido. Dido appears exactly in the center of the fifteen-line passage. Her appearance is accompanied by another simile comparing her to Diana and her followers dancing through the wilderness. Penthesilea is used to bring Dido on the stage since she too is a queen who will die because of helping the Trojans. The image of the Amazon moving through the armies like fire begins the passage and Dido’s radiance as she moves through the crowd ends it. The comparison with Diana looks positive, but it is subtly dangerous. There is an ironic resonance in the line that records the happiness in Latona’s heart for the grace of her divine daughter, since Latona’s children had been known to destroy those who thought themselves happier than the gods. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on Aeneid, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
Jennifer Howard In the following essay, Howard evaluates the contribution Sarah Ruden makes in her blank-verse translation of the Aeneid. For more than 2,500 years, classical epic has been the province of men: written by, for, and about them, and passed down through the centuries by male translators. One could certainly describe Virgil’s Aeneid as a manly poem. From its armsand-the-man opening to its climactic blood bath on the battlefield, the Latin epic tells a tale of exile, combat, and slaughter, with a body count rivaling that of Homer’s Iliad. Women figure mostly as collateral damage. In what appears to be a first, however, a woman has finally tried her hand at bringing Virgil’s dactylic hexameters to a modern, English-speaking public. This month Yale University Press publishes a blank-verse translation by the poet and classicist Sarah Ruden. And she has plenty of company. The Aeneid has never been a forgotten work, but since the most recent millennial turn, it has enjoyed a burst of renewed popularity with translators. Four major English-language versions have appeared in the past three years alone. They include a blockbuster 2006 translation from Viking by the late Robert Fagles, who was an emeritus professor of comparative literature at Princeton University. In 2005, Stanley Lombardo, a professor of classics at the University of Kansas, came out with a version, published by the Hackett Publishing Company, that has legions of admirers. And Frederick Ahl, a professor of classics and comparative literature at Cornell University, weighed in with a version last November, published by Oxford University Press.
ALTHOUGH MOST SCHOLARS AGREE THAT WOMEN HAVE, UNTIL NOW, MOSTLY STEERED CLEAR OF GREEK AND LATIN EPIC, THEY HAVE MORE THAN ONE THEORY ABOUT WHY.’’
It raises an urgent question—What price empire?—even as it creates a foundational myth of how a great empire came to be. In an age that has had its fill of war and foreign adventures, Virgil’s epic, written 2,000 years ago, still speaks volumes. Although the biographical details remains sketchy, we know that Virgil (70 BC –19 BC ) lived through the civil wars that marked the death throes of the Roman Republic and the birth of the Roman Empire. He found a powerful patron, Maecenas, at the court of Augustus Caesar and probably read the Aeneid to the emperor and his sister, Octavia. We also know that the epic was unfinished at Virgil’s death. Almost immediately, however, it became required reading for Roman schoolboys, for whom it was a model tale of empire building and the making of a leader. But this war story is also a tale of piety, loyalty, sacrifice, grief, and perseverance. It describes how a family and a people survive catastrophe—the sack of Troy—and make a new home for themselves, founding what will one day become a great empire, Rome.
At least two more editions are in the works, one by the poet and translator David Ferry, widely admired for his Horace translations, and the other by Jane Wilson Joyce, a professor of literature in the classical-studies program at Centre College, in Kentucky, who is about four-fifths of the way through her own Aeneid.
The first six books of the tale describe Aeneas’ flight from Troy with his father, Anchises, and his young son, Iulus. Along the way, the hero encounters storms, shipwreck, and ill-fated romance. He briefly falls for Dido, queen of Carthage, who kills herself after Aeneas abandons her to fulfill his destiny.
All this activity comes at a time when scholars have broken free of the constraints imposed by a tradition that stretches back to the early English translations of the 17th and 18th centuries. Bringing a sense of personal passion to the task, modern translators are reminding readers that for all the fierceness and grandeur of the events it describes, the Aeneid is also intimate, at times even tender.
The second, less familiar half of the epic— Books 7–12—follows the hero as he lands in Italy and must fight what amounts to a bitter civil war to claim his empire. Aeneas wins, but not before countless warriors have slaughtered one another. The epic ends with an especially troubling moment: Aeneas denies mercy to Turnus, leader of the opposing force, and skewers him in a fit of rage on the battlefield. The moment ends the story on a discordant
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
1 9
A e n e i d
note, as the most faithful and pious of heroes succumbs to a dramatic loss of self-control. It is likely that Virgil did not intend to end the book with that scene; he probably had in mind a much longer work, which would have followed Aeneas’ evolution from warrior to statesman. Either way the harsh ending and the story’s account of the human cost of war have kept scholars debating: Was Virgil an empire booster, or a critic who managed to question the imperial enterprise even as he celebrated it? Our own recent, bloody history makes it easy to hear echoes in Virgil’s tragedy. That has made the Aeneid even more appealing to a post-Vietnam generation of translators. ‘‘Particularly when you get meaningless wars like World War I, Vietnam, and Iraq, the legitimacy of death gets questioned,’’ says Richard F. Thomas, a professor of Greek and Latin and director of graduate studies in the classics department at Harvard University. ‘‘This is a poem that activates that question pretty well: Is Rome worth it?’’ He points to a 1971 translation by Allen Mandelbaum as one that has been particularly popular with instructors ‘‘who wanted to get Virgil as a postVietnam poet.’’ That resonance has not faded. The cover photo on Lombardo’s 2005 version is a closeup of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, with the names of the fallen inscribed on black stone. On the subject of Virgil’s attitude toward war, Sarah Ruden warns against casting an ancient tragedy as some kind of modern political statement. ‘‘People make a fundamental mistake arguing about the politics of the Aeneid,’’ says Ruden, a visiting fellow at Yale Divinity School. ‘‘It’s about things that have to be, about which people have no choice, and that means it’s about submission to the divine will.’’ Ruden acknowledges ‘‘a lot of grappling’’ with that aspect of the Aeneid. ‘‘This runs up hard against my Quaker faith because Quakers are not strongly about accepting the divine will,’’ she says. ‘‘People are bound to express their faith in God by going out and changing things for the better.’’ Born in 1962 in Bowling Green, Ohio, and raised in the countryside, Ruden grew up Methodist and became a Quaker late in her graduate training at Harvard University. She had already studied and translated Virgil as a classics major at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, where she wrote her senior thesis on the poet’s Eclogues.
2 0
E p i c s
f o r
‘‘It was all about stylistic hotdogging and emotional grandstanding,’’ she says. ‘‘I’d had enough Latin by that time that I could see what an amazing writer he was.’’ She did her doctoral work in classics at Harvard. There, she recalls, ‘‘somebody told me, ‘Don’t work on Ovid. All of these women work on Ovid.’’’ Rather than study a writer known for his love elegies as well as the Metamorphoses, she chose the harderedged satirist Petronius instead. Scholars, she believes, should be careful not to wall themselves off. ‘‘Several generations of women have been trained in classical languages and literature just the same as men. But you still see many, many women working on love poetry— a tiny portion of the works that survive—and talking and writing endlessly about ‘gender’ in prescribed terms. It’s like a seraglio.’’ Throughout her career, Ruden has not let gender determine which texts she works with or how she approaches them. She has published translations of Petronius’ Satyricon, Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, and the Homeric Hymns. Last year she arrived at Yale to work on her current project, which she describes as ‘‘an exploration of the letters of Paul against the background of Greco-Roman literature.’’ Ruden intends her translations for popular and classroom audiences rather than for fellow scholars. Like many of Virgil’s translators, she is a published poet in her own right. She holds a master’s degree from the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. Even in her own work, Ruden has never been drawn to free-form verse. ‘‘I haven’t published any nonmetrical poetry,’’ she says. ‘‘I think my personal inclinations can be justified in terms of ancient poetry, which is very strictly metrical, very intricately metrical.’’ That predilection matches up well with Virgil’s hexameter scheme. The trick for Ruden, as for every translator, is how to render Virgil’s economical Latin compelling in English, which is a far baggier language. Like many other translators, including Robert Fitzgerald and David Ferry, Ruden opted to work in iambic pentameter. More unusual was her decision to translate roughly line for line, so that her Aeneid is about the same length as the original. Most English versions run longer. The risk of her approach, she says, ‘‘is too much compression.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
I could even be accused of translating in a way that’s inappropriate to English.’’ But she did not approach the epic for the poetic challenge of it, or to be a feminist trailblazer. She signed on for practical reasons. ‘‘I had to do it to stay in translation,’’ she explains. ‘‘I had to do a major work. I had to do one that’s taught very often.’’ She continues, ‘‘But I got caught up. This was something that came to mean a lot to me.’’ Here her personal history guided her. After completing her doctorate, Ruden found her first teaching job at the University of Cape Town. Living in South Africa, a country still gripped by turmoil at the end of apartheid, she says she came to understand how Virgil felt about the brutality of civil war. ‘‘How imperial conflict works itself out isn’t an academic matter for me,’’ she explains. ‘‘The Aeneid isn’t a stiff antiquarian pageant. It’s immediate and primal. ‘They’re taking our stuff! They want all of it! They’re killing us for it! Let’s kill them first!’’’ ‘‘I don’t believe I put the slightest strain on the Latin in trying to echo Virgil’s defensiveness and helpless grief,’’ she says, ‘‘but first I had to understand it, and Africa gave me that gift.’’ Although most scholars agree that women have, until now, mostly steered clear of Greek and Latin epic, they have more than one theory about why. Stephen Harrison, a professor of classical languages and literature at the University of Oxford, believes that the phenomenon dates back to the time when the works themselves took shape. ‘‘Epic was perceived in antiquity as a male prestige genre,’’ he wrote in an e-mail message to The Chronicle, ‘‘and the fact that anyone who knows any classical languages will have a view on a translation of Homer or Virgil makes it a tough thing to do, especially for women in prefeminist days when it was wrongly thought that women could not learn classical languages to the levels of men.’’ Another scholar, Barbara Weiden Boyd, thinks that the combination of language and genre has not been very hospitable to women. A professor of classics at Bowdoin College, she has published a textbook of selections from the Aeneid. ‘‘There’s something about Latin, but there’s also something about epic, because that’s also so implicated and embedded in Western literary hierarchy,’’ Boyd says. ‘‘The subject matter is about the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
world of men, but it’s also poetry that forms men and that educates men and that’s for a male readership, and somehow that all works together, it seems to me.’’ For Stanley Lombardo, the tradition of English translation hasn’t helped. ‘‘Pope’s Iliad and Odyssey established this standard for epic decorum, and it’s all grand and high diction. What woman would want to touch that?’’ Lombardo has made a name for himself not only as a translator but also as a performer of Homer and Virgil. He is emblematic of the new breed of Virgil translator, for whom the Aeneid is anything but stuffy and highfalutin. ‘‘This is living literature, and that’s how it should be rendered,’’ he says. ‘‘The immediacy of Greek and Latin literature is astonishing when you read it that way.’’ To do justice to the Aeneid, Lombardo says, ‘‘it’s got to pulse with life.’’ Richard Thomas, of Harvard, points to a phrase in Lombardo’s edition that illustrates that turn in translation. ‘‘Without very much justification on the level of Virgil’s Latin but a great deal of justification from what’s going on in the poem,’’ he says, ‘‘Lombardo writes ‘shock and awe,’ which immediately takes one to more-recent events and sets one asking the question, Are we Rome?’’ Jane Wilson Joyce, well into her own translation of the Aeneid, has, like Ruden, opted for a line-for-line approach. ‘‘I try, at least in general, to keep a vaguely dactylic rhythm going, but it’s amazing how often it wants to turn around into anapests,’’ she says. The economy of Latin compared to English is ‘‘so unfair,’’ she adds. ‘‘It’s just a joy.’’ Like Ruden, she sees beyond the story’s martial themes: ‘‘I find Virgil a tender presence. So even when horrible things are happening on the battlefield, there is a tenderness, and his feel for human relationships, his feel for landscape, and his pity for humans is something that I find intensely appealing.’’ Joyce laughs. ‘‘I don’t know—I’m in love with the guy.’’ Such a sense of personal connection, Sarah Ruden believes, gives female translators an edge over their male counterparts. ‘‘I’m going to get killed for voicing this, but I believe women have the right attitude,’’ she says. ‘‘Women get more involved. The authors are more real to us. We develop relationships with them.’’ Not long ago, she heard a talk at Yale given by Edith Grossman, who translates Gabriel Garcı´ a Ma´rquez’s works into English and has
V o l u m e
1
2 1
A e n e i d
done an English-language version of Don Quixote. ‘‘I came away convinced that women, not men, are the natural translators for the great books,’’ Ruden says.
‘‘You shouldn’t take that to an author like Virgil,’’ Ruden argues. ‘‘You’re not being true to his context if you’re thinking in those terms. You have to go back to tragedy.’’
into the undergraduate curriculum, but, like Aeneas, they have to fight to earn their place. In Rak’s experience, an edition becomes entrenched for a while as the classroom favorite, ‘‘and it’s difficult to even think of another translation that could compete with it,’’ he says. ‘‘But along comes a new translation, and people want to have a look at it.’’ Every new translation offers the tantalizing possibility that it will strike closer to the thrill and beauty of the original than any has before. ‘‘The sorrow with any translation,’’ Lombardo says, ‘‘is that you’re never really quite there. You may be someplace almost as good.’’ Behind the hope is a never-ending struggle to crack the code of language. ‘‘I know the Latin of a particular passage once I’ve worked on it,’’ says Ferry. ‘‘Then I start my whole life over again.’’
‘‘Everybody in here is a person, an individual, and they get annihilated in these big events. You have these injured or abandoned women; you have these men who are cannon fodder.’’
‘‘Great works of literature do come from God,’’ Ruden says. ‘‘They are so miraculous, you can’t figure out how a human being could have pulled off something like this.’’
That sense of poignant fatalism touches translators male and female. David Ferry, an emeritus professor of English at Wellesley College, is in the first stages of translation, at work on Book 3 of the Aeneid. But even in the grand early passages, in which Aeneas and his family flee Troy, Ferry sees ‘‘so much else going on besides the epic’’—for example, the way that Aeneas’ boy, Iulus, ‘‘is trying to keep up, matching his father’s footsteps’’ as the city burns behind them . . . .
A translator must strive to see the work in its own terms, she believes, while knowing that such a goal will always be just out of reach. ‘‘But it’s something that you keep pushing and pushing and pushing, until you pass out from exhaustion. You have to keep up hope for an impossible thing. Again, it comes back to religion.’’
Richard Thomas, who taught Ruden at Harvard, puts it this way: ‘‘Epic poetry is the title we give it, but look onto any page and you’re looking at human voices, male and female, you’re looking at the human condition, you’re looking at worlds gone wrong, you’re looking at power and victory and defeat.’’
Source: Jennifer Howard, ‘‘Measuring the Aeneid on a Human Scale,’’ in Chronicle of Higher Education, Vol. 54, No. 36, May 16, 2008, pp. B8 B12.
But she cautions that women who translate ‘‘must follow the Edith Grossman line’’ and keep a certain scholarly distance and balance. ‘‘The danger of emotional engagement is to impose the self on this alien author,’’ she says. Women now have far greater liberties and a much greater sense of their historical oppression than the women of 2,000 years ago did, but that doesn’t mean that a 21st-century translator should, say, portray Dido as a victim of male chauvinism.
Translators take up a text like the Aeneid for an army of reasons. For Sarah Ruden, it began as a practical decision. For Stanley Lombardo, Virgil represented the logical next step in retracing the literary journey from Homer to Dante. (The Inferno is Lombardo’s current project.) For publishers, however, the decision to take on the Aeneid is more and more perilous. How many additional versions does the world need? ‘‘It’s fair to say that it gets more difficult to do this the more translations are published,’’ says Brian Rak, Lombardo’s editor at Hackett. Most Aeneid translations are intended to work their way
2 2
E p i c s
f o r
No wonder the ancient poets always began their work with an invocation of the muse.
William S. Anderson In the following excerpt, Anderson discusses the significance of the opening line of the Aeneid: ‘‘I sing of arms and of the man.’’ It is not enough . . . to describe Vergil’s opening [‘‘I sing of arms and of the man’’] as a skillful allusion to inevitable rivalry with Homer. To be sure, he used two nouns of different orders, one referring to a person, one to a thing, and the nouns suggest main elements of the two Homeric narratives. Two nouns together, however, interact; they cannot be absorbed separately as mere equivalents to separate Greek epics. When George Bernard Shaw entitled his comedy Arms and the Man, he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what Vergil meant with his pair of nouns: they affect
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
A e n e i d
each other. Shaw humorously explores some of the paradoxical ways in which warfare affects the personality of the warrior. One appreciates the comedy all the more if he has read the Aeneid and grasped the near-tragic vision which Vergil presents of Aeneas the man of arms. Homer knew that warfare can turn a man into a beast, but in the Iliad war remains a fact with which men must deal; within the limited context of battle, men can become heroes. It is part of Achilles’ tragedy that he can no longer accept the war as a necessary fact for himself. Vergil goes beyond Homer, since he does not present war as a necessary or desirable fact, and furthermore he shows not only that war brutalizes men, but also that men alter the meaning of war. Note, however, that he does not define Aeneas from the beginning as a tragic warrior, as Homer does Achilles. Instead of the negative term ‘‘anger’’ (later elaborated for its ruinous effects), Vergil uses the neutral word ‘‘arms,’’ which he explains in the next lines as crucially important for the establishment of Rome. Together, ‘‘arms and the man’’ could be viewed as positive words, interacting creatively to make possible the good that undoubtedly existed in Rome. So from the beginning Vergil has started a theme of rich ambiguity, a theme which runs through the poem and remains provocatively rich even after the last lines. This Vergilian theme of arms and man is so crucial that the reader should be prepared for it a little more elaborately. Vergil narrates two distinct occasions of war: the fall of Troy and the conquest of Latium. In the first, Aeneas meets defeat; he battles heroically—and his triumphs are not neglected—but the gods do not permit him to die, with conventional heroism, fighting for Trojan home and country. Although briefly bestialized by the exigencies of desperate resistance to the Greeks, Aeneas remains uncompromised; and it is evident that the gods have selected him because he has more importance as man than mere warrior. The second war is more complex. It starts under checkered circumstances, not without some responsibility on the Trojan side. It continues despite many cruel losses on both sides. Aeneas loses control of his passions and slaughters indiscriminately until at last he vents his anger on the guiltless Lausus and the guilty, but devoted, father Mezentius. Neither of these victories is clean and glorious, neither entirely tarnished by circumstances, but our uncertainty as to the attitude to adopt toward them applies to Aeneas as well. What is this war doing to him and to his ultimate goal? We see now that Vergil never
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
intended to limit our sight to arms and Aeneas in themselves. We are always concerned, as we were but rarely in the Iliad, with the ultimate purpose to which this warfare is instrumental. Aeneas while being a man, also stands for Rome itself. If his victories are compromised, what happens to the Rome he founds? That is the tragic question which Vergil makes us face in Book Twelve, as we watch the encounter between Aeneas and Turnus. Without any obvious guilt on his part (such as Achilles’ anger), Aeneas becomes so involved in the Italian war as to render his final victory equivocal. A few words about Vergil’s verb ‘‘I sing.’’ Just as Vergil felt free to exploit Homeric convention and to present a theme of complexity that accorded with the new complexities of civilization seven centuries after Homer, so he altered somewhat his relation to material and reader. I have already emphasized the tradition of impersonality and insisted that Vergil could not have begun with a set of autobiographical lines. Now it is time to note the other facet of the poem: with all its impersonal narrative devices, it is also highly personal. A recent writer has used the term ‘‘subjective,’’ and perhaps that is more serviceable here, to avoid the awkwardness of the pair ‘‘impersonal’’ and ‘‘personal.’’ Vergil’s subjectivity is developed from a post-Homeric attitude in Greek and Roman writers, who openly placed themselves in their poetry, expressing attitudes toward narrated events and openly influencing readers. It is too much to detect in ‘‘I sing’’ an assertion of this artistic method. The reader, however, will do well to notice how often and ambiguously Vergil suggests attitudes, especially sympathy for Aeneas’ victims. . . . In the myths about Troy, there is little doubt that the city deserved its destruction. A heritage of deceit and ruthless exploitation culminated in the selfish lust of Paris, who stole Helen, the wife of the man who was his host in Sparta, and heedlessly took her back to Troy, where the Trojan leaders permitted him to enjoy his criminal passion. Homer adds to this heritage of evil by staging a violation of truce negotiations: Pandarus shoots Menelaus, the injured husband, at the moment when a carefully arranged duel has promised to settle the war with a minimum of bloodshed. Thus, although the individual Trojan might feel deeply the defeat of his country, it was conventional to depict the end of Troy as an event favored and promoted by gods as well as men. To escape from Troy, defeated but alive, would mean
V o l u m e
1
2 3
A e n e i d
to leave behind the sinful taint of the past and to seek some new, creative future. And since Aeneas was permitted to escape, it should also follow that he himself was hardly tainted by the misdeeds of Paris and other members of Priam’s family. In Italy, destiny had chosen a new environment for the Trojans under Aeneas; there, the good aspects of the Trojan heritage could flourish, stimulated by the change of milieu and the proximity to the new Italian culture. At one level, then, the flight from Troy to Rome signifies the abandonment of a corrupt past and dedication to a creative future in a new land—all this happening far back in the mythical past just after the Trojan War, that is, around 1200 BC But Vergil saw more immediate, contemporary relevance in the Trojan theme, and he shared his insight with other writers of the period. Also writing in the 20’s, Horace published a poem in which he made much of the Trojan War, the move to Italy, and the hostility of Juno. . . . Horace’s theme concerns the absolute and necessary break between guilty Troy, which must remain ruined and uninhabited, and the new land founded by the Trojan survivors. To this extent, his short Ode 3.3 parallels Vergil’s epic. Horace also links this remote mythical past with the present by comparing the reward of apotheosis won by Romulus, Aeneas’ descendant who founded Rome, with the divinity to be granted Augustus for his heroic achievements. For Horace the myth of Troy-Rome was a symbolic story which could be applied fruitfully to contemporary history. Vergil made a similar application on a larger epic canvass. Source: William S. Anderson, ‘‘Virgil Begins His Epic,’’ in The Art of the ‘‘Aeneid,’’ Prentice Hall, 1969, pp. 1 23.
SOURCES Fagles, Robert, trans., The Aeneid, by Virgil, Penguin Classics, 2008. Garner, Richard, ‘‘Virgil Up to Speed,’’ in New Criterion, Vol. 26, No. 9, May 2008, p. 85.
Matyszak, Philip, Chronicle of the Roman Republic, Thames & Hudson, 2003, p. 19. Quinn, Kenneth, Virgil’s ‘‘Aeneid’’: A Critical Descrip tion, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1968, p. 8. Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, translated by Robert Graves, Penguin Classics, 2007.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Fagles, Robert, trans., Aeneid, by Virgil, Penguin Classics, 2008. Shortly before his death, seasoned translator and classics scholar, Robert Fagles published his translation of Virgil’s epic, which won high critical acclaim. Marks, Anthony, and Graham Tingay, The Romans, San Val, 2005. This book is for younger readers, but its layout makes it an excellent source for presentations. Handouts and charts can be simply made by enlarging pages. Reynolds, L. D., ‘‘Vergil,’’ in Texts and Transmissions: A Survey of Latin Classics, Clarendon Press, 1986, pp. 433 36. This article is a good introduction to the manu scripts that preserved the text of the Aeneid. Ruden, Sarah, The Aeneid, Yale University Press, 2009. Sarah Ruden’s beautifully written, line by line translation preserves the meaning of epigram matic statements where it has been lost in other versions. Some critics have said this is the clean est of modern translations. Williams, R. D., and T. S. Pattie, Virgil: His Poetry through the Ages, British Library, 1982. This introduction is carefully geared to the first time reader of the Aeneid. It includes a synopsis of the epic. The chapter ‘‘Virgil Today’’ is probably the best place to begin reading criticism on the Aeneid.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Aeneas
Lancel, Serge, Carthage: A History, translated by Anto nia Nevill, Blackwell, 1997, pp. 21 31.
Caesar Augustus
Latacz, Joachim, Troy and Homer: Towards a Solution of an Old Mystery, translated by Kevin Windle and Rosh Ireland, Oxford University Press, 2005.
Lavinia
Leithauser, Brad, ‘‘Wars and a Man,’’ in New York Times Book Review, December 17, 2006, p. 1.
2 4
E p i c s
f o r
Dido AND Carthage
Roman mythology Virgil Virgil AND Aeneid
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Beowulf The Old English poem Beowulf follows its main character from heroic youth to heroic old age. Beowulf saves a neighboring people from the monster Grendel; eventually becomes the king of his own people; and dies defending them from a dragon. It is a great adventure story and a deeply philosophical one. Scholars differ over the poem’s original purpose and audience, but Beowulf probably appealed to a wide audience and garnered a range of responses.
ANONYMOUS 1000
Beowulf survives in one manuscript, which is known as British Library Cotton Vitellius A. 15. At least one scholar believes the manuscript is the author’s original, but most scholars believe it is the last in a succession of copies. Beowulf may have been written at any time between about 675 CE and the date of the manuscript, about 1000 CE . No one knows where the manuscript was before it surfaced in the hands of Laurence Nowell in the sixteenth century. An edition of Beowulf was published by G. S. Thorkelin in 1815, but for over one hundred years, study focused on Beowulf not as poetry, but on what it could tell about the early Germanic tribes and language (philology). J. R. R. Tolkien’s ‘‘The Monsters and the Critics’’ redirected study to the poem as literature. The 1939 excavation of the Sutton Hoo ship burial in Suffolk, England, and Tolkien’s own Lord of the Rings, influenced by his lifelong study of Beowulf, helped to interest general readers in the
2 5
B e o w u l f
poem. Since then translations and adaptations of the poem have increased the poem’s audience and recognition. Notably, Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney published a bestselling, easy-to-read modern English translation in 2001 that was reissued in 2007 with one hundred illustrations. This epic poem has influenced modern adventure fantasy and inspired at least two bestsellers, comic books, and even a Beowulf/Star Trek Voyager cross-over.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY As of the early 2000, the person who wrote Beowulf remained unidentified. Scholars had suggested at least two possible candidates, but neither of these was generally accepted. Many dates and places have been suggested for the composition of Beowulf. Most of the theories suffer from wishful thinking: Scholars connect it to a favorite time and place. It is no use, however, to show where and when it might have been written. It must be shown that it could not have been written anywhere else at any other time in order for a theory to be conclusive. Early critics often stressed the antiquity of the poet’s material and attempted to break the poem down into a number of older lays (see Style section below). Others have pointed to Northumbria during the lifetime of the scholar Bede (c. 672–c. 735) as the place and time in which the poem was written because Northumbria was culturally advanced and Bede was a great Anglo-Saxon scholar. The kingdom of Mercia during the reign of Offa the Great (756–798) has also been suggested, partially because the poet included thirty-one lines praising Offa’s ancestor, another Offa. In subsequent criticism a later composition date became popular. Scholar Kevin Kiernan believes that the existing manuscript may be the author’s own copy, which would mean the poem was written very close to 1000 CE . An early date for Beowulf (675–700) has frequently connected it with East Anglia. It has been suggested that the East Anglian royal family considered themselves descended from Wiglaf, who comes to Beowulf’s aid during the dragon fight. The main argument for this early date, however, is based on archaeology. The poem’s descriptions of magnificent burials reflect practices of the late sixth and seventh centuries, but this does not mean the poem was written then. A person witnessing such a burial might describe it accurately fifty years later to a child who might
2 6
E p i c s
f o r
then repeat the description another fifty years later to a person who might then write it down a century after the burial happened. Some scholars assume that the poem, celebrating the ancestors of the Vikings, could not have been written after their raids on England began. Others suggest that a mixed Viking Anglo-Saxon era or even the reign of the Danish Canute (King of England when the manuscript was written) would have been the most obvious time. It has also been suggested that the poem might have been written to gain the allegiance of Vikings settled in England to the family of Alfred, since they claimed Scyld as an ancestor. However, it is just as feasible that Alfred’s family added Scyld to their family tree because he and his family were so famous through an already existing Beowulf.
PLOT SUMMARY Narrative in Beowulf The action of Beowulf is not straightforward. The narrator foreshadows actions that occur later. Characters talk about things that have already happened. Both narrator and characters recall incidents and characters outside the poem’s main narrative. These digressions (see Style section below) are connected thematically to the main action. Critics once saw the digressions as flaws. The poet, however, consciously used them to characterize human experience, stressing recurring patterns, and to represent the characters’ attempts to understand their situation.
The Kings of the Danes and the Coming of Grendel Scyld was found by the Danes as a small boy in a boat washed ashore. The Danes at this time were without a leader and oppressed by their neighboring countries. Scyld grew to be a great warrior king and made the Danes a powerful nation. Dying, he ordered the Danes to send him back in a ship to the sea from which he came. They placed him in a ship surrounded by treasures and pushed it out to sea— and ‘‘no one knows who received that freight.’’ Scyld’s son, Beowulf Scylding, becomes king in his turn. His son Healfdene takes the throne, and thenHealfdene’ssonHrothgarsucceedshim.Hrothgar builds a great hall, Heorot, in which to entertain and rewardhispeople.There are greatfestivities at its opening, but the music and laughter enraged Grendel, a human monster living underwater nearby.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Beowulf was adapted in 1981 as the featurelength animated film Grendel, Grendel, Grendel by independent Australian director and producer Alexander Stitt. The film is narrated by Peter Ustinov as the voice of Grendel.
Kenneth Pickering and Christopher Segal adapted Beowulf as a rock musical. The book and music were published by Samuel French in 1982 as Beowulf: A Rock Musical.
A movie version of Beowulf was made in 1999 by Dimension Studio, starring Christopher Lambert and Rhona Mitra. In 2003, Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxons was made by Arts Magic Studio. The film traces the origins of the tribes in the epic and examines the story according to the society of its time. In 2004, Educational Video Network produced Background to Beowulf, a DVD that explains historical and literary traditions relevant to the epic.
Benjamin Bagby is famous for his onstage dramatization of Beowulf. His performance was recorded on DVD in 2006 by Koch Vision.
In 2007, Cerebellum released a DVD study guide about Beowulf for its Rochetbooks series.
A computer-generated animation of Beowulf was released in 2007 by Paramount Studios with voices and character images by Ray Winstone, Crispin Glover, Angelina Jolie, Robin Wright Penn, and Anthony Hopkins.
A 48-minute DVD production of Beowulf, created by Eagle Rock Productions in 2008, is intended to be an entertaining way to learn about a great book.
Outlander, starring James Caviezel and Sophia Myles, is a 2008 movie from the Weinstein Company with a plot that follows the Beowulf story, but the hero is an extraterrestrial.
The 2009 film Life in the Age of Beowulf, available on DVD, explores archaeological discoveries at a village settled during the historical period in which Beowulf is set.
A modern retelling with contemporary dialogue, the 2005 movie Beowulf and Grendel was filmed by Starz/Anchor Bay Studio in Iceland and has a cast of Icelandic actors.
That night Grendel breaks into Heorot, slaughters and eats thirty of Hrothgar’s men (the king’s warriors would normally sleep in the hall). This happens again the next night. After that, ‘‘it was easy to find him who sought rest somewhere else.’’ Grendel haunts the hall by night for twelve years. The Danes despair of ridding themselves of him. They can neither defeat him nor come to terms with him.
Beowulf Comes to the Kingdom of Hrothgar Danish sailors bring news of Grendel to King Hygelac of the Geats whose nephew (also named Beowulf Scylding) has a growing reputation for strength and monster-killing. Beowulf, supported
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
by the wisest men of his people, resolves to go to Hrothgar’s aid and sets off by ship with fourteen companions. They land in Denmark and are met and questioned by a coast guard who, impressed with Beowulf, sends them to Heorot. Hrothgar receives them and accepts Beowulf’s offer of help. Hrothgar knew Beowulf as a child and interprets Beowulf’s arrival at his court as an act of gratitude. He had sheltered Beowulf’s father, Ecgtheow, when he was an exile and made peace for him with his powerful enemies. Unferth, an official of the court, attempts to discredit Beowulf with the story of a swimming match Beowulf had as a boy with another boy, Breca. Beowulf exonerates himself with his version of the swimming match. Wealtheow, Hrothgar’s
V o l u m e
1
2 7
B e o w u l f
queen, welcomes Beowulf. The young man tells her that he would lay down his life to defeat Grendel. She thanks God for his resolve.
‘‘man-price,’’ the payment made to a man’s lord or his family by someone responsible for his death as an indemnity.) A lay, or short narrative poem, of a famous battle is sun as entertainment.
Beowulf’s Fight with Grendel
Wealtheow acknowledges Beowulf’s great deed, but counsels her husband not to alienate his nephew Hrothulf by adopting Beowulf. She hopes aloud that Hrothulf will remember all she and the king did for him when he was young and will treat his young cousins, their sons, well. Wealtheow then gives Beowulf a magnificent golden necklace (worn at that time by both men and women). Wealtheow asks Beowulf to be a good friend to her sons. She ends by saying that in Heorot all the men are loyal to one another and do her will. The original Anglo-Saxon audience knew from existing legends and stories that Hrothulf would later kill his two cousins.
Hrothgar gives Beowulf and his companions the duty of guarding Heorot that night. The young man decides to face Grendel without weapons since Grendel does not use them. He tells those around him that the outcome of the fight is in the hands of God. The Danes leave the hall, Beowulf and his companions bed down for the night. When darkness falls, Grendel comes stalking across the empty moors. Intent on slaughter and food, he has no idea what is waiting for him in the hall. He bursts open the Heorot’s heavy ironbound doors with the touch of his hand and rushes in, grabs one of the sleeping Geats, eats him, greedily gulping down the blood, and then grabs Beowulf. Beowulf has had a moment to get oriented, however, and wrestles with Grendel. Surprised by Beowulf’s strength Grendel tries to get away, but cannot. They struggle, Beowulf refusing to break his grip. Beowulf’s companions try to wound Grendel, only to find he is impervious to their weapons. In the end, Grendel manages pull away from Beowulf, leaving his arm in the hero’s grasp. He flees, bleeding, to his lair.
The Morning after the Battle With morning the Danes come from the surrounding countryside to see the huge arm, its nails like steel, and the bloody trail of the dying monster. Some of them follow the trail to the water’s edge and come back singing Beowulf’s praises. One of the king’s men compares Beowulf to the great dragon-slayer, Sigemund. (In the legends on which Nibelungenlied is based, it is Sigemund’s son Siegfried who is the dragon slayer.) Hrothgar thanks God that he has lived to see Grendel stopped. He publicly announces that he will now consider Beowulf his son. Beowulf tells the Hrothgar that he wishes the king might have seen the fight. He says that he had hoped to kill Grendel outright, but it was not God’s will.
Celebrations in Honor of Beowulf’s Victory There is a celebration in honor of Beowulf and his companions. Hrothgar gives him magnificent gifts, including a golden banner, sword, and armor. The other Geats are given rich gifts too. Hrothgar gives treasure for the man whom Grendel has eaten. (This probably represents his wergyld, literally
2 8
E p i c s
f o r
Grendel’s Mother Comes for Vengeance and Beowulf Tracks Her to Her Lair The Geats are given new quarters for the night and Danish warriors sleep in the hall for the first time in many years. While the Danes are sleeping, Grendel’s mother comes to avenge her son. She carries off Aeschere, Hrothgar’s friend and counselor, a man who had always stood at his side in battle. Beowulf finds Hrothgar broken with grief over the loss of his friend. Hrothgar tells Beowulf what the Danes know about the monsters and the wilds where they live. Beowulf offers to track Grendel’s mother to her underwater lair, remarking that it is better to perform noble deeds before death and better to avenge a friend than mourn him too much. Hrothgar, Beowulf, and their men ride to the sea where they find Aeshere’s head at the edge of the overhanging cliffs. Unferth, now deeply impressed by Beowulf’s generous heroism, loans Beowulf his sword. Beowulf asks Hrothgar to take care of his companions and to send Hygelac the treasures he had been given for killing Grendel if he (Beowulf) dies.
Beowulf’s Fight with Grendel’s Mother Beowulf enters the water and is seized by Grendel’s mother who drags him to her den, which is dry despite its underwater entrance. Unferth’s sword is useless against this monstrous hag. Beowulf wrestles with her. The woman trips him and tries to stab him with her dagger, but the blade is turned by his chainmail (a mesh tunic of fine interlocked metal rings). He struggles away from her, grabs a great sword hanging on the wall, and strikes off her head. He sees the body of Grendel and cuts off his head too, the sword blade melting
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
in his blood. Carrying Grendel’s head and the sword’s hilt, Beowulf swims back to the surface.
Beowulf Returns from the Fight in Triumph Meanwhile from the cliffs above, the waiting men see blood welling up to the surface of the water. Hrothgar and the Danes assume the worst and make their way sorrowfully back to the hall. Beowulf’s companions linger, grieving and forlornly hoping for his return. Beowulf comes to the surface. He and his men return to the hall. He presents Grendel’s head and the hilt of the ancient sword to Hrothgar. Beowulf recounts his underwater fight to the court, acknowledging the grace of God. Hrothgar praises Beowulf and counsels him to use his strength wisely. He warns him of the temptations of prosperity which lead to arrogance and avarice. Beowulf returns Unferth’s sword. He thanks Hrothgar for his great kindness and promises him that if Hrothgar ever needs him, he shall come to his aid with a thousand warriors. Beowulf and his companions return to their ship, and Beowulf presents the kindly coast guard with a sword.
Beowulf’s Return to His Uncle’s Court Beowulf and his companions return home and go immediately to his uncle’s hall. Hygelac’s young queen, Hygd, is presiding with her husband. Hygelac welcomes his nephew back with great warmth. Beowulf narrates his adventures. In particular he talks about Hrothgar’s daughter, Freawaru, who is engaged to Ingeld, a prince whose people are hereditary enemies of the Danes. Beowulf fears the marriage will not end the feud and that Ingeld will have to decide between his people and his young wife. This passage exactly predicts what happens in the Ingeld legend. Thus the epic’s original listeners were likely moved by Beowulf’s wisdom and prescience in predicting the strife that is to come. Beowulf presents Wealtheow’s and Hrothgar’s gifts to his uncle and aunt. In return Hygelac gives his nephew a princely estate and his grandfather’s sword.
stumbles upon the treasure and steals a golden cup from it to regain his lord’s favor. The dragon in revenge terrorizes the countryside, burning Beowulf’s hall in the old king’s absence. Beowulf decides to fight the dragon. He orders an iron shield made and assembles an escort of twelve warriors plus the thief, brought along as a guide. They arrive on the cliffs above the barrow. Beowulf, feeling his death is near, looks back over his life and recounts the tragic history of his family and people. He speaks affectionately of his grandfather and the old man’s grief over the accidental death of his eldest son. He speaks bluntly of the warfare between the Geats and Swedes. He recalls his adventures in Denmark. He speaks of his loyalty to his uncle Hygelac. Finally he remembers his uncle’s disastrous raid to the Rhine and his own part in it. He recalls defeating Daegrefn, champion of the Franks, in single combat before both armies by crushing him in a bear hug. Beowulf then announces that he intends to fight the dragon alone. He goes down the path to the treasure barrow and attacks the dragon, but cannot manage to kill it. One of his men, a young warrior Wiglaf, comes to his aid. Together they kill the dragon, but Beowulf is fatally wounded. He dies saying he has no fear in God’s judgment of him and thanking God for allowing him to trade his old life for a great treasure for his people. He tells Wiglaf to take care of the Geats. Finally, he asks that they build a barrow for him on the cliffs where it will be seen and he remembered. The Geats build the barrow, place the treasure in it, and mourn their lost king as the kindest and most worthy of rulers.
CHARACTERS Aeschere Aeschere is Hrothgar’s counselor and friend, his ‘‘wing man’’ in battle. Grendel’s mother murders him in revenge for the death of her son. Hrothgar is brokenwithgriefwhenhelearnsofAeschere’sdeath.
Beowulf The Treasure and the Dragon Years pass. Beowulf’s uncle and his uncle’s son, Heardred, die in battle. Beowulf becomes king of the Geats and rules for fifty years. Then a dragon begins to threaten the land. The dragon has been sleeping on a treasure, deposited in a barrow above the sea centuries before by the last despairing survivor of a noble family. A desperate man
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Beowulf is the son of Hrethel’s daughter and Ecgtheow. From the age of seven, he is raised by his maternal grandfather. He is first and foremost the hero who kills the monsters no one else can face, but he is more than a fighter. Beowulf is a strong man who thinks and feels. His deep affection for his grandfather Hrethel and uncle Hygelac lasts to the end of his long life. He is
V o l u m e
1
2 9
B e o w u l f
capable of discernment, sensitivity, and compassion. He is concerned about what Freawaru may face in her political marriage. He understands and sympathizes with Wealtheow in her concern for her sons. He, more than any other character, has a sense of God’s hand in human affairs. He alone talks about an afterlife. His impulses are not merely courageous, they are generous. As a young man he comforts Hrothgar at Aeschere’s death, saying that glorious deeds are the best thing for a man to take into death. Dying, he thanks God that he has been allowed to trade his old life for a treasure for his people and commits their welfare to Wiglaf. Beowulf is not merely an incredibly strong man skilled in hand-to-hand combat; he is equally skilled with words. His defense against Unferth is a brilliant exercise in oration. His conversation with his uncle on his return home is a formal relation, the official report of an ambassador. When he looks backward on his life and times before his final fight, he produces the sort of historical memoir that was long the hallmark of the elder statesman. His choices may not have always been what people around him wanted, whether in his decision not to take the throne over his young cousin or in his decision to fight the dragon. His choices, however, are never without reasons with which the narrator and the audience can sympathize. Except for monsters, Beowulf kills only two human beings: Daegrefn, the champion of the Franks, during his uncle’s disastrous raid in the lands at the mouth of the Rhine, and Onela, who was responsible for his cousin Heardred’s death. Except for an expedition against the Swedes, Beowulf does not engage in any war during his reign.
Beowulf Scylding Beowulf Scylding is the son of Scyld, father of Healfdene, and grandfather of Hrothgar.
Breca Breca is the boy who has a swimming match with Beowulf. Beowulf admits it is a foolish thing to do. They are separated by a storm at sea. Breca reaches shore in Finland. Beowulf comes ashore after killing nine sea monsters who try to eat him.
Daegrefn Daegrefn is the champion of the Franks. Beowulf defeats him in single combat before the armies of the Geats and the Franks, crushing him in a bear hug.
3 0
E p i c s
f o r
Eadgils Eadgils is the son of Othere and grandson of the Swedish king Ongetheow. He and his brother Eanmund rebel against their uncle, King Onela. They are sheltered by Heardred and the Geats. Beowulf, to avenge his cousin, supports Eadgils in taking the throne.
Eanmund Son of Othere and grandson of the Swedish king Ongetheow, Eanmund and his brother Eadgils rebel against their uncle, King Onela. They are sheltered by Heardred and the Geats.
Ecglaf Ecglaf is Unferth’s father.
Ecgtheow Beowulf’s father, Ecgtheow married the unnamed daughter of Hrethel, king of the Geats. It is likely that Ecgtheow was related to the Swedish royal family, which would explain why the Swedish king, Onela, does not dispute Beowulf’s control of the Geat kingdom after Beowulf’s cousin Heardred dies in battle with the Swedes. Ecgtheow is involved in a feud so violent that only Hrothgar would shelter him. Hrothgar is able to settle the feud.
Freawaru Hrothgar’s daughter, Freawaru gets engaged to Ingeld in the hope that doing so ends the recurring war between the Danes and Ingeld’s people, the Heathobards. Beowulf’s prediction of what is likely to happen is uncannily like what the legends say did happen. The passage characterizes Beowulf as perceptive and sympathetic.
Grendel Grendel is an immensely strong cannibal. Whatever Grendel and his mother may have been in the traditions behind the present poem, in Beowulf they are descendants of Cain, the eldest son of Adam and Eve, and the first murderer. Placing Grendel and his mother in a biblical context made them even easier for the original audience to accept. They live in the wilds, cut off from human society. Grendel’s attack on the hall is motivated by his hatred of joy and light. The Danes cannot hope to come to terms with Grendel or his mother since they are completely outside and beyond human society and understanding.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
Haethcyn Second son of Hrethel, Haethcyn kills his older brother in an archery accident. Haethcyn himself is killed in the border warfare between the Geats and the Swedes. Hygelac, his younger brother, leads the relief party that saves the remnants of the Geatish army at the battle of Ravenswood.
break down, when he is faced with another monster and the death of his closest friend just when he thinks his hall and people are finally safe. Hrothgar recovers his composure and gives Beowulf a philosophy of life that, while austere and pessimistic, is fitted to the world in which they live. As hinted in the poem, he is killed by his son-in-law, Ingeld, and Heorot is burned.
Healfdene Healfdene is Beowulf Scylding’s son and the father of Hrothgar.
Heardred Heardred is the son of Hygelac and Hygd. Beowulf refuses to take the throne before him and acts as his guardian. Heardred is killed in the fighting that follows his intervention in a power struggle between two branches of the Swedish royal family.
Heorogar
Hygd Wife of Hygelac, Hygd represents a perfect queen. She offers the throne to Beowulf after her husband’s death because her son is too young. Interestingly, Hygd’s name means ‘‘thought,’’ and her husband’s name means ‘‘thoughtless.’’
Hygelac Hygelac is Hrethel’s youngest son and the hero of the battle of Ravenswood. He dies on a raid that is initially successful, but ends with the annihilation of the Geatish forces.
Heorogar is Healfdene’s second son.
Ohtere Herebeald Herebeald is Hrethel’s eldest son who is killed by his younger brother Haethcyn in an archery accident.
Ohtere is the son of Ongentheow. His sons Eadgils and Eanmund unsuccessfully rebel against his brother Onela.
Onela Heremod
Hondscio
Onela is the king of the Swedes and son of Ongentheow. His nephews Eadgils and Eanmund rebel against him. They then seek refuge with Heardred and the Geats. Onela exacts vengeance on the Geats, killing Heardred, but he does not interfere when Beowulf takes the throne. Beowulf helps Eadgils take the Swedish throne and kills Onela in vengeance for his cousin’s death.
Beowulf’s companion Hondscio is eaten by Grendel.
Ongentheow
Hrethel
Ongentheow is the king of the Swedes. He is killed at the battle of Ravenswood.
Heremod is a king of the Danes who reigns before Scyld. Despite his great promise, he grows cruel and avaricious, murdering his own supporters. Both Hrothgar and the retainer who first sings Beowulf’s praises use him as an example of an evil leader.
Hrethel is Beowulf’s maternal grandfather, Hrethel raises Beowulf from the age of seven. He dies of grief after his second son accidentally kills his eldest son. Fighting between the Geats and Swedes begins after Hrethel’s death. Beowulf remembers his grandfather with great affection.
Hrothgar Hrothgar is the great-grandson of Scyld and a successful warrior king. Hrothgar builds the greatest hall in the world and finds himself unable to defend it or his people from Grendel. Only once does his dignity and patient endurance
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Scyld Often called Scyld Scefing, Scyld is the first king of his line. In other ancient accounts, Scyld is said to have arrived alone in a boat as a small child. One tradition holds that he is the son of the biblical Noah and was born aboard the ark. Scyld appears in the genealogy of the West Saxon kings.
Unferth Unferth is characterized as Hrothgar’s ‘‘thyle,’’ but modern scholars are not exactly sure what
V o l u m e
1
3 1
B e o w u l f
this word means. In glossaries from the Old English period, the word is defined by the Latin word rhetor or orator. Unferth may be the king’s ‘‘press officer,’’ a source of official information about the king and his policies, or he may be a scribe or court jester. He is initially envious of Beowulf’s reputation and reception at court, but later Unferth offers his friendship to Beowulf.
Wealtheow Wealtheow Is a princess of the house of the Helmings and the wife of Hrothgar. She has great dignity, political sense, and status among her husband’s people. She addresses Hrothgar like a counselor.
Wiglaf Wiglaf is the young warrior who comes to the aid of Beowulf when he fights the dragon. Wiglaf is a relative of Beowulf, probably on his father’s side since his connections are Swedish. His father, Weohstan, fought on the Swedish side during their invasion of the Geats following Heardred’s meddling in the internal feuds of the Swedish royal house.
THEMES Fortitude and Wisdom For the narrator and characters, wisdom and fortitude represent an ideal to which every man aspires and which every society needs. Physical bravery was most appreciated when accompanied by understanding and discernment. This discernment was both practical and supported by a larger spiritual understanding of God and the human condition. This is the point of Hrothgar’s ‘‘sermon’’ in lines 1700 to 1782. The Danish coast guard, for example, (lines 229-300) demonstrates these qualities in his respectful treatment of Beowulf and his men. Beowulf is a fearless master of hand-to-hand combat. He is discerning in his understanding and treatment of men and women and in his sense of God. Even if his decision to fight the dragon is questionable, the narrator underlines the reasonableness of its basis. Beowulf’s uncle Hygelac, by contrast, while having great courage, lacks wisdom and falls victim to his own folly and the greater military resources of the Franks.
3 2
E p i c s
f o r
Glory and Treasure The characters in Beowulf and its original audience wanted glory, the immortality of good fame, and human memory reaching across time and space. Glory in Beowulf is usually connected with heroism in battle or with generosity. Treasure is the outward manifestation of glory. Men are eager to receive gifts of fine weapons, armor, and jewelry, much as modern athletes measure their own success by comparing their salaries relative to those of other athletes. In the epic, treasure advertises a warrior’s worth and a people’s strength. Devout Christians, however, would have tried to seek the glory that God gives to those who do his will, the imperishable treasure laid up in heaven of the Gospels. They would seek to do their duty, and more than their duty, purely for the love of God and neighbor rather than for earthly fame. Earthly treasure was to be used to do good deeds, not as a display. The narrator’s and the characters’ view of glory is a point of contention among critics. Some see lofgeornost, ‘‘most desirous of praise,’’ the poem’s last word, which is applied to Beowulf, as well as Beowulf’s own words to Hrothgar ‘‘Let him who can, gain good repute before death— that it is the finest thing afterwards for the lifeless man’’ (lines 1384-89) as reflecting badly on Beowulf. It may not be so simple. In the last lines of the poem (3180-82), the qualities for which Beowulf’s people praise him are not a warrior’s, but those of a kindly friend. He is, they say, ‘‘of all the kings of the world, the gentlest of men, the kindest and gentlest to his people, the most eager for glory.’’ Because of the qualities the Geats link with Beowulf’s eagerness for glory and fame, some readers believe that lofgeornost is specifically divine and not human.
Fate and Providence The narrator says Grendel would have killed more men if he could, ‘‘except God in his wisdom and the man’s [Beowulf’s] courageous spirit had withstood that fate and him. The lord ruled all the human race as he still does.’’ Both the narrator and individual characters talk about both God’s providence and a concept the Anglo-Saxons called wyrd, which may be translated as fate. Providence is the will of God moving in the affairs of men. The concept assumes there is a plan and meaning behind what happens. It does not mean that men are coerced by God.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Research online the Sutton Hoo Burial site that was excavated in 1939 and the archaeological dig at Gammel Lejre. Divide the class into two teams with one creating a presentation that compares the burial and the treasures found at Sutton Hoo to the burials and treasures in Beowulf, while the other team compares the evidence from Gammel Lejre to the description of Heorot in the epic. Use visual aids so your classmates can see the excavation sites and the treasures found at them. Research the development of kingship in the seventh and eighth centuries and compare the findings to the presentation of kingship in Beowulf. Further, compare these western civilization kingships to those of either Africa or Asia. Write a compare/contrast paper based on what you learn.
Read J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, particularly the chapters dealing with the Riders of Rohan. How is Beowulf reflected in Tolkien’s work? Write a personal opinion paper in which you give your assessment of Tolkien’s indebtedness to Beowulf.
Their wills are their own, but the ability to carry out their intentions is given by God. Many critics assume that wyrd is a blind force which predetermines the outcome of events. There are one or two places in the poem where this may be its meaning. In others, it signifies ‘‘death.’’ In most cases, wyrd appears to mean the normal or expected pattern of cause and effect.
Prepare an oral report on the scientific tests that are used to investigate manuscripts, including infrared photography and chemical analysis. In particular, investigate the use of fiber optic light and an electronic camera to reveal hundreds of covered letters and parts of letters along the damaged edges of a manuscript. Explain how this technique was used in the Electronic Beowulf Project with its long-term goal of assembling a continuously expanding electronic archive of materials founded on, but not limited to, the only surviving manuscript of Beowulf. Give a PowerPoint presentation in which you describe this project to your classmates.
Metal working was an important AngloSaxon craft. Although workers could not achieve the high temperatures used in steel making in the later Middle Ages, they still had techniques for making small quantities of usable steel. Learn about metal craft and make a display poster on which you arrange photocopied images that illustrate the process and show museum pieces from this period.
Loyalty is one of the greatest virtues in Beowulf. It is a bond that holds Anglo-Saxon society together, but it brings with it the darker duties of vengeance and feud.
the law into one’s own hands,’’ but in AngloSaxon society order was maintained by just that, the concept that all free men had a duty to see justice done. It was a duty to punish the murderer of family, friends, lord, or servant. One deposed West Saxon king was killed by a swineherd in retribution for the king’s murder of his lord. It was possible to accept one’s guilt and pay compensation, the wergild or ‘‘man price.’’ The guilty person’s family or lord had a duty to see that it was paid. Christians were encouraged to offer and accept these fines, but no one was forced to. In some circumstances, it was considered dishonorable to accept it.
In modern times, injustice and victimization are often presented as lesser evils than ‘‘taking
Feuds were often the result of tit-for-tat vengeance. The feud is a constant unspoken
Loyalty, Vengeance, and Feud
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
3 3
B e o w u l f
on a treasure buried out of despair by a man. The dragon is disturbed by a thief who is himself driven by necessity. Hrothgar locates evil within man himself. In lines 1700-82 he sums up all that can go wrong when a warrior forgets that God is the source of everything that he has and is. Beginning with the example of Heremod, a Danish king turned tyrant, Hrothgar asks the young Beowulf to remember the source of his strength and to be wary of the hunger for power that destroys the generosity that binds members of a society together. Finally he begs him to recall that good fortune and life itself are transitory; sickness, the sea, the sword, or old age will eventually take his strength and life. Beowulf takes Hrothgar’s words to heart. He refuses to accept the kingship of his people until there is no other choice. He dies thanking God that he was able to win a treasure that will be of use to his people.
STYLE Beowulf slays Grendel (Ó Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy)
theme in Beowulf, and reflects the fact that AngloSaxons understood conflict generally in terms of the feud. In Beowulf Grendel is said to feud with God and with the Danes. To stress Grendel’s alienation from human society, the poet writes that the Danes could not expect a ‘‘wergyld’’ from him (lines 154-58). When Grendel is killed, his mother comes to avenge his death. Hrethel, Beowulf’s grandfather, grieves bitterly because he cannot avenge his eldest son’s accidental death. The presentation of the wars between the Geats and Swedes stresses elements that recall the feud, particularly the stress laid on the killing of kings.
Point of View Beowulf has an omniscient narrator. He comments on the characters’ actions and on what they think. He is aware of things, for example, the curse on the dragon’s horde (lines 3066-75), unknown to the other characters. Beowulf shares this feature with the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, but remains subtly different. The narrator connects his knowledge with that of the audience in the opening lines of the poem: ‘‘We have heard of the glory of the princes of the Spear Danes’’ as a means of legitimating the story. The narrator’s voice is also intimately connected with the characters’ since both use narratives in the same way, to point out a moral or to project future events.
Characterization Evil and the Monsters The monsters in Beowulf may represent human suffering caused by natural disasters; however, this is not an entirely adequate explanation. Grendel and his mother are essentially human even if they are monstrous. Although it does not excuse them, each monster is activated by human actions. Grendel’s envy is aroused by the sounds of human joy. The dragon only follows its nature in entering the open barrow and nesting
3 4
E p i c s
f o r
The poet used several methods to create character. The narrator describes characters, and characters express themselves in direct speech, a popular part of all Germanic poetry. Moreover, characters define each other as when the coast guard (lines 237-57) or Wulfgar (lines 336a-70) give their impressions of Beowulf and his men. More striking is the poet’s careful development of characters through their own speeches. The voices of the individual characters are just that, the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
voices of individuals. Beowulf’s speeches could not be confused with Hrothgar’s.
Alliterative Verse Old English poetry is different from that of most English verse written since the Norman Conquest. It is based on a pattern of stressed syllables linked by alliteration across a line of verse divided by a distinct pause in the middle. In Old English verse, the basic unit is the half line. Each half line has two stressed syllables and up to six unstressed syllables. In a full line, the two half lines are divided by a pause (called a caesura). They are joined by alliteration, the repetition of the initial consonants or vowels of stressed syllables, as in ‘‘Anna angry, Arthur bold.’’ Two or three (never all four) stressed syllables alliterate. They may be the first and/or the second and the third. The third stressed syllable must alliterate. The fourth stressed syllable does not.
Episodes and Digressions One distinctive feature of Beowulf is the use of shorter narratives embedded in the main story of the poem. They are not part of the main narrative, but they can be related to its past or present. These narratives can be divided into two types, episodes and digressions. An episode is a narrative that is complete in itself, but merged one way or another into the main narrative. An example is the Finnsburg Tale (lines 1063-1159a). A digression is much shorter, allusive rather than fully developed, and interrupts the main narrative. Episodes and digressions often illustrate good or bad conduct or suggest to the audience a particular way of looking at the main action.
From Lay into Epic Except for Beowulf, the secular narrative poetry found in Old English (as in ‘‘The Battle of Maldon,’’ ‘‘The Battle of Brunnanburh,’’ and the ‘‘Finnsburg Fragment’’ are all lays, or fairly short narratives telling the story of one event. Only the ‘‘Waldhere Fragment’’ (sixty-three remaining lines) may have been part of a poem as long as Beowulf. The lay seems to have been the usual native narrative poem. Longer, more complex epic structure appears to have come into existence with the introduction of Christian Latin culture whose educational system included the Aeneid. For this reason, nineteenth century scholars assumed Beowulf was made up of earlier lays. Scholars later concluded that Beowulf is not a patchwork of older material stitched together,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
but an original composition using completely recast older material from a variety of sources.
Formulaic Style Many scholars have attempted to demonstrate that Beowulf was composed orally. Whether the poet wrote or spoke, he used a traditional stock of words and patterns of composition used by Anglo-Saxon poets and recognized and appreciated by their audiences. The formula can be broken down into 3 headings: epithets and short modifying formulas; sentence formulas; and formulaic elaboration of themes. One kind of epithet, the kenning, is a contracted metaphor, for example isern-scur (iron shower) for a flight of arrows or hildegicelum (battle icicle) for sword. Another kind of epithet is a literal description similarly reduced to its essentials, for example hildebord (battle board, a shield). The difference between a kenning and a noun compound can be seen by comparing hilde-mece (battle sword) with hilde-leoma (battle light). There are many different compounds for warriors, weapons, and relationships in a heroic culture. By varying the first word of the compound the poet could make different alliterative patterns. Thus hilde can be varied with beado,guth, and wael. The words formed do not necessarily mean exactly the same thing. Hilde means battle, but wael means specifically slaughter. Sentence formulas provide summaries and transitions. Many are short, half-lines, as in ‘‘I recall all that.’’ There are also sentence patterns, for instance, those beginning ‘‘not at all’’ or ‘‘not only’’ that then go on to ‘‘but,’’ ‘‘after,’’ ‘‘until,’’ ‘‘then.’’ These are often used for ironic understatement, another characteristic of Anglo-Saxon verse. For example, ‘‘Not at all did the personal retainers, the children of princes stand about him in valour, but they ran to the woods’’ (lines 2596-9a). Sentence formulas were developed to allow quick shifts of action and to carry the parallels and contrasts that are characteristic of Old English style. Certain themes were addressed through the use of specific words, images, and symbolic objects. These words and ideas had an understood meaning among Anglo-Saxons. Using such words invoked their understood meaning, so that the themes they referred to need not be further elaborated by the poet. One example is the group of words and images used to develop battle descriptions: the ‘‘beasts of battle,’’ the wolf, the raven and the eagle, who, it was understood, traditionally fed on the bodies of those slain.
V o l u m e
1
3 5
B e o w u l f
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Origins of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms The Germanic peoples arrived in Britain over a period of perhaps a century and a half. They did not always arrive in tribal or family groups. They do not seem to have brought their kings with them. Only the Mercian royal family claimed to be descended from a continental king. Certainly, groups based on kinship or on loyalty to a military leader—whether one of their own or a RomanBritain—began to coalesce into proto-kingdoms. The wars between the Geats and the Swedes in Beowulf may represent remembered incidents on the continent. As possible, it may represent the continual struggle among the kingdoms of Anglo-Saxon England. These areas absorbed one another and Romano-British areas until at the time of the Viking invasions (c. 800) there were three major kingdoms: Mercia, Northumbria, and Wessex, and two smaller ones, Kent and East Anglia. When Alfred fought the Vikings to a standstill about 890, Wessex alone was left. Through all these centuries, government, society, and culture were changing and developing
Loyalty and Society Throughout this period, however, some things remained constant. One is the personal loyalty that held society together. The mutual loyalty within the kindred and within the war band were at the heart of Anglo-Saxon social organization. Institutions were centered on individuals. A noble, even a royal household was held together by loyalty to a lord who was generous and worthy of respect. Within this relationship the beotword, a formal statement of intention, was important.
Learning, Literature, and Craftsmanship Life in Anglo-Saxon England had few of the comforts that modern readers take for granted, but it was not without achievement and personal satisfaction. Anglo-Saxon society appreciated craftsmanship and was open to new ideas and technologies. Within a century of the arrival of Roman and Irish missionaries among them, the Anglo-Saxons had mastered the manufacture of parchment, paint and ink, glass and masonry. By the eighth century, they had several kinds of watermills with relatively elaborate wooden machinery, monumental sculpture, and the potter’s wheel. By the eighth century,
3 6
E p i c s
f o r
Anglo-Saxons were producing literature in Latin and carrying Christianity to related tribes on mainland Europe. The love of craftsmanship, learning, and literature survived the greatest hardships. When the educational base was nearly wiped out by the Viking raids in the ninth century, Alfred of Wessex, in the middle of his struggles to defend his kingdom, set about re-establishing schools and encouraging scholarship. He encouraged translators, even translating texts himself, so that those who did not know Latin could still have access to ‘‘the books most necessary for men to know.’’ The Germanic immigrants from the continent who became the Anglo-Saxons brought a writing system—runes—with them from the continent. Runes were used for short inscriptions, occasionally magical, usually merely a statement of who made or who owned an object. Their literature and history were preserved orally using an elaborate poetic technique and vocabulary. Even after the introduction of Latin learning, this poetry held its own and began to be written using the Latin alphabet. Nevertheless, literature was still heard rather than read, even when the text was a written one. The difficulties of book production meant that multiple copies of any text except the most basic religious books were a rarity even in monasteries. Whether literate and illiterate, men and women would rely on hearing books read aloud. Even when reading privately, people read aloud, which made them conscious of the rhythm of poetry and prose. Beside their love of literature, the AngloSaxons had a passion for music. Small harps, called lyres, have been found even in the graves of warriors, and in Beowulf at least one warrior is also a poet-singer. Songs and chants were popular among the Anglo-Saxons and some of the earliest manuscripts of chant still in existence are from Anglo-Saxon England. Large organs existed in the tenth century.
The Hall Halls like Hrothgar’s mead-hall, or drinking hall, Heorot, if not so magnificent, were the normal homes of wealthier landowners. A great deal like the old fashioned wooden barns still seen in parts of the United States, they had great central open fires and beamed roofs. The walls were hung with woven and embroidered drapery. By the tenth century some halls had an upper floor. Some had smaller attached rooms or halls to give the women of the family some privacy.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
COMPARE & CONTRAST Anglo-Saxon period: The pre-electrical world was a world of darkness. People get up and bed down with the sun. Light comes from fires and small lamps burning whale or olive oil or rushes dipped in animal fat. On a clear night in Anglo-Saxon England the sky is dazzlingly clear and bright with stars. Today: The great urban centers light up the night. Satellite photos of Earth show large glowing areas from all the artificial light. Flying across the United States one sees the light of towns, cities, and interstates far below. However, in urban settings, people see few stars because of light pollution. Anglo-Saxon period: The population of Britain is probably under three million people. Land is claimed for farming by cutting down forests. Most native trees readily regrow from stumps. Wolves roamed the countryside. The edges of forests provide game, wood, and food for pigs. Wetlands are important for fish, waterfowl, and basketry materials, such as alder, willow, and rushes.
homes out of local materials, or trade for goods made locally. Local or traveling smiths make knives and other metal tools to order. Salt and millstones and luxury goods, such as wine, spices, and silk are bought at fairs.
Today: The population of Great Britain is over sixty-one million. Most people live in cities. Conservationists try to preserve woodlands, wetlands, and areas of traditional agriculture. Having long since lost most of its forests, Great Britain is rocky with little top soil. Thus, herding sheep is more common than farming. Anglo-Saxon period: Most people live in selfsufficient communities. People grow what they eat, make what they need, build their
Women in Anglo-Saxon Society The hall was in many ways a men’s club, but the owner’s wife and her eldest daughter would extend hospitality to guests and retainers, offering them a drink from a special cup. The modern word ‘‘wassail,’’ an early English toast that later came to be applied to a hot alcoholic brewed drink, derives
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Today: People buy nearly everything they use. Food is often bought already prepared. Many items are manufactured hundreds, if not thousands, of miles from where they are purchased and used. However, concerns about chemicals used in food production and desire for a healthy diet cause some people to keep vegetable and herb gardens at home.
Anglo-Saxon period: Most people die young. Some people live into their sixties and seventies, but the average life expectancy for those who lived past infancy is probably between thirty-five and thirty-eight. Medicine is primitive. Herbal remedies have limited effectiveness. People have no understanding of how diseases were contracted. There were few ways of deadening pain. Pneumonia and abscesses are usually fatal and blood-poisoning is common. Death in childbirth is common. Appendicitis is fatal. Today: People in North America and Western Europe can expect to live into their seventies and eighties. Most of the illnesses and conditions that killed Anglo-Saxon people are no longer a threat given modern sanitation, clean water, and access to basic medical treatment.
from Waes thu hael, ‘‘Be you healthy,’’ which was said as a beverage was handed to a guest. Women were active in dairying and textile production. Wool and linen were spun by hand and woven on upright frames. English woolen cloth and fine embroidery were already prized on the continent by the end of the eighth century.
V o l u m e
1
3 7
B e o w u l f
the first extant critical appreciation of the poem is the manuscript itself. Someone thought enough of the work to have it copied on good vellum by two fairly good scribes, an expensive decision for the year 1000. Another indication of its earliest popularity may be in its apparent influence on another Old English poem, Andreas, which survives in a manuscript kept at Exeter Cathedral in Devon since the mid-eleventh century. After that, there is no sign of the poem for well over five hundred years.
Manuscript page from Beowulf
Women, particularly from ruling families, could have considerable power, influence, and education.
Weapons Every Anglo-Saxon man and woman carried a plain practical knife for work and eating. Men who could be called up for military service would be equipped with a spear and shield. Warriors and nobles would also own a sword. Swords were very expensive, worth as much as a small farm, and armor even more so. They were important possessions often handed down from father to son. To bury them with a man was a great mark of honor and a display of wealth and status.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW If the Beowulf manuscript is not the author’s autograph, as claimed by Kevin Kiernan, then
3 8
E p i c s
f o r
Laurence Nowell acquired the book in the 1560s and wrote his name and date on the top of the first page. It is unlikely he could read much of the poem. The manuscript eventually appeared in the library of a family named Cotton, but it does not appear in either of the library’s two catalogues (1628–1629 and 1696). In 1704, Humfrey Wanley, however, recorded it in his published catalogue of manuscripts containing Old English. The effective rediscovery of the poem, however, was the work of an Icelander, G. S. Thorkelin and a Dane, N. S. F. Grundtvig. Thorkelin had a transcription of the poem made and made a second himself. He published his edition in 1815. Grundtvig worked on and published the poem between 1815 and 1861. Perhaps the greatest single scholar of the poem, Grundtvig proposed many of the later accepted restorations of the text (emendations) and proved Beowulf’s uncle Hygelac to be a historical figure. For Grundtvig, the poem’s greatness lay in its sense of moral purpose. Grundtvig approached the poem as a unified work of literature in its own terms, anticipating the major topics of later Beowulf criticism. After Grundtvig, some scholars concentrated on clearing up problems of the poem’s language and allusions. Others mined the poem as a historical and social document in the hopes of proving their often politically inspired theories about ancient Germanic life. Still others attempted to identify older poems (lays) within it or to discover a nature myth or allegory in its action. By the opening years of the twentieth century, Beowulf was a synonym for undergraduate literary boredom. In 1915, novelist D. H. Lawrence used it in The Rainbow as a symbol of aridity and meaninglessness in education. Robert Graves, just back from World War I trench warfare in 1919, disagreed. He found the poem more relevant to his military experience than courtly works from the eighteenth century.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
It was another returned soldier, J. R. R. Tolkien, who, in writing ‘‘The Monsters and the Critics,’’ made it impossible to treat the poem simply as a quarry for the study of language or anthropology. W. P. Kerr some thirty years earlier had complained that the monsters cheapened the poem. Tolkien insisted that the evil which the monsters represented was a central part of a profound commentary on the human condition. Many critics agree that Tolkien redirected readers of Beowulf from what the poem is not to what it is. His powers as a writer, not only in his lecture but also in his use of Beowulf in Lord of the Rings, greatly contributed to Beowulf being accepted not only as literature, but as great literature. Criticism in the thirties was dominated by discussions lyric poetry. Tolkien’s elegiac reading of Beowulf, although not entirely convincing in its details, was popular among critics and redirected critical attention from the problems of narrative momentum and to the poem’s humanity. Although Frederick Klaeber had established the poem’s essential Christianity over twenty years before, critical tendencies were also now sympathetic to Tolkien’s identification of a Christian reading beneath the surface action. The horrors of war, too, had made monstrous and unreasoning evil at the heart of the human situation a compelling subject. Klaeber saw Beowulf as a real, even Christlike, hero. Tolkien, like many writers and film makers of the mid-twentieth century, was uncomfortable with so-called traditional heroes. Eric Stanley, John Leyerle, and others developed a vision of the man Beowulf flawed by his desire for praise or treasure or even being born before the arrival of Christianity. Leyerle and Halverson and even more thoroughly Berger and Leicester tend to relocate the flaw from the character to his society. In its most developed form, this view held that the heroism the characters see as necessary for personal worth and social solidarity is destructive of both. These studies are often selective in their presentation, out of touch with historical reality, and full of special pleading. Kemp Malone and others rebutted at least the more extreme of these arguments. Many later readers struggled with the assumption that since Beowulf is not Christian the poet must have assumed that he was damned. This view, however, does not seem to fit what actually goes on in the poem. Some critics have flirted with the idea
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
of a slightly heretical or at least theologically confused poet. For much the same reason, Margaret Goldsmith proposed an allegorical reading of the poem. Then, beginning with a collection of articles edited by Colin Chase in 1981, Beowulf criticism focused on the manuscript itself and the question of dating. In the latter half of the twentieth century, hundreds of publications appeared on Beowulf, of them perhaps the most influential were Adrien Bonjour’s The Digressions in ‘‘Beowulf’’ (1950); E. B. Irving’s two books A Reading of ‘‘Beowulf’’ (1968) and Rereading ‘‘Beowulf’’ (1989); and John Nile’s ‘‘Beowulf’’: The Poem and Its Tradition (1984). Klaeber’s definitive edition of Beowulf, first published in 1936, was reissued in 2008 with revised introduction and commentary, updated scholarship, and study aids. A 2010 overview of Beowulf criticism by Jodi-Anne George, part of a Macmillan series of guides, presented important criticism in chronological order and traced the trends in theory. These tools enable readers to easily find and study reliable criticism of the great epic.
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a Ph.D. from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain discusses the epic elements in Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxon epic techniques of its author. She also compares the character of Beowulf with other epic heroes. Michael Alexander, a translator of Beowulf, begins his entry on the epic in A Dictionary of Modern Critical Terms with Milton’s ‘‘great argument’’ and ‘‘answerable style,’’ that is, as a definition of epic Alexander states that the work must have an important theme and a style to match. He continues, ‘‘classically trained critics, expecting art to see life steadily and see it whole, look for an idealized realism and debar folklore and romance elements.’’ Paraphrasing and then quoting the critic Northrup Frye, Alexander accepts that ‘‘these stories recapitulate the life of the individual and the race. The note of epic is its objectivity: ‘It is hardly possible to overestimate the importance for western literature of the Iliad’s demonstration that the fall of an enemy, no less than of a friend or leader, is tragic
V o l u m e
1
3 9
B e o w u l f
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
IN BEOWULF, THE NARRATOR AND CHARACTERS USE HUMAN EXPERIENCE TO UNDERSTAND THE HUMAN CONDITION AND TO FIND THE NOBLEST WAY TO LIVE THEIR LIVES.’’
The anonymous Irish epic Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge (The Cattle Raid of Cooley), available in a translation by Thomas Kinsella (1969), is unusual in that it is composed in prose with inset short verses. The focus of the story alternates between two characters, Queen Maeve of Connacht, who begins the war, and the Ulster hero Cuchulainn. During the period in which the Ta´in and Beowulf were written, England and Ireland enjoyed close cultural ties. In writing his famous fantasy Lord of the Rings (1954-1955), J. R. R. Tolkien used characters and action from Beowulf. The influence of Beowulf is obvious in the Riders of Rohan, who figure in Book 2, The Two Towers, and Book 3, The Return of the King. John Gardner’s 1972 bestseller Grendel is an imaginative retelling of Beowulf from Grendel’s point of view.
Tom Holt’s fantasy comedy ‘‘Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?’’ (1989) mixes satire, heroic virtues, and computers. The hero’s character is loosely based on that of Beowulf.
Swords and Sorcerers: Stories from the World of Fantasy and Adventure, edited by Clint Willis and published by Thunder’s Mouth Press in 2003, is a collection of nineteen notable fantasy stories and excerpts from longer works, including Beowulf.
Theodore L. Steinberg’s 2003 Reading the Middle Ages: An Introduction to Medieval Literature provides a cultural context for the literature of this period.
and not comic.’’’ According to this definition, Beowulf somehow combines the elements that define the epic with other elements that seem to come from the world of ‘‘Jack the Giant Killer’’ and ‘‘Three Billy Goats Gruff.’’ Beowulf is, indeed, on one level a very simple story told with great elaboration. A man of great strength, courage, and generosity fights three
4 0
E p i c s
f o r
monsters, two as a young man, the third in his old age. Other more complicated human events precede these, others intervene, others follow, but those more realistic events are all essentially background. To some earlier critics, such as W. P. Kerr in Epic and Romance, the choice of a folktale main narrative was a serious fault. Monsters lacked the dignity to carry the ‘‘great argument’’ with ‘‘answerable style.’’ But Beowulf is a true epic in its breadth of interests and sympathies, even though it is centered on the career of one man killing three monsters. The action and the characters of this apparently simple story have the strength to embody the experience and ideals of the original audience. The monsters participate in evil and disorder as no human, even Heremod, could, but the evil that originates purely within the human heart is not overlooked. Transforming both the fairy tale monsters and the sordid power politics of the background is the objective recognition of human struggle for understanding and order. This is the hallmark of human experience seen through the lens of epic technique. In Beowulf, the narrator and characters use human experience to understand the human condition and to find the noblest way to live their lives. In part, Beowulf’s epic inclusiveness comes from the narrator’s often short observations, which place the poem in a larger, transcendent context. The narrator periodically reminds the reader of the over-arching providence of God as in lines 1056-58: ‘‘The Lord God ruled over all men, as he now yet does.’’ In part, the epic breadth comes from the characters, particularly Beowulf and Hrothgar. It is Beowulf’s generosity of spirit and imaginative sympathy for individuals that introduces characters like the old man mourning his executed son or the young girl Freawaru facing a political marriage. It is that same generosity of spirit and sympathy that allows him
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
to speak objectively of the ‘‘sin and crime on both sides’’ in the war between the Geats and Swedes (lines 2472-73). Hrothgar, the old king of the Danes, a man who has known triumph and disaster, looks back across his long life and reaches into the workings of the human heart and out into the realities of time and circumstances to understand human sorrow and evil. The inclusiveness of Beowulf reaches backwards and forwards in time. The short narratives embedded in the main narrative (digressions) reflect on the main action, as Adrien Bonjour demonstrates in The Digressions in ‘‘Beowulf.’’ They also create a sense of continuity and universality in the situations the characters face. Character by character, incident by incident, they create the society and the universe in which the great tests of the monsters are set. They define the limits of the heroic heart and heroic society, the ideals which characters such as Hrothgar and Beowulf fulfill and in some ways transcend. In these narratives, as in the poem, as Alexander writes in his translation’s introduction, the operations of cause and consequence, however mysterious to the characters, whether deriving from natural forces or human will, are inescapable. Beowulf is a carefully designed poem. A heroic king comes from the sea and is given back to the sea in death. Generations later another heroic king is buried on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Between them vengeance and feud, despair and generosity weave their way through the human life. Every idea, every theme is examined from one angle after another with all the techniques available to the poet from an Anglo-Saxon poetic tradition rich in irony and understatement. Treasure is the lifeblood of heroic society, fame made tangible, but the poet links it with death and despair. Love of kin motivates Beowulf throughout his life, but in the society around him families destroy themselves. Song and generosity wake a monster. Just when safety seems assured, the best and truest friend and counselor dies. The poet’s technical skill assured that the poem would mark a high point in Anglo-Saxon poetry. Although these techniques are specifically Anglo-Saxon, they broadly parallel other western epics. The poem uses an elaborate vocabulary dictated, at least in part, by the alliteration and stress patterns of Old English verse. This vocabulary, although largely that of everyday speech or prose, includes words which are rarely used other
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
than in poetry. It is quite possible the poet has even coined words for Beowulf. The poet presents the material in carefully structured sentences and equally structured verse paragraphs. This structure, with its emphasis on defining things by what they are not, and by understatement, produces pointed juxtapositions of characters, themes, and action. It clarifies cause and effect. It produces clear and swift narrative movement. It can be a potent source of irony. Alexander, in the introduction to his translation, draws attention to the use of basic values in Beowulf. Sunlight is good, cold is bad. The words do not refer to symbols but to reality. Alexander’s observations are a good introduction to the poet’s use of description. The poem gains immediacy from simplicity and universality, a quality it shares with the Homeric epic. The poet always seems to find the best and fewest words to make objects authentic. Landscapes resonate with atmosphere: grey, cold, and threatening as in the description of the wild lands which Grendel haunts (lines 1357-76 and 1408-23), or full of light and life, as in the landscape of the creation song (lines 90-98). Sometimes space is defined by the quality of movement through it, as in the landscape through which the Danish retainers ride back after tracking Grendel’s last bloodstained retreat, or as in Beowulf’s two sea voyages (lines 210-24 and 1903-12). The poem’s characters, particularly Beowulf himself, are molded by the needs and aspirations of the poet and audience’s society. This is true to some extent of all literature, but particularly of the epic. Beowulf, however, is different from other northern heroes and from the heroes of Greek and Roman epics. He is radically different, not just from Heremod, but from Ing and Scyld and Sigemund. He is unlike Achilles, unlike Odysseus, except in his love of family. He is a hero driven not by personal glory but by affection and duty. He seems largely untouched by the darker emotions that dog Aeneas and betray him into fury at the end of the Aeneid. Only the doomed Hector of Homer’s Iliad seems to be a hero of the same clay. Personal glory is not without meaning to Beowulf. He tells Hrothgar that the best thing men can do is to lay up fame before death (lines 1386-89). He happily accepts treasure and just as happily passes it on to others. Nevertheless, a sense of duty, sympathy, and generosity are his primary motivation. Despite his great strength, he is a man with limitations; in each of his fights,
V o l u m e
1
4 1
B e o w u l f
Brendan Gleeson as Wiglaf, John Malkovich as Unferth, and Robin Wright Penn as Wealthow in the 2007 fantasy film version of Beowulf, directed by Robert Zemeckis (Ó Photos 12 / Alamy)
he is seriously challenged and clearly sees himself as relying on the help of God. Beginning with J. R. R. Tolkien’s essay, ‘‘The Monsters and the Critics,’’ many critics have stressed a sense of futility in Beowulf. This reading arose partially from factors within the poem and partially from factors external to it. These critics had lived through two world wars. Many of them had served as soldiers and known violent, often pointless, death, often the death of friends. They did not cease to admire heroism, but they balanced it against what they knew of war’s futility. Beowulf is not a pacifist’s poem, but these critics have made readers more aware of the problems and fragility of its warrior society and standards. Beowulf and the rest of the characters are never allowed the luxury of assuming that any victory earns more than a respite. The poem conveys a deep sense of the fragility of human institutions and of human hopes. Good men and women can do their best; their fame is assured, but not necessarily their works. The whole action of the poem happens within historical patterns in which families and kingdoms rise and fall. This sense of the transitory nature of human life is part of the critical re-evaluation of the implications of the poem’s Christianity. J. D. A. Ogilvy and Donald Baker have suggested that Beowulf’s death is like a saint’s death, and the parallels, particularly with that of Bede’s death, are closer than even they suggest. Other critics have explored
4 2
E p i c s
f o r
similar implications in Beowulf’s burial. The real tragedy of the poem may lie not in Beowulf’s own death, which transcends the tragic through his faith in God, but in his people’s despair, which leads to the re-burial of the treasure. He gives his life to save them from the dragon, but he cannot save them from themselves. The Geats, even Wiglaf, refuse more than his dying wish, they refuse to accept Beowulf’s view of them, a people worthy of the real treasure of an old king’s life. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on Beowulf, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Rosemary Huisman In the following essay, Huisman discusses gender roles in Anglo-Saxon society and how they shape characters in Beowulf. Over the last few years I have been thinking, reading and writing about narrative. At the 2005 conference of the Australian Early Medieval Association in Canberra, I described the model of narrative which I had developed: one derived from the different natural worlds and their associated temporalities as described in modern physics. I saw a dominance of different temporalities at different periods of English narrative, and, in particular, I saw the dominance in narrative in Old English of sociotemporality, the time of the social world of humans. Traditional narrative theories had assumed time to be a singular concept, but that time, which those theories had equated with a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
chronological sequence in the understanding of narrative, turns out to be only one of six possible temporalities, the one associated with the physiological or biological world, in which I can’t drink the water until I pick up the glass. Sociotemporality, however, is associated with a world of symbolic relations and social attributes and identities; its sequence is that by which a social group understands its history, its social being. The meaning of this narrative sequence is equative: a sequence of social similarity or, frequently, dissimilarity; it is comparable, in the clause, to the meaning choices of relational processes, of being or not being. In the Old English poem Beowulf, the hall Heorot is raised; the narrative immediately tells us of familial strife which destroys it (lines 82b–85). Hrothgar tells Beowulf he will be a comfort to his people, and immediately adds, Ne weard Heremod swa [Not thus was Heremod . . . ], as he describes the malevolent rule of a king who brought injury to his people (lines 1707b–1724a). It is this leaping about in chronological sequence which motivated Klaeber’s famous heading on narrative in Beowulf: ‘lack of steady advance’, not to mention the persistent use of the term ‘digressions’ in earlier Beowulf scholarship. In my abstract for this paper I included a short plot summary of Beowulf: it’s a typical panoramic overview. However, as Barbara Hemstein Smith has shown in her study of plot summaries of Cinderella, no plot summary is innocent; there is always a particular purpose, or assumed purpose, realised in what is given or what is left out. My summary is in fact traditional because its temporality is chronological, one event after another, with specific linguistic indications of time (in bold). These events are physical acts (underlined), as is appropriate for the world of chronological sequence: The hero Beowulf, from a people called the Geats, when a young man visits the Danish court of King Hrothgar and kills in turn two monsters who have savaged the Danish people first a monster called Grendel, then Grendel’s mother. Fifty years later, as an old man and now king of the Geats, Beowulf kills a dragon which is threat ening his own people, but in the process is himself killed.
But if one were trying instead to make a summary based on sociotemporal relations, the social world of equative sequence, what would one include? To repeat: sociotemporality is associated with a world of symbolic relations and social
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
IN THE POEM BEOWULF THERE IS NO DOUBT THAT, BETWEEN THE TWO COMPLEMENTARY DOMAINS OF SOCIAL ACTION, SOCIAL POWER IS VERY UNEVENLY DISTRIBUTED.’’
attributes and identities; its sequence is that by which a social group understands its history, its social being. A summary will mention superordinate terms for symbolic relations, social attributes and social identities. On textual and archaeological grounds, it seemed to me that a good place to start was with the two lexical sets in Old English which cluster around the social identities of gender. As Christine Fell pointed out over 20 years ago, the word mon(n)/man(n) is ungendered in Old English, and signifies ‘human’, even into the eleventh century. The Oxford English Dictionary [OED] gives the first sense of ‘man’ as ‘a human being, irrespective of sex or age . . . in O[ld] E[nglish] the prevailing sense’, and adds under 1.1 a) ‘in many OE instances and in a few of later date used explicitly as a designation equally applicable to either sex (obs.). In OE the words distinctive of sex were wet, wif, waepman and wifman’. So, in the second pair, to indicate one gender or the other, a compound with man as the second element was used, with a first element metonymically signifying the gender: wif for the female, waep-, a contraction of waepned, for the male. My principal concern in this paper is to suggest the distinctive social domains associated with these first elements, and to relate these domains to the symbolic relations and social attributes of male and female characters as told in the poem Beowulf. A Boolean search of the online Dictionary of Old English Old English corpus on the stems wifand waepned- gave 33 matches, that is, short contexts in which both stems occurred, used contrastively, sometimes with a second element, sometimes as the whole word. . . . ... Wif- and waepned- were also used contrastively with other second elements, for example: wifcynne / waepnedcynne wifhanda / waepnedhanda
V o l u m e
1
4 3
B e o w u l f
It is appropriate to describe these two first elements as two ‘lexical sitems’ rather than words (or morphemes), as further searches of the corpus demonstrate their various spellings and contractions, for example: wifmen —> wimmen waepnedmen —> waepmen —> wepmen All of these variants are used at times alone, that is, not in the context of the contrasting term. The semantic field, in modern translation, from which the masculine lexical item derives is uncontentious: waepned, ‘weaponed’, past participle of the weak verb waepnian, ‘to arm’, derived from the strong noun waepen, ‘weapon, sword’. These grammatical variants can be related to many similar forms in other early Germanic languages (the OED comments that ‘outside Teutonic, no comparable cognates have been found’). While waepnedman is literally an armed human, the social assumption that it is those of the male gender who bear arms has telescoped the meaning relations: waepned- now directly signifies ‘male’. The semantic field of the feminine first element is less confidently ascribed. The OED describes ‘wife’, OE wif, as ‘of obscure origin’. Christine Fell echoes these words but adds ‘it could be etymologically connected with the words for ‘weaving’ and this would certainly make good sense in so far as the duties of cloth-making seem to be the ones most consistently linked with the feminine role’. Inductively, I am confident (until someone can demonstrate otherwise) that w/f is related to the OE strong verb wefan [to weave] that a w/f is originally a ‘weaving human’. Other words from the semantic field associated with cloth-making are similarly gendered in Modern English. As Fell notes, the word ‘spinster’ is not recorded until Middle English, but obviously existed in OE (from verb spinnan, with feminine occupational suffix -stere). My contemporary Collins English Dictionary glosses the word ‘distaff’ (from OE dis- ‘bunch of flax’ and stoef, for ‘the rod on which wool, flax etc is wound preparatory to spinning’) as ‘the female side or branch of a family’, and adds ‘compare ‘‘spear side’’’—which in turn is glossed as ‘the male side or branch of a family’. In the latter, ‘spear’, we see the persistence of the semantic field of weaponry gendered as male, here clearly contrasted with a term from the set of cloth-making, ‘distaff’, gendered as female. In summary, in the Old English (and, arguably, in the more general Germanic) usage we have
4 4
E p i c s
f o r
the contrast of a weaving human (female) with a weaponed human (male). We can describe these as metonymic relations, that is, in the terms of Peircean semiotics, weaving is an indexical sign of female gender, weaponed is an indexical sign of male gender. What social domains of human activity do these gendered signs refer to? I had previously wondered about indices of gender when looking at grave goods from various excavations. (It will be obvious I am not an archaeologist.) I’m not referring here to the grand collections, such as that of Sutton Hoo in the British Museum, but rather to the small collections of local material you see in places like Canterbury. Most items I could identify—the swords, spears, brooches, beads, combs—but two items defeated me. The first, the round crystal balls, the size of a marble, still puzzle everyone, though Audrey Meaney suggests the role of amulet, an object with a magical purpose for female use. The second item, very common, looked like a ceramic or stone doughnut. I now know it’s an item used in spinning, in Modern English called a spindle whorl. Alternatively, if heavy, it could be used in weaving, to weight the warp or vertical threads on a weighted loom: the reconstruction of a large loom in the Viking Museum at York uses such weights. Descriptions of grave goods typically assert some goods as indices of gender, yet there is sometimes a curious lacuna in relation to clothmaking objects. Thus, from The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-Saxon England, under the entry GRAVE GOODS: Weapons, including spears, shields and swords, were associated with male burials, while jewellery such as strings of beads, brooches, and wrist clasps and other dress fittings such as work boxes, bunches of keys and items designed to dangle from a waist belt (girdle hangers and cha telaines) accompanied female ones.
You notice there is no mention of spinning and weaving items, although other accounts refer to these as ‘common’ in graves described as female. When archaeologists contrast the grave goods found in women’s and men’s graves, they more usually talk of the weapons of men and the jewellery of women, perhaps because there is more variation in the latter, which may then be read as signifying status as well as gender. For whatever reason, the practices of cloth-making tend to be less visible in many scholarly discussions. (The Blackwell Encyclopaedia entry for TEXTILES initially states that the topic includes the processes as well as the product, but then discusses only the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
product, the cloth produced.) Yet excavations, such as those at Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire, in the 1920s and 1930s (‘the first early AngloSaxon settlement to be recognised and excavated in a systematic way’) yielded many items used in spinning and weaving. As Henrietta Leyser writes, . . . spinning and weaving have been the pre emi nent tasks for women of every class, from slave to aristocrat, in all the early civilisations of which we know Egypt, Palestine, Greece, Rome. Anglo Saxon England is no exception. In all probability every home had its loom; spindle whorls, shears and weaving batons are found regularly in wom en’s graves.
Why is the activity of weaving, as opposed to that using weapons, comparatively invisible to some scholars, when the gendered lexical items wif- and woepned- seem so evenly contrasted in textual use? (Feminist scholars may find this a rhetorical question.) The archaeological evidence, if not conclusive, is at least supportive of the linguistic evidence. Both suggest that, in early Anglo-Saxon society, there were understood to be two complementary social domains of action corresponding to the indexical signs for the two genders, that of weaving (or cloth-making generally) for women, and that of possessing weapons for men. Initially, I will just assert that the Anglo-Saxons readily extended each domain from the physical to the social. The physical is to weave cloth. The social is to weave the social fabric. The physical is to wield weapons. The social is to protect the social fabric. The social functions of the woepnedman and the wifman are complementary and both essential for the continuance of the social world. One consequence of this account is that it shows the irrelevance of modern dualisms like private/public in talking about Anglo-Saxon culture. The more relevant dualism is that of internal perspective and external perspective, looking inwards to or outwards from the social group; in each domain of action, of making and protecting the social fabric, both perspectives come into play. For a woepnedman, the external perspective is that of fighting external threats to the social group; the internal perspective is that of co-operating with his fighting companions. For a wifman, the internal perspective is that of weaving good relations among those in the social group; the external perspective, I will argue, is that of weaving, through her body, good relations with another social group by being given in marriage and bearing a child of both groups. You can see that positive and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
negative values differ in each domain. In the male domain, the external negative value is cowardice, a lack of courage, the internal negative value is disloyalty or treachery. For women, the internal negative value is the disruption of social relations, the external negative value is the refusal of exchange. For either gender, externally or internally, success in actions of positive value makes and strengthens the social world; failure in those actions, or even worse, success in actions of negative value, weakens, tears, the social fabric. We can see fairly readily, from the external perspective, that the indexical sign of masculinity, weapons, is directly related to the masculine social domain of action, that of protection, whether defensively against attack or aggressively to augment the group’s territory or treasure. However, the understanding of ‘weaving’ as through the woman’s body is also not just a figure of speech. Consider talk of the Virgin Mary. Just as Christian churches were built over the sites of pagan temples, Christian discourse could incorporate the pagan indices of femininity. Jane Chance gives an extreme (if non-Germanic) example by Saint Proclus, Patriarch of Constantinople (ob 416 CE). He describes: the awful loom of the Incarnation, wherein in ineffable manner that garment of union was wrought of which the Holy Ghost is weaver; the overshadowing Power from on high, wea veress; the old fleece of Adam, the wool, the most pure flesh of the Virgin, the woof; the immense grace of her who bore the Artificer, the weaving shuttle the Word, in fine, coming gently in from on high at the hearing of the ear.
The Marian Library in Ohio records that, in the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew (thought to be derived from the Proto-Evangelium of James), Mary is called to the temple with other maidens and given wool to weave a new curtain for the temple. While spinning this purple wool at home, she was visited by the Annunciation. Thus, spin ning is one of the typical activities in representa tions of Mary’s Annunciation, pregnancy and Joseph’s doubt.
Mary Clayton, who has done the most detailed work on the cult of Mary in Anglo-Saxon England, remarks that ‘of the individual scenes found in early Christian art, the most common early type of Annunciation is one with a seated Virgin, generally spinning . . . ’. She notes that, in the Anglo-Saxon Benedictional of St AEthelwold, the Annunciation illumination has Mary holding a weaving-related object, which may show the influence of the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew. So the association of
V o l u m e
1
4 5
B e o w u l f
conception and spinning and weaving is part of the Christian discourse throughout the Anglo-Saxon period. It is an association readily assimilated to the pre-Christian Germanic concept of the wifman and her domain of social action. The successful wifman wove together woepnedman and woepnedman. The Virgin Mary wove together God and mankind. If we now approach the Old English poem Beowulf with these two gendered domains of action in mind, that of weaving the social fabric and that of protecting the social fabric, what interpretative observations might be made? The following remarks are introductory, an attempt to point towards the general nature of such observations. The first observation is that the two domains are told of in the poem, from both their internal and external perspectives, and each domain is realised in its most elevated, most idealised, that is most socially valued, context of social relations, one that can be called ‘courtly’ or aristocratic. A king builds Heorot to house his people, organises coast-guards and hallguards, offers honourable hospitality. Hrothgar’s actions instantiate the internal perspective of the woepnedman, protecting the internal co-operation and security of his society. Beowulf, in the earlier events in Hrothgar’s court, instantiates the external perspective of the woepnedman, commonly described as ‘heroic’, protecting a society, even one not his own, from external attack. A queen, Wealtheow, at the feast following Grendel’s defeat, ceremonially offers the cup to warriors in the appropriate order, the internal function of the wifman, making and strengthening explicit recognition of the social order. Again, in the story told by the scop (poet) at that feast, Hildeburh, sister of the Danish chief Hnaef and wife of Finn, king of the Frisians, by whom she has a son, exemplifies the external function of the wifmon, one through whose body two different social groups attempt to weave a relationship. So the success or failure of those in these exalted social roles will reverberate throughout the whole social system. The second observation is that both positive and negative embodiments of the two domains of social action are told, explicitly or allusively. I said earlier that positive and negative values differ in each domain, that, in the male domain, the external negative value is a lack of courage, the internal negative value is disloyalty or treachery and that, for women, the internal negative value is the disruption of social relations, the external negative value is the refusal of exchange into another group.
4 6
E p i c s
f o r
For an example of masculine treachery, the internal negative value of the male domain: we know that Hrothulf, nephew of Hrothgar, but older than the sons of Wealhtheow and Hrothgar, will not protect the boys after their father’s death, although at the feast previously mentioned Wealhtheow asserts to Hrothgar that he will do so. (Wealtheow is acting positively in her internal role as weaver of the social fabric, but is unsuccessful.) We know less about Offa of Mercia’s queen, variously understood to be called Thryth, briefly alluded to as one who caused discord, the internal negative value of the female domain, before she was married. Those who show cowardice, the external negative value of masculinity, are so devalued that they are not even named: I’m referring to the men who desert Beowulf during his last fight with the dragon, when only the named warrior, Wiglaf, remains with him. And the external negative value of the female domain, the refusal of exchange? My failure to find an example of this leads on to my fourth, and very important, observation about the poem. I say ‘fourth’ because I want briefly to mention a third. This third observation is that neither Grendel nor his mother can be located in the domains of the woepnedman and wifman. This is unsurprising, when you remember that the base meaning of man is ‘human’. Neither of the monsters is human, even with a putative descent from Cain. Grendel explicitly cannot be fought with weapons; in no sense is he a woepnedman. He and his mother do not live in a social group: there is no function for a wifman, weaving a social fabric. They are both excluded from the two social domains of human action. To my fourth and last observation: I said that I could not find an example of the negative value of the female domain, the refusal of exchange. I suggest this is because refusal is a power-based speech act. And in the poem Beowulf there is no doubt that, between the two complementary domains of social action, social power is very unevenly distributed. The very notion of an heroic story as one centred on actions in battle is one centred on the external social role of the woepnedmen. My earlier brief, stock, chronological summary of the events of the poem homed in on verbs, processes, realising the masculine domain: Beowulf ‘kills’ three times, while his opponents ‘savage and threaten.’ Contemporary Hollywood studios are said to consider the young male demographic, 16–25, as their most lucrative audience, and the many so-called ‘action’
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
movies are made primarily for their tastes. Similarly, most of the narrative of Beowulf tells a story of successes and failures, acts of positive value and negative value, within the masculine social domain of the woepnedman. Stories of the female domain of action are indeed told, as necessary and complementary—there is no continuing social fabric without them—but their telling is imbued with the power imbalance of the domains. So the fight at Finnsburh between Danes and Frisians is told primarily through the emotions of Hildeburh, who must burn her brother and son together on the funeral pyre, and, after the later death of her husband Finn, be ‘led back to her people’, the Danes (the Old English grammar does not allow her agency). The external weaving of the wifman, bearing the child who is both Dane and Frisian, is ripped to shreds by the acts characteristic of the more powerful domain of the woepnedmen. (Those thinking, Wulf and Eadwacer! may not be far wrong.) And, in Beowulf, immediately after this story of the failure of Hildeburh’s female action, in the continuing story of the feast, Queen Wealhtheow bears the cup to her husband Hrothgar and speaks to Hrothgar of her confidence that Hrothulf, his nephew sitting beside him, will protect their sons if their father dies: an example of female action through speech, an attempt to produce the social fabric by asserting it. As already mentioned, this attempt also will fail, in Hrothulfs refusal to provide such protection. There is a great deal more, in examples and explication, that could be said on these matters. I have not examined ‘peaceweaver’, much discussed. I have not mentioned the extension of ‘weaving’ to the making of texture in words rather than thread, to text rather than textile. But what I have tried to do in this paper is to begin with the consideration of two complementary gendered domains of social action, from which different social roles in narrative can emerge. These roles can be regarded as successful or unsuccessful, as positively valued or as negatively valued. It is after identifying these complementary domains that one can consider the power relation between them, through the interaction, encouragement, suppression or even appropriation of the possible roles associated with each domain. This procedure contrasts with scholarly talk which begins with ‘woman as passive and victim’ or ‘woman as hero’: that is, talk which begins with power relations, or with the assumption of only one domain of value, so that alternative possibilities become invisible. I hope then, in some small way, to have given more visibility to the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
world of symbolic relations, social attributes and social identities which can be read into the Beowulf narrative. Source: Rosemary Huisman, ‘‘Narrative Sociotemporality and Complementary Gender Roles in Anglo Saxon Soci ety: The Relevance of Wifmann and Woepnedmann to a Plot Summary of the Old English Poem Beowulf,’’ in Jour nal of the Australian Early Medieval Association, January 1, 2008, pp. 125 36.
George Clark In the following excerpt, Clark discusses the world of Beowulf as it is presented by the poem’s narrator. In his ‘‘Afterword,’’ Clark discusses briefly the Sutton Hoo ship burial discovery and predicts how subsequent criticism may approach the poem. DISCOVERING THE POEM’S WORLD
The poem imposes many delays on its central story and includes many explorations not directly related to its main business, but despite an indirect movement and moments of leisure, Beowulf creates a powerful impression of a great action moving irresistibly forward, advancing not steadily but abruptly in sudden lurches and turns toward a fearful event. Brief summaries of the ‘‘basic story’’ of Beowulf conceal its rich variety of forms and matter; the poem captures a vast historical scope, includes a variety of genres or modes of composition, and reveals a constant interplay of tones. The prologue separates the poem’s audience from the story—long ago in another country—then presents the audience with a gratifying account of heroic success, of heroism leading to national success, of the hero as founder of a great dynasty. At the height of Scyld’s brilliant career, a kingdom won, an overlordship established, and an heir engendered, the narrator proposes as a universal truth the rule that in every nation the successful aspirant to honor must do praiseworthy deeds. On these words, the narrator announces Scyld’s death at the fated time; the prologue closes with his people’s grief for the great king’s passing. Scyld earned the narrator’s accolade— . . . that was a good king!(11)—early in the prologue which ends with the universal truth of mortality and an unanswerable question. Scyld returns to the mystery from which he came after his richly laden funeral ship is launched on the unknowable deep. Still, the succession of fortunate generations of Scyld’s line contrasts the mystery and the blunt fact of death with an unfolding story of dynastic prosperity extending for generations until the crowning of the
V o l u m e
1
4 7
B e o w u l f
Scyldings’ success with the building of Heorot. Mortality presses in on the line of Scyld Scefing and the first celebration at Heorot awakens a monster who seems to embody or to represent the force of chaos and old night. That scene, dramatically reversing the stately tone of the poem’s prologue, begins with the monster’s anger at the sound of joy in Heorot, then traces that joy to the poet’s song celebrating the creation of the world, then leaves the Danish ruling elite living in those joys until the monster, Grendel, begins his raids. Grendel’s first raid turns all the successes of the triumphant line of the Scyldings into horror, pain, and humiliation. After Grendel’s second raid, the night after his first, the narrator notices that: Then it was easy to find the man who got himself a more distant resting place, a bed in a private dwelling, when the hall thegn’s hatred was man ifested to him, plainly declared by a sure sign; whoever escaped that enemy kept himself far ther away and safer.(138 43)
Six full lines remorselessly detail the humiliation of noble warriors among the Danes who, in the face of certain death there, give up sleeping in the royal hall, a kind of men’s lodge, and seek out a more domestic safety. The Danes become double victims, of Grendel’s wrath and of the poem’s irony; the monster diminishes their manly status; the poem makes that diminishment public and thus real. The audience is drawn toward Grendel, it accepts a certain complicity in calamity to savor the poem’s detached irony at the cost of Danish manliness. Warrior societies in many cultures segregate men and women; apparently the all-male fellowship of such lodges contributes to the aggressive spirit a warring society requires. Grendel’s interruption of the regular practice unmans the Danish warrior class, calls their heroic status into question, and damages the means of sustaining their traditional calling and their honor. As the poem moves from the Danes to the Geats, a series of contrasts in the character and tone of the narrative become apparent. The Danish scene represents a whole society in paralysis, the Geatish a man in action. The Danes meet frequently, consider deeply, risk their immortal souls searching for supernatural help, and lament their losses in an agony of helplessness. Immediately following the report of Grendel’s first and second raids, the narrator adds that this calamity persisted for twelve years; that the lord of the Scyldings suffered great sorrows; that songs
4 8
E p i c s
f o r
IN THE COMING DECADES, BEOWULF SCHOLARSHIP WILL ALMOST SURELY BE DEEPLY INFLUENCED BY THE FINDINGS OF ARCHAEOLOGICAL RESEARCH AND ESPECIALLY BY THE EXCAVATION AT SUTTON HOO.’’
sadly revealed to the world that Grendel waged cruel war against Hrothgar for many years. The narrator (or those songs) reports that Grendel intended never to make a truce with the Danes. The narrator sums up: Grendel performed ‘‘many crimes . . . cruel humiliations,’’ many powerful men among the Danes often considered what should be done, and Hrothgar’s sorrows burned continually in his heart. In the Danish setting some forty lines report the unending succession of humiliations and sorrow heaped upon the hapless people and above all their king, but restated among the Geats, the long story of passive suffering and helplessness amounts only to a clause. The Danish complaint ends with Hrothgar’s sorrow and inaction: the wise man was unable to ward off that mis ery; that distress, that cruel and violent, hateful and long drawn out onslaught, that cruel dis tress, which had fallen upon the people, was too severe.
The scene abruptly moves to the Geats, where the strongest man living on earth, Hygelac’s retainer, hears of ‘‘Grendles dæda’’ (195), Grendel’s deeds. The strong man at once commands that a ship be readied and announces his intention to visit the famous king of the Danes who has need of men. Between the hero’s command, him announcement, and his selection of his companions for the exploit, the Geatish councilors consult the omens and approve his plans even as he leads his picked company to the sea and the ready ship. The pagan and superstitious practice of consulting omens evokes no negative comment in the poem, though Anglo-Saxon sermons strongly condemned such time-honored observances. From Beowulf’s first introduction into the poem to the moment Grendel realizes his impending doom, all signs agree that the hero’s victory is certain. The
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
B e o w u l f
alacrity of the hero’s decision, preparations, and setting out bespeaks a self-confidence that seems itself a token of victory. The voyage is swift and easy, which requires strong winds from the right quarter and confirms the favorable omens. The supernatural sign vouchsafed the Geatish councilors and the disposition of nature agree in pointing toward Beowulf’s success. The wisdom of the Danes concurs: the coast guard who challenges Beowulf and the Geats at the Danish shore seems to respond to an aura of good luck and good intentions manifested in Beowulf’s appearance when he breaks off his formal challenge to observe that one of the seafarers seems a man of unique qualities and exceptional status and to wish: ‘‘may his look, his matchless appearance, never belie him.’’ Given the Danes’ dearest wish of the past twelve years, the coast guard must see a resolve to destroy Grendel and the tokens of success in the foreigner at the Danish coast. ... AFTERWORD
In the coming decades, Beowulf scholarship will almost surely be deeply influenced by the findings of archaeological research and especially by the excavation at Sutton Hoo. Students of the poem have hardly digested the importance of the original Sutton Hoo excavation of 1939, definitively published in a massive study by Rupert Bruce-Mitford and others (1975–83). Already the new excavations at Sutton Hoo have offered some surprises. While archaeologists extend our knowledge of the material culture of the AngloSaxon world, lexicographers are doing the same for the word-hoard of the Anglo-Saxons. . . . The study of the poem itself will surely develop in some directions already partially mapped out. The poem’s psychological and social realism has already become a topic of critical inquiry that will continue to prosper in an age that can accept or even value mixtures of realism and fantasy. A renewed effort to reconstruct the poem’s social and cultural milieu seems likely: reader-response criticism and the new historicism alike will demand a vigorous inquiry into the poem’s origins and attempt to discover what the poem meant to its earliest audiences and what the place of poetry was in the Anglo-Saxon world. The poem’s idea of the basic social institutions needs a deeper reading against what we know of those institutions in the Anglo-Saxon age. The questions of the poem’s date and place of origin will burn strongly for some decades to come. We are likely to find too many rather than too few answers, and the profusion of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
seemingly contradictory solutions may strengthen the case for the poem’s oral transmission and for its susceptibility to at least some reworking even after being committed to parchment. The poststructuralist new criticisms and formalist approaches to narrative texts will try (and have tried already) their strength with Beowulf. The possibility of a deconstructive reading of Beowulf may fill some philologists with horror, but such a reading may be illuminating. The concentration of the newer critical schools on narrative will almost surely benefit the study of the greatest poem in English before the Canterbury Tales. Source: George Clark, ‘‘The Heroic Age, Ideal, and Chal lenge’’ and ‘‘Afterword,’’ in Beowulf, Twayne, 1990, pp. 51 54, 143 44.
SOURCES Alexander, Michael, ‘‘Epic,’’ in A Dictionary of Modern Critical Terms, edited by Roger Fowler, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1987, pp. 73 75. Bonjour, Adrien, The Digressions in ‘‘Beowulf,’’ Medium Aevum Monographs 5, Basil Blackwell, 1977. Fulk, R. D., Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, eds., Klaeb er’s ‘‘Beowulf,’’ 4th ed., University of Toronto Press, 2008. George, Jodi Anne, ‘‘Beowulf’’: Reader’s Guide to Essen tial Criticism, Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Raffel, Burton, trans., Beowulf, Signet Classics, 2008. Tolkien, J. R. R. ‘‘The Monsters and the Critics,’’ in The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, by J. R. R. Tolkien, HarperCollins, 1997; originally published in Pub lications of the British Academy, Vol. 22, 1936, pp. 245 95.
FURTHER READING Alexander, Michael, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in ‘‘Beowulf’’: A Verse Translation, Penguin Books, 1973. Alexander discusses the history of the manu script, the epic tradition, and the characters and plot of the poem. Anderson, Sarah, ed., Beowulf (Longman Cultural Edi tion), translated by Alan Sullivan and Timothy Murphy, Longman, 2004. Anderson’s edition includes comparative transla tionsofthefirsttwenty fivelinesofthepoem,along with secondary works providing context and selec tionsofotherOldEnglishpoetryandprose. Backhouse, Janet, D. H. Turner, and Leslie Webster, The Golden Age of Anglo Saxon Art: 966 1066, British Museum, 1985.
V o l u m e
1
4 9
B e o w u l f
Backhouse provides excellent illustrations of Anglo Saxon art, fine and applied, covering the period in which the Beowulf manuscript was written. Brown, Michelle P., Manuscripts from the Anglo Saxon Age, University of Toronto, 2007. Brown explains the art of bookmaking in the Anglo Saxon period and includes one hundred and fifty color illustrations of Anglo Saxon books in the British Library. Clark, George, Beowulf, Twayne, 1990. This book is an excellent beginners’ introduc tion to the poem. Chapters cover Beowulf criticism, the other legends embedded in the poem, the ethics of heroism, the monsters, and kingship. Donoghue, Daniel, ed., Beowulf: A Verse Translation, Norton Critical Edition, translated by Seamus Heaney, Norton, 2002. The Norton Critical Edition provides an excel lent translation, with introduction, notes, and scholarly analysis, all designed to facilitate the reader’s appreciation of the epic. Evans, Angela, The Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, British Museum, 1994. This publication presents a richly illustrated introduction to the Anglo Saxon ship burial, which was first excavated in 1939. The objects uncovered and the burial itself are relevant to Beowulf and various studies of the epic. Joy, Eileen A., The Postmodern ‘‘Beowulf’’: A Critical Casebook, West Virginia University Press, 2007.
5 0
E p i c s
f o r
This book contains twenty three essays on postmodern theory and contemporary theoret ical approaches to the epic. Kerr, W. P., Epic and Romance: Essays on Medieval Literature, CreateSpace, 2009. J. R. R. Tolkien’s ‘‘The Monsters and the Crit ics’’ in many ways specifically responds to Kerr’s approach, which first appeared in print in 1896. Kiernan, Kevin S., ‘‘Beowulf’’ and the Beowulf Manu script, University of Michigan, 1998. Kiernan argues that the Beowulf manuscript in the British Library is the author’s own working copy. Orchard, Andy, A Critical Companion to ‘‘Beowulf’’, D. S. Brewer, 2005. Orchard’s work is a good source for all readers wanting clarity on issues of interpretation and background regarding the epic.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Beowulf Beowulf AND Grendel Beowulf AND Heorot Anglo Saxon literature epic literature Old English literature
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
The Cantos The Cantos is Ezra Pound’s most significant contribution to world literature. The poem was published in various parts over a span of five decades and during the twentieth century tended to be read in parts. During the same years, Pound was better known for his short poems, his theoretical writings and manifestoes, and his turbulent personal history. Nonetheless, The Cantos documents the rise, prominence, and fall of literary styles and poetry from various western and Asian cultures and spoke to a generation of artists across a range of media. Pound was perhaps the central figure in the development of modernism, in literature, sculpture, and music, and many of his enduring concerns and artistic innovations are present in The Cantos, both as prefigurations and reminiscences of the heady days of the 1920s and 1930s.
EZRA POUND 1917–1968
The sections of The Cantos were published in different countries, languages, and presses. An incomplete description of the serial publication is given here and follows information provided by the American publisher New Directions. The first three cantos appeared in Poetry magazine in 1917 and then were significantly changed for their first appearance in a book entitled A Draft of XVI Cantos, which appeared in 1925. A Draft of XXX Cantos appeared in 1930; Eleven New Cantos in 1934, and The Fifth Decad XLII–LI (the Leopoldine cantos) in 1937. Cantos LII–LXXI (the China cantos and the Adams cantos) appeared in
5 1
T h e
C a n t o s
the University of Pennsylvania, where he met Hilda Doolittle and William Carlos Williams. Pound and these two poets became friends and colleagues in the burgeoning modernist movement. He studied further at Hamilton College and then did graduate work at the University of Pennsylvania.
Ezra Pound (The Library of Congress)
1940. (In 1944 and 1945, Pound wrote LXXII and LXXIII in Italian; these poems, known as the Italian Cantos, were added to the revised complete edition [1987].) The Pisan Cantos LXXIV–LXXXIV appeared in 1948. Section: Rock-Drill de los Cantares LXXXV–XCV was published in 1956, and Thrones de los Cantares XCVI-CIX in 1959. The remaining parts and fragments were published as Drafts and Fragments of Cantos CX–CXVII in 1969. In the United States New Directions published numerous editions; The Cantos of Ezra Pound (Cantos 1–117) appeared in 1970. Several complete editions appeared after that, for example, Richard Sieburth’s edition Ezra Pound: Poems and Translations (Library of America, 2003), which presents the complete oeuvre. Similarly, various helpful guides have appeared, for example, William Cookson’s A Guide to the Cantos of Ezra Pound (Persea, 2002).
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY One of the most significant literary figures of the twentieth century, Ezra Loomis Pound was born in Hailey, Idaho, in 1885. His family soon moved to the suburbs of Philadelphia, where Pound grew up. He received a bachelor’s degree from
5 2
E p i c s
f o r
Pound taught for less than one year at Wabash College in Crawfordville, Indiana, and then he moved to Europe in 1908. Settling in Venice, Pound printed privately his first book of poems, A Lume Spento (1908), before moving on to London. In London, Pound became part of the avantgarde literary scene. In the twelve years he spent in London, he helped shift current literary taste from the Georgian style of such writers as Charles Swinburne and Henry James (both of whom he admired greatly) toward the modernist style he promoted. In the process, he befriended W. B. Yeats, James Joyce, Wyndham Lewis, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska, Richard Aldington, and many others. According to T. S. Eliot, Pound offered indispensable editing support during Eliot’s composition of The Wasteland. In 1914, Pound married the artist Dorothy Shakespear, whom he met through W. B. Yeats who had a romantic relationship with her mother, the novelist Olivia Shakespear. After World War I, Pound began writing his cantos, but at the same time, he felt the pre-war literary freshness and experimentation of London had somehow come to an end. In 1920, he published his long satirical poem Hugh Selwyn Mauberley as a farewell to the city, and during this time, he began to shift his interest from literature to politics and economics. Pound and his wife moved to Paris where they lived four years, but the poet found the city not to his liking—probably because his role as the dominant impresario was already filled by Gertrude Stein. In 1924, the couple moved to Italy. There, while they remained married, the poet began his long-term relationship with the violinist Olga Rudge. Pound and his wife, sometimes living apart, stayed in Italy for twenty-two years, during which time the poet came to greatly admire Mussolini and Italian fascism. In these years, Pound was studying economics and history but had also thrown himself fully into the composition of his cantos. During World War II, Pound, who had become convinced that the U.S. capitalistic system was pernicious, made pro-fascist and anti-Semitic radio broadcasts on Italian state radio, which caused his indictment for treason in the United
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
States. After Mussolini fell, Pound was captured and held in the U.S. Army Disciplinary Training Center in Pisa, Italy, where he suffered in solitary confinement. Pound was returned to the United States in poor condition, and because the authorities felt that he was mentally unfit to stand trial, he was incarcerated in St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, D. C., for thirteen years. During this time, Pound continued to write and to collect disciples— admirers, poets, critics, sycophants. In addition, his wife lived nearby, visited him, and handled his estate. When Pound was released in 1958, the couple returned to Italy; however, Pound lived with Rudge in Venice, whereas Dorothy lived in Rapallo. After an initial burst of activity, Pound grew depressed and fell into silence. He made few public appearances in the 1960s, and he died in Venice in 1972.
PLOT SUMMARY The Cantos really has no plot. The poem consists of approximately 120 shorter poems called cantos, after the sections into which Dante divided each book of his Divine Comedy), some of which tell unified stories and some of which are collections of musings, observations, memories, and exhortations. To summarize the content of The Cantos, therefore, it is probably best to describe the poem in sections.
A Draft of XVI Cantos The first installment of cantos appeared just as Pound was leaving Paris. Published in a small, limited, expensive edition with gothic-style illuminated capitals, the book was self-consciously aimed at an exclusive public. These first sixteen poems introduce the themes that Pound intended to pursue throughout his long ‘‘poem containing history.’’ The first canto, certainly one of the finest, is both a retelling of the story of Book 11 of Homer’s Odyssey and a modeling of the palimpsestic mode of constructing poetry that Pound uses throughout The Cantos. A palimpsest is an ancient piece of paper or parchment that has been written on a number of times at different points in history. On a palimpsest, the traces of the earlier writing are incompletely erased and still visible. Pound was fascinated by the idea of layers of composition that could be partially perceived during a subsequent reading. In this first canto, Pound uses a number of texts. Homer’s book
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS In 1958, after he was released from St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, D.C., and before he returned to Italy, Pound agreed to be recorded for an audio record. The Caedmon record label produced two records, Ezra Pound Reading His Poetry, both of which have extensive selections from The Cantos. MP3 sound files of Ezra Pound reading his poetry, including private recordings made between 1962 and 1972, are available for download from PennSound. The documentary film Ezra Pound/American Odyssey (1985) was directed by Lawrence Pitkethly and narrated by Paul Hecht; it includes archival recordings of Pound’s voice.
Pound’s translation Cathay, the complete book of poems, along with his own Ripostes (1912), is available on CD or download from Audio Directory. Alan Davis Drake recorded the poetry.
is the source text, but at the end of the canto, Pound reveals that his text of Homer is a Latin translation from 1538. Pound’s own translation (of a translation) sounds less like Latin or Greek or contemporary English than it sounds like his earlier translation of the Anglo-Saxon poem ‘‘The Seafarer.’’ Thus, the canto presents an Anglo-Saxon sounding version of a Latin version of a Greek poem that Pound found in a book on the banks of the Seine in Paris. Much of the rest of this installment continues this layered presentation. From Homer, Pound moves immediately to Provenc¸al troubadour stories as retold by the Victorian poet Robert Browning, to China, and back to Homer. The third canto focuses on Pound’s own life in Venice where he has recently arrived and is sitting ‘‘on the Dogana’s steps.’’ Canto IV reels around the Mediterranean as it goes from the smoking stones of destroyed Troy to the ruins of a Roman arena in Verona, Italy. These cantos, through number
V o l u m e
1
5 3
T h e
C a n t o s
seven, introduce Pound’s themes: history, the persistence of the image, the senselessness of violence and destruction, and the beauty of human accomplishments. Cantos VIII through XI relate Pound’s version of the story of the Italian condottiere (mercenary soldier) Sigismondo Malatesta (1417–1468), the lord of Rimini, who was condemned by the pope to burn in hell. Pound was particularly struck by how Malatesta used his power not to amass more power or money but to create a court of artistic and intellectual accomplishment. (The Tempio Malatestiano, a church in Rimini that is more dedicated to Malatesta and his wife, Isotta, than to God or a saint, remained one of Pound’s favorite artistic accomplishments.) Canto XIII introduces the Chinese and Confucian theme that dominates much of The Cantos, and in its quiet beauty could not contrast more with the cantos that follow it, the so-called Hell Cantos. In these poems, Pound’s model is Dante (it has already been Homer, Browning, and Confucius), but Pound’s hell is characterized by money-worship and the befoulment of art and artists. This first installment ends, in Canto XVI, with hell in the twentieth century.
A Draft of the Cantos 17 27 A second installment of cantos (using Arabic numerals), A Draft of the Cantos 17–27, appeared in 1928, published by John Rodker, another small press. Instead of beginning with Homer, in these poems Pound begins with a vision from Ovid and a glimpse, following the horrific Hell cantos that end the previous installment, of his ‘‘paradiso terrestre,’’ his earthly paradise. In these cantos, Pound begins in earnest to examine the history of banking and finance, concentrating on the Florentine state, the industrialization of the United States, and the links between banking and war.
A Draft of XXX Cantos A limited edition of A Draft of XXX Cantos appeared from the Hours Press in Paris in 1930. In 1933, the American trade publisher Farrar & Rinehart published this section of The Cantos for the first time in the United States (and concurrently T. S. Eliot’s company, Faber & Faber, published it in a trade edition in Britain). This edition reprinted the poems of the first two installments and added three cantos, ending with the short Canto XXX. In this final canto, Pound returns to the Greek world where he had begun but moves in and out of the
5 4
E p i c s
f o r
Italian Renaissance (mentioning Cesare Borgia (1475–1507) and the Malatesta). The book ends with the death of Pope Alessandro Borgia (Pope Alexander VI, 1431–1503), who represents both the intrigue and the culture of the Renaissance.
Eleven New Cantos Soon after Pound’s A Draft of XXX Cantos appeared in the United States and Britain, Pound published Eleven New Cantos with the same publishers. This 1934 volume reflects Pound’s increasing concern with economics and his growing fascination with and admiration for Mussolini. Canto XXXI is based on the correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. In fact, much of this volume consists of Pound’s version of early U.S. history and the Bank of the United States controversy, always with an eye to the Italian Renaissance and as a prefiguration of the twentieth century. One of the most important cantos of the whole epic, however, is Canto 36, Pound’s translation of the troubadour Guido Cavalcanti’s poem ‘‘Donna mi prega.’’ Here, Pound’s enduring love of the Provenc¸al language and the troubadour period (from about 1100 to 1350) finds its greatest expression.
The Fifth Decad XLII LI Still consumed by economic history, Pound published his next installment of cantos, The Fifth Decad XLII–LI in 1937. The book moves from the Monte dei Paschi di Siena, a Renaissance bank that Pound greatly admired, to an involved attack on borrowing and credit, which he calls ‘‘usura,’’ to more representations of Greek myths. By this point in the epic, Pound was being asked about how the work as a whole was structured, and he is said to have comments that it was much like a fugue (a musical composition incorporating counterpoint or various different voices), involving theme, response, and contra-sujet (which is French for opposing subject). In tracing the underlying structural principles in the epic, many critics have concluded that the work is structured much like a fugue.
Cantos LII LXXI Appearing in 1940, just as the war in Europe was beginning, Cantos LII–LXXI received little notice and is considered by some to be the weakest installment. The first ten recount millennia of Chinese history. When Pound reaches 1776, he returns to the United States for the final ten poems.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
The Pisan Cantos The Pisan Cantos was written largely while Pound was held in the U. S. Army Detention Training Center (DTC) in Pisa, Italy, and the work is generally considered to be the most successful of the individual collections. Amid much controversy, the book won the first Bollingen Prize for Poetry from the Library of Congress, while Pound was being held in an asylum for the criminally insane. (The book starts at Canto LXXIV, omitting LXXII and LXXIII, the fascist-themed Italian language cantos that Pound’s publisher included many years later in the complete edition of the poem.) Pound’s study of philosophy appears in this book, as well as he envisioning taking his poem into paradise, as Dante describes in his Divine Comedy. However, these flights are accompanied by the most personal of details: reminiscences of Pound’s days in London, impressions of fascist Italy, and mentions of Pound’s fellow prisoners in the DTC. The book manages, better than any of the previous installments, to express Pound’s ideas of the ‘‘Periplum,’’ the wholeness of a man’s life as contextualized in history, art, and politics.
Section: Rock-Drill LXXXV XCV and Thrones XCVI CIV
Pound begins his Cantos with an address to English poet Robert Browning (1812 1889).
Pound wrote little in his early years in St. Elizabeths Hospital, but near the end of his time there, he returned to the cantos. In Section: Rock-Drill LXXXV–XCV, published in 1956, and Thrones XCVI–CIV, published in 1959, Pound envision a reader of these difficult poems. His ideal reader is well-educated, familiar with a number of obscure texts and ideas, and competent in five or six languages. These two installments ask the reader not as much to understand as to participate in Pound’s way of thinking and his imagination. Readers are invited to enjoy the beauty of images and Pound’s command of the poetic line and to draw on their own vast reading in order to begin to appreciate the poet’s rich allusions.
are gone; instead, the cantos have a contemplative, sad, meditative tone that characterizes much of The Pisan Cantos. In the eleven years between the publication of Thrones XCVI–CIV and this volume, Pound struggled with depression. He began to regret much of what he had done and said, writing ‘‘Let those I love try to forgive / what I have made.’’ Some view these as the most beautiful of the cantos: his light touch with Greek myth and deft handling of a striking image of man-made beauty illuminated by the natural light are impressive.
Drafts and Fragments of Cantos CX CXVII Drafts and Fragments of Cantos CX–CXVII, which appeared in 1969 as a response to a bootleg (illegal) publication of the same poems, collects a few finished and a few unfinished cantos. In these poems, the tone has shifted drastically from the previous two installments. The tone of erudite confidence and the sense of haranguing
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
CHARACTERS John Adams John Adams (1735–1826) was the second president of the United States. His correspondence with Jefferson forms the basis for many of the middle cantos.
V o l u m e
1
5 5
T h e
C a n t o s
Mussolini’s intelligence in their brief encounter. He retells this story in Canto XXXXI. Mussolini returns in Canto LXXIV, the first of the Pisan series, where Pound describes how Italian partisans captured Mussolini and executed him. Mussolini’s body and that of his mistress Clara Petacci were hung upside down on public display in Milan.
The Boss, Muss See Benito Mussolini
Confucius See Kung Fu-tse
Isotta degli Atti Isotta degli Atti (c. 1430–1470) was Sigismondo Malatesta’s mistress and, later, his third wife. His love for her is demonstrated all over the Tempio Malatestiano by the intertwined initials S and I.
Siggy See Sigismondo Malatesta
Kung Fu-tse Confucius (551–479 BCE ) is the moral anchor of The Cantos. Pound compares the moral precepts of the West, especially those of Aristotle, against Confucian ideals and finds those of the West lacking. For Pound’s poem, perhaps the most important dictum of Confucius is his insistence on exact terminology; Pound feared and hated the inexact use of language, and The Pisan Cantos are suffused with Pound’s regretful sense that he violated this precept in his wartime broadcasts.
Ixotta See Isotta degli Atti
Thomas Jefferson The third president of the United States, Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826) was a proponent of agrarian democracy and opposed centralized banking systems.
Sigismondo Malatesta Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta (1417–1468) was the lord of the Italian city of Rimini and a famous ‘‘condottiere,’’ or Renaissance courtier. By the time he was thirteen, Malatesta was fighting in the field, leading his troops against papal armies and winning. These experiences were the prelude to Malatesta’s struggles against Popes Pius II and Paul II. Malatesta held his own, and at the same time built a court in Rimini, which for Pound was an example of enlightened governance, bringing the artists Agostino di Duccio and Piero della Francesca to Rimini to help in the decoration of the Church of San Francesco, also known as the Tempio Malatestiano.
Benito Mussolini Fascist Party leader and Italian dictator Benito Mussolini (1883–1945) was Pound’s contemporary and one of his idols. Pound met with Mussolini once, in 1933, and believed he could sense
5 6
E p i c s
f o r
THEMES The Past as a Palimpsest A palimpsest is a piece of paper or parchment that has been written on a number of times and on which the earlier texts have been only partially effaced. But the term also designates a building that incorporates an earlier building, typically one from a previous historical period. One illustration of the palimpsest occurs in the first canto, in which Pound translates into Anglo-Saxon sounding English a Latin translation of a Greek text that he found at a Paris bookstall. The text he translates is preserved through these various editions and at the same time gradually transformed by them. The palimpsest serves Pound as both a structural principle for The Cantos and one of its most important themes. As a student and later as a traveler and resident in European cities, Pound appreciated how cultures are superimposed historically, literally in the sense of one culture erecting its buildings on the ruins of a previous one, and metaphorically in one culture expanding upon an idea formed in a previous one. Hellenistic art took Greek classicism and gave it emotionality. Roman architecture, sculpture, and literature appropriated and developed Greek architecture, sculpture, and literature. Similarly, religious ideas recurred, with new versions echoing past ones, illustrated by Greek gods recreated by Romans with Roman names. Classicism in total was recapitulated in the Renaissance, the word itself meaning rebirth. Pound sought this multifaceted action through time, to capture how cultures evolve by and through layers and how cultural artifacts are both preserved and transformed by later articulations. In this pursuit, Pound agreed his contemporary and fellow American the novelist William Faulkner (1897–1963), who strove to show in his own work how the past is always present, how
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY In many of the middle cantos, Pound focuses on the correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. He is also interested in the establishment of the first and second Banks of the United States, and on how these two early presidents clashed with Alexander Hamilton on economic policy. Write a research paper in which you explain the purpose of the Bank of the United States and how it was viewed by Jefferson and Adams. Then explain Pound’s view of the national bank. Beginning in Canto XIII, Pound examines the philosophy of Confucius. What are some important Confucian ideas? How has Confucianism influenced Chinese society over the centuries? What is the current Chinese government’s attitude toward Confucian thought? With two or three classmates, create a panel discussion with each member explaining one aspect of Confucius’s effect on China. Have one member evaluate the philosopher’s ideas and select some that might be useful in the United States in the early 2000s. Ezra Pound greatly admired the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, and Mussolini makes
appearances in The Cantos. What was Mussolini’s government like? How did he rise to power? What relationship was there between Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany in the 1930s and 1940s? Compile historical photographs taken during World War II and project these as you discuss the similarities between Mussolini and Hitler and the military action they commanded.
An important cultural moment for Pound, one that informed the conception of The Cantos, is the Provenc¸al or troubadour culture. Where did these people live? What language did they speak? How was their society organized? What does the word troubadour mean? In a PowerPoint presentation, introduce your classmates to Provenc¸al or troubadour culture.
Put together an oral report and slide presentation on the Tempio Malatestiano, explaining the church architecture, the exterior and interior decorations, and the church’s special significance for Pound. Use information and images from online sources and art history books you locate in the library.
ancestors are always shaping descendents, how past plots are re-enacted. It is this vast cultural legacy that Pound appreciated, grasped, and wanted his epic to convey.
Return,’’ he writes of classical gods awaking in modern times and returning to active life. They are not dead, he asserts; they are just dormant yet their influence lives on.
Throughout The Cantos, Pound tries to illustrate the presence of the past in people’s current beliefs and practices. Moreover, he tries to show how modern war and finance can be better understood through the study of banking itself, which can be traced to its origins in medieval Florence and Siena. Adding to the overall complexity, his obsession with the idea of the image, or what he called the ‘‘luminous detail,’’ found a correlative in his study of the Chinese ideogram, in which he saw ideas conveyed in a form that is at once both pictorial and verbal. In an early poem, ‘‘The
Beauty
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Much of The Cantos is concerned with esthetics, with the search for beauty and the examination of its essence. Pound was not a nature poet and did not find beauty in nature, as did the early romantics. For Pound, the interplay between human creation and natural forces—especially light—creates beauty. He was fascinated with Mediterranean light and how it illuminates and transforms pastel painted stucco and architectural ruins of ancient cultures, and he imagined past cultures in their heyday by watching the transformative effect of
V o l u m e
1
5 7
T h e
C a n t o s
evident throughout the epic, particularly how he evolves his chosen subjects with such exceptional style.
Time and History
The influence of the Chinese teacher and philosopher Confucius is evident throughout the poem, especially in the segment beginning with Canto 42, where Pound gives a Confucian digest of the history of China. (Archive Photos / Popperfoto / Xenofile Images, Inc. Reproduced by permission.)
light as it brightens and then declines on a given day in the present. Human striving is not vain, for Pound. He admired strong historical figures who sought to create beauty, justice, and a new social system. Curiously, Pound selected as models certain historical persons who were known for their both power and cruelty, for example, the sixteenthcentury Italian military leader Sigismondo Malatesta and his sometimes rival, the autocratic and often ruthless Pope Alexander VI, but more notably, given the immediacy of World War II, Pound admired the fascist leader Benito Mussolini and was convinced that fascism was a better system than free-market capitalism. In the balance, the poet also admired Confucius, Dante, Guido Cavalcanti, John Adams, men who wanted to create cultures in which art and governance worked together, not in opposition. But arguably the strongest parts of Pound’s epic are his descriptions of beautiful subjects. His original use of language to convey the image is
5 8
E p i c s
f o r
Time is a constant theme in The Cantos, and history is the subject by which a convoluted and repetitious sense of time is conveyed. Pound described his epic as ‘‘a poem containing history’’ and as ‘‘the tale of the tribe.’’ Pound juxtaposes diverse time periods, often in adjacent lines. Many of the cantos jump wildly around in time. Rather than using chronology to construct his poem, Pound structures his poem with central ideas and images, and he moves through history and geography, connecting ancient China to the nascent American republic, for instance. Pound wants to expand or complicate people’s sense of time, inviting them away from the assumption that time, like plot, is linear, into an awareness of how the past is not lost but present, and how all action and creation in the present, no matter how novel and fresh, in truth occurs within and is colored by a vast, still-traceable historical context.
STYLE As an epic, The Cantos involves a journey, but unlike the Odyssey or the Aeneid the journey is not through space but through history. Pound initially thought of his poem in terms of Dante’s medieval epic the Divine Comedy, in which the poet journeys from earth to the depths of hell then ascends through purgatory to paradise. But Pound’s poem does not undertake this progression in any linear sense. The first canto presents, in Pound’s translation of a translation, Odysseus’s preparations to going into the underworld, and in the early cantos, Pound also describes how Sigismondo Malatesta braved terrestrial and spiritual hells. The first section of cantos ends with the socalled Hell cantos, which present images as horrific as any literary work since Dante. But after the first sixteen cantos, the Dantelike structure fades. Pound provides the reader the occasional glimpse of what he called his ‘‘paradiso terrestre,’’ the earthly paradise, especially in his descriptions of light glinting off of artworks such as the mosaic over the doorway in a church in Torcello, Italy, but for the most part the cantos are concerned with what might be ‘‘purgatorio,’’ or the world of history. Entire cantos are devoted to
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
enumerating Chinese rulers or summarizing the correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. Only in the last few cantos does Pound begin to concern himself fully with what is in his paradise, and over the fifty years he spent writing the poem he seems to have come to the conclusion that paradise is both fleeting and ever present: ‘‘Do not move / let the wind speak / that is paradise,’’ he says in a fragment for one of the last cantos. Perhaps the best description of the structure of the poem is Pound’s. At times, he told friends that he had built the poem to mirror the structure of a fugue, a music form that consists of the announcement of a theme in one voice, the echoing of that theme from other voices, and the contrapuntal development of that theme. On another level, the individual cantos are structured not as coherent narratives but as details linked together imagistically. Canto III, for instance, begins in Venice, where Pound ‘‘sat on the Dogana’s steps / For the gondolas cost too much, that year.’’ He muses on the appearance of Venice in 1908, describing such specifics as the Buccentoro rowing club and the citizens ‘‘howling ’Stretti,’’’ a line from a popular song, but quickly moves to the baths at Baden, Switzerland, and from there to Burgos, Spain. These details are linked by images and concepts: the air and colors of Venice make Pound think of Tuscany, which makes him think of the ancient gods and nymphs. From that series of fleshy, earthly images, he jumps to a Roman text about the baths where nude young women bathe. For Pound, the images communicated not just a picture in the mind but the nexus of intellectual and emotional response in a given moment. In order to convey his conception of culture and history and how they define any present moment, Pound had to find a style that both used former models and departed from them. In other words, as he engaged with the ideas of his work, he borrowed, echoed, and deviated from the cultural patterns he wanted both to preserve and transform. The style he used is challenging because it disrupts readers’ unconscious expectations. Highly educated readers can recognize familiar details but are also surprised by a presentation that is unfamiliar and at time so disparate and multifaceted as to be daunting.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Pound wrote The Cantos over a long period of time—the first canto was published in 1917 and the final installment to be published during Pound’s lifetime appeared in 1968. Pound’s poem is steeped in history: his own description of the poem as he formulated it was ‘‘a poem containing history.’’ History, therefore, both formed the raw material for the poem and impinged upon its construction and creation. When Pound first thought of writing his ‘‘tale of the tribe,’’ he was living in London and had gained a reputation as a literary impresario and provocateur. From the time that he arrived in London in 1909, he had set himself the task of wresting art and literature from the nineteenth century into the twentieth. To achieve this end, he served as a foreign editor for American publications; he ‘‘discovered’’ such writers as T. S. Eliot; he edited anthologies; he promoted operas; he gave money and materials to sculptors; and he harangued and wrote and dashed about the city, an unforgettable figure in his pointy beard and cape. But by 1920, Pound had tired of London. World War I had taken its toll on the writers and artists he sponsored, and London’s openness to artistic experimentation was waning. Pound wrote his well-known Hugh Selwyn Mauberley poem cycle in 1920 and moved to Paris. He only stayed there four years, though, feeling that Italy was a better place for working on The Cantos, the poem that now consumed his energies. In the 1920s, as Pound finished the first thirty cantos, he grew increasingly interested in European and American history and economics, subjects that supplemented his already extensive knowledge of Chinese and Provenc¸al history and art and classical civilizations. The Cantos began to be Pound’s ‘‘tale of the tribe,’’ the ‘‘tribe’’ being intelligent, artistic, culturally minded people. In his historical research, Pound came across a number of men who brought together what he saw as political justice, economic wisdom, and an artistic temperament and The Cantos quickly became a tale of how those men—Jefferson and Adams, Confucius, Malatesta—had to fight against the venality and stupidity of their contemporaries. Pound came to believe that the answer for his own times was the Italian fascist dictator Benito Mussolini (1883–1945). Through the late 1920s and the 1930s, Pound began to write more on economics, arguing that Mussolini’s programs epitomized the kind of humane system that Pound hoped
V o l u m e
1
5 9
T h e
C a n t o s
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1920s: The so-called Roaring Twenties are characterized by economic expansion in the United States. Reckless and exorbitant spending among the wealthy anticipates the Great Depression, which begins with the New York Stock Market crash in late 1929. 1960s: The economic growth of the post– World War II 1950s continues to generate construction and suburban sprawl into previously rural areas. While the middle class prospers, many young people drop out, in protest of the ongoing Vietnam War and the U.S. military draft. The late 1960s witness considerable social conflict, for example, with the civil rights movement, and congressional acts are passed to assure equal rights in employment, housing, and education. Today: After the economic downturn of the early 2000s, people face record levels of debt, insolvency, and unemployment. Economic news is sufficiently negative to cause consumers to change their purchasing habits and credit companies reverse their previous marketing ploys to encourage debt and thus profit from high interest rates. Foreclosures are common.
1920s: Post–World War I years witness artistic experimentation. Many expatriate American artists and writers live in Paris, fleeing what they see as bourgeois provincialism in the United States.
to see succeed in the world. In Cantos XLII through LXXI, Pound wrote extensively on Chinese and American history, but Mussolini’s name and ideas come up repeatedly. Even more disturbing is a growing anti-Semitism in the poems. Consumed by a hatred of banks and always attracted to medieval times, Pound concluded that powerful Jews were behind the world banking system. Exacerbating Pound’s fascist and anti-Semitic sympathies
6 0
E p i c s
f o r
1960s: During escalation of U.S. military involvement in Southeast Asia and engagement in the Vietnam War, some American writers protest big business and the big business of war, urging young people to drop out of the conventional path of education and work and join the hippie generation. Use of various illegal drugs is widespread among teenagers. Today: As the United States withdraws troops from Iraq, it commits thousands more to Afghanistan. Military forces are also used for humanitarian purposes, as for example in assisting Haitians after a series of devastating earthquakes in early 2010. 1920s: Higher education is for upper class individuals; most young people go directly into the labor force on or before completion of high school. 1960s: Baby Boomers enter college in record numbers, causing shortages in teachers. Individuals with PhDs find ample job opportunities waiting for them upon graduation. Today: As industry contracts through the economic downturn of the first decade of the twenty-first century, jobs are lost by the tens of thousands. Many unemployed individuals seek retraining in hopes of finding positions in new areas; however, the workforce is growing faster than industry, and unemployment remains at 10 percent nation-wide and higher in certain cities and states.
were his mental problems: By the late 1930s, Pound was showing clear signs of paranoia. Pound returned to the United States briefly in 1939 and gave a few speeches, but he only managed to convince his audiences that he was either a crank or insane. When war broke out in Europe, Pound was forced to remain in Italy, and for the duration of the war he lived there. To earn money, he made broadcasts on Italian
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
Cantos 71-72, written in Italian, defend the fascist ideals of dictator Benito Mussolini. ( Bettmann / Corbis)
state radio, that were filled with anti-Semitism and venom directed at President Franklin Delano Roosevelt (1882–1945). In 1943, Pound was indicted for treason in the United States, and as the war was ending, he was captured by Italian partisans and turned over to the U.S. Army. He was kept in a cage in Pisa for a while before being returned to the United States to stand trial. Upon his arrival in Washington, D.C., Pound was found mentally unfit for trial and sentenced to detention in a mental hospital. However, at this same time, a collection of the poems that he had written while held by the Army, The Pisan Cantos, appeared, and to many readers, they were the best poems Pound had ever written. As ever, they were difficult and relied on an enormous body of crosscultural knowledge, but for the first time, Pound showed weakness, doubt, regret about his actions and beliefs. In these poems, he came through as
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
honest with himself as he had ever been. Before his release from the hospital in 1958, he published one other set of cantos. He returned to Italy to live out the rest of his life, quietly.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Critical opinion on Pound’s Cantos seems more divided than the critical opinion on any other important modernist work, and the epic’s critical fortunes have risen and fallen with time perhaps as a result. Even during the half-century when the work appeared in installments, readers and critics were widely divided on the poem’s merits. As the critical literature on The Cantos is vast, only some of the more prominent critics of the work are covered here. As the poem was being composed, even Pound’s close friends and admirers were unsure about the
V o l u m e
1
6 1
T h e
C a n t o s
structure of the poem—how it fit together and what it would look like as a whole. The Irish poet William Butler Yeats wrote in 1936 that all he saw at that point were strange and unrelated fragments but he assumed the relationship between elements would become apparent when the finished poem was considered. Yeats also said he thought the work had more style than form, that the content seemed broken or interrupted. T. S. Eliot echoed Yeats’s criticisms, writing in 1946 that The Cantos are very opaque and as though the poem is irritated with the limited knowledge of his readers. Eliot praised Pound’s influence in the highest terms, but was less enthusiastic about his most important poem. In 1950, the prominent English critic F. R. Leavis responded to Eliot’s opinions on Pound. Like Eliot and Yeats, Leavis felt that Pound did not use the historical sources well. But where Eliot felt that Pound’s importance as an influence was immeasurable, even if the meaning of his poem was opaque, Leavis felt that Pound’s style limited the impact his epic could have and thus restricted its importance. Pound’s greatest defender among literary critics was the Canadian Hugh Kenner, who wrote the first book-length study of Pound’s work, The Poetry of Ezra Pound, in 1951, and who contributed an enormously important work of Pound scholarship, The Pound Era, twenty-one years later. In The Poetry of Ezra Pound, Kenner forcefully answered Pound’s critics. After the appearance of the Pisan section of cantos in 1948, he wrote: ‘‘it is no longer easy . . . to dismiss The Cantos as either formless or irrelevant. Pound impinges upon the citizen of CE 1950 or whenever, not via his psychological tensions . . . but through a rational amalgam of morals and politics.’’ Kenner’s book was the first to argue that the epic was in fact an epic with form; Kenner made it possible for a large group of scholars to write on Pound without having to defend the poet on charges of formlessness or sloppiness. For Kenner, ‘‘Pound’s structural unit in The Cantos is not unlike the Joycean epiphany: a highly concentrated manifestation of a moral, cultural, or political quiddity [the essential quality of a thing, its ‘suchness’].’’ Although The Cantos received constant criticism for being formless—and Kenner’s work only provided a means of defense, it did not dispel all of the objections to Pound’s poem—few critics ever took issue with Pound’s poetic strengths. Perhaps Pound’s most important innovation was
6 2
E p i c s
f o r
in his use of the line. Pound’s close friend William Carlos Williams admired The Cantos primarily for Pound’s command of the poetic line, which he said followed the movement of the poet’s thought. Eliot, Leavis, and others all praised this aspect of The Cantos and of Pound’s work in general. The Cantos, for all of its difficulty, inspired a number of other poets who saw in Pound’s poem a different model for the epic. John Berryman’s Dream Songs, Louis Zukofsky’s A, and Charles Olson’s Maximus Poems, all were influenced by Pound’s innovations. In the 1960s, more criticism was written on Pound than on almost any other American poet, and many of the young poets of the period, ranging from the Buddhist poet Gary Snyder to the southern nature poet Charles Wright, saw Pound as their most important predecessor. In subsequent decades, with the decline of New Criticism, which studied poems in isolation from their context, Pound’s poems generated increasing discussion. However, even as readers discovered Pound’s value, the epic tended not to be included in classroom study because of its contrary political and anti-Semitic bias. Pound’s disturbing political opinions, coupled with the work’s difficulty, caused the poem virtually to disappear from college poetry courses. Nonetheless, Pound’s biography and work also proved him to be a good friend to hundreds of artists of all kinds and acknowledged him as the central figure in literary modernism.
CRITICISM Greg Barnhisel Barnhisel is an associate professor of English and director of the first-year writing program at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In the following essay, he looks at The Cantos in their historical context. He argues that the poem became the focal point for a debate in the United States, the ramifications of which went far beyond the poem, Pound, and even literature. Ezra Pound’s Cantos, the masterpiece of one of modernism’s central figures, is perhaps the least read of any of the great works of modernism. The poem is difficult, certainly. It asks the reader to come to it with a vast array of knowledge of languages, historical events, and mythologies. It presents a string of images and fragments strung together by a logic that is hard to decipher. It expresses opinions that are unfamiliar and foreign
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
C a n t o s
THE ESSENTIAL QUESTION FOR ALL OF THESE WRITERS AND THINKERS WAS WHETHER ART CAN BE VIEWED ENTIRELY AESTHETICALLY (SOLELY IN TERMS OF ITS ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE ATTRIBUTES)
Dante’s great epic poem Divine Comedy (1308–1321) presents the hierarchical medieval worldview of the afterlife, ranking sins with the nine circles of hell, and in its descriptions of purgatory and paradise placing human artistry in its finite and temporal framework. Pound’s earlier and shorter poetry is collected in Personae, which first appeared in 1926 and was reprinted in 1990. These poems introduce readers to Pound’s style without the complexity of his Cantos. Literary Essays of Ezra Pound (published in a paperback by New Directions in 1968) contains an introduction to Pound’s literary theory by T. S. Eliot. Ezra Pound: Selected Prose 1909–1965, first appeared in paperback when New Directions published it in 1975. This collection presents most of the poet’s important writings on literary, political, and economic topics. In 2008, Fordham University Press published a critical edition of The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry, by Ernest Fenollosa and others. The book contains Fenollosa’s work along with critical assessment of it with foreword and notes by Pound. Pound had a dramatic effect on the editing of T. S. Eliot’s poem ‘‘The Waste Land’’ (1922). In 2000, the Norton Critical Edition of Eliot’s poem appeared, which provides background, criticism, and helpful notes on this modernist poem. Stephen Kern’s The Culture of Time and Space (1880–1918) (Harvard University Press, 2003), describes the life of the mind in the decades leading up to World War I. Kern provides an engaging description of the cultural, social, and technological changes that influenced modernist art. He describes how late nineteenth-century culture was altered by such large concepts as Darwin’s theory and such seemingly petty social changes as the widespread use of pocket watches.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
OR WHETHER ART ALWAYS BEARS SOME TRACES OF, COMMENTS ON, AND HAS RESPONSIBILITY TO THE SOCIETY THAT PRODUCES IT.’’
at times and at other times are disturbing and even offensive. For these and other reasons, few college poetry courses include more than a few excerpts from The Cantos, and few readers outside the academia invest the required time to read and appreciate the poem. Nonetheless, many critics feel that the poem is the great epic of modernist poetry, and some feel that it, not James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), is the greatest work of modernism. Pound was a central figure in the development of modernism, both in terms of facilitating the careers of other artists and writers and of developing the techniques that would become the hallmarks of modernism. Pound’s lifelong dictum was ‘‘Make it New!’’ and the drive for innovation inspired most of his artistic endeavors. His early poems are some of the most familiar works of literary modernism and almost no course in American poetry omits such poems as ‘‘In a Station of the Metro,’’‘‘Sestina: Altaforte,’’ or ‘‘The River-Merchant’s Wife.’’ But the difficulty of The Cantos is really not the issue when we ask ourselves why the most important poem by one of the most important figures in modernism is rarely read. After all, T. S. Eliot’s ‘‘The Waste Land’’ remains popular and is hardly easier than The Cantos. In the early 2000s, students learn a little bit about Pound early; high school English classes often read ‘‘In a Station of the Metro’’ to illustrate metaphor, and freshman literature survey courses include a few of his poems in their modernist units. But if readers wish to venture any further into Pound’s work, they are immediately confronted by the big issues of Pound’s life and beliefs. This is neither a conspiracy on the part of Pound-haters, nor is it unjustified: In order to understand The Cantos,
V o l u m e
1
6 3
T h e
C a n t o s
one must be conversant with the historical events, personages, and economic ideas that really are the central subjects of the poem. But acquaintance with what Pound did in his life and what he thought, combined with the difficulty inherent in reading The Cantos, makes students reluctant to undertake the project. The relationship of Pound’s ideas to his poetry is a topic that has been central to public understanding of the poet since at least the late 1920s. Cultures have always tried to balance out the competing claims of aesthetic value and a so-called good message in art. In the fifth century before the Common Era, Plato banished the poets from his imaginary Republic because art encouraged dissent and disreputable ideas. In the seventeenth century, John Milton tried to use art to rally English people against the abuses of royalty while at the same time the elites were creating aesthetically rarefied art for themselves. The essential question for all of these writers and thinkers was whether art can be viewed entirely aesthetically (solely in terms of its artistic and creative attributes) or whether art always bears some traces of, comments on, and has responsibility to the society that produces it. Pound’s Cantos, with its attacks on Roosevelt and Alexander Hamilton and advocacy of Italian fascism and anti-Semitism, is a problematic poem in this context. During the 1930s, while most readers had begun to ignore Pound, many critics felt that the poem would indeed be a great work if Pound could ever come up with a coherent structure for it. But how could literary critics ignore the admiration of Mussolini? How could they dismiss as unimportant the poem’s attacks on Jewish bankers? The answer lies in the profound changes that occurred among American cultural intellectuals between the 1930s and the 1950s. During the Great Depression in the 1930s, socialist and communist movements met some success in the United States. On the East Coast and especially in New York City, many young intellectuals, many of whom were from Jewish immigrant families that had labored in poverty, gravitated to communism. Communist groups published magazines and newspapers, including poems, fiction, and literary criticisms by these young intellectuals. But by the late 1930s, a small group of Jewish intellectuals from New York grew tired of the strict rules the Communist Party of the United States of America (CPUSA) had set regarding the art and literature that should be supported. Adhering to the Soviet line, the CPUSA advocated so-called
6 4
E p i c s
f o r
socialist realism, that is, realistic art that exalted workers and their struggles. This group of breakaway critics (who became known as the New York Intellectuals) disagreed. They sought out art that was more daring, more abstract, and experimental. Forming their own journal, Partisan Review, the New York Intellectuals forged their own kind of cultural criticism: strongly left-wing, anti-Nazi but also anti-Soviet, seeking out new and avant-garde art as a way to undermine the bourgeois complacency of the United States. This group included Mary McCarthy, Delmore Schwartz, Philip Rahv, Irving Howe, Clement Greenberg, Lionel Trilling, and many others. These individuals felt that art had a responsibility not just to society, as the socialist realism doctrine held, but also to aesthetic values that have nothing to do with morals or ethics or societal aims. James Joyce, T. S. Eliot, James Baldwin, and the abstract expressionist painters were some of the artists favored by the New York Intellectuals. However, given that most of intellectuals were Jewish, the group as a whole was highly suspicious of Pound. As the New York Intellectuals were going through their educations and growing more independent, another important group of critics was forming, this one in the South. Members of the Fugitive Group, named after their literary journal, consisted of southern literary men who looked back to the Old South and saw in it culture, refinement, and an artistic sensibility. Although they initially linked their literary program strongly with the South, they quickly developed a more general methodology for studying literature of all kinds. By the 1940s, these writers (who included John Crowe Ransom, Cleanth Brooks, Robert Penn Warren, and R. P. Blackmur) were becoming known as the New Critics. Their approach to literature centered on close reading: Poems should be read not with an eye to the biography of the poet, not with attention to the political beliefs of the poet or of his time, but with the greatest emphasis placed on the inner workings of the poem itself. The New Critics sought out tension, ambiguity, irony within the poem, and paid close attention to each word and all of its connotations. For them, the social value of literature—if any—was that it developed an aesthetic sensibility in readers, which would make them more sensitive and perceptive citizens. Both the New Critics and the New York Intellectuals, therefore, believed that literature should
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
Pound discusses the monopolies on credit and interest rates perpetuated by banks at the time he was writing The Cantos. In this 1931 scene, the president of the Federal American Bank in Washington, D.C., addresses a crowd of depositors angry over the bank’s restrictive practices. ( Hulton Deutsch Collection / Corbis)
not be judged primarily by the ideas it expresses. The form and structure of a poem, its sound, its imagery, and its innovations should be viewed as its most important attributes, and critics should pay attention to those aspects of a poem rather than to what lessons a poem teaches or what kind of man the poet is. In 1949, just as members of these groups were becoming the most prominent cultural intellectuals in the United States, they were called upon to defend these claims about how to judge art. Ezra Pound was brought back to the United States soon after World War II and was quickly put on trial for treason. Knowing that he would be found guilty and most likely executed, his lawyer, Julian Cornell, sought to have Pound found mentally unfit to stand trial, and the judge agreed. Pound was incarcerated in St. Elizabeths Hospital
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
in Washington, D.C. The American reading public was disgusted with Pound and, to make matters worse, people had essentially stopped buying his books. Pound seemed destined to fade into irrelevance. But in 1948, Pound’s collection The Pisan Cantos appeared. The book received largely positive reviews, and many readers who had dismissed Pound now began to feel again that he was a great poet. The following year, the book won the first Bollingen Prize, an award given by the Library of Congress to the year’s best book of poetry. Predictably, many people were outraged. How could a man be lauded by his country just three years after that country had sought to execute him for treason? The Pisan Cantos was not innocent of those acts and beliefs for which Pound had earned such opprobrium: In the poems he laments
V o l u m e
1
6 5
T h e
C a n t o s
the death of Mussolini and talks about his wartime radio broadcasts. In the Saturday Review of Literature, the most important mainstream book review magazine in the country, the poet Robert Hillyer published two attacks that took as their targets Pound, T. S. Eliot, literary modernism, the Bollingen Foundation, and New Criticism. How could these people, Hillyer asked, reward art that held positions that were so inimical to the values for which the United States had just fought a terribly destructive war? The Bollingen committee, which included T. S. Eliot and a number of New Critics, responded to Hillyer’s objections in terms that would determine academic approaches to Pound’s poetry for decades. In a communique´, the committee cited the ‘‘objective perception of value,’’ arguing that aesthetic and artistic value could be judged entirely separately from moral or social standards. Surprisingly, the New York Intellectuals agreed with the Bollingen committee. In a forum convened for Partisan Review, most of the contributors supported the Bollingen award. One notable exception was the poet Karl Shapiro, a member of the Bollingen committee, who stated frankly that he voted against awarding the prize to Pound because, as he was quoted to say, ‘‘I am a Jew and I cannot honor anti-Semites.’’ This cultural moment was the coalescing of a strange and unpredictable alliance. The left-wing, cosmopolitan, nonacademic, largely Jewish New York Intellectual group came together with the right-wing, agrarian, academic, largely southern New Critics to argue that art must be judged first and foremost on aesthetic standards. As a result of this endorsement, Pound’s popularity, sales, and critical respect slowly but steadily grew over the next ten years and then grew dramatically during the 1960s. The Cantos had the endorsement of the leading critics of the day, and readers were given license to read the poems as strictly aesthetic artifacts. Source: Greg Barnhisel, Critical Essay on The Cantos, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Chantal Bizzini In the following essay, Bizzini explores the different voices of intellectuals of the past to whom Pound refers in The Cantos and relates these to ideas of a utopian city. Shaped after the Odyssey and the Divine Comedy, Ezra Pound’s Cantos, the great American epic of the twentieth century, recounts a voyage. This is
6 6
E p i c s
f o r
POUND CHANGES THE DEVELOPMENT OF HISTORY, CREATING NEW POSSIBILITIES FOR THE FUTURE AND EXPLAINING HISTORY WITH A FRESH VISION.’’
the journey back home, or uo´oto. This voyage, at the time when Pound writes the first thirty Cantos in 1930, encompasses time and space and displays ‘‘an exploration through history, which, after the Hell and Purgatory of the earlier Cantos, would presumably end in Paradise, in the lost city which Pound variously conceived and described’’ (Sullivan 29). In our quest for this lost city, we can first question the real cities in which Pound actually lived, and the historical cities that he wrote about, and finally the cities that he imagined, which abound in The Cantos. The real cities in Pound’s life are mostly European. He traveled first in Venice in 1898 and in 1908. Then, he chose to live in Europe: in London in 1908; in Paris, from 1920 to 1924; in Rapallo, in 1925, and finally in Rapallo and Venice until his death in 1972 (Sullivan 14–19). We know that Pound, as the poet narrator of The Cantos, plays with the persona of Ulysses, and we can thus infer that, at the very basis of this European wandering, lies an exile. This exile is, at the same time, an exile of place and time. Pound chooses to escape in the nostalgia of the past in Europe instead of remaining in twentieth-century America. Consequently, very few American cities seem to require Pound’s interest through The Cantos. When he begins to work on The Cantos in 1915, Pound is still living in London; but soon after the war he must acknowledge that ‘‘London was the Capital no longer’’ (Kenner 382), and ‘‘had become a place of locust-shells’’ (Kenner 419); that ‘‘in the old sense there were no more capitals’’ (Kenner 384), and that ‘‘much of Europe had been destroyed’’ (Kenner 419). So, in Canto LXXVI, the third of the Pisan Cantos—1948)—, Pound sees himself as having escaped alone from a pervasive ruin: As a lone ant from a broken ant hill from the wreckage of Europe, ego scriptor. (LXXVI/458)
We assume that after having seen that the city, which is an architectural work of art as well
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
as an expression of civilization, has been destroyed, Pound will write The Cantos ‘‘against this ruin’’ (CX/481).
thematically linked. In that way, The Cantos is a didactic poem which will teach a new understanding of history.
In the attempt to measure the importance of Pound’s wandering through Europe and its repercussions on The Cantos, we can look at the first evidences of the City in The Cantos’: firstly comes Ithaca (I. 25), Ulysses’s dream-place and the royal island to which he tries to return; then Mantova, Sordello’s birth place—Sordello is a poet and one of the many personae Pound endorses through his poem (II. 4); then comes La Dogana, i.e. Venice— which is Pound’s dream-place and the city where he eventually decided to settle (III. 1); followed by a ‘‘Palace in a smoky light’’ (IV. 1), which evokes Troy but represents the destruction of civilization; and finally Ecbatana (Nearly every city name, family name, etc, in The Cantos is ‘‘misspelled’’ intentionally by Pound.)—the city of Deioces (V. 1), its builder and a fair judge—‘‘he won the hearts of the people who made him king, after which he built his visionary city’’ (Terrell 14). We can now examine these first appearances side by side with the last one, in Pound’s ‘‘Notes for CXVII et seq.’’:
Then, The Cantos, proceeding by discrimination, pictures, as does every epic, the tragedy of human beings, here the twentieth century human beings who must return home escaping evil: The Cantos are this battlefield of the eternal struggle of good against evil and appeal to them ‘‘to be men not destroyers’’ (Notes for CXVII et sq./802) and dedicate themselves to the betterment of the human condition (Terrell viii).
‘‘I tried to make a paradiso terrestre.’’ (Notes for CXVII et seq./802)
and measure the span of The Cantos, as a real building, a work of art against destruction. Thus, at the very beginning of The Cantos, Pound introduces the theme of the city, at the same time a poetical and a teleological motive, which will give a coherence to The Cantos: The Cantos develops itself as Pound’s linguistic city under construction. In order to imagine how to escape from this ‘‘inferno’’ which is the twentieth century and to imagine a city totally fit for habitation, Pound explores the history of the past, in search of models: heroes, thinkers, poets to ‘‘make it new’’ (LIII/ 265) and build a lasting peace, a constitution and a language, all which may help to reshape the culture of America. This exploration makes of The Cantos a ‘‘no-place’’ and a ‘‘no-time’’ as its progression occurs through obscurity where it encounters the crowds of the people of the past and of the present. This obscurity is at the same time the absence of the lights of civilization and, for the readers, the reading of a rather obscure text. The process of writing will be a re-building and the process of reading will lead the readers from ignorance to knowledge, thus changing them because their part is an active one: they have to find a thread in the apparently disjoined paragraphs of the poem which are, however,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The obscurity of The Cantos glimmers from time to time, and its shimmering surface is as the idealized form of civilization, which shows itself in different periods of history. Pound explained plainly his project when writing The Cantos, as he says in 1953: ‘‘My Paradiso will have no St. Dominic or Augustine, but it will be a Paradiso just the same, moving toward final coherence. I’m getting at the building of the City, that whole tradition’’ (Pearce 171). This article intends to enhance the different voices of the thinkers of the past that Pound echoes in The Cantos in order to emphasize a thread that readers might follow through a series of cantos, which may seem at first to be parts of a long political and economic development. Pound, as he says, gives us in these Cantos, the fruits of many men’s efforts and tries to shape and harmonize them. This article also intends to illuminate the process of city building throughout The Cantos. It proceeds by antithesis and filiations among the mythical, ancient, medieval, renaissance, and modern cities. Thus the image of real and mythical cities seems to be blurred by the coming to existence of a totally different city, a utopian city able to accommodate a better society. This process can be described first from the architect’s point of view: how, by a look towards the great cities of old and a constant inspection of his growing work requiring his living experience, will he become the inheritor of the builders of the past? This process can also be described from Venice, which we can call Pound’s dream-place, which is inscribed in a tradition, and prefigures the city of the future. In Canto LXVIII/395 Pound again lends his voice to John Adams—to whom he dedicates ten Cantos generally considered as rather obscure—, who studies constitutions and in turn evokes various philosophers through the ages. Drawing both from history and major classical writings, he
V o l u m e
1
6 7
T h e
C a n t o s
displays the array of questions that crop up with regard to the political, economic and linguistic existence of the city. First answering the question of how to give stability to the city, he says that ‘‘the best form of government is one of divided powers with checks on one another’’ (Terrell 323). What will retain our interest here is that Adams also evokes the philosophers who were auxiliaries to the Prince, engaging in a kind of dialogue with them: through John Adam’s voice the names of Thomas More (LXVIII/395) and Lord Francis Bacon (LXIV/356) are spoken. The names of Plato and Bacon are mentioned when Pound lends his voice to Upward (LXXVII/469). Plato had been previously quoted by Plethon (VIII/31). Pound here refers indirectly to utopian thinkers—as did the utopian thinkers themselves—, showing his concern for the choice of a better constitution which could give stability to the city. At the same time, Pound shows the whole process of the thinking about constitutions performed by John Adams. Pound so insists on John Adams’s opinion that the only way to improve life in society is a comparative study of the governments and the reading of works that are essential to anyone who studies the city: works such as More’s Utopia, Bacon’s New Atlantis, and Plato’s works, in particular his Republic, Book IV and Letter VII. These allusions are announced in the preceding Canto by these lines taken from a letter by John Adams to John Penn: Printed by John Taylor of Caroline in 1814 To John Penn ’76 from J. Adams: no more agreeable employment than the study of the best kind of government to determine form you must determine the end (that is purpose) single assembly is liable to all the vices follies and frailties (LXVII/392)
This example of an American thinker pondering the best constitution and these allusions to the utopian thinkers are found in The Pisan Cantos. But long before writing them, before the collapse of his hopes for the present and the future and before his incarceration in Pisa, Pound had studied the cities of the past, the traditional mythical and historical cities, and had incorporated them into his work. The idea of building according to traditional principles is dominant in The Cantos whose process goes from myth to history and from the ancient to the modern city.
6 8
E p i c s
f o r
We can follow the allusions to a mythical city, extending from Canto to Canto, foreshadowing a historical city by retracing in its various stages its historical development: Byzantium, for instance, is announced by the legendary Wagadu—a reference to Frobenius (Laughlin 123–4)—, the city with four names: 4 times was the city rebuilded, Hooo Fasa Gassir, Hooo Fasa dell’ Italia tradita, now in the mind indestructible, Gassir, Hoooo Fasa, With the four giants at the four corners and four gates mid wall Hooo Fasa and a terrace the colour of stars (LXXIX/430)
Byzantium became Constantinople ‘‘Constantinople’’ said Wyndham ‘‘our star’’, Mr. Yeats called it Byzantium, emphorio, to be borne about, to be filled with oinos ( . . . ) (XCVI/661)
and then Istanbul, and its example shows how Pound not only superimposes the real historical development of a city, which will fit with a mythical pattern, but also how he leads his readers through an archeological but ‘immediate’ revival, as Pound says, a search for the ancient cities and their remains in memory, in the ancient texts, and on the ground. With those remains as material, and economic and social reforms, he thinks he will build a city which could challenge the destroyed or decaying ones. In the same way can we read Ulysses’s descent to hell in Canto I. Ulysses descends to hell to learn how to regain Ithaca and recover his kingdom from which he has been so long estranged. Alongside this Homeric descent into hell, Canto I describes another descent into hell, among the damned, present in Homer’s Odyssey as the kingdom of the Kimmerians, which no light penetrates: To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities Covered with close webbed mist, unpierced ever With glitter of sun rays Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven Swartest night stretched over wretched men there. (I/3)
Pound seems to propose this image as a foreshadowing of his contemporary London, of the 1920s’ London, a lost city, a fallen city, abandoned by light and the gods. As such, London will be the point of departure for Pound’s dream and reflections about the city, leading to the utopian city that will rise from the great cities of old.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
Another foreshadowing of the present state of the decaying civilization is the city of Troy in Canto IV, mythical origin of the future Rome,— as Virgil puts it in The Aeneid:
and interpretation, can thus appear as a political text working toward a better life in society which includes a meditation on improving justice and economy.
Palace in a smoky light, Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary stones (IV/13)
The architect shapes the city as the poet shapes the epic. The beauty of bygone cities, says Pound, lies in their carefully planned architecture: Ecbatana, for instance:
As the cities of old, the contemporary cities,—our civilization—are subjected to war and destruction. The rapproachement creates tension, an impetus for renewing ideas about the city. The city needs to be reclaimed, rebuilt in opposition to the contemporary city, and it needs clever inhabitants, such as the heroes of the old epics. For this reason, Pound proposes to explain the political and social situation of the present and at the same time explore the admirable cities of the past. These cities are Wagadu, Ecbatana, Troy, and those in Provence, and in the Italy of the Troubadours: Poitiers, Malemorte, Sarlat, Mantua. Pound believes that they relate to a moment of political harmony, high culture and the development of a near perfect literary form. These remarkable cities are as many utopian places that come to haunt contemporary life, as the heroes of the past seem to haunt the present. Thus far, The Cantos appear in its whole shape as an utopian project. Pound’s aim is to recover a kingdom from which he has been estranged: it is precisely in the period of waiting to return home that a utopia is constructed. In The Principle of Hope Ernst Bloch considers that a utopia’s spring and principle lies in the fact that the Being is unachieved and, at the same time processual. Thus the utopia’s task is to achieve the accomplishment of the Being. In The Cantos, Odysseus and Aeneas waiting to return home—as Pound himself is waiting to return to America—could symbolize hope lasting until the Being is back ‘‘home’’, back to its ontological home where it would realize itself. We could question Pound, as Miguel Abensour (14–15) himself questions Ernst Bloch: would not this utopia resist and go on, as it is based on the illusion of a full coincidence from the self to the self? The Cantos appear too as a utopian work whose allegorical process should lead to a spiritual conversion. It proposes, in the living process of a reconstructed dialogue, the study and comparison between different constitutions, putting side by side the works of the best known utopian thinkers. The Cantos, retracing a spiritual experience that involves a particular effort of writing
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs, Look down on Ecbatan of plotted streets (IV/16)
In completing his work, the architect, like the poet, must not allow the teachings of the tradition to be lost. From this recovered tradition and in addition to the architect, the hero, and the thinker who bestows his advice on the prince, are also needed to recover, if necessary, then to fashion the political edifice of the future city. The narrator poet assumes a triple face; he is the architect, the thinker, and the hero. As an architect, the poet imagines and builds the city according to the tradition. As a thinker, the poet is also the traveling philosopher, like Plato— we know how important Letter VII is for utopian thinking, and Pound alludes to it in Canto VIII— his words provide a means to truly ponder the city: he is the man of the o´ o. But first of all, the poet is the hero since he announces and guides (in Canto XVI, like a new Perseus, he is cured of his blindness on leaving hell). More importantly, he is Ulysses, the clever one, the Greek who has et who by seeking the truth and seizing opportunity, manages to recover his kingdom. He manages to combat war with trickery, the supreme quality, which in utopian writings can be seen in their textual organization. We can thus speak of textual strategy, The Cantos serving both to entertain and initiate. The readers will wander through the city it figures and encounter the men and women of the past and present times who live in; and he will, in a way, take part to the process of its building. Together with the building of this city is the search for a better political regime and the spiritual experience that this quest represents. Meta¢u oa becomes an instrument for internal rebirth, a conversion, a return, a communion with men and women in the acceptance of basic—ethical—principles of the new regime (Abensour 57–59). The founders of cities and temples, says Pound, are responsible for their underpinnings (in the figurative sense) which must regularly be inspected (Canto XIII Malatesta). By the same token, the politician, the philosopher and the
V o l u m e
1
6 9
T h e
C a n t o s
man of letters, following Aristotle’s example, must all root their thought in actual human experience. They learn by studying the wisest civilizations (those that Pound names in Canto XIII, for instance), and they in turn educate their readers. The poet, the architect, the philosopher, each gives shape to the epic, to the city and to the constitution after a vision experienced in the reality of their lives. After the poet has exited hell, the sun rises in canto XVII: With the first pale clear of the heaven And the cities set in their hills (XVII/76)
In a sublime, nearly paradisiacal vision, cities are outlined in the heart of a regenerated nature where the call of Dionysus Zagreus can be heard. The canto continues to develop with an ambiguous use of vocabulary: In the near, the gate cliffs of amber (XVII/77)
blending architecture and natural relief, artistic technique and natural achievements, the image of a city rising that has the perfection of a dream. This city is not Rome, as in canto XII, but seems to have the golden shimmer of Byzantium and to bear traces of the tides as do the palaces of Venice. It is the city that has been rebuilt from disjecta membra as were the walls against the arrival of the Barbarians, over the course of history, from the burning of Troy to Rome, Byzantium, and Venice. The poet’s dream on the steps of the ruined theater is both a historic vision and the dream of a builder. Builders indeed are opposed to destruction and deterioration, their mythological names are Deioces, Cadmus, and Amphion. ‘‘Pound drew on Herodotus’s account of the city that was built by Deioces, a king of the Medes . . . Deioces had a great signification for Pound; it stood for the paradiso terrestre, the earthly paradise ( . . . )’’ (Laughlin 122). The oracle at Delphi instructs Cadmus to found Thebes. A dragon that was guarding a spring killed his companions; Cadmus in turn killed the dragon. Athena ordered him to sow the dragon’s teeth, from which armed warriors arose. They fought until only five of them were left: the Spartoi, ancestors of the greatest Theban families who founded Thebes with Cadmus and his men. According to the myth, the stones and the walls of Thebes rose to the rhythm of the music Amphion played on his harp. The walls were built as a magic protection for the archetypal city.
7 0
E p i c s
f o r
And it turns out that John Adams, in the writings that Pound quotes in The Cantos (for instance LXII/341), regrets that he is not Amphion. Alas! I am not Amphion. I have been thirty years singing and whistling among my rocks, and not one would ever move without money . . . I cannot sing nor play. If I had eloquence, or humor, or irony, or satire, or the harp or lyre of Amphion, how much good I could do to the world (John Adams [I, 448], qtd. in Terrell 271)
Amphion thus appears as the epitome of citybuilders and those who aim to establish the best possible constitution. He represents the ideal advisor to the prince, as utopian thinkers since Plato have dreamed of being. These mythical tales also bring together various archetypal cities that their ritual construction has made invulnerable. These stories authorize an allegorical interpretation: Pound as a poet is perhaps able to claim the role of Amphion and, as destroyer of usury and injustice, aspires to the role of Cadmus. The construction of The Cantos could lead to the building of a city or a state, forming an alliance between the power of the prince and the art of the poet, poetry taking on a magical, didactic role through its incantatory nature. The poet-philosopher Pound could become advisor to the prince. Thus, from the mythical city imagined by the poets, a transition occurs to the real, degraded, twentieth-century contemporary city, the city of those who indulge in all kinds of traffic: money— usury—, merchandise, and art. The city of the heart is the inner construction which cannot be destroyed as was the ant-hill. Thus the transition from dream to reality is accomplished, from the remembered, dreamed city—the exact opposite of infernal London and the situation Pound endured when incarcerated in Pisa—to the city that is built in defiance of deterioration and destruction, a prosperous city with well-planned architecture and embellished by art. Venice is the accomplishment of the failed attempts of Ecbatana, Troy, Thebes, Rome, and Byzantium. Which is to say: they build out over the arches and the palace hangs there in the dawn, the mist, in that dimness, or as one rows in from past the murazzi the barge slow after moon rise and the voice sounding under the sail. (XXV/117)
Pound alludes to the Palace of the Doges, just off the Southeast corner of the Piazza San Marco in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
C a n t o s
Venice, which is shown during its embellishing process. In cantos XXI and XXV we discover Venice’s role in descriptions of the ideal city, and in cantos LXVII Pound quotes John Adams comparing Neuchatel ˆ and Rhodes’s constitutions. (Terrell says: ‘‘JA observes ( . . . ) that it was ‘‘the only constitution in which the citizens can truly be said to be in that happy condition of freedom and discipline, sovereignty and subordination. . . . [IV, 377].)
returned numerous times: 1908, 1920, 1924, 1958 after his first trip to Europe with his aunt in 1898, which retained the freshness of a happy memory (CII/728). It is also a city, finally, where the individuals could assert themselves and whose achievements were never hampered:
. . . H, to rule and to be ruled.’’ The words constitute a theme in Greek political thought, going back as far as Solon and reappearing in Aristotle’s Politics ( . . . ) JA believed that the constitution of ancient Rhodes was probably very similar to the constitution of Neuchatel. ˆ (Terrell 321)
and, given to us as a consolation for the future pains we are promised.
Pound is thus in concord with Francis Bacon whose Bensalem in his New Atlantis has much in common with seventeenth-century Venice (Le Dœuff 46) and Pindar’s Rhodes (Le Dœuff 49)—whereas More’s city, Amaurot, more resembles sixteenth-century London. Pound turns out to be as powerful as a God building the achieved city he has conceived over time, whereas the men and women who must live in it are, themselves, involved in an educational process through his reading of The Cantos, which will allow them to discover the political and economic laws to develop in harmony. Pound changes the development of history, creating new possibilities for the future and explaining history with a fresh vision. The beacon cities are Ecbatana, Thebes, Rhodes, Byzantium, Athens, Paris—which appears in the ‘‘Pisan Cantos’’—and Venice. Venice in the later cantos appears as a city that has reached an apex, democracy, in its political development. It is a democracy modeled on the writings of Plato, whose conception of government is aristocratic, and of Aristotle, who sings the praises of the ot tradition of moderate democracy in which law rules and citizens share a concern for material welfare. His ot is a mixture of aristocracy and democracy, a mixed constitution in which education and laws have a major importance, as they do for Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. In Canto LXVII/394, we read: Venice at first democratical . . .
The city of Venice achieved an economic stability that allowed it to develop art and science to the utmost. Venice is also the city where Pound chose to live his last years, 1970–72, and to which he
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
But in Venice more affirmations of individual men From Selvo to Franchetti, than any elsewhere. (CIV/743)
In the catalogue of maritime cities that Pound names in the last cantos, a tie is slowly woven. From the first cantos to the ‘‘Thrones de Los Cantares,’’ Pound retraces filiations from Greece, with Ulysses, to Byzantium and Torcello, island in the lagoon of Venice, the first to be inhabited, by mentioning the Byzantine basilica of Santa Maria, and from there comes the tie of Byzantium to Venice, the height of civilization. Pound, in The Cantos, quoting Confucius (Terrell 422) also seems to emphasize peace: there are no righteous wars (LXXVIII/483)
which is necessary in order to construct or reconstruct the destroyed city, rebuilt in a filiation of civilizations. Pound then stresses justice in the various governments he refers to. This demand for justice also has sources in ancient history: in addition to Aristotle, he refers to Deioces the Fair, King of Medes, founder of Ecbatana, to Athena setting up the court in Athens at the end of Aeschylus’s Oresteia, also to the fair laws passed in Rhodes that Pindar speaks of in the 7th Olympia, and finally to Leo the Wise’s Book of the Eparch, to which Byzantium owes its prosperity. According to Pound, another imperative is economic in nature: the state must first provide food for the people, which is also one of the first principles of Thomas More in his Utopia (More 82, 147); thus some citizens must not get rich at the expense of others, therefore, the interest rate must remain as low as possible, and the leader of the city should coin money and let it circulate. These stable economic conditions should allow every citizen to procure necessities and allow city improvement to proceed and the arts to develop—proof, for Pound, that
V o l u m e
1
7 1
T h e
C a n t o s
the government is wise and that it has achieved a high degree of refinement. These are the foundations on which to build a city. This demand for immediate justice cannot abide waiting for the Last Judgment in which justice would be handed down by God. For Pound it is a matter of changing something in the order of the world, the king or the governor taking the place of God as benefactors of their subjects. This transformation becomes possible through the comparative study of various political regimes and the history of events that constitute them, making possible a reflection on the political and economic problems posed by the government of cities. We know that Pound gave great thought to Clifford Douglas’s social credit idea and the theories of Silvio Gesell. The advent of justice also implies acquiring a construction technique and a layout for the streets and the various buildings that make up the city as well as drawing up rules of conduct for its inhabitants, a need for inner peace and the smooth functioning of the State. Pound as a writer seems, however, like most utopian thinkers, to be circuitous in his thought (Abensour 77). He does not state his opinions directly but instead introduces them through the voices of thinkers such as Plethon, Adams, and Upward. In this way he marks a distance between himself and the thinkers who express one opinion or another. Pound chose to borrow the voices not of fictitious characters, as did Thomas More for instance, but historical figures. Thus, taking much less risk, he protected himself and justified himself beforehand by using words historically spoken or written and thereby leaving the matter in the hands of ‘‘authorities.’’ The poetry in The Cantos is also circuitous in that it obliges the curious readers to consult the very sources Pound used in order to understand the poem’s meaning and Pound’s thought processes. The readers’ search turns out to be endless, and the enigma Pound offers up perpetually recedes as we read on, each new relationship that he makes calling into question the semantic path the readers had previously cut out. Pound himself claims to have hidden behind masks because these personae helped him to be more truthful. He indulged in the game of writing specific to the utopian writer who masquerades as another so that, thus concealed, the utopian writer can advise the prince without running the risk of being persecuted. Here, surely, is a refinement of language If we never write anything save what is already understood, the field of understanding will never
7 2
E p i c s
f o r
be extended. One demands the right, now and again, to write for a few people with special interests and whose curiosity reaches into greater detail. (XCVI/659)
The utopian writer, and I quote Abensour in L’Utopie de Thomas More a` Walter Benjamin, ‘‘substitutes knowledge for opinion’’ (90); this writer consciously makes his writing difficult to understand so as not to be persecuted, as Socrates was, because the results of his philosophical investigations might upset the established order (49). The utopian writer also wagers that ‘‘the desire for truth goes hand in hand with the desire for freedom’’ (93) and in this way he will be heard. In The Cantos, though, this dissimulating writing is sometimes inter-spliced with lines in a prophetic tone that reveal a demand for justice. For Pound, this demand amounts to an idea borrowed from Thomas More: that no one should ever lack necessities (More, L’Utopie 123, 130), which implies a criticism of capitalism and the search for and disclosure of a new mode of production, a higher one, intended to replace capitalism. Moreover, the writing of The Cantos, as well as their form, makes them a work that poetically rehabilitates humanism within both a processoriented and unfinished philosophy, it being forever a ‘‘work in progress’’ and not coming to an end strictly speaking. Pound, it would appear, thus ‘‘resisted’’ the illusion of social accomplishment encouraged in his time and worked to shape his aspirations for a better social life. For this reason he was required to resort to a new form of writing. As he writes The Cantos, Pound invents a new language, made of many foreign languages: wellknown languages, including Chinese, music, hieroglyphics and pictograms. By including these written signs, he creates an optical effect, seducing the reader’s eye and conferring mystery to his poem. He manages a distance, while at the same time, inviting the readers to read, to think, and to live in another way, playing with the secret at the visible surface of the text and inside the text. He invites the readers to disclose this secret themselves. The Cantos are, at the same time, a synthesis of the past, and of the present—they include many of the ancient and present languages and also give the wider example of rhythms and structures existing in the modern English language (Fauchereau 44)—, and an attempt to shape the future. Pound does not give us a model for a perfect society. He does not give us a solution which would mean the end of history. He proposes an enigma to the readers, inducing in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
them an allegorical reading: the quest for a better government that becomes a spiritual experience (Abensour 39). His quest does not end: it is an invention and a perpetual reinvention. Pound is also a utopian in choosing two simultaneous means of communication: one addressing the ‘‘Prince’’—through The Cantos—, the other addressing the people: his appearances on Radio Rome. Lastly, the relationship between insanity and utopia must be emphasized: the utopist who conceives an independent philosophy stands alone against the ‘‘doxa,’’ a force too powerful for him to vanquish it alone. He thus resorts to insanity, a weapon that will allow him to continue speaking while avoiding death. So Pound salvaged his speech, perhaps his credit and even his life, by his internment in St Elisabeth’s. It would seem that this ‘‘salvaging’’ of society (Benjamin, Paris 164), more than generating tension by bringing together the Ancient and the New, implies a halt to what is ‘‘torn from history,’’ from the ‘‘continuum of domination’’ (Benjamin, Paris 152, 167). If Pound is in agreement with what Fourier calls the first and second method—, that is, first, freeing love and individual strengths from the influence of society, then substituting harmonic development for the subversive development of society through economic crises and wars—, in The Cantos he nevertheless exhibits the belief in a ‘‘return’’ of history to a cyclical vision in which events (Sanavio 260), even the most recent ones, have already occurred. He therefore remains in what Walter Benjamin calls the ‘‘mythical conscience’’ (Benjamin, Paris 190). Indeed, what Pound suggests in The Cantos is a revival of myth that blurs the vision of the present; the present then becomes impossible to grasp. It is a sort of heroism that is perfectly suited to imperialistic political ideas and which, by making permanent our pacts and our passions, becomes an atheistic substitute for religion. Mythical forces are also likely to lead back into slumber instead of to a new awakening (Benjamin, Paris 408, 893). It is only by making a clean break with repetition that humanity can do away with evil. We are also justified in asking whether Pound was criticizing capitalism or attempting to reinstate medieval values. He probably was doing both at the same time: he criticized, as did Thomas More in his time, the new means of production, by trying to suggest a new economic order that could
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
replace it advantageously but also, in his writings and in his life, he defended ancient values of mutual aid and remains nostalgic for what Marx called the ‘‘use-value.’’ Pound tried to change the English language to allow it to incorporate foreign elements. Thus, understanding The Cantos is an endeavor that causes us to encounter doubt, but also one of the greatest protests that a poet can undertake, that of his mother tongue in which he composed his indictment against the United States, a political protest that perceives a decline, the antidote for which resides in acknowledging a filiation that is evident in Canto LXXVII which is mentioned at the beginning of this article, a filiation that leads from ancient thinkers to the founding fathers of the United States: Jefferson and Adams. Despite the association that Pound makes between Jefferson and Mussolini, despite his irrational conception of society and the State, the ‘‘analytical error’’ Sanavio detects in Pound’s writing, we can acknowledge that in a way The Cantos take part in the plan ‘‘to reinsert poetry into the sphere of the city in other words to reconsider it within the community sphere instead of that of the individual’’ (Di Manno 72), taking into account the disintegration of meter—‘‘It is too late to prevent vers libre’’ (Pound, A Collection of Critical Essays 437)—, and the deterioration of societies. The naming process in The Cantos is not only the reminding of the former deeds of the hero nor the archeological discovery of beautiful remains in the cities of old that were just; Pound tries to build the ideal city. We know that Pound put his hopes in Mussolini and that his reactionary views were not only passeistic in the political models of old and the obsolete theories he chooses (Fauchereau 41) but nostalgic too and were justified by the search of a real living hero who could incarnate strength and wisdom, who could maintain justice, and peace and protect literature and the Arts. Pound’s thought in The Cantos nevertheless goes beyond his political positions. We must persist in keeping together Pound’s search and his ‘‘error’’: I cannot make it cohere. (CXVI/796)
he says when writing the last cantos. As readers proceed through The Cantos, they must reconstruct its cut up narrative following a guiding but concealed thread. Memory has to be recomposed, history to be rewritten following the plan built by Pound which can light the way through The Cantos and unfold their meaning. This coherence leads to the social order. There is obviously a correspondence between this grasp of Pound’s
V o l u m e
1
7 3
T h e
C a n t o s
conscience about his work and the inaptitude of his utopist thought in reality: the historical failure preventing the structural coherence of the work, or the contrary, we could also say. (Charles Olson exposes the problem of the unescapability and ambivalence of Pound’s work.) What remains in our hands, though, is a red brick (I allude here to the thick red copy of Pound’s Cantos published by Faber & Faber), Pound’s linguistic city. ‘‘What we experience there is certainly not in any normal sense a poem in the English language’’, says Donald Davie but an immersion in a ‘‘polyglot context’’ (Qtd. in Sullivan 321). Wandering through The Cantos is becoming aware of a composition on the page, of the emerging of a shape ‘‘out of the time it takes in the reading’’ says Davie (Sullivan 321). The time of the reading is very slow in The Cantos, and if we take the verse-line as the poetic unit, says Davie, the time the next line takes to come gives weight and value to each single smaller component down to the syllables. Out of these smaller components Pound’s linguistic city is composed of multilayered poems, arranged in various neighborhoods, districts, and suburbs, each of them displaying variations in their structures and shifts in their language, tone, dialect. Pound’s linguistic city as a whole appears more similar to the city of New York from which he fled than to any Italian city of old where he decided to settle. Pound, in The Cantos, seems to give shape to an ancient dream. This dream seems to be foreshadowed by another dream of his: a kind of Le Corbusier architectural project he describes in ‘‘The City’’, an article published in The Exile, in Autumn 1928—a project not achieved in the very homeland of Futurism, but in France, in Sarcelles, for example, and in America. Pound builds his linguistic city by mixing all styles in an apparently incoherent absence of unity, in a tight rumor. This rumor is full of the tenses of life and conversation. At the very end,—1969—, Pound’s linguistic city grows in fragments and reveals itself as an unending work in progress: literature at this point becomes utopia and the writer an utopist, always in quest of what cannot, and by that very fact, must not be settled or become permanent. Source: Chantal Bizzini, ‘‘The Utopian City in The Can tos of Ezra Pound,’’ in Utopian Studies, Vol. 15, No. 1, Winter 2004, pp. 30 43.
Hugh Kenner In this essay, Kenner describes Ezra Pound’s connection to Homer and how this association both inspires and informs The Cantos.
7 4
E p i c s
f o r
POUND YIELDED TO NO ONE IN HIS RESPECT FOR FACT, BUT FOR HIM THE ‘FACT’ WAS APT TO BE WHATEVER HE COULD FIND RIGHT THERE ON THE PAGE.’’
No exertion spent upon any of the great classics of the world, and attended with any amount of real result, is really thrown away. It is better to write one word upon the rock, than a thousand on the water or the sand. W. E. Gladstone, Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age
Homer is the West’s six trillion dollar man. For two millennia and a half at least we have kept him alive and vigorous with an increasingly complex and costly life-support system that from earliest times has drawn on all the technology around. To make papyrus in Egypt, then construct and navigate a ship to take it to Athens, entailed most of the chemistry, the metallurgy, the carpentry, and the mathematics accessible to Mediterranean men of the fifth century B.C. What Athenians did with papyrus was, of course, write out on it the two big books of Homer. Parchment came later, and parchment Homers were precious spoil from Byzantium, 1453. Renaissance architects designed libraries that housed handmade copies; blacksmiths forged chains to keep them where they belonged. As soon as there were printing presses in Italy, there was a folio Homer, two volumes, printed in Florence about 1480. The next need was for a Homer you could carry around. That meant both smaller sheets and smaller type. Pound’s Canto 30 shows us Francesco da Bologna incising dies with the Greek letters they’d need for the pocket Aldine Homer. To aid comprehension scholars made Latin versions, their printings embellished by the newly designed Italic characters. Readers of Canto 1 will remember one such version of the Odyssey, Divus’s, dated 1538. And all over Europe lens-grinders were enabling presbyopic and myopic eyes to scan Homer’s lines. Our own silicon technology stores Homer and retrieves him, catalogs his words and crossreferences them, relying on magnetic disks, on air conditioners, on central processing units, on central generating stations, and also on toil and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
ingenuity in California and Japan, to keep alive an old poet whose very existence has been repeatedly questioned. We have no such continuous record of commitment to any other part of our heritage save the Bible. The six trillion dollars I hazarded was rhetorical; what eighty generations have invested in Homer, directly and indirectly, eludes computation and nearly defies comprehension. For we’ve not even settled what the Homeric poems are; something more than Bronze-Age entertainments, surely? Our efforts to assure ourselves that we know what we’re valuing have constituted much of the history of our thought. At one time the Iliad and Odyssey were esteemed as a comprehensive curriculum in grammar, rhetoric, history, geography, navigation, strategy, even medicine. But by the mid-nineteenth century AD they no longer seemed to contain real information of any kind at all. Had there ever been a Trojan War? Scholars inclined to think not, much as connoisseurs of the West’s other main book were doubting that there had been a Garden of Eden with an apple tree, or that planks of an Ark might have rotted atop Mount Ararat. Both books got rescued by identical stratagems; the Bible was turned into Literature, and so was Homer. That entailed redefining Literature, as something that is good for us, however unfactual. That in turn meant Nobility, and also Style. It also required that Longinus supplant Aristotle as the prince of ancient critics, and that Matthew Arnold become the Longinus of Christian England. He said that Homer was rapid and plain and noble: by Longinian standards, Sublime. Those were the qualities a translator should reach for, in part to sweep us past mere awkward nonfact. The Bible in the same way was edifying if you knew how to go about not believing it. In 1861, while British ink was drying on printed copies of Arnold’s three lectures on translating Homer, Heinrich Schliemann was nourishing a dream. He had dreamed it since boyhood. He was going to find Troy! By 1870 he had found it, yes he had, at a place the maps called Hissarlik, found traces, too, of the great burning, and he photographed his wife Sophie wearing what he thought were Helen’s jewels. (A photograph, no light undertaking in 1870, was merely the most recent of the technologies mankind’s Homeric enterprise keeps conscripting.) The story, as so often, now slips out of synch. Andrew Lang, the folklorist, published with one
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
collaborator an English Odyssey in 1879, with two others an English Iliad in 1883. These, for various reasons not excluding the fine print of copyright law, remained the standard English versions as late as the mid twentieth century—even the Modern Library used to offer them—and they were already obsolete when they appeared. For Lang and Butcher, Lang, and Leaf and Myers had fetched their working principle from pre-Schliemann times. The way to translate Homer, they thought, was to make him sound like the King James Bible, the idiom of which has great power to ward off questions about what details mean. But what details mean—in particular what many nouns meant—was being settled year by year as men with spades ransacked Troy and Mycenae for such cups and golden safety pins as Helen and Hector knew. Ezra Pound was born in 1885, just two years after the Butcher and Lang Odyssey. One unforgotten day when he was twelve or so, enrolled at the Cheltenham Military Academy in Pennsylvania, a teacher chanted some Homer for his special benefit. After four dozen years, from amid the wreckage of Europe, the man’s name merited preserving: and it was old Spencer (H.) who first declaimed me the Odyssey with a head built like Bill Shepard’s on the quais of what Siracusa? or what tennis court near what pine trees? (C 512)
It was from ‘‘Bill Shepard’’ at Hamilton that he’d picked up his first Provenc¸al enthusiasm, so the heads of these two instigators made a fit rhyme. And hearing Homer declaimed, he testified, was ‘‘worth more than grammar.’’ Though all his life a great connoisseur of detail, he was never easy with schoolmasters’ grammar. It screened out what he thought crucial, the tang of voices. That would have been about 1897, when it was just beginning to look as though the wanderings of Odysseus, too, might mirror an order of factuality analogous to that of the new historic Troy. In 1902 Schliemann’s architectural adviser, Wilhelm Do¨rpfeld, explained the topography of Ithaka; in the same year, Victor Berard published the book Joyce was to use so copiously, about the origins of the Odyssey in Phoenician periploi, a noun Pound was to gloss: periplum, not as land looks on a map but as sea bord seen by men sailing. (C 324)
V o l u m e
1
7 5
T h e
C a n t o s
Those are arguably the most important lines in The Cantos. It is characteristic of the poem’s way of working that we find then embedded in a narrative about seventeenth-century China. And the word on which they turn came from the edges of the new Homeric scholarship. The periplous (a Greek noun Pound transmuted into an unrecorded Latin form, periplum) registers the lay of the land the way it looks now, from here. Olive grey in the near, far, smoke grey of the rock slide, ... The tower like a one eyed great goose cranes up out of the olive grove.(C 10)
That is an Imagist detail, also ‘‘sea bord seen by men sailing’’: a detail from some imagined periplous. If you were sailing in the track of that skipper you might not find the color useful—light shifts day by day—but ‘‘the tower like a one-eyed great goose’’ would help you be sure of your position: such an apparition is not easy to mistake for some other tower. Likewise the Homer we encounter in the first canto is not to be taken for Pope’s or Lattimore’s. Homer mutates down the centuries; we can only begin to savor the mutations when translators begin to record what they can of them. And translators only began their notes on the periplous past Homeric capes and shoals when they had Homer’s text to translate, some time after Byzantine scholars had carried the precious manuscripts to Italy. The first canto reminds us just what Andreas Divus did: he mapped the words in blind fidelity. The canto’s resonant ‘‘And then went down to the ship’’ follows Divus’s ‘‘Ad postquam ad navem descendimus,’’ which in turn follows Homer’s ‘‘Autar epei hr’ epi nea katelhomen’’: Autar, and; epei, then; epinea, to the ship; katelthomen, we went down. In placing ‘‘descendimus’’ where he did, Divus even kept the order of Homer’s words, putting the Greek into Latin, as he says, ad verbum, the way one inflected language can map another. With his page-by-page, line-by-line, often word-by-word fidelity, Divus was making a crib a student in the sixteenth century could lay open beside the Aldine Greek, to get guidance you and I might seek in a dictionary. When Ezra Pound thought his Latin ‘‘even singable,’’ he was suggesting what much later he would suggest of a fiddle rendition of Clement Janequin’s Canzone degli ucelli, that
7 6
E p i c s
f o r
sheer note-by-note fidelity had kept the song audible. Can sheer blind fidelity be faithful to so much? We have come to something fundamental. A while ago we were talking of fact, the order of Homeric fact archaeologists were producing, to supplant the circumlocutions of the lexicons. Pound yielded to no one in his respect for fact, but for him the ‘‘fact’’ was apt to be whatever he could find right there on the page: whatever Dante might have meant by ‘‘the literal sense’’: mere letters, queer sounds, or even just lexicon entries. Letters, sounds, tagmemes: from the 1930s till he died he would love the Chinese character out of conviction that alone among the scripts of civilized men it collapsed all of these, shape, sound, and referent, into a sole inscrutable polysemous sign. The Chinese ideogram for ‘‘man’’ is a picture of a man; the Chinese spoken word for ‘‘cat’’ is what all cats say, ‘‘mao.’’ If you say that ‘‘with a Greek inflection,’’ you are saying the Greek for a catly thing, ‘‘I am eager.’’ That’s a detail we find in Canto 98 (C 686); in the late cantos especially we see words exhibited: isolated words, including a few of Homer’s words, set off on the page by white space. Such words, though no taller than a printed line, are aspiring to the status of the ideogram. They are centers of radiance. We may think of them as opportunisms, like Shakespeare’s when he rhymed ‘‘dust’’ with ‘‘must,’’ mortality with necessity. Such opportunisms irradiate the ‘‘Seafarer’’ of 1911. ‘‘Blaed is genaeged’’ says, word by word, ‘‘glory is humbled.’’ Pound looked at ‘‘blaed,’’ saw a sword-blade, and wrote ‘‘The blade is laid low.’’ There’s no arguing with that, and no justifying either. Nor can we argue when, in Canto 1, by a triumph of the literal, English words map Divus’s words which map Homer’s words and the whole goes to ‘‘Seafarer’’ cadences. He is following Divus because for one thing, he wants to celebrate the occasion when, thanks partly to Aldus and Divus, Homer was recovered for the West; for another because he was himself a man of the Renaissance in having been well-taught his Latin and ill-taught his Greek. Latin, even Latin verse, Pound could read at sight. Greek, even Homer’s, he’d pick at, with a crib. Divus might have labored with Ezra Pound in mind. No one in four hundred years has owed him so much. Now though Divus intended a drudgelike fidelity, still he, too, invented a Homer: whether by sheer human exuberance, or by inadvertence, or via textual error we can’t always say. Now
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
and then his Homer is not the Greek scholars’ Homer. For listen: And then went down to the ship, Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea and We set up mast and sail on that swart ship. . . . (C 3)
‘‘On the godly sea?’’ Yes, it’s alive with gods. But any modern crib, for instance, the Loeb, says, ‘‘on the bright sea,’’ and for the good reason that the Greek word is ‘‘dian,’’ a form of ‘‘dios,’’ one of Homer’s favorite epithets, especially for the sea you push a ship into. ‘‘Eis hala dian,’’ reads Odyssey 11.2: ‘‘into the bright sea.’’ It’s a formulaic phrase at the Odyssey’s numerous launchings. But what does Divus have? He has ‘‘in mare divum,’’ as if he were distracting us by a play on his own name. Divus, says the Latin lexicon, ‘‘of or belonging to a divinity; divine.’’ A contracted neuter form would be dium, perhaps close enough to dian to have caused confusion in a shaky time for classical understanding. How did someone, in those days before lexicons, collect equivalences between Greek and Latin words? About Divus we seem to know nothing save that he may have come from East Asia Minor, a better place for Greek than for Latin. But however divum arrived on Divus’s page, Ezra Pound followed him faithfully, and wrote ‘‘the godly sea’’:
C a n t o s
dictionary, eludes mappings of ‘‘meaning’’: the translator has to leap for it, with his own time’s live speech in his ears. Only if he makes that leap has he a chance of making us hear. Hughes Salel, 1545, called Odysseus ‘‘ce ruse personage’’: that is one French way to look at polytropos, the Odyssey’s first epithet, and from our own century we might use ‘‘that tricky bastard’’ as a sightline on Salel. (Yes, ‘‘bastard’’ is extreme, but it’s part of an idiom.) Andreas Divus, 1538, has ‘‘multiscium,’’ much-knowing, as it were ‘‘savvy.’’ Thereafter the reality fades, and the renderings decline. Butcher and Lang, 1879, offer ‘‘so ready at need,’’ like a detail from a hymn. A. T. Murray in the 1919 Loeb tries ‘‘man of many devices,’’ and Liddell and Scott in their lexicon make a stereophonic mumble, ‘‘of many counsels or expedients.’’ ‘‘That man skilled in all ways of contending,’’ says the often admirable Robert Fitzgerald, here smothering perception with poetic dignity. Nobody speaks phrases like those.
—here, as seen by a man who sailed four centuries ago, and whose compass was not wholly reliable. It is an interesting rule, that in the presence of a textual crux Ezra Pound is apt to be utterly literal. Those are just the places where credentialed scholars guess. But Pound would only guess when the text was foolproof. When he didn’t understand the words, or when they diverged from convention, then he’d presuppose someone else who’d known better than he; as Divus had, in prompting him to write ‘‘godly.’’
You cannot cut such a knot with a trick of idiom, not even one as stolidly idiomatic as W. H. D. Rouse’s ‘‘never at a loss.’’ The problem goes far too deep. It has been hard for many centuries to imagine what Odysseus was really being commended for. We have all inherited the Roman distrust for quick Greek intelligence—we associate it with huckstering—and translators, being men of literary cultivation, have additionally been infected with the changed attitude to our hero that set in when his name became Ulixes (‘‘Ulysses’’) and he got tarred with the brush of fatal deviousness. Dante did much to propagate the tricky Ulysses. We need not blame Dante. Though he placed Ulysses in the hell of the false counselors, he had the excuse of never having read Homer. He had read Dictys and Dares, secondcentury popularizers who turned the designer of the wooden horse and vanquisher of the Cyclops into (says W. B. Stanford) ‘‘an anti-hero.’’
‘‘Of Homer,’’ Pound wrote as long ago as 1918, ‘‘two qualities remain untranslated: the magnificent onomatopoeia, as of the rush of the waves on the sea-beach and their recession in ‘‘para thina poluphloisboio thalasses,’’ untranslated and untranslatable; and, secondly, the authentic cadence of speech; the absolute conviction that the words used, let us say by Achilles to the ‘dog-faced’ chicken-hearted Agamemnon, are in the actual swing of words spoken.’’ When men speak, not by the book but as they are moved to, uncounterfeitable rhythm asserts itself—‘‘the actual swing.’’ It eludes the
Pound read Homer’s Greek slowly, Dante’s Italian fluently, and it is unsurprising that the way he conceives Odysseus owes as much to Dante as it does to Homer. Luckily, he was also misreading Dante, to the extent that he was thrilling to the eloquent speech and disregarding the great flame in which the evil counselor is imprisoned. So he stressed what the speech stresses, an urgent thirst after novelty, and read it back into Homer where it is not to be found. It is Dante, not Homer, whose Ulysses grows bored in Ithaca, where no amenity, no, not the bed of Penelope,
periplum, not as land looks on a map but as sea bord seen by men sailing
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
7 7
T h e
C a n t o s
Could conquer the inward hunger that I had To master the earth’s experience, and to attain Knowledge of man’s mind, both the good and bad.
That was where Tennyson had found a Ulysses . . . yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star Beyond the utmost bound of human thought,
and that is what Pound is echoing in his own way: Knowledge the shade of a shade, Yet must thou sail after knowledge.
In its place in The Cantos that is a doom laid on Odysseus, spoken in the regretful voice of Circe. In making it a doom Pound is faithful to one aspect of Homer, whose Odysseus thought nothing was worse for mortal man than wandering and for whom no place was sweeter than home. That is Pound’s way of compromising Homer as little as possible, all the while he is handling the hero’s need to sail after knowledge, weaving it right back into a scene in Homer’s tenth book, where the Greek is innocent of any such motif. Odysseus is pleading with Circe in her bedroom to be let go to continue his voyage home, and in Canto 39 the crucial six lines of her response are reproduced in the Greek, word for word and accent for accent (a printer lost one line, but Pound gives the line numbers, and they show what he intended). No other passage of Homer gets transcribed in full anywhere in the long poem. Possible English for what her Greek says might run: ‘‘But first you must complete another journey, to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to seek the shade of Tiresias of Thebes, the blind seer, whose mind stays firm. To him in death Persephone has given mind, he alone unimpaired while the rest flit about as shades.’’ That is exactly all, and in Canto 39 we see it on the page in Homer’s very words. But eight cantos later we encounter it again, memorably paraphrased and amplified: Who even dead, yet hath his mind entire! This sound came in the dark First must thou go the road to hell And to the bower of Ceres’ daughter Proserpine, Through overhanging dark, to see Tiresias, Eyeless that was, a shade, that is in hell So full of knowing that the beefy men know less than he, Ere thou come to thy road’s end. Knowledge the shade of a shade, Yet must thou sail after knowledge Knowing less than drugged beasts. (C 236)
7 8
E p i c s
f o r
That seems to make sailing after knowledge a theme of the Odyssey, as it was certainly a theme for Ezra Pound. It has been recognizably a theme for Americans, in a country whose Enlightenment heritage sets knowing anything at all above not knowing it. (Never mind knowing what; there is an American book on how to win at Pac Man.) Quoting, in another connection, ‘‘Who even dead, yet hath his mind entire!’’ Pound hoped he had done sufficient homage to the Greek veneration of intelligence above brute force (GK 146). Let us concede, though, that there is intelligence and intelligence, and credit Pound with having intended more than bric-a`-brac knowingness. ‘‘Who even dead, yet hath his mind entire!’’ That resonant line is drawn from five words of Homer’s, where ‘‘mind’’ is phrenes, the whole central part of the body, where you know that you are yourself and not a shade, and ‘‘entire’’ is empedoi, meaning firm on the foot, not slipping. Both are body-words: the midriff, the foot. The intelligence is in the body the way the meaning is in the ideogram: intrinsic and manifested, independent of lexicons, not deconstructible. To have merely one’s ‘‘mind’’ entire is a later and less substantial concept. Pound lends it body as best he can with a weight of monosyllables and a stark contrast with how it is to be dead. Homer’s word for how the dead flit about, aissousin, held his attention; it is a word he places on show twice in the Thrones cantos (C 675, 730). Disembodied, they have no minds; they flutter. If intelligence is in them, it is in the way it is in dictionaries. (‘‘The trouble with the dictionary,’’ Louis Zukofsky liked to say, ‘‘is that it keeps changing the subject.’’) A flitting, a fluttering: that was the Greek sense of disembodiment, and it fascinated Pound, and it was not intelligence. (‘‘Butterflying around all the time,’’ he said once, of aimless speculation. He was speaking of Richard of St. Victor’s cogitatio, to be distinguished from meditatio and the highest thing, contemplatio.) So we are learning how to take the stark physicality of the rites in the first canto, in particular how to take the need of the shades for blood. They need blood to get what is peculiar to the body, hence to the phrenes, the totally embodied intelligence. Without blood, the shades cannot so much as speak. Canto 1 draws on the part of the Odyssey Pound judged ‘‘older than the rest’’: Ronald Bush suggests he may have been following
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
Cambridge anthropology here—the tradition of studies that, following on The Golden Bough, made Greek intuitions seem so much less cerebral than they had been for Flaxman and Arnold. Or— since I don’t know whether he so much as read such a book as Jane Harrison’s Themis—it is conceivable that in ascribing the underworld journey to ‘‘fore-time’’ he was trusting sheer intuition. It implies, anyhow, the Homeric sense of ‘‘intelligence,’’ of ‘‘knowledge,’’ something so remote from ‘‘ideas’’—a word whose Greek credentials are post-Homeric—as to have drawn the snort, ‘‘Damn ideas, anyhow . . . poor two-dimensional stuff, a scant, scratch covering.’’ To sail after knowledge, then, is to seek what cannot be found in libraries, no, a wholeness of experience. I hope I have suggested that in weaving that phrase back from Dante into Homer, Pound was embellishing less than we may have thought. And it brought him to the superbly colloquial words of Zeus, who, admiring Odysseus, says (in Ezra Pound’s English), ‘‘With a mind like that he is one of us’’. That consorts with a fact that has given scandal but need not, that Homer’s gods are superbly physical, embodied. Odysseus, for such a god, is ‘‘one of us,’’ precisely in having not a Ph.D. but phrenes: ‘‘the embodiment,’’ said Pound’s classmate Bill Williams, ‘‘of knowledge.’’ Having sailed a long circuit after the colloquial, we will not need a second for the other thing Pound wanted, ‘‘the magnificent onomatopoeia.’’ Though ‘‘untranslated and untranslatable,’’ para thina poluphloisboio thalasses
may serve as our terminal emblem: not boom rattle and buzz but the rare identity of words with whatever they signify, achieved with the signifying sound the way Chinese calligraphers achieved it with a signifying outline. Pound listened and heard the wave break, and in the sibilants of thalasses heard ‘‘the scutter of receding pebbles’’ (L 274): that whole mighty recurrent phenomenon incarnated in a few syllables represented by a few marks. The way into understanding this is like the way into understanding Homeric intelligence, something only there when it is embodied. So meanings are only there when the words embody them; otherwise, like the dead, they flutter, aissousin. And we are back, in a circle, to ‘‘the actual swing of words spoken,’’ the other stamp that can authenticate language. Pound first encountered Homer through a man speaking: Mr. Spencer, at the Cheltenham Military Academy, the man ‘‘who first declaimed
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
me the Odyssey,’’ and was remembered for that after forty years. Scholars now imagine an ‘‘oral-formulaic’’ Homer, a poet continually speaking, but speaking with the aid of formulae to fill out the meter. When Pound, aged eighty-four, heard an exposition of that, he responded that it did not explain ‘‘why Homer is so much better than everybody else.’’ That was very nearly all that he said that day. Why Homer is so much better than everybody else is a thing there’s no way to explain; nor why, having sailed after knowledge and turned astray, Ezra Pound should have fulfilled Dante’s image with such precision: transmuted after so much eloquence into a tongue of flame, and a tongue that went silent. Source: Hugh Kenner, ‘‘Pound and Homer,’’ in Ezra Pound Among the Poets, edited by George Bornstein, University of Chicago Press, 1985, pp. 1 12.
M. L. Rosenthal In the following essay, Rosenthal discusses The Cantos as a work that must be read ‘‘experientially’’ rather than ‘‘schematically’’ and how this reading exposes its historical scope and its multiple voices. Space forbids our going into The Cantos in even as much detail as we have into Mauberley. We have already, however, noted some of the leading ideas behind this more involved and ambitious work, and though we cannot here trace their handling throughout its winning, Gargantuan progress, a few suggestions concerning its character as a poetic sequence may be useful. First of all, we may take as our point of departure the fact that in motivation and outlook The Cantos are a vast proliferation from the same conceptions which underlie Mauberley. The difference lies partly in the multiplicity of ‘‘voices’’ and ‘‘cross-sections,’’ partly in the vastly greater inclusiveness of historical and cultural scope, and partly in the unique formal quality of the longer sequence; it is by the very nature of its growth over the years a work-inprogress. Even when the author at last brings it to conclusion, reorganizing it, supplying the withheld Cantos 72 and 73, completing his revisions, and even giving his book a definitive title, it will remain such a work. Each group of cantos will be what it is now—a new phase of the poem, like each of the annual rings of a living tree. The poet has put his whole creative effort into a mobilization of all levels of his consciousness into the service of The Cantos; there has been a driving
V o l u m e
1
7 9
T h e
C a n t o s
THE MANY VOICES, VARIED SCENES AND PERSONAE, AND ECHOES OF OTHER LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES THAN ENGLISH REFLECT THIS EMPHASIS ON EXPERIENCE ITSELF: SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS, UNTRANSLATABLE, THE EMBODIED MEANING OF LIFE WHICH WE GENERALIZE ONLY AT PERIL OF LOSING TOUCH WITH IT.’’
central continuity, and around it new clusters of knowledge and association linked with the others by interweavings, repetitions, and overall perspective. Pound has staked most of his adult career as a poet on this most daring of poetic enterprises; literary history gives us few other examples of comparable commitment. The Cantos has been called Pound’s ‘‘intellectual diary since 1915,’’ and so it is. But the materials of this diary have been so arranged as to subserve the aims of the poem itself. Passage by passage there is the fascination of listening in on a learned, passionate, now rowdy, now delicate intelligence, an intelligence peopled by the figures of living tradition but not so possessed by them that it cannot order their appearances and relationships. Beyond the fascination of the surface snatches of song, dialogue, and description, always stimulating and rhythmically suggestive though not always intelligible upon first reading, there is the essential overriding drive of the poem, and the large pattern of its overlapping layers of thought. The way in which the elements of this pattern swim into the reader’s line of vision is well suggested by Hugh Kenner, one of Pound’s most able and enthusiastic interpreters: The word ‘‘periplum,’’ which recurs continually throughout the Pisan Cantos [74 84], is glossed in Canto LIX: periplum, not as land looks on a map but as sea bord seen by men sailing.
Victor Brerard discovered that the geography of the Odyssey, grotesque when referred to a map, was minutely accurate according to the Phoenician voyagers’ periploi. The image of successive discoveries breaking upon the consciousness of the voyager is one of Pound’s central themes. . . .
8 0
E p i c s
f o r
The voyage of Odysseus to hell is the matter of Canto I. The first half of Canto XL is a periplum through the financial press; ‘‘out of which things seeking an exit,’’ we take up in the second half of the Canto the narrative of the Carthagenian Hanno’s voyage of discovery. Atlantic flights in the same way raise the world of epileptic maggots in Canto XXVIII into a sphere of swift firm-hearted discovery. . . . The periplum, the voyage of discovery among facts, . . . is everywhere contrasted with the conventions and artificialities of the bird’s eye view afforded by the map. . . . Thus, the successive cantos and layers of cantos must be viewed not so much schematically as experientially. Here we see how the early Pound’s developing idealization of the concrete image, the precise phrase, the organically accurate rhythm are now brought to bear on this vast later task. The many voices, varied scenes and personae, and echoes of other languages and literatures than English reflect this emphasis on experience itself: something mysterious, untranslatable, the embodied meaning of life which we generalize only at peril of losing touch with it. So also with Pound’s emphatic use of Chinese ideograms, whose picture-origins still are visible enough, he believes, so that to ‘‘read’’ them is to think in images rather than in abstractions. His use of them is accounted for by the same desire to present ‘‘successive discoveries breaking upon the consciousness of the voyager.’’ The first effect of all these successive, varied breakings is not intended to be total intellectual understanding, any more than in real experience we ‘‘understand’’ situations upon first coming into them. But by and by the pattern shapes up and the relationships clarify themselves, though always there remains an unresolved residue of potentiality for change, intractable and baffling. Pound’s ‘‘voyager,’’ upon whose consciousness the discoveries break, is, we have several times observed, a composite figure derived first of all from the poet-speaker’s identification with Odysseus. A hero of myth and epic, he is yet very much of this world. He is both the result of creative imagination and its embodiment. He explores the worlds of the living, of the dead, and of the mythic beings of Hades and Paradise. Lover of mortal women as of female deities, he is like Zagreus a symbol of the life-bringing male force whose mission does not end even with his return to his homeland. Gradually he becomes all poets and all heroes who have somehow vigorously impregnated the culture. He undergoes (as do the female partners of his procreation and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
the personae and locales in time and space of the whole sequence) many metamorphoses. Hence the importance of the Ovidian metamorphosis involving the god Dionysus, the sea (the female element and symbol of change), and the intermingling of contemporary colloquial idiom and the high style of ancient poetry in Canto 2. The first canto had ended with a burst of praise for Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, and in language suggesting the multiple allusiveness of the sequence: to the Latin and Renaissance traditions, as well as the Grecian-Homeric, and to the cross-cultural implications suggested by the phrase ‘‘golden bough.’’ The second canto takes us swiftly backward in the poetic tradition, through Browning, then Sordello and the other troubadours, and then to the classical poets and the Chinese tradition. All poets are one, as Helen and Eleanor of Aquitaine and Tyro (beloved of Poseidon) and all femininity are one and all heroes are one. In the first two cantos, then, the ‘‘periplum’’ of the sequence emerges into view. Three main value-referents are established: a sexually and aesthetically creative world-view, in which artistic and mythical tradition provides the main axes; the worship of Bacchus-Dionysus-Zagreus as the best symbol of creativity in action; and the multiple hero—poet, voyager, prophet, observer, thinker. The next four cantos expand the range of allusiveness, introducing for instance the figure of the Cid, a chivalric hero, to add his dimension to the voyager-protagonist’s consciousness. Also, various tragic tales are brought to mind, extending the initial horror of Odysseus’ vision of the dead and thus contributing to the larger scheme of the poet in the modern wasteland. In absolute contrast, pagan beatitudes are clearly projected in Canto 2 in the pictures of Poseidon and Tyro: Twisted arms of the sea god, Lithe sinews of water, gripping her, cross hold, And the blue gray glass of the wave tents them. . . .
and, at the scene’s close, in the phallic ‘‘tower like a one-eyed great goose’’ craning up above the olive grove while the fauns are heard ‘‘chiding Proteus’’ and the frogs ‘‘singing against the fauns.’’ This pagan ideal comes in again and again, sharp and stabbing against bleak backgrounds like the ‘‘petals on the wet, black bough’’ of the ‘‘Metro’’ poem. Thus, in Canto 3: Gods float in the azure air, Bright gods and Tuscan, back before dew was shed.
In Canto 4:
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
Choros nympharum, goat foot, with the pale foot alternate; Crescent of blue shot waters, green gold in the shal lows, A black cock crows in the sea foam. . . .
In 4 and 5 both there are deliberate echoes of such poets as have a kindred vision (Catullus, Sappho, and others), set against the notes of evil and damnation. The lines from Sordello in 6 serve the same purpose: Winter and Summer I sing of her grace, As the rose is fair, so fair is her face, Both Summer and Winter I sing of her, The snow makyth me to remember her.
The Lady of the troubadours, whose ‘‘grace’’ is a secularized transposition from that of Deity, is another manifestation of ‘‘the body of nymphs, of nymphs, and Diana’’ which Actaeon saw, as well as of what Catullus meant: ‘‘‘Nuces!’ praise, and Hymenaeus ‘brings the girl to her man. . . . ’’’ After these archetypal and literary points of reference have been established, Cantos 8–19 move swiftly into a close-up of the origins of the modern world in the Renaissance, and of the victory of the anticreative over the active, humanistic values represented by Sigismundo Malatesta and a few others. (Canto 7 is transitional; in any case we can note only the larger groupings here.) The relation between the ‘‘Renaissance Cantos’’ (8–11) and the ‘‘Hell Cantos’’ (14–16), with their scatological picturings of the contemporary Inferno, is organic: the beginning and the end of the same process of social corruption. The beautiful dialogue on order in 13 provides a calm, contrasting center for this portion of the sequence, and is supported by the paradisic glow and serenity of Elysium, revealed in 16 and 17. The earlier cantos had given momentary attention to Oriental poetry and myth and, as we have seen, Elysian glimpses also. Now these motifs are expanded and related to a new context, bringing the sequence into revised focus but carrying all its earlier associations along. This leaping, reshuffling, and reordering is the organizational principle behind the growth, the ‘‘annual rings,’’ of The Cantos. The next ten cantos interweave the motifs of these first two groups and prepare us for the next leap (in Cantos 30–41) of perspective. There are various preparations for this leap, even as early as Canto 20, in which there is a moment of comment from the ‘‘outside’’ as if to take stock before hurtling onward. From their remote ‘‘shelf,’’ ‘‘aerial, cut in the aether,’’ the disdainful lotuseaters question all purposeful effort:
V o l u m e
1
8 1
T h e
C a n t o s
‘‘What gain with Odysseus, ‘‘They that died in the whirlpool ‘‘And after many vain labours, ‘‘Living by stolen meat, chained to the rowingbench, ‘‘That he should have a great fame ‘‘And lie by night with the goddess? . . . ’’
Is the question wisdom or cynicism? No matter. The poem, given the human condition and the epic tasks that grow out of it, is held in check but an instant before again plunging ahead. The Cantos accepts the moral meaning and the moral responsibility of human consciousness. The heroic ideal remains, as on the other hand the evil of our days remains even after the goddess’ song against pity is heard at the beginning of 30. The new group (30–41) is, like the later Adams cantos (62–71), in the main a vigorous attempt to present the fundamental social and economic principles of the Founding Fathers as identical with Pound’s own. Adams and Jefferson are his particular heroes, and there is an effort to show that Mussolini’s program is intended to carry these basic principles, imbedded in the Constitution but perverted by banking interests, into action. Pound works letters and other documents, as well as conversations real and imagined, into his blocks of verse, usually fragmentarily, and gives modern close-ups of business manipulations. The method has the effect of a powerful expose´, particularly of the glimpsed operations of munitions-profiteers. The cantos of the early 1930’s have, indeed, a direct connection with the interest in social and historical documentation and rhetoric that marks much other work of the same period, and at the end of Canto 41 (in which Mussolini is seen) we should not be surprised to find an oratorical climax similar in effect to that of Poem IV in Mauberley (1919). As in the earlier groups, however, we are again given contrasting centers of value, especially in Canto 36 (which renders Cavalcanti’s A lady asks me) and in Canto 39, whose sexually charged interpretation of the spell cast over Odysseus and his men on Circe’s isle is one of Pound’s purest successes. The Chinese cantos (53–61) and the Pisan group (74–84) are the two most important remaining unified clusters within the larger scheme. Again, the practical idealism of Confucianism, like that of Jefferson and Adams, becomes an analogue for Pound’s own ideas of order and of secular aestheticism. Canto 13 was a clear precursor, setting the poetic stage for this later extension.
8 2
E p i c s
f o r
‘‘Order’’ and ‘‘brotherly deference’’ are key words in Confucius’ teachings; both princes and ordinary men must have order within them, each in his own way, if dominion and family alike are to thrive. These thoughts are not cliche´s as Pound presents them. We hear a colloquy that has passion, humor, and depth, and what our society would certainly consider unorthodoxy. Kung ‘‘said nothing of the ‘life after death,’’’ he considered loyalty to family and friends a prior claim to that of the law, he showed no respect for the aged when they were ignorant through their own fault, and he advocated a return to the times ‘‘when the historians left blanks in their writings, / I mean for things they didn’t know.’’ The Chinese cantos view Chinese history in the light of these principles of ordered intelligence in action, with the ideogram ching ming (name things accurately) at the heart of the identity between Confucian and Poundian attitudes. ‘‘The great virtue of the Chinese language,’’ writes Hugh Gordon Porteus, ‘‘inheres in its written characters, which so often contrive to suggest by their graphic gestures (as English does by its phonetic gestures) the very essence of what is to be conveyed.’’ The development of Pound’s interest in Chinese poetry and thought, as well as his varied translations from the Chinese, is in itself an important subject. This interest, like every other to which he has seriously turned his attention, he has brought directly to bear on his own poetic practice and on his highly activistic thinking in general. With the Pisan Cantos and Rock-Drill we are brought, first, into the immediately contemporary world of the poet himself, in Fascist Italy toward the close of World War II, in a concentration camp at Pisa, during the last days of Mussolini; and second, into a great, summarizing recapitulation of root-attitudes developed in all the preceding cantos: in particular the view of the banking system as a scavenger and breeder of corruption, and of ancient Chinese history as an illuminating, often wholesomely contrasting analogue to that of the post-medieval West. Even more than before, we see now how The Cantos descend, with some bastardies along the line, from the Enlightenment. They conceive of a world creatively ordered to serve human needs, a largely rationalist conception. Hence the stress on the sanity of Chinese thought, the immediacy of the Chinese ideogram, and the hardheaded realism of a certain strain of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
economic theory. The Pisan Cantos show Pound’s vivid responsiveness as he approached and passed his sixtieth birthday; his aliveness to people his Rabelaisian humor, his compassion. The lotuseaters of Canto 20, aloof and disdainful, have missed out on the main chances. Canto 81 contains the famous ‘‘Pull down thy vanity’’ passage in which the poet, though rebuking his own egotism, yet staunchly insists on the meaningfulness of his accomplishment and ideals. As the sequence approaches conclusion, the fragments are shored together for the moral summing-up. In the RockDrill section, Cantos 85–95, the stocktaking continues and we are promised, particularly in Canto 90, an even fuller revelation than has yet been vouchsafed us of the Earthly Paradise. Cantos 96–109 begin to carry out this promise, though after so many complexities, overlappings, and interlocking voices it must be nearly impossible to bring the work to an end. It is essentially a self-renewing process rather than a classical structure, and there is no limit to the aspects of history and thought the poet has wished to bring to bear on the poem. Canto 96, for instance, touches on certain developments after the fall of Rome, especially two decrees in the Eastern Empire by Justinian and Leo VI concerning standards of trade, workmanship, and coinage. The special emphasis in this canto on Byzantine civilization is particularly appropriate because of Byzantium’s historical and geographical uniting of East and West as well as its mystical associations pointing to a new and dramatic paradisic vision. Although the memory of earlier glimpses of ‘‘paradise’’ and the recapitulative, self-interrupting method militate against an effect of a revelation overwhelmingly new, the pacing of the whole sequence has made this difficulty at the end inevitable. Pound’s conclusion must be introduced as emergent from the midst of things, still struggling from all in life and consciousness that makes for disorder. Source: M. L. Rosenthal, ‘‘The Cantos,’’ in A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Walter Sutton, Prentice Hall, 1963.
SOURCES Saturday Review of Literature, June 18, 1949, pp. 7 9, 38. , ‘‘Treason’s Strange Fruit: The Case of Ezra Pound and the Bollingen Award,’’ in Saturday Review of Literature, June 11, 1949, pp. 9 11, 28. Kenner, Hugh, The Poetry of Ezra Pound, University of Nebraska Press, 1985.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C a n t o s
Pound, Ezra, The Cantos, Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1996. Shapiro, Karl, as quoted in ‘‘The Question of the Pound Award,’’ in Partisan Review, Vol. 16, No. 5, May 1949, p. 518. Sutton, Walter, Ezra Pound: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice Hall, 1963.
FURTHER READING Barnhisel, Greg, James Laughlin, New Directions, and the Remaking of Ezra Pound, University of Massachusetts Press, 2005. In this book, Barnhisel argues that the way Ezra Pound’s work was published and mar keted in the 1950s saved him from obscurity and disgrace. Even though Pound objected, his American publisher, James Laughlin of New Directions Books, urged readers and profes sors to read only the poetry in The Cantos and to ignore the politics and economics. Coats, Jason M., ‘‘‘Part of the war waste’: Pound, Imag ism, and Rhetorical Excess,’’ in Twentieth Century Liter ature, Vol. 55, No. 1, Spring 2009, pp. 80 114. Coats surveys criticism that focuses on Pound’s political opinions and how these affected his craft and tries to explain what he calls Pound’s ‘‘curious habit of conflating aesthetic taste with political dogma.’’ Case, Kristen, ‘‘On Reading The Cantos: A Pragmatic Approach,’’ in Southwest Review, Vol. 91, No. 4, Fall 2006, pp. 483 500. In this most readable essay, Case describes a first time approach to Pound’s epic, somehow humanizing both its off putting opaque layers of allusions and use of foreign languages and its achievement as a world classic, which she describes charmingly as ‘‘a monument to all I didn’t know and hadn’t read, like a locked door into the secret past.’’ Case finds ‘‘indispensable’’ the Terrell companion, cited below. Casillo, Robert, The Genealogy of Demons: Anti Semitism, Fascism, and the Myths of Ezra Pound, Northwestern Uni versity Press, 1988. In this book, which has been praised as an outstanding discussion of intolerance, Casillo explores Pound’s fascist and anti Semitic ideas. Henriksen, Line, Ambition and Anxiety: Ezra Pound’s ‘‘Cantos’’ and Derek Walcott’s ‘‘Omeros’’ as Twentieth century Epics, Rodopi, 2007. In her study of two modern epics, Henriksen explores the contrasts between Pound’s cultur ally supremacist voice in The Cantos and the reconfiguration of epic as created within the economically marginalized culture of Walcott. Both poets draw on the European tradition of epic but with different perspectives and styles.
V o l u m e
1
8 3
T h e
C a n t o s
Longenbach, James, ‘‘Ezra Pound at Home,’’ in South west Review, Vol. 94, No. 2, Spring 2009, pp. 147 160. Longenbach explores the idea of place and home. He describes the various places Pound lived and explains how these settings connect to what the poet sought to accomplish in writing his epic of the West, specifically a rejuvenation of Western culture. The Pisan Cantos gets spe cial attention in this study. Moody, A. David, Ezra Pound, Poet: A Portrait of the Man and His Work, Vol. 1: The Young Genius 1885 1920, Clarendon Press, 2007. Yet another of several important biographies of the poet that appeared between the early 1990s and 2010, Moody’s study adds new material given his research into the correspond ence and some unpublished materials. Nadel, Ira B., ed., The Cambridge Companion to Ezra Pound, Cambridge University Press, 2008. This book contains fifteen chapters by estab lished scholars whose contributions are designed to facilitate the study of Pound’s poetry and prose. A wide range of relevant topics are cov ered, including poetics, politics, and the context of modernism. Nadel, Ira B. Ezra Pound: A Literary Life, Palgrave Macmillan, 2004. Nadel describes Pound’s contribution to mod ernism by closely examining the poet’s develop ment and continued influence. He explains the poet’s contribution to imagism and the modern
8 4
E p i c s
f o r
long poem. Pound’s role as an editor and his attempt to complete The Cantos are also covered. Sieburth, Richard, ed., The Pisan Cantos, Norton, 2003. Sieburth examines this part of the epic, along with annotation on the individual poems and an introduction to the work and to the poet. Terrell, Carroll F., A Companion to ‘‘The Cantos’’ of Ezra Pound, University of California Press, 1980. Terrell presents a detailed and helpful annota tion of almost every proper name, place, his torical event, and foreign word used in Pound’s poem. Many readers find this work indispen sable for understanding Pound’s epic.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Ezra Pound Ezra Pound AND anti Semitism Ezra Pound AND Fascism Ezra Pound AND imagism Ezra Pound AND modernism Cantos Cantos AND epic Cantos AND T. S. Eliot Pisan Cantos
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
El Cid El Cid (Cantar de mio Cid) recounts the heroic deeds of the Cid, an exiled member of the lower nobility who wins back his king’s favor by battling the Islamic inhabitants of Spain. A poem based on the exploits of an historical person, Rodrigo (Ruy) D’az de Vivar, (1040–1099), this epic offers an important example of the interaction of history and literature in the Middle Ages. El Cid is best known for its use of irony, heroic drama, and a rare strain of realism that incorporates multifaceted portraits of Moors, Jews, and Christians. One of the oldest Spanish documents in existence, it is also the only extant Spanish epic to have survived almost intact. It is contained in a fourteenth-century manuscript, which bears the date 1207, most likely referring to an earlier version of the poem that was copied in the later book.
ANONYMOUS 1201
Several accounts of the Cid’s life existed before this epic poem was written in manuscript form. Two Latin poems, one written before the Cid’s death and the other just after, chronicle his life. He is mentioned in Arabic sources, and his fame endured throughout the Middle Ages, in works of varying quality. El Cid has been wellreceived as a work of literature for several centuries. The famous 1637 version of the poem Le Cid, by French dramatist Pierre Corneille, demonstrates its lasting popularity in Europe. Printed editions of the poem have existed since the eighteenth century. A fresh edition (1908) was published by the prominent Spanish medievalist,
8 5
E l
C i d
Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal. Mene´ndez Pidal’s influential work El Cid ensured an international critical audience for this epic. A poem that treats basic themes such as national and religious identity, family honor, and personal prowess, El Cid has earned a lasting place in the ranks of great world literature.
PLOT SUMMARY
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Intense scholarly debate has raged over the identity of the author of El Cid. Basically, critics are divided into two camps, the traditionalists and the individualists. The former group, led by Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal, believes that the poem appeared as an oral composition soon after the historical Cid’s death and was written in a manuscript only later, thus reducing the significance of the idea of a single author for the poem. The individualists, by contrast, (championed most by Colin Smith among others) insist that a single, brilliant author wrote the poem in 1207. Some critics point to Per Abbat, the name that appears at the end of the poem, as the author, although the text states that this person ‘‘wrote’’ the text (escrivo´), which indicates that he was the copyist rather than the author. Opinion on the subject is so divided that individualists tend to call the work the ‘‘Poema’’ of the Cid, whereas traditionalists call it the ‘‘Cantar,’’ or Song, of the Cid, to emphasize its oral origins. The interpretation of the text varies according to the a given critic with regards to the text’s authorship and the author’s intentions. The person who wrote the 1207 version of the text was undoubtedly a talented author. The individualist school (especially the British Hispanists) insists that the author had extensive knowledge of the law and the Bible and used written historical documents to bolster the more historically sound sections of the epic. Traditionalists tend to discount all three of these claims, maintaining the oral nature of the transmission of this information during the presumed era of composition, which, for Mene´ndez Pidal, was around 1140. In addition, they note the archaic nature of the language of the 1207 text itself. Despite the quality of this literary text as it has come down to us in its single manuscript, the traditionalist viewpoint has prevailed in modern times. This view is bolstered by new findings in the oral tradition in literature by scholars such as Albert Lord who suggest that the written versions of the most famous epics are but one
8 6
manifestation of a chain of oral versions. The debate about authorship dominated epic research during the twentieth century, but with increased understanding about the role of orality in medieval literature and new scholarship about the status of the author in this era, the problem can be approached in new ways.
E p i c s
f o r
First Cantar The manuscript of El Cid is missing its first manuscript page, and so the poem begins by describing the Cid’s reaction to the news of his banishment. From contemporary Latin histories and from a note later in the poem (stanza 9), it is clear that the reason for the Cid’s banishment is the accusation by King Alfonso VI that the Cid has embezzled money collected from the Moors for the king. This is the second time that Alfonso has banished the Cid, and the missing page might have described this event. The manuscript text itself begins by showing the Cid weeping when he leaves his home village, Vivar, and enters Burgos, a town to the south. He sees crows flying and interprets them as an omen of his ill fortune. The townspeople of Burgos watch him ride by with his ally, Minaya Alvar Fa´n˜ez. A nine-year-old girl is the only person who dares to address him, telling him that the townspeople have been forbidden by the king to offer aid to the Cid. After praying at the church of Saint Mary, the Cid leaves Burgos and pitches his tent outside the city walls. The ‘‘worthy citizen of Burgos,’’ Martı´ n Antolı´ nez, provides supplies for the party and joins the Cid. Together they plan how to get money to support themselves, deciding to take advantage of two Jewish moneylenders, Rachel and Vidas. Martı´ n Antolı´ nez returns to Burgos, finds the moneylenders, and gives them two beautifully decorated chests filled with sand. He proposes to pawn these chests for a sum of money, and the moneylenders agree to give six hundred marks and not to look in the chests for a year. Gleeful at having tricked the moneylenders, the Cid and his companions head to San Pedro de Carden˜a, where they meet Don˜a Ximena (the Cid’s wife) and the Cid’s daughters. The abbot of the abbey, Don Sancho, is delighted to see the Cid and promises to care for the ladies until the Cid can return. At the abbey, he is joined by 115 knights. Don˜a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS The best-known modern media adaptation of El Cid, the 1961 film produced by Anthony Mann and starring Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren, draws on later romance versions of the Cid legend and is considered one of the finest epic films ever made. It was restored and re-released by Martin Scorsese for Miramax and is available on home video. Another famous adaptation, also drawing on later texts, is the 1637 play Le Cid, by Pierre Corneille, which was translated by John Cairncross and appeared in a Penguin Classics edition titled The Cid, Cinna, The Theatrical Illusion (1975).
Corneille, in turn, drew from the Spanish playwright Guille´n de Castro’s 1618 play, Las Mocedades del Cid (The Youthful Deeds of the Cid), available from Juan de la Cuesta, 2002. Antonio Sacchini’s opera Il Cid draws on the Cid legends. Il Cid was first performed in London in 1773. It was published by T. Michaelis in 1880. Also drawing on the Cid legends is Jules Massenet’s 1885 opera Le Cid. Originally available on vinyl record from Columbia Records in 1976, it was re-released in 2004 on compact disc by Sony Classical.
C i d
distinguishes himself. After dividing the wealth between his men, the Cid and his army leave Casejo´n, partly to avoid border conflicts with Alfonso. When they arrive at the town of Alcocer, they again decide to invade. The Cid and his army besiege the city for fifteen weeks, and then, short of food and water, they pretend to give up and strike camp. When the inhabitants of Alcocer see the army leaving, they are delighted and leave the city to pursue them. The Cid seizes the opportunity and attacks the Moors, thereby winning the town. His army occupies the town and forces the Moors to serve them. Frightened inhabitants of the neighboring towns tell the Moorish king of Valencia that the Cid threatens their safety, and the king sends an army to attack, which besieges the Cid for three weeks. The Cid’s army prepares for battle, and Pedro Bermu´dez is given the honor of carrying the Cid’s flag. Pedro disobeys the Cid’s orders to wait until given the command to attack the Moors and charges into battle. The Cid and his army follow, and the Moors are defeated, leaving great wealth in horses and armor for the Cid. The hundred horses and a large quantity of silver that the Cid wins is immediately sent to Alfonso, as tribute, and to the abbey at Carden˜a for the care of the Cid’s family. The Cid then sells Alcocer back to the Moors and continues to Valencia. En route, he captures several more towns and is distinguished by his generous treatment of his victims. In the meantime, Minaya has brought the horses to Alfonso, who is duly impressed but refuses to pardon the Cid. The count of Barcelona hears of the Cid’s exploits and wrongly believes that he is despoiling the count’s territory. He attacks the Cid but is captured. The count, deeply embarrassed, refuses to eat until the Cid releases him.
Second Cantar Ximena prays for her husband’s safety, and the Cid parts from his family with great sadness. With promises of rewards to all, the Cid and his party leave the abbey and travel through Castille, gathering men for their army. During the voyage, the Cid is visited in a dream by the angel Gabriel, who tells him that he will be successful in his campaigns. After crossing a mountain range, they leave Alfonso’s lands and thus enter Moorish territory. When the Cid and his army arrive at the Moorish town of Casejo´n, they ambush the residents and capture the town. Minaya, in particular,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The second third of El Cid begins with the capture of several more towns, including Murviedra, before the Cid turns his attention to Valencia. The people of Valencia attempt a pre-emptive strike against the Cid, but he is assured of his God-given victory, and summons every ally he can to combat the people of Valencia. He captures more towns, plunders the countryside for three years, and finally attacks Valencia itself. He invites anyone who wants to participate in taking the city to join him, fights a great battle, and wins the city. After dividing the booty, the Cid sends Minaya again to visit Alfonso and the abbot of Carden˜a. At the same time a French churchman, Don Jerome, joins the Cid,
V o l u m e
1
8 7
E l
C i d
who appoints him bishop of Valencia. As a reward for the capture of Valencia, the king agrees to allow the Cid’s family to join him in exile. The Cid’s renown in Alfonso’s court, however, provokes the jealousy of Count Garcı´ a Ordo´n˜ez. The high-born Infantes de Carrio´n, by contrast, consider marriage with the Cid’s daughters an advantageous match and send their greetings to him via Minaya. Minaya takes the ladies from the abbey and escorts them to Mendaceli where they are met by the Cid’s Moorish ally, Abengalbo´n, who takes them to Molina, where he is governor. They then travel to Valencia, where the Cid welcomes them. The Cid makes a great impression on onlookers with his flowing beard and marvelous horse, Babieca. King Yusuf of Morocco, in the meantime, is furious when he hears ofthe capture ofValencia and brings an army from Morocco to retake the city. With his wife and daughters as witnesses, the Cid with his four thousand knights defeats the fearsome army of fifty thousand. The Cid wins an immense amount of wealth from this battle, including the Moroccan king’s cloth-of-gold tent. Minaya once again goes to Alfonso to beg pardon for the Cid. Alfonso is delighted at the news of the Cid’s victory and by the fantastic present of two hundred horses, which again annoys Garcı´ a Ordo´n˜ez. The king, this time, pardons the Cid and annuls his banishment. The Infantes, in their turn, decide to marry the daughters of such a wealthy and successful man and ask the king to speak on their behalf with the Cid. Minaya reports this news back to the Cid, who agrees reluctantly to the marriages. All the parties agree to meet on the banks of the Tagus River. When the Cid arrives in front of the king, he dismounts, kneels, and pulls up a mouthful of grass with his teeth as a sign of his great humility before his lord. Alfonso is greatly affected and pardons the Cid publicly. The marriages are subsequently arranged, and great festivals are organized in honor of the marriages. The Cid gives the Infantes swords to symbolize his kinship with them, and the marriages are thus begun with great promise.
Third Cantar The Infantes, married for several months, are deeply embarrassed when a captive lion belonging to the Cid escapes in his palace. While they hide under a couch and behind a wine press, the Cid catches the lion with his hands and puts it back into captivity. The court subsequently
8 8
E p i c s
f o r
jeers at the Infantes for their cowardice. In the meantime, King Bu´car of Morocco attempts to renew the failed attempt to retake Valencia. The Cid sees the coming battle as a chance for the Infantes to distinguish themselves and regain their lost prestige, but they are only able to do so by convincing Pedro Bermudu´z to support their falsely boastful claims of prowess (this passage is missing in the manuscript, but can be reconstructed through consulting other sources). In the battle, Bishop Jerome proves his bravery, and the Cid wins the battle and kills Bu´car. The Cid praises God when he hears the reports of his son-in-law’s bravery in battle, but his followers remain skeptical of their courage and continue to tease them. Frustrated and angry, the Infantes plot revenge and ask permission to leave the court, ostensibly to return to Carrio´n so as to show their lands to their wives. The Cid agrees to their request, and the two couples leave the court with a suitable retinue. Their first stop is at Molina, where they meet the Moor, Abengalbo´n. Although Abengalbo´n treats them with great respect, the Infantes plot to kill him. The plot is foiled, and Abengalbo´n expresses his disappointment with the Infantes. The party continues, and soon the Infantes send their traveling companions ahead so as to carry out their plot against the Cid’s daughters. When they are alone with their wives, the Infantes beat the women senseless and leave them for dead. Fe´lez Mun˜oz, the Cid’s nephew, is suspicious of the Infantes’ intentions and returns to find the Cid’s daughters unconscious in the woods. He quickly takes them back to the town of San Esteban where they regain their health. In the meantime, the Infantes have returned to Alfonso’s court, where the king is greatly disturbed by their boasting of their humiliation of the Cid through beating his daughters. The Cid hears the news and considers it for a long time before swearing vengeance. The Cid’s daughters return to Valencia via Molina, where they are again hosted by Abengalbo´n. The Cid sends his vassal Mun˜o Gustioz to present the Cid’s claim to King Alfonso. The king is considered to be responsible for the situation, since he had recommended the marriages. The king agrees to summon the Infantes and order them to give satisfaction to the Cid, which takes place in a court of justice in Toledo. Here, a great company of legal scholars, high government officials, and court members assemble to seek justice. The Cid arrives
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
with his most faithful retainers and enters the court, making a favorable impression on the onlookers. He has tied a cord around his long white beard so that no one can pluck it—a mortal insult—on purpose or accidentally. Thus the proceedings begin. The Cid first demands the return of his swords, to thus annul this symbol of kinship. He gives these swords to Pedro Bermu´dez and to Martı´ n Antolı´ nez. Although the Infantes believe that this is the only price they will have to pay, the Cid then continues. He demands the return of the money that was given to the Infantes when the marriages were contracted, and they reimburse him by giving him horses and property, borrowing what they no longer own. Then the Cid states his final claim: He challenges the Infantes to a duel against his own champion. At this point, many insults are flung by both sides, accusing the Infantes of cowardice and the Cid of his low birth. According to the Infantes, the Cid’s daughters were of too low birth to marry those of the house of Carrio´n. Finally, the challenges are met, and on a field umpired by specially chosen judges, the Infantes meet the Cid’s champions. Pedro Bermu´dez first defeats the Infante Fernandez, who surrenders. Then Martı´ n Antolı´ nez defeats the Infante Diego, who fears the Cid’s sword Colada. Finally, Mun˜o Gustioz nearly kills Ansur Gonza´lez, brother of the Infantes; the latter’s father is obliged to intercede to save his son’s life. With the field won, the Cid declares he is satisfied and returns to Valencia. Seeing his good fortune, the high-born princes of Navarre and Aragon negotiate with Alfonso to marry the Cid’s daughters. These marriages are carried out, to the benefit of the entire family of the Cid. The kings of Spain, according to the author, are all related to the Cid through these marriages. The scribe completes the manuscript by naming himself ‘‘Per Abbat,’’ who finished the text in the month of May 1207.
CHARACTERS Per Abbat Although some critics consider Per Abbat the composer or author of El Cid, it is more generally thought that he was the scribe of the work, either of the fourteenth-century manuscript, or, more likely, of the 1207 copy. The term escrivo (wrote out or copied down), which is used in the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
last segment of the poem, seems to uphold this interpretation.
Abengalbo´n Abengalbo´n is the Cid’s Moorish ally. He helps the Cid by protecting his wife and daughters when they travel to Valencia. In another appearance, he hosts the Cid’s daughters while they travel to Carrio´n with their husbands and discovers a plot hatched by the Infantes to kill him. His noble behavior as a Moor functions as a comparison with that of the cowardly Infantes and serves as an example of the complex relations between Moors and Christians in Spain during the Middle Ages.
King Alfonso Although King Alfonso VI of Leo´n is portrayed as a harsh ruler at the beginning of the poem when he banishes the Cid, his image gradually improves until, by the end of the text, he proves the Cid’s advocate. According to historical sources, their uneasy relationship stemmed from the Cid’s alliance with Alfonso’s enemy and brother, Sancho. Alfonso banished the Cid twice: once for arriving late to battle and a second time for allegedly embezzling funds he was in charge of collecting for the king. The second exile forms the background of the epic. The relationship of the Cid with his ruler, dominated by exchanges of services and money, provides an interesting example of a Spanish nobleman’s evolving relationship with his king.
Martı´n Antolı´nez Martı´ n Antolı´ nez, the ‘‘worthy citizen of Burgos,’’ is another of the Cid’s military allies and has no historical counterpart; he is probably a poetic creation intended to emphasize the town of Burgos’s support of the Cid’s campaigns. In the final duel, Martı´ n defeats the Infante Diego.
Count Ramo´n Berenguer Ramo´n is the count of Barcelona, who fights the Cid (in the first cantar) for allegedly damaging his territory in his march to Valencia. When Ramo´n is captured by the Cid, he refuses to eat until he is freed. The episode of the count’s imprisonment, which has a historical basis, is used to demonstrate the Cid’s great generosity with his (Christian) victims, whom he frees once they have guaranteed a cessation of hostilities.
Pedro Bermu´dez Pedro ‘‘the mute’’ appears in the poem as another of the Cid’s allies and nephews. He is the Cid’s
V o l u m e
1
8 9
E l
C i d
standard-bearer. He is known for his stutter, but he delivers an eloquent speech in which he challenges Fernando, one of the Infantes de Carrio´n, to a duel. A Pedro Vermu´dez is listed in a document dated about 1069, but not in this capacity.
King Bu´car of Morocco In a second attempt to recapture Valencia from the Cid, another Moorish king fails in his attack and is killed by the Cid.
Infantes de Carrio´n The deceitful Infantes are portrayed as cowardly members of the upper class who, seeing the Cid’s swift rise in the king’s favor, contract marriages with the Cid’s daughters, Elvira and Sol. After being embarrassed and subsequently taunted by the Cid’s court when they are frightened by a lion and hide under a couch, the Infantes take their wives from Valencia, then beat them and leave them for dead in the woods. When the Cid obtains justice for this insult, his family is assured a place in the hierarchy of lineage that makes up Spanish medieval society. The historical Gonza´lez brothers actually did not belong to this high level of society and were not married to the Cid’s daughters.
El Cid Campeador See Rodrigo (Ruy) Dı´ az de Vivar
a military hero, but also as a family man, during tender scenes with his wife, Ximena, and his daughters, Elvira and Sol. Generous with his retainers, who join him so as to take part in the amassing of wealth that comes with winning battles against the Moors, the Cid also wins back favor with his king, who had banished him, by sending him extremely valuable gifts. Rodrigo is also a Christian hero in the poem and is shown to be victorious as a Christian who struggles righteously against the infidel, although the historical Cid once was allied with a Moorish emir. By drawing on all the qualities of a traditional epic hero—generosity, religious superiority, clannishness, military prowess, and loyalty— the author of El Cid is able to enhance the already stellar status of a historical hero.
Elvira Elvira is one of the Cid’s daughters, who is married to one of the Infantes de Carrio´n and then to the king of Navarre. In fact the historical Cid’s daughter was named Cristina, and it was her son who became king of Navarre.
Minaya Alvar Fa´n˜ez Minaya is the Cid’s ‘‘good right arm,’’ and is yet another of his nephews. He is the first of the Cid’s allies to be mentioned. However, his historical counterpart did not accompany the Cid into exile, but rather remained in the court of Alfonso VI.
Don˜a Ximena Dı´az See Ximena
Ansur Gonza´lez
Rodrigo (Ruy) Dı´az de Vivar
Ansur is the brother of the Infantes. He appears during the final duel to support his brothers’ claims, and he criticizes the Cid for his low birth.
Modeled after a historic personage who lived from about 1043 to 1099, Rodrigo Dı´ az is the hero of this epic poem. Named ‘‘the Cid,’’ for the Arabic word Sayyidi or leader, with the epithet Campeador, meaning master of the field, Rodrigo Dı´ az appears in the poem as an invincible military leader. He was born into the lower nobility (infanzon) in the small town of Vivar, near Burgos, and was a vassal to the king of Spain. In the poem, this low social status is of great importance, for the Cid is a true social climber, gaining social status by successfully amassing wealth and thus power. When he marries his daughters to the high-born infantes and later to the kings of Aragon and Navarre, successfully fighting for his family’s honor in the third cantar, his success as the founder of a new and great lineage is guaranteed. Unlike most epic heroes, he is depicted as an older man, with a white beard that is a source of great pride and prestige. He is portrayed not only as
9 0
E p i c s
f o r
Diego Gonza´lez See Infantes de Carrio´n
Fernando Gonzalez See Infantes de Carrio´n
Mun˜o Gustioz Mun˜o Gustioz is an ally of the Cid, his criado or member of his household and, historically, Ximena’s brother-in-law. In the final duel, he defeats Ansur, the Infantes’ brother.
Don Jerome The historical Bishop Jerome was Je´roˆme de Pe´rigord, who was brought to Spain by the bishop of Toledo to help reform the Spanish church. He became the bishop of Valencia in 1098. In the poem, Jerome is a fighting bishop who, like
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
Archbishop Turpin in the Song of Roland, takes part in the battles while guaranteeing eternal salvation to the fighters.
Pedro Mudo See Pedro Bermu´dez
Fe´lez Mun˜oz Fe´lez is one of the Cid’s nephews and is his ally and champion. He is the character who first discovers the Cid’s daughters after their beating and takes them back to their father. There is no historical record of this character.
Count Garcı´a Ordo´n˜ez Ordo´n˜ez is the ally of the Infantes and the bitter enemy of the Cid, rather like Ganelon in the Song of Roland. Although Ordo´n˜ez boasts of his noble lineage, the Cid reminds him that he pulled the count’s beard in the past, a mortal insult.
Rachel One of the two moneylenders who provide the initial source of money for the Cid, who needs capital for his period in exile. The Cid tricks the moneylenders into believing that he has placed all his wealth in two sand-filled chests, and they are persuaded to lend him money while being forbidden to open the chests. The anti-Semitic portrayal of the Jewish moneylenders is a commonplace in medieval texts.
Sol The Cid’s second daughter marries one of the Infantes de Carrio´n and then the king of Aragon. The historical Sol, named Marı´ a, married the count of Barcelona and perhaps the son of the king of Aragon. She died around age twenty-five.
Vidas One of the two moneylenders who provide the initial source of money for the Cid, who needs capital for his period in exile.
Ximena Lady Ximena is the virtuous wife of the Cid. Although she is left behind in the Abbey of Carden˜a with her daughters during the first part of the epic, she later joins her husband in Valencia, where she is met with a joyful welcome. The unusually close relationship between the Cid and his wife is expressed when they first are separated: ‘‘Weeping bitterly, they parted with such pain as when the fingernail is torn from the flesh.’’ Ximena is
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
portrayed as a devoted wife who prays for her husband’s safety in an eloquent speech early in the poem. The historical Ximena was the daughter of the count of Oviedo and first cousin of King Alfonso VI, although this is not mentioned in the text. She brought her late husband’s remains to the monastery of San Pedro de Carden˜a near Burgos in 1102. In later versions of the Cid legend, it is Ximena who attracts the most attention; in Pierre Corneille’s Le Cid, she is the epitome of the tragic heroine.
King Yusuf of Morocco King Yusuf comes from Morocco to fight the Cid and thus to regain Valencia, a plan which fails. The historical Yusuf was Yusuf ibn Tesufin, first Almoravid caliph of Morocco (1059– 1106), and he did not come to Valencia to recuperate it but rather sent his nephew. The author is clearly amplifying the action to make the Cid’s deeds appear even more stunning.
THEMES Nobility and Class An epic about a highly successful social climber, the El Cid has much to say about the concept of nobility. For example, the Infantes de Carrio´n are characterized as members of the upper nobility; they have vast landholdings and enjoy high status in King Alfonso’s court. They marry the Cid’s daughters for their money but later describe these marriages as ‘‘concubinage,’’ implying that this match is null and void because of the vast difference in class between the Infantes and the Cid. According to medieval Spanish law, those of illegitimate birth cannot legally marry and can only be concubines, rather than legitimate wives. The hint of illegitimacy can be found in lines 3377–3381, where the brother of the Infantes, Ansur, implies that the Cid is the son of a miller. In the later romances of the Cid, the tradition notes that the Cid’s father raped a miller’s wife, who gave birth to the Cid. The allusion to bastardy on the part of the Cid and, by extension, his daughters, makes the theme of nobility even more dramatic, especially when someone of such low birth garners enough allies and supporters to challenge the insults to the Cid’s family’s legitimacy flung at them by the highest stratum of society. When, by the end of
V o l u m e
1
9 1
E l
C i d
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY El Cid has been a popular subject of artists. Find at least six paintings or illustrations that feature images from the epic and compare the different styles, time periods, and subject matter. What do you like and not like about these works of art? Using the medium of your choice (paint, pencil, or collage, to name a few options) create your own illustration of a scene from El Cid. Mount an art show as a class to display your work. When the apparently advantageous marriages between the Cid’s daughters and the high-born Infantes de Carrio´n have been contracted, the daughters thank their father, saying, ‘‘Since you have arranged these marriages, we are sure to be very rich.’’ What is the place of women in the society described in this epic? Compare the different women in the epic, including Ximena and her ladies in waiting. What is the traditional role of women in epics? How is El Cid different? Why do you think later interpretations of the legend of the Cid concentrated so intensely on Ximena as a heroine? Write an essay arguing your interpretation, using feminist theory to support your points. El Cid is well-known for its relativistic portrayal of Muslims and Christians, especially compared to the contemporary epic, the Song of Roland, in which the Christians are assumed to be right and the pagans wrong. Research the
the poem, readers are informed that, after the Infantes are soundly defeated, the Cid’s daughters marry princes whose alliance cause them to be related to subsequent kings of Spain, it is clear that the Cid, as a self-made man, has arrived in the noble class. Nobility, then, does not simply stem from one’s birth into a social class. An individual, according to El Cid, can work to augment his status as a person of quality. One way to do this, in medieval Spanish society, is to demonstrate great generosity.
9 2
E p i c s
f o r
intercultural relationships between Christians, Jews, and Muslims in Spain in the Middle Ages. Try to present the points of views of each of these groups about the other two communities. Have some of the stereotypes about Christian, Muslim, and Jewish cultures persisted into the twenty-first century? In a small group, write a skit that dramatizes the findings of your research. El Cid displays a restless frontier spirit in which a growing population turns its attention to new lands to conquer. Find narratives of the American West and compare them to passages in El Cid that demonstrate similar attitudes towards a frontier. Using a computer, prepare a digital presentation of your compare-and-contrast project and present your work to your class. The Cid, as a character, is sometimes thought of as the most successful medieval outlaw. Compare him to legends of other outlaws, such as Robin Hood, Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Blackbeard, Jean Lafitte, or Joachim Murieta. What is their relation to authority figures, such as King Alfonso? What function might these legends play in a given society? What constitutes a successful outlaw, and does the Cid qualify? Divide the class into debate teams and have each team take a position, using historical fact to support arguments.
Generosity and Greed The definition of a gift economy is one in which an individual gains prestige by giving gifts. These economies are illustrated, for example, by the potlatch festivals in which the chief of certain Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest give away huge amounts of money and other forms of wealth. In El Cid, the hero proves his worth by, literally, giving it away. This epic is filled with itemized lists of the war booty that the Cid and his followers win after each battle; the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
Cid himself is careful to use his fifth of the winnings to send magnificent presents to the king to, essentially, buy back favor. The Cid also is generous with the Church, sending money regularly to the Abbey of Carden˜a to assure God’s favor. In addition, he is generous with his victims, allowing the residents of one of the cities that he conquers to return to their homes and freeing Ramo´n Berenguer, count of Barcelona, from captivity. An interesting exception to the Cid’s generosity is the repayment of Rachel and Vidas, the Jewish moneylenders who are themselves shown to be especially greedy and whom it seems the Cid never pays back. The Infantes of Carrio´n, the Cid’s typological opposites, are noted for their lack of princely generosity. By the end of the epic, however, the Cid is proven to be a man as worthy as King Alfonso when the king is forced to admit that the Cid’s generosity embarrasses him (l. 2147). It is nobler to give than to receive in this society.
Cowardice and Bravery Just as generosity is the mark of a noble man, bravery in battle is likewise an important characteristic of the ideal hero. The Cid, of course, is the epitome of the brave warrior, using tactics and courage to defeat armies of superior numbers. Bravery, like generosity, is not necessarily linked with one’s inherited social status. The comic episode in which the Infantes de Carrio´n hide under a couch and behind a wine cask when a lion escapes illustrates the importance of bravery in this epic. The Cid is able to tame the lion—the symbol of courage itself—because he is a personage of extraordinary bravery himself. The cowardly Infantes, by contrast, shirk their duties in battle and invent lies to cover their own lack of courage in episodes that demonstrate how unworthy they are as knights.
Honor The important traits of courage and generosity fall under the general rubric of a noble man’s honor. A man of worth, according to El Cid, must work to preserve his honor. The Cid has lost a certain amount of honor by being banished by his king, but he manages to recuperate it by being extraordinarily generous and courageous in battle against the Moors. On a more symbolic level, a man’s honor can be seriously damaged if personal insults pass unavenged. The Cid’s long, flowing beard is so impressive because it has never been pulled—a mortal insult punishable by death. He notes with pleasure that Count Garcı´ a Ordo´n˜ez’s beard has
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
not grown back after being pulled by the Cid, implying irreparable damage to his personal honor. The Cid is careful, in public appearances, to keep his beard tied with a cord so as to avoid even accidental pulling. Honor is not only a masculine trait: Women such as Ximena and her daughters are portrayed as honorable ladies through their religious faith and their faith in the Cid. The daughters, although they are humiliated by being beaten by the Infantes, regain their honor when it is defended in duels by the Cid’s men against the Infantes. The proof that their honor has been regained is revealed in the subsequent advantageous marriages that are arranged for them.
Race Conflict One curious theme of El Cid concerns the problem of race relations, in particular the coexistence of Christian and Moor in Spain under the Reconquest. The Cid’s conquest of Valencia was a somewhat isolated success against the Moors during the reign of Alfonso VI, which was characterized by a general gaining of ground on the part of the Moors after initial Christian successes. Moors in El Cid are portrayed alternatively as the fearsome pagans who prove terrifying in battle with their war-drums or as the magnanimous Abengalbo´n, the Moorish governor who welcomes the Cid and his family and who proves a useful ally. The relativistic treatment of the Moors, some of whom revere the Cid as much as the Christians, stands in contrast to other portrayals of Christians and non-Christians as well as to the treatment of Jews in El Cid, who are depicted in negative stereotypes. In a text told by a Christian narrator, it is interesting to discover a measure of cultural relativism.
Exile Exile is an important theme in El Cid because it is the catalyst for the Cid’s campaign against the Moors as he tries to regain favor with King Alfonso. In the process of winning battles and sending gifts to the king, he gains such status among his friends and foes that when his sons-in-law, the Infantes de Carrio´n, try to discredit him and throw away their wives, they instead show the Cid to be braver and more honorable than they are. The Cid is a rare but important example of earned social standing for medieval Spain. His daughters go on to marry kings, securing the family’s status as nobility. First, the Cid has to touch bottom; that is, exile. Although the manuscript is incomplete in the portion that describes why the Cid was exiled, historians have pieced together that it was for
V o l u m e
1
9 3
E l
C i d
Detail from the title page of the 1498 edition, titled ‘‘Coronica del cid’’
embezzlement. The Cid curries favor with the king by sending tribute gifts following his military victories, which is a mark of a gift economy and the Cid’s way of showing the king, over and over, that he is not a thief.
Rollant est proz e Oliver est sage; Ambedui unt merveillus vasselage (ll. 1093 94)
The narrative technique of El Cid does share some similarities with this pattern. The epic is constructed of 152 assonanced laisses with a strong caesura, as is illustrated in the following:
STYLE Meter Discussions of the narrative technique in El Cid tend to revolve around the unusual irregularity of the epic’s meter. French epic, for example in the Song of Roland, is characterized by its regular, assonanced ten-syllable lines. The French epic is organized in laisses, or unequal blocks of text that are grouped by their assonance, that is, the similarity of the last vowel of the line. Additionally, each line has a strong caesura, or pause, between the first
9 4
four syllables and the final six. Thus, in The Song of Roland:
E p i c s
f o r
De los sos ojos tan fuertemientre llorando, tornava la cabec¸a e esta´valos catando (ll. 1 2)
However, as this example indicates, the length of the line is extremely irregular and is as a result called anisosyllabic. The line length in this poem can vary from eight to twenty-two syllables. This irregularity has puzzled critics who attempt to locate the variance in meter to the original source of the epic. P. T. Harvey and A. D. Deyermond
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
compare the epic to the oral literature researched by Albert Lord and others. When collecting epic songs from the so-called singers of tales in Yugoslavia, these scholars noted that, while the meter of the songs remained regular when they were sung, when the researcher requested that the singers recite the works without singing, the meter became irregular. Harvey and Deyermond theorize that El Cid may have been originally collected from a recited, rather than a sung, source, which might explain its metrical irregularity.
Epic Epithet The epic as a performed literary form tends to present characters as representatives of certain human traits. One technique that works to emphasize these specific characteristics is the epic epithet. This technique reminds the reader/listener to concentrate on the most important traits of a given character. The Cid, for example, is ‘‘El de Bivar,’’ ‘‘the man from Vivar,’’ emphasizing the importance of the Cid as a landowner and locating him within a matrix of local politics. He is the good ‘‘Campeador,’’ ‘‘master of the battlefield.’’ King Alfonso, interestingly, receives few epithets while his relations with the Cid are antagonistic. When he pardons the Cid, he receives more favorable epithets. Important places, such as Valencia, can also receive epithets.
Ring Composition The form of many epics, as oral literature, is shaped, according to some scholars, by the characteristics of oral memory and composition. Specifically, patterns of repetitions, formulary expressions, and standard themes such as battles, marriages, and reconciliations emerge. Often, a circular pattern that serves as a frame adds shape and clarity to the narrative. El Cid has such a shape according to Cedric Whitman and Walter Ong. The first cantar reveals the ring composition. In line 1, readers learn of the adversities and anguish resulting from the Cid’s exile and of the convocation of vassals; and later, in lines 48 through 63, the benefits and jubilation resulting from the Cid’s conquests and of the increase in number of his vassals are reported. Similarly, this type of repetition of themes and ideas can be seen in lines 2 through 22, with the departure from Castile accompanied by ill omens and the promise of masses, and in lines 40 through 47, with the depicted return of Minaya Alvar Fa´n˜ez to Castile with favorable omens and masses paid. Ring composition draws the listener’s attention to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
important parallels in the work and is a device commonly used in oral literature.
Foil Character The Infantes de Carrio´n are foil characters for the Cid. A foil character is one who embodies traits that are opposite those of the main character with the intention of highlighting the important qualities of the main character. In El Cid, the Cid is renowned for his bravery, his honorable treatment of people— whether they are enemies or family members—and his generosity. The Infantes, by contrast, are cowards, behave dishonorably toward their wives, and are ungenerous. Unable to quell the gossip of their cowardice, the Infantes seek to attack the Cid by abandoning their wives and declaring him to be beneath their social station. The Cid is the hero of this story and his honor and prestige are impeccable, which leads to their downfall as their attack on him illustrates just how pathetic they are.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Spain and Feudalism The shape of Spanish society, as opposed to the situation in France, was not strictly or formally organized by feudal ties that linked a lord to a vassal who, in return for protection, provided military services. Although the social structure in Catalonia (the northeastern corner of Spain) was influenced by France, the northwest was original. The fine gradations of northern feudal society in Spain become a more or less direct relationship between a man and his king. As El Cid shows, the sign of the lord-vassal relationship is the kissing of hands. The reason for this less-stratified shape of society has to do with the Reconquest of Moorish Spain and with the resettlement of the lands taken from the Moors. Peasants occupied these frontier lands, often taking up arms to defend their new territory, militia-style. The king, by contrast, retained his power as warlord, as the organizer of these campaigns against the Moors. The kings of the Spanish provinces ruled effectively over their comparatively small kingdoms, thus remaining in touch with their subjects. Northern feudal society is characterized by two factors: the vassal-knight’s monopoly of military duty and the dominance of the various ties of vassalage. Vassalage refers to the dependence and reliance of one man on another over other forms of government. Spanish society, organized to combat a numerous and formidable enemy, rather than to maintain interior peace, took on a different shape.
V o l u m e
1
9 5
E l
C i d
COMPARE & CONTRAST Eleventh century: Setbacks for the Christians occur when the North African ruler Yusuf ibn Tashufin initiates a military campaign to strengthen Arab holdings in Spain. Only the Cid is able to withstand the African advances. His conquest of Valencia is a shattering but isolated event; Christian occupation of the city does not survive his death. Today: Spain’s government supports the invasion of Iraq in 2003, despite popular opinion overwhelming against Spanish involvement. On March 11, 2004, days before a federal election, terrorist bombs explode on trains in Madrid during rush hour, killing 191 people and wounding more than 1,800 others. After the election, wherein control of the government goes to the Socialist Party, Spain pulls its troops out of Iraq. Eleventh century: The agricultural economy of medieval Spain is influenced by the Reconquista`. The repopulation that accompanies the capture of Moorish territory leads to the establishment of fortified Christian towns, which become economic centers for international trade. El Cid, however, depicts an archaic gift economy, in which a man’s status depends on how much wealth he can win and then distribute. Today: Spain’s inclusion in the European Union shows that it has a strong economy; however, the unemployment rate in the first quarter of 2009 rises to 17 percent. Some blame this increase on the surge in immigrants between 2004 and 2007, bringing the total number of immigrants in Spain to 5.2 million or 10 percent of the population. Eleventh century: Christian culture is in the process of a great renewal, and Church reforms begin in the monasteries of Cluny and Cıˆ teaux in France. The arrival of Bishop Jerome in El Cid demonstrates the effect of the French reforms on the Church of Spain.
9 6
E p i c s
f o r
Today: Spain has no state religion, but the Roman Catholic Church receives state support. Eighty percent of Spaniards consider themselves to be Roman Catholic, but most are not practicing. Twenty percent of Roman Catholics in Spain attend church regularly and 50 percent go to church only for weddings and funerals. Eleventh century: The feudal system of government, characterized by a personal relationship between a vassal and a lord, becomes more common in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in Spain. Spanish feudalism consists of the promise of service to a lord and is sealed by kissing the lord’s hand. In Spain, the triangular shape of feudal society is overshadowed by the role of the king as military leader; for example, the Infantes and the Cid all work for the king, although they are of unequal rank. Today: Spain is a constitutional monarchy led by the popular King Juan Carlos I, who regained the throne after the dictator Franco died in 1975. Jose´ Luis Rodrı´ guez Zapatero, head of the Socialist Workers’ Party, is elected prime minister in 2004. Eleventh century: Spain is noted for the sometimes uneasy cohabitation of Muslims, Jews, and Christians. El Cid chronicles the efforts of Christians to reclaim lands Muslims took in the eighth century. In Christian territory, Jews are isolated but are also under the protection of the king. Muslims are distrusted and isolated in ghettos in the cities. In Muslim territory, whose inhabitants have constructed a particularly brilliant culture, Jews and Christians enjoyed relative lenience. Today: In Spain, there are about two million Protestants, 50,000 Jews, and a growing Muslim community of over one million whose numbers increase with immigration from North Africa.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
In El Cid, written down in the early thirteenth century, the emergence of the state as a larger organizing force can be charted in the evolution of the portrayal of King Alfonso who, once he pardons the Cid, acts as an arbiter between warring clans. The people who made up Spanish society then included the Christians, who organized themselves in households (made up of criados), and who were classified as ricos hombres or wealthy men; infanzones, also called caballeros (the Cid is an infanzon); and knights. There were two types of peasants, the solariegos, or serfs, were tied to the land and were not free to move, and the behetrı´as, who were freemen and sometimes moved to the borderlands to become peasant knights.
Late Twelfth-century Politics and the 1207 Cid An important study of the cultural context within which El Cid was written is Marı´ a Lacarra’s 1980 investigation of history and ideology in this epic. She found the poem to be a frankly propagandistic work that functions as a denunciation of an important Leonese family whose ancestors were hostile toward the Cid. The historical background of the tension between the powerful Beni-Go´mez family and the historical Cid seems to uphold this theory. During the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, a power struggle developed between the provinces of Castile and Leon. The historical Cid was involved in one phase of these developments. The Cid was the head of the armies of King Sancho II of Castile, but upon Sancho’s death, his brother Alfonso VI became king of Castile and Leon. Alfonso cultivated relations with the obviously talented Cid, marrying his cousin Ximena to the Cid and verifying his land holdings in Vivar. Alfonso sent the Cid to collect tribute from the Moorish king of Seville in 1079. While in Seville, the Cid confronted Garcı´ a Ordo´n˜ez, who was attacking Seville in the company of the king of Granada. The tension between the Cid and Garcı´ a Ordo´n˜ez is charted in the epic and is expanded to reflect the clan feud that marked Castilian politics of the late twelfth century. When the young Alfonso VIII of Castile ascended the throne in 1158, as often happens when a child becomes king, a struggle ensued for control over his education and for control of the government. The Lara clan, staunch supporters of Alfonso VIII, were soon embroiled in a feud with the powerful Castro family, whose interests were not served by Alfonso VIII’s lifelong program to unite Castile and Leon against the Moorish threat to the south. A
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
critical moment was reached in 1195, when Alfonso VIII of Castile attacked the Moorish stronghold Toledo. Alfonso VIII suffered a monumental defeat at the hands of the Moorish Almohad caliphs. Importantly, Pedro Ferna´ndez de Castro, head of the Castro family who were related to the Infantes de Carrio´n and the Beni-Go´mez clan, fought on the Moorish side in this battle. The Lara family, who had remained loyal to Alfonso VIII of Castile, saw Pedro’s actions as traitorous to the cause of Castile and Leon. Joseph J. Duggan, a noted El Cid scholar, viewed the 1207 El Cid as a praise poem for the historical Cid that is also a shame poem for the Beni-Go´mez family, a representative of whom was considered a traitor to Alfonso VIII who was a descendant of the Cid himself. The Lara family, in addition, benefited from a praise-poem about the Cid since they were related to him through marriage. By writing a poem about the exploits of a famous fighter of Moors who, in the process of winning lands and booty, caused a rival clan to lose face, the author of the 1207 Cid might have been writing a propagandistic poem that praised an ancestor of Alfonso VIII and the Lara clan while functioning to incite renewed efforts against the Moors after a dramatic defeat during the darker days of the Christian Reconquest of Spain.
The Reconquista` Never far in the background of El Cid is the long history of the Spanish Reconquest of Muslim territory, which began in the early eighth century and was nearly completed by the middle of the thirteenth century. The last Muslim enclave, Grenada, was annexed by Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain in 1492, thus completing a long and painful reordering of the Spanish peninsula. In the early history of the Reconquest, Christian success came in direct proportion to the strength of Islamic Spain. Tension between the kings of Asturias, Castile, and Leon and the rulers of Portugal, Navarre, and Aragon-Catalonia often undermined the Christian program to gain territory, but by the late fifteenth century, only Portugal remained separate. With the Reconquest and the resettling of territory came accelerated development of the towns, with the consequences, among others, that Christian religious centers were reestablished, restored, and expanded. With the expansion of Christian territory, many Muslims and Jews came under Christian rule. For the most part, a relatively stable coexistence was maintained; Muslims and Jews were allowed freedom
V o l u m e
1
9 7
E l
C i d
This statue of Rodrigo Dı´az de Vivar (called El Cid) is located in Burgos, Spain. (Image copyright Marek Slusarczyk, 2010. Used under license from Shutterstock.com)
of religion and their own law codes as long as they paid regular fees (tribute) to the Christians.
The Church in Medieval Spain During the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the Church in Spain was in upheaval. With Muslim conquests across the Spanish countryside and Christian reclamation, people were converting to Islam at high rates or moving away altogether to avoid persecution and discrimination. The Roman Catholic leadership, including the pope, took an interest in Spain, not wishing to lose its foothold there, where the Muslims were, for a time, taking over most of the peninsula. The papacy installed bishops, such as Bishop Jerome in Valencia in El Cid, in reclaimed territories.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The critical reception of El Cid must be studied in two parts; first, the evolution of the epic itself, and how the story was retold in the Middle Ages
9 8
E p i c s
f o r
(approximately fifth through sixteenth centuries) and in later literary periods, and second, the reception of the epic by modern critics. The Cid’s heroic deeds were recorded in a Latin poem, titled the Carmen Campidoctoris around 1093, and in a shorter Latin chronicle, or historical document, the Historia Roderici around 1110. Although other fragments of the story of the Cid exist in several chronicles, including the prose Primera Cro´nica General, El Cid is the only Spanish (Castilian) epic to have survived in nearentirety. A later text, written around 1250, bridges the gap between the epic and the romance tradition of literature: The Mocedades del Cid tells of the deeds of the Cid during his youth. This text is full of fanciful and romantic anecdotes about the Cid, contrasting strongly with the heroic, venerable Cid of the epic tradition. Interestingly, the epic version of the Cid’s legend had almost no effect on later literature; it is the romance tradition that fed the fanciful ballads of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The 1618 play, Las Mocedades del Cid, by Spanish playwright Guille´n de Castro’s inspired Pierre Corneille to compose Le Cid in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
1637, which provoked an important literary discussion in France about appropriate literary subject matter. In these romantic versions of the Cid legend, the authors focus on the relationship between Don˜a Ximena and Rodrigo (the Cid), with the larger historical question of the battles between Christian and Moors relegated to the background. While the epic was never entirely forgotten— the manuscript was rediscovered in Vivar in the sixteenth century and was passed among scholars for many years—it was not until the late nineteenth century that it began to receive serious scholarly attention. The single extant manuscript is in very bad condition, due to the use of reagents, or acids, which were applied to places in the manuscript where the ink had faded (ultraviolet lamps and infrared photography is now the preferred method to decipher difficult to read documents). In the late nineteenth century, the Spanish scholar Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal turned his attention to the work, publishing a three-volume edition between 1908 and 1911. Mene´ndez Pidal’s dominant position in Cidian scholarship ensured the duration of critical topics that he thought were important. A scholar of the generation of 1898, an intellectual movement that opposed the restoration of the monarchy and favored a political return to the so-called purified origins of Spain, Mene´ndez Pidal believed that El Cid, as the ‘‘national epic of Spain,’’ reveals the origin of Spain’s national character. He also believed that El Cid should be studied as an accurate historical document. Finally, he supported the traditionalist viewpoint that the epic had been composed gradually in the oral tradition by generations of folk poets. The search for origins, with an interest in seeking the roots of European culture and which often led to fanciful reconstructions of literary texts, was an important characteristic of nineteenth-century philology. Mene´ndez Pidal’s nationalist, historicist, and traditionalist views dominated the approach of Cidian scholarship for many years. The sharpest debate about this epic involved the battle between the individualist belief in a single author of the epic versus the traditionalist approach, which, following Mene´ndez Pidal and, later, Albert Lord and others, insists that all epic literature has oral composition at its earliest stages. Although the individualist thesis has lost ground, Colin Smith’s book The Making of the ‘‘Poema de mio Cid’’ (1983) demonstrates that it is not yet dead. Other scholarly problems that have attracted attention revolve around the date of composition of the poem and of its manuscript; problems of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
authorship; origins and influences (especially French) of the themes in the epic; the relation of El Cid to other types of medieval Spanish literature, including the Romanceros and the Cro´nicas; aesthetic evaluation of the epic as literature; mythic or folkloric aspects of the Cid; and finally the application of social science methodology to the study of this epic. Mene´ndez Pidal’s nationalism, the result of his political ideology, did not affected subsequent scholarship as much as his historicism. An important debate between this scholar and another eminent medievalist, Leo Spitzer, revolved around the place of history in this epic, which contains much accurate historical detail. While Mene´ndez Pidal thought that El Cid could be read as an historical document; Spitzer disagreed, writing that the fictional events (almost the entire second half of the poem) of the epic are as important as the historical elements and must be weighed as such. In the late twentieth century, historicist treatments added an important facet to Cidian studies. Marı´ a Lacarra, in particular, characterized this epic as a propagandistic poem that rewrote history to better present a particular clan’s interest. Joseph Duggan and Michael Harney have studied larger social structures of the era, linking them to problems that are raised in the text itself. In the early twenty-first century, scholars have focused on the structural qualities of El Cid. Juan Carlos Bayo, in a 2001 essay for the Modern Language Review, abandoned the usual approach of breaking down the epic by laisse and looked at other forms of poetic discourse patterning in the epic. Jack J. Himelblau, a professor of Spanish literature, examined the structural composition of El Cid in his 2010 book Morphology of the Cantar de Mio Cid. He argued that this epic is comprised of nineteen smaller stories that build upon one another in systemic fashion similar to folktales, firmly linking El Cid to the folklore tradition. Cidian criticism seemed to have nearly surpassed the individualist/traditionalist battle and, in the early 2000s appeared to be headed in a direction that might shed light on the cultural function of literature.
CRITICISM Jennifer Looper In the following essay, Looper analyzes the propaganda function in epic literature, explaining how El Cid was used to promote the political and economic aims of medieval institutions long after the death of the historical Cid.
V o l u m e
1
9 9
E l
C i d
As an epic, compared with other examples from the genre, El Cid stands out not so much in its form as in its content as a literary reflection of history. A text that probably underwent many transformations as oral literature before it was written down by a talented poet, El Cid shares the epic epithets, stock themes, and formulas typical of other early epics. As the tale of a heroic individual whose existence is well documented, El Cid offers a unique example in the epic genre of the relationship between literature and history. The link between the Cid as a man, the legend that quickly evolved about his deeds even during his lifetime, and the use of this story as a political tool in the turbulent twelfth century in Spain, during which time the descendants of the Cid won the throne of Castile, lends itself to a fascinating reconsideration of the way literature is used to change history. Since the El Cid does recount the tale of a famous historical figure who is also well-documented, one of the most important questions to ask about the epic surrounds the cultural and historical impetus behind its composition. Why, in 1207, was the epic first written down? Why was it again recopied one hundred years later? With regards to the events that are recounted in the epic itself, one can ask why certain fictional elements were added to the historical narrative, as well as why certain historical elements were retained though others were omitted. Two interesting phenomena illustrate the way this epic was used to promote the political and economic interests of certain medieval institutions many years after the Cid died. One example of the way that the poem was used to promote the political interests of King Alfonso VIII of Castile and his allies in the late thirteenth century demonstrates the propagandistic element of epic literature. A second example of the exploitation of the epic illustrates its commercial use: the development of a tomb-cult, a sort of tourist site at the Abbey of Carden˜a, where the Cid was buried. The hypothesis that El Cid was written as a praise-poem for the ancestor of the king of Castile (Alfonso VIII) and the king’s allies, the Lara family, who were related to the Cid by marriage, is best summarized by Joseph Duggan, who follows Marı´ a Lacarra in much of his argument. Duggan explains that the question of family integrity and illegitimacy, which dominates the narrative even over the conquest of Valencia—a monumental historical event—is related to the twelfth-century political struggle between Castile and Leon. It is important to remember that the historical Ximena, the Cid’s wife, was of royal blood, a cousin to Alfonso VI of
1 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
EL CID SHOWS HOW LITERATURE ABOUT A HISTORICAL FIGURE CAN REFLECT AND EVEN INFLUENCE LOCAL POLITICS AND, LATER, GENERATE REVENUE FOR A MEDIEVAL TOURIST SITE’’
Castile. In the epic, however, no mention is made of this connection, and the poet concentrates on the insults that are hurled at the Cid by the Infantes de Carrio´n, who maintain that the Cid is a member of the lower class: ‘‘Who ever heard of the Cid, that fellow from Vivar? Let him be off to the river Ubierna to dress his millstones and collect his miller’s tolls as usual. Who gave him the right to marry into the Carrio´n family?’’ (ll. 3377–81). The Infantes insist that the Cid’s daughters are not wives, but concubines, suggesting that they are illegitimate, or are born of an illegitimate parent. Duggan shows that the poet’s insistence on ‘‘clearing the Cid’s name’’ relates to a crisis that centered on the marriages of Alfonso IX of Leon and Alfonso VIII of Castile. A common practice in the Middle Ages was to marry a member of an opposing family to restore peace between two warring clans; the historical Ximena was married to the Cid in a peacemaking gesture on the part of Alfonso VI. At the height of the tension between Alfonso IX and Alfonso VIII, after the disastrous battle of Toledo in 1195, the pope stepped in to try to restore peace between the Christian kings so as to better combat the Muslim presence. He excommunicated Alfonso IX of Leon and his counselor Pedro Ferna´ndez de Castro (the man considered a traitor by the Lara clan). Excommunication was a terrible punishment in this period; the victim was essentially ejected from the Christian community. Faced with this threat, in 1199, Alfonso IX agreed to marry Alfonso VIII’s daughter, Berenguela, to make peace. Although it brought peace, this match was problematic in that Alfonso IX and Berenguela were first cousins, and thus the marriage was considered incestuous. Innocent III, the new pope who entered the scene at that moment, was particularly stubborn on the matter of incestuous marriages and insisted that it be annulled, imposing the interdict on Leon and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
C i d
WHAT DO I READ NEXT? The Song of Roland, an anonymous epic roughly contemporaneous with El Cid, takes place on the frontier between France and Spain and has an atmosphere of impending doom which contrasts strongly with the exuberant conquests of El Cid. The twelfth-century Pilgrim’s Guide to Santiago de Compostela offers a different view of medieval Spain, that of the pilgrim who traveled to Compostela on the northwest coast of Spain to visit the famous shrine of Saint James. Italica Press published an English translation in 2008.
chivalric romance—the descendant of the feudal epic—as a literary genre.
Ibn Hazm, a theologian from Cordoba (994– 1064), wrote The Ring of the Dove: The Art and Practice of Arab Love, which describes the brilliant Arab culture that developed in Spain before the Reconquest. Luzac Oriental published a translation of this work in 1997.
Miguel de Cervantes’s famous novel, Don Quixote (1605–1615), tells the story of a very different kind of knight than the Cid. This novel illustrates the death throes of the
Castile, another terrible punishment in which no sacred services could be performed. Alfonso IX and Berenguela refused to separate, and Berenguela eventually bore five children. These children were judged illegitimate by the pope, but Alfonso IX ignored this judgment, naming his son, Fernando, heir to the Leonese throne. After a period of intense crisis, Fernando, the son of a daughter of Castile and the king of Leon, finally was given legitimacy by the pope in 1218, and the tension between Castile and Leon was finally ended, as it had been planned by Alfonso VIII, when Fernando became Fernando III, king of Castile and Leon. A crisis that threatened regional stability when popes and kings clashed is reflected and resolved in a work of fiction, in which the Cid is represented as illegitimate but manages to earn, through his intrinsic worth,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Homeless Bird (2000), by Gloria Whelan, is the story of a thirteen-year-old Hindu girl named Koly who is married and then widowed and abandoned by her in-laws. Whelan’s book explores the experience of women who have no family or financial protection, a kind of vulnerability not unlike that of the Cid’s wife and daughters, who rely on their connection to the Cid for their place in society.
SusanCooper’sfive-book series Dark IsRising, the popular Arthurian fantasy, appeared as a box set published by McElderry in 2007. In the first novel, three siblings find a map while vacationing in Cornwall and must uncover the mystery surrounding the map before it is stolen from them. The historical Arthur was a sixthcentury military leader and became a legendary hero in twelfth century England, much as the Cid did in Spain.
the approbation of his peers and, more importantly, the approval of God. It is important to note that the Cid’s champions, in the final three duels, fight for the Cid and his family’s honor and win, not because of their skill in fighting, but because God wills it. The clash of church and state, illustrated by the series of interdictions imposed on Spanish regions by various popes in the late twelfth century to force them to change their dynastic politics, is resolved in the epic when God remains consistently on the Cid’s side throughout his struggle with the Moors and with those who would insult his family. A political and moral message is thus sent by this text, which works to uphold the prestige of a ruler who is tainted by the hint of illegitimacy. The link between the Church and the Cid’s descendants becomes clear when one takes into
V o l u m e
1
1 0 1
E l
C i d
account the importance of churches and monasteries for royal families in the Middle Ages. In exchange for political and spiritual support in the form of sermons preached and masses said for the benefit of a powerful family, these families often donated great sums of money for the maintenance of the resident monks. Two institutions figure importantly in the history of this epic; the first is San Pedro de Carden˜a, and the second is, according to Duggan, Santa Marı´ a de Huerta. The former was powerful during the reign of Alfonso VI (the king who interacted with the Cid), and the latter was a newer institution, established by Alfonso VIII, who himself placed the cornerstone of the building in the ground. Huerta was also patronized, or given financial support, by the Lara family, allies of Alfonso VIII. Alfonso visited Huerta several times, and Duggan suggests that one of these occasions may have been commemorated by the composition of the 1207 manuscript of El Cid. The mysterious ‘‘Per Abbat’’ who ‘‘wrote down’’ the text may refer to the Abbot Pedro I, who was Abbot at Huerta around 1203 through 1210. He might have presented the manuscript to Alfonso VIII on one of his visits in 1207. Although the thirteenth-century copy of the text, which was later lost, may have been composed at the Abbey of Huerta, the fourteenth-century copy of this manuscript was discovered in the sixteenth century in the archives of the city hall of Vivar, the Cid’s home town. Later it was borrowed by an eighteenth-century scholar and subsequently was passed around Spain for two hundred years. The history of Carden˜a differs from that of Huerta in that it was a Benedictine institution, rather than a monastery such as Huerta, built on a newer, reformed model. It consequently enjoyed less royal favor than Huerta in this period, since Alfonso VIII favored the reformed model. Even a slight lessening of royal favor had serious financial ramifications for any religious institution, and the monks of Carden˜a took action. P. E. Russell states, in a 1958 article for Medium Aevum: ‘‘Carden˜a enjoyed the favor of Alfonso VIII (1158–1214), though, in common with the other Benedictine foundations, it was now no longer closely connected with the life of the court. The monks began to elaborate, with small regard for historical probability, legends designed to keep alive memories of the part they had once played in the early days of the Castilian nation.’’ One method that these monks used to maintain the prestige of their abbey was the production of manuscripts, which served as valuable tools in the
1 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
process of generating support for an element that the abbey wanted to promote. In the case of Carden˜a, it was well-known that the Cid had been buried there after his wife Ximena brought his embalmed remains to the abbey in 1102. The monks of Carden˜a worked to aggrandize the abbey’s link with the Cid: Stories circulated that not only the Cid was buried there, but also his wife Ximena and his famous horse, Babieca. The Cid’s body, like that of a saint, was reported to be ‘‘incorrupted,’’ or in perfectly preserved condition. In El Cid itself, many unlikely details were either added or retained from the earlier version to emphasize Carden˜a’s helpful role in the Cid’s campaigns. Ximena and her daughters, for example, were housed at the abbey in defiance of the king’s orders, according to the text. The Cid is depicted as donating vast sums of money to the abbey in his lifetime. Even the general region in which the abbey was situated is glorified by the invention of Martı´ n Antolı´ nez, the ‘‘worthy citizen of Burgos,’’ who likewise defies the king and joins the Cid in exile. These stories can be seen as a carefully orchestrated advertising campaign that resulted in attracting tourists who brought much-needed revenue to a religious institution that enjoyed less royal favor than their newer counterparts. A tomb-cult quickly developed at Carden˜a: People flocked there to view the tomb of the Cid, elevating his legend to the status of a saint by retelling the tales of his heroic deeds. This phenomenon is not an isolated one: Russell notes that ‘‘The gradual turning of a lay [e.g., not religious] figure into a hagiographical [e.g., saintly] one as a result of a tomb-cult was clearly a general phenomenon.’’ The steady stream of pilgrims to visit the tomb of a popular hero or a saint generated considerable wealth for the church or monastery that housed the relics, or remains, of a popular hero. These pilgrims also ensured the survival and elaboration of these heroic legends, in that they learned the story of the hero during their pilgrimage and returned home to retell it. Perhaps the manuscript was produced as yet another piece of written—and thus more plausible—proof that the relics were indeed worthy of popular veneration. El Cid shows how literature about a historical figure can reflect and even influence local politics and, later, generate revenue for a medieval tourist site. Heroic stories continue to be used to draw parallels between the present and the past. The 1961 Hollywood movie, El Cid, could be interpreted as a reflection of the American public’s veneration
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
C i d
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE COLONIZATION DEPICTED IN EL POEMA DE MIO CID AND MODERN IMPERIAL COLONIZATION IS COMPOUNDED WHEN THE UNIQUE NATURE OF THE MEDIEVAL ‘SPAIN’ THAT THE POEM REPRESENTS IS TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT.’’
Detail from the title page of the 1546 edition
of their own heroic leader, John F. Kennedy, who, with his heroic wife, shed glory on an empire of their own. Thus, an epic can be generated for the most self-serving of reasons. Source: Jennifer Looper, Critical Essay on El Cid, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Malachi McIntosh In the following essay, McIntosh discusses postcolonial theory as it has been applied to El Cid. In the past two decades postcolonial theory has seen a rise in scope and diffusion. Due at least in part to the incisiveness of the ‘Holy Trinity’ of theoreticians: Edward Said, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and Homi K. Bhabha, postcolonial study has grown from a small subcategory of literary analysis to an influential academic presence. The bulk of postcolonial scholarship is concerned with the deconstruction of imperial discourse and the reconceptualization of the relationship between colonial and neocolonial ‘centres’ and their ‘margins’. While the majority of critical considerations focus on colonialism in the modern period, the lack of a definitive starting point for colonial oppression, as well as an often explicit questioning
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
of ‘neat chronologies’, results in a degree of flexibility in historical focus (Moore-Gilbert et al. 1997: 2). Although the seminal ideas of Said, Bhabha and Spivak grew from critical analyses of specific temporally and situationally bound discursive acts, their theories on oppositional binaries, on the construction and maintenance of the idea of ‘race’, and on the role of literature in control, seem to be at least partially practicable in the study of any time in history. Of the work of these theorists, Edward Said’s Orientalism stands out as the widest-ranging study of imperial discourse with the greatest potential for historical application outside its field of focus. Often considered to be the inaugural work of postcolonial criticism, Said’s book, first published in 1978, illuminates the role of writers, scholars and texts in the subjection of the East by the West. Though Said limits his study to a tradition of nineteenth-century writing on the Orient, he claims that ‘every writer on the Orient (and this is true even of Homer) assumes some Oriental precedent’ and that ‘colonial rule was justified in advance by Orientalism [ . . . ] the absolute demarcation between the East and West [ . . . ] had been years, even centuries in the making’ (Said 2003: 20; 39). According to Jan Gilbert, these statements illustrate the fact that Orientalist discourse ‘is not confined to nineteenth-century colonial conquest and domination’, and can therefore be illuminated in pre-Modern texts (Gilbert 2003: 49). Utilizing Said’s theory, Gilbert reads medieval Spanish ballads in an effort to alter perceptions of the works and of the time of which they are products, by exposing their Orientalizing nature. Gilbert’s concern with reimagining the Middle Ages in the light of a new conception of modernity
V o l u m e
1
1 0 3
E l
C i d
is not new. This act, described by John Dagenais as ‘colonising the past’, has occurred throughout European history; empires have repeatedly shifted their focus back to this period in order to generate images of their birth that serve their interests (Dagenais 2000:431–3). In a similar way, though with obverse goals, some contemporary historians and critics have studied the Middle Ages with the intention of exposing them as the birthplace of their concepts of empire—recasting, resetting and remodelling them as a time that did not merely lay the foundations for simple global dominance, but for global dominance predicated on abuse and exploitation. Though critical studies that attempt to find the origins of imperial practices in the Middle Ages can be seen as attempts at historical ‘decolonization’ or reclamation, these efforts often utilize the same techniques as the initial acts of historical ‘colonization’. In order to craft teleological histories of oppression, this kind of structural approach to persecution ‘traces the pedigree of stereotypes in order to establish the existence of a ‘‘discourse’’ about the ‘‘other’’ and fix its origins. It treats intolerance entirely as a problem of the migratory history of ideas, ignoring social, economic, political, or cultural variables’ (Nirenburg 1996: 4). Like imperial manipulations of the past, in these studies events are reformulated and particularities overlooked in favour of constructing smooth chronologies. Any application of postcolonial discourse theory on the ‘other’ generated from a reading of nineteenth-century texts to Middle Age texts is bound to elide the unique composition of a historical moment, ignoring the social, economic, political and cultural specificities of an era or locale in order to craft a teleology of persecution that glosses over context and complications in favour of coherence. The articles ‘The docile image: the Moor as a figure of force, subservience, and nobility in the Poema de mio Cid’ (1984) and ‘The Moor in the text: metaphor emblem and silence’ (1985) by Israel Burshatin are examples of this type of historicism. Both articles deal with the representation of Moors in El poema de mio Cid, and though Burshatin’s arguments in each are quite compelling, they are reductive, and fail to account for the unique portrayals of Moors in the text in an attemptto position it as an ideological precursor to later xenophobic Spanish discourse and eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury Orientalist thought. Burshatin fails to appreciate the range of representations of Moors
1 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
in favour of advocating a binary representation that is particularly damaging in its assessment of the role of the Moor Abengalbon. Burshatin claims that El poema de mio Cid presents a dichotomous representation of Moors as either dehumanized spoils of war or Orientalized projections of the Cid’s hegemony. Even the most cursory reading of the poem reveals the material preoccupation of its characters: the rise of the Cid and his men through an accumulation of wealth and renown is the prime focus of the text. In the wake of every victory the Cid and his vassal Minaya count and distribute the wealth obtained from their defeated foes; the poem’s descriptions of the spoils of war often exceed the descriptions of the battles through which they have been gained. It is from this seeming fixation on material goods won from dispatched, often Muslim, adversaries that Burshatin constructs the first pillar of his argument. He avers that the act of counting the booty won as a result of every Moorish defeat serves to negate the Moor as a fighter and challenger, separating him from his property and portraying him as an object, like his tents and other possessions, under total Christian dominance (Burshatin 1984: 274). The Moor is removed and dissociated from his possessions with such regularity that he eventually becomes a metonym for wealth (Burshatin 1985: 101). To Burshatin, the individual Muslim challenger’s threat and subjectivity are wholly negated, and his primary function in the poem is that of a stand-in for gold, or a representative of potential profit. Burshatin illustrates this point by showcasing the Cid’s translation of a horde of invading Moors into a metaphor for Moorish service and gain in ll. 1644–50 of the poem (1985: 100). According to Burshatin, this reworking of the teichoskopia topos (1) ‘turns an image of Moorish force into a projection of [the Cid’s] own overwhelming presence. Moorish weapons, tents, horses exist in the poem only to be detached from armies whose defeat is episodic and invariable’ (101). Burshatin claims that, in addition to being metonyms for booty, Moors in the poem are fancifully portrayed as reassuring and Orientalized projections of the Cid’s sway over reconquered lands (100). To expand on this point, Burshatin directs attention to the Cid’s capture and abandonment of the city of Alcocer. Shortly after subduing the city’s defenders and establishing himself within its walls, the Cid decides not to enslave the Moorish inhabitants because ‘los moros e las moras vender non los podremos, que
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
los descabecemos nada non ganaremos’ (ll. 619–20) [‘we shall be unable to sell the Moors, we would gain nothing by beheading them’]. (2) Then when he needs to defend the city against an attack, the Cid expels the Moors from its walls because they cannot be trusted (ll. 679–80). Finally, in spite of all of this ill-treatment, the Moors of Alcocer weep when the Cid abandons them to continue his campaign (ll. 851–6). Burshatin claims that these Moors are transformed, no longer seen as potential traitors or items to be disposed of at the Cid’s whim; the Moors become sentimental loving followers who weep at the departure of their conqueror, subordinates to the hero who reflects his control over them (1984: 272). Burshatin argues that the Cid’s Moorish vassal, Abengalbon, is analogous to the people of Alcocer, merely a sentimental character who reinforces the Cid’s power and influence. Like the inhabitants of Alcocer, Abengalbon comes from a city that has fallen under the Cid’s sway. Though a conflict is never explicitly detailed in the text, Burshatin locates in l. 867 the moment when Molina, Abengalbon’s home, has a tribute imposed upon it. He claims that Abengalbon is an example of the same alchemical process that produced the sobbing Moors of Alcocer, that is, that he was originally a metonymic enemy who, after a conflict, becomes nothing more than a sentimental representation of the Cid’s power over Moorish territory (1985: 275). Burshatin asserts the poem shows that Abengalbon, though he is ostensibly honourable, is not a true noble like his lord. The trappings of his nobility are evident as only trappings in his declaration to the Infantes de Carrion that:
C i d
Burshatin’s analysis of the role of Moors in El poema de mio Cid is an application of Edward Said’s Orientalism to a medieval text. Both articles draw liberally on Said’s concept of the Orientalist’s vision. Explained by Said as a means of organizing the panorama of the Orient into a set of reductive categories, this vision, or view ‘from above’ is assumed to be a better portrayal of the Orient than that which the Orient itself can provide (Said 2003: 239). Because of the supposed authority of the Orientalist’s viewpoint, ‘any vision of the Orient comes to rely for its coherence and force on the person, institution, or discourse whose property it is’ (239). Burshatin’s critique of the teichoskopia in the poem figures the Cid as an Orientalist reducing and conscribing the ‘Orient’, represented by the invading Moors, through a discursive act. Further, Burshatin clearly sees the relationship of the Cid with the Moors as a microcosm of the relationship between the Occident and Orient, described by Said as a ‘relationship of power, of domination, of varying degrees of complex hegemony’ (5). These ideas are implicit in Burshatin’s concept of two portrayals, as either Oriental ‘others’ or as potential booty, of Moors in the poem. In his analysis Burshatin attempts to position El poema de mio Cid as an antecedent to later European Orientalist discourse, stating in ‘The Moor in the text’ that the metonymic reduction of the Moor in the teichoskopia is a key moment in shaping Spanish Orientalist tradition (Burshatin 1985: 102).
If I did not restrain myself because of My Cid of Vivar, such a thing I would do to you that news of it would echo throughout the world, then I would take back to the loyal Battler his daughters. You would never enter Carrion again! ll. 2677 80
Regardless of Burshatin’s attempts to prove otherwise, Said’s theories in Orientalism are not applicable to medieval texts. Despite Said’s claim that Orientalist concepts of East and West ‘had been years, even centuries in the making’, in his introduction to Orientalism he brackets off the purveyors of Orientalist discourse, claiming that Orientalist practice is mainly the domain of England and France, a tradition that roughly begins in the eighteenth century and continues on to the present day, a product of ‘European-Atlantic power over the Orient’ (Said 2003: 1–3; 6).
Abengalbon is restrained by his fealty, his true desires manipulated by his relationship with the Cid. Because of this he is always ‘Moorish’, just another metonymic item to be detailed in Minaya’s booty lists, a conceit whose possibilities are defined and circumscribed by the Cid (Burshatin 1984: 276–7).
It is questionable how Said can cordon off his analysis to a small section of Europe at a particular moment in time yet still make the connections to antiquity noted by Gilbert. Though Said’s temporal situation of Orientalist discourse has often been criticized (Moore-Gilbert et al. 1997: 25), in this case the seeming contradiction of referring to
...
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
1 0 5
E l
C i d
ancient Greece in his explicitly limited study is easily overcome. As noted by Denys Hay, Greeks distinguished between Asians and themselves, associating ideas of splendour and vulgarity with the East, but, as Hay goes on to mention, the Greeks also distinguished themselves as separate from, and superior to, western Europeans (Hay 1957: 3; 5). Orientalist discourse is predicated on the notion of European superiority, a notion that cannot exist without a concept of Europe as a cohesive unit. Perhaps ideas of the East as a culturally foreign land date back to Homer, but the formal practices that Said dubs ‘Orientalism’ do not. In addition, the medieval style of colonization represented in the poem is not wholly equatable with modern colonialism. Although European expansion during the Middle Ages was similar to modern expansion, it possessed its own structural features. According to Robert Bartlett, medieval colonizers were not engaged in the creation of a pattern of regional subordination. What they were doing was reproducing units similar to the ones in their homelands. The towns, churches and estates that they established simply replicated the social framework they knew from back home. The net result of this colonialism was not the creation of ‘colonies’ [ . . . ] the formu lation ‘core periphery’ is not entirely fortunate [ . . . ] as a tool to describe the expansionism of the High Middle Ages. (Bartlett 1994: 306)
As noted by Benedict Anderson, colonial racism and oppression was supported by an idea of the superiority of the metropolitan centres to their overseas possessions (Anderson 1991: 150). Clearly these ideas of superiority are incommensurable with a colonial system that was not engaged in ‘regional subordination’. Because of this, Said’s theory, or any theory built on a conception of how the European ‘centre’ regarded its ‘margins’, cannot capture the unique nature of medieval colonialism or discourse. The difference between the colonization depicted in El poema de mio Cid and modern imperial colonization is compounded when the unique nature of the medieval ‘Spain’ that the poem represents is taken into account. Because of the constant cultural contact and exchange between Muslims and Christians in thirteenth- to fifteenth-century Iberia, the discourse of the era is of a different nature from that of early-modern colonialists in the East. The poem predates concepts of race buttressed by science and law; at this time
1 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
‘Christian’ and ‘Muslim’ were considered permeable religious affiliations, not strictly divided races believed to possess distinct characteristics. This is evidenced in Alfonso X’s law code, Las Siete Partidas, which details the ways in which a Muslim can become a Christian and vice versa, and calls for distinguishing dress to identify different groups (Alfonso X 1992: 418; 421; 423). The period was characterized by cultural syncretism that is evident in artefacts such as bilingual tombstones, legal documents and other printed texts, architecture, games, song structures and artwork that showcase a deep level of interaction (Miller 2000: 418). Even as Christians advanced in ‘reconquest’, their newly conquered territories often had no clear geographical boundaries separating them from Muslim land. Borders were often accidentally crossed by both groups with no sanctions levelled against trespassers (MacKay 1977: 199), and as Christians and Muslims became increasingly separated, political alliances often overrode supposed dividing lines (Menocal 2000: 5). This is not to say that Spain was a site of an idyllic convivencia of peaceful interaction and mutual respect. Eruptions of violence along the frontier and within cities characterized the years of Muslim presence in Spain (MacKay 1995: 228). In addition, ideas that would be important in later colonial ages can be detected in the cultural products of the time. In the same law code mentioned above, notions of the corruption caused by intermarriage between groups indicate that one of the primary concepts of racism, that of purity of blood, was in a prenatal stage (Alfonso X 1992: 420). Despite the fact that these emerging ideas were present to a degree, to view all interactions in the light of them, and thereby read the texts of such a singular time and place in history as perpetuating a binary discourse is to overestimate their influence. Although El poema de mio Cid can be manipulated to uphold an Orientalist reading, it is a reading that ignores the temporality of the work and attempts to override the social, economic, political and cultural singularity of the time it represents in order to fit a modern matrix. Unlike the idea advocated by Burshatin, there is no Manichaean, either/ or portrayal of Moors in the text. There are a variety of types. Muslims are portrayed as the fearful, yet cunning inhabitants of Ateca, Terrer and Calatayud who persuade Tamin, the king of Valencia, to come to their aid and attack the Cid by manipulating his desire to maintain his empire (ll. 624–32). Tamin, far from an Orientalized
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
projection of the Cid’s power, plots to capture the hero in an attempt to have full vengeance for the Cid’s challenge to his authority, and is never brought over to the Cid’s side or subjected to his dominance. Muslims are not a cohesive group: they have alliances, and their rulers have different lands under their control, evidenced by the flight of King Fariz and King Galve after their failed attempt to recapture Alcocer. King Fariz is able to shelter in Terrer but Galve is denied entrance (l. 774), highlighting the fact that Muslims are not one amorphous undifferentiated mass in the poem but distinct groups, with separate rulers who have different areas under their control. There are even Moors who fight alongside the Count of Barcelona and his Christian knights (l. 968). The Moors themselves allude to differences amongst them, the inhabitants of Alcocer falling prey to the Cid’s trap because of the fear that the men of Terrer will get to his supposedly abandoned camp before they do (l. 585). African Moors are distinguished by their position ‘de alent partes del mar’ (l. 1620) [‘beyond the sea’], and use of drums in battle (ll. 1660; 2345), a martial strategy that is unfamiliar to and unused by Iberian Moors (l. 2346). Just like the Cid’s own group, the Moors in the poem are a diverse cast of characters; although there are many instances in the text where they are referred to simply as ‘moros’ or ‘moras’, it is in the portrayal of the named individuals that the diversity and plurality of the group is most evident. There is no single response to defeat that characterizes all Moors in the poem or exemplifies their symbolic relationship with the Cid. This lack of one overarching understanding of the ‘other’ further highlights the role of Moors in early medieval Spain. Moors fought both against and alongside Christians. Even under Christian rule they were more than colonial subjects of exploitation; they worked with Christians as artisans, philosophers, converts and royal guards. Unlike later French, British and even Spanish colonies, in medieval Spain no group saw itself as clearly superior in culture, intellect and physiology to its co-inhabitants. Burshatin’s study does help to illuminate some of the ways in which the Cid’s hegemony is portrayed in the poem. His analysis of the metonymic reduction of invading Moors to potential wealth does illustrate the poem’s equation of conflict to gain, but in an effort to apply the concept of Orientalism Burshatin limits his survey and focuses only on the Moors, ignoring the fact that all characters in the poem are equated to potential gain for
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
the Cid. From the Cid’s deception of the Jewish moneylenders Raquel and Vidas to his betrothal of his daughters to the princes of Navarre and Aragon, the hero uses everyone he comes into contact with as a means of increasing his wealth or prestige. Moors in the poem are no more commodified than any other characters. Further, this equation of individuals with gain is not solely the Cid’s practice. All of the characters in the poem are engaged in a complex network, every association possessing potential material benefit. Burshatin notices this interdependence but fails to appreciate it, seeing the poem’s economy as feeding only on ‘beaten Moors’ (Burshatin 1995: 103), when in actuality these monetary connections extend in all directions, the feudal society represented in the poem relying on a ‘constant circulation of goods’ (Harney 1993: 86). Alfonso accepts the Cid back into his fold primarily because of the Cid’s tireless dispatch of tribute to him (ll. 1856–17). The Cid sells Castejon to Moors (l. 520). The men who join up with the Cid seek him out because they expect to become wealthy (l. 1197). The Cid gives gifts to the people of Alcocer (l. 802). The Infantes plot against Abengalbon to take his riches (l. 2663). The examples are plentiful, but the most important point is that monetary flow is not upwards from opposing, downtrodden Moors to Christians, but through a complex network. Taking all of the above into account, Burshatin’s understanding of the role of the Moor Abengalbon appears to be an inaccurate formulation. To say that the character is an Orientalized celebration of the Cid’s hegemony is to force a text that shows a plurality of types to become a text that advocates a binary. As shown by Michael Harney, the poem portrays a fictive kin-group with links ‘analogous to real kin ties’. Abengalbon, like Minaya and even the Cid, is a part of this kin group, a vassal, an amigo de paz, a member of a cohesive unit that thrives on ‘reciprocal generosity’ (Harney 1993: 67–9; 72). Rather than mark Abengalbon as subordinate and irrevocably different, the poem shows many similarities between the character and other members of his kin-group. As noted by Colin Smith, the Cid’s success is due to his capacity for loyalty, justice and charity, all qualities that Abengalbon and the other vassals also exhibit. Smith claims that the poem ‘emphasises the Cid’s mesura, which is in part prudence, good sense, tact and considerateness in dealing with others as well as a gravitas in bearing and speech’ (Smith 1972: lxvii; lxix).
V o l u m e
1
1 0 7
E l
C i d
Rather than showcasing the ill-fit of his noble trappings, ll. 2677–80 display Abengalbon’s ties to the other members of the Cid’s group through his exhibition of mesura. Despite his natural impulse, his nobility causes him to restrain his anger in order not to upset the Cid’s affairs. Burshatin’s criticism of this act which, as he notes, is not punished or criticized in the text, seems to stem from a reconsideration of the action in the light of its consequences. He claims that an attack by Abengalbon would have been the ‘authentically heroic course of action’ (Burshatin 1984: 277), but of course such an action would have distanced him from the Cid, and served as evidence of some unrestrainable Moorish predilection for violence, supporting a binary. The episode also can be paralleled with the Cid’s own restraint of his natural impulse in order to comply with his lord when he assents to Alfonso’s desire to marry his daughters to the Infantes (l. 1940). Abengalbon is not a Moor with his spirit broken, but another loyal vassal like Minaya and others. When given a task by his lord his words of acquiescence even mirror Minaya’s (ll. 1487; 1447), demonstrating their equivalent bearing and roles in the Cid’s group. Though the customs of Abengalbon mark him as a Moor (l. 1519), this distinction does little to reduce his valour in the poet’s eyes or the Cid’s. Abengalbon, like the Cid, is a paragon of restraint and noble bearing whose prime function in the story is to contrast with the impulsive and quickly angered Infantes de Carrion. Abengalbon says of the Cid:
... such is his prestige even if we did not love him we could not harm him, in peace or in war he will have what is ours. (ll. 1523 6)
Rather than reflecting the nascent hegemony of the Cid over all Moors and their subordinate role as his property, this statement forecasts the Cid’s nascent hegemony over everyone. The words of l. 1526 are applicable to all who attempt to hinder not only his ascension but that of his entire kingroup; from Alfonso, to the Count of Barcelona, to the lion that escapes into his castle as he sleeps. The primary opposition in the poem is not docile Moors versus virile Christians, but the Cid’s group versus any that oppose them (Harney 1993: 169). The Moorish identity is present, but ultimately the only meaningful distinction
1 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
between the characters is whether or not they accept the inevitability of the Cid’s rise. As noted by Thomas F. Glick, Muslims were never assimilated, but merely integrated into medieval Christian Spanish society (Glick 1992: 4). Because of this their distinction as separate, distinct, even ‘other’, will always be evident in the texts of this age to some extent. Nevertheless, any attempt to import postcolonial discourse theory to understand these representations of alterity inevitably glosses over the major differences between medieval and modern colonization, as well as the unique social, economic, political and cultural composition of medieval Iberia. Though Burshatin’s articles are almost twenty years old, the colonization of medieval Spain by postcolonial theory has continued. Though they are far from rampant, critical considerations of this time period that utilize imperial discourse theories, such as David Hanlon’s application of Homi Bhabha’s theory of race to a reading of medieval Spanish texts (Hanlon 2000), and Jan Gilbert’s use of Orientalism in a study of Spanish frontier ballads (Gilbert 2003), still occur. (3) According to Catherine Belsey ‘we misread fiction if we misread the practices of the period’ in which it was composed (Belsey 2000: 108). Studies of medieval texts, or in fact any texts, that import theories constructed from close readings of the products of particular temporal and physical localities are bound to ‘misread the practices’ of a period, in favour of creating linkages between the period of which the theory is the product and the one to which it is applied. It is often tempting to see antecedents of current trends in the past; but synchronic, rather than diachronic readings, that analyse texts in historical and social context, rather than as members of long discursive traditions, are more useful in illuminating the roles of texts in, and their relation to, the societies they represent. It is necessary to attempt to ground theory in accounts of the practical consciousness of the time, rather than import the consciousness of the present in order to facilitate the construction of smooth teleologies (Giddens 1987: 173). In his introduction to the 2003 edition of Orientalism, Said claims it is the intellectual’s responsibility to ‘complicate and/or dismantle the reductive formulae and the abstract but potent kind of thought that leads the mind away from concrete human history’ by providing ‘alternative models to the reductively simplifying and confining ones, based on mutual hostility’ (Said 2003:
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
xvii, xviii). Said dedicated his life and his work to challenging reductive discourse. Rather than viewing his theory, and those of other postcolonial theorists, as a means to showcase the existence of a subjugating European empire that stretches through time, this work is better used as an example of the ways in which simplifying discourse can be illuminated and challenged. Though critiques of racism and exploitation are necessary in liberating peoples and nations, if their end result is simply a rearticulation of ‘us against them’ reversing the centre and margins and reinforcing the distinct nature of empires and natives, they achieve nothing, and are ultimately without value. Source: Malachi McIntosh, ‘‘The Moor in the Text: Modern Colonialism in Medieval Christian Spain,’’ in Journal of Romance Studies, Vol. 6, No. 3, Winter 2006, pp. 61 70.
Joseph J. Duggan In the following excerpt, Duggan describes the action in this epic and discusses differences between it and other romance epics. He concludes that heroes such as the Cid, though they possess less than ideal lineage, attain nobility and legitimacy through their deeds. The Chanson de Roland and the Cantar de mio Cid are often compared, but usually for the wrong reasons. The Spanish poem has a documentary quality about it, and the single poetic version which has survived the Middle Ages, in a manuscript identified as the product of one Per Abbat, a scribe, was composed within a hundred and eight years of the hero’s death. The Cid is thus much closer in narrative type to, say, Garin le Loherain or to the Canso d’Antiocha than it is to the Roland, which in its earliest extant form is at least three hundred years removed from the historical events it reflects and which is marked by notable geographical and temporal distortions. What justifies considering these two poems together is that they both incorporate myths looking back to a foundation, the Cid for the Spanish kingdom born of the union of Leon and Castile, and the Roland for the Carolingian Empire. The relationship between literature and history underlies notions of the epic to a greater extent than it does conceptions of other genres. During the last hundred and fifty years certain models of that relationship have been dominant. For the Romantic critics, the people spoke by and large as if with one voice, and the role of individual poet-craftsmen who gave form to that voice was
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
EVEN THE MOST CURSORY RECITAL OF THE POEM’S THEMES CONFIRMS THAT ECONOMIC INTERESTS DOMINATE.’’
usually passed over. More than any other type of poetry, the epic embodied the people’s sentiments, preserving the memory of heroes to whose model it had looked in the past for leadership in life and an exemplary way to die. Because of constant rivalry between modern France and Germany, two powers which were at least theoretically united in Charlemagne’s empire, the question of whether the French populace was more closely linked to a Germanic or to a Roman ancestry preoccupied scholars who were concerned with the origins of the French epic. Even those who were cognizant of the Franco-Prussian War’s distorting effects on French intellectual life may register surprise at the formulation found in the second edition of Le´on Gautier’s Les Epope´es franc¸aises: the French epic is surely of Germanic origin, Gautier tells us, because its leading female characters are utterly without shame and their actions must thus be based on Germanic models of womanhood. The myth of origins itself—and here I use ‘‘myth’’ in the pejorative and popular sense of a belief which is not backed up by verifiable facts—is a historical concept conditioned by political and intellectual categories which are now outmoded. It is no secret that questions formerly asked about origins are now more often framed in terms of manifestation or development. But all too often the issues posed by the giants of nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century scholarship—Gautier, Gaston Paris, Joseph Be´dier, Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal, and others—are still being discussed in the same terminology which they bequeathed to us. In particular the perception of history as a sequence of striking events brought about by the potentates of this earth has survived largely intact in the work of many literary scholars concerned with the relationship between epic and history in western Romania. In the framework of their interpretations, great personages manipulate the epic to support their own drive for hegemony. Be´dier’s idea that the French epics were first created in the eleventh century through a collaboration
V o l u m e
1
1 0 9
E l
C i d
between clerics and poets seeking to promote the fame of certain shrines situated along the great pilgrimage routes derives from a related view of history in that it posits that the motivation and working habits of medieval poets did not differ from those of later and better documented authors: witness Be´dier’s pronouncement that a masterpiece begins and ends with its author, his comparison of the Roland with Racine’s Iphige´nie, and his citation ` of La Bruyere’s statement that making a book is no less a feat of craftsmanship than making a clock. But eleventh- and twelfth-century poets could not have worked in the same ways as those of the seventeenth, because the processes of poetic creation are a function of social, economic, and intellectual circumstances which vary from period to period and from one type of society to another. The manner in which a poet creates is conditioned above all by what French historians of the Annales school call mentalite´s, perceptual categories which shape the way in which phenomena are viewed. Substantial though they be, differences in educational background and in political and social milieu are less important than diversity in mental framework, a basic and all-pervasive variance that prevents us from reconstructing adequately the world view of medieval poets. In studies on the Cid, a similar reliance on the concept of history as a sequence of noteworthy occurrences prevailed. While Mene´ndez Pidal appreciated the import of political events and the effects of Muslim pressure on the kingdoms of northern Spain, he gave less attention in La Espan˜a del Cid to social and economic forces; although he took great pains to establish the geography of the epic Cid’s progress from Burgos to Valencia, he seldom referred to medieval conceptions of time and space which contribute to the skewing of geographical reality. Pidal’s achievements in filling in the backdrop against which the historical Cid acted are undeniable, and even his detractors make use of the data he collected. His discussion of the Chanson de Roland’s manuscripts is a masterful treatment of how medieval texts recorded from oral tradition differ radically from what we in the twentieth century normally mean when we speak of a text, and as such it contributes in a major way precisely to that history of mentalities which is so regretfully lacking in the Espan˜a del Cid. In reading the Cantar de mio Cid with greater attention to its social aspects and to the relationship between political and economic history, I believe one can approach with greater hope of success a realization of the poem’s significance.
1 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
Dealings between men as they are represented in the Cid cannot all be subsumed under the terms ‘‘vasselage’’ or ‘‘feudalism.’’ Social relationships are marked by an economic give and take which mirrors a particular state of society best qualified as a ‘‘gift economy’’ in which exchanges of money and goods take place continually, but not under the conditions which one normally calls ‘‘economic’’ in the modern sense. The historian Georges Duby has drawn upon ideas developed by the socioanthropologist Marcel Mauss to sketch out a description of exchanges in the early and high Middle Ages which can illuminate the meaning of giftgiving and other processes of the eleventh- and twelfth-century economy as they are reflected in the Cantar de mio Cid. Conquests and the payment of various types of feudal dues and rents supplied political leaders and fighting men of that period with an abundance of wealth beyond what was needed for their sustenance. The economic workings of society required that such wealth be circulated to others, with the result that generosity in its distribution was not merely an option open to the powerful, but an uncodified obligation. Recipients of seignorial largess were not all of a lower rank then benefactors: gifts from inferior to superior were also immensely important. At the top of the social pyramid the king was forced to have at his disposal sources of wealth which he could dole out to those who came to test his liberality, and while conquest and plunder provided much of this wealth, so did the offerings of lesser men. The relationships whose existence was fueled by these gifts were of a mutually beneficial nature. Giftgiving was probably never considered to be disinterested. Between military men and their followers, of course, service was commonly exchanged for largess; tributes guaranteed against attacks; even stipends and legacies made in favor of the Church brought a return, in the form of divine favor. The economic system sustained by this movement of commodities and coin in many cases had no relation to mercantile trade, but nevertheless effected a flow of goods which maintained the poor, supported significant numbers of able-bodied if occasionally idle monks, provided motivation for the warrior class, and acted in general as a cementing element in the social edifice. While the gift economy dominated in the early Middle Ages, its main traits were still present in the period 1050 to 1207, that is during the Cid’s career and the time in which the poem in all probability took shape in something close to the form in which we have it. More than one observer
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
has called the Cid a bourgeois hero, the poem a bourgeois epic. Such a formulation could only be based upon the conviction that obsession with wealth is a monopoly of the city-dwelling, mercantile class; as Duby has shown, this is manifestly untrue for the eleventh and twelfth centuries. No hero in all of epic literature is as concerned with money and possessions of various kinds as is the Cid, but his insistence on the prerogatives of nobility is unmistakable. Even the most cursory recital of the poem’s themes confirms that economic interests dominate the Cantar de mio Cid to an extent unmatched in the Romance epic, and yet the outcome of the social process set in motion by the hero’s acquisition of wealth is attainment of the very highest level of the aristocracy. In tracing the motivations for actions in the Cid, one is forced to consult the prose version found in the Cronica de Veinte Reyes, since the poetic text as found in Per Abbat’s manuscript lacks a beginning. The chronicle tells us that King Alfonso of Leon and Castile believed the accusations of evil counsellors to the effect that his vassal Rodrigo Diaz of Vivar was withholding from him tribute that was supposed to have been delivered subsequent to a mission to Seville and Cordova. While he was in Seville, Rodrigo had defended Alfonso’s tributary against an attack from Cordova, and had earned by his prowess and magnanimity the honorific ‘‘Cid Campeador.’’ Whatever the historical Alfonso’s motive for exiling the Cid, the poet responsible for the Per Abbat text assumes that popular opinion lent credence to the accusation that the hero had profited at his lord’s expense. After receiving six hundred marks from the Jewish money-lenders Rachel and Vidas in exchange for two chests which supposedly contain money but are actually full of sand, the Cid is financed and ready to face his exile which he will begin with a series of raids. That an epic poem should devote any attention at all to how a military campaign is funded is extraordinary, let alone that negotiations should occupy a major scene. Why is the poem anomalous in this respect? In placing the Cid in the context of medieval Romance epic, one must refer primarily to the one hundred or so French works which are extant, a preponderance of evidence against which the three fragmentary Spanish poems and the half-dozen Provenc¸al titles represent comparatively little. Allowance should be made, first of all, for differing social conditions. Undoubtedly the landed estate, the classic base for feudalism of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
the French variety, played a lesser role in Spain than it did north of the Pyrenees. In addition, whatever benefit might accrue from possession of a territorial foothold was denied to the Cid in his exile. A more important factor is also at work, deriving both from the particular circumstances of peninsular history and from the epic’s role as a genre which holds up models for emulation. In the expanding world of northern Spanish Christendom, in which land was available for capture by force from the Arabs and in which one of the chief political problems was how to motivate fighting men to leave familiar surroundings so as to take advantage of the military inadequacies of weak and fragmented Muslim principalities, the Cantar de mio Cid furnishes the exemplary model of a noble of relatively low rank rising to the highest level of the social hierarchy without having at his disposal the power base of the landed estate. The poem is both an entertaining tale of military prowess and an economic and social incentive for ambitious Castilian knights of low rank and narrow means. The acquisition of booty, its proper distribution among the knights and soldiers, the appraisal of precious objects, and the use to which wealth is put join together to form one of the poem’s major thematic complexes. The poetic Cid achieves his reintegration into the social fabric directly through economic power, and succeeds in proportion to his personal enrichment, beginning with the unhistorical raid on Castejo´n. Time and again, the type and quantity of booty are enumerated: coined money, shields, tents, clothing, slaves, camels, horses, beasts of burden, and other livestock. At times the amounts are stated to be beyond reckoning, but this type of comment is only a figure of speech since the poet also depicts the tallying up of loot by the quin˜oneros, officials whose job it was to divide and count the spoils. Repeatedly and as early as the first major engagement the fighting men are termed ricos. As lord, the Cid receives a fifth of all plunder. The relative worth of objects is of less interest than what their possession connotes in social terms. In the Cid, wealth and fame are closely linked, from the hero’s first proclamation inviting others to join him in his exile, which frankly appeals to the desire for rritad, through the marriage of his daughters Elvira and Sol with the heirs of the house of Carrio´n, to the climax at the court scene in Toledo where the Cid is dressed in his most luxurious finery. Throughout the poem he displays his wealth
V o l u m e
1
1 1 1
E l
C i d
by bestowing gifts on those who surround him, although he is never seen receiving them. The outstanding examples of interested gift-giving are the three embassies which carry extravagant offerings to King Alfonso. In return the Cid receives first the lifting of the king’s official displeasure, then that his wife and daughters be allowed to join him in Valencia, and finally full pardon and, without his having requested it, his daughters’ marriage to the heirs of Carrio´n. The link between wealth and honor is nowhere more apparent than in the hero’s dealings with the heirs. The villainous motives of this pair are epitomized when they accept booty from the victory over King Bu´car in spite of having acted in a cowardly fashion on the battlefield. The five thousand marks that come to them on this occasion lead them to the mistaken belief that they are now rich enough to aspire to marriage with the daughters of kings and emperors. Whereas for the Cid courage brings material benefits in the form of possessions which can then be exchanged for the prerogatives of birth and can even, in a sense which I will discuss shortly, compensate for the inadequacies associated with doubtful lineage, for the heirs of Carrio´n high birth conveys an intrinsic value which makes it unnecessary for them to put themselves to the test of battle. As they leave Valencia supposedly to escort their wives to Carrio´n, the Cid gives them more wealth in the form of a bridegift: three thousand marks and the precious swords Colada and Tizo´n. That this contrast is essential rather than coincidental is seen in the aftermath of the incident at Corpes in which the brothers beat the Cid’s daughters and leave them for dead. Surprisingly for the modern reader, the hero places loss of the wealth he has distributed to the heirs of Carrio´n on the same level as his daughters’ dishonor: ‘‘Mios averes se me an levado que sobejanos son, / esso me puede pesar con la otra desonor.’’ This preoccupation with worldly goods as a symbol of intrinsic worth continues during the court scene at Toledo. The Cid makes three legal points against the heirs of Carrio´n, of which the first two concern possessions: that they return the two swords, and that they give back the bride-gift of three thousand marks. The third point is a moral accusation, but it is framed in an economic metaphor: the brothers are worth less, since they struck their own wives. The key term menosvaler sums up emblematically the relationship between wealth and honor, economic and moral ‘‘worth.’’
1 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
The poem ends in a curiously unhistorical fashion. The Cid’s daughters will become queens of two kingdoms, according to the poet, who returns to this theme just before he refers to the Cid’s death: Los primeros (casamientos) fueron grandes mas aquestos son mijores; a mayor ondra las casa que lo que primero fue: !ved qual ondra crec¸e al que en buen ora nac¸io quando sen˜oras son sus fijas de Navarra e de Aragon! Oy los reyes d’Espan˜a sos parientes son.
The Cid’s historical daughters, Cristina and Marı´ a, married respectively Ramiro, lord of Monzo´n in Navarre, and Ramo´n Berenguer III, Count of Barcelona. Thus neither of his daughters became queen, and they did not marry the infantes of Navarre and Aragon, although confusion on these points is conceivable in a poet composing in the mid-twelfth century or later since the son of Cristina and Ramiro became King of Navarre in 1134 and Barcelona was united to Aragon in 1137. Questions of title are not generally obscure to contemporaries, so that it is likely the poem was composed in a form not too far from the one in which we have these lines long enough after 1137 for people’s memories to have become clouded regarding the chronology. In any event it is more than surprising that a poet who knows the names of the Cid’s minor historical associates, such as Pero Vermu´dez, Mun˜o Gustioz, Martin Mun˜oz, Alvar Salvado´rez, and Diego Te´llez, should err on whether the hero’s daughters were queens, and of what political entities. His inaccuracy on these points, although partly justified by later historical developments, at the very least exaggerates the Cid’s rise to respectability among the very highest class of nobles. Why should a singer of the twelfth or early thirteenth century be so intent on depicting his hero’s meteoric ascent as to represent the Cid’s immediate progeny as queens at the risk that some members of the audience would recognize the error? The answer to this question provides an explanation for the poet’s concern with the acquisition of wealth, gift-giving, and other economic phenomena. Let us return to the court scene. There are two heirs of Carrio´n, each of whom is challenged to single combat by one of the Cid’s men, who will use the swords Colada and Tizo´n in their respective duels so that, fittingly, the two brothers will be tested by the very instruments which they received under the false pretense of marriage-alliance with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
the Cid. But unexpectedly a third duel is proposed, provoked by Asur Gonc¸a´lez, elder brother to the heirs of Carrio´n, who enters the palace and flings an apparently gratuitous insult at the Cid: ‘‘!Hya varones! ?Quien vio nunca tal mal? !Quien nos darie nuevas de mio C¸id el de Bivar! !Fuesse a Rio d’Ovirna los molinos picar e prender maquilas commo lo suele tar! ?Quil darie con los de Carrion a casar?’’
This curious intervention might at first seem to be only an attack on the hero’s position at the low end of the noble hierarchy, since as an infanzo´n he was entitled to collect feudal dues on the use of mills which came under his jurisdiction. But as Mene´ndez Pidal points out, mills were prized possessions of the seignorial class. Asur Gonc¸a´lez is probably not simply assimilating the Cid’s possession of a mill to the actual operations performed by the miller, for as rude as such a quip might be, it would hardly justify a challenge to mortal combat such as Mun˜o Gustioz subsequently proffers, nor is it equal in weight to the outrage of Corpes which will be avenged by the other two duels which are to be fought on the same occasion. The maquila was a portion of wheat given to the miller in return for his services, and the Cid as an infanzo´n would hardly be expected to receive recompense under that rubric, although he would take other types of payment from a miller working under his jurisdiction. Asur Gonc¸a´lez’s words convey a far greater affront, an innuendo about the Cid’s birth, suggesting that he is descended from a miller and thus entitled to a miller’s pay. Verse 3379, scornfully exhorting the Cid to go to his mill on the river Ubierna, the location of Vivar, and roughen the millstones, can only mean that for Asur Gonc¸a´lez the Cid is a miller. A person of such low rank would indeed be ill-advised to aspire to a marriage tie with the powerful combat family of the VaniGo´mez. An obscure legend, preserved primarily in the romancero, has it that the Cid was the illegitimate son of Diego Laı´ nez, and one version reports that his mother was a molinera. The agreement between this detail and Asur Gonc¸a´lez’s otherwise senseless insult can hardly be coincidental. Acceptance of the Cid’s daughters as queens of Aragon and Navarre would be convincing proof that his accomplishments transcended and annuled the disadvantages of his bastardy. Asur Gonc¸a´lez’s defeat at the hands of the Cid’s vassal shows that God approves of the hero’s deeds in spite of the fact that he was conceived out of wedlock, for the duel takes the form of an ordeal.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
The Cantar de mio Cid differs from the other extant Romance epics in its author’s obsession with the acquisition of wealth, then, not only on account of the differing social and political conditions of Reconquest Spain, but because, unlike most of the heroes whose legends are recounted in poems belonging to this genre, the Cid does not enter the struggle with his honor intact. The amassing of riches and their proper use allow him to rise to the dignity and rank which great nobles of unblemished descent, such as the heirs of Carrio´n, could claim by birth. He is a king by right of conquest, excelling in knightly virtues that might well have been called into doubt by his maternal ancestry. Seen in this light, the Cantar de mio Cid is the story of how courage and prowess are transmuted into economic power, and wealth into lineage, the highest in Spain. As such it is a message to the lesser nobles of Castile, because if the Cid, whose line of descent was in question and whose king exiled him from his land, could raise his kin to the level of royalty through his participation in the Reconquest, then other nobles of his class could legitimately aspire to the same heights of success in invading Arab-controlled lands which enjoyed, despite their political troubles, the most prosperous economy in medieval Europe at this time. The obscure allusion to Rodrigo of Vivar’s bastardy calls to mind a similarly fleeting reference in the Carolingian foundation myth as it is found in the Oxford manuscript of the Chanson de Roland. I refer, of course, to Charlemagne’s Sin. As with the Cid . . . , the question of Roland’s parentage is clouded. Neither the poet of the Oxford Chanson de Roland nor the one who composed the extant Cantar de mio Cid devotes more than a passing allusion to the issue of the respective hero’s birth; it is nonetheless intriguing that in each case the problem of illegitimacy surfaces. In societies such as these where kinship is a pervasive social bond, and in which a person is considered to be legally responsible for acts committed by his kinsmen—above all in a genre in which lineage, one of the two principal meanings of the term geste, is one of the most important determinants of character—illegitimacy, whether it results from royal incest or simply from a paternal liaison with a commoner, represents a most serious deficiency. Roland’s case differs from the Cid’s in obvious ways. Nevertheless I believe that as with the Cantar de mio Cid, the meaning of the Oxford Chanson de Roland in its social context is closely linked with the theme of the hero’s birth.
V o l u m e
1
1 1 3
E l
C i d
While historians of the Romance epic, dominated by a concern for origins, formerly sought to isolate the historical kernel preserved in each work, a focussing of attention on how singers have distorted history and on the circumstances or purposes which have led them to do so will undoubtedly teach us more about the genre’s function in society. Modern political forces tend in sometimes subtle ways to appropriate for themselves the ‘‘tale of the tribe,’’ as Ezra Pound characterized epic. This deformation of the past is an interesting phenomenon in itself, and its study will enable us to compensate in part for a collective wish to see the past in certain ways. The philologist’s task is to appreciate medieval uses of epic legends, although at the same time he realizes that total awareness of them is unattainable. No one knew the Cid tradition as manifested in epic, chronicle, and romancero better than Mene´ndez Pidal, but he failed to see the meaning of a key element in the Cantar de mio Cid, one without which the poem’s ending is a puzzle. Be´dier was aware of the motif of Charlemagne’s Sin, but, oblivious to the Oxford poet’s admonition against ignoring it, he did not consider it to be an important theme. One cannot help thinking that these giants of scholarship were little inclined to pursue clues leading to revelations which might be considered unflattering for the foundation myths of their respective nations. Not that either one was consciously engaged in obfuscation. Rather in one instance the political and intellectual climate fostered by the Generation of ’98, and in the other a propensity to identify Roland’s Franks with the French, may have left no scope for the idea that the greatest of heroes were tainted by the circumstances of their birth or that the ‘‘national’’ epics, nos e´pope´es as both Gautier and Be´dier preemptively referred to them, could have such a theme among their key interpretive elements. The different versions of the Chanson de Roland have taken on various meanings for their singers and audiences. To the late eleventh-century noble French public, however, about to heed Urban II’s exhortation that it follow in the footsteps of the epic Charlemagne to recover the Holy Land from the Arabs, Roland is an exemplary hero because he was able to overcome the impediments of his birth. To Castilian singers whose lords had to resort to unique forms of land tenure in order to encourage repopulation of border territory vacated by the retreating Muslims, the Cid represented an ideal model, achieving for his descendants access to the highest level of society although he may himself have been a bastard. Both these heroes,
1 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
deprived of the privileges of irreproachable ancestry, acquired legitimacy in the eyes of the epic public through their own actions. Source: Joseph J. Duggan, ‘‘Legitimation and the Hero’s Exemplary Function in the ‘Cantar de Mio Cid’ and the ‘Chanson de Roland,’’’ in Oral Traditional Literature: A Festschrift for Albert Bates Lord, edited by John Miles Foley, Slavica Publishers, 1981, pp. 217 34.
Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal In the following excerpt, Mene´ndez Pidal examines the similarities and differences between the historic Cid and the title character of the epic. He also comments on the historical and literary contributions of each figure. As an epic hero the Cid stands in a class by himself. History has little or nothing to say about the protagonists of the Greek, Germanic or French epics. From the ruins revealed by learned excavators we know that the Trojan War was an event that actually took place at Troy, so that the excavations confirm and illustrate the veracity of Homeric poetry. But we shall never know anything about Achilles, nor, for that matter, about Siegfried, whom we can only suspect to have been an historic personage, as Gu¨nther, the King of Burgundy, at whose Court Kriemhild’s husband loved and died, undoubtedly was. The historians of Charlemagne assure us that Roland, Count of Brittany, really existed; but beyond this fact all we know of him is his disastrous end. Those heroic lives will for ever remain purely in the region of poetry and intangible for the purpose of historical analysis. The Cid, however, is a hero of a very different type. From the height of his idealism he descends with a firm step on to the stage of history to face unflinchingly a greater danger than had ever beset him in life, that of having his history written by the very people on whom he had so often waged war and by modern scholars who as a rule show even less understanding than the enemies he humiliated. For the Cid, unlike the other heroes, did not belong to those early times when history still lagged far behind poetry. The broad stream of poetic creation along which Achilles, Siegfried and Roland glide, may be likened to a mysterious Nile whose sources have never been explored; whereas the epic river of the Cid may be traced to its earliest origins, to the very heights above their confluence, where poetry and history rise. Philological criticism enables us to explore primitive history and takes us back to the poetry of the hero’s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
C i d
of producing erudite works in prose; as historiography advances, the epopee loses its pristine vigour. FOR THE TRUTH IS THAT HISTORY AND POETRY, IF TAKEN TO MEAN DULY DOCUMENTED HISTORY AND PRIMITIVE POETRY, SHOW RARE AGREEMENT IN CHARACTERIZATION, IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT ON NO OTHER EPIC HERO HAS THE LIGHT OF HISTORY SHONE MORE RELENTLESSLY.’’
own age, the works inspired either by his deeds or by a vivid recollection of them. This contemporary poetry, which has come down to us about the Spanish hero but not about the others, may help to complete our historical knowledge of the heroic character, just as, when it agrees with the records, that poetry has helped us to establish the facts of the hero’s life.
But in Spain, the scene of the last heroic age of the western world, that age coincided with the historic age, and epic poetry continued to be the vehicle for conveying the news of the day down to the time of the Cid despite the fact that history had already reached a fair stage of development. Thus, in view of the difference in time and circumstance separating the heroic age of Spain from that of other countries, it is not to be expected that the mind of the Campeador would work in unison with that of Beowulf. And so it is that we do not claim to have discovered in the Cid the heroic, but merely an heroic, character. Our main interest will lie in obtaining a close view of a hero, the last hero to cross the threshold from the heroic to the historic age.
Renan is utterly mistaken when, in docilely acknowledging the divorcement by Dozy of the poetic from the historic Cid, he considers that ‘‘no other hero has lost so much in passing from legend to history.’’ For the truth is that history and poetry, if taken to mean duly documented history and primitive poetry, show rare agreement in characterization, in spite of the fact that on no other epic hero has the light of history shone more relentlessly. Often, indeed, the character of the real Cid is found to be of greater poetical interest than that of the traditional hero. Legend achieved much that is of poetic value, but it left unworked many veins that appear in the rock of the hero’s real life in the rough, natural state in which the beauties of nature occur.
The most modern trait in the character of the hero, who lived during this period of transition, is his loyalty. His is not the loyalty of a vassal in the rude heroic ages to the lord for whom he fought; it is the loyalty of a vassal to a king who persisted in persecuting him, a virtue that none of the other persecuted heroes of epic poetry possessed. The Cid of reality, though exiled, remained true to his king; though grossly insulted by Alphonso, he bore with him and treated him with respect. According to law, he owed no fealty to the King, and yet his loyalty was unswerving. Though the King was openly hostile to his occupation of Valencia, he placed the city, to use his own phrase, ‘‘under the overlordship of my lord and king, Don Alphonso.’’ These words are recorded by the Arab historian and are echoed in the old Poem, where Alvar Han˜ez is sent by the Cid to offer the conquered city to the King in spite of his having obstinately refused to lift the ban of exile.
Much has been written about the ‘‘heroic age’’ and the society and culture of those barbaric and lawless times, when pride in personal glory and lust for wealth overruled all other feelings. Yet to my mind, the heroic age, in the widest sense of the term, is distinguished by one essential characteristic only, and that a literary one; it is the age in which history habitually takes on a poetic shape, the age in which an epic form of literature arises to supply the public want of information about events of general interest either of the time or the recent past. This epic form of history, of course, only appears in primitive times, before culture has reached the stage
This attitude would be incomprehensible if, as is possible, we were to assume that the motives of the Spanish hero were purely personal. True, all heroes, whether of Greek, Teutonic, or Romance poetry, act under the impulse of personal honour and glory; indeed, the personal motive is so strong that, in the French epic, notwithstanding the highly developed national spirit, the hero who rebels against the King when offended by him, is constantly glorified. But if, on the other hand, the Cid of poetry is on all occasions respectful towards his royal persecutor, it is because the longed-for pardon means reconciliation with ‘‘fair Castile,’’ which he puts before his personal
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
1 1 5
E l
C i d
pride. The King and his country, his native land, to him are one and the same thing. And so the Cid of history appears eager and, at times, over ready to be reconciled with Alphonso and at the same time distrusts Berenguer and is slow to accept his proffered friendship. The fact that, contrary to the custom established in the law and poetry of the time, neither the Cid of history nor the Cid of fiction makes war on his king but remains loyal to him, shows the extent to which the hero subordinated personal motives to love of country, thereby betraying a spirit practically unknown to the heroic types of older epic poems. This same patriotism also finds expression in his famous resolve to reconquer the whole of Spain and even, as the old poem maintains, lay Morocco under tribute to King Alphonso. The Cid, who refrains from retaliating against his king although authorized by mediæval law to do so, and who ignores the monarch’s insults at Ubeda, is equally anxious to avoid an encounter with the King of Aragon or Berenguer, to each of whom he makes friendly overtures before adopting an aggressive attitude. He grants generous terms to the defeated Valencians, in spite of their repeated infringements of the treaty of surrender; he returns a lawful prize taken from the Moorish messengers when on their way to Murcia; and finally, he refuses presents of doubtful origin when proffered by Ibn Jehhaf. The Cid of poetry, coming at a later time than the other epic heroes, also displays this moderation, which is the outstanding virtue of the chivalrous type that succeeded the heroic type of the earlier ages. But, in depicting him as constantly moderate, poetry diverges from fact. For when the real Cid’s patience was exhausted, his violence knew no bounds. When he realizes that loyal submission is all in vain, he devastates the lands of Alphonso’s favourite vassal; when repulsed by Berenguer, he sets the etiquette of the Court of Barcelona at naught; when the Valencians persist in siding with the Almoravides, he passes from the greatest clemency to the greatest severity. He was, indeed, ever apt to go to extremes. As soon as he had captured Berenguer, his attitude to him at once changed from rancour to the utmost generosity. Enigmatic and capricious, he loved to play with an adversary, as when he scorned the offer of the royal gardens at Valencia, only to seize them later at a most unexpected moment.
1 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
The thirst for treasure which he shares with the heroes of barbaric times, has already been referred to; it forms a strange contrast to the generosity he showed on other occasions. The Cid, as a representative figure of his race, was tightly bound by atavistic ties of both ritualism and superstition. History and poetry agree that he was guided by omens. The birds of prey that crossed his path foretold to him the result of his exile, of the fording of a river, of his daughters’ journey. This superstitiousness was deeply engrained in men-at-arms, though it frequently gave rise to rebuke, such as that which Berenguer hurled at the Cid at Tevar. According to the Poem, the Cid was addicted to ritual. In a moment of great emotion, on his return from exile, he does homage to the King by biting the grass, which is a very ancient symbol of submission. To publish the grief he felt at his unjust banishment, he swore he would never again cut his beard, well knowing that thereby he would make both Moors and Christians talk. To go unshorn as a sign of grief was an old and common custom, but the Cid observed it so faithfully that he came to be called ‘‘Mio Cid, el de la barba grant.’’ The whole Court of Toledo was astonished to see him appear with his beard pleated, a well-known though rare sign of deep mourning; then, hardly has justice been done to him, when he unravels his beard and resumes his normal appearance. Not that he was ever a slave to tradition. He was an innovator in all he did, whether in combating the traditionalism of Leon, abandoning the tactics generally adopted by Spaniards and Burgundians, in order to overcome the Almoravides, in promoting the reform of the clergy, or in revolutionizing, as he actually did, heroic poetry. The Cid’s detractors paint him as a mere outlaw, a bandit who knew no honour; but both the Arab and the Latin historians agree with the early poets that his whole career was governed by his attitude to the law. Here again we find the Cid combining the characteristics of the two epochs, the heroic age and the chivalrous age that followed it. When the chivalrous ideal had been perfected and formulated, it was held to be the duty of a knight to defend the rights of the weak, with the result that a knowledge of legal matters became a knightly accomplishment. Chivalric literature, from its birth to its death, bears this out. Old Gonzalo Gustioz of Salas, in enumerating the attainments of his deceased son, speaks of him as ‘‘learned in the law and fond of judging,’’ and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
the last perfect knight, Don Quixote, also acts as a judge and shows that he possessed a thorough knowledge of the law. The Cid on several occasions gave evidence of this knightly accomplishment: when acting as counsel for the monastery of Carden˜a; as judge at Oviedo, where he interpreted Gothic law and inquired into the authenticity of a deed; and again when drawing subtle distinctions in the drafting of a fourfold form of oath. The Cid of poetry likewise pleaded his cause with skill and method before the court of Toledo. The Cid always applied the law, according to its loftiest conception. In his youth, as champion of Castile, he fought out the legal duel against Navarre, and at Santa Gadea he exacted the oath, no doubt in the same capacity. Later, when aggrieved by Alphonso, as an exile, he had two legal courses open to him, to make war on his sovereign or to seek reconciliation. He chose the second course throughout. Availing himself of the means afforded by mediæval law for regaining royal favour, he twice hastened to the aid of his king; on a third occasion, he attempted to clear himself by the ordeal of a legal oath. It is only when all these attempts at reconciliation have failed and he has been made to suffer fresh and more grievous wrongs, that he exercises his right to make war on the King’s lands; and, when this time comes, the heavy hand of the Campeador achieves what his moderation had steadfastly failed to do. But to call the Cid an enemy of his country, as Masdeu and Dozy call him, is simply absurd. Owing to this failure to recognize his two distinct lines of conduct, the Cid’s relations with the Moors have also been misunderstood. His attitude to the Spanish Moslems may be summed up in his own declaration: ‘‘If I act lawfully, God will leave me Valencia; but if with pride and injustice, I know He will take her away from me.’’ Even the usually malevolent Ibn Alcama admits that the Cid dealt very fairly with the Valencians. But when, in their anxiety to remain under Islam, the Moors of Spain called in the Africans, the Cid perforce took up a different stand: thenceforth the war could only end in the expulsion of the invader and the complete submission of the Spanish Moors. The contrast between these two lines of conduct is most pronounced during the Valencian revolution, when on the assassination of his prote´ge´ King Al-Kadir, the city was handed over to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
the Almoravides. The Cid launches forth on the siege of Valencia, his greatest military enterprise, as an act as much of justice as of policy, and he determines not to rest until he has punished the regicide and driven out the African intruders. On the expulsion of the Almoravides and the surrender of the city, he begins by treating the Valencians with benevolence; but, when he finds that they continue to intrigue with the Africans, he ceases to respect Moslem law and resorts to the mailed fist of the conqueror. His detractors attribute this change of conduct to mere arbitrariness, but the fact remains that it was based on political justice. Although poetic exaggeration clothes all heroes in the mantle of invincibility, it is surprising to find that, so far as the Cid is concerned, fact agrees with fiction. The fame that the Cid enjoyed amongst his contemporaries is expressed in the name of Campeador or ‘‘victorious,’’ given him by Moors and Christians alike; in the phrase ‘‘invictissimus princeps’’ used in the Valencian charter; and in the ‘‘invincibilis bellator’’ of the Historia Roderici, which adds that he ‘‘invariably triumphed.’’ Further, the Poema de la conquista de Almeria, composed in Latin some fifty years after his death, says of the hero: ‘‘of whom it is sung that no foe ever overcame him.’’ Ibn Bassam himself emphasizes the Cid’s extraordinary victories, typical instances of which were the combats at Tamarite, where he overcame odds of twelve to one, and at Zamora, where alone and unaided he defeated fifteen knights. But the exceptional superiority of the Campeador was never more patent than when he tackled the Almoravides as an entirely new and hitherto invincible military organization. He alone, at Cuarte and Bairen, was successful against the invaders, routing their armies and taking a great number of captives; he alone was able to conquer Valencia, Almenara and Murviedro in spite of their determined opposition. This contrast is in itself sufficient to bring out in full relief the military genius of the ever victorious Cid. At times the hero found himself in situations so desperate that to all others everything seemed lost, when of a sudden his keen vision would descry the hidden opportunity that led to success. In emergencies such as a surprise attack by night he would tremble with excitement and grind his teeth; whenever there was the prospect of a battle his heart would leap with joy (‘‘gaudenter expectavit’’).
V o l u m e
1
1 1 7
E l
C i d
The poet is at one with the historian when he tells of the hero’s fierce glee on sighting the imposing array of the Almoravides: ‘‘Delight has come to me from overseas.’’ The Cid’s infallible tactics on occasions struck panic into his enemies. Latin and Arab historians relate how the host of Garcı´ a Ordon˜ez at Alberite, the mighty mehalla of the Almoravides at Almuzafes, and the knights of Ramon Berenguer the Great at Oropesa were all routed without daring even to face the Cid. The battle of Cuarte also suggests panic among the enemy. Legend seized upon this terror-striking ascendancy of the hero to suggest that no Saracen could meet the eye of the Cid without trembling. The Cid’s chroniclers narrate the personal share he took in all his enterprises. The extent to which he exposed himself upon the field of battle is shown by the many mishaps he suffered and the narrow escapes he had. In the sphere of government, he assumed many duties; he administered justice at Valencia several times a week and he it was who exposed the bad faith of the envoys sent to Murcia. His extraordinary powers of organization are seen in the rapid rise of Juballa from a smouldering ruin to a flourishing city and in the way he rebuilt and enlarged the suburb of Alcudia. His prodigious and unremitting energy enabled him to master the highly complex problems of Eastern Spain that had baffled the Emperor, Alvar Han˜ez, the Kings of Aragon, Saragossa and Denia and the Counts of Barcelona. In face of their futile claims, he established and tenaciously maintained his protectorate over the coveted and disunited region. When his work had been twice undone, he patiently built it up again in spite of seemingly insuperable difficulties presented, in the first place, by the jealous rage of Alphonso and, in the second, by the ambition of Yusuf. It savours of madness that a single man, unsupported by any national organization and lacking resources even for a day, should appear before Valencia determined upon restoring a rule that had been overthrown this second time by an enemy who had proved irresistible to the strongest power in Spain; that he should dream of doing what the Christian Emperor had failed to do, and in the teeth of the Moslem Emir’s opposition. That memorable day in October, 1092, when he pitted his will-power against all the chances and changes of fortune, marks the zenith of heroism.
1 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
From which it may be gathered that, even more noteworthy than the Cid’s activity and success, is his exceptional firmness of purpose. Indeed, when he first left for exile, he conceived a plan of action in the East and to its execution he devoted the rest of his life. Ten years after the hero’s death, Ibn Bassam, in a passage vibrant with mingled hate and admiration, pays the highest tribute to the superhuman energy of the Campeador: The power of this tyrant became ever more intol erable; it weighed like a heavy load upon the people of the coast and inland regions, filling all men, both near and far, with fear. His intense ambition, his lust for power . . . caused all to trem ble. Yet this man, who was the scourge of his age, was, by his unflagging and clear sighted energy, his virile character, and his heroism, a miracle among the great miracles of the Almighty.
Thus, like Manzoni in his famous ode on the death of Napoleon, the Moslem enemy bowed reverently before a creative genius that bore the imprint of God. Nemo propheta acceptus est in patria sua.
The Cid was first active in promoting the aims of Castile against Leon and Navarre. His action was decisive at a critical period of Spanish history, for thanks to his victories as the ensign of Sancho II, the political hegemony passed from Leon to Castile. King Sancho and his ensign made an admirable combination: the king, exuberant and ambitious, his vassal restrained and capable. Together, they set out to change the map of Spain. And, although the course of history is shaped more by collective than by individual effort, had this happy association not been brought to an untimely end by the murder at Zamora, it may safely be assumed that the African invasion would have been stayed and the Reconquest expedited by further immediate successes such as Coimbra, Coria and Toledo. This was clearly seen by the men of the time, to whom the hero’s exile appeared a grave blunder on the part of the monarch. This feeling is voiced in the famous line of the old poem: ‘‘Lord, how good a vassal, were but the liege as good!’’ But the King was not the only one to blame. When Alphonso was enthroned in Castile, the barons curried favour with him and turned against the Cid, refusing to admit the exile’s worth. Rejected by Castile, the Campeador had to seek an outlet for his energy elsewhere. After great pains, he succeeded in forging an alliance, first
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
with the Count of Barcelona, and afterwards, with the King of Aragon. Thus, his sometime opponents, the Catalans and the Aragonese, came to appreciate the hero before Alphonso and his Castilians. Literature bears out this shifting of the Cid’s activity and fame. As Du Meril and Mila´ indicate, the earliest known song of the Cid, the Carmen Roderici, is of Catalan and not of Castilian origin. Later, and working on independent lines, I proved—I think, conclusively—that the second poetic record, the Poema del Cid, was not of Old Castilian origin either, but was composed in the ‘‘extremaduras’’ or borderlands of Medinaceli by a jongleur whose pronunciation was different from that of the Castilians. Now, on deeper research into the historical sources (and again independently of the former investigations) I find to my surprise that the first historical text, the Historia Roderici, is also foreign to Castile. It was written on the borderland between Saragossa and Lerida, the scene of the Cid’s activities in the second part of his life; and the author even accuses the Castilians of being envious of the hero and incapable of understanding him. The important inference to be drawn from these facts is that admiration for the Cid was first awakened, not at Burgos, but in the more distant lands of Saragossa and what was later known as Catalonia, on the borders of that eastern region which he had made safe during the latter years of his life. It was during these years that Castile, which had witnessed his first exploits, yielded to the all-absorbing character of the Emperor, and the less pliant spirits of Burgos, such as Martin Antolinez, chose to follow the Cid into exile. Thus it came about that officially Burgos only recognized the heroism of her son after his fame had reached her from abroad. True, indeed, it is that ‘‘no man is a prophet in his own country,’’ except he be some local celebrity, quite unknown outside his own narrow circle. The idea of a united Spain, which apparently obsessed the Cid, was, as has been shown above, not of Castilian, but of Leonese origin. A change came, when a new conception of nationhood arose in the minds of Basques and Castilians, to take the place of the Leonese imperial idea, and for this change the Cid was largely responsible. If we were to take the usual view that the idea of Spanish unity was purely Castilian, we should have to regard the Cid, as Masdeu and his followers did, solely from a Castilian angle, and, like
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
them, we should fail to understand him. It may be true that he is the hero of Burgos, but his heroism is displayed in non-Castilian as well as Castilian aspects, and it is wrong to regard these as antagonistic. Unquestionably the Cid was the first to abandon the already worn-out idea of a Leonese empire and embrace the new Castilian aims that were to usher in the modern Spain. But when Castile, after the assassination at Zamora, bowed to King Alphonso of Leon, the Cid was compelled to strike out in a fresh direction; and it was as an exile that he outstripped his own country in fighting for the national ideal. In spite of many vicissitudes, the Cid embodied that ideal throughout his exile, from the time when he withdrew before Alphonso, who was working for the old Leonese empire, to the time when he broke the force of the African invasion in campaigns that were frowned upon by the King of Leon and Castile. The exclusion of the Cid from the Court and Castile served but to accentuate his position as a truly national figure; and it is significant that he should have had fighting side by side with his Castilians, the Asturian Mun˜o Gustioz, the Aragonese knights of Sancho Ramirez and Pedro I, and the Portuguese followers of the Count of Coimbra and Montemayor. This co-operation in the common cause is recognized by the early Poem: How well he fights in saddle set in gold, My Cid, the mighty warrior, Ruy Diaz; Martin Antolinez, the worthy Burgalese, Mun˜o Gustioz, brought up by him, The good Galin Garcia, of Aragon, Martin Mun˜oz, the count of Mont Mayor!
These lines, brief as an heraldic motto, are to Spaniards what Homer’s list of ships was to the Hellenes. The fact that knights from so many parts of the Peninsula fought under his banner renders the Cid’s campaigns real campaigns of Spain, and, despite the envy of the barons of Burgos, of Castile as well. But, neither love of his home land nor his wider patriotism made the Cid narrow-minded. The appointment of a Cluniac monk to the see of Valencia shows that he welcomed western ideas as an influence that would lift Spain out of her former isolation. Such an attitude on the part of the most typical hero of Spain may give food for thought to those who, in a spirit of bigoted nationalism, would close the door to all foreign
V o l u m e
1
1 1 9
E l
C i d
influence as being detrimental to ‘‘the descendants of Pelayo and the Cid.’’ The Cid was extolled, not so much for promoting Castile’s hegemonic aspirations, as for his conquest of Valencia. In the early Poem he is frequently alluded to as ‘‘My Cid, who won Valencia.’’ Dozy, in an access of Cidophobia less virulent than usual, sought to belittle this conquest by saying: ‘‘The Cid took the proud and rich city of Valencia, but what advantage did the Spaniards gain from its capture? The Cid’s followers certainly won a great deal of booty, but Spain won nothing; for the Arabs regained the city on the death of Rodrigo.’’ Nevertheless, although he never amended the passage, the author seems to have been so convinced of its absurdity that he deleted it from the second edition of his work (1881). In the first place, the conquest of Valencia set a great example of heroic effort. According to the Aragonese historian, Zurita, it was the most extraordinary achievement ever performed in Spain by anyone but a king. He adds that, even had the King of Castile, the most powerful monarch in Spain, engaged his whole forces in the effort, he would have found it extremely difficult to conquer so populous a city in the very heart of the Moorish country. Alphonso did, in fact, throw his whole strength into the attempt, and failed. In the second place, Dozy, in likening the conquest of Valencia to a mere marauding expedition, is greatly in error. It was far different from the conquest of Barbastro, where the troops of the papal standard-bearer abandoned themselves to plunder and sensuality. The Cid’s work was one of reconquest, and he carried it out after the manner of the Spanish kings; he reorganized the lands that he had won, restored the ancient bishopric, and established himself in the city with his family. Had he been granted the normal span of life, Castile would have seen her dream of consolidating her hold upon the old Carthaginian Province realized, and there would have been a totally different distribution of the realms throughout the Peninsula. In spite of the hero’s premature death, the results of the conquest were highly important. An extraordinary revival was then taking place in Islam. Whilst the Turks in the East were routing the Byzantines and, having captured their Emperor, were depriving him of provinces as large as Spain, the Berbers in the West were defeating and driving back the Emperor of
1 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
Leon. Once again, as in the early days of Arab expansion, the Mediterranean was assailed at either end, but Europe saved the situation by the agency of the Cid in the West and the crusaders in the East. The anxiety of Urban II at the Almoravide invasion of Spain has led to the belief that the crusades were originally planned by the Pope, in ignorance of the divided state of Islam, as a military diversion. However this may be, there is no denying that, whereas the Turks were causing concern in the East alone, the Almoravides were reckoned a powerful danger to Europe, as was proved by the great French expedition to the Ebro valley in 1087. It is clear also that the Cid, in founding his Valencian principality amidst the Moors, anticipated what the crusaders did at Jerusalem, Antioch, Edessa and Tripoli. True, the Valencian principality did not long survive its founder; but then those other Christian principalities were also ephemeral and only lasted longer because the crusaders had all Europe behind them, whereas the Cid could not even count on the help of his king. Moreover, the crusaders established their States in opposition to emirates that were considerably smaller than the Taifa kingdoms, and they soon succumbed when confronted by a coherent power such as that of Saladin; nor could the united forces of England, France and Germany, even under leaders like Richard Cœur de Lion and Philip Augustus, regain Jerusalem or Edessa. The Cid, on the other hand, built up and held his dominions in the teeth of the bitterest opposition on the part of the Taifas and Yusuf ibn Teshufin, one of Islam’s greatest conquerors and head of a huge empire, then at the height of its power. The comparison remains striking even when other factors, such as the distance of the crusaders’ field of operation, are taken into account. Finally, the dominion of the Cid at Valencia was of more immediate importance to Europe as a dam against the Almoravide flood. It is significant, though the fact has hitherto passed unnoticed, that both Ibn Bassam and the Historia Roderici agree that his conquest of Valencia stemmed the African invasion and prevented it from reaching the most outlying Moslem Kingdoms of Lerida and Saragossa. That was the spring-tide of the invasion and, had it flooded the Ebro basin, Aragon and Barcelona, being much weaker states than Castile, would both have suffered a greater disaster than Sagrajas. The threat of invasion held out by Alphonso VI as a warning to the French barons, might then have been fulfilled. Indeed, the German historian, V. A.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
Huber, though unaware of that warning, stresses the importance of the conquests by the Cid as a barrier protecting, not only Spain, but the whole of Western Europe from the Moslem peril. And from all accounts that seems to have been the general impression at the time. (pp. 418–35) We have already pointed out how concerned the Cid was that the law should at all times be observed. That this alone surrounded him with a halo in the eyes of the people is shown by the fact that the most artistic episodes of the two principal early poems are based on a lofty conception of the law. The final scene of the Cantar de Zamora depicts with great dramatic effect the taking of the oath at Santa Gadea. If there the Cid imposed his will upon Alphonso VI, it was not in defence of any personal right or privilege, such as so many mediæval barons exacted of their king, but to protest against the usurpation of the throne and insist upon the fulfilment of the laws of succession. This scene, therefore, endured, not because of the events that gave rise to it, but because of its capital importance in characterizing the hero. As late as that tragic period of transition from the last century to the present, Joaquin Costa, while denying the Cid of armour and Tizon for fear lest his memory should again plunge Spain into warlike adventure, did not hesitate to invoke the Cid of Santa Gadea and would gladly have seen every Spaniard equally solicitous to uphold the law and at the same time demand satisfaction from his rulers. The Poema del Cid presents the great scene of the Cortes at Toledo, where, in striking contrast to the general custom of mediæval epic, the Cid is shown forgoing vengeance in favour of the legal satisfaction afforded by the court. In my work, Poema de Mio Cid, I have pointed out the revolution that choice occasioned in the poetry of the time. There can be no doubt that it reflects the real outlook of the Cid and reveals in him the moral characteristics that inspired the poets. It is astonishing to find moderation poetized as a characteristic of the most redoubtable of warriors; and yet, not only did he always subordinate his own strength to the law, but he knew how to temper justice with mercy. The Poema del Cid shows a keen perception of the value of this self-restraint as a poetic theme and even suppresses the traces of violence to be found in the hero’s true character. The Cid of fact, who waives his right as a nobleman to fight against his
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C i d
lord, provides one of the main inspirations of the poem: the loyalty of the hero, despite the unjust harshness of the monarch. Even with the great insult still smarting in his brain, the Cid speaks ‘‘well and in measured language.’’ In this connection, the Poem again strikes a singular note; for, whereas the Spanish cantares and French chansons glorify the rebel exile who rode rough-shod over all who came his way, the jongleur of the Cid, true to the grave conception of life held by his hero, sought ideality in another direction and produced an exile of perfect bearing, moderate at all times, and showing the greatest respect for those social and political institutions that might well have trammelled his heroic energy. The hero and his poet, in imbuing the epic with this ideal, show themselves to be far ahead of their time. For centuries nobles continued to take private vengeance and make war upon their king and country, and the poets kept pace with them by singing of the violence of their heroes and even inventing, in the Mocedades, an insolent and overbearing Cid. Again, the Cid of the Poem forbears to insist on his rights as a victor; witness his treatment of the Count of Barcelona. Anxious to make a good impression on the vanquished Moors, he treats them with generosity, ‘‘lest they speak ill of me,’’ and, when he leaves them, they are sorry to lose his protection: The Moorish men and maids Bless him and wish ‘‘God speed.’’ But, must thou go, My Cid? Our prayers do thee precede.
How different a character from the Charlemagne of the Chanson de Roland who calls for the conversion of the Saracens by fire and sword! The high principles of the Cid, especially at a time of resurgence of spiritual values, are thus one of the main reasons why he was sung, both at home and abroad. Already in the second half of the twelfth century German poets (informed no doubt by pilgrim jongleurs from Compostela) had made an obvious copy of Rodrigo de Vivar in the figure of the margrave Ru¨diger, who was later embodied in the Nibelungenlied as a model of chivalry, brave, triumphant, and loyal: Ru¨diger, the good, the true, the noble, who gave his life fighting for his principles against an overwhelming force. Further evidence of the base upon which the idealization of the Cid as a hero rests, is furnished by the Poema de la conquista de Almeria, written about 1150, when the early gests appeared. The author, after extolling the Cid’s invincibility, proceeds to show that he used his strength, not only
V o l u m e
1
1 2 1
E l
C i d
against the threat of foreign danger, but also against the intrigues of the counts at home: ipse Rodericus, mio Cidi saepe vocatus, de quo cantatur quod ab hostibus haud superatur, qui domuit mauros, comites domuit quoque nostros.
The banishment of the Cid furnishes a typical instance of the instability of the social fabric. The age produced the man required, but Society banned him from his natural sphere. A really invincible captain had arisen in Spain, only to find his efforts frustrated by the antagonistic counts of Najera, Oca and Carrion; he could obtain neither the co-operation of the Count of Barcelona to help him dominate the East, nor that of the Emperor of Leon to prevent the disasters of Sagrajas, Jaen, Consuegra and Lisbon. So far as the Cid was concerned, envy acted as the most powerful dissolvent of the social bonds. The Cid was envied by many of his peers and even by his kinsmen; he was envied by the greatest men at Court, even by the Emperor himself; one and all, they rejected him from motives of pure spite to, as events soon proved, their own detriment. The charge of in-vidia, so often preferred by the Latin historian, connotes a lack of vision: ‘‘castellani invidentes.’’ Such an in-vidente was Alphonso, who found it convenient to promote Garcı´ a Ordon˜ez in preference to the Cid; such also was the Count of Najera himself, who supplanted one who was better than he; such, in short, were all the counts whom the Cid had to subdue. Thus, the phrase of the Poema de la conquista de Almeria, ‘‘comites domuit nostros,’’ acquires a general significance by extolling the Cid as the hero of the struggle with the jealous nobles. In face of this blind, malignant envy, the Cid showed neither discouragement nor rancour. When exiled, he sought no direct vengeance, however much he was entitled to do so; nor did he, like Achilles, sulk in his tent and hope for the defeat of his detractors. On the contrary, he repeatedly went to the help of the King who had exiled him and, in spite of a series of rebuffs from his countrymen, took the only dignified course left open to him; he withdrew his invaluable energy to a distant field where envy and mortification could not reach him, but where he could still co-operate, whether they wished it or not, with his backbiters. The Cid sought and found his support among the enthusiastic and loyal countrymen of the outlying districts and in the spirit of comradeship he instilled into the motley crowd that flocked to
1 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
his standard; courteous towards the humble, he showed himself as deferential to his cook, when the occasion demanded, as he was firm, though respectful, in the presence of the Emperor of the two religions. In the midst of that strange host he displayed his heroism, and no sooner had he conquered a kingdom than he presented it to his unjust sovereign, by recognizing ‘‘the overlordship of his King, Don Alphonso.’’ In seeking reconciliation with the King and humbling himself before him at Toledo in a scene to which the early poet attaches capital importance, the Cid reaches the apogee of heroism by achieving a victory over his own unruly spirit. Though his great victories had rendered him immune from his enemies, he indulged in no vain contempt, but was willing to efface himself before his mean and little-minded opponents, for he desired no more than to take the place in the social order allotted to him, as it is to every man, however eminent. Far from thinking that the sole purpose of things is to pave the way for the superman, he felt that the strongest individuality would be nothing were it not for the people for whom it exists. Source: Ramo´n Mene´ndez Pidal, in The Cid and His Spain, translated by Harold Sunderland, John Mur ray, 1934.
SOURCES Bayo, Juan Carlos, ‘‘Poetic Discourse Patterning in the Cantar de Mio Cid,’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 96, No. 1, January 2001, p. 82. Catan, Thomas, ‘‘191 Dead, Thousands of Victims But the ‘Mastermind’ Is Cleared,’’ in Times (London), November 1, 2007. Deyermond, A. D., ‘‘The Singer of Tales and Medieval Spanish Epic,’’ in Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, Vol. 42, No. 1, 1965, pp. 1 8. , ‘‘Tendencies in Mio Cid Scholarship, 1943 1973,’’ in ‘‘Mio Cid’’ Studies, edited by A. D. Deyermond, Tamasis Books, 1977, pp. 13 48. Duggan, Joseph J., The ‘‘Cantar de mio Cid’’: Poetic Creation in Its Economic and Social Contexts (Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature), Vol. 5, Cambridge University Press, 1989. , ‘‘Formulaic Diction in the Cantar de mio Cid and the Old French Epic,’’ in Oral Literature: Seven Essays, by Joseph J. Duggan, Barnes and Noble, 1975, pp. 74 83. Harney, Michael, Kinship and Polity in the ‘‘Poema de mio Cid’’ (Purdue Studies in Romance Literatures), Vol. 2, Purdue University Press, 1993. Harvey, P. T., ‘‘The Metrical Irregularity of the Cantar de mio Cid,’’ in Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, Vol. 40, 1963, pp. 137 43.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E l
Himelblau, Jack, J., Morphology of the ‘‘Cantar de Mio Cid,’’ Scripta Humanistica, 2010. Kern, Soeren, ‘‘Spain’s Immigration System Runs Amok Spain’s Decline,’’ in Brussels Journal, September 17, 2008. Lacarra, Marı´ a Eugenia, El Poema de mio Cid: realidad histo´rica e ideologı´ca, Ediciones Jose´ Porru´a Turanzas, 1975. Loewenberg, Samuel, ‘‘As Spaniards Lose Their Reli gion, Church Leaders Struggle to Hold On,’’ in New York Times, June 26, 2005. Lord, Albert B., The Singer of Tales, Harvard University Press, 1960, reprint ed., 1971. Mene´ndez Pidal, Ramo´n, ed., Cantar de mio Cid: Texto, grama´tica y vocabulario, 3rd ed., 3 vols., Obras completas, Espasa Calpe, 1954 1956. , The Cid and His Spain, J. Murray, 1934. O’Callaghan, J. F., A History of Medieval Spain, Cornell University Press, 1975. Ong, Walter J., Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word, Routledge, 1982. Pingree, Geoff, ‘‘Secular Drive Challenges Spain’s Cath olic Identity,’’ in Christian Science Monitor, October 1, 2004. Russell, P. E., ‘‘San Pedro de Carden˜a and the Heroic History of the Cid,’’ in Medium Aevum, Vol. 27, No. 2, 1958, pp. 67 68.
C i d
Blackburn’s translation takes a liberal approach to the original text in order to create an acces sible version rendered in modern verse. Clissold, Stephen, ‘‘El Cid: Moslems and Christians in Medieval Spain,’’ in History Today, Vol. 12, No. 5, May 1962, pp. 321 28. This article, written for the popular press and including interesting illustrations, appeared after the 1961 film brought renewed attention to the Cid. Linehan, Peter, The Spanish Church and the Papacy in the Thirteenth Century, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought: Third Series, Cambridge University Press, 2005. This book explores the struggle between Chris tianity and Islam for control of the Spanish peninsula and describes the internal conditions of the Spanish Church, its relationship to Christian kings and the major popes. Webber, Ruth House, ‘‘The Cantar de mio Cid: Problems of Interpretation,’’ in Oral Tradition in Literature: Inter pretation and Context, edited by John Miles Foley, Uni versity of Missouri Press, 1986, pp. 65 88. This article includes a useful overview of the individualist and traditionalist controversy in Cidian scholarship.
Smith, Colin, The Making of the ‘‘Poema de mio Cid,’’ Cambridge University Press, 1983. Spitzer, Leo, ‘‘Sobre el cara´cter histo´rico del Cantar de mio Cid,’’ in Nueva Revista de Filologı´a Hispa´nica, Vol. 2, 1948, pp. 105 17. Whitman, Cedric H., Homer and the Heroic Tradition, Harvard University Press, 1958.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Cid AND Alfonso Cid AND Campeador Cid AND Valencia
FURTHER READING
Cid AND Ximena OR Jimena
Blackburn, Paul, Poem of ‘‘The Cid’’: A Modern Trans lation with Notes, University of Okalahoma Press, 1998.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Reconquista Rodrigo AND Diaz AND Vivar
V o l u m e
1
1 2 3
Divine Comedy DANTE ALIGHIERI 1321
Dante Alighieri (1265–1321) wrote his epic poem, the Divine Comedy, during the last thirteen years of his life), while in exile from his native Florence. There are three parts to this massive work: Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise. In each section Dante the poet recounts the travels of the Pilgrim—his alter ego—through hell, purgatory, and heaven, where he meets God face to face. The primary theme is clear. In a letter to his patron, Can Grande della Scala, Dante wrote simply that his poem was, on the literal level, about ‘‘The state of souls after death.’’ It is, of course, that and much more; the poem works on a number of symbolic levels, much like the Bible, one of its primary sources. Like that sacred text, Dante meant his work and his Pilgrim traveler to serve as models for the reader. He hoped to lead that reader to a greater understanding of his place in the universe and to prepare him for the next life, for the life that begins after death. The greatness of the Divine Comedy lies in its construction as a summa, as a summation of knowledge and experience. Dante was able to weave together pagan myth, literature, and philosophy; Christian theology and doctrine; physics, astrology, cartography, mathematics; and literary theory, history, and politics into a complex poem that not just the highly educated could read. For Dante boldly chose to write his poem of salvation in his own Italian dialect, not in Latin, which was the language of church, state, and epic poetry during his time. Its impact was so great that Dante’s Tuscan dialect became what later generations recognized as modern Italian.
1 2 4
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
relevant to their lives since its composition in the early fourteenth century. Perhaps this influence is because Dante Alighieri, for all the differences between his era and modern times, wrestled with and wrote about concerns that affect all who take the time to think about them: What is the purpose of this life? Is there an afterlife? If so, how should I prepare for it? Why am I here? Dante’s answers to those questions will not necessarily be the same as those of modern readers, but his asking them forces readers to ask them, too, to wonder how they might answer them for themselves and for their own times. The new millennium’s interest in Dante continues to increase in terms of both scholarship and popular culture. Scholars investigate Dante’s relevance to Chinese, Hebrew, and Islamic traditions. Films, novels, and video games based on Dante’s cosmology saturate the market. Starting with Tolkien and C. S. Lewis in the twentieth century, fantasy and science fiction writers have continued to mine Dante for imaginary alternate worlds or visions of this one. Dante’s map of the cosmos appears to be more relevant than ever for contemporary readers and artists.
Dante Alighieri
As one of the greatest works, not just of the late Middle Ages, but of Western literature, the Divine Comedy has had incalculable influence. The poem was immediately successful—Dante’s own sons, Pietro and Jacopo, wrote the first commentaries on it—and it continues to be read and taught regularly modern times. Many of Western literature’s major figures were indebted to Dante’s masterwork. A highly selective list includes: Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375); Geoffrey Chaucer (circa 1344–1400); Don In˜igo Lopez de Mendoza, the first Marque´s de Santillana (1389–1458); John Milton (1608–1674); William Blake (1757–1827); Victor Hugo (1802–1885); Joseph Conrad (1857– 1924); James Joyce (1882–1941); Ezra Pound (1885–1972); Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986), and Italo Calvino (1923–1985). If this impressive list were not testament enough, one has only to consider the four to five hundred manuscripts of the Divine Comedy in existence (an almost unheard of number), the four-hundred some Italian printed editions, and the hundreds of English translations to get some idea of this work’s impact on Western culture. Clearly, readers have found the Divine Comedy
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY As is often the case with medieval authors, relatively little is known about the personal life of Dante Alighieri. In his Convivio (c. 1304–1307; The Banquet), he states that he was born in Florence, and his birth probably occurred in late May or early June 1265, in the San Martino district of that city. His father, Alighiero di Bellincione d’Alighieri, was a notary. His mother, Donna Bella, was probably the daughter of the noble Durante degli Abati. She died before Dante was fourteen, and his father took a second wife, Lapa di Chiarissimo Cialuffi. They had a son, Francesco, and a daughter, Tana. Although the Alighieri family was noble by virtue of the titles bestowed upon it, by 1265 its social status and wealth seem to have declined. Nonetheless, in about 1283, when Alighiero Alighieri died, he left his children moderately well off, owners of city and country properties. Around this time, Dante followed through on the marriage arranged by his father in 1277 and took the gentlewoman Gemma Donati as his wife. They had two sons, Pietro and Jacopo, and at least one daughter, Antonia. (Dante and
V o l u m e
1
1 2 5
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
Gemma might have had a second daughter, Beatrice, although Beatrice could have been Antonia’s monastery name.) Dante’s marriage and family life seem to have had no impact on his poetry. He wrote nothing about his immediate family in the Divine Comedy, but there might be a reference to a sister in La Vita Nuova (c. 1292– 1300, The New Life). As a youth, Dante might have attended Florence’s Franciscan lower school and school of philosophy. Brunetto Latini (c. 1220–1294), the distinguished scholar, teacher, statesman, and author, encouraged him to study rhetoric at the University at Bologna. In La Vita Nuova, Dante states that he taught himself to write verse. He became one of Florence’s top poets, associating and exchanging work with other well-known writers such as Guido Cavalcanti (c. 1240–1300), Lapo Gianni (c. 1270–1332) and Cino da Pistoia (c. 1270–1336). Dante was friendly with the musician and singer Casella and might have known the artists Oderisi da Gubbio (c. 1240–1299) and Giotto (c. 1267–1337). In 1274, when he was nine years old, Dante met Bice Portinari, whom he later called Beatrice, ‘‘bringer of blessedness.’’ His love for this beautiful daughter of Folco Portinari was to become one of the strongest forces in his life. When she died suddenly in 1290, Dante collected the lyric poems he had written to her, linked them with prose commentaries and produced La Vita Nuova, the slim volume that is really the beginning of his masterwork, the Divine Comedy. Linking the two is Dante’s love for and idealization of Beatrice, a love which Dante transformed from the physical to the spiritual. Indeed, in the Divine Comedy, Beatrice prepares Dante the Pilgrim for and leads him to his final face-to-face meeting with God. Dante was also a soldier, a politician, and a diplomat. Like other families of the lesser nobility and artisan class, the Alighieri family members allied themselves with the Florentine political faction, the Guelfs. Their opposition, the Ghibellines, represented the feudal aristocracy. Dante saw military service as a member of the cavalry, which he joined in 1289. He fought with Florence and her Guelf allies against Arezzo, in their victory at the battle of Campaldino in 1289 and in the Guelf victory at Caprona in August of that year. As a first step toward holding important public offices, Dante joined the Guild of Physicians and Apothecaries in 1295. That same year
1 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
he served on the People’s Council of the Commune of Florence and as a member of the council that elected that city’s Priors. In 1296, he was a member of the Council of the Hundred, an influential political body involved in Florentine civic and financial matters. He traveled as ambassador to San Gimignano in 1300 and was himself elected that year to the high office of Prior. Again as ambassador, the White Guelfs (his faction) sent him to meet with the pope at Anagni. While he was away, the Whites lost power and their rivals, the Black Guelfs, exiled Dante for two years. They charged him with conspiracy against the pope and Florence. Dante refused to appear at his hearing in 1302 or to pay his fines, since he thought doing so would be an admission of guilt. The Blacks told him that if he ever returned to Florence he would be arrested and burned alive. It is likely he never saw his beloved Florence again. From 1303 on, Dante traveled extensively in northern Italy and lived the rest of his days as a courtier and teacher in exile. In 1303, he stayed in Verona with Bartolomeo della Scala and in 1304 appeared in Arezzo plotting a re-entry into Florence with other exiled Whites and Ghibellines. This effort failed disastrously, and Dante probably moved on to Lunigiana, where he performed diplomatic services for the Malaspina family from 1305 to 1307. Some historians think he journeyed to Paris in 1309 to study at the university. From 1312 to 1318 he lived in Verona, again with the Scala family, this time under the patronage of Can Grande della Scala, to whom he dedicated his Paradise, the third volume of the Divine Comedy. While in Verona, the Florentine government again sentenced Dante to death and this time extended the threat to include his sons. From 1318 to 1321 Dante was in Ravenna under the protection of Guido Novella da Polenta, surrounded by eager pupils and highly praised as the author of Convivio, Inferno, and Purgatory. On September 13 or 14, in 1321, Dante died in Ravenna, where he was buried.
PLOT SUMMARY Dante’s Divine Comedy is bewilderingly complex to the first-time reader, even on the literal level. (This complexity remains after many rereadings, but for many readers, it enhances the poem’s appeal rather than hindering the reader’s understanding.)
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
of knowledge bordered on the obsessive, and his Divine Comedy is no exception. Indeed, it is a prime example of this drive to order. Therefore, using its structure helps the reader navigate and make sense of its complex world.
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
In 1935, Harry Lachman directed Spencer Tracy and Claire Trevor in a film called Dante’s Inferno, about a carnival concession that shows scenes from Dante’s poem.
In 1980, Carlo Maria Guilini, Dame Janet Baker, the Philharmonia Chorus and Philharmonia Orchestra of London recorded Giuseppe Verdi’s Four Sacred Pieces. This work sets some of Dante’s texts to music and is available on a His Master’s Voice recording.
Peter Greenaway’s ninety-minute TV Dante: The Inferno Cantos I–VIII (1989) is available as a Films for the Humanities video. Tom Phillips wrote the screenplay for this highly stylized interpretation of the first eight cantos of the Inferno. It features Sir John Gielgud as Virgil, Bob Peck as Dante’s Pilgrim, and Joanne Whalley-Kilmer as Beatrice. It was titled The Inferno. Dante 01, a 2008 Wild Bunch Production, is a science fiction film set in outer space directed by Marc Caro and based on the Inferno.
Abandon All Hope is a 2009 film available on DVD by Dino Di Durante about the Inferno. From Master Film Productions and narrated by Jeff Conaway, the film features scholars, artists, and art by Gustave Dore.
The 2010 video game Dante’s Inferno, by Electronic Arts, on Platform Xbox 360, has tie-ins of film and book.
The Starz/Anchor Bay 2010 film Dante’s Inferno: An Animated Epic offers a psychological interpretation of Dante’s hell. The adult film stars Mark Hamill and Victoria Tennant and is directed by Mike Disa.
Trying to keep track of the poem’s five hundred some characters often produces frustration, as do attempts to sort out thirteenth- and fourteenthcentury Florentine politics and the city-state’s conflicts with the papacy. Fortunately, Dante lived during a time when categorization and the ordering
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
C o m e d y
E d i t i o n ,
The poem is divided into three books or cantiche: Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise. Each book is then broken down into canti or what we might call chapters: Inferno has thirty-four, Purgatory has thirty-three, and Paradise has thirtythree. There are, then, a total of one hundred canti, and each volume has thirty-three chapters. (The first one in Inferno introduces the entire poem and thus in a sense stands alone.) This ordering system is a prime example of medieval Christian numerology, the science of attributing religious significance to numerals. In this system, three is the ideal number, since it represents the Holy Trinity: God the Father, Christ the Son, and the Holy Spirit. One hundred, the number of canti in the poem, is the square of the perfect number ten. One hundred represents the belief that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are individuals yet indivisible from one another: 100 ¼ 1 þ 0 þ 0 ¼ 1. This simple example only hints at the extent to which Divine Comedy uses such tight structures to produce meaning and to deliver its message of salvation.
Inferno: Layout and Journey Dante’s Hell is cone-shaped and points to the center of the earth. Dante divided his hellish cone into a hierarchy, into an orderly structure that he split into two major divisions, upper and lower Hell. Three rivers circle around three levels of the cone. As they circle, the rivers Acheron, Phlegethon, and Styx flow down to the pit at the bottom of Hell. There they become part of Cocytus, the ice lake that imprisons Lucifer. The upper and lower divisions are set out in ten sections. Through this region (Hell) Dante moved his alter ego, the Pilgrim, and Virgil, the Pilgrim’s guide. Historically, Virgil was one of the greatest classical Latin poets. He wrote the Aeneid, which starts after the Trojan War and tells the story of Aeneas, the Trojan hero who according to the myth founded Rome. In general, Virgil represents Reason, a quality the Pilgrim needs to get him through the first two regions, Hell and Purgatory. When the Pilgrim reaches the third, Paradise, his faith largely takes over, although he is guided there, too. Upper Hell has a vestibule (an entry way) and nine levels around and down which the Pilgrim and Virgil travel. Upper Hell’s five levels
V o l u m e
1
1 2 7
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
correspond to five of Christianity’s seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, and wrath. Lower Hell holds the shades of those guilty of the other two, envy and pride. Starting at the top, at ground level, and working downward, the divisions of upper Hell are: 1) the Vestibule, which holds the indecisive, including the angels who sided neither with God nor with Lucifer during his revolt; 2) Circle One, Limbo, where those, like Virgil and other classical poets and philosophers, who lived before Christ’s birth are; 3) Circle Two, the lustful; 4) Circle Three, the gluttons; 5) Circle Four, the greedy and wasteful; 6) Circle Five, the wrathful. Here stands the City of Dis, which separates the upper and lower regions. Circle Six begins lower Hell and is the level on which the heretics are punished. Circle Seven punishes three groups of sinners: those who were violent against their neighbors, themselves (the suicides), and those who were violent against art, nature, and God. The Great Barrier, a sheer drop, separates Circle Seven from the rest of lower Hell, and Dante and Virgil descend to it on the back of Geryon, a fantastical, multicolored beast with the face of a man and a scorpion’s tail. Circle Eight is divided into ten concentric circles. These circles are called malebolge, or ‘‘evil ditches,’’ and are crossed by seven bridges, which radiate out from the center like a spokes on a wheel. All seven bridges are broken over the sixth ditch. Into each ditch, or bolgia, are placed sinners: 1) panderers and seducers; 2) flatterers; 3) those guilty of simony (selling pardons for sins); 4) sorcerers; 5) barrators, those who provoked discord or division; 6) hypocrites; 7) thieves; 8) deceivers; 9) others who provoked discord or division; 10) falsifiers. Circle Nine, the last, holds the worst group of sinners: traitors to family, country, guests, and lords. This vast ice lake, Cocytus, is divided into four Circles: 1) Caina; after Cain, the first murderer mentioned in the Old Testament; 2) Antenora, after Antenor, the treasonous Trojan warrior; 3) Ptolomea, either after the biblical Ptolemy, who had his father-in-law and two sons killed or after Ptolemy XII, the Egyptian king who invited Pompey to his kingdom and then killed him; 4) and Judecca, after Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Jesus. At the center of this lake stands six-winged Lucifer, the arch-traitor, who rebelled against God and was banished from Heaven. He is frozen from the waist down, and
1 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
each one of his three heads chews on a legendary traitor: Judas Iscariot, Marcus Brutus, and Caius Cassius. These last two participated in the assassination of Julius Caesar and combine with Judas to create an evil perversion of the Holy Trinity. On each level the Pilgrim and Virgil encounter the shades of sinners who have committed the sins for which they are being physically punished. The deeper into the cone the travelers descend, the more serious the sins become. As the Pilgrim sees and talks to these shades, he learns about the nature of sin and about using reason to avoid sinning himself. Most importantly, he learns to hate the sin and not the sinner; he discovers the difference between feeling sorry for the sinners and pitying their plight. In Dante’s orderly system, all the sinners’ punishments fit their crimes. Dante called this kind of punishment contrapasso. For example, in Canto 5 of the Inferno, the Pilgrim meets Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta. These two lovers committed adultery and were murdered by Francesca’s husband, who caught them in a moment of passion. Their eternal punishment is to be blown by a hot wind that symbolizes passion round the fifth level with other lustful sinners. Even worse, at least for Francesca, they are joined together, inseparably, for all time. To show how much the Pilgrim has to learn at this point, Dante demonstrates the Pilgrim’s sorrow for these sinners. The Pilgrim does not understand that Francesca lies when she claims that she and Paolo loved each another. He does not understand that the lust they felt, not love, damned them forever. The misguided Pilgrim is so affected that he faints after listening to Francesca’s story. By the time he reaches Lucifer in Hell’s pit in Canto 34, the Pilgrim has a fuller knowledge of sin’s nature. Then, and only then, is he ready to follow Virgil, to climb out of Hell and up the Mount of Purgatory.
Purgatory: Layout and Journey When they emerge from Hell’s pit, the Pilgrim and Virgil find themselves at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory. This very steep mountain rises at more than a forty-five degree angle, and the narrow paths that circle toward its summit are dangerously unrailed. Unlike in Hell, sinners are not condemned to Purgatory forever. They are there to do penance for their sins. As in Hell, these penances fit the sins. Penance is not punishment, though; it is remedial and corrective.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
This is the primary difference between Hell and Purgatory: The shades in Purgatory have time and the desire to learn from their sins. They know that they will someday rise to Heaven. Hell, by contrast, is a hopeless place. At the Last Judgment it will be sealed forever, and its residents exist with no opportunity for repentance, completely without hope. This is the worst punishment possible in the Christian universe. Dante invented the Mountain and placed it opposite Jerusalem, in what medieval mapmakers thought was the uninhabited southern hemisphere. Since these mapmakers thought this hemisphere was landless and covered with water, it makes sense that Purgatory is a mountain and an island. This region’s layout is somewhat simpler than Hell’s. Dante divided his Mountain into four levels: Antepurgatory, Lower, Middle, and Upper Purgatory. These last three make up Purgatory proper, and Antepurgatory is like Hell’s vestibule or entry way. Atop it all sits the Garden of Eden. The four levels are further divided into circles and terraces. Antepurgatory at the bottom has two circles, and these regions have earthly landscapes. (The sun even rises and sets on the Mountain.) Purgatory proper is made up of seven terraces, all of which are composed of nothing but bare stone. Counting the Garden of Eden at the peak, Antepurgatory’s two circles and the seven levels of Purgatory proper, there are ten levels in all. The most sinful inhabit the lower levels and are farthest from God. The first and lowest level of Antepurgatory is home to two groups of sinners who have not yet begun their penance. This first group contains the excommunicated. The second group inhabits terrace two and contains three subgroups, all of whom lacked spiritual passion. They were, in a sense, spiritually indifferent. On the third terrace, just above these late repentants, is Peter’s Gate, which an angel guards. The Pilgrim must pass through this gate before he moves to the seven upper terraces of Purgatory, each of which contains shades who committed one of the seven deadly sins. On these levels temporarily reside those who misused love: the proud, the envious, the wrathful, the slothful, the greedy, the gluttonous, and the lustful. This order reverses that of Hell, which has the lustful at the highest level and the proud in the pit at the bottom. Therefore, the Pilgrim moves from worst sin in Hell to worst sin on the Mountain. When he reaches the peak, he meets Purgatory’s least sinful souls and is closest to God.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
The Pilgrim’s education continues as he and Virgil wind their way around and up the Mountain to the Garden, much like the souls must do who are destined for Heaven. The Pilgrim participates in his instruction in much the same was as he does in Hell. On the Mountain he encounters various groups and individuals who sinned while alive and who interact instructively with him. From them he learns valuable lessons about, among other things, humility, love of God and misuse of reason, the power of prayer and the power of poetry. Early on an angel inscribes seven ‘‘Ps’’ (signifying the Latin word peccatum, meaning sin) on his forehead, one for each of the deadly sins. As the Pilgrim moves upward toward innocence, one ‘‘P’’ per level is removed by an angel. Reason can lead him only so far, and after crowning his student lord of himself (Purgatory 27), Virgil vanishes from the Garden of Eden (Purgatory 30), which signifies that the Pilgrim has ‘‘graduated’’ and is ready to move to the next and highest level. He has worked his way back to a state of innocence like that lost by Adam and Eve when they lived in the Garden. From Eden, Beatrice and his faith lead the Pilgrim the rest of the way and carry him on to Paradise.
Paradise: Layout and Journey The historical Beatrice died at a young age, in 1290, and Dante’s earthly, physical love for her became intensely spiritual. Her reciprocal spiritual love for the Pilgrim motivates her to lead him to God, source of all love. This she does, as the two travelers are transported heavenward. As they soar toward God, the Pilgrim is amazed to find himself moving through space and wonders if his body or just his soul has taken flight from the Garden at the Mountain’s summit. Beatrice and the Pilgrim find themselves at the edge of another ten-level structure. This one is comprised of nine crystalline spheres, each one placed concentrically inside the other. All revolve, providing the seven planets set in the first seven spheres with motion. (During Dante’s time, astronomers believed the moon and sun to be planets. Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto had not been discovered yet.) Moving outward from Earth, Dante’s planetary spheres are Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Past Saturn are the spheres of the fixed stars and of the Primum Mobile or ‘‘Prime Mover.’’ Medieval astronomers believed that the stars were stationary, fixed in place in the heavens. Thus, they assumed
V o l u m e
1
1 2 9
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
there was a crystal sphere which held them all in place. Beyond this eighth sphere of the fixed stars was the ninth of the Prime Mover. God gives it motion, and it turns the eight spheres below and inside it. Beyond these nine spheres is the Empyrean, which is made of pure white light. This region surrounds all the spheres and is where the Pilgrim meets God. Each of the spheres is inhabited by a collection of saints. Like the lower regions, the heavenly spheres and their saints are arranged in a particular order. In Paradise the souls are ordered according to the states of grace they have achieved. Those on the outside rim partake of God’s blessedness to a lesser degree. Nonetheless, all are happy to be in Heaven, and all partake of God’s love as they are able. Moving from the outer rim of the first sphere, that of the Moon, the first seven spheres and their blessed souls are: 1) the Moon and the ambitious who broke vows on earth; 2) Mercury and those who loved glory on earth; 3) Venus and those who were lovers on earth; 4) the sun and the theologians; 5) Mars and those who died as martyrs and Crusaders; 6) Jupiter and the righteous rulers; 7) Saturn and the contemplatives, men such as Saint Benedict and Saint Bernard. In the eighth sphere, that of the fixed stars, the Pilgrim has his vision of the Virgin Mary and of the light of Christ. In the ninth sphere, that of the Prime Mover, the Pilgrim has his vision of Christ. Finally, in the Empyrean the Pilgrim has his face-to-face vision of God. In Paradise, the Pilgrim’s education proceeds in the same way it does in the lower two regions. There are two fundamental differences here though. These souls are all in Heaven and have fulfilled their desire for God. They have nothing more for which to strive and do nothing but gaze in rapture upon his love, his light. Unlike the concrete regions of Hell and Purgatory, Paradise’s residents do not inhabit their fleshly bodies. Therefore, they appear to the Pilgrim as sparks or as light and communicate with him via signs or symbols. For example, when the theologians appear to him, they do so in the form of a circle, symbol of perfection. When the souls in the sphere of Mars materialize, they take the shape of a brilliant cross. As the souls in the sphere of the fixed stars return to the Empyrean, they appear like snowflakes that are ‘‘falling’’ up. The poet had so much trouble explaining such phenomena that he had to invent new words to describe them. Indeed, the closer the Pilgrim gets to God, the more the poet confesses that words fail him.
1 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
Thus, like Virgil whom she replaces, Beatrice leads the Pilgrim through the nine spheres and leaves him in the hands of Saint Bernard, who provides him with his last instructions (Paradise 31). Beatrice also functions as his main teacher in this region and gives him theological instruction. For example, when she realizes that the Pilgrim does not understand how these souls appear to him, she explains, using the Creation story as an example. She tells the Pilgrim that, since human capabilities are so limited, Scripture gives God hands and feet, so as to make him more understandable to mortals. In other words, God looks human in Genesis because that way people see and understand him as a kind of father figure (Paradise 4). Beatrice also introduces the Pilgrim to a variety of blessed souls, some of whom test him to see if he has made the necessary progress. Saint Peter, for instance, asks the Pilgrim some rather difficult theological questions, which he answers perfectly, proving that he is becoming ready for the ultimate vision of God (Paradise 24). In Canto 33 the Pilgrim has that vision, and it comes to him as a blinding flash of wisdom. In that brief moment, he experiences everything that the blessed experience in Heaven. Thus, his desire is momentarily fulfilled and he returns to Earth, ready and most willing to write, for the benefit of his readers, the Divine Comedy, so that people might have a brief glimpse of ‘‘the Love that moves the sun and other stars’’ (Paradise 33, l. 145).
CHARACTERS Beatrice Beatrice summons Virgil from Limbo (Inferno 2) to lead Dante the Pilgrim through Hell, up the Mount of Purgatory to the Garden of Eden. She sits with the blessed in the heavenly rose, where she waits to replace Virgil as the Pilgrim’s guide (Purgatory 30). Beatrice, ‘‘bringer of blessedness,’’ is therefore largely responsible for the Pilgrim’s (and the poet’s) salvation.
Bice See Beatrice
Pilgrim The Pilgrim is the alter ego of Dante the poet, a kind of Everyman (someone to whom everyone can relate) whose travels the reader follows, experiencing the three regions while he does.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
Ideally, as the Pilgrim learns from his encounters with countless shades, the reader attains some degree of enlightenment.
Virgil Virgil is the Pilgrim’s guide through Hell and the lower part of Purgatory. Virgil represents the voice of reason, which gives way to faith as Pilgrim shifts from Virgil’s guidance to that of Beatrice in the upper region of Purgatory and in Heaven.
THEMES Education and Salvation Learning how to attain salvation is the main theme of Dante’s epic and subsumes all its other themes. The Divine Comedy is, therefore, a tale of the Pilgrim’s education and, by association, the reader’s. The reader follows Dante’s Pilgrim through Hell in Inferno and learns with him about sin’s pervasiveness. The torments of the sinners, who exist forever without hope of redemption or an end to their suffering, graphically illustrate sin’s consequences. As the Pilgrim moves through the underworld, the shades provide graphic examples of and exemplary lessons on the seven deadly sins. At the end of Inferno, the Pilgrim is better able to recognize sin in its various forms and to avoid committing it. Salvation and further spiritual education are impossible without such knowledge. In the second section, Purgatory, the Pilgrim move up the Mountain of Purgatory to the Garden of Eden at its peak. Along the way he learns the value of contrition and repentance, of having to suffer for causing suffering and for disobeying God. He learns this again by seeing and interacting with shades who represent the Seven Deadly Sins but who here exemplify the desire for contrition and repentance. The learning process concludes in the third section, Paradise, where a plethora of saved souls appear to the Pilgrim and explain the workings of grace and God’s love to him. In this celestial region, the Pilgrim takes a series of what oral exams during which his growing knowledge is tested. Schooled by his experiences in the three regions, having gained a firm understanding of sin and grace, the Pilgrim passes his exams and graduates to the vision of God. He, then, becomes a teacher, because he returns to Earth with instructions to write about his experiences for the benefit of others.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
Choices and Consequences: Providence and Free Will Inextricably linked to the theme of education and to the soul’s salvation is the theme of free will and its relation to God’s Providence. Following the writings of Boethius and Thomas Aquinas, which permeate the Divine Comedy, Dante shows his Pilgrim that God’s Providence, his vision, encompasses all events and all of time. Since God knows and sees all simultaneously, he knows exactly what mortals will do and when they will do it. Dante’s great-great-grandfather, Cacciaguida, explains to the Pilgrim in Paradise that this does not mean that human actions are predestined, only that God has full knowledge of them. People can and do choose how to act, how to employ free will, and they must accept responsibility for those choices. As he does in the scene with Cacciaguida, over the course of the poem, the Pilgrim comes to understand that his actions have consequences and that he bears ultimate responsibility for those consequences. This lesson is of the utmost importance, for failing to understand this can damn one for eternity, as it has those in Hell.
Art and Experience: The Power of Literature Closely tied to the themes of education and the correct use of free will is that of literature’s power to influence its readers’ actions. Dante made the revolutionary decision to write his poem in Italian and not Latin—the language of epic, of the church and of lofty themes—so that it would reach a wider audience. He meant his Divine Comedy to be an example, to focus the reader on the next life and, if necessary, to change the way he or she is living this life. Some scholars have gone so far as to suggest that Dante expected his poem to be read with the same seriousness as Scripture. Dante himself was profoundly influenced, poetically and spiritually, by sacred and secular texts from his own time and from ancient times. Perhaps most telling for this theme was the impact Augustine’s Confessions had on the poet. In Book 8 of that important work, Augustine (354–430) writes about the power of literature to convert and uses himself as a moving example. He tells of sitting in a garden during a time of intense emotional and spiritual turmoil. In his moment of greatest anxiety, he heard a voice telling him to open the book he had with
V o l u m e
1
1 3 1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Read Book Six of Virgil’s Aeneid and compare Aeneas’s encounter with the dead to meetings with selected souls in Inferno by Dante’s Pilgrim. How are the encounters similar? How are they different? Why? Prepare a chart with PowerPoint to use while presenting your findings to a group.
Choose either Inferno, the Mount of Purgatory or the heavenly rose in Paradise. Following Dante’s description and modern illustrations like those printed in your translation, redraw the levels. Choose five levels and put contemporary public figures on them. Give reasons for your choices and placements, according to Dante’s explanation of what happens on each level. Write up this exercise. Have volunteers present their drawings and choices to the group and then discuss the appropriateness of the choices. Dante lived in political exile while he wrote the Divine Comedy. Research the politics of early fourteenth-century Florence. Use your research findings to explain Dante’s criticism of his own city in Inferno or Purgatory. Focus on no more than two characters. Write a research paper on this subject with documentation.
Dante’s love for Beatrice Portinari was at first physical and earthly, and he wrote love poetry to her. Research their historical relationship. Write a short critical paper, explaining how the Pilgrim in Purgatory and/or Paradise used his love to turn Beatrice into his teacher and guide to salvation.
Young Adult assignment: The fantasy writers, the Inklings (J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Charles Williams) were among the first to use images and themes from Dante for modern fantasy. Using Peter Jackson’s film of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, show clips of scenes that are similar to Dante’s vision of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise and explain to a group how they are used in Tolkien’s story to explain Frodo’s journey.
Read the Epic of Gilgamesh from Mesopotamia (modern Iraq) and compare and contrast Gilgamesh’s journey to find immortality and spiritual truth to the Pilgrim’s in Divine Comedy. Write a paper explaining the wisdom each gains on the journey, including quotations from both poems.
him to a random place and to read. Doing so, he finds Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, the story of his conversion to Christianity. Paul’s tale has such a profound effect upon Augustine that he puts down the book, reading no further. Immediately, his suffering is relieved, and he converts to Christianity. Dante used this episode from the Confessions to make a point about the power of literature and the need for correct reading. In Inferno (5), Dante has Francesca tell of the effect reading had on her and Paolo, her lover. They were not reading Scripture like Augustine, but a medieval romance, Lancelot. Francesca says that she and Paolo reached the place where the lovers in the tale kiss. Then,
1 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
echoing Augustine, she says they read no further, implying that they consummated their adulterous relationship and that Lancelot inspired the act. The difference between these two reading episodes is clear: In each case, the readers were affected by the power of the tales they were reading, but Augustine read Paul’s account correctly and took up the faith, whereas Francesca and Paolo allowed the medieval romance to negatively affect their actions. For misusing the text and the sinful choice they made with free will, they must spend eternity in Hell. The other major example of this theme, and one that counterbalances the Francesca episode, is the meeting between the Pilgrim, Virgil, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
Statius (61–96 CE ), in Purgatory (22). Ecstatic at meeting Virgil, the great pagan poet, Statius tells him that his Fourth Eclogue, a poem that the Middle Ages read as prophesying the coming of Christ, inspired him to convert to Christianity. Unlikely as this might seem, Dante uses it as another example of the power of literature and the need for right reading, for correctly employing free will in the service of salvation.
Order and Disorder Dante’s age was a chaotic one, and his poem, particularly Inferno, takes the fourteenth century’s sacred and secular strife as a dominant theme. He rails against corrupt popes and clergy and lashes out at politicians, assigning many of them permanent places in Hell. Nonetheless, Dante did not hate the institutions of church or state. As a political and religious conservative, he saw such institutions as vital to maintaining social and spiritual order. Indeed, Dante hoped for a reduction of papal political involvement and that an omnipotent Christian emperor would arise and restore order to his chaotic world. He had great faith in the ability of Emperor Henry VII to do so. Unfortunately, Henry was never able to overcome his political opposition or to maintain papal support, and his unifying efforts failed. A supporter of institutions in the abstract, Dante was angry with those individuals he thought abused their offices or who were corrupt in other ways. For example, he placed Pope Nicholas III (d. 1280) in Hell, angrily stuffing him upside down in a hole, where tongues of fire eternally ‘‘baptize’’ the soles of his feet (Inferno 19). He then goes further and prophesies that Boniface VIII (1217–1303) and Clement V (d.1314) will join Nicholas in his hellhole, where they too will pay for perverting the papacy. Politicians fare no better, particularly the Ghibellines, members of the political party that exiled Dante from Florence. For instance, the Pilgrim finds the Ghibelline leader, Farinata degli Uberti, entombed with other heretics in Hell (Inferno 10). Dante was not above condemning members of his own party, the Guelfs, to Hell either, as seen in the circle of violence. There Guido Guerra and Tegghiaio Aldobrandi run after the green flag with the other naked sodomites. Dante’s Divine Comedy is itself representative of the need he felt for the comfort that comes
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Engraving of a scene from Inferno (Bettmann Corbis)
from order and stability. It is almost as if Dante, through the order he built into his poem, was trying to counteract the disorder he saw all round him. As the last great hierarchical epic of the Middle Ages, this intensely ordered poem attempts to synthesize and summarize the histories of pagan and Christian thought and to weave those systems into a cohesive whole. The sheer complexity of this whole, however, almost works against its author’s need for order and desire for comfort by illustrating just how difficult—if not impossible—constructing and maintaining such a complex system can be.
STYLE Not all epics conform to one definition; however, they share enough of the same poetic characteristics so that they can be grouped under the genre label of epic. Traditionally epics deal with grandly important themes: often begin in medias res in the middle of things): take place over an extended period of time and a large area; have a large cast and involve heroic, often legendary, characters. In keeping with their serious subject matter, epics often involve the gods or God in
V o l u m e
1
1 3 3
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
some way. They are narrative in form; in other words, they tell a story. Epics are written in verse of a high register; that is, their authors use formal language and poetic devices such as symbolism and figurative language. Dante’s Divine Comedy has all of these characteristics. Dante’s epic tells the story of the Pilgrim’s journey from sin to grace. For medieval Christians there was no loftier theme about which to write than the soul’s salvation. As the poem opens, Dante the Pilgrim, the poet’s alter ego, finds himself lost in sin, wandering ‘‘in the middle of the road of our life’’ (Inferno 1, l. l). The Pilgrim is at the midpoint along the road of his life, a familiar metaphor. The plural pronoun ‘‘our’’ pulls the reader into the action and includes him or her as virtual pilgrims on this journey to God. Thus, the Pilgrim stands for all Christians, who may read and learn, as he learns, the nature of sin and how to overcome it. Along with this lofty theme and beginning in the middle of things, the Divine Comedy takes place over a number of days and an infinitely large area. The narrative action stretches from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. The setting encompasses nothing less than the entire universe and includes places like the Mountain of Purgatory that Dante invented specifically for the poem. Dante’s Pilgrim travels with his guide, the classical epic poet Virgil, through the depths of Hell, up the Mountain of Purgatory, and through the heavenly spheres to meet God face to face. The theme and scope of this epic are matched by its huge cast of characters, many of them legendary, even mythological. There are over five hundred characters in Divine Comedy, each of them somehow instrumental in the Pilgrim’s theological instruction. There are countless Italian contemporaries of Dante the poet; pagan and Christian heroes and martyrs; kings, queens, emperors, empresses; devils, angels, saints; philosophers, theologians, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Christ, and God the Father himself. There are also a number of poets, past and present. The most important, of course, is Virgil. What more important guide could an epic poet have than Publius Virgilius Maro, whose name—along with that of Homer—is virtually synonymous with the title of epic poet? Virgil’s Aeneid, the tale of Aeneas’ wanderings after the Trojan War, remains one of the great epics of all times. Book 6 of the Aeneid, in which the hero, who is
1 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
predestined to found Rome, travels to the underworld, was especially inspirational to Dante. The Divine Comedy—like the Aeneid and Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey—devotes a good deal of time to supernatural beings. Being a Christian epic, of course, Dante’s divinities are saints, angels, and the Trinity. All of these divine characters intervene in some way to speed the Pilgrim along on his trip to the Empyrean, that space of pure white light where God dwells. The Virgin Mary notifies Saint Lucy that Dante is in spiritual trouble. Saint Lucy, in turn, notifies the blessed Beatrice, who sends Virgil to guide her Pilgrim, the man who loved her on earth, through Hell and Purgatory. Dante chose to tell this massive tale of his Pilgrim’s trip through the three regions in verse, following the epic form. However, he did not write it in Latin, then the language of the church and of most serious religious poetry. Dante wrote in the vernacular, in the Tuscan dialect of his people. He did so because he wanted his message to be available to a wider audience, to include more than just those who could read Latin. Even though he wrote in the common tongue, his diction, the type of speech he used, is of the highest register, which perfectly suited his purposes. Flexible and expressive though it was (and is), Dante’s Tuscan dialect was not completely up to the task. This is no criticism of the language, for it is doubtful whether Latin or any other language would have suited him any better. The problem was that many of the things Dante needed and wanted to represent were just too otherworldly. Put another way, he had trouble describing God and parts of his Creation. Dante invented words, most famously the nearly untranslatable trasumanar, and had to resort to metaphor, to figurative language, consistently as he tried to replicate Creation. The section in which trasumanar occurs stands as a good example of the poet’s acknowledging his impossible task: ‘‘The passing beyond humanity [trasumanar] may not be set forth in words’’ (Paradise 1, l. 70). The closer his Pilgrim gets to God and the more he transcends (his) humanity, the more frequently Dante confesses that language fails him. Indeed, on a truly profound level, the entire poem is a metaphor, a figure for a journey that never happened but that seemingly had to have happened for Dante to write about it for his readers.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Papacy and Empire: The Decline Dante Alighieri was born into one of the most chaotic periods of Western European history. His birth in 1265 and death in 1321 meant that he witnessed the decline of the two most powerful social institutions of the Middle Ages, the Holy Roman Empire and the papacy. This degeneration—this loss of power, control and respect—affected Dante emotionally, psychologically, and politically. The conflicts between church and state constitute a major thread in Dante’s Divine Comedy and are the subject of his Latin treatise De Monarchia (On Monarchy). This work is his plea for a universal monarchy, one that would co-exist peacefully with a pope who would hold spiritual sovereignty over the same subjects. The process of decline began well before Dante’s birth and continued long after his death. By the thirteenth century, the papacy’s interests had grown ever more political and less and less spiritual. As C. Warren Hollister writes, it was at this time that the papacy ‘‘[lost] its hold on the heart of Europe.’’ By moving into national and imperial power politics and business, it created and widened the gulf between its increasingly secular agenda and the increasing spiritual needs of its members. Not only had the Roman Catholic Church lost the respect of its flock, it found itself constantly at odds with purely secular authorities. Kings of western and northern European countries were centralizing their power during the thirteenth century and felt threatened by the presence in their midst of this independent, very powerful institution. These monarchs found themselves in constant conflict with this massively influential power, an institution controlled from Rome and, therefore, less easy to control on a local level, for the hearts, minds, and coffers of its subjects. Such was particularly the case for the kings of England and France. After Boniface VIII passed the bull Unam Sanctum in 1302, declaring that all Christians concerned with the salvation of their souls owed allegiance to the papal monarchy, the situation decidedly took a turn for the worse. The king of France, Philip the Fair, captured Boniface at his palace in Anagni and tried to spirit him off to France for trial. Philip’s spiritual coup failed, but Boniface died in shame soon after. After Boniface’s death, the papal cardinals elected as pope the politically subservient
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
Frenchman Clement V. Clement’s moving the papacy from Rome to Avignon in 1309 instituted the so-called Babylonian Exile or Captivity, which lasted until 1377 and meant the end of the strong medieval papacy. The secular empire fared no better. Moving back three decades or so before Dante’s birth to the reign of the Sicilian-born emperor Frederick II, chaos was the norm in the secular realm, too. Pope Innocent III was Frederick’s mentor and supported his bid for the throne, thus demonstrating one significant instance of papal involvement in secular politics. Frederick’s desire to unify a fractious Italy and to make it the imperial center earned him the hatred of the papacy, caused him to lose a good portion of his German holdings and set much of Italy against him in rebellion. His enterprises made particular enemies of Gregory IX and Innocent IV. These popes built political alliances and used all their powers and sanctions to thwart Frederick’s plans, until 1245 when Innocent and a universal Roman Catholic Church council excommunicated this enemy of the papacy, this so-called Antichrist. The deposed Frederick died in 1250 and was not succeeded until 1273. In that year, Rudolph the Hapsburg was crowned emperor after a nineteenyear interregnum that further weakened the already unsteady imperial monarchy. Like Frederick in Italy, Rudolph wanted to extend and solidify his holdings, and, like his predecessor, aroused nothing but princely discontent. This discontent and the events leading up to it meant the start of six hundred years of German instability. Henry of Luxembourg followed as emperor in 1308, submitted to papal authority, and pledged to restore peace, beginning with Italy. Dante had high hopes for Henry’s monarchy, hopes which were never fulfilled. By this time Dante had grown more critical of Florentine politics and of the papacy, and he went so far as to urge Henry to attack Florence in 1311, when he was in Italy for his coronation. The emperor marched on Florence, but his efforts failed and meant, according to Marguerite Mills Chiarenza, ‘‘the end of Dante’s hopes for the reestablishment of effective imperial power in Italy in the foreseeable future.’’
Florence: Civic Strife Before and during Dante’s time, Italy was, as Charles T. Davis writes, ‘‘a peninsula united by language and history but not by any central government.’’ Indeed, according to Davis, ‘‘Italy remained, after the failure of Frederick II’s
V o l u m e
1
1 3 5
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1300s: The geocentric order of the Solar System, explained by Claudius Ptolemy (100–178), is accepted by educated people across Europe. Today: The heliocentric order of the Solar System, argued by Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543) and others, is understood as fact.
1300s: Christians believe that God presides over all creation and that all created entities are divinely arranged in a fixed hierarchical order. Today: Secular and religious hierarchies are widely observable in diverse societies, with money and power concentrated at the top among a few and increasingly larger groups
attempt to conquer her, in her habitual state of political chaos.’’ Dante was intensely displeased with the state of Florentine politics. Although the Florentine city-state was one of the most prosperous of its day, and although it flourished artistically, intellectually, and commercially, it had long been the site of intermittent civil war, gang violence, and family feuds, which took on regional and even international dimensions. This highly accomplished place was, then, something of a paradox: a thriving commercial and artistic center and yet politically a very dangerous place. This paradox produced Dante’s love/hate relationship with his native city. It did not help that he thought of Florence as the ‘‘most beautiful and famous daughter of Rome,’’ as he referred to it in De Vulgari Eloquentia (On the Vulgar Tongue). Much of the internal strife in Florence was caused by the Guelf and the Ghibelline parties, Italianized forms for the German Welf and Weiblingen. These groups had a long-standing adversarial relationship in Germany, dating to the twelfth century. Guelfs were traditionally associated with papal power and the French monarchy and the Ghibellines with imperial power, although the situation is far more complex than that. They
1 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
in descending economic classes. Conspicuous consumption characterizes the wealthy; starvation and widespread disease plague over one billion living in extreme poverty.
1300s: The Roman Catholic Church is the strongest religious institution in Europe. Along with its spiritual duties, the Church is involved in local and international politics, and learned men in all regions within the its influence speak its language, Latin. Today: International organizations such as the International Monetary Fund, United Nations, and North Atlantic Treaty Organization have worldwide influence. English is an internationally used language.
were introduced into Florentine politics following a quarrel arising out of the murder of Buondelmonte de’ Buondelmonti by members of the Amidei family on Easter Sunday, 1215. The Buondelmonti family headed the Guelf faction and the Uberti the Ghibelline one. After the murder, the Guelfs reached out to the papacy for support, the Ghibellines to the empire, and Florence became bitterly divided. Their struggles lasted in earnest (although did not really end) for sixty-three years, until 1278, and control of Florence shifted back and forth, from Guelf to Ghibelline hands. In 1266, one year after Dante’s birth, the Guelfs regained control of Florence and began nearly thirty years of peace and prosperity. They prevailed but in 1300 split themselves into factions, the White Guelfs and the Black Guelfs. The Whites were led by the rich and powerful Cerchi, a family of prosperous merchants who eventually associated themselves with the Ghibellines. The Blacks were led by the Donati, a family with banking interests all over Europe. Dante was intimately involved in this conflict, and although he was born into a Guelf family, he came to side with the Whites and the Ghibellines in opposition to a papal monarchy
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
that if he ever returned to Florence he would be arrested and burned alive. It seems probable that he never did return there.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW
Manuscript page from the Divine Comedy (The Library of Congress)
and to Charles of Valois. Dante participated in military service as a member of the cavalry, which he joined in 1289. He fought with Florence and her Guelf allies against Arezzo, in their victory at the battle of Campaldino in 1289, and in the Guelf victory at Caprona in August of that year. In 1295, he served on the People’s Council of the Commune of Florence and as a member of the council that elected that city’s Priors. In 1296, he was on the Council of the Hundred, an influential political body involved in Florentine civic and financial matters. He traveled as ambassador to San Gimignano in 1300 and was elected that year to the high office of prior. Again as ambassador, he was sent by the Whites to meet with Pope Boniface at Anagni. While he was away, the Whites lost power, and the Blacks exiled Dante for two years. They charged him with conspiracy against the pope and Florence. Dante refused to appear at his hearing in 1302 or to pay his fines, since he thought doing so would be an admission of guilt. The Blacks told him
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Dante’s poem, particularly its allegorical qualities, provoked commentary almost from the moment of its completion. Indeed, Dante himself was perhaps its first critic. In a letter he wrote to his patron, Can Grande della Scala, the man to whom he dedicated the Paradise, Dante suggested his poem be read on four levels. The first level is the literal one, on which the poem is about a physical journey toward God taken by the poet himself. The other three levels are allegorical, abstractly symbolic, and ever more complex. From the beginning of the epic’s public life, commentators were driven to pull these abstract allegorical meanings out of Dante’s poem, to uncover deeper meanings in its literal level, as they did with Scripture. As Ricardo Quinones notes in Dante Alighieri, there were twelve commentaries written on the Divine Comedy between Dante’s death in 1321 to 1400. Dante, a political exile, was praised in the year of his death by his fellow Florentine, Giovanni Villani, who included a biography and praises of Dante in his chronicle of Florence. Dante’s sons Jacopo and Pietro were the first to write commentaries on the Divine Comedy, and their work, like that of other early commentators, is vital to understanding the socio-cultural references that pervade the work. (Many of these commentaries are online as of 2010 and accessible through the Dartmouth Dante Project.) The Florentine poet Boccaccio was the first real keeper of the flame, though. He wrote the first life of Dante and gave the first university lectures on the Divine Comedy in Florence during the academic year (1373–1374). His correspondence with the poet Francesco Petrarch is particularly revealing, because it provides a glimpse of the beginnings of a poetical rivalry with Dante that was to continue for years and because the correspondence reveals that Petrarch felt rather envious of his contemporary’s popularity. It was not until 1481, though, that Dante’s name was fully restored in his native Florence. That year the city produced a major edition of Dante’s poem in which Cristoforo Landino referred to him as ‘‘divino poeta’’
V o l u m e
1
1 3 7
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
(divine poet). This adjective, as Quinones reports, was used in the 1555 Venetian edition of the work and applied to the title. From then on, the poem that Dante called his Commedia became known as his Divina Commedia, the Divine Comedy. However, as Werner Friederich in Dante’s Fame Abroad points out, such veneration was not sustained in western Europe through the nineteenth century. Although Dante has been a major force of inspiration in English letters since Geoffrey Chaucer, in countries where the Enlightenment took stronger hold, such as France, his reception was less favorable. The predominance of rational thought there and a reliance on grammatical and rhetorical studies during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries meant that Dante’s poem fell from favor. German readers and critics valued Dante more during this time for his antipapal stance than as a poet, and in Spain after the fifteenth century, Friederich writes that Dante was ‘‘completely neglected.’’ Dante does not seem to have had much impact in the United States during this time, although Thomas Jefferson was interested in his poetry. There was also the occasional article on Dante in American magazines. Interest in the United States really did not begin in earnest, though, until the nineteenth century with writers such as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The latter’s magnificent translation of the Divine Comedy, published in 1867, continued to be read into the early 2000s. In the nineteenth century, with the rise of Romanticism, scholarship changed rather dramatically regarding Dante’s epic. The literarycritical focus shifted from grammar and rhetoric to dramatic, historical, and national concerns. Romantic critics tended to focus on the poem’s drama, on the way Dante characterized the inhabitants of the three regions, and to ignore the poem’s allegorical and theological aspects. Dante’s Inferno was the inspiration for a number of compassionate character studies. Francesco DeSanctis’ famous essay on Francesca da Rimini, whom Dante placed in hell for adultery (Inferno 5), is a classic of the genre. For critics like DeSanctis, the value in the poem—particularly Inferno—derives from the pleasure the reader gets from its dramatic characterizations. This interest led to critical sympathizing with figures such as Francesca and the belief that Dante, too,
1 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
must have felt this way. Although not surprising, given the romantics’ emphasis on feeling and emotion in their own poetry, such readings of this medieval text are misguided. Using Francesca as an example, critics like DeSanctis were seduced by her poetic monologue, just as Dante’s Pilgrim is. The latter faints out of sympathy with Francesca’s plight because he misreads her lust for the adulterous Paolo as love. In the early twentieth century, Benedetto Croce reacted to such romantic readings by separating the poem’s structure from its theology. Nonetheless, as Marguerite Mills Chiarenza states in The Divine Comedy: Tracing God’s Art, Croce found Dante at his best when he was intuitive. Ironically, then, Croce legitimized the romantics’ focus on compassion and drama. After all, Croce argued, allegory is artificial and doctrinal—anything but intuitive—and a work that relies upon such artifice is not poetry. Although such assertions meant that Croce’s theories were hard for many to accept, he did influence a large following. After Croce, two American Dante scholars greatly influenced response to the work: Charles Singleton and John Freccero. Singleton’s facingpage edition of the poem became the standard edition for American critics and offers a wealth of scholarship and interpretation. Singleton argued for an organic or holistic reading of the Divine Comedy, and Freccero went even farther in this direction. Their work garnered legions of followers. Efforts to collect critical materials for readers and scholars have resulted in several useful books. Editor Anne Paolucci’s two volumes of the lectures of Professor Dino Bigongiari, delivered to his graduate Dante course at Columbia University in the 1950s, preserve the insights of one of the great Dante scholars of the twentieth century in Backgrounds of the Divine Comedy (2005) and Readings in the Divine Comedy (2006). Readers get useful overviews in the short articles by noted Dante scholars in the updated Cambridge Companion to Dante, edited by Rachel Jacoff (2007). Critics have also responded to the burgeoning representation of Dante’s epic in the visual arts, film, and performing arts in Dante on View: The Reception of Dante in the Visual and Performing Arts, edited by Antonella Braida, Luisa Cale,` and Alex Cooper in 2007.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
CRITICISM Daniel Terkla Terkla holds a PhD in comparative literature from the University of Southern California and is professor of English and humanities coordinator at Illinois Wesleyan University. In the following essay, he traces the Pilgrim’s journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. By focusing on one primary image in each of the poem’s main sections, he demonstrates how the Pilgrim attains wisdom and argues that, ideally, the pilgrim reader also may do so. Dante’s Divine Comedy is a poetical paradox, a brilliant failure. How can one of the great works of Western literature—one of the most innovative, profound and, in many ways, unsurpassed poems of the Middle Ages—be a failure? Put simply, neither Dante nor any poet before or after him was capable of accomplishing this impossible task: to use the imperfect medium of language to represent convincingly and accurately his journey to Paradise and, even more problematic, to write God, to represent the unrepresentable. Dante himself was aware of the impossibility of his undertaking, of course, and this drove him even harder, pushed him to lead his reader to that final, stunning vision of God. Most astonishingly, he very nearly succeeded. As the Pilgrim travels toward God, the poet’s task becomes increasingly difficult. The closer Dante moved his Pilgrim to his goal, the more regularly his language failed him, until he had to admit that his descriptive ‘‘wings were not sufficient,’’ that his ‘‘power failed lofty phantasy’’ (Paradise 33, ll. 139, 142). In order to leave his reader with the essence of the moment when the Pilgrim’s ‘‘mind was smitten by a flash wherein its wish [to know the mind of God] came to it’’ (Paradise 33, ll. 141-42), Dante had to rely upon metaphor. This kind of figurative language is perhaps the most potent tool for image-making and asserts that two dissimilar objects are in some way equivalent, that, for example, a poem is equivalent to a journey. We know that Dante’s poem is not a literal journey, but it is a figurative one, a metaphorical one. Seeing it in this way allows the reader to cross from the indescribable to the describable, to consider for him- or herself how and why this poetic pilgrimage is relevant to the road of life all travel. Dante’s poem is fundamentally didactic, that is, instructive. In order to accommodate our low-level understanding of the poem’s
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
UNDAUNTED BY HIS UNDERTAKING AND DRIVEN BY THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF FULFILLING IT, DANTE STROVE TO MIRROR CREATION AND TO LEAD HIS READER TO SEE THE ‘LOVE WHICH MOVES THE SUN AND THE OTHER STARS.’’’
theological, philosophical, and historical components, it guides its armchair pilgrims carefully through a plethora of unfamiliar images and mystical paradoxes. Dante managed this by constructing his world’s three spaces in a logical order. As the Pilgrim experiences Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, he really re-experiences events Dante the poet claims to have had in his life. Thus, the reader follows the Pilgrim through spaces that present the poet’s memories. As Frances A. Yates writes in his classic study, The Art of Memory: If one thinks of the poem as based on the orders of places in Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, and as a cosmic order of places in which spheres of Hell are the spheres of Heaven in reverse, it begins to appear as a summa [full collection] of similitudes and exempla, ranged in order and set out upon the universe.
Taken together, then, Dante’s remembrances, presented as striking poetic images, produce the world of the Divine Comedy and thus reproduce his supposed journey to Heaven. The Pilgrim receives these images via his sight, which functions on three levels: the ocular or physical, the spiritual, and the intellectual. These levels derive from the writings of Saint Augustine, which were a major influence on Dante’s thought and which correspond to stages of understanding and to cantiche, or what we might call books, of the Divine Comedy: ocular in Inferno, spiritual in Purgatory, and intellectual in Paradise. The lowest level, the ocular, includes sensual experiences of things terrestrial and celestial. It therefore corresponds to the physical nature of Inferno and its closing view of ‘‘the beautiful things that heaven bears’’ (34, ll. 137-38). Level two, spiritual vision and Purgatory mesh in the same way. In this second canticle, the Pilgrim’s spiritual vision makes possible
V o l u m e
1
1 3 9
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Saint Augustine’s Confessions had a profound influence on Dante. An excellent translation by R. S. Pine-Coffin (Penguin Classics, 1961) makes this work accessible to students. Giovanni Boccaccio and Leonardo Bruni Aretino, authors in their own rights, wrote early biographies of Dante. Boccaccio’s came some fifty years after Dante died, and Aretino’s followed soon after. Translated by James Robinson Smith, the biographies can be found in The Earliest Lives of Dante, which reissued by Nabu Press in 2010.
of his sources, and here, the boy Diamond, like Dante’s Pilgrim, must go through a redefining spiritual journey to reach heaven. The North Wind is Beatrice, who teaches Diamond about the world and about life, death, and the afterlife.
William Buck’s 1976 retelling of the Indian epic Ramayana reads like a novel and, like Dante’s poem, gives a vision of heaven and hell. The divine prince, Rama, travels to the kingdom of the demons to rescue his wife, Sita. His triumphant return establishes the kingdom of heaven on earth. George MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind, published originally in 1871 and reprinted in 2009, is a children’s classic good for young adult and older adult readers. MacDonald acknowledged Dante as one
the encounters with the angels and the dreams he has. Finally, the Pilgrim’s visions of the Earthly Paradise, Christ, and God in Paradise conform to Augustine’s description of the third and highest level of vision, the intellectual. The Pilgrim and reader take in images, store them in their memories, convert them to knowledge—to what Hugh of Saint Victor called history—and graduate to the next level of understanding. As the Pilgrim (and readers following him) progresses from one spherical realm to the next, Dante’s fictional teachers materialize, test, and instruct him about what he has learned. Along with this instruction, Dante’s unique metaphors accommodate the Pilgrim’s weak understanding by converting
1 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
John Milton’s Paradise Lost, the great Protestant epic of the seventeenth century, tells the story of Creation, the fall of Lucifer, and the Fall of Man. In some ways, the epic is also a commentary on Dante’s Catholic Comedy. Perhaps the most useful copy for new readers to use is Gordon Teskey’s Norton Critical edition, which appeared in 2004.
The bestseller mystery by Matthew Pearl, The Dante Club, which Ballantine Books published in 2006, is set in nineteenth-century Boston and includes Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who translated Dante, as well as Oliver Wendell Holmes and James Russell Lowell. Written by a Dante scholar, the novel tells how the club members are able to solve the murder based on their knowledge of Dante and his poem, details of which are packed into the story.
difficult concepts into visual images that they can be more easily deciphered and more easily stored in memory for later retrieval. These images accumulate as knowledge of sin and salvation, which the Pilgrim and Dante’s readers process into divine wisdom, all of which prepare them for the final vision of God in Paradise. After graduating from each training level, the Pilgrim is ready to see with his mind, to link to the mind of God in the most profound way possible. The fact that the Pilgrim achieves one of these levels of vision in each of the three books, suggests that Dante saw them as plottable points upon an ascending scale that moves from potential damnation to certain illumination. This upward
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
itinerary demonstrates in small how wisdom is attained by focusing on one vibrant image from each canticle. There are a number of places in the poem where one could begin to chart this progression, but the appearance of Geryon in Inferno (16) is the first instance of the truly outlandish. As such, it works nicely as an example of a visual image processed by the lowest level of vision, which is then firmly imprinted on the reader’s memory. In this section, the Pilgrim and Virgil find themselves at the rim of the Great Barrier and in need of a way down to lower hell, the last of the three infernal regions, where sinners are punished for ever more serious kinds of fraud. The travelers stand at ‘‘the verge’’ (Inferno 17, l. 32) that separates these regions. Virgil, the Pilgrim’s guide and teacher, tosses his student’s belt over the edge, causing the Pilgrim to wonder: ‘‘‘Surely . . . , something strange will answer this signal that my master follows so with his eye’’’ (Inferno 17, ll. 115-16). True to form, the strangest vehicle in the Divine Comedy swims into view, Geryon. This bizarre image of fraud is a patchwork of man and painted serpent: ‘‘His face was the face of a man, so complaisant was its outward appearance, and all of the rest of his trunk serpentine; he had two paws which were hairy to his armpits; his back and chest and both sides were painted with knots and small wheels’’ (Inferno 17, ll. 10-15). Faced with this incredible apparition, the poet asks his reader to trust him, to trust this metaphorical voyage and all it represents. What better infernal example, with perhaps the exception of Lucifer, is there of Augustine’s first level of vision? This is, after all, the creature on whose back the Pilgrim swears he flies down to Hell’s depths: ‘‘I cannot be silent; and by the notes of this Comedy, reader, I swear to you, so that they may not fail of lasting favor’’ (Inferno 16, ll. 12729). There was no need for ‘‘I swear to you,’’ unless Dante knew or expected his reader to doubt his word—or unless he wanted to impress this image upon the reader’s memory. Dante knew that the strangeness of this creature would be surpassed by the vision of Lucifer frozen in the pit of hell—not engulfed in flames as people might expect—and sets the reader up for it by challenging the reader with Geryon. Dante’s Lucifer is not just a perverted version of God; he is not the Trinity, not love, not hope, not charity, neither light nor any longer the bringer of light, not order, not calm, not peace,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
not harmony. The list of negative descriptors is as infinite as God is positively indescribable. Given these considerations and Lucifer’s heavy corporeality, readers can say with Francis X. Newman that ‘‘The confrontation with Satan is the ultimate exercise of the [corporeal vision] since Satan is the ultimate center of corporeality.’’ If readers have little faith in the poet, what will they make of his final vision, of that moment when Dante writes God? Incredulous though they might be at this point, Dante schools them from his unique perspective and pulls them along as the Pilgrim climbs to Heaven. As the Pilgrim comes upon Lucifer, Dante again challenges his reader: ‘‘How frozen and faint I then became, ask not, reader, for I do not write it, because all words would fail. I was not dead nor did I remain alive: now think for yourself, if you have any wit, what I became, deprived of both the one and the other’’ (Inferno 34, ll. 2227). This address to the reader is more intense, more insistent, than the one above. Here is no mere oddity like Geryon: This is the one and only Satan (Inferno 34, l. 127), cause of all the world’s troubles. The address to the reader insures that close attention is paid to this dramatic manifestation of the ultimate corporeal vision. The sight of Satan is so horrific that the poet cannot explain his feelings. Language fails him and Dante tells the reader to ‘‘think for yourself’’; make this image and moment yours; feel something of what I felt at the moment. Here the reader and the Pilgrim have experienced the worst of the corporeal universe; here poet, Pilgrim, and reader momentarily merge in experience. After this profound encounter, readers are ready to move with the Pilgrim to Augustine’s second level of understanding, that of spiritual vision. Purgatory (17), halfway through the Divine Comedy, is an excellent location from which to view this process of growth, change, and education. In this section, Virgil lectures on the crucial doctrine of love as the driving force. This is also the point in the poem where the Pilgrim figuratively comes out of his fog to see the sun, a moment that foreshadows the poem’s final vision. This is such a monumental occurrence that Dante again challenges his reader to confront a startling image and to participate in his Pilgrim’s spiritual education: Recall, reader, if ever in the mountains a mist has caught you, through which you could not see except as moles do through the skin, how, when the moist dense vapors begin to dissipate,
V o l u m e
1
1 4 1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
the sphere of the sun enters feebly through them, and your imagination will quickly come to see how, at first, I saw the sun again, which was now setting. So, matching mine to the trusty steps of my master, I came forth from such a fog to the rays which were already dead on the low shores. (Purgatory 17, ll. 1 9)
Dante expects the reader to match both imaginative power and figurative steps with his Pilgrim, to follow spiritually and ‘‘physically’’ as he ascends. Here he compares the Pilgrim’s mental state to that of a man in an alpine fog, a state in which imagination cannot function because the fog of physicality and faulty vision block the light of God. A glimpse of the sun, of loving enlightenment, is necessary to drive away the confusion before the Pilgrim and reader can confront fully the solar brilliance of divine wisdom. By reading through the skin, so to speak, like Dante’s mole, by seeing through the parchment of the poem, the reader perceives a glimmer of this divine light. Dante fittingly situates his foggy image here and requires his Pilgrim and the reader to ‘‘see’’ at the spiritual level. This transitional space, midway through the poem, requires readers to engage both external and internal modes of sensory perception, if they are to rise to the middle level of understanding. To paraphrase Paul, here in Purgatory things are seen darkly through a glass. This is the realm of dreams, the shadowy zone where imagination holds sway: O imagination, which at times steals us from things outside, which does not leave man aware, even though a thousand trumpets sound, what moves you if the senses offer you nothing? You are moved by the light which is formed in heaven or by the will that sends it. (Purgatory 17, ll. 13 18)
Here we read as the poet calls upon his own ‘‘imagination,’’ linking it to the reader’s before wondering about its source. But what does he mean by imagination? FollowingAristotle, ThomasAquinas explained it as an interior sense, a kind of treasure chest, into which images are received through the physical senses and within which they are stored. The ‘‘light which is formed in heaven’’ sends down instructively helpful images to engage the reader’s imagination. We store images of Geryon, Lucifer, and the mole in the treasure chest of memory. As Charles Singleton explains in his notes on Purgatory, such ‘‘images descend into the mind directly from God, whose will directs them downward’’ to helpusunderstandthingsdivine.Thisfitsnicelywith the spherical universe in which Dante situates his Divine Comedy. The Primum Mobile, the First
1 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
Mover, drives all of the other spheres, which it contains. In turn, the First Mover is contained by the Empyrean, that heaven which exists only in the mind—in the imagination—of God. This is the source of the poet’s inspiration. After crossing from the sphere of the Primum Mobile to the Empyrean, the Pilgrim’s interior vision takes over. He ‘‘sees’’ via his intellect, while the reader is left longing to duplicate his experience and Dante strives to write what he has seen. Fully aware of the task before him, he summons all his talent to write that final moment: ‘‘And I who was coming near the end of all I desired, as I should, raised high the desire burning in me’’ (Paradise 33, ll. 46-48). Shifting to the present tense at the end of his poem, returning to his life in exile, Dante questions his memory before trying to describe his vision of God, the ‘‘infinite good’’ (Paradise 33, l. 81). Such a task not surprisingly brings with it descriptive failure, and Dante admits his shortcomings a number of times in Paradise (33). In fact, Dante tells us that his memory is obliterated by this sight and that it would be easier to remember 2500 years back to Jason’s voyage with his Argonauts, the first ever: ‘‘One moment brings greater forgetfulness than twenty-five centuries’’ (Paradise 33, ll. 94-96). But since the love of God survives even after human memory fails, Dante can—indeed, must—tell us of that instant when he achieved spiritual stasis, peace in God: Therefore my mind, completely suspended, was gazing fixed, immobile and intent, and ever desirous to see more. In that light one becomes such that it would be impossible to think of turning from it for another sight; because the good, which is the object of the will, is completely gathered in it, and outside of this everything is defective that is perfect here. (Paradise 33, ll. 97 105)
As Mark Musa has written, here the Pilgrim witnesses ‘‘the conjoining of substance and accident in God and the union of the temporal and the eternal.’’ To depict as best he can the vision of God, Dante turns to the language of mathematics, to ‘‘Geometry, [which] is whitest, in as much as it is without error.’’ This is the goal toward which his massive poetic machine has moved, and the image of squaring the circle (a feat still unaccomplished) is the perfect figure for the immensity of his task: Like the geometer who completely sets himself to measuring the circle, and in thinking cannot find the principle which he needs, so was I at that new sight. I wished to see how the image
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
Comedy are informed by Aeneas’s two departures from Dido in the Aeneid.
Dante encounters Pope Adrian V in Hell (Bettmann Corbis)
came together in the circle and how it fit there; but my own wings were not sufficient for that, until my mind was smitten by a flash wherein its wish came to it. Here power failed lofty fantasy; but my desire and my will already were turned, like a wheel in balance that is moved by the love which moves the sun and the other stars. (Paradise 34, ll. 133 45).
Undaunted by his undertaking and driven by the impossibility of fulfilling it, Dante strove to mirror Creation and to lead his reader to see the ‘‘love which moves the sun and the other stars.’’ Here Pilgrim achieves that full intellectual vision, brief but total and overwhelming understanding of the Godhead, and the reader should, ideally for Dante, desire the same. If this happens, if we experience a slight ray of this burst of light and love through Dante’s seven-hundred-year-old text, we cannot but characterize the moment and the poem that led us there as brilliant. Source: Daniel Terkla, Critical Essay on Divine Comedy, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Kevin Brownlee In the following essay, Brownlee explores how the two departures of Dante’s guides in the Divine
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
It is a commonplace of Dante criticism to say that the Divine Comedy is, in many important ways, a first-person, Christian re-writing of Virgil’s Aeneid. Yet the full implications of this central fact of the Commedia’s structure and meaning are still being explored and extended—so dense and so rich are the Italian poet’s readings and transformations of his Latin model. One of the most complex and suggestive aspects of this master-example of intertextuality is the Divine Comedy’s presentation of its protagonist as a new Aeneas: the Christian poetic—and prophetic—vocation of Dante Alighieri is underwritten by the story of the pagan—but providentially inspired—Aeneas’s founding of Rome. The explicit initial link between the protagonist of the Commedia and the protagonist of the Aeneid occurs in a famous passage in Inferno 2: After having been informed by Virgil of his extraordinary election to the privilege of a journey to the afterlife before he has experienced death, Danteprotagonist expresses his incredulity and his sense of unworthiness, First he adduces successful past models for such a journey: while still alive ‘‘di Silvı¨o il parente’’ (If. 2.13) [the father of Silvius] visited the underworld and ‘‘lo Vas d’elezı¨one’’ (If. 2.28) [the Chosen Vessel] journeyed to Heaven in order to advance Christian providential history. Then, Dante-protagonist affirms his difference from these models: ‘‘Ma io, perche´ venirvi? o chi ’l concede? / lo non Ene¨a, io non Paulo sono’’ (If. 2.31–32) [But I, why do I come there? And who allows it? I am not Aeneas, I am not Paul]. This famous double denial has long been read as a kind of negative self-definition: Dante is in effect affirming that he is both Aeneas and Paul. That is to say, his journey will be modeled on theirs; he will be a new Aeneas and a new St. Paul. The present essay explores a particularly striking and suggestive way in which Dante functions as a new Aeneas: how the two departures of Dante’s guides in the Commedia are informed by Aeneas’s two departures from Dido in the Aeneid. First, I will consider the final exchange between Dido and Aeneas at the moment of the latter’s departure from Carthage (Aen. 4.305–96) as a subtext for the elaborate ‘‘confrontation’’ between Beatrice and Dante in Purgatorio 30 and 31, initiated by Dante’s reaction to the disappearance of Virgil. Second, I will consider the final meeting and definitive separation of Dido
V o l u m e
1
1 4 3
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
turn on me a glance? Did he yield and shed tears or pity her who loved him? (vv. 365 70) THE DANTE WHO FAINTS FROM THE RIGHT KIND OF REMORSE IN RESPONSE TO THE WORDS OF HIS LADY THUS FUNCTIONS AS A CORRECTION OF THE AENEAS WHO DID NOT RESPOND TO THE WORDS OF HIS LADY, AND WHO IS NOT OVERWHELMED BY (THE WRONG KIND OF) REMORSE.’’
and Aeneas in the underworld (Aen. 6.450–76) as a subtext for Dante’s reaction to the disappearance of Beatrice in Paradiso 31. What is at issue, I would like to suggest, is a multiple set of parallels in Dante’s alignment of these four textual loci. Of central importance to the way in which these various textual parallels function is the question of effective communication, of the power of words to move the listener. Let us start with Aeneid 4. When Dido learns that Aeneas is secretly preparing to leave Carthage and to abandon her, she confronts him in a long passage of accusation and reproach (vv. 305–330). She presents herself explicitly as weeping and as praying: ‘‘mene fugis? per ego has lacrimas dextramque tuam te . . . oro, si quis adhuc precibus locus, exue mentem’’ (vv. 314; 319) [Do you flee from me? By these tears and your right hand, I pray you . . . if yet there be any room for prayers, put away this purpose of yours]. The introduction to Aeneas’s reply clearly indicates that he has given no external signs of having been moved by Dido’s words: ‘‘Dixerat. ille lovis monitis immota tenebat / lumina et obnixus curam sub corde premebat’’ (vv. 331–32) [She finished: he by Jove’s command held his eyes steadfast and with a struggle smothered the pain deep within his heart]. It is this lack of responsiveness that Dido emphasizes at the opening of her reaction to Aeneas’s attempt at self-justification (vv. 333–61): ...
Even after Dido’s second prayer speech (vv. 365–87), then, Aeneas shows no signs of being moved and continues in his original intention, i.e., to leave Carthage for Italy. In Purgatorio 30, a complex recasting of this first departure from Dido by Aeneas is at issue. The program is set in motion at the extraordinarily important moment that introduces Beatrice’s first direct appearance in the Commedia. For the advent of Beatrice is heralded by the disappearance of Virgil. When Dante-protagonist sees Beatrice for the first time, his intense affective reaction is so powerfully mediated by a key subtext from the Aeneid that the scene is presented as a recasting of that moment in Aeneid 4 when Dido begins to realize that she has fallen in love with the Trojan hero. Having just seen Beatrice, Dante turns to Virgil with the intention of saying to him ‘‘conosco i segni de l’antica fiamma’’ (Pg. 30.48) [I recognize the signs of the ancient flame], thus echoing the words of Dido’s initial confession to her sister Anna: ‘‘adgnosco veteris vestigia flammae’’ (Aen. 4.234) [I recognize the traces of the old flame]. This initial evocation of the Virgilian subtext, as many commentators have pointed out, thus presents the Commedia’s Virgilio as Anna to Dante’s Dido and Beatrice’s Aeneas. The striking gender reversal in this construct is both modified and exploited in the following narrative sequence—arguably the most dramatic in the entire Divine Comedy—as Dante-protagonist, confidently turning toward his beloved guide, discovers that Virgil has disappeared. The tears that Dante sheds over this event constitute, I submit, a transitional moment in terms of the Virgilian subtext, as Dante-protagonist—still playing the role of Dido—weeps over the sudden and inevitable (i.e., providential) departure of Virgil who now plays the role not of Anna, but of Aeneas. A second shift (in terms of the Virgilian model text) occurs as Beatrice, in her first direct discourse in the Commedia (and in the poem’s only naming of its author), simultaneously reproaches Dante for his tears on Virgil’s behalf, and exhorts him to cry in a different—and better—way: ...
False one! no goddess was your mother, nor was Dardanus founder of your line, but rugged Cau casus on his flinty rocks begat you, and Hyrca nian tigresses suckled you. For why hide my feelings? or for what greater wrongs do I hold myself back? Did he sigh while I wept? Did he
1 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
Dante, because Virgil leaves you, do not weep yet, do not weep yet, for you must weep for another sword! (Pg. 30.55 57)
It is worth noting that the last words of the two speeches which flank Dante’s discovery of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
Virgil’s disappearance in the context of an Aenean/Didonian subtext are fiamma (48) and spada (57), thus evoking the fire that first metaphorically then literally burns Dido in Aeneid 4, and the sword which transforms her metaphorical wound of love at the opening into the literal wound which kills her at the close of Aeneid 4. In terms of the progressive transformation of the Virgilian model effected by the unfolding plot line of Purgatorio 30, Beatrice—at the moment of her initial reproach to Dante—figures the Dido of Aeneid 4 in bono, while Dante, as we shall see, figures the Aeneas of Aeneid 4 in bono. First of all, Beatrice here is presented as speaking regalmente [royally] (v. 70): she is a queen, like Dido. Second, her words to her former lover are a reproach for faithlessness, as Dido’s were to Aeneas in Aeneid 4. Third, Beatrice’s insistence that her interlocutor look at her is one of the strongest parts of her rebuke (Pg. 30.73). Finally, Dante—unlike his negative Aenean model—does respond to the reproaches of his Beatrice-Dido: In a passage that dramatically ‘‘corrects’’ Aeneas’s response to Dido’s reproaches in Aeneid 4 in a Christian context, Dante reacts to Beatrice’s condemnation of his behavior by crying and sighing: ... The ice that was bound tight around my heart became breath and water, and with my anguish poured from my breast through my mouth and eyes. Pg 30.97 99
Within the plot line of the Commedia, this response of Dante as a corrected Christian Aeneas to Beatrice as a corrected Christian Dido, leads directly to the protagonist’s salvation: contrition leads to confession which leads to penance. It is also significant to note here that the most important of Beatrice’s reproaches to the repentant Dante are strikingly reminiscent of Dido’s proleptic reproaches to Aeneas in Aeneid 4. Dido accuses Aeneas of being on the verge of leaving her, of planning to be unfaithful; Beatrice accuses Dante of having already been unfaithful to her, of having forgotten/ abandoned her after her death (Pg. 30.106–45; Pg. 31.43–63). A final significant recall of the Virgilian subtext occurs at the moment when Beatrice, having obtained Dante’s confession and fully explained his fault to him, commands him to raise his head and look at her with the striking phrase: ‘‘alza la barba, / e prenderai piu` doglia riguardando’’ (Pg. 31.68) [lift up your beard and you will. receive more grief through seeing]. The simile used to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
describe Dante’s reluctance to respond to Beatrice is quite significant: ... With less resistance is the sturdy oak uprooted, whether by wind of ours or by that which blows from Iarbas’s land, than at her command I raised my chin (Pg. 31.70 73)
The use of the phrase ‘‘la terra di Iarba’’ as a periphrasis for North Africa is the only mention in the Commedia of the name of Dido’s unsuccessful suitor, king of the Gaetulians in Numidia. What is evoked is both Dido’s love affair with Aeneas, and her abandonment by him. For it is Iarbas who, moved by the fama of Aeneas’s affair with Dido (Aen. 4.196–97), prays to Jupiter (Aen. 4.198–218), and thus causes Mercury to order Aeneas to leave Dido and sail for Italy (Aen. 4.219–78). The reference to Iarbas in Purgatorio 31.72 serves to recall the destructive Virgilian erotic passion of Aeneid 4, at the very moment that it is being dominated, corrected—even ‘‘sublimated’’—by the Christian poetics of Dante-protagonist’s successful conversion by and to Beatrice. In this context, it is worth enumerating each of the three moments when Iarbas is mentioned in the course of Aeneid 4. The first time involves Anna (4.35–43), who invokes both Dido’s rejection of Iarbas as an undesirable suitor and the possible military danger such a rejection might pose to Carthage as reasons for Dido to yield to her new love for (and potential resulting military alliance with) Aeneas. The Carthaginian queen’s initial fidelity to Sychaeus in rejecting Iarbas and her subsequent breach of that fidelity with the newly arrived Trojan prince are thus evoked simultaneously. Aeneid 4’s third and final reference to Iarbas comes in Dido’s first speech of reproach to Aeneas for his plans to abandon her: she desperately invokes the possibility of her future capture by Iarbas as a consequence of Aeneas’s leaving her alone, dishonored and unprotected (Aen. 4.326). Aeneid 4’s central and most elaborate reference to Iarbas, his prayer to Jupiter (4.206–18)—a resentful complaint about Aeneas’s amorous success with Dido—serves as the diegetic cause for the divine intervention that ends the lovers’ idyll, as I mentioned above. The reference to Iarbas in Purgatorio 31 thus evokes— in a variety of inter-related ways—the failure of erotic love associated with Dido. At the same time, the comparison between Dante-protagonist and the uprooted oak in Purgatorio 31 evokes and dramatically reverses the
V o l u m e
1
1 4 5
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
culminating moment of Aeneas’s first departure from Dido in Aeneid 4. The Virgilian subtext occurs at the point where the frantic Dido, after having failed herself to convince Aeneas to stay with her, sends her sister Anna to attempt to move her former lover, to persuade him to postpone his departure from Carthage (Aen. 4.416– 36). Anna’s repeated pleading does not succeed: ‘‘sed nullius ille movetur / fletibus, aut voces ullas tractabilis audit’’ Aen. 4.438–39) [but by no tearful pleas is he moved, nor in yielding mood pays he heed to any words]. Aeneas’s definitive resistance to Dido’s final (indirect) plea is articulated by means of an extended simile: ... Even as when northern Alpine winds, blowing now hence, now thence, emulously strive to uproot an oak strong with the strength of years, there comes a roar, the stem quivers and the high leafage thickly strews the ground, but the oak clings to the crag, and as far as it lifts its top to the airs of heavens, so far it strikes its roots down towards hell even so with ceaseless appeals, from this side and from that, the hero is buffeted, and in his mighty heart feels the thrill of grief: steadfast stands his will; the tears fall in vain. (Aen. 4.441 49)
Aeneas’s successful resistance to Dido’s words is required by the poetics of the Aeneid, and the figure of the annoso valida cum robore quercus which remains upright is thus positive. The Christian poetics of the Commedia require on the contrary that Dante-protagonist yield to the power of Beatrice’s words: the positive figure is here the uprooted robusto cerro. What results is a striking instance of what Robert Ball has termed the difference between Virgilian pietas and Dantean pieta` At the same time, this corrective inversion by Dante of his Aenean model carries the larger Christian implication of ‘‘weakness as strength,’’ of ‘‘dying into life.’’ At the level of plot, the ensuing vision of Beatrice will lead to the culmination of Dante’s contrition, as he faints from the intensity of his remorse (Pg. 32.85–90). What follows is his absolution in Lethe, and his full entrance into the Earthly Paradise, i.e., the successful continuation of Dante’s ‘‘divine mission’’ as a new Aeneas (which involves his own personal salvation). In this connection, I would like to consider an additional textual model for Dante’s contrition. In the Aenean/Didonian context set up for Purgatorio 31 (most explicitly) by the Iarbas reference, I suggest that the wind (vento, v. 71) which uproots the sturdy oak in the simile recalls
1 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
the venti punishing the Lustful in Inferno 5. Vento is used four times in the canto of Paolo and Francesca, the greatest number in a single canto in the entire Commedia: vv. 30, 75, 79, 96. This recall of Inferno 5 helps to introduce the moment of Dante’s contrition in Purgatorio 31. A key contrast is suggested: the right tears and sighs [‘‘lagrime e sospiri’’] of Dante in Purgatorio 31.20 recall and reverse the incorrect lagrimar (of Dante) and the incorrect dolci sospiri (of Francesca) in Inferno 5.117–18. This ‘‘redeemed’’ (and ‘‘redemptive’’) instance of passion leads to contrition and, ultimately, to salvation. Dante’s faint in Purgatorio 31.89 plays a crucial role in this network of intra- and inter-textual references: He faints from the intensity of his remorse (penter, 85; riconoscenza, 88): ‘‘io caddi vinto’’ (Purg. 31.89) [I fell overcome]—conquered by/into spiritual life. In Inferno 5, Dante-protagonist was still susceptible to the wrong kind of passion, and fainted from the intensity of pity (pietade, 140), i.e., fellow feeling with ‘‘dead’’ sinners, complicity in Francesca’s lust (and her ‘‘lustful’’ language). There his faint involved the risk of spiritual death: ‘‘io venni men cosı` com’io morisse. / E caddi come corpo morto cade’’ (Inf. 5.14142) [I swooned as if I were dead, and fell as a dead body falls]. Thus Dante’s faint caused by Beatrice in Purgatorio 31 recalls and corrects his faint caused by Francesca in Inferno 5. The Iarbas reference in Purgatorio 31.72 figures simultaneously the powerful threat of Didonian passion, and Dante-protagonist’s distance from it at this point in the poem. It thus contrastively places Dante’s immanent swoon (in Purg. 31) in the context of Dido’s fatal passion, as, in a ‘‘complicitous’’ manner, Dido’s presence in the Second Circle had done vis-a`-vis Dante’s swoon at the end of Inferno 5. In this connection it is interesting to recall Dido’s repeated swooning after she has stabbed herself at the end of Aeneid 4, in particular, lines 688–89: ‘‘illa gravis oculos conata attollere rursus / deficit’’ [She, trying to lift her heavy eyes, swoons again] (cf. also Aen. 4.690–91). At the same time, Dante-protagonist’s faint in Purgatorio 31.88–90 can be seen, I think, as prefigured by the simile of the ‘‘uprooted oak’’ in Purgatorio 31.70–71, which correctively inverts Aeneas’s nonreaction (expressed in the simile of the ‘‘sturdy oak which is not uprooted’’ in Aen. 4.441–49 to Dido’s final appeal as transmitted by Anna. The Dante who faints from the right kind of remorse in response to the words of his lady thus functions as a correction of the Aeneas who did
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
not respond to the words of his lady, and who is not overwhelmed by (the wrong kind of) remorse. All of this directly relevant to the Commedia’s intertextual usage of Aeneas’s second departure from Dido, in Aeneid 6. In this Virgilian scene, all of the terms of Aeneas’s first departure from Dido in Aeneid 4 are reversed. Here, Aeneas encounters the shade of Dido during the course of his visit to the underworld, guided by the Sibyl. While in the earlier departure, Dido wept while pleading in vain with the dry-eyed Aeneas not to leave her, here when the Trojan hero first spies the Carthaginian queen: ‘‘demisit lacrimas dulcique adfatus amore est’’ (v. 455) [he shed tears and spoke to her in tender love]. Having caused Dido’s death by abandoning her, Aeneas now attempts to excuse his behavior to the shade of this victim, and it is now he who begs her not to leave him: ‘‘siste gradum teque aspectu ne subtrahe nostro. / quem fugis? extremum fato, quod te adloquor, hoc est’’ (Aen. 6.465–66) [Stay your step and do not withdraw from our view. Whom do you flee? The last word Fate suffers me to say to you is this!’’]. The ‘‘quem fugis?’’ [whom do you flee?] spoken by Aeneas to Dido in 6.466 recalls and symmetrically reverses the ‘‘mene fugis?’’ [do you flee from me?] spoken by Dido to Aeneas in 4.314, as Austin notes. The precise inversion of the speech situation in the Aeneid 4 encounter is emphasized here at the conclusion of Aeneas’s plea to Dido (Aen. 6.456–66). He now attempts to move her as she had attempted to move him earlier; she is now as unresponsive as he had been earlier: ... With such speech amid springing tears Aeneas would soothe the wrath of the fiery, fierce eyed queen. She, turning away, kept her looks fixed on the ground and no more changes her coun tenance as he essays to speak than if she were set in hard flint or Marpesian rock. At length she flung herself away and, still his foe, fled back to the shady grove . . . (vv. 467 73)
The earlier comparison of Aeneas to stone [cautes, Aen. 4.366), as he is unmoved by Dido’s words, is here echoed by a comparison of Dido to stone (cautes, Aen. 6.471), as she is unmoved by Aeneas’s words. The sequence ends with Aeneas, impotent and tearful, watching Dido leave him in the underworld as he had left her on earth: ‘‘nec minus Aeneas, casu concussus iniquo, / prosequitur lacrimis longe et miseratur euntem’’ (vv. 475–76) [Yet none
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
the less, dazed by her unjust doom, Aeneas attends her with tears afar and pities her as she goes.] In Paradiso 31, Beatrice, after having conducted Dante from the Earthly Paradise to True Paradise (the Empyrean, the 10th—the spiritual— Heaven), disappears from her charge in a way reminiscent of Virgil’s disappearance in Purgatorio 30. The parallels between the two scenes require that they be read together, superimposed one on the other. Part of what results from this important intra-textual moment is a measure of the progress made by Dante-pilgrim under Beatrice’s tutelage. At the same time, an important contrast is suggested—in terms of Dante-protagonist’s diametrically opposed reactions—between, on the one hand, the tragedy of Virgil the character (sent back to the First Circle of Hell) linked to the tragic history of the Aeneid, and, on the other hand, the comedy of Beatrice the character (translated to her position in eternal glory) linked to the comic Christian history of the Divine Comedy, which is also the comic autobiography of Dante Alighieri, whose ultimate happy ending at the level of plot contrasts dramatically with the diegetic conclusion to Aeneas’s biography at the end of Aeneid 12. In this context, Dante’s joyful prayer of Beatrice after her disappearance in Paradiso 31 is a corrective rewriting of his tearful lament to Virgil after his disappearance in Purgatorio 30. Significantly, the first speech refers to ‘‘Virgilio a cui per mia salute die’mi’’ (Pg. 30.51) [Virgil to whom I gave myself for my salvation], while the second speech addresses the donna who ‘‘soffristi per la mia salute / in inferno lasciar le tue vestige’’ (Pg. 31.80–81) [suffered to leave your footprints in Hell for my salvation] (emphasis mine . . . ), as Scancarelli Seem notes. When Beatrice disappears in Paradiso 31, Dante does not weep as he had at the moment of Virgil’s disappearance in Purgatorio 30. Let us consider the narrative context of Dante’s discovery that Beatrice is no longer standing beside him. Having feasted his eyes on the ranks of the inhabitants of the Celestial Rose, Dante desires further explanation from his guide: ... and I turned with rekindled will to ask my lady about things as to which my mind was in sus pense. One thing I proposed and another answered me: I thought to see Beatrice, and I saw an elder (Pr. 31.55 59).
The discovery that Beatrice has gone away provokes a simple question which is immediately answered. In response to Dante’s query ‘‘Ov’ e`
V o l u m e
1
1 4 7
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
ella?’’ (v. 64) [where is she?], St Bernard replies that Beatrice is still visible, now in her proper position in the celestial hierarchy of the Rose. On the one hand this is a corrective recall of Purgatorio 30: Beatrice the fully Christian guide has not disappeared as Virgil did. On the other hand, this scene is also, I would like to suggest, a corrective recall of Aeneid 6.450–76. Dante’s final sight of his Lady in her permanent position in the afterworld, is parallel to Aeneas’s final sight of Dido in hers. The key difference is not simply that Beatrice in the Empyrean is—among other things—a correction of Dido in the underworld. The most important part of this program involves Dante’s famous farewell speech of thanksgiving to his lady (Pr. 31.79–90). For Beatrice, unlike Dido with the repentant Aeneas, shows herself to be responsive to Dante’s prayer: ... So did I pray; and she, so distant as she seemed, smiled and looked on me, then turned again to the eternal fountain. (Pr. 31.91 93)
By way of conclusion, I would like to make two general points about the ways in which Aeneas’s two departures from Dido in the Aeneid inform the departures of Dante’s two guides in the Commedia. First, there is the question of the power of words to move the listener. At both moments of departure in the Virgilian subtext, verbal communication is ineffective. In Aeneid 4, Aeneas is unmoved by Dido’s accusations and by her plea. In Aeneid 6, the roles are reversed and it is Dido who is unmoved by Aeneas’s tearful plea. By contrast, the two parallel scenes in the Commedia involve effective—‘‘successful’’—verbal communication. Dante responds to Beatrice’s reproaches in Purgatorio 30–31 with contrition, confession and repentance. In Paradiso 31 Beatrice (in a final corrective Christian rewriting of Dido in the afterlife) responds favorably to Dante’s words—his prayer—with her last smile in the poem. The futile sermones of Aeneas (Aen. 6.470) are made good by Dante’s act of prayer (orai; Pr. 31.91). At the same time, the physical sign of comprehension and response in the addressee also has a spiritual dimension in the Commedia. Dante’s tears of contrition in Purgatorio 30 and 31 signify the successful completion of a speech act whose direct result is a change in the interlocutor’s soul, an essential step forward on the road to personal salvation. Beatrice’s smile in Paradiso 31 signifies the salvific quality both of Dante-protagonist’s specific prayer, and of Dantepoet’s larger vocation and discourse.
1 4 8
E p i c s
f o r
My final point has to do with a basic difference between the Aeneid and the Commedia that enables verbal communication to be effective at these key textual moments: Dante’s Christian ‘‘sublimation’’—his making good—of erotic love. In the political poetics of the Aeneid, the figure of the Lady is eccentric. Erotic love as figured by Dido is a danger, a temptation, an obstacle to the protagonist’s task of (collective) political destiny. In the Divine Comedy, the figure of the Lady is, by contrast, central. The sublimation of erotic love as figured by Beatrice is the essential instrument of the protagonist’s (individual) salvation. In this sense, as in so many others, Dante’s Commedia is a fusion of (or, perhaps better, a dialectic between) first-person lyric and epic narrative, which relentlessly maintains and exploits the tensions between these two modes. Source: Kevin Brownlee, ‘‘Dante, Beatrice, and the Two Departures from Dido,’’ in MLN, Vol. 108, No. 1, January 1993, pp. 1 14.
Dorothy L. Sayers In the following excerpt from an introduction written in 1948 and first published in 1949, Sayers mentions some of the factors that can make understanding the Divine Comedy difficult for a modern reader and offers some pointers for understanding the work. The ideal way of reading The Divine Comedy would be to start at the first line and go straight through to the end, surrendering to the vigour of the story-telling and the swift movement of the verse, and not bothering about any historical allusions or theological explanations which do not occur in the text itself. That is how Dante himself tackles his subject. His opening words plunge us abruptly into the middle of a situation: Midway this way of life we’re bound upon I woke to find myself in a dark wood, Where the right road was wholly lost and gone.
From that moment the pace of the narrative never slackens. Down the twenty-four great circles of Hell we go, through the world and out again under the Southern stars; up the two terraces and the seven cornices of Mount Purgatory, high over the sea, high over the clouds to the Earthly Paradise at its summit; up again, whirled from sphere to sphere of the singing Heavens, beyond the planets, beyond the stars, beyond the Primum Mobile, into the Empyrean, there to behold God as He is—the ultimate, the ineffable, yet, in a manner beyond all understanding, ‘‘marked with our image’’—until, in that final ecstasy,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
Power failed high fantasy here; yet, swift to move Even as a wheel moves equal, free from jars, Already my heart and will were wheeled by love, The Love that moves the sun and the other stars.
Yet the twentieth-century reader who starts out on this tremendous journey without any critical apparatus to assist him is liable to get bogged half-way unless he knows something of Dante’s theological, political, and personal background. For not only is the poem a religious and political allegory—it is an allegory of a rather special kind. If we know how to read it, we shall find that it has an enormous relevance both to us as individuals and to the world situation of to-day. Dante’s Europe—remote and strange as it seemed to the Liberals of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries -had much in common with our own distracted times, and his vivid awareness of the deeps and heights within the soul comes home poignantly to us who have so recently rediscovered the problem of evil, the problem of power, and the ease with which our most God-like imaginings are ‘‘betrayed by what is false within’’. Moreover, Dante is a poet after our own hearts, possessed of a vivid personality, which flows into and steeps the whole texture of his work. Every line he ever wrote is the record of an intimate personal experience; few men have ever displayed their own strength and weakness so unreservedly, or interpreted the universe so consistently in terms of their own self-exploring. Nor, I suppose, have passionate flesh and passionate intellect ever been fused together in such a furnace of the passionate spirit. . . . But if Dante is to ‘‘speak to our condition’’, as the Quakers so charmingly put it, we must take him seriously and ourselves seriously. We must forget a great deal of the nonsense that is talked about Dante—all the legends about his sourness, arrogance, and ‘‘obscurity’’, and especially that libel . . . that he was a peevish political exile who indulged his petty spites and prejudices by putting his enemies in Hell and his friends in Paradise. We need not forget that Dante is sublime, intellectual and, on occasion, grim; but we must also be prepared to find him simple, homely, humorous, tender, and bubbling over with ecstasy. Nor must we look to find in him only a poet of ‘‘period’’ interest; he is a universal poet, speaking prophetically of God and the Soul and the Society of Men in their universal relations. We must also be prepared, while we are reading Dante, to accept the Christian and Catholic
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
view of ourselves as responsible rational beings. We must abandon any idea that we are the slaves of chance, or environment, or our subconscious; any vague notion that good and evil are merely relative terms, or that conduct and opinion do not really matter; any comfortable persuasion that, however shiftlessly we muddle through life, it will somehow or other all come right on the night. We must try to believe that man’s will is free, that he can consciously exercise choice, and that his choice can be decisive to all eternity. For The Divine Comedy is precisely the drama of the soul’s choice. It is not a fairy-story, but a great Christian allegory, deriving its power from the terror and splendour of the Christian revelation. Clear, hard thought went to its making: its beauty is of that solid and indestructible sort that is built upon a framework of nobly proportioned bones. If we ignore the theological structure, and merely browse about in it for detached purple passages and poetic bits and pieces we shall be disappointed, and never see the architectural grandeur of the poem as a whole. People who tackle Dante in this superficial way seldom get beyond the picturesque squalors of the Inferno. This is as though we were to judge a great city after a few days spent underground among the cellars and sewers; it would not be surprising if we were to report only an impression of sordidness, suffocation, rats, fetor, and gloom. But the grim substructure is only there for the sake of the city whose walls and spires stand up and take the morning; it is for the vision of God in the Paradiso that all the rest of the allegory exists. Allegory is the interpretation of experience by means of images. In its simplest form it is a kind of extended metaphor. Supposing we say: ‘‘John very much wanted to do so-and-so, but hesitated for fear of the consequences’’; that is a plain statement. If we say: ‘‘In John’s mind desire and fear contended for the mastery’’ we are already beginning to speak allegorically: John’s mind has become a field of battle in which two personified emotions are carrying on a conflict. From this we can easily proceed to build up a full-blown allegory. We can represent the object of John’s ambition as a lady imprisoned in a castle, which is attacked by a knight called Desire and defended by a giant called Fear, and we can put in as much description of the place and people as will serve to make the story exciting. We can show Desire so badly battered by Fear that he is discouraged and ready to give up, until rebuked by his squire, called Shame, who
V o l u m e
1
1 4 9
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
takes him to have his wounds dressed by a cheerful lady named Hope. Later, he is accosted by a plausible stranger called Suspicion, who says that the lady is much less virtuous and goodlooking than she is made out to be. . . . And so forth, introducing as many personifications of this kind as may be needed to express John’s successive changes of mind. In this way we can work out quite a complicated psychological pattern, and at the same time entertain the reader with an exciting and colourful tale of adventure. In this purest kind of allegory, John himself never appears: his psyche is merely the landscape in which his personified feelings carry out their manœuvres. But there is also a form in which John himself—or what we may perhaps call John’s conscious self, or super-self—figures among the personages of the allegory, as a pilgrim or knight-errant, exploring the wildernesses of his own soul and fighting against opposition both from within and without. The earlier part of The Romance of the Rose is an example of the first kind of allegory and The Pilgrim’s Progress of the second. In neither kind does the actual story pretend to be a relation of fact; in its literal meaning, the whole tale is fiction; the allegorical meaning is the true story. Dante’s allegory is more complex. It differs from the standard type in two ways: (1) in its literal meaning, the story is—up to a certain point and with a great many important qualifications— intended to be a true story; (2) the figures of the allegory, instead of being personified abstractions, are symbolic personages. To take the second point first: In dealing with the vexed subject of symbolism, we shall save ourselves much bewilderment of mind by realising that there are two kinds of symbols. A conventional symbol is a sign, arbitrarily chosen to represent, or ‘‘stand for’’, something with which it has no integral connection: thus the scrawl X may, by common agreement, stand, in mathematics, for an unknown quantity; in the alphabet, for a sound composed of a cluck and a hiss; at the end of a letter, for a fond embrace. The figure X is not, in itself, any of these things and tells us nothing about them. Any other sign would serve the same purpose if we agreed to accept it so, nor is there any reason why the same sign should not stand, if we agreed that it should, for quite different things: infinity, or a murmuring sound, or a threat. With this kind of symbol we need not now concern ourselves, except to distinguish it from the other.
1 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
A natural symbol is not an arbitrary sign, but a thing really existing which, by its very nature, stands for and images forth a greater reality of which it is itself an instance. Thus an arch, maintaining itself as it does by a balance of opposing strains, is a natural symbol of that stability in tension by which the whole universe maintains itself. Its significance is the same in all languages and in all circumstances, and may be applied indifferently to physical, psychical, or spiritual experience. Dante’s symbolism is of this kind. To avoid confusion with the conventional or arbitrary symbol I shall follow the example of Charles Williams and others and refer to Dante’s natural symbols as his ‘‘images’’. We are now in a position to distinguish between a simple allegorical figure and a symbolic image. The allegorical figure is a personified abstraction. Thus, in an allegorical masque, Tyranny might be represented as a demon with a club in one hand and a set of fetters in the other, riding in a juggernaut chariot drawn by tigers over the bodies of Youth, Innocence, Happiness, and what-not, and declaiming sentiments appropriate to tyrannical passions. In a play using symbolic imagery, the dramatist might bring in the figure of Nero or Hitler, wearing his ordinary clothes and simply talking like Nero or Hitler, and every one would understand that this personage was meant for the image of Tyranny. In the Comedy, Dante uses the allegorical figure only occasionally; by far the greater number of his figures are symbolic images. Thus, he is accompanied through Hell, not by a personified abstraction called Reason, or Wisdom, or Science, or Art, or Statecraft, but by Virgil the Poet, a real person, who is, by his own nature, qualified to symbolize all these abstractions. The characters encountered in the circles of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise are similarly not personifications of Sin and Virtue, but the souls of real people, represented as remaining in, or purging off, their sins or experiencing the fruition of their virtues. Being thus real personages, the images of the Divine Comedy are set in a real environment: Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven are not a fiction invented to carry the allegory, but a true picture of the three states of the life after death. I do not, of course, mean by this that Dante’s description of them is meant to be physically accurate. He did not really suppose that Hell was a pit extending from a little way below the foundations of Jerusalem to the centre of the earth, or that Purgatory was a mountainous island in the Antipodes, or that a person could go from one to the other in his
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
D i v i n e
mortal body in the space of two and a half days; nor did he really imagine that Heaven was located among the celestial spheres. He takes the utmost pains to make his geographical details plausible and scientifically correct; but that is just the novelist’s method of giving verisimilitude to the story. Dante knew better, and from time to time he warns his readers against mistaking a work of the imagination for a bald statement of material fact. He did, however, share the belief of all Catholic Christians that every living soul in the world has to make the choice between accepting or rejecting God, and that at the moment of death it will discover what it has chosen: whether to remain in the outer darkness of the alien self, knowing God only as terror and judgment and pain, or to pass joyfully through the strenuous purgation which fits it to endure and enjoy eternally the unveiled presence of God. But although the literal story of the Comedy is (with the qualification and within the limits I have mentioned) a true one, and the characters in it are real people, the poem is nevertheless an allegory. The literal meaning is the least important part of it: the story with its images is only there for the sake of the truth which it symbolizes, and the real environment within which all the events take place is the human soul. . . . We are apt to be astonished at first, in reading (say) the Inferno, to find how little is actually said about the particular sin of which Dante and we are witnessing the retribution. Sometimes the souls relate their histories (as do Francesca da Rimini, for instance, and Guido da Montefeltro), but even then there is little or no moralizing on the subject. More often there is merely a description of the conditions in which the sinners find themselves, after which a character is introduced and talks with Dante upon some apparently extraneous matter which is closely related, indeed, to the subject of the Comedy taken as a whole, but has no special relevancy to the immediate circumstances. In showing us his images, Dante has already told us all we need to know about the sin. He has introduced us, for example, to Ciacco—a rich and amiable Florentine gentleman, well known and much ridiculed by his contemporaries for his monstrous self-indulgence: the familiar name is enough to remind contemporary readers of what Gluttony looks like to the world; he has also shown us the conditions of Ciacco’s part of Hell—a cold wallowing in mud under the fangs and claws of Cerberus: that, stripped of all glamour, is what Gluttony is, seen
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
C o m e d y
in its true and eternal nature. Why waste more words upon it? Let Ciacco and Dante converse upon the state of Florence. We now begin to see the necessity for all the notes and explanations with which editors feel obliged to encumber the pages of Dante. To the fourteenth-century Italian, the personages of the Comedy were familiar. To identify them, and to appreciate the positions they occupy in the Three Kingdoms of the After-world, was to combine an understanding of the allegorical significance with the excitement of a chronique scandaleuse and the intellectual entertainment of solving one of the more enigmatical varieties of cross-word puzzle. For us it is different. We do not know these people; nor indeed are we to-day quite so familiar with our classical authors, or even with our Bible, as a medieval poet might reasonably expect his public to be. . . . We need to know what Dante’s characters stood for in his eyes, and therefore we need to know who they were. But that is as much as we need. The purely historical approach to a work of art can easily be overdone by the general reader. Just because it puts the thing away into a ‘‘period’’, it tends to limit its relevance to that period. . . . The poem is an allegory of the Way to God— to that union of our wills with the Universal Will in which every creature finds its true self and its true being. But, as Dante himself has shown, it may be interpreted at various levels. It may be seen, for example, as the way of the artist, or as the way of the lover—both these ways are specifically included in the imagery. . . . For many of us it may be easier to understand Hell as the picture of a corrupt society than as that of a corrupt self. Whichever we start with, it is likely to lead to the other; and it does not much matter by which road we come to Dante so long as we get to him in the end. We cannot, of course, do without the historical approach altogether, for the poem is largely concerned with historical events. Neither can we do altogether without the biographical approach, since the poem is so closely concerned with the poet’s personal experience. The allegory is universal, but it is so precisely because it is a man’s answer to a situation—a particular man and a particular situation in time and place. The man is Dante; the time is the beginning of the fourteenth century; the place is Florence. All Heaven and Earth and Hell are, in a sense, included within that narrow compass.
V o l u m e
1
1 5 1
D i v i n e
C o m e d y
Source: Dorothy L. Sayers, ‘‘Introduction,’’ Dante: The Divine Comedy, by Dante Alighieri, translated by Dorothy L. Sayers, Penguin Books, 1949, pp. 9 66.
SOURCES Alighieri, Dante, The Divine Comedy, Oxford World’s Classics, translated by C. H. Sisson and edited by David H. Higgins, Oxford University Press, 2008. Bigongiari, Dino, Backgrounds of the ‘‘Divine Comedy’’: A Series of Lectures by Dino Bigongiari, edited by Anne Paolucci, Griffon House, 2005. Braida, Antonella, and Luisa Cale,` eds., Dante on View, Ashgate, 2007. Chiarenza, Marguerite Mills, The ‘‘Divine Comedy’’: Tracing God’s Art, Twayne, 1989, p. 3. Davis, Charles T., ‘‘Dante’s Italy,’’ in Dante’s Italy and Other Essays, by Charles T. Davis, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984, pp. 1 22. Friederich, Werner P., Dante’s Fame Abroad: 1350 1850, University of North Carolina Press, 1966. Hollister, C. Warren, Medieval Europe: A Short History, 2nd ed., Wiley, 1968, pp. 205, 206, 208. Jacoff, Rachel, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Dante, Cambridge University Press, 2007. Musa, Mark, trans., The Divine Comedy, Vol. III: Para dise, with notes by Mark Musa, Penguin Classics, 1984, p. 397, n. 91 93. Newman, Francis X., ‘‘St. Augustine’s Three Visions and the Structure of the Comedy,’’ in Modern Language Notes, Vol. 72, No. 1, January 1967, p. 65. Quinones, Ricardo, Dante Alighieri, Twayne, 1998. Singleton, Charles S., trans., The Divine Comedy, with notes and commentary by Charles S. Singleton, Prince ton University Press, 1991. Yates, Frances A., The Art of Memory, University of Chicago Press, 1966, p. 95.
provides a summary of each canto at its start, along with explanatory notes, illustrations, and bibliography. Raffa, Guy P., The Complete Danteworlds: A Reader’s Guide to the ‘‘Divine Comedy’’, University of Chicago Press, 2009. This has been described as the best available gen eral guide for students, teachers, and even schol ars in the field. It contains meticulous scholarship and insight that helps readers overcome the chal lenge of Dante’s work. Rubin, Harriet, Dante in Love: The World’s Greatest Poem and How It Made History, Simon & Schuster, 2004. Rubin puts scholarly information into a fast paced narrative covering Dante’s life, his times, and his poem, making his work relevant to twenty first century readers, without oversim plifying. She quotes from many different trans lations of the Divine Comedy. Terkla, Daniel, ‘‘Impassioned Failure: Memory, Metaphor, and the Drive toward Intellection,’’ in Imagining Heaven in the Middle Ages: A Book of Essays, edited by Jan Swango Emerson and Hugh Feiss, Garland, 2000, pp. 245 316. In this study, Terkla examines Abbot Suger’s basilica of St. Denis, the Hereford Mappa Mundi (world map) and Dante’s Divine Comedy to show the ways in which these three so called brilliant failures utilize accommodative and anagogical metaphor in their attempts to over come the necessary failure that results when an artist sets out to depict the ineffable, the inex plicable, regardless of medium. Toynbee, Paget Jackson, Dante Alighieri: His Life and Works, General Books LLC, 2010. Toynbee’s work, originally published in 1901, was long the standard biographical and historical study of Dante. It contains a wealth of useful back ground information for readers in the early 2000s. Toynbee, Paget Jackson, A Dictionary of Proper Names and Notable Matters in the Works of Dante, rev. ed., edited by Charles S. Singleton, Bibliobazaar, 2009. Toynbee’s title gives but a general indication of the scope of this work. Although the dictionary was first published in 1889, it remains one the most valuable aids for studying Dante’s works.
FURTHER READING Brieger, Peter H., Illuminated Manuscripts of the ‘‘Divine Comedy’’, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970. This book includes commentaries by the emi nent Dante scholar Charles S. Singleton, along with a wealth of manuscript illuminations. Musa, Mark, trans., The Divine Comedy, Vol. I: Inferno; Vol. II: Purgatory; Vol. III: Paradise, with notes by Mark Musa, Penguin Classics, 1984. Musa’s unrhymed verse translation comes close to representing the meter and sense of Dante’s difficult terza rima. This eminent Dante scholar
1 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Dante Alighieri Divine Comedy Dante AND Inferno Dante AND Purgatory Dante AND Paradise Dante AND Christian theology Dante AND medieval epic
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Epic of Gilgamesh Although more than four thousand years old and written originally on tablets of clay, the Epic of Gilgamesh continues to fascinate contemporary readers with its account of Gilgamesh, ruler of Uruk; his companion, the ‘‘wild man’’ Enkidu; and their exploits together. Generally recognized as the earliest epic cycle yet known—prior to even the Iliad or the Odyssey—the Epic of Gilgamesh was discovered and translated by British Assyrologist George Smith in the late nineteenth century. The Epic of Gilgamesh initially caught the attention of Biblical critics for its episode of the ‘‘Mesopotamian Noah,’’ that is, the character Utnapishtim, who, like his later Biblical counterpart, was advised by the gods to build a great boat to avoid an imminent, disastrous flood. Equally fascinating for the window this epic opens to the ancient and far-removed Sumerian and Babylonian cultures, Gilgamesh’s conflict with the gods, struggles against the forces of nature, and recognition of his own mortality mirrors the always contemporary endeavor to find one’s place both in society and in the cosmos.
ANONYMOUS 2000 BC
At the same time the Epic of Gilgamesh addresses these important metaphysical themes, it is also a story of two friends, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and their devotion to one another even after death. All in all, the Epic of Gilgamesh contains everything readers have come to expect from great epic literature: fantastic geographies, exotic characters, exhausting quests, difficult journeys, heroic battles, and supernatural beings. It is, above all,
1 5 3
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
the gripping story of an epic hero who is driven to meet his destiny and who rises to every challenge with high courage and fierce determination.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The Epic of Gilgamesh is not the product of a single author in the modern sense but was the progressive creation of several ancient Near Eastern cultures, specifically the cultures of Mesopotamia, the land between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Originally an oral composition recited by communal storytellers, perhaps priests, to a listening audience, portions of the Epic of Gilgamesh were likely recited for many generations before being recorded by scribes in an archaic form of writing called cuneiform. Scribes wrote the ancient oral stories onto clay tablets with a sharply pointed, triangular stick, and the tablets telling the Gilgamesh story were kept in royal libraries. The most famous royal library was that of Ashurbanipal, king of Babylon during the seventh century BCE , but portions of the Epic of Gilgamesh, from very different time periods, have also been found. The individual stories of the Gilgamesh cycle were first written in cuneiform by ancient Sumerian scribes about four thousand years ago. The story passed from the Sumerians through succeeding civilizations to the Babylonians, who added to or otherwise adapted the Gilgamesh stories to their own culture until a socalled Standard Version of the Epic of Gilgamesh coalesced about 1500 BCE . The Epic of Gilgamesh was then lost for thousands of years beneath the sand and rubble of the ancient Near East until archaeologists began to excavate and discover the ancient tablets during the nineteenth century. English translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh, which began in the 1880s with George Smith, is the product of many scholars’ work and many years of archaeological investigation, historical inquiry, and linguistic research. Even with all of this academic reconstruction, Assyrologists cannot be completely sure of all the details of the Epic of Gilgamesh. Some portions of the story are missing, lost in the broken off sections of cuneiform tablets. Aspects of the ancient languages involved are so obscure and foreign that scholars cannot be sure of an exact translation. At many points, the extant work is at best a reconstruction of what the story said originally, but as new tablets are discovered, knowledge of the Epic of Gilgamesh increases.
1 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
Originally, the Epic of Gilgamesh was written as poetry, but not in the kind of rhyming verse that typifies English verse. The style was closer to the alliterative tradition of a poem such as Beowulf. One available and easily read translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh is the 1972 Penguin Classic paperback version by N. K. Sandars, but many other editions are also available. Sandars’ translation has turned the poetic form of the so-called Standard, or Babylonian, Version of the Epic of Gilgamesh into a narrative form. Moreover, the Epic of Gilgamesh probably appeared originally as five or six separate Sumerian stories that were adapted by later cultures, especially the Babylonians. The current translation has divided the original story found in twelve tablets into eight sections: seven chapters and a prologue. Therefore, the Epic of Gilgamesh has been transformed once again in language, style, and structure for contemporary readers.
PLOT SUMMARY Prologue The Prologue to the Epic of Gilgamesh establishes Gilgamesh’s stature as the special creation of the gods: He is two-thirds divine and one-third human. The strongest and wisest of all humans, he is also the renowned builder and king of the great city of Uruk. The Prologue sets the story in the distant past, in ‘‘the days before the flood,’’ when Gilgamesh himself etched the whole story in stone.
1. The Coming of Enkidu Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, is the strongest of all men, but he is not a kind ruler. He takes advantage of his people. So the people of Uruk describe his abuses to Anu, god of Uruk, who asks Aruru, goddess of creation, to create an equal, ‘‘his second self’’ to oppose Gilgamesh and leave them at peace. Aruru creates Enkidu out of the raw stuff of nature. Enkidu is a fearfully strong, uncultured ‘‘wild man’’ with long hair and coarse features who runs with the beasts and eats grass. A trapper sees Enkidu at a watering hole for three straight days, and the trapper, amazed and dumbfounded, tells his father about the wild man who disrupts his snares. The father advises the son to find Gilgamesh, who gives him a ‘‘harlot’’ or temple courtesan to tame the wild man. The woman embraces Enkidu, cleans and clothes him, and teaches him civilized behavior. As a result, Enkidu becomes a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
who has challenged him, in the street. They fight, and after Gilgamesh throws Enkidu, they embrace and become friends.
2. The Forest Journey
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Czech musician Bohuslav Martinu composed the choral piece Epic of Gilgamesh, which was first performed in 1955. Martinu’s work is often performed and widely available in recorder formats. A 2009 reissue of a 1989 performance of his Epic of Gilgamesh, conducted by Zdenek Kosler and performed by the Slovak Philharmonic Orchestra, is available on compact disc from Marco-Polo.
The opera Gilgamesh was written by Serbian director and librettist Arsenije Milosevic and composed by Croatian-Italian musician Rudolf Brucci. It premiered November 2, 1986, at the Serbian National Theatre in Novi Sad.
Shotaro Ishinomori penned the story that inspired the anime series Gilgamesh, directed by Masahiko Murata. Set in the present, rather than the past, the series is influenced by the original epic. It first aired on television in 2003 and 2004 and is available on DVD from ADV Films.
An e-book of the Old Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh is available online from the Project Gutenberg. An unabridged audio book adaptation of Stephen Mitchell’s Gilgamesh: A New English Version is available on compact disc or download from Recorded Books. Produced in 2004, it is narrated by George Guidall. Adapa Films created a dramatization titled Epic of Gilgamesh: Tablet XI. Following the events of the eleventh tablet, Utnapishtim regales Gilgamesh with the story of the flood that he alone survived. Filmed in Akkadian with English subtitles, this movie is available online on DVD from the Adapa Films. NO production date was available at the online source, http://offlinenetworks.com/adapa.
man. When Enkidu is brought to Uruk, Gilgamesh aborts his impending marriage to Ishtar, the goddess of love and war, and meets Enkidu,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Enlil, father of the gods, establishes Gilgamesh’s destiny to be king and achieve great feats, but Enkidu is ‘‘oppressed by [the] idleness’’ of living in Uruk. In order to establish his eternal reputation, to ‘‘leave behind me a name that endures,’’ Gilgamesh proposes to travel with Enkidu to the Land of the Cedars and kill its guardian, the fearsome giant Humbaba. Gilgamesh prepares for the journey both by making a sacrifice to Shamash, who gives him the natural elements as allies; by forging a set of formidable weapons, including an axe, bow, and shield; and by seeking the intervention of his mother Ninsun, who adopts Enkidu as her own. Now brothers as well as companions, Gilgamesh and Enkidu begin their journey. On the way, Gilgamesh has three dreams, which though frightening portend a successful end to his quest. Humbaba, the guardian of the cedars, can hear an animal stir from many miles away, and he has seven fearsome ‘‘splendors’’ as weapons. After they arrive at the grove, Gilgamesh and Enkidu send Humbaba into a rage by cutting down one of the sacred trees. After a fierce battle, Gilgamesh defeats Humbaba, who begs for his life. Gilgamesh nearly relents, saving Humbaba momentarily, but acting on Enkidu’s strong warning, Gilgamesh cuts off the giant’s head. They present Humbaba’s head to Enlil, who rages at them for their actions and disburses Humbaba’s seven auras across creation.
3. Ishtar and Gilgamesh, and the Death of Enkidu After Gilgamesh slays Humbaba, Ishtar calls Gilgamesh back to be her groom by promising him many expensive gifts. Gilgamesh now flatly refuses her offer because of her ‘‘abominable behaviour,’’ for he knows how badly Ishtar has treated her previous lovers, turning many of them from men into animals. Ishtar bristles at Gilgamesh’s charges and urges her parents Anu and Antum to set loose the Bull of Heaven upon the city of Uruk and its ruler, Gilgamesh. Ishtar unleashes the great bull against Gilgamesh, but Gilgamesh and Enkidu together slay the bull, proving again their great prowess. Afterward, Enkidu has a dream in which a council of the gods has decreed that Enkidu must die for their
V o l u m e
1
1 5 5
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
deeds. Enkidu falls ill and curses the trapper and courtesan who brought him to Uruk, but Shamash reminds him how much good came from the trapper’s and harlot’s action. Enkidu has a second dream about the underworld and its inhabitants, which Gilgamesh interprets as an omen of death. Enkidu languishes ill for days before he dies, and Gilgamesh, who mourns for seven days, offers a moving lament and builds a noble statue in tribute to his friend.
4. The Search for Everlasting Life In his despair, Gilgamesh begins a lengthy quest to find the answer to life’s mysteries, especially the mystery of eternal life. He decides to seek out Utnapishtim ‘‘the Faraway,’’ his ancient ancestor who ‘‘has entered the assembly of the gods’’ and received everlasting life. Sick at heart for the death of Enkidu and realizing more acutely his own mortality, Gilgamesh pushes on through the great mountains of Mashu, gate to the afterlife where the sun sets, where he defeats a band of lions. He then encounters the frightful ScorpionDemon and his mate who guard Mashu and persuades them to let him enter. Gilgamesh travels through twelve leagues of darkness (twentyfour hours) until he enters the garden of the gods. There, in turn, he meets Shamash, the sun god, who discourages his quest; Siduri, goddess of wine and the vines, who encourages him to ‘‘dance and be merry, feast and rejoice’’; and finally Urshanabi, the ferryman of Utnapishtim, who at first tells him his quest is futile but then takes him across the sea of death to Utnapishtim. On the other side of the sea, Gilgamesh recounts to Utnapishtim his journey, Enkidu’s death, and his quest for eternal life. In response to Gilgamesh’s questioning about his search for eternal life, Utnapishtim replies flatly, ‘‘There is no permanence.’’ Disheartened, Gilgamesh persists until Utnapishtim agrees to tell Gilgamesh ‘‘a mystery,’’ the story of how he gained immortality.
5. The Story of the Flood In the ancient city of Shurrupak on the Euphrates River, according to the Utnapishtim’s tale, the clamor of humanity rises up to the gods and disturbs their peace. Enlil calls for the gods ‘‘to exterminate mankind.’’ The council of the gods agrees, but Ea warns Utnapishtim secretly in a dream that a flood is coming. To protect her favorite, Ea tells
1 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
Utnapishtim to build a boat and ‘‘take up into the boat the seed of all living creatures.’’ It takes Utnapishtim seven days to build a boat of seven decks, and after loading it full of his family, wealth, kin, and craftsmen, he rides out a seven-day storm. On the seventh day, the boat runs aground and Utnapishtim releases three birds in succession: the dove and swallow return, but the raven does not, indicating the presence of dry land. After Utnapishtim makes a sacrifice, over which the gods ‘‘gathered like flies,’’ Ishtar presents her opulent necklace as a remembrance of the disaster, and Enlil makes restitution for his rash act by giving Utnapishtim and his wife immortality.
6. The Return Utnapishtim puts Gilgamesh’s desire for eternal life to the test: ‘‘only prevail against sleep for six days and seven nights.’’ Gilgamesh, however, quickly falls asleep as the result of his exertions. To prove that Gilgamesh has slept, Utnapishtim has his wife bake a loaf of bread for each of the seven days Gilgamesh sleeps. After Utnapishtim wakes Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh sees the proof and despairs, realizing more clearly than ever that ‘‘death inhabits my room.’’ Utnapishtim then curses Urshanabi for bringing Gilgamesh to him and commands Urshanabi to bathe and dress Gilgamesh, who is covered in grime and clothed in skins. Utnapishtim’s wife asks Utnapishtim not to send Gilgamesh away empty handed. In response, Utnapishtim reveals the location to a secret underwater plant that will ‘‘restore his lost youth to a man.’’ Gilgamesh harvests the plant and proposes to take it back to Uruk with him, but when Gilgamesh stops at an oasis to bathe, a serpent from the well steals and eats the plant, sloughs off its skin, and disappears again. Gilgamesh bewails the loss—his last chance for immortality— and returns to Uruk. At Uruk, Gilgamesh engraves his exploits in stone to testify to his greatness.
7. Death of Gilgamesh Gilgamesh has fulfilled his destiny to be king, but his dream of eternal life eludes him. The narration concludes with a lament on Gilgamesh’s mortality, a description of the funerary ritual, and a paean of praise to Gilgamesh; his family, his servants, the city of Uruk, and the pantheon of gods all mourn his loss.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
Endukagga
CHARACTERS Adad
Endukagga is a god who governs in the underworld, along with Nindukugga.
Adad is a storm god who endows Gilgamesh with courage at his birth.
Enki See Ea
Antum Antum is the wife of Anu, the sky god or god of the heavens, and mother of Ishtar. Ishtar complains to her parents Anu and Antum when Gilgamesh refuses her offer of marriage and describes how she has abused her previous lovers.
Anu Anu is god of the firmament, the patron god of Uruk, husband of Antum, and father of Ishtar. The Epic of Gilgamesh opens with a description of ‘‘the temple of blessed Eanna for the god of the firmament Anu.’’ Gilgamesh dreams of a falling meteor, which portends Enkidu’s arrival and calls it ‘‘the stuff of Anu.’’
Anunnaki The Anunnaki are gods of the underworld, also known as the seven judges of hell. Their sacred dwellings are in the Forest of Cedars, guarded by Humbaba. They also appear in Utnapishtim’s account of the great flood as forerunners of the storm.
Aruru Aruru is the goddess of creation, or Mother Goddess, who fashions Enkidu from clay.
Aya Aya is the goddess of the dawn and wife of the sun god Shamash.
Belit-Sheri Belit-Sheri is the ‘‘recorder of the gods’’ and scribe of the underworld who ‘‘keeps the book of death.’’ She appears in Enkidu’s dream of the afterlife.
Dumuzi
Ennugi Ennugi is the ‘‘watcher over canals’’ and god of irrigation.
Ereshkigal Ereshkigal is the queen of the underworld, who appears in Enkidu’s dream of the afterlife. She is the wife of Nergal. Ereshkigal was also known as Irkalla, another name for the underworld.
Gilgamesh Gilgamesh is the protagonist or main character of the Epic of Gilgamesh. An historical figure who ruled Uruk around 2700 BCE , Gilgamesh is the child of Lugulbanda, a divine king, and Ninsun. Gilgamesh is the semi-divine king of Uruk; the special charge of Shamash, the sun god; sometime consort of Ishtar, goddess of love and war; and builder of the mighty city of Uruk and its great temple Eanna. Originally the subject of at least five Sumerian myths, Gilgamesh becomes the main character in a Babylonian revision of those earlier stories. In later myths he is a judge of the underworld and is sometimes called its king. The epic narrates the transformation of Gilgamesh from a selfish and thoughtless young ruler into a wise and well-loved king and reveals Gilgamesh’s gradual understanding of his own mortality.
Hanish is the herald of storms and bad weather. He appears with Shullat at the beginning of the storm in Utnapishtim’s story of the flood.
Ea Ea, called ‘‘the wise,’’ is god of the sweet waters and of the arts. He breaks rank with the council of the gods and warns Utnapishtim of the impending flood. Ea is the Akkadian version of the older, Sumerian god Enki.
f o r
Enkidu is Gilgamesh’s ‘‘second self’’ and faithful companion. Aruru fashions Enkidu from clay in the image of Anu. Enkidu is a ‘‘wild,’’ primitive, uncivilized man who has both the hardened physique and virtue of Ninurta, the god of war; the long hair of Ninursa, goddess of corn; and the hairy body of Samuqan, god of cattle.
Hanish
See Tammuz
E p i c s
Enkidu
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Harlot The harlot is a temple courtesan in the cult of Ishtar at the great temple Eanna. The harlot is the woman Gilgamesh sends back with the trapper to
V o l u m e
1
1 5 7
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
pacify Enkidu. She initiates Enkidu into the ways of sex and culture, teaching him to eat, drink, and clothe himself. After her ministrations, Enkidu is unable to return to the wilderness. She then takes Enkidu to Uruk where he challenges Gilgamesh.
Nergal Nergal is an underworld god and husband of Ereshkigal. During Utnapishtim’s flood, ‘‘Nergal pulled out the dams of the nether waters.’’
Neti Humbaba Humbaba is a fearsome monster appointed by Enlil to protect the Forest of Cedars. In a fierce battle, Gilgamesh and Enkidu ultimately kill Humbaba and cut down the sacred cedars.
Neti is gatekeeper of the underworld and servant of Ereshkigal.
Nindukugga Nindukugga is a god who governs the underworld with Endukagga.
Irkalla See Ereshkigal
Ningal
Ishtar
Ningal is mother of the sun god, Shamash, and wife of the moon god Sin.
Ishtar is the goddess of love and war and daughter of Anu and Antum. She is the patroness of Uruk, Gilgamesh’s home city. She is fickle and at times spiteful, as demonstrated in her treatment of her former lovers and her wrath at Uruk after Gilgamesh spurns her advances. She inhabits Eanna, Uruk’s fabulous temple, or ziggurat.
Ningizzida Ningizzida is the god of the serpent and lord of the tree of life.
Ningursu See Ninurta
Ninhursag
Ishullana Ishullana is Anu’s gardener, whom Ishtar loved and then turned into a blind mole after he rejected her.
Ki
Ninhursag is the goddess of growth and vegetation, and mother of Enlil. She is known by many other names, including Ki, Ninki, and Ninmah.
Ninki
See Ninhursag
See Ninhursag
Lugulbanda Lugulbanda is one of the ancient kings of Uruk and Gilgamesh’s guardian god and progenitor. Lugulbanda is the subject of his own epic cycle.
Ninlil Ninlil is the wife of Enlil and goddess of heaven, earth, and air or spirit.
Ninsun
Mammetum Mammetum is the ‘‘mother of destinies.’’ Utnapishtim reveals that Mammetum, with the Anunnaki, ‘‘together . . . decree the fates of men. Life and death they allot but the day of death they do not disclose.’’
The goddess Ninsun, called ‘‘the well-beloved and wise,’’ is mother of Gilgamesh and wife of Lugulbanda. Prior to Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s trip to kill Humbaba, Ninsun adopts Enkidu as her own, gives him a sacred necklace, and entrusts Gilgamesh’s safety to him.
Man-Scorpion
Ninurta
Described as ‘‘half man and half dragon,’’ the ManScorpion and his mate are guardians of Mashu, the mountains of the rising and setting sun. They let Gilgamesh pass through to the garden of the gods.
Ninurta is a warrior god and god of wells and canals. In the story of Utnapishtim, Ninurta is one of those who caused the flood with Nergal. He is also known as Ningursu.
Namtar
Nisaba
Namtar, the god of death, is the servant of Ereshkigal, queen of the underworld.
Nisaba is the goddess of corn. She gives Enkidu his long, flowing hair.
1 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
Puzur-Amurri
Urshanabi
Puzur-Amurri is the steersman and navigator of Utnapishtim’s great boat during the flood.
Samuqan is the god of cattle and of herds. He gives Enkidu his rough, hair-covered hide.
Urshanabi is the boatman who takes Gilgamesh over the waters of death to Utnapishtim. Utnapishtim curses Urshanabi for bringing a mortal to him across the sea of death. After he helps Gilgamesh back to health and vigor, Urshanabi returns with Gilgamesh to Uruk.
Scorpion-Demon
Utnapishtim
See Man-Scorpion
Favored by the god Ea, Utnapishtim is warned of Enlil’s plan to destroy humanity through a flood. Utnapishtim, at Ea’s command, builds a huge square boat, seven decks high and one-hundred twenty cubits per side, in seven days. He seals it with pitch, stores away supplies, and rides out the seven-day storm in it.
Samuqan
Shamash One of the chief gods, Shamash is the sun god, law-giver, and judge who is evoked in blessing and protection throughout the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Shullat Shullat is a minor god under Shamash who works with Hanish to herald bad weather, as happened at the beginning of the great flood.
Vampire-Demon The vampire-demon is a supernatural being who appears in Enkidu’s dream of the underworld. In the dream, he attacks and smothers Enkidu.
Shulpae Shulpae is god of the feast. Sacrifices are made to Shulpae at funerals.
THEMES
Siduri Siduri is goddess of the vine, who at first bars Gilgamesh from passage through the garden of the gods, but then tells him, ‘‘When the gods created man they allotted to him death, but they retained life in their own keeping.’’
Sillah Sillah is the mother of one of Ishtar’s lovers.
Sin Sin is the moon god, to whom Gilgamesh prays as he travels through dark mountain passes populated by lions on his way to Mashu.
Tammuz Tammuz is the god of shepherds, sheepfolds, and vegetation. He is one of Ishtar’s consorts. In older, Sumerian times, he was known as Dumuzi.
Trapper The trapper is the first person to encounter Enkidu, who had sabotaged his traps. Enkidu later curses the trapper for introducing him to civilization and its difficulties.
Ubara-Tutu Ubara-Tutu is the ancient king of Shurrupak and Utnapishtim’s father.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Heroism Heroes are courageous and often act selflessly or for the greater good; however, mythologist Joseph Campbell defines a hero not by valor but by the steps of a hero’s journey. This journey is described in Campbell’s book The Hero With a Thousand Faces. The Epic of Gilgamesh is a hero’s journey, beginning with Gilgamesh’s reluctance to act, as seen in his boredom, his abuse of his people, and the need for the divine to intercede. Enkidu not only aids Gilgamesh throughout his journey but also functionally completes him as a person. Despite Gilgamesh’s growth as a hero by Campbell’s definition, he is still selfish throughout, as shown in the adventure to the Forest of the Cedars, a sacred place that Gilgamesh nonetheless pillages for wood and self-aggrandizement. Enkidu’s death deeply affects Gilgamesh. Wracked with grief, Gilgamesh travels to the underworld in search of immortality for himself. He fails to achieve his goal but is told repeatedly by characters such as the goddess Siduri and by Utnapishtim that mortality has its own virtues, which he should appreciate. Whether Gilgamesh is able to enjoy the remainder of his mortal days is not recorded in this epic, but the completion of his journey, by Campbell’s definition, occurs when he returns to Uruk and has his adventures carved
V o l u m e
1
1 5 9
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Compare and contrast an episode in N. K. Sandars’ narrative version of the Epic of Gilgamesh with David Ferry’s poetic version or one of the versions that follow the original twelve-tablet structure of the story. How do the versions differ in their use of language and their organization on the page? Do they differ in their symbolic or thematic emphases? Write a comparative essay explaining the similarities and differences. Locate the five independent myths of the Sumerian song- cycle featuring Gilgamesh (‘‘Gilgamesh and Agga of Kish’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’’; and ‘‘The Death of Gilgamesh’’) in James Pritchard’s, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Choose one, read it carefully, and see if you can identify which portion(s) or details of the Sumerian myth have been incorporated into the Babylonian Standard Version and which have been excluded. Compose an electronic presentation to share with your class that details the transformation of this story. Many contemporary movies feature a hero and a counterpart or buddy. Often these two characters are as different as Gilgamesh and Enkidu, but together they make a complete team. Select a current ‘‘buddy movie’’ and, using the Epic of Gilgamesh as a guide, analyze
the epic qualities of that movie. Consider how the buddies are alike or different, how they react to the opposite sex, what quest they set out to achieve, and what great enemy or evil they face. With a partner, prepare a dramatic presentation that gives your findings from this examination.
upon a stone, therefore bringing this appreciation of the human experience back to the people.
Culture and Nature The internal balance between physical and spiritual journeys in the Epic of Gilgamesh is matched by the contrast in the two main characters, Gilgamesh and Enkidu. As the epic opens, Gilgamesh embodies both the arrogance and the cultivation of high Sumerian culture. He is the king and
1 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Drawing on other subjects of study such as biology, geography, art, archaeology, and history, create a collage showing the elements of ancient Mesopotamian life depicted in the Epic of Gilgamesh or a diorama (picture box) of an ancient ziggurat or temple. Reconstruct the architecture of the time; the different people who inhabited the cities; the jobs they performed; the crops they grew; the crafts they made; and clothing they wore.
Research the hero’s journey as described by mythologist Joseph Campbell in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Campbell’s hero’s journey was a strong influence on the 1977 film Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope but has its roots in myths about heroes such as the Epic of Gilgamesh. How many elements of the hero’s journey are present in the film? How many elements are present in the epic? Which do you think is a better story and why, based on the hero’s journey? Give a five-minute presentation to your class, with examples and visual aids.
epitomizes power, he is physically gifted and beautiful, but he is also haughty and abusive: He deflowers the maidens of his kingdom for his own pleasure and he presses the young men into his service. By contrast, when he enters the story, Enkidu personifies the coarse physicality and vitality of the natural world: He is immensely strong, he lives and runs with the wild beasts, and he destroys the traps set by hunters. At a crucial early juncture in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
the epic, Gilgamesh, having heard about this ‘‘wild man,’’ sends a courtesan to Enkidu. She transforms Enkidu’s wildness through her sexual charms, and she teaches him table manners and correct behavior. Afterwards, the wild animals run away from Enkidu. The courtesan thereby brings Enkidu into the civilized world. Together, Gilgamesh, the cultivated ruler, and Enkidu, the civilized wild man, bond as complementary friends, and they begin a series of exploits to conquer Humbaba, that other forest creature, and the Bull of Heaven, the embodiment of natural disaster.
Identity and Relationship As the semi-divine creation of Shamash, the sun god, who gives him physical beauty, and Adad, the storm god, who gives him great courage, Gilgamesh is at the top of the social hierarchy. As king of Uruk, Gilgamesh has access to all the riches and pleasures his society can provide. In his lofty station, Gilgamesh has no need or desire for a relationship with others, for he seems to be complete in himself. However, Gilgamesh is also unsettled and ‘‘a man of many moods,’’ an arrogant ruler who mistreats his people. He is, in other words, incomplete, lacking an ingredient essential to being fully human. The people of Uruk complain to Anu, god of Uruk, to intervene on their behalf, and Aruru, the goddess of creation, responds by creating Enkidu. Enkidu requires the moderating influences of civilization to become fully human. Incomplete when separated, but together and fulfilled in close relationship, Gilgamesh and Enkidu establish their true identities. Their identities are fulfilled through their relationship. Enkidu perishes before the end of the tale, and Gilgamesh is haunted by the death of his friend. This death is the catalyst for Gilgamesh’s search for immortality. Thus, Gilgamesh carries the legacy of his friend back to Uruk, where he dies a well-loved king.
Humanity and Divinity Human interaction with the gods, and the gods’ intervention in human events, is a standard hallmark of epic literature, and the Epic of Gilgamesh is no exception. From beginning to end of the tale, the supernatural world intersects the physical plane. Persons, places, and all manner of things are closely associated with patron deities. The interplay of humanity and divinity is closely allied to the question of identity and relationship throughout the epic. Characters take on the attributes of deities associated with them. Gilgamesh is a mixture of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Drawing of a carved image of Gilgamesh (Ó Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy)
both human and divine, but emphasizing the divine. Enkidu incarnates precisely the opposite proportions, favoring the human. At the same time that the epic invokes the gods throughout the narrative, they seem distant from the action, interfering only when pressed or perturbed. The gods are also clearly anthropomorphic, quite human in their petty jealousy, bickering, and irritation with irascible humans.
Mortality and Immortality During the course of the epic, Gilgamesh, as king of Uruk, progresses from the highest social station to the lowest example of a human being—pale, starved, and clothed in skins during his encounter with Utnapishtim. The crux of this journey is the death of Gilgamesh’s beloved comrade, Enkidu. During the first half of the tale, Gilgamesh and Enkidu bring death to all enemies in their quest to establish their eternal reputations; during the second half, Gilgamesh lives with the haunting memory of Enkidu’s death. As Gilgamesh tells Utnapishtim: ‘‘Because of my brother I am afraid of death; because of my brother I stray through the wilderness. His fate lies heavy upon me. How can I be silent, how can I rest? He is dust and I
V o l u m e
1
1 6 1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
shall die also and be laid in the earth forever.’’ Having turned to great exploits, huge building projects, and epic journeys to secure his fame, Gilgamesh must die, but his memory lives on in the story of his life. The gods do not give Gilgamesh immortality, but the legends of his life are preserved on the stone tablets of his epic adventure.
STYLE Epic Literature In A Glossary of Literary Terms, literary scholar M. H. Abrams lists five essential characteristics of epic literature: (1) a hero of national and/or cosmic importance; (2) an expansive setting, perhaps even worldwide; (3) superhuman deeds; (4) supernatural forces and deities take part in events; and (5) the language of a ceremonial performance, much elevated over ordinary speech. The Epic of Gilgamesh has each of these characteristics. First, Gilgamesh, as ruler of Uruk and son of a goddess, is a figure of national importance. It is interesting that he is, nonetheless, incomplete without his friend Enkidu, who seems to be of no cosmic or national significance except as Gilgamesh’s friend. Their relationship may have had meaning to the Sumerian, Assyrian, and Babylonian audiences that modern readers cannot grasp. Second, the scope of this story begins and ends at the great city of Uruk in Mesopotamia, the land between two rivers and traditionally known as the cradle of civilization. Uruk was the first city built by humankind. Gilgamesh and Enkidu also travel to the Forest of the Cedars, a holy place, and later Gilgamesh journeys to the land of the dead. The setting of this epic is grand, sweeping, and aweinspiring to listeners. Third, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, his adopted brother, are the strongest of men. When they fight, walls shake. Only they are capable of taking on the terrible monster Humbaba, who guards the Forest of the Cedars, but their success requires both wits and strength. They also kill the Bull of Heaven to prevent drought, and Gilgamesh conquers many wild animals in the lands at the end of the world, where he begins his journey to the underworld realm. Through these feats, Gilgamesh is shown to be the most powerful man. Fourth, the gods are involved throughout this tale. Gilgamesh’s mother is the goddess Ninlil, whom he goes to for dream interpretations and
1 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
to ask her to name his friend Enkidu as her son so that they may be brothers. Enkidu is fashioned from clay by the goddess Aruru to be Gilgamesh’s match and distract him from tormenting the people of Uruk. Gilgamesh’s patron deity is the sun god Shamash, whom he appeals to for help. Enlil, a major deity in the Babylonian pantheon, intervenes after Gilgamesh and Enkidu kill Humbaba, dispersing Humbaba’s auras to the rest of creation. Fifth, the Epic of Gilgamesh is structured in a formal way that betrays its origins as a oral performance piece. The elevated, formal language and repeated formulaic phrases are characteristic of epic literature. In fact, the dialogue sounds stilted and rehearsed, as if read for a formal occasion. During chapter 2, ‘‘The Forest Journey,’’ Gilgamesh calls out for assistance: ‘‘By the life of my mother Ninsun who gave me birth, and by the life of my father, divine Lugulbanda, let me live to be the wonder of my mother, as when she nursed me on her lap.’’ These formal invocations of deity give the task an elevated stature and a sense of being a holy mission that Gilgamesh undertakes for his city and his divine heritage. In a later example, as he faces Humbaba in battle, Gilgamesh beseeches his patron god: ‘‘O glorious Shamash, I have followed the road you commanded but now if you send no succor how shall I escape?’’ The use of ‘‘apostrophe,’’ a figure of speech denoted by ‘‘O,’’ indicates a formal invocation of a person or personification who is not present. Another important element of the elevated style of the Epic of Gilgamesh is its inclusion of ‘‘laments,’’ the formal poems of praise and songs of grief that the living give on behalf of the dead. The finest example in the poem is Gilgamesh’s lament for Enkidu, which begins: Hear me, great ones of Uruk, I weep for Enkidu, my friend. Bitterly moaning like a woman mourning I weep for my brother. You were the axe at my side, My hand’s strength, the sword in my belt, the shield before me, A glorious robe, my fairest ornament, an evil Fate has robbed me.
Gilgamesh’s heart-felt lament concludes with the mournful lines, ‘‘What is this sleep which holds you now? / You are lost in the dark and cannot hear me.’’ Nearly all of these formal speeches also serve to summarize or rehearse the characters’ attitudes or even the action in the story up to that point in the narrative.
Orality and Performance One of the key attributes of the Epic of Gilgamesh is the sense of breathless immediacy of the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
story. The epic achieves this effect by placing the story in a setting that simulates the oral performance in which the story was originally performed. The opening lines provide a sense that this is not an ancient story, but one just occurring. The narrative first-person speaker of the Prologue places the reader at Uruk’s city walls and erases the distance between that ancient time and the present time of telling the story, inviting the hearer (and reader) to feel present to the action. These walls, the narrative voice proclaims, are those of the great Gilgamesh and now I will tell you his story. This sense of immediacy continues throughout the epic.
In medias res Traditionally, epics begin in medias res or ‘‘in the middle of things.’’ Although this characteristic was originally applied to Greek and Roman epics such as the Odyssey and the Iliad, it is equally true of the Epic of Gilgamesh. The story begins not at the beginning of Gilgamesh’s life, but somewhere in the middle. He is initially portrayed as a young, hot-headed king, heedless of the effect of actions and desires on the wellbeing of his people. One of the effects of this technique is to allow the reader to gauge the extent of Gilgamesh’s development as a character.
Epithet Another feature of the epic style is the use of epithets, usually adjectives or adjective phrases that reveal the attributes or personality of people, places, and things in the story: ‘‘strong-walled Uruk,’’ ‘‘Humbaba whose name is ‘Hugeness,’’’ ‘‘Shamash the Protector,’’ and Utnapishtim ‘‘the Faraway.’’ Epic epithets provide tags the assist the memory of the listener or reader. They also assist in recitation during a performance, serving as tags designed to move the speaker along easily.
Repetition A characteristic of the epic that is closely related to its often formal, even stilted language, is its strategic use of repetition at various levels. There is hardly a moment, event, or speech that does not have a counterpart somewhere else in the tale. Commonly called parallelism and antitheses, these contrasting and equivalent elements highlight comparison and/or contrast between paired elements. The repetitious elements can be examined in terms of structure, events, speeches, and numbers. First, the epic has two parts, balanced structurally. The pivot of the story is Enkidu’s death.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
In the first half, Gilgamesh travels out into the Forest of the Cedars to slay Humbaba; in the second half he journeys into the realm of the gods to find Utnapishtim. Gilgamesh’s early successes and personal glory contrast with his subsequent frustrations and hardships. Enkidu’s physical presence if the first half contrasts with his palpable absence in the second half. Repetition of events is seen in the first section: Gilgamesh and Enkidu are mirror images of one another; they slay two semi-divine monsters, Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven; and Gilgamesh has a series of dreams, matched by Enkidu’s dreams later in the section. Events in the second half of the epic are often repetitions of earlier affairs, as when Gilgamesh’s twelve-league journey through the Mashu’s darkness pales in comparison to his one-hundred and twenty pole voyage across the waters of death. Finally, events in the second half mirror those in the first: Enkidu’s funeral and Gilgamesh’s lament for his dead friend are matched by Gilgamesh’s funeral and Uruk’s praise for its dead king, and Gilgamesh’s voyage to find Utnapishtim parallels the earlier journey to the Cedar Forest. Parts of a speech may be repeated from one character to the next or more tellingly, the entire speech may be repeated several times throughout a portion of the epic. The most significant instance of this technique occurs in chapter 4, ‘‘The Search for Everlasting Life.’’ In his journey from the Country of the Living to the abode of the gods, Gilgamesh encounters Siduri, goddess of the vine and of wine; Urshanabi, ‘‘the ferryman of Utnapishtim’’ who takes him across the waters of death; and finally Utnapishtim himself, the immortal human. Each encounter has the same structure. Repetition of numbers come in patterns of two (two halves to the story or two carefully balanced main characters) or three (Gilgamesh’s series of three dreams or the three quests of the tale) are well-known characteristics of epics. Seven is a symbolic number, sometimes in combination with two and three. Generally considered to be a perfect number or number of completion or wholeness, seven appears throughout the tale: the ‘‘seven sages’’ laid the foundations of Uruk; Enlil gives Humbaba ‘‘sevenfold terrors,’’ or auras, with which to guard the forest; the gate of Uruk has seven bolts; and during the climactic battle with Humbaba, the giant unleashes the ‘‘seven splendors’’ against the pair of warriors; they fell ‘‘seven cedars’’ to provoke Humbaba’s wrath, and they
V o l u m e
1
1 6 3
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
kill the giant with three blows to the neck, severing his head. This symbolic numerology continues especially in the story of the flood.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Development of the Epic The Epic of Gilgamesh is the product of several civilizations of ancient Mesopotamia, those citystates of the Tigris-Euphrates river valley, in present-day Iraq. These cultures are, in turn, the Sumerians, the Akkadians or Babylonians, and the Assyrians. Scholars of the ancient Near East have determined that the Epic of Gilgamesh probably began as five separate Sumerian Gilgamesh stories (called ‘‘Gilgamesh and Agga of Kish;’’ ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living;’’ ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven;’’ ‘‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld;’’ and ‘‘The Death of Gilgamesh.’’). According to Jeffrey H. Tigay, who has written about the historical development of the epic in his The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, estimates that the ancient oral tales about Gilgamesh probably were first written down, in cuneiform, about 2500 BCE by Sumerian scribes, although the earliest copies date from about 2100 BCE or about five hundred years after the historical Gilgamesh ruled Uruk. These separate Sumerian tales were drawn together by a later Akkadian author (or authors) who adapted elements of the early stories into a more unified and complete epic. By this time the Epic of Gilgamesh had been widely circulated throughout the ancient Near East, with copies being found as far away as modern-day Palestine and Turkey. The Epic of Gilgamesh underwent other minor changes until it became formalized in a Standard Version, according to tradition, by the scribe Sinleqqiunninni around 1300 BCE . This is the most completely preserved version of the Epic of Gilgamesh, which archaeologists discovered in Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh (685– 27 BCE ). This Standard Version is the basis for the translation by N. K. Sandars. However, the text will continue to evolve as archaeological discoveries are made and as scholars understand more fully the language, culture, and history of these ancient cultures and documents.
Events Historical and Mythological The Epic of Gilgamesh is marked by both by the threat and the promise of its historical and physical setting. According to the famous Sumerian
1 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
king list, Gilgamesh was an historical figure who reigned around 2700 BCE . He is called ‘‘the divine Gilgamesh . . . [who] ruled 126 years,’’ according to the ‘‘Sumerian King-List,’’ translated by A. Leo Oppenheimer and published in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Although it is impossible to know exactly, events like Gilgamesh’s journey to the Forest of Cedars to defeat Humbaba may reflect the historical Uruk’s trade relations, need for natural resources, and later struggles with neighboring city-states over vital resources such as wood. Other details of daily life emerge from the story of Enkidu’s gradual humanization at the hands of the temple harlot: ‘‘This transformation is achieved by eating bread, drinking beer, anointing oneself, and clothing oneself. . . . Bread, beer, oil, and clothing are the staples which were distributed as daily rations by the central institutions, such as the temple or palace, to a large segment of the population; these rations were their only means of subsistence,’’ writes Johannes Renger in his essay ‘‘Mesopotamian Epic Literature,’’ published in Heroic Epic and Saga. Furthermore, the cultures of the Tigris-Euphrates river valley depended upon the rivers for the rich soil that sustained local agriculture; at the same time the rivers brought life, frequent floods also wrecked havoc upon their cities and people. The Epic of Gilgamesh reveals these horrors, for Gilgamesh himself remarks that he looked over the wall and saw bodies floating in the river. Even the gods are affected, for Ishtar cries out like a woman in labor when she sees her people floating in the ocean ‘‘like the spawn of fish’’ during Utnapishtim’s flood. Likewise, Ishtar’s Bull of Heaven represents another of the ancient world’s great fears: drought, famine, and natural disaster. Anu reminds Ishtar, ‘‘If I do what you desire there will be seven years of drought throughout Uruk when corn will be seedless husks.’’ Thus, the ancient Mesopotamians were caught between the bounty of their river valley and the misery caused by its floods and droughts. Finally, the Epic of Gilgamesh does not encompass all the stories recorded about Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh himself is placed in the pantheons of gods as ‘‘an underworld deity, a judge there and sometimes called its king. His statues or figurines appear in burial rites for the dead, and his cult [official worship] was especially important in the month of Ab (July–August), when nature itself, as it were, expired,’’ writes William L. Moran in the introduction to David Ferry’s Gilgamesh: A New Rendering in English Verse.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
COMPARE & CONTRAST
2000 BCE : People of ancient Mesopotamia invent a writing system (cuneiform), use the wheel for transportation, and are skilled metalworkers. They produce crops in irrigated fields. They construct monumental buildings whose remains are visible after four thousand or more years.
advancement or education. Warfare is limited in scope and localized in space.
Today: Modern society, sometimes referred to as the Information Age, is characterized by rapid technological change, creating a global village, in which travel to or communication with any part of the world (or even beyond Earth) is possible within hours or even minutes. Increased human intervention in natural processes solves problems and creates them. Agribusiness greatly increases food production and wreaks havoc with ecosystems. Genetic engineering creates new organisms, and extinction rates soar among various species because of global climate change.
Today: Developed countries in the West have international power and wealth and consume most of the world’s resources. Populations in developing countries in the East and in Africa struggle with extreme poverty and lower life expectancy. Most power is wielded by men, and church and state are separate in many western countries. 2000 BCE : The economy of ancient Mesopotamia is agrarian, based on domesticated livestock and on the yearly cycles of flood and soil replenishment. Food supply is highly susceptible to ecological disruptions, such as drought or salinization of the soil. Industry includes traditional crafts, textiles, and large-scale building projects of lumber and baked brick. During this time, the first large-scale urban centers develop, such as Uruk, with populations near 50,000.
2000 BCE : The society of ancient Mesopotamia, is highly stratified and dominated mostly by men. The priestly caste and ruling elite control power and wealth. Power is concentrated in individual city-states rather than larger administrative units and wielded by a divinely instituted monarchy. Status is determined by birth, with little chance for
Today: Modern economy is industrial and commercial. Even agriculture is big business. Risk of famine is curbed by chemical and genetic interventions, although longterm health concerns are voiced. The biggest metropolitan areas, such as Shanghai, New York City, and Mexico City exceed 20 million people.
The World’s First City Uruk, the world’s first city, grew out of two small, agricultural settlements founded during the fifth millennium BCE that merged during the fourth millennium BCE and was able to exert military and political influence on the surrounding countryside and its settlements. This urbanization was a catalyst for stratified society and the comparable growth of other settlements into urban centers. The world’s first cities were characterized by centralized distribution of goods; specialized production;
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
large-scale architecture, such as the protective wall around Uruk, which required labor organization to achieve; and social stratification, which by the time of Gilgamesh’s rule circa 2700 BCE was firmly inherited rather than achieved. Occupation of Uruk peaked around 2900 BCE , then fell off until it was abandoned in the mid-seventh century CE . The prevailing theory surrounding Uruk’s decline is that the Euphrates River shifted its course from northeast to southwest of the city, perhaps flooding it for a period of time.
V o l u m e
1
1 6 5
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
Ishtar seeks to seduce Gilgamesh, but he rejects her, knowing the evil fate which befell her previous lovers. (Ó Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy)
Sumerian tales of Gilgamesh; the Akkadian and Babylonian epics; and the Standard Version.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW History and Recovery of the Epic of Gilgamesh The critical reception of the Epic of Gilgamesh parallels the history of ancient Near Eastern archaeology between 1850 and the early 2000s. The Epic of Gilgamesh first came to light in tablets from the palace library of Ashurbanipal, king of Assyria (685–27 BCE ), in Nineveh. The Epic of Gilgamesh is comprised of twelve fragmented clay tablets inscribed in cuneiform. Since that initial discovery, portions of the tale have surfaced throughout the region, from different time periods and in several different languages. By comparing the differences among the tablets and between various versions of the story, scholars have been able to reconstruct the history of the epic’s composition. This history is complex and may not ever be fully known; however, it seems to have four main phases: the period of oral composition and circulation; the
1 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
First, the historical Gilgamesh ruled Uruk, in southern Mesopotamia, around 2700 BCE , and a variety of historical artifacts confirm his existence. As is the custom of traditional cultures, stories of the king’s exploits circulated among the populace and were repeated orally before being written down, probably about 2500 BCE . Second, the Sumerians inscribed into clay tablets at least five separate Gilgamesh stories, the earliest of which among those known tablets dates from around 2100 BCE . These stories are known as ‘‘Gilgamesh and Agga of Kish’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven’’; ‘‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’’; and ‘‘The Death of Gilgamesh.’’ It is important to note that these stories have little in common with each other except for having the same main character. They were not joined as a whole, nor did they share an overriding theme.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
Third, these separate Sumerian stories became the raw material for the Babylonian (or Akkadian) Epic of Gilgamesh, composed about 1700 BCE . The Babylonian transcribers combined aspects of the earlier Sumerian stories to create the unified story of Gilgamesh’s search for the meaning of life and his struggle against death. This Babylonian version also introduced several important changes, including transforming Enkidu from Gilgamesh’s servant, as he is in the Sumerian tales, to an equal and companion; adding the hymn-like Prologue and conclusion and increasing the use of formulaic sayings and set-pieces; and incorporating the ancient legend of Utnapishtim and the great flood. The Babylonian version became known throughout the ancient Near East in a variety of languages. Finally, the Epic of Gilgamesh became fixed in the so-called Standard Version, attributed to the author Sinleqqiunninni, who lived about 1300 BCE . This Standard Version is the one that was found in Ashurbanipal’s library.
Utnapishtim: The Mesopotamian Noah Although at its discovery the Epic of Gilgamesh was immediately recognized for its literary and historical value, it gained widespread attention for its account of Utnapishtim and the flood. The story of the flood is found in Tablet XI of the Epic of Gilgamesh and is itself derived from an earlier story, ‘‘The Myth of Atrahasis.’’ What most intrigued readers were the parallels between Utnapishtim and the Old Testament story of Noah and the Flood, found in Genesis 6:1–9:18. What shocked them even more is that the Utnapishtim episode predates, or is earlier than, the biblical account of Noah and the ark. Alexander Heidel, in The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels, explores the correlations between Noah’s story and that of Utnapishtim. For example, Heidel points out that an assembly of gods directs Utnapishtim to build his boat, but only a single deity directs Noah to build his. Also according to the Old Testament, Noah is selected because he is righteous, unlike all other wicked people, by the judgmental god of monotheistic Judaism. Another difference is that the boat built by Utnapishtim is square with seven decks, which mirrors the design of the Mesopotamian ziggurat (step-temple). Whereas Noah’s boat is more realistically boatshaped (long and narrow) and has three decks and a door. In the Utnapishtim version the storm lasts seven days; in the Noah story the storm lasts forty days.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
New Interpretations In 2004, Stephen Mitchell published Gilgamesh: A New English Version to critical favor and some controversy. Mitchell, an acclaimed translator specializing in epics, crafted a version of this ancient tale (using extant English translations) that brings it to life for the general reader. He compared the different accounts of the Epic of Gilgamesh to synthesize his own and used his imagination to fill in where clay tablets left the story incomplete. In a similar vein but with a different result, British poet Derrek Hines wrote a postmodern version of the epic in his book Gilgamesh, also published in 2004. Hines takes even more liberties with the narrative, introducing modern elements in an effort to make the ancient story feel as alive for twenty-first century readers as it once did for third millennium BCE listeners.
CRITICISM Daniel T. Kline Kline holds a PhD in Middle English literature from Indiana University and is an associate professor of English at University of Alaska Anchorage. In the following essay, he traces the action of the epic and the development of Gilgamesh as a character. In essence, the Epic of Gilgamesh is a story about Gilgamesh’s search for identity and meaning, and readers of his story—both ancient and modern—have seen in Gilgamesh something of their own experience. These issues of identity and meaning are both personal and intimately related: If I know who I am, I can make better sense of the world in which I live; and if I can make better sense of my world, perhaps I can live a better, more satisfying life. Through its characters, themes, events, and structure, the story itself serves as a lens through which the reader may carefully examine his or her own experience. Although the specific historical, cultural, and social circumstances of the modern world differ vastly from the time of the epic, Gilgamesh’s quest to know himself and his world remains current to twenty-first century readers. Gilgamesh’s journey into self-knowledge and the meaning of life can be viewed as a progression through a series of relationships, specifically his relationship to himself (the individual realm), to others (the social realm), to his kingdom (the political realm), and to the gods (the supernatural realm). Gilgamesh’s experiences in
V o l u m e
1
1 6 7
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
IN THE FIRST HALF OF THE STORY, GILGAMESH BEGINS AS A RUTHLESS PRINCE AND ENDS AS GRIEVING FRIEND. THE SECOND HALF REVERSES THE FIRST. GILGAMESH BEGINS AS A HAGGARD,
Samuel Noah Kramer’s History Begins at Sumer: Thirty-Nine Firsts in Man’s Recorded History (1981) discusses a variety of Sumerian innovations—common cultural, historical, scientific, and social trends or events that were first recorded in Sumer, including schools, pharmaceuticals, lullabies, and aquariums.
Gilgamesh the King (1984), a novel by Robert Silverberg, brings to life the semi-legendary figure of Gilgamesh and ancient Mesopotamia. Silverberg takes a realistic approach in his depiction of events from the Epic of Gilgamesh.
City of Thieves (2008) by David Benioff, like the Epic of Gilgamesh, is a coming-of-age buddy story about two teenage Russian boys who use their wits to survive in Leningrad during the World War II Nazi occupation.
Kathleen Benner Duble’s 2008 novel Quest for readers is grade seven and higher tells the story of Henry Hudson’s final and fatal attempt to find the Northwest Passage. Duble uses four voices to tell this story: Hudson’s seventeenyear-old son John, who went along on his father’s ship Discovery; eight-year-old son Richard, left behind with his mother in London; Isabella Digges, who is secretly in love with John and keeps a journal while he is away; and Seth Syms, who also takes the voyage. The narrative viewpoints weave together, bringing to life a fascinating historical quest, which ended tragically.
each of these realms accumulate throughout the epic and shape his development as a character. THE INDIVIDUAL REALM: GILGAMESH’S RELATIONSHIP TO HIMSELF
Gilgamesh’s self-understanding develops gradually. As the epic opens, the Prologue outlines all of the hero’s extraordinary qualities. He is all-
1 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
WILD WANDERER AND RETURNS WITH A NEW COMPANION.’’
knowing, wise, and experienced; he is beautiful, courageous, and powerful; and he is a noble king and extraordinary builder. As testimony to Gilgamesh’s greatness, the narrator points to the great temple Eanna and the walls surrounding Uruk itself. No ‘‘man alive can equal’’ Gilgamesh’s great ziggurat (or temple). Nearly 5,000 years later, the narrator’s verse is still true. The remains of the Uruk’s great wall and temple still stand in present-day Warka (the biblical Erech) in the Iraqi desert as the confirmation of Gilgamesh’s political ambition and devotion to Anu and Ishtar. After the Prologue, the epic recounts Gilgamesh’s heroic deeds, but the hero we find at first does not measure up to these lofty ideals. The most significant detail the Prologue gives is that Gilgamesh is semi-divine: ‘‘Two thirds they [the gods] made him god and one third man.’’ Rather than giving Gilgamesh a higher sense of purpose or calling as a king, his partial divinity seems to have unsettled him and given him the hallmark quality of an epic hero: pride or hubris. Thus, the reader is faced with a contradiction at the very outset of the epic: In contrast to the glowing testimony of the Prologue, the young ruler of Uruk is arrogant, cruel, and heedless of the consequences of his actions. The reader is left with the tantalizing problem that motivates the rest of the action: What happens to transform this cruel young ruler into a wise and celebrated king? The opening moments of the epic make clear that Gilgamesh’s self-understanding affects his relationships to others; that is, his pride in his semi-divine status elevates him above everyone else, convinces him that he needs no one else, and leads him to think only of himself and his selfish needs. Because he is so full of hubris and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
his abuses are so great, Gilgamesh even destroys the social and familial bonds of his subjects, isolating them from one another: ‘‘No son is left with his father, . . . His lust leaves no virgin to her lover, neither the warrior’s daughter nor the wife of the noble.’’ Gilgamesh is not ‘‘a shepherd to his people,’’ as he should be. Sheep were an important commodity in the ancient world, and the shepherd occupied an important place in the society, for the shepherd not only cared for the sheep, he or she kept the sheep together in a flock, kept headstrong sheep from going astray, and protected them for dangerous predators. In short, the shepherd and sheep formed a close-knit social bond. Gilgamesh, however, has become the predator rather than the protector. THE SOCIAL REALM: GILGAMESH’S RELATIONSHIP TO OTHERS
Gilgamesh’s pride and isolation threaten to rip his city apart, and as a last resort, his people cry out to the gods for help: ‘‘You made him, O Aruru, now create his equal; let it be as like him as his own reflection, his second self, stormy heart for stormy heart. Let them contend together and leave Uruk in quiet.’’ Notice that their solution to Gilgamesh’s abuse is to ask the gods to give him a companion and an equal—someone with whom he can have a relationship. By giving Gilgamesh a shadow self, someone to match his strength and passions, Gilgamesh can then leave the city and its families in peace. Although Gilgamesh’s contact with the social world begins with just one other person, its effect changes Gilgamesh permanently and the rest of his story. Gilgamesh’s mirror image is, of course, Enkidu. Gilgamesh and Enkidu are antithetical in many ways. On one hand, Gilgamesh is the highest product of civilized society. He is a semi-divine king who lives in a palace and indulges himself in fine food and sensuality. On the other, Enkidu represents the basic attributes of the natural world. He is fashioned from clay, is enormously strong, and has never encountered the opposite sex; he runs with the wild animals, frees them from the hunter’s snare, and eats wild grasses. The Epic of Gilgamesh says simply that Enkidu ‘‘was innocent of mankind; he knew nothing of the cultivated land.’’ While Enkidu lives off the land and what it provides naturally, Gilgamesh and the archaic Sumerian civilization thrives because of its ability to control nature—or at least harness it—by domesticating herd animals, by cultivating crops in the rich soil, by directing the river through irrigation and channels. Enkidu, who
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
needs the cultivating influence of civilization, represents natural man or pre-civilized humanity, while Gilgamesh embodies his civilization’s highest cultural attainments. In addition, the companion’s relationships to women are also different but strangely parallel. After Gilgamesh dreams of Enkidu’s arrival and hears from the trapper about the wild man who runs with the animals, Gilgamesh sends a temple harlot to initiate Enkidu into civilized society. The harlot ‘‘taught him the woman’s art,’’ and in addition to her sexual lessons, the harlot instructs Enkidu in the proper way to eat bread, drink wine, clothe himself, and bathe and anoint himself with oil and perfume. After Enkidu embraces the harlot and her civilization, he is forever changed, and when he attempted to return to the mountains, ‘‘when the wild creatures saw him they fled. Enkidu would have followed, but his body was bound as though with cord, his knees gave way when he started to run.’’ Enkidu’s wildness literally has been harnessed by the bonds of civilization. At the same time Enkidu joins with the harlot, Gilgamesh carries out his sacred duty as king to unite with Uruk’s ruling goddess. The Epic of Gilgamesh here likely reflects an early stage of Sumerian development when the king embodied both the priestly and political functions. Representing the lowest scale of human development, Enkidu enters the human community through the ministrations of a temple prostitute in Ishtar’s sacred service. Representing the highest pinnacle of human attainment, Gilgamesh joins with Uruk’s divine patroness, Ishtar. It is important to recognize that when Gilgamesh and Enkidu meet, fight, and become bound companions, their relationships to women in the story—whether divine or common women— virtually disappear. In his dreams of the meteor and the axe, Gilgamesh repeatedly emphasizes that he is drawn to these objects ‘‘and to me its attraction was like the love of a woman.’’ Each time Ninsun interprets the dreams for her son Gilgamesh, she also repeats that ‘‘you will love him as a woman and he will never forsake you.’’ Contemporary readers are often uncomfortable with erotic language that is applied to samesex relationships, and too often they see the strong bonds between men only in stereotypical terms such as homosexual. However, social scientists and literary critics use the term homosocial to denote the intense personal bonds between men. Homosocial also indicates the kind of behavior,
V o l u m e
1
1 6 9
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
social codes, and activities that unite groups of men, and this heroic code often arises in the context of athletic competition, warfare, or survival. Gilgamesh and Enkidu are united in this kind of homosocial bond, for they are faithful to one another, they are united in their dangerous quests and battles, and their relationships to others pale in comparison to their connection to each other. After their fierce struggle in the streets of Uruk, ‘‘where they grappled, holding each other like bulls,’’ shattering the door posts and shaking the temple walls,’’ Gilgamesh abandons Ishtar, and Enkidu leaves the temple harlot. Gilgamesh, once united to the divine goddess, and Enkidu, once coupled to the lowly temple courtesan, ‘‘embraced and their friendship was sealed.’’ Gilgamesh’s relationship to Enkidu frees Uruk from the abuse of its king, and together, Gilgamesh and Enkidu make a complete package. Ninsun completes their union by adopting Enkidu as her own child, thus making him Gilgamesh’s brother. THE POLITICAL REALM: GILGAMESH’S RELATIONSHIP TO HIS KINGDOM
After Gilgamesh finds a companion, someone whom he can accept as an equal, his attitude toward the people of Uruk changes. He must then face two superhuman threats to his kingdom: Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven. Gilgamesh’s campaign against Humbaba, the giant who protects the Cedar Forest, activates Gilgamesh’s renewed sense of self and his new relationship to Enkidu and also reinvigorates his sense of kingship. Until their journey into the forest, Gilgamesh and Enkidu had grown complacent in Uruk. Once active and vital, Enkidu became weak and was ‘‘oppressed by idleness.’’ Gilgamesh also seeks new adventure, for he says, ‘‘I have not established my name stamped on bricks as my destiny decreed.’’ In terms of the heroic code, only a battle in a distant and threatening place against a formidable and evil foe can secure Gilgamesh’s lasting reputation and quench his thirst for esteem. However, Gilgamesh’s personal quest for everlasting fame is at the same time a royal mission to free the land of evil: ‘‘Because of the evil that is in the land, we will go to the forest and destroy the evil; for in the forest lives Humbaba whose name is ‘Hugeness,’ a ferocious giant.’’ Humbaba represents wild and destructive nature apart from any civilizing tendencies, for as Humbaba says as he begs for his life, ‘‘I have never known a mother, no, nor a father who reared me. I was born of the mountain.’’
1 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
Now, Gilgamesh’s desires are no longer at odds with Uruk’s needs. In contrast to his earlier abuse of his people, Gilgamesh, now a true shepherd to his people, seeks to protect Uruk from Humbaba’s evil and secure the vital natural resources Uruk needs to thrive. Some scholars see in Gilgamesh’s journey to the Cedar Forest the historical echo of the cities of southern Mesopotamia infiltrating the more mountainous north and west for the lumber and minerals necessary to support their thriving economies. In fact, the cedar timbers are used to create one of Uruk’s monumental city gates, ‘‘Seventy-two cubits high and twenty-four wide, the pivot and the ferrule and the jamb are perfect. A master craftsman from Nippur has made you.’’ The gates of ancient cities served a dual purpose: In their size and strength they offered the city protection from invaders, and in their craft and beauty they advertised their city’s wealth much in the same way a modern corporate tower might celebrate a company’s affluence and status. The forest he protects thus provides the raw materials for Uruk’s protection. Ancient cities such as Uruk needed to harness both forest and flood in order to survive, and Humbaba’s defeat marks both Gilgamesh’s prowess and Uruk’s prosperity. Although Gilgamesh and Enkidu defeat Humbaba, the fearsome giant of the forest, their success triggers another fateful test: the Bull of Heaven. Gilgamesh and Enkidu return to Uruk, and Ishtar wants Gilgamesh as her lover. However, much in the same way Enkidu could not return to the embrace of the wild, so Gilgamesh cannot return the embrace of the goddess. Gilgamesh recognizes that Ishtar uses and discards her human lovers much in the same way he used and dishonored the women of Uruk, and he pointedly asks Ishtar, ‘‘And if you and I should be lovers, should not I be served in the same fashion as all these others whom you loved once?’’ In other words, his renewed sense of relationship with others has shaped his view of himself, and he is no longer willing to treat others badly or be abused himself. In her rage at being turned down by a lesser being, Ishtar persuades Anu and Antum, her parents, to unleash the Bull of Heaven upon Uruk. Much in the same way that Humbaba embodied both the promise of mountain riches and the danger lurking in the deep forest, the Bull of Heaven personifies the threat of prolonged drought and famine or natural disaster. Anu reminds Ishtar that ‘‘If I do what you desire there will be seven years of drought throughout Uruk when corn will be seedless husks.’’ Ishtar intends the Bull of Heaven to punish both
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
Gilgamesh and Enkidu, but it is let loose upon Uruk. The Bull goes first to the river, where ‘‘with his first snorts cracks opened in the earth and a hundred young men fell down to earth.’’ With the Bull’s second snort, two hundred fall to their deaths, and with his third, Enkidu is struck a blow. It is difficult not to see in the Bull of Heaven’s snorts the rumbling destruction of an earthquake, which would devastate Uruk’s mud-brick walls and open up crevasses in the earth. But Gilgamesh and Enkidu work together to defeat this threat and this latest venture becomes their greatest glory. Thus Gilgamesh’s great victories yield the double benefit of bringing him glory and his city peace and prosperity. DEATH AND THE SUPERNATURAL REALM: GILGAMESH’S RELATIONSHIP TO THE GODS
Unfortunately, Gilgamesh’s remarkable triumph against Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven also enrage some members of the heavenly pantheon, and Enkidu has a dream that a council of the gods has decreed that ‘‘Because they have killed the Bull of Heaven, and because they have killed Humbaba who guarded the Cedar Mountain one of the two must die.’’ The gods choose Enkidu to die, and his last words to Gilgamesh reflect the heroic code around which their relationship has revolved: ‘‘My friend, the great goddess cursed me and I must die in shame. I shall not die like a man fallen in battle; I feared to fall, but happy is the man who falls in the battle, for I must die in shame.’’ The true warrior dies with his comrades in battle, not in bed, but Enkidu’s death brings Gilgamesh face-toface with his most difficult challenge: the fact of his own mortality. Together, Gilgamesh and Enkidu have done everything in their power to establish their reputations, their ‘‘names,’’ but at Enkidu’s death Gilgamesh realizes that even their heroic exploits do not hold the key to happiness, eternal life, or even ultimate meaning. In Enkidu’s death, Gilgamesh faces his own destiny, for as Gilgamesh dreamed and Enkidu interpreted, ‘‘The father of the gods has given you kingship, such is your destiny [but] everlasting life is not your destiny.’’ In his rage and grief, Gilgamesh laments the passing of his friend and faces life again alone. Although Gilgamesh is isolated after Enkidu’s death, he is not the same person he was at the beginning of the epic. His relationship to Enkidu has changed him irreversibly, for although death separates Gilgamesh and Enkidu physically, it seems that Gilgamesh carries Enkidu’s memory with him throughout the rest of the tale. Often,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
when critics talk about the central theme of the Epic of Gilgamesh, they describe it in abstract terms: the theme of mortality or the awareness of death. Yet Gilgamesh’s understanding of his mortality emerges from a concrete and personal loss. His best friend has died and left the great hero fearful and that life-changing event sends him into an even more desperate quest for the answer to life’s ultimate question: what will become of me? Gilgamesh recognizes his own fate in his friend’s death, and this awareness spurs him on to the ends of the earth to find Utnapishtim: ‘‘Despair 0 is in my heart. What my brother is b, that shall I be when I am dead. Because I am afraid of death I will go as best I can to find Utnapishtim whom they call the faraway, for he has entered the assembly of the gods.’’ During Gilgamesh’s search for Utnapishtim, the hero changes both emotionally and physically in ways that contrast with his earlier elevated status. First, the great hero who defeated Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven is truly fearful for the first time in the tale. He is just as tentative and unsure after Enkidu’s death as he was arrogant and abusive before Enkidu’s coming. Second, he changes physically to the point that he appears to be a wild man just like Enkidu had been previously. He roams the wilderness dressed in skins, just a haggard shadow of his former self. Furthermore, Gilgamesh’s journey into the supernatural to find Utnapishtim and conquer death parallels his earlier quest into the natural world of the Cedar Forest to locate Humbaba and conquer evil. The earlier quest tested his divinity; this final quest tests his humanity. After passing through a great darkness into the garden of the gods, Gilgamesh encounters three supernatural beings in succession before reaching Utnapishtim. Shamash, appalled at Gilgamesh’s appearance, tells him, ‘‘You will never find the life for which you are searching.’’ Alongside the great sea of death, Siduri, goddess of wine, tells him to abandon his search and advises him instead to eat, drink, and be merry while he can. Urshanabi, Utnapishtim’s boatman, at first refuses to take Gilgamesh to Utnapishtim, but after Gilgamesh destroys Urshanabi’s sailing gear, the boatman relents. Finally, Gilgamesh confronts Utnapishtim with a single question: ‘‘how shall I find the life for which I am searching?’’ At this moment of completion when Gilgamesh has reached the end of his final quest, Utnapishtim replies: ‘‘There is no permanence.’’ Utnapishtim goes on to explain
V o l u m e
1
1 7 1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
that death is humanity’s great equalizer, for everything human will fall eventually and masters as well as servants face the grave. Each of these four encounters is marked both by repetition and increasing complexity. It is as if the closer Gilgamesh gets to his goal, the more difficult his encounter. First, Shamash simply comments that Gilgamesh will not find what he is looking for. Next, Siduri supports her contention with illustrations from everyday life. Third, Urshanabi has to contend with the angry hero and give him the means to cross the waters of death to Utnapishtim. Finally, Utnapishtim answers Gilgamesh’s query and goes on to tell the story of the great flood and how he became immortal. At the same time, Gilgamesh’s journey into the supernatural follows a numbing repetition. Each deity wonders how Gilgamesh came this way and why he is in a deteriorated state; Gilgamesh responds each time that he is haggard and drawn because of his grief for his companion Enkidu, with whom he conquered Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven; that he fears death; and that he seeks Utnapishtim. These repetitions summarize the action up to this point; psychologically, they recreate the haunting questions that persistently assail someone in grief. In fact, Gilgamesh’s description—his ‘‘face like the face of one who has made a long journey’’— captures the poignant weight of grief and its effects. Thus, readers might view Gilgamesh’s journey into the supernatural to find Utnapishtim as a psychological journey through grief toward understanding of and acceptance of mortality and a reconciliation with personal limitations. Utnapishtim gives Gilgamesh a rather simple test to see if he is worthy of immortality: remain awake for seven days. However, sleep quickly overcomes the hero, and Utnapishtim’s wife bakes a loaf of bread for each day Gilgamesh sleeps. In a fascinating sequence, the story describes how the loaves of bread age and decay over seven days, paralleling Enkidu’s seven-day spiral of decay ‘‘until the worm fastened on him’’ after his death. The symbolic nature of the decaying bread is not lost on Gilgamesh, for it confirms that ‘‘death inhabits my room.’’ After Gilgamesh fails the test, the epic presents two strangely parallel scenes. In the first, Utnapishtim gives Urshanabi the charge to ‘‘take him to the washing place.’’ There Urshanabi helps Gilgamesh clean himself up, literally sloughing-off ‘‘his skins, which the sea carried away, and showed [again] the beauty of his body.’’ Despite Gilgamesh’s apparent failure, the king of Uruk is once again transformed,
1 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
and this physical metamorphosis hints toward his awareness of human limitation. Utnapishtim banishes Urshanabi and at the urging of his wife, reveals to Gilgamesh the whereabouts of an underwater plant whose bloom can renew old people to their lost youth. Gilgamesh finds the plant and wants to share its benefits with the people of Uruk, but a snake hiding at the bottom of a well eats the bloom, sheds its skin, and returns to the well, leaving Gilgamesh bereft once again. Many critics believe that the story ends on a note of loss, for Gilgamesh loses the life-giving plant and returns to Uruk empty-handed. However, the tale provides two more positive images. First, although Gilgamesh does not earn everlasting life, he is physically renewed like the snake that sloughs off its skin. The clothes Utnapishtim gives him ‘‘would show no sign of age, but would wear like a new garment till he reached his own city, and his journey was accomplished.’’ Physical change and decay, like the loaves of bread, is inevitable, but change is not necessarily to be equated with death. Second, Gilgamesh actually does not return empty-handed. Urshanabi returns to Uruk with him. Here is the beauty of the Epic of Gilgamesh’s consistently parallel but antithetical structure. In the first half of the story, Gilgamesh begins as a ruthless prince and ends as grieving friend. The second half reverses the first. Gilgamesh begins as a haggard, wild wanderer and returns with a new companion. Gilgamesh may not have eternal life, the ultimate object of his quest, but he does have understanding and relationships with others, which he lacked at the beginning. The final chapter, ‘‘The Death of Gilgamesh,’’ completes Gilgamesh’s cycle from haughty young king to beloved old ruler. The opening of the tale presents Gilgamesh as selfish and arrogant, using the women of Uruk for his own pleasure and the men for his ambitions. He lives outside meaningful human relationships, and he is completely without companionship except for those he dominates. Gilgamesh is restless and ‘‘a man of many moods’’ until he finds an equal and a companion. Indeed, he is no shepherd to his people. The story’s conclusion presents just the opposite. Gilgamesh has fulfilled the destiny that Enlil decreed, and he has achieved great victories. But instead of dying alone on his bed, Gilgamesh is surrounded by love of his family; by his extended household, servants, courtiers, and friends; by the people of Uruk ‘‘great and small’’; and even by a host of gods, including
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
SEEING THE OTHER EVOKES AWARENESS OF ONESELF, AND ESPECIALLY OF ONESELF AS ISOLATED, FINITE, AND IMPERMANENT. SEEING THE OTHER MAKES ONE SEE ONESELF AS MORTAL. THIS IS OF COURSE PRECISELY THE AWARENESS TO WHICH THE HERO GILGAMESH COMES AFTER THE DEATH OF ENKIDU.’’
Map of Ancient Mesopotamia (University of Oklahoma Press. Reproduced by permission.)
Dumuzi the god of shepherds and sheepfolds. All of creation is united in lamentation for Gilgamesh when he dies, and although he does not find eternal life, his story endures, etched in stone and on the page, in the memory of his people and his readers alike. Source: Daniel T. Klein, Critical Essay on Epic of Gilgamesh, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Keith Dickson In the following essay, Dickson discusses the narrative device of switching from the point of view of an observer to that of one of the characters in the Epic of Gilgamesh. THE TRAPPER’S GAZE
One day, across a water-hole, in a wilderness three days’ trek from the city, a trapper sees what has not been seen before: a wild man, like a beast—like a god—fallen from heaven, naked, his body rough with matted hair, down on all fours, crouching to lap up the water. This happens for a second day, and also for a third, but in the way in which this story gets told, these three distinct occasions are fused into a single encounter, as if each were identical to the others, as if each happened at one and the same time, or else all were stuck somehow in a kind of recursive and possibly nightmarish loop. The trapper looks, and his gaze for that brief moment could
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
be ours, but what we see most clearly is not what he saw, but how what he saw gives his face in our eyes a different and yet still recognizable look: It is the look of ‘‘one who has travelled distant roads’’ (Gilgamesh I 113–21): A hunter, a trapper man, came face to face with him by the water hole. One day, a second and a third, he came face to face with him by the water hole. The hunter saw him and his expression froze, [he <Enkidu>] and his herds he went back to his lair. [He
was] troubled, he grew still, he grew silent, his mood [was unhappy,] his face clouded over. There [was] sorrow in his heart, his face was like [one who has travelled] distant [roads].
An odd shift thus occurs, a kind of narrative bait-and-switch. The fact that the verbs in this passage are all preterit and that the narrated action has already taken place does not change the fact that in the narration of the story—whether we are reading it, or else hearing it told—we are implicitly invited to look at Enkidu with or through the trapper’s eyes. This is encouraged by the formulaic looping of the action (‘‘one day, a second, and a third . . . ’’) that sets up the scene (I 115) by heightening suspense. The narrative leads us twice to the same brink of direct encounter, only to draw back on each occasion and then return to that brink a third time, thereby generating expectation of something that will happen or be seen. What we are shown, however, is not the face of the wild man—which we have already seen ‘‘for ourselves,’’ after all (I 105–12)—but instead the face of the one through whose eyes we expected to look, with the
V o l u m e
1
1 7 3
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
result that the reputed viewer now becomes the object of the view. We see the trapper when he has seen Enkidu ‘‘face to face’’ (I 114, 115). What is the significance of this shift? At least two questions are involved here, which the present essay aims to explore. One is perhaps existential, and the other has to do with what narratologists generally call ‘‘discourse’’—‘‘the narrating as opposed to the narrative’’ (Prince 1987: 21)—or more simply, how the story (whatever its content may be) gets told. Specifically, it is an issue that concerns shifts in ‘‘focalization,’’ namely in the ‘‘perspective’’ or ‘‘viewpoint’’ or ‘‘angle of vision’’ that orients a story’s telling. In the passage quoted above, the narrator of the enframing tale makes the trapper the ‘‘focalizer’’ in his encounter with the wild man, and the wild man takes the part of the ‘‘focalized,’’ one the subject of the gaze, and the other its object. Or at least that initially seems to be the case. As we have noted, it is the trapper himself who becomes focalized through his encounter with Enkidu; the seer becomes the seen. Why do we see his face? I propose to address this question first narratologically, in the expectation that the answer will also bear on its existential import. What can it mean that our view of the wild man in this passage is a refracted one, and this also in two senses of the word? It is refracted first because it represents a different focalization from that of the story’s narrator, with whose point of view ours is identical through much of the narrative. This too involves a shift, since in the lines (I 105–12) immediately preceding the passage at issue, we in fact glimpse the beast from the narrator’s detached and, for all intents and purposes, omniscient vantage point. From the all-encompassing distance of that view, ranging (in the course of barely 40 lines) from the temples of Uruk to the court of Anu and then down to the wilderness, we are given the sight of an utterly natural being; thick hair on his body, long tresses like those of a woman, the strength of Ninurta within him as he eats grass along with the gazelle and jostles with other beasts at the water-hole. But having seen him thus once, why are we invited to see him twice, so to speak, and from a different perspective? What difference does it make that after the ‘‘objective,’’ narrated vision of the wild man we are manipulated into expecting to look at him again from another point of view? The switch from seeing through the eyes of the external narrator (‘‘extradiegetically’’) to seeing through the eyes of a character embedded in the
1 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
story (‘‘intradiegetically’’) is a narrative device that aims chiefly at generating affect. It does this first by reducing the distance between the viewer and the viewed. Here in the wilderness, the trapper’s implicitly far more limited perspective allows us in turn to share in a more naı¨ ve and thus more direct vision of what he sees, or at least in the semblance of such a vision. It offers a sight that is apparently less mediated by the narrator’s extradiegetic view and also less filtered, perhaps, by the experience of what might even at this early date be conventional representations of wild men. To the extent to which we and the original audience are invited to crouch down and look across the water-hole, we are also encouraged to see as it were directly what it is that crouches on the other side, over there, just opposite us. Rather than maintaining separation, then, the trapper’s viewpoint would bring us into dangerous proximity to the beast. This close encounter tends to cancel out the distance of our initial perspective from the safety of the omniscient narrator’s viewpoint. As a corollary, the wild man himself would therefore seem less a fictional type—something encountered in stories told by narrators—than an individual in his own right. For Enkidu to be seen intradiegetically gives him greater authenticity, as it were. Proximity in turn supplies the encounter with the emotional content it initially lacked. To be sure, our embedded gaze is an interrupted one, a kind of narrative feint, a blind alley, in that it never actually reaches its target. We see Enkidu only once, after all, not twice; we never see the beast as the trapper really saw him. Instead, our gaze is deflected onto the trapper’s face, where we see not what he saw but instead his own response to the sight. This is a loss, perhaps, but at the same time also a gain. The response in its emotional and existential density is in fact something we could not have seen extradiegetically, from a remote position outside the narrative. Seeing the trapper after he has seen Enkidu lends us a different kind of vision, namely a vision with greater affective depth. Even in the case of an embedded as opposed to an external point of view, vision still remains the most distancing of the senses; it keeps its object at arm’s length, and to that extent perhaps controls it better, but at the same time also precludes direct involvement. Note that in the run of lines preceding this encounter (I 105–12), where the perspective is that of the detached narrator, the description is dominated by the sense of sight: body, matted hair, long tresses, coat of hair, grazing, jostling. Only twice is what is narrated an inner state—interestingly, the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
beast’s ignorance (I 108) and satisfaction (I 112)— rather than some outward, visible feature. By contrast, the description of the trapper dwells mostly on inward feelings. All but two of the adjectives attributed to him in lines I 117–21 refer to affective and thus not directly observable states: ‘‘troubled, he grew still, he grew silent, | his mood [was unhappy,] . . . | There [was] sorrow in his heart.’’ Even the reference to his actual features (‘‘his face clouded over’’ [I 119]) addresses his appearance as an index of mood. The encounter ‘‘face to face’’ (I 114, 115) exposes the trapper’s own face (I 116, 119, 121) not as surface but instead as transparency, allowing us a glimpse into the depth of his heart. Unlike the distancing of sight, emotions are markers of proximity—to the trapper himself, perhaps, as much as to the beast across the water-hole. Through them, we are brought perilously closer to experiencing less Enkidu himself than the significance of an encounter with him. Through the literary device of embedded (and interrupted) focalization, we gain a kind of affective vision, or better, the vision of an effect. What we see on the surface, the rigidity of the expression, the clouding of the face, reveals what lies within. This device in turn reflexively turns on us too, since by its means we are also implicitly led to reassess our own initial response to our first view of Enkidu just a few lines earlier (I 105–12). How likely is it, after all, that upon that first sight of the wild man our own expressions ‘‘froze,’’ that we ‘‘grew still . . . grew silent,’’ and that our faces seemed to others like the faces of those who have ‘‘travelled distant roads’’? The description of the trapper’s response, the fact that right after having seen Enkidu we are now directed to look at another who has also just seen him, prescribes specific affective content in response to that sight. It fills in a blind spot in our extradiegetic view of Enkidu. What was missing or indefinite and unspecified in our own experience when we looked from the narrator’s viewpoint is now supplied to us when we are asked to look from the viewpoint of the trapper. His response, in a sense, is offered as a template for ours, and possibly even as a mirror. Seeing the trapper after he has seen Enkidu forces us to take a look at ourselves as well. We see the trapper’s expression, then, and not the wild man’s face a second time because more than any direct view of Enkidu it measures the magnitude of the latter’s strangeness. The trapper’s shock reflects the beast’s alterity, and we too are encouraged to experience that otherness as shocking. At the same time, we are not brought too close
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
for comfort; the distance is never really collapsed, but on the contrary only preserved by interposing the trapper’s face between us and the face of Enkidu. Not only does it preserve that distance, moreover, but the device of deflected focalization at the same time also implicitly augments the danger of encountering Enkidu by protecting us from ‘‘directly’’ experiencing it ourselves. What seems like an impediment may in this respect actually be more like a shield. The trapper is a foil. In his face we see the result of unmediated confrontation with the wild man, confrontation unlike the one enjoyed at the safe and affectless distance of the narrator’s gaze. If nothing else, this lets the storyteller maximize the impact of the encounter without having to undertake the task of describing it again, and in such a way (if it were possible) that the audience might react just as the trapper did. More than just a narrative trick, however, the tactic also helps to thematize the issue of the effects, both physical and existential, of confrontations with others, which is one of the abiding themes of Gilgamesh. There is perhaps even a sense in which Enkidu before his ‘‘fall’’ into culture resembles the Medusa of Greek myth, the sight of whose face turns the viewer to stone. The trapper’s frozen expression would serve in this case as a kind of reflection that lets us see what ours would have been if we had had the misfortune to look at the creature with our very own eyes. The passage closes with the formula that strikingly combines outward appearance with inner state to register the full extent of the trapper’s reaction (I 121): ‘‘his face was like [one who has travelled] distant [roads].’’ His experience of the wild man transforms him; it alters how he feels (troubled, despondent, sorrowful), and therefore even alters the very look of his face. The simile in the formula is of course partly a simple reference to the physical travails of travel for the Mesopotamians, as for many in the ancient world, always a perilous and exhausting enterprise. Along the ‘‘distant path’’ (III 25) to the Cedar Forest, for instance, Gilgamesh and Enkidu need to dig wells for their water every night (IV 5f., 38f., 83f., 125f., 166f.), at the end of each day’s long fifty leagues. On his second journey, the hero must kill lions, both to survive and for his food (IX 15–18), and his passage along the path of the sun, ‘‘pitch dark and seemingly interminable’’ (George 2003: 494), is a grueling and nightmarish race over the course of an entire day. The theme of the journey and its toll is in fact raised in the opening lines of the poem (I 9): Gilgamesh ‘‘came a distant road and was weary
V o l u m e
1
1 7 5
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
but granted rest.’’ Here travel figures as a kind of heroic labor in itself, and the journey itself as a narrative structuring device. This is in keeping with what Campbell styles the heroic ‘‘monomyth,’’ in whose terms the hero’s story always follows a circular track of Departure and later Return, travel outward to the ends of the known world and then back home again to rest or die. More than just this, however, the simile also registers the inward effect of travelling ‘‘distant roads.’’ What the trapper feels in Tablet I is less physical weariness than existential fatigue; the sight of the wild man somehow makes him sorrowful and despondent. In a narrative that has much to do with mapping the changes wrought through encounters with others I—of the trapper with Enkidu, Enkidu with Shamhat, Gilgamesh with Enkidu, both heroes with Huwawa, Gilgamesh with Siduri and Utnapishtim—this first encounter in the story is in fact richly prefigurative of others later on. Seeing the other is transformative; it always brings with it a risk of oneself no longer being the same. Inner changes in Gilgamesh mostly take place precisely in the context of confrontation and distant travel, whether literal—from Uruk to the wilderness, from Uruk to the ends of the earth—or else figurative, as in the case of Enkidu’s own passage from nature to culture. In that case too, as in the trapper’s face, the change is reflected in how Enkidu appears afterwards, as he sheds the look of the beast and becomes instead groomed and anointed with oil like a man, ‘‘like a warrior’’ (II P 105–11), ‘‘like a god’’ (II P 54). The beginning of his own journey, in the act of sexual initiation by Shamhat, may not cover much physical space, but the ontological distance he traverses is considerable. In turn, the face of Gilgamesh will likewise undergo transformation in the course of his painful quest after Enkidu’s death, though there the change takes the form of a kind of disfigurement (X 40–45 47–52 113–18 119–25). The traveller who leaves his familiar walls to venture into the wild that stretches between one town or city and the next, and especially the traveller who is gone for long and whose journey takes him far afield, returns home to his kin a changed man because of the labor of travel and also because of what he has seen along the way. According to the use of the formula in Tablet I to illuminate the effects of the trapper’s encounter with Enkidu, seeing what is other somehow causes a change in
1 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
the heart that is reflected in the face, thus permanently altering one’s outward look. This alteration is presumably commensurate with the strangeness of what gets seen. By analogy, the greater and longer the trek—how much farther one has wandered, amidst how many more dangers, through how many more strange sights, and with what deeper suffering—the more it transfigures the traveller. Perhaps even more significant is the fact that the inner change wrought by travel and encounter with others consistently seems to be that of grief, not joy. Seeing the other causes anguish. Contrast the statement ‘‘there [was] sorrow in his heart’’ (I 120) applied to the trapper after he catches first sight of Enkidu, his gaze traversing the gulf between man of culture and wild man, mortal human and godlike beast, with the reference a few lines earlier (112 177; cf. 173) to Enkidu’s heart ‘‘growing pleased with the water’’ alongside the beasts. Sorrow will of course inevitably follow Enkidu’s transformation, too, though only after a lengthy detour through a failed heroic career (cf. VII 263–67). After the delight he experiences in Shamhat’s embrace (I 189–95, 300; P II 135), which even brings on forgetfulness of the wild where he was born (II P 46–50), in the food and drink of his acculturation (II P 100–105), and perhaps also in the quasi-erotic company of Gilgamesh, Enkidu suffers despondency and regret on his deathbed in Tablet VII. What this suggests is that the sorrow that results from the sight of otherness is a sorrow closely linked to self-consciousness and to awareness of death. Seeing the other evokes awareness of oneself, and especially of oneself as isolated, finite, and impermanent. Seeing the other makes one see oneself as mortal. This is of course precisely the awareness to which the hero Gilgamesh comes after the death of Enkidu. That knowledge impels him on a journey whose transformative effects can also be read in his face. To appreciate the change he undergoes, it will help to see it through yet another focalization. SIDURI’S GAZE
Through veils, she raises her eyes (IX 196) to see a wild creature approach from the garden of jewelled trees. His aspect is frightening; afraid for her life, she quickly withdraws inside her house, bars the door, and goes up to the safety of the roof. Her concern is not baseless, since the creature is violent. He in fact confronts her from outside and threatens to shatter the bolts and smash her gate (X 15–22). Most striking about his appearance is
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
its fundamentally dual nature: this is a creature divided against itself (X 5–9): Gilgamesh came wandering, and [ . . . :] he was clothed in a pelt, [he was imbued with] menace. He had the flesh of the gods in [his body.] but there was sorrow in [his heart.] His face was like one who had travelled a distant road.
A man dressed like a lion, outwardly a beast since covered by its pelt, he is also a grieving (human) heart covered by the flesh of the gods. This makes for an unsettling combination, and also suggests his own liminal status, his position midway between animal and deity, though this time not as a source of heroic strength but instead an occasion for grief. Mirroring Enkidu’s earlier passage, he has exchanged Culture for Nature: His animal skins (cf. XI 250ff.) stand in contrast—as uncouth to refined, savage to civilized—with the hoods and veils in which Siduri is wrapped (X 4). A similar contrast presumably holds between his face and hers, since it is implicitly to that difference that her attention is immediately drawn (X 40–45): ‘‘[why are your] cheeks [hollow.] your face sunken, [your mood wretched,] your features wasted? [(Why) is there sorrow] in your heart, your face like one [who has travelled a distant road?] [(Why is it)] your face is burnt [by frost and sunshine,] [and] you roam the wild [got up like a lion?]’’
Before looking more closely at the details of this description, whose fourth line echoes and is therefore confirmed by the narrator’s extradiegetic use of the same formula at X 9, it will be useful to remember how great a switch in focalization has taken place with respect to the hero’s character. Throughout much of Tablets X and XI of Gilgamesh, it is Gilgamesh himself who is the object of the gaze of others rather than its subject. How he appears to Siduri, Urshanabi, and Utnapishtim receives the greatest emphasis in these episodes, as each of the inhabitants of this realm sees and comments on his troubled looks and desperate, impulsive behavior. Gilgamesh as the object of sight—namely, as focalized—instead of the prime focalizer strongly contrasts with his position at the opening of the narrative, which celebrates more than anything his role as subject, as the master of heroic vision (I 1–7):
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
[He who saw the Deep, the] foundation of the country, [who knew . . . ,] was wise in everything! [Gilgamesh, who] saw the Deep, the foundation of the county, [who] knew [ . . . ,] was wise in everything! [ . . . ] . . . equally [ . . . ,] he [learnt] the totality of wisdom about everything. He saw the secret and uncovered the hidden.
The One Who Saw has now become the One Who is Seen and, even more tellingly, the one seen not as the acme of heroism or the standard of masculine beauty, but rather the one who is radically and even repellently other, both alien and alienating. It is chiefly his alterity, the degree to which he obviously has no place beside Siduri and in the company of Utnapishtim, despite the strength of his desire to be rid of his mortality, that is the focus of his adventures in these final scenes. No longer the confident hero and arrogant king, the builder of walls and tamer of wastelands, Gilgamesh is now an intruder in a strange world, just as Enkidu too once was: Both of them ‘‘savage,’’ potentially violent, ignorant, and vulnerable. The threat of battery he utters against Siduri (X 15–22) he soon afterwards carries out against the Stone Ones, whoever or whatever they are, smashing them in fury and thereby stupidly depriving himself of the safest means of passage across the Waters of Death (X 92–108). Once arrived on the opposite shore, he fails the simple test of vigilance he is given the very moment it begins (XI 210f.), like a folktale buffoon, and the plant of rejuvenation too will later elude his grasp (XI 303–7), leaving him only with tears and useless lament (XI 308–14). Gilgamesh is clearly an interloper in this world; he is a clumsy and even pitiful beast. The homology between Gilgamesh among the immortals and prelapsarian Enkidu on the threshold of human culture is a strong one in the narrative. A simple but compelling analogy holds: As was wild man to trapper, so is Gilgamesh to deity: the ontological distance between the terms in each pair is measured by the shock and revulsion caused when beast and hero are the focalized objects of another’s view. The representation of Gilgamesh as a desperate, dangerous creature is thus the effect of a tactic of focalization; it is conditioned mainly by the narrative construction of a series of gazes that make him their object. These are gazes diametrically unlike the ones that earlier construed him as a
V o l u m e
1
1 7 7
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
paragon of kingship (I 29–62), as an alpha-male conspicuous in strength, grace, and beauty (I 234–39), and as the embodiment of the deeply erotic appeal or kuzbu that drew down Ishtar’s longing eye on him (VI 1–9). Here instead he is seen, by Siduri, Urshanabi, Utnapishtim, Utnapishtim’s wife, as much if not more than he actively sees others, and the repetition of the formulaic litany of questions (X 40–45 115–18 213–18) adverting to his face and comportment by each who beholds him, as well as to the disfigurement of his body by matted hair (cf. I 105) and dirty hides (XI 250–58 263–70), only emphasizes his alterity. He is not quite the same species, and inspires in them a mixture of piety, fear, and disgust. In the eyes of Siduri and Utnapishtim, this strange intruder, a jarring bricolage of pelt, divine flesh, and human despair, even verges on the monstrous. His narcissistic grief has disfigured him far more than the travails of his long journey, the sleeplessness, hunger, and the burning by sun and frost. ‘‘His face was like [one who has travelled] distant [roads]’’ (X 9 I 121). Like the trapper before him, Gilgamesh has seen something that transfigures him into an emblem of grief, an icon or planned likeness, and also a cautionary sight for all others to see. Similarly, for Gilgamesh too the face is a transparent medium to what lies beneath; it is at one and the same time un visage me´duse´, frozen expression (I 117; Botte´ro 1992: 70), and also a kind of mirror of the heart. The hollow cheeks and sunken countenance, the wasted features are outward signs of the sorrow within, indices of the foreknowledge of death, that ‘‘woe in the vitals’’ (Foster 2001: 74), that sits uneasily within his godlike flesh and underneath the lion’s filthy hide. Death is what he has seen—Enkidu’s death, and hence his own—and his malaise over that sight is precisely what marks him as an unwelcome alien among the serene population at the ends of the earth. In the trapper’s case, the trajectory of his gaze was first promised but then withdrawn and replaced instead by the sight of his estranged look in response to what he saw across the water-hole that day. This reflexive movement (as I have suggested) might be understood as a kind of prophylaxis, namely as a narrative device disguised as a way of protecting us from the naked sight of primal man, as if it were somehow possible to see him immediately and unfiltered by literary tropes, as the trapper presumably did. What Gilgamesh has seen, on the other hand, though now likewise reflected in his
1 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
looks, nonetheless stays fully within narrative sight during the final episodes of the story. There is little if any disguise here. Everyone—Siduri, Urshanabi, Utnapishtim, the audience, and most of all Gilgamesh—can see it very clearly: It is death. The death of Enkidu, it is worth recalling, was initially recounted in small part from the detached and extradiegetic standpoint of the narrator (cf. VII 254–67), but for the most part in the form of an intricate web of embedded focalizations by Enkidu and Gilgamesh, alternately, all weaving almost liturgically in and out of dreams, wakefulness, delusion, and epiphany. On several occasions in Tablet X, that death is retold and therefore also refocalized by Gilgamesh himself, in the formula that constructs his reply to those equally formulaic questions about the devastation others see in his face. Gilgamesh, here both focalizer and narrator, openly tells what he himself has seen (X 57–60 134–37 234–37: ‘‘[the doom of mankind overtook <Enkidu>,] [for six days and seven nights I wept over him.] [I did not give him up for burial,] [until a maggot fell from his nostril.]’’
The sight of that body infested with maggots, the flesh of Enkidu turned into worms’ meat and clay (X 68f. 145f. 245f.), has become a fixation for Gilgamesh, a nightmare image as it were etched permanently on his retina. This points to another shift in the interplay of seeing and being seen. Here Gilgamesh as The One Who Sees (cf. I 1f.) has not only become instead The One Who Is Seen—the object exposed to the superior and coolly sympathetic gaze of Siduri and Utnapishtim—but also and more critically The One Who Is Bound By What He Has Seen. His focus is fixated. At one time long ago the masterful subject of vision, he is now controlled by his object; the focalizer has come to be dominated by the focalized. Death fills the entire field of his sight, afflicting him with a kind of existential blindness, just as it fills his heart the inconsolable grief that initially makes him deaf to Siduri’s measured counsel. The expression on his face, ‘‘like [one who has travelled] distant [roads],’’ is that of despair and desolation in the sight of his own death. There is perhaps even a subtle switch to be noted here in the sense of the analogy that underlies that formula. In the trapper’s case, I have suggested that the reference of the simile ‘‘his face was like [one who has travelled] distant [roads]’’ was more than likely to the traveller come home
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
physically altered by what he has seen abroad, as well as by the vastness of space and the exhausting length of the journey undertaken there and back. The mere sight of the natural monster Enkidu—once, twice, three times at the waterhole—transfigures a previously familiar face into an image of despondency. When the same formula is predicated of Gilgamesh in Tablet X, however, the different setting and situation of the episode evoke for it a perceptibly different connotation. What in the trapper’s case was figurative is in his instead quite literal: Gilgamesh the distraught hero and roving savage has indeed ‘‘[travelled] distant [roads]’’ to arrive now at the very edge of the known world, the threshold between human and divine space on earth. Thanks to the shift in focalization, the traveller himself is now the one who is foreign, not the returning son but on the contrary the one who arrives for the first time in a remote and possibly inhospitable new land. There, in the penetrating gaze of all who see him, his appearance is rather an index of the fact that he is indeed a stranger, displaced and disturbing and ‘‘[imbued with] menace’’ (X 6). Unlike the trapper from the wilderness, the hero Gilgamesh has not returned to his own kin, as he himself perhaps would hope, shocked and tired and visibly estranged by his long trek through this world, but rather (and much more like Enkidu) he is himself the strange one stumbling into a land that can never really be his home. Source: Keith Dickson, ‘‘Looking at the Other in Gilga mesh,’’ in Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 127, No. 2, April June 2007, pp. 171 82.
Thorkild Jacobson In the following excerpt, Jacobson traces the course of Gilgamesh’s quest for immortality. As the story [of Gilgamesh] begins Gilgamesh shares the heroic values of his times, and his aspirations to immortality take the form of a quest for immortal fame. Death is not yet truly the enemy; it is unavoidable of course but somehow part of the game: a glorious death against a worthy opponent will cause one’s name to live forever. In his pursuit of this goal Gilgamesh is extraordinarily successful and scores one gain after another. He fights Enkidu and gains a friend and helper. Together they are strong enough to overcome the famed Huwawa and to treat with disdain the city goddess of Uruk, Ishtar. At that point they have undoubtedly reached the pinnacle of human fame. And at that point their luck changes. In ruthlessly asserting themselves and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
seeking ever new ways to prove their prowess they have grievously offended the gods, paying no heed to them whatever. Huwawa was the servant of Enlil, appointed by him to guard the cedar forest; their treatment of Ishtar was the height of arrogance. Now the gods’ displeasure catches up with them, and Enkidu dies. When he loses his friend, Gilgamesh for the first time comprehends death in all its stark reality. And with that new comprehension comes the realization that eventually he himself will die. With that all his previous values collapse: an enduring name and immortal fame suddenly mean nothing to him any more. Dread, inconquerable fear of death holds him in its grip; he is obsessed with its terror and the desirability, nay, the necessity of living forever. Real immortality— an impossible goal—is the only thing Gilgamesh can now see. Here, then, begins a new quest: not for immortality in fame, but for immortality, literally, in the flesh. As with his former quest for fame Gilgamesh’s heroic stature and indomitable purpose take him from one success to another. Setting out to find his ancestor, Utnapishtim, in order to learn how to achieve, like him, eternal life, he gains the help of the scorpion man and his wife, Siduˆri, the alewife, and Urshanabi. When after great travail he stands before Utnapishtim it is only to have the whole basis for his hopes collapse. The story of the flood shows that the case of Utnapishtim was unique and can never happen again and—to make his point— Utnapishtim’s challenging him to resist sleep, proves how utterly impossible is his hope for vigor strong enough to overcome death. However, at the point of the seemingly total and irreversible failure of his quest, new hope is unexpectedly held out to Gilgamesh. Moved by pity, Utnapishtim’s wife asks her husband to give Gilgamesh a parting gift for his journey home, and Utnapishtim reveals a secret. Down in the fresh watery deep grows a plant that will make an oldster into a child again. Gilgamesh dives down and plucks the plant. He has his wish. He holds life in his hand. Any time he grows old he can again return to childhood and begin life anew. Then on the way back there is the inviting pool and the serpent who snatches the plant when he carelessly leaves it on the bank. Gilgamesh’s first quest for immortality in fame defied the gods and brought their retribution on him; this quest for actual immortality is even more deeply defiant; it defies human nature itself, the very condition of being human, finite, mortal. And in the
V o l u m e
1
1 7 9
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
end it is Gilgamesh’s own human nature that reasserts itself; it is a basic human weakness, a moment of carelessness, that defeats him. He has nobody to blame but himself; he has ingloriously blundered. And it is perhaps this very lack of heroic stature in his failure that brings him to his senses. The panic leaves him, he sees himself as pitiful and weeps; then as the irony of the situation strikes him, he can smile at himself. His superhuman efforts have produced an almost comical result. This smile, this saving sense of humor, is the sign that he has, at last, come through. He is finally able to accept reality and with it a new possible scale of value: the immortality he now seeks, in which he now takes pride, is the relative immortality of lasting achievement, as symbolized by the walls of Uruk. The movement from heroic idealism to the everyday courage of realism illustrated by [the hero of] the Gilgamesh story gains further in depth if one analyzes it not only positively as a quest, but also negatively as a flight, an avoidance. A flight from death rather than a quest for life— but a flight in what terms? Throughout the epic Gilgamesh appears as young, a mere boy, and he holds on to that status, refusing to exchange it for adulthood as represented by marriage and parenthood. Like Barrie’s Peter Pan he will not grow up. His first meeting with Enkidu is a rejection of marriage for a boyhood friendship, and in the episode of the bull of heaven he refuses—almost unnecessarily violently—Ishtar’s proposal of marriage. She spells disaster and death to him. So when Enkidu dies, he does not move forward seeking a new companionship in marriage, but backward in an imaginary flight toward the security of childhood. At the gate of the scorpion man he leaves reality; he passes literally ‘‘out of this world.’’ In the encounter with the alewife he again firmly rejects marriage and children as an acceptable goal, and eventually, safely navigating the waters of death, he reaches the ancestors, the father and mother figures of Utnapishtim and his wife, on their island where, as in childhood, age and death do not exist. True to his images, Utnapishtim sternly attempts to make Gilgamesh grow up to responsibility; he proposes an object lesson, the contest with sleep, and is ready to let Gilgamesh face the consequences. The wife of Utnapishtim, as mother, is more indulgent, willing for Gilgamesh to remain a child, and she eventually makes it possible for him to reach his goal with the plant ‘‘As Oldster Man Becomes Child.’’ Gilgamesh is fleeing death by fleeing old age, even
1 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
TO EAT, TO DRINK, TO BE WELL CLOTHED, AND HAVE LASTING COMPANIONSHIP WERE AMONG THE GIFTS THAT THE GODS GAVE TO MANKIND. BEYOND THAT NOTHING MORE CAN BE OBTAINED. HOW FOOLISH OF GILGAMESH TO WANT MORE.’’
maturity; he is reaching back to security in childhood. The loss of the plant stands thus for the loss of the illusion that one can go back to being a child. It brings home the necessity for growing up, for facing and accepting reality. And in the loss Gilgamesh for the first time can take himself less seriously, even smile ruefully at himself; he has at last become mature. For whose sake, Urshanabi, did my arms tire? For whose sake has my heart’s blood been spent? I brought no blessing on myself, I did the serpent underground good service!
The Gilgamesh epic is a story about growing up. Source: Thorkild Jacobson, ‘‘Second Millennium Meta phors: ‘And Death the Journey’s End,’ The Gilgamesh Epic,’’ in The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopo tamian Religion, Yale University Press, 1976, pp. 193 219.
Jack M. Sasson In the following excerpt, Sasson discusses the five separate, original Sumerian legends that were eventually combined into the unified Gilgamesh epic. As it is still preserved for us, the material in Sumerian dealing with Gilgamesh consists of five legends, each complete within itself. ‘‘Gilgamesh and King Agga of Kish’’ is probably the most ‘‘historical’’ text. It speaks of Gilgamesh’s stout-hearted refusal to submit to the mighty king of a neighboring kingdom and of his eventual triumph over the forces which threatened Uruk. ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of Living’’ is by far the masterpiece among the fragments in existence. Its mood is somber throughout, for it treats a poignant theme. These are the words of Gilgamesh to Utu the sun-god: Utu, a word I would speak to you, to my word your ear! I would have it reach you, give ear to it! In my city man dies, oppressed is the heart,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
Man perishes, heavy is the heart, I peered over the wall, Saw the dead bodies floating in the river’s water. As for me, I too will be served thus, verily it is so! Man, the tallest, cannot reach to heaven, Man, the widest, cannot cover the earth. Brick and stamp have not yet brought forth the fated end, I would enter the ‘‘land,’’ would set up my name; In its places where the names have been raised up, I would raise up my name. In its places where the names have not been raised up, I would raise up the names of the Gods.
In order to accomplish this task, Gilgamesh and his servant Enkidu travel to the Cedar-forest, the land of the Living. There they attack and kill Humbaba, its monstrous guardian. But not before some of the most felicitous imageries in cuneiform literature were preserved on clay. ‘‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Nether World,’’ sometimes called ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Hulupputree,’’ begins with an act of creation. This is not especially remarkable, for to the Mesopotamian, as well as to the Hebrew, almost every existing element, be it animate or inanimate, resulted from a genesis that was tailor-made to fit its special nature. This, incidentally, helps to explain the many acts of creation, often clashingly different, that have been preserved in almost every Ancient Near Eastern civilization. To return to our story, a huluppu-tree, some sort of willow, had been nurtured by the goddess Inanna. Sadly enough it soon became the, haunt of repulsive creatures. Gilgamesh is called upon to banish these intruders and is rewarded with same symbols of kingship produced from the huluppu’s wood. When these objects accidentally fall into the Netherworld, heroic Gilgamesh sends his companion Enkidu to regain them. The latter’s descent into Hades offers the Sumerian poet a chance to describe life among the dead. ‘‘The Death of Gilgamesh’’ and ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven’’ are two additional tales from the Sumerian which exist in an extremely poor state of preservation. Because of the episodic nature of the Sumerian material at our disposal, we are faced with yet another difficulty. Did the Sumerian poets know of a cycle of tales whose protagonist was Gilgamesh, or were they content just to chant his praises in a series of single, complete adventures? In other words, was there as early as Sumerian times a unified epic with a major theme woven within the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
succession of encounters? With the possibility that future discoveries may force drastic revision in current opinions, the answer will have to be ‘‘No!’’ A meticulous reading of the Sumerian fragments summarized above will show very little internal evidence to suggest that even the humblest idea was followed or elaborated. As a matter of fact, one suspects an ulterior motive to have influenced the forging of some of these songs. This is best noted in ‘‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld,’’ where the act of creating the hulupputree and the subsequent conversion of some of its wood into symbols of kingship requires as many lines as the visit of Enkidu to the underworld. It is nearly inescapable, one is forced to conclude, that man’s first written epic was wrought by a Semitic genius who probably lived during the time of Hammurapi. To be sure, our poet must have been acquainted with some important emendations brought about by an Assyrian predecessor some generations earlier. The following will be no more than an educated guess, but it is ventured that some of the more bombastic episodes of far-away conquest, such as the expedition to the Cedar-forest to destroy Humbaba, may have been patterned after historical events which occurred around 2350 B.C. Then Sargon of Agade, a Semitic dynast, deeply penetrated the Amanus ranges and Anatolia. His exploits were remembered with special relish by the Assyrians, one of whose famous kings took the same name. The intensely nationalistic Babylonians, on the other hand, never quite forgave Sargon for having rejected Babylon as a capital city in favor of Agade. For this reason, they would be loath to devise exploits for their Gilgamesh based upon the career of Sargon. It would be another matter, of course, to accept a ready-made adventure and to incorporate it within existing collections. A question might be raised at this point. If the adventure of Gilgamesh in the Cedar mountain is of Assyrian origin, how does one explain its presence in ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living,’’ a Sumerian text? It should brought to attention that despite its preservation in Sumerian, a language which became obsolete as a mode of oral communication in the late third millennium, ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living’’ dates from the era of Hammurapi, By then, Sumerian was employed by priests and scribes much as Latin is used today in the Catholic church. I would like to hazard a guess which might be realized through stylistic evidence
V o l u m e
1
1 8 1
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
that ‘‘Gilgamesh and the Land of the Living’’ was a translation from the Semitic Akkadian into an ornate Sumerian. To return to the old Babylonian poet. He seems to have introduced two elements into the collection which he inherited both from Sumer and Assyria. One of these, the transformation of Enkidu from the status of a passive servant to that of an active and often competitive companion, is probably the most inspired literary achievement in the annals of Mesopotamian creative thinking. In the Sumerian rendition Enkidu was conceived as a static servant whose every move depended upon the whim of his master. In the Babylonian version, however, Enkidu stands, at least at the outset, as Gilgamesh’s opponent. . . . The other theme introduced by the Semitic bard is the quest for immortality, or more precisely, for rejuvenation. This theme has been encountered tangentially in the Sumerian version, but this occurs precisely in the text which is suspected of being a rendering from the Semitic. No doubt, the important role which Shamash, the Sun-god, plays in the Babylonian renditions has something to do with inspiring this theme. As the god of Justice, a notion which included the apportioning of life, Shamash came to prominence among the Semites. His cult was particularly strong during the Old Babylonian era of ca. 1750 B.C. The development of these two motifs, reinforcing each other, necessitated rearrangement of the available material and permitted the forging of a new pattern, that of a unified epic. Such a statement should, of course, be taken with a liberal dash of salt, for it treads upon tortuous territory: the origins of literary creativity. We can, however, stand on firmer ground when we consider the techniques employed by the poet to translate inspiration into the written word. In this paper, I would like to concentrate on one literary device, irony, and will attempt to demonstrate a subtlety on the part of the Semitic poet which might rank him with Homer, with slight exaggeration of course. (pp. 263–65) Of irony’s many qualities, I shall describe the Semitic poet’s employment of two devices which have commonly been called ‘‘dramatic irony’’ and ‘‘irony in the use of character.’’ In some sense, dramatic irony is almost always playful, intellectual, and esoteric. Passages containing the ironic elements operate on two seemingly independent
1 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
levels. On the one hand, the characters are shown by their utterances or deeds to be unaware of having fallen victims to a rush of events beyond their control. On the other hand, the audience, forewarned of subsequent developments by an omniscient author, evaluates differently the same passage. This discrepancy between the ultimate reality, as it is known to the audience, and the immediate situation, as it is understood by the characters, constitutes dramatic irony, wellknown to us from the works of the Greek dramatists, of Shakespeare, and of Ibsen, among many others. The Gilgamesh epic actually opens by offering a capsule summary, a sort of Miltonian argument, of the complete drama that is to unfold: Let me proclaim to the land (the feats) of him who has seen the deep Of him who knows the seas, let me inform it fully He has (seen/visited) the. . . . The wise (one) who knows everything. Secret things he has seen, what is hidden to man (he knows) And he brought ings from before the Flood He also took the Long Journey, wearisome and under difficulties All his experiences, he engraved in a stone stela.
The poet thus assures his listeners that he will be telling a ‘‘true’’ tale since its essence is derived from Gilgamesh’s own inscription. He also reminds them that his hero will come back from a long journey, weary and worn, and lightly suggests it to have been an unsuccessful enterprise. Lest the audience be caught in a despairing mood, one which could inhibit its response to his story-telling, the Mesopotamian bard quickly adds praises of Gilgamesh’s earthly, tangible achievements. Of ramparted Uruk, the wall he built Of hollowed Eanna, the pure sanctuary. Behold its outer wall, whose cornice is like copper Peer at its inner wall, which none can equal Seize upon the threshold, which is from old Draw near to Eanna, the dwelling of Ishtar, Which no future king, no man can equal. Go up and walk on the walls of Uruk, Inspect the substructure, examine the brickwork: Is not its core of baked brick? Did not the Seven (Sages) lay its foundations?
The above passage can be considered as the poet’s editorial comment upon Gilgamesh’s search for immortality. It is futile, he seems to argue, to be content with more than earthly accomplishments. When this notion is alluded to again, it comes at the end of the epic, after the long and fruitless
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
odyssey is over. One cannot but admire the poet’s cleverness in choosing a resigned Gilgamesh to utter the following: Go up, Urshanabi, walk up on the ramparts of Uruk. Inspect the base terrace, examine its brickwork. (See) if its core is not of baked brick, And if the Seven Wise Ones laid not its foundation!
Nor is the audience allowed a lapse of memory, for the poet repeatedly calls attention to Gilgamesh’s eventual failure. Before every new venture, the hero is made to hear the truth about the success of his forthcoming enterprise. But the blinded and tragic protagonist fails to perceive it. In the first cluster of episodes, it is Enkidu who ironically is chosen to deliver the poet’s messages. In two instances before the warriors’ meeting with Humbaba, an encounter which could be considered as the prolegomenon to Enkidu’s death, this brave companion has a series of premonitions. The first occurs immediately after Enkidu and Gilgamesh, appreciating each other’s vigor: ‘‘kissed each other and formed a friendship.’’ ‘‘My friend,’’ says Gilgamesh, ‘‘why do your eyes fill with tears? (Why) is your heart ill, as bitterly you sigh?’’ ‘‘A cry, my friend,’’ replies Enkidu, ‘‘chokes my throat. My arms are limp, and my strength has turned to weakness.’’ As the two approach the lair of Humbaba, Enkidu has a presentiment once more: ‘‘Let us not go down into the heart of the forest,’’ he implores Gilgamesh. ‘‘In opening the gate, my hand becomes limp.’’ But fate is not to be cheated, and the poet digs deeper into his bag of literary tricks, producing a fresh and sharper collection of ironical episodes. As the fateful confrontation with Humbaba draws even nearer, it is Gilgamesh’s turn to be forewarned. In one remarkable statement intended to give courage to Enkidu, he is made to say: ‘‘Who, my friend, can scale heaven? Only the gods dwell forever with the Sun-god. As for mankind, numbered are its days; whatever they achieve is but wind. Even here you are afraid of death.’’ It becomes Gilgamesh’s tragedy that having enunciated the facts of mortal life, he did not perceive and learn from them. Moreover, Gilgamesh fails to heed significant warnings. Nocturnal messages were valued by all ancient civilizations as vehicles in which the gods counseled their creations. For this reason, Gilgamesh requested and was granted a series of three dreams. As it is conjectured by Oppenheim [in The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
Near East], the first contains an admonition to leave the mountainous area of the Cedar-forest. In the second, a mountain collapses upon our hero, but miraculously he manages to escape injuries. In the third, the catastrophe is complete. With almost cynical irony, however, the poet assigns Enkidu the task of favorably interpreting these visions of obviously calamitous portent. Thus, an encounter with Humbaba which will bring great unhappiness to both the heroes is inexorably encouraged. Finally, when the monster evokes a response of mercy in the heart of Gilgamesh, the audience, by then thoroughly prepared, watches helplessly as Enkidu seals his own fate by counseling: ‘‘To the word which Huwawa (has spoken), hark not. Let not Huwawa (live).’’ The examples offered above have all been chosen from one single, albeit major, episode. It can be demonstrated, however, that the Mesopotamian lyricist was able to invoke irony as one of many devices intended to bind his many tales into a single integrated cycle. This is done by carefully choosing the secondary characters and assigning each a task which heightens the contrast between reality and aspiration. Except for Utnapishtim’s wife, who originally may have played a larger role than the one she is assigned in Tablet Eleven, four females are prominent in the epic: two divinities, Ishtar and Ninsun, and two attendants of the gods, the hierodule and the divinized Siduri, barmaid to the immortals. Before we enter this topic, however, it might be of interest to say a few words concerning the characterization of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Departing radically from his Sumerian counterpart, the Semitic poet seems to have consciously attempted to fashion one personality who would combine the idiosyncrasies of his two major protagonists. At the outset, Gilgamesh is described as a king of unequaled potential and of boundless, though undirected, energy. He is haughty, spoiled, and egocentric. Once Enkidu is given what Oppenheim calls an e´ducation sentimentale—in it self a master touch of irony, for Enkidu’s sexual excess is destined to end Gilgamesh’s—he becomes gentle, experienced, calm, and concerned with ‘‘justice.’’ Not unlike the friendship which developed between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, as the story unfolds we witness a rapprochement in temperament, a meeting of the minds between the two friends. So that, as Enkidu lies on his funerary
V o l u m e
1
1 8 3
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
couch, punished for acting with the impetuosity and hubris characteristic of Gilgamesh, the latter has been tamed to the point of embodying his friend’s gentler spirit within his own. It is not accidental, I think, that Gilgamesh then recognizes . . . that his fate will henceforth be to roam over the steppe, precisely the region, foreign to the urbane Gilgamesh, where Enkidu was created. To be sure, the poet strews all sorts of hints that despite the apparent differences in their early behavior, Enkidu was conceived as alter ego to Gilgamesh. His creation in the hands of the goddess Aruru was to have been a zikru, a replica of Gilgamesh. Instead, she decided to fashion him in the image of the god Anu, perhaps to instill in him a divinity equivalent to, once the hierodule’s instruction is completed, yet different from, Gilgamesh’s. Exceedingly handsome and strong, Enkidu ‘‘looks like Gilgamesh to a hair; though shorter in stature, he is more massive in frame.’’ Repeatedly he is said to be Gilgamesh’s equal. In his dreams, Gilgamesh encounters his ‘‘double’’ and responds to him not as a stranger, but as one who is uncannily familiar. Witness also the important events in Tablet Eleven. Gilgamesh had just been tested by Utnapishtim and his wife. He was to remain awake for six days and seven nights, a period which, incidentally, equals the length of Enkidu’s consortings with the hierodule. But Gilgamesh fails, for ‘‘sleep fans him like a whirlwind.’’ It should not be doubted that sleep and ritual bathing were often considered to be rites de passage, transitions from one state to another. In this case Gilgamesh, upon his reawakening, was to undergo a transformation, one that duplicated wild Enkidu’s metamorphosis toward civilization. To quote the epic: Utnapishtim (said to him,) to Urshanabi, the boatman: ‘‘Urshanabi, (may) the qua(y) reject you, may the ferry landing refuse you forever! May you, who used to frequent its shore, be denied its shore. The man before whose face thou didst walk, whose body is covered with grime, The grace of whose body the pelts have hidden, Take him, Urshanabi, and bring him to the place of washing; Let him wash off his dirt in water like a clean (priest), Let him throw off his pelts and let the sea carry (them) away, that his body may come to look resplendent,
1 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
Let the band around his head be replaced with a new one. Let the garment he wears be his best garment. Until he gets to his city, Until he finishes his journey, May (his) garment have no crease, but may it (always) be new.’’
Lastly, just as the people of Uruk petition the gods for relief from Gilgamesh’s rapaciousness, so do the hunters beg for respite from Enkidu’s repeated interference with their trapping activities. Characteristic of this earliest of epics, incidentally, we meet with the rudiments of all subsequent Doppelga¨nger narratives, very popular in western culture, in which two dramatized personalities are forged into one, ‘‘two characters (are made) to complement each other both physically and psychologically and who together are projections of the crippled or struggling personalities of a third character with whom the author is primarily concerned.’’ In interpreting the omina of Enkidu’s arrival into Uruk, the divine Ninsun is chosen by the poet to fulfill an important function. In an unfortunately damaged section, it is she who solicitously binds Enkidu’s fate to that of her son, Gilgamesh: ‘‘‘Mighty Enkidu, you are not my womb’s issue. I (have) herewith adopted you with the devotees of Gilgamesh, the priestesses, the votaries, and the cult women.’ An indu-tag she placed round the neck of Enkidu.’’ It is not without a certain amount of irony, I think, that this relationship is broken as a direct result of another goddess’ ire. When, after killing the Bull of Heaven sent by Ishtar to punish Gilgamesh for his insolence, Enkidu flings the animal’s right side toward the proud deity, he draws upon himself the brunt of celestial retribution. To be sure, this is not the only act of defiance in which Enkidu becomes involved. [Tablet VIII] specifically credits him with the killing of Humbaba . . . . In that version, Enkidu adds salt to the wound by foolishly taunting Enlil, Humbaba’s protector. He who was created by the gods to control violence, please note, is now forsaken by them for glorying in it. More pointed is the Mesopotamian poet’s skillful use of the other two females. The role of the hierodule in civilizing Enkidu is well-known. In a sense, the harlot’s instructions destroyed the innocence of the ‘‘noble savage’’ by presenting
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
E p i c
him with the realities of human life. It was through her unflinching devotion to duty that Enkidu was made to realize the amenities and the advantages that only a civilized man can extract out of existence. Faced with imminent death, Enkidu manages to gather enough strength with which to curse this woman who had led him away from the idyllic life of an uncivilized creature. But the Sun-god Shamash urges him to withdraw his powerful malediction, reminding him of the many benefits which were showered upon him by the ardors of the hierodule: Why, O Enkidu, [Shamash rhetorically asks] do you curse the harlot Who made you eat food fit for divinity, And gave you to drink wine fit for royalty, Who clothed you with noble garments, And made you have fair Gilgamesh for a comrade? And has (not) now Gilgamesh, your bosom friend Made you lie on a noble couch? He has made you lie on a couch of honor, He placed you on the seat of ease, the seat at the left, That the princes of the earth may kiss your feet. He will make Uruk’s people weep over you (and) the courtesans mourn for you, Will fill (the) people with woe over you. And when you are gone, He will invest his body with uncut hair, Will don a lion skin and roam over the steppe.
To eat, to drink, to be well clothed, and have lasting companionship were among the gifts that the gods gave to mankind. Beyond that nothing more can be obtained. How foolish of Gilgamesh to want more, the so-to-speak ‘‘existentialist’’ poet seems to say. When Gilgamesh appears, haggard and be-draggled, with ‘‘woe in his belly, his face (like) that of a way-farer from afar,’’ he had plainly forsaken these pleasures which an assiduous hierodule, sent ironically enough by Gilgamesh himself, had taught Enkidu, his alter ego. Instead, Gilgamesh now sought rejuvenation. To bring Gilgamesh back to his reality, the poet elects another pragmatic personality, Siduri, barmaid of the gods. The following famous passage reminds the king of Uruk that eating, drinking, clothing, and companionship are the only achievable goals of man: Gilgamesh, for what purpose do you wander? You will not find the life for which you search. When the gods created mankind, Death for mankind they set aside, Retaining life in their own hands. You, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full Be happy day and night. Throw a party every day, Dance and play day and night!
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
G i l g a m e s h
Let your garment be sparkling fresh. Your head be washed; bathe in water. Pay heed to the little one that holds on to your hand Let your spouse delight in your bosom. For this is the task of mankind. Source: Jack M. Sasson, ‘‘Some Literary Motifs in the Composition of the Gilgamesh Epic,’’ in Studies in Phi lology, Vol. 69, No. 3, July 1972, pp. 259 79.
SOURCES Abrams, M. H., Glossary of Literary Terms, 5th ed., Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1988, p. 52. Campbell, Joseph, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Princeton University Press, 1972. Heidel, Alexander, The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testa ment Parallels, 2nd ed., University of Chicago Press, 1949, pp. 224 69. May, Herbert G., and Bruce M. Metzger, eds., New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha, Oxford Uni versity Press, 1962. Moore, Steven, ‘‘Carved in Stone,’’ in Washington Post, November 14, 2004, p. T6. Moran, William, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Gilgamesh: A New Rendering in English Verse, translated by David Ferry, Noonday Press, 1992, p. ix. Olson, Ray, Review of Gilgamesh, in Booklist, Vol. 101, No. 4, October 15, 2004, p. 381. Oppenheimer, A. Leo, trans., ‘‘Sumerian King List,’’ in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, edited by James A. Pritchard, Princeton University Press, 1950, p. 266. Postgate, J. N., Early Mesopotamia: Society and Econ omy at the Dawn of History, Routledge, 1992, pp. 22 50. Renger, Johannes M., ‘‘Mesopotamian Epic Literature,’’ in Heroic Epic and Saga: An Introduction to the World’s Great Folk Epics, edited by Felix J. Oinas, Indiana Uni versity Press, 1978, p. 44. Review of Gilgamesh: A New English Version, in Publish ers Weekly, Vol. 251, No. 33, August 16, 2004, p. 41. Sandars, N. K., Epic of Gilgamesh: An English Version with an Introduction, rev. ed., Penguin Books, 1972. Tigay, Jeffrey H., The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982, pp. 248 50.
FURTHER READING Dalley, Stephanie, trans., Myths from Mesopotamia: Crea tion, the Flood, and Others, Oxford World Classics, Oxford University Press, 2009. This excellent collection includes two versions of the Epic of Gilgamesh as well as the Mesopotamian
V o l u m e
1
1 8 5
E p i c
o f
G i l g a m e s h
creation epic (the Enuma Elish) and other myths associated with Gilgamesh and ancient Mesopo tamian civilization. The literary material follows the cuneiform closely. Scholarly annotations are also included. Damrosch, David, The Buried Book: The Loss and Redis covery of the Great ‘‘Epic of Gilgamesh,’’ Henry Holt, 2007. Damroschpresentsanengagingaccountofhowthe clay tablets of the Gilgamesh epic were unearthed and sent to England in the mid nineteenth century, wheretheyweredecipheredbyAssyrologistGeorge Smith. Ferry, David, Gilgamesh: A New Rendering in English Verse, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1993. Ferry’s book is a lyrical, evocative transforma tion of the Epic of Gilgamesh into verse cou plets. Ferry follows the twelve tablet format and includes brief notes at the end of his translation. This book is a poetic achievement informed by sound scholarship. Foster, Benjamin R., trans., The Epic of Gilgamesh, edited by Benjamin R. Foster, Norton Critical Edition, Norton, 2001. Foster, an Assyrologist at Yale University, pro vides new translations of the Gilgamesh epic and related Sumerian literature. New critical essays by respected scholars such as William Moran and Thorkild Jacobsen are also included. Katz, Solomon H., and Fritz Maytag, ‘‘Brewing an Ancient Beer,’’ in Archaeology, Vol. 44, No. 4, 1991, pp. 24 27. Katz’s article is part of a debate over whether ancient Mesopotamians first began to gather and domesticate grain for the production of bread or for the production of beer. Matthews, Roger, The Archaeology of Mesopotamia: The ories and Approaches, Routledge, 2003.
1 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
With a fine prose style, Matthews presents this knowledgeable and highly readable study of archeology in ancient Mesopotamia. Mitchell, Stephen, Gilgamesh: A New English Version, New Press, 2004. Acclaimed translator, Stephen Mitchell offers a fresh translation of the epic, which he sees as the world’s first novel, concerned with the uni versal theme of growing up. Pollock, Susan, Ancient Mesopotamia, Cambridge Uni versity Press, 1999. Pollock provides an archaeologist’s perspective on the ancient Near East in her description of the homes, daily life, economy, architecture, landscape, and religion of the ancient people who lived between the two rivers. Rothman, Mitchell S., ed., Uruk Mesopotamia and Its Neighbors: Cross cultural Interactions and Their Conse quences in the Era of State Formation (School of Ameri can Research Advanced Seminar), James Currey, 2002. This collection presents essays by leading experts on the Uruk period who discuss the rise of the Mesopotamian city state.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Babylonian literature Enkidu epic AND Mesopotamia Gilgamesh Sumerian AND literature
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
The Faerie Queene The Faerie Queene is a romantic epic, the first sustained poetic work since the work of Geoffrey Chaucer (1340–1400). In this work, Edmund Spenser uses the archaic language of Chaucer in order to pay homage to the medieval poet. Spenser saw himself as a medievalist, but cognizant of his audience, he uses the modern pronunciation of the Renaissance. Spenser uses biblical allegory to tell his story, but the poem is much more than a religious work. Its purpose was to educate, to turn a young man into a gentleman. There are two levels of allegory present. One level examines the moral, philosophical, and religious and is portrayed by the Red Cross Knight, who represents all Christians. The second level is the particular, which focuses on the political, social, and religious, in which the Faerie Queene represents Elizabeth I (1533–1603). Spenser was not born to a wealthy household, as were so many of the other great Renaissance poets, such as Philip Sidney. This fact is important, since his work is colored by this lack of wealth. Spenser needed a patron to support him while he worked, and patrons expect that the artists they support will write flattering words. This was certainly the case with Spenser’s work, The Faerie Queene, which is meant to celebrate Elizabeth I and, oftentimes, to flatter her. In this work, Spenser presents his ideas of what constitutes an ideal England. He also thought that he could use his text as a way to recall the chivalry of a past era and thus inspire such actions again. Spenser influenced many of the poets who
EDMUND SPENSER 1590
1 8 7
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
Leicester, who was a close favorite of Queen Elizabeth I. Here Spenser became acquainted with Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Edward Dyer, both of whom were part of the artistic circle at court. A year later, Spenser moved to Ireland as a secretary to Arthur Grey, the newly appointed Lord Deputy of Ireland. There is some evidence that he took with him a new wife, Machabyas Chylde. What is known is that a woman of this name married a man called Edmounde Spenser on October 27, 1579; bore him two children called Sylvanus and Katherine; and died before 1594.
Edmund Spenser
followed him, including Milton, Shelley, Keats, Byron, and Tennyson.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Edmund Spenser was born in London in 1552 or 1553. The Spenser household was of the tradesman class. Spenser’s father John was a weaver who belonged to the Merchant Taylors’ Company, a guild for people who worked in the cloth trade. Little is known about Spenser’s family, although it appears he had a sister and two brothers. As a child, Spenser attended the Merchant Taylors’ Free School, where his education focused on the new humanist movement. Spenser received a bachelor’s degree from Pembroke College, Cambridge in 1573 and a master’s degree in 1576. While at Cambridge, Spenser was a work study student, earning money to pay for his meals and lodging. After leaving Cambridge, Spenser worked as a secretary for the Bishop of Rochester, John Young. During this period, Spenser composed ‘‘The Shepheardes Calendar’’, which was printed in 1579. Also in 1579, Spenser went to work in the London household of Robert Dudley, Earl of
1 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
Within the next few years, Spenser changed jobs a few more times and, in the process, acquired some property in Ireland, living there with his sister, Sarah. After Sir Walter Raleigh read through an early draft of The Faerie Queene, Spenser agreed to accompany Raleigh to court, where he was presented to Elizabeth I. At this time, Spenser published the first three books of The Faerie Queene and acquired a patron, which allowed him to remain in London. After some sort of scandal, Spenser returned to Ireland in 1591, marrying Elizabeth Boyle in 1594. To honor his new wife, Spenser wrote ‘‘Amoretti’’ and ‘‘Epithalamion’’ in 1595. ‘‘Astrophel’’ and ‘‘Colin clouts come home again’’ were also published in 1595. The next three books of The Faerie Queene were published in 1596, with Spenser once again back in London, although only temporarily. During this time, Spenser continued to work, writing ‘‘A vewe of the present state of Irelande’’, ‘‘Fowre Hymnes’’, and ‘‘Prothalamion.’’ Spenser returned to Ireland when he was unable to secure another patron at court. In 1598, Spenser received an appointment as the sheriff of County Cork, but the appointment did not last long. A rebellion in the area forced the Spenser family to flee to safety. Soon Spenser was sent back to London with messages for the Privy Council. Spenser died in London a few months later, apparently having starved to death, according to Ben Jonson. Spenser was immensely popular with other poets, who mourned his death by throwing verses of their poetry into his grave. Spenser’s body was buried in the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey. It was never clear how a poet as popular as Spenser was allowed to die in such poverty or even if the story is true. Spenser was never wealthy, but he did earn a comfortable living, having years earlier secured a lifetime pension from the queen, in addition to his wife’s dowry and his salary as sheriff. The facts surrounding Spenser’s death, then, must be considered as undocumented. All that is known
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
for certain is that he died on January 13, 1599. Spenser had always intended to publish another six books of The Faerie Queene; they were never found, nor is it known if Spenser ever completed the composition of the missing books.
PLOT SUMMARY In this opening section, Spenser explains the legend of the Red Cross Knight and focuses on the importance of morality and holiness in people’s lives. This first book opens with the Red Cross Knight and Una journeying to destroy a dragon and rescue Una’s parents. When a storm occurs, the knight and lady, accompanied by her dwarf, take shelter in a dark forest. Here they come across the monster, Error, who hates the light of truth, and her thousands of offspring. Error attacks the knight, who does not listen to Una’s warnings. The Red Cross Knight must kill the monster to escape, cutting off her head. As the three continue their journey, they come across Archimago, an evil enchanter, who casts spells on the group as they sleep. The Red Cross Knight is given erotic dreams of Una. The knight and dwarf believe the dreams and abandon Una in the forest. The Red Cross Knight continues on his journey and foolishly releases the evil enchantress, Duessa, from her prison. The Red Cross Knight and Duessa continue on the journey, he still not knowing who she really is. They arrive at a castle, inhabited by Lucifera, the mistress of Pride. She has six wizards: Idleness, Gluttony, Lechery, Avarice, Envy, and Wrath. Together, this group comprises the seven deadly sins. After a fight, which the Red Cross Knight wins, the knight leaves, still unaware that Duessa is not who she claims. Meanwhile, Una, who has been abandoned in the forest, is searching for her knight. She encounters a lion, who is tamed by Una’s beauty. The lion accompanies Una on her journey, guarding her. Archimago, who has disguised himself as the Red Cross Knight, finds Una, who is happy to be reunited with her knight. The group is attacked by Sans Loy, who does not recognize the disguised Archimago. The lion attempts to save Una but is killed by Sans Loy. Una successfully resists Sans Loy’s attempts to seduce her, and she is quickly rescued by Fauns and Satyrs, the wood gods, who worship her as a god. Once again, Una is in need of rescue, and soon a woodsman, Satyrane, helps her
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Q u e e n e
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS An audio cassette of The Faerie Queene (1998), with John Moffatt as reader, is available from Naxos of America. This recording, which is also available as a CD, contains selections from Spenser’s text. An audio CD of The Faerie Queene (2009), with Michael MacLiammoir as reader, is available from Saland Publishing. This recording, which is also available as an MP3 download, features Book III, Cantos XI and XII.
Book I
E p i c s
F a e r i e
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
to escape. As they journey, Archimago, now disguised as a traveler, tells them that the Red Cross Knight is dead. While Satyrane engages Sans Loy in a battle, Una flees. Meanwhile, Duessa catches up with the Red Cross Knight. As the knight drinks from an enchanted spring, the giant, Orgoglio, appears and attacks the knight. Duessa agrees to become the giant’s mistress and the Red Cross Knight becomes the giant’s prisoner. The dwarf takes the knight’s spear, armor, and shield and leaves. He meets with Una and tells her of all that has happened. Next, Prince Arthur appears and assures Una that he will rescue the Red Cross Knight from Orgoglio. After a fierce battle, Arthur kills the giant and disarms Duessa, who has used her magic to try to kill Arthur. With the battle ended, Spenser takes a moment to tell Arthur’s story and states that he is on his way to the Queen of Faeries, whom he loves. The Red Cross Knight, now freed, and Una continue on their journey to free her parents. They come to the cave of Despair, who tries to convince the Red Cross Knight to kill himself. Una reminds the knight of his duties and of the rewards of justice and mercy, and the two continue on their journey. Una brings the Red Cross Knight to the House of Holinesse to be healed. There, Reverence, Zeal, Fidelia (Faith), Charissa (Charity), Speranza (Hope), Patience, and Mercy work to heal the knight and restore him to his previous strength and valor. An old man, Contemplation, provides a
V o l u m e
1
1 8 9
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
vision to the Red Cross Knight that allows him to see his parentage and the future, in which he will be known as Saint George of England. Although reluctant to leave this happy place, the knight soon sets out with Una to fight the dragon. The battle is a long one, but eventually the knight slays the dragon and the King and Queen are freed. The Red Cross Knight is acclaimed a hero, and he and Una are married.
Book II In this book, the main focus is on temperance and prudence. This section begins with Archimago free from the dungeon that had imprisoned him. He still wants to destroy the Red Cross Knight, and so, in disguise, he tells Sir Guyon, who is accompanied by the Palmer, that the Red Cross Knight has violated a virgin. Duessa pretends to be the virgin and identifies the Red Cross Knight as her attacker. Sir Guyon attacks the Red Cross Knight, but each knight recognizes the other’s virtue, and together, their temperance prevents a tragedy. Next, the Palmer and Sir Guyon meet with a woman whose husband has been a victim of Acrasia and her Bower of Bliss. Sir Guyon swears vengeance for the damage that Acrasia has caused to this family and to the child, now orphaned. Since his horse is now missing, Sir Guyon continues on foot, carrying the child with him. Sir Guyon stops at a castle, wherein he meets Medina, whom he calls an image of the virgin queen. Sir Guyon leaves the orphaned child with her. Spenser includes a brief comic interlude with Braggadocchio (Windy Boasting) and his companion, Trompart. This section describes their meeting with the beautiful damsel, Belphoebe, who rejects the attempt by the comic pair to woo her. Meanwhile, Sir Guyon is having many adventures, fighting Furor and Occasion and others, all of which teach him to beware of false pity. He also meets with Phaedria, who tempts men with idleness. Soon, Sir Guyon, now separated from his Palmer, meets Mammon, who represents financial greed. Mammon takes Sir Guyon on a tour of his riches; this place is hell. When he returns from Mammon’s hell, the Palmer is waiting with Prince Arthur, who must first battle with two paynim (heathen) knights. Sir Guyon tells Arthur that he, too, can be one of the Faerie Queene’s knights, joining her Order of Maidenhead. Sir Guyon and Arthur continue on their journey together, and when they reach the Bower of Bliss, they destroy it.
1 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
Book III This book focuses on virtue and chastity. Sir Guyon and Arthur continue on their journey, where an old squire and a young knight join them. The knight knocks Sir Guyon off his horse, and the Palmer stops the battle after he recognizes that the knight is Britomart, a chaste damsel, who is searching for her love, Artegall. Spenser spends some time telling Britomart’s story and explaining how she came to be looking for Artegall, whose image was shown to her in Merlin’s mirror. Meanwhile, Sir Guyon and Arthur are trying to rescue a damsel, Florimell, who is being chased by a forester. Arthur’s squire, Timias, is wounded, and the fair Belphoebe treats him with herbs and heals him. When he awakens, Timias falls in love with Belphoebe. At the same time, a witch and her monstrous son are pursuing the beautiful Florimell, and soon an old fisherman is lusting for her. Spenser next turns again to Britomart’s adventure. Britomart is told of Amoret, who has been held prisoner by a knight who tries to force her love. Britomart battles the two guards and frees Amoret, who joins Britomart in the search for their true loves.
Book IV The focus of this section is on friendship and loyalty. Amoret thinks that Britomart is a man, since she was disguised as one when she rescued Amoret. But soon, Britomart reveals her identity after successfully defeating a knight during a tournament. After once again assuming the disguise of a man, the two young women continue on their journey. They soon encounter the disguised Duessa and participate in another tournament, of which Britomart is again the winner. One of the knights that Britomart defeats is her love, Artegall, whom Britomart is seeking. However, Artegall as also disguised, and so, Britomart has no idea that she has unseated the man she loves. However, soon Artegall learns that Britomart is a female. Amoret’s true love, Scudamour, is also present and learns that Britomart is not a male and thus could not have dishonored Amoret. Amoret, though, is missing, having wandered off while Britomart was at rest, but after a wild monster seizes her, she is eventually rescued by Arthur. Soon, Amoret and Scudamour are reunited in the Temple of Venus.
Book V In this section, Spenser focuses on justice, with Artegall as the champion of justice. Artegall administers justice quite swiftly and with little indecisiveness.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
Most importantly, according to Spenser, Artegall has the power to enforce justice. Artegall has several successful encounters, but when he confronts a group of women about to hang a man, he hesitates at the sight of their beauty and is captured. When Britomart learns of Artegall’s capture, she sets out to rescue her lover. Britomart defeats the Amazons and Ertegall is freed to resume the journey that the Faerie Queene had sent him on—to free Irena (who represents Ireland) from Grantorto (who represents Spain). Artegall soon arrives at the trial of Duessa (representing Mary, Queen of Scots), at which Arthur is also present. Duessa is found guilty, although she is not sentenced. Belgae (who represents the Netherlands) also asks Arthur for help against Geryoneo (representing Spain). Arthur travels to Belgae’s land and helps to free them from the Inquisition, slaying Geryoneo. After his success in freeing Belgae’s land, Arthur joins Artegall in trying to help Irena. Artegall kills Grantorto and Irena is freed. With his mission ended, Artegall returns to the Faerie Queene.
Book VI The focus of this final book is truth, honesty, and civility. These ideals represent the civilized world, as Spenser defines it. Calidore is the most gentle of knights, a man who represents these traits, which Spenser sees as so essential. Sir Calidore has many adventures, wherein he teaches people the importance of courtesy and living in harmony. Arthur, who has finally been reunited with his squire, Timias, encounters the Blatant Beast. Meanwhile, Calidore is also pursuing the Blatant Beast. Calidore has a pleasant interlude in a pastoral paradise, where he is nearly distracted from his quest. However, he soon continues on his journey, in which at last, Calidore meets and defeats the Blatant Beast.
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
CHARACTERS Acrasia Acrasia is the mistress of the Bower of Bliss. She is Circe-like in her ability to lure men to their destruction. It takes both Sir Guyon and Prince Arthur to destroy her bower.
Archimago Archimago is an evil enchanter, a satanic figure who uses spells and disguises to lead his victims to sin. He represents Spain and the Roman Catholic Church. After the Red Cross Knight defeats the dragon, Archimago is arrested and thrown into a dungeon. Archimago reappears frequently, always in disguise, and always in an attempt to injure or tempt someone.
Artegall Artegall is the Knight of Justice. Britomart has seen his face in a magic mirror and is seeking him. Eventually, Britomart and Artegall are united. Later, the Faerie Queene sends Artegall on a quest to rescue Irena (Ireland) from Grantorto (Spain).
Arthur Prince Arthur appears initially as a rescuer first of Una, and later, of the Red Cross Knight. Much of the Arthurian legend is incorporated, including the story of Merlin and his role in Arthur’s birth. Arthur is in love with the Faerie Queene, whom he has dreamt of but never seen and is on his way to find her when he encounters Una. After saving the Red Cross Knight and uniting him with Una, Arthur continues on his journey with Guyon. Later, Arthur will assist both Artegall and Calidore on their quests. Arthur is excessively moral and virtuous, serving the Faerie Queene with the same ardor as exists in the Arthurian legends.
Mutability Cantos
Belphoebe
The Mutability Cantos are two small pieces, which Spenser did not complete. It is uncertain where Spenser intended to put these cantos, but they would have been intended for some section of the six books that Spenser intended but did not complete. These fragments deal with philosophical questions about nature. Mutability breaks the laws of nature, arguing that nature is changeable. However, in a trial, Nature finds that Mutability’s argument has flaws and finds against Mutability. According to nature, beings change but not from their first nature.
Belphoebe is a beautiful woman, as beautiful as the goddess Diana, who reared her, or the Queen of the Amazons. Bellphoebe is a virgin huntress, but she remains aloof from Timias, whom she has saved and who loves her.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Britomart Britomart first appears disguised as a knight, and like a knight, she is brave and willing to risk her life to do the honorable thing. In a mirror provided by Merlin, Britamart has seen a vision of the man she is to love, and she is on a journey to find this man,
V o l u m e
1
1 9 1
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
Artegall. Britomart has several adventures, in which she proves that a woman can be as brave and moral as any man. While disguised as a man, she successfully defeats several men, including Artegall.
Palmer The black-clad Palmer is Sir Guyon’s companion and guide. He represents reason and prudence.
Red Cross Knight
Calidore Calidore is the last knight to appear. He is gentle and courteous, working during his quest to create harmony and to restore compassion to the world.
Contemplation Contemplation is a hermit, who gives the Red Cross Knight a vision of the City of God and sends him back to complete his quest.
Duessa Duessa is an evil enchantress, a partner of Archimago. She appears attractive on the outside, but inside, she is corrupt. Duessa signifies falsehood in general and specifically in the form of the Roman Catholic Church and Mary, Queen of Scots. She reappears in several disguises, but her duplicity is eventually recognized.
The Red Cross Knight carries a shield that is dented and battered due to the many battles that he has fought. There is a cross on the shield that is the color of blood. The Red Cross Knight is a heroic figure, representing England’s Saint George and the universal Christian man. The Red Cross Knight is impetuous and easily fooled, not always able to see beyond the obvious. He is confident of his abilities when he undertakes the mission, but after many confrontations, he is nearly suicidal. The Red Cross Knight is rescued by the teaching of the church in the House of Holiness. He is successful after a lengthy battle with the dragon and is married to Una.
Sans Foy One of three Saracen knights who attack Una and her knight, Sans Foy represents lack of faith.
Dwarf The dwarf accompanies Una and the Red Cross Knight on their journey to kill the dragon. The dwarf represents natural reason.
Sans Joy One of three knights Saracen knights who attack Una and her knight, Sans Joy represents lack of joy.
Error Error is a monster, half woman and half serpent. She represents Eve and the serpent that deceived her. Error is surrounded by thousands of sucking offspring who gnaw at her. She cannot tolerate the light that is reflected from the Red Cross Knight’s shield, and she attacks him. After she is killed, her corpse vomits books and papers. The figure of Error was an important influence on John Milton, who used her as a model for Sin in Paradise Lost.
Gloriana Gloriana is the Faerie Queene, who orders the Red Cross Knight to undertake a mission to rescue Una’s parents. Gloriana is meant to represent Elizabeth I. She is a virgin queen and the knights who fight for her belong to the Order of Maidenhead. Although she has a small role, the Faerie Queene is the motivation for many of the knights’ activities.
Guyon Sir Guyon is a Knight of Temperance. He must be strong and uncompromising as he seeks to destroy Acrasia’s power. Although he is tempted and frequently attacked, by using moderation, Sir Guyon is able to defeat his enemies and succeed in his quest.
1 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
Sans Loy One of three Saracen knights who attack Una and her knight, Sans Loy represents lawlessness.
Timias Arthur’s squire Timias is healed by, and falls in love with, Belphoebe. Disappointed by love, he becomes a hermit but is finally healed by love and reunited with Arthur.
Una Una is a beautiful woman, who is descended from the King and Queen of the West, a daughter of Adam and Eve. Una represents truth and the true church. She requests the Faerie Queene’s help in rescuing her parents. As she accompanies the Red Cross Knight, she rides a donkey, as Jesus is said to have done when he entered Jerusalem. She also leads a lamb, the Paschal Lamb, a symbol of sacrifice. Una can advise the knight, but she cannot force him to listen to her wisdom or protect him from his own impetuous decisions. When she is deserted, she is assisted by the lion, who willingly sacrifices his life for her. After Una is reunited with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
The Cult of Elizabeth was an important literary force at the end of the sixteenth century. Because of a number of excessively flattering literary portrayals, Elizabeth, as a virgin queen, achieved goddess status. Give a PowerPoint presentation in which various images of Elizabeth I are shown and discuss how Spenser’s depiction of Elizabeth as Gloriana pays homage to this idea of Elizabeth, the goddess.
Investigate the circumstances surrounding the British victory over the Spanish Armada, and write an essay in which you discuss the impact of this event on Elizabethan society. Why was it so important for the British to defeat Spain, a Catholic country? Try to explore how a major victory during wartime contributes to national pride. Consider if this is a factor in Spenser’s epic. Research the Catholic and Protestant conflict in England during the sixteenth century. Using what you discover, discuss with classmates the
the Red Cross Knight and the dragon is slain, she is married to the Red Cross Knight.
THEMES Duty and Responsibility Throughout The Faerie Queene, Spenser emphasizes the importance of performing one’s duty and accepting responsibility to complete the quest. Several heroic figures emerge during the course of the poem, and each is given a task to undertake, a monster or demon to extinguish. Each time, the hero must overcome disadvantage and hurdles to succeed, but the importance of the quest is always the overriding concern. Although the Red Cross Knight must fight several demons and overcome despair, he always continues on the quest to rescue the King and Queen of the West. Similarly, Artegall must be rescued himself by Britomart. Although he really wants to continue with her, he
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
depiction of both Catholics and Protestants in Book I of Spenser’s epic. The impact of humanism on sixteenthcentury life was an important factor in how society functioned. Spenser saw the world of knights and religious quests as providing an effective model for teaching people about truth, loyalty, and virtue. Select a modern text or film and research how this piece teaches its audience about these same attributes. Make an audio or video CD, or give a class presentation on your findings.
The tradition of the knight’s quest is rooted in northern European culture. However, heroic quests and stories that teach the importance of virtue are found in many cultures. Research the tradition of the heroic quest and the concept of virtue in any culture other than the one in which you were brought up. Make an audio or video CD, or write and perform a short play or dance, based on your findings.
must complete the quest of freeing Irena. Calidore is also momentarily distracted, enjoying a brief pastoral respite, but he too realizes that he must complete his quest in subduing the Blatant Beast. Throughout this epic, Spenser makes the same point again and again: individuals must be responsible and fulfill the duties set before them.
Deception For Spenser, deception is most often represented by the Roman Catholic Church and by Spain, which is identified with Catholicism in Britain. Archimago and Duessa represent how deception attempts to prevent the honorable man from completing his journey and prevent him from meeting with God. During this period, the division between the Catholic world and Protestant world was fueled by suspicion and animosity. Spenser uses this idea as a way to posit that an ideal Britain is one in which the true religion, the Anglican Church, defeats the
V o l u m e
1
1 9 3
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
Spenser dedicated his epic poem to Queen Elizabeth I, depicted here en route to Hudson House. (Ó Bettmann / Corbis)
monstrous Roman Catholic Church. This idea is conveyed by the Red Cross Knight’s overcoming the tricks played by Archimago and Duessa. Since all good men will be tempted, these two characters reappear throughout the epic, requiring their defeat by several honorable knights. Spenser’s audience would have easily identified Archimago and Duessa as representing the Catholic Church or key Catholic personages, such as Mary, Queen of Scots.
Friendship The bond between all men is important to Spenser’s work. None of the knights acts alone. The Red Cross Knight needs the help of Prince Arthur to succeed. Arthur misses his squire, Timias, when he is lost. Arthur reappears frequently in the epic, each time to bond with another knight and help him in his quest. No knight works alone; each one requires the friendship of another to complete his quest. In addition to the friendships between men, friendship becomes the central focus of Book IV. The two women, Britomart and Amoret, continue the search
1 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
together to find their true loves, illustrating the importance in women’s friendships in achieving goals.
Humanism Humanism was an intellectual movement of the Renaissance, beginning in Italy and quickly moving across Europe and into England. Sir Thomas More and Desiderius Erasmus were important authors in this movement, which promoted the education of Christian gentlemen. Ideally, the education of Christian gentlemen emphasized, as a first concern, a preparation for public service. There was an emphasis on classical texts and on learning Latin, the language of diplomacy. Spenser’s purpose in composing The Faerie Queene was to create a model for the ideal gentleman. The poet sought to educate the public regarding chivalric ideals by recalling the medieval romance that he thought presented a better society. Spencer’s text not only revived the classical epic, which in its purest form, had not been used since Virgil, but it emphasized the ideals of charity, friendship, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
virtue, which are the hallmarks of humanism. Prior to the Reformation, humanism embraced Catholicism as a representative ideal, as did Sir Thomas More. But after the Reformation, Protestantism became the ideal for English humanists such as Spenser.
Justice Justice is an important theme throughout The Faerie Queene, but in Book V, it is the central focus. Sir Artegall is the champion of Justice. As Spenser creates him, Artegall has the power to dispense justice, but he also discovers that justice can be a complex issue, with not every man receiving what is due him. Artegall discovers that what is right or fair is not always clearly defined. With Sir Sanglier, Artegall must use wit to devise a Solomon-like decision to expose the guilty party. Later, Artegall must rule on the consistency of law when he settles a dispute between Bracidas and Amidas. Artegall also discovers, when dealing with the Amazons, that sometimes justice, tempered by pity, does not work well. The trial of Duessa, which completes Book V, illustrates that justice is effective when applied to solve problems.
Virtue Virtue is a theme that runs throughout The Faerie Queene. According to Spenser, the virtuous will succeed at completing their journey or quest. Every knight who undertakes a quest for the Faerie Queene is forced to confront obstacles or deception. Each knight succeeds as a result of his inner strength, his commitment to his quest, and most important, his commitment to a moral life. The knights deserve to win because they are good, virtuous men. To contrast with a life of virtue, Spenser provides the example of virtue’s enemies. In Book I, the Red Cross Knight meets Lucifera, who is the mistress of Pride. She and her six wizards, the seven deadly sins, constitute the opposite of the virtuous ideal. In Book III, four women must fight to preserve their chastity: Britomart, Florimell, Belphoebe, and Amoret. Spenser uses four different examples, and there are several others throughout the six books, to illustrate how important chastity is in a Christian life. Morality is essential to the chivalric ideal in other ways. When Arthur rescues Amoret in Book IV, there is never any question that he will deliver her, unmolested, to her destination. He is an honorable knight, as are Artegall, Guyon, and Calidore. Each man performs according to his code, which makes virtue, morality, and chastity essential parts of each man’s personality.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
STYLE Character The actions of each character are what constitute the story. Character can also embody the idea of a particular individual’s morality. Characters can range from simple stereotypical figures to more complex multifaceted ones. Characters may also be defined by personality traits, such as the rogue or the damsel in distress. Characterization is the process of creating a life-like person from an author’s imagination. To accomplish this task, the author provides the character with personality traits that help define who that character is and how that character behaves in a given situation. Most of the characters in The Faerie Queene differ slightly from this definition, since each characterislittlemorethanatype.Theaudiencedoes not really know or understand the character as an individual. For instance, Una represents little more than a quality and is not an individual. The audience understands that Una signifies truth, an essential component of an ideal world and a tenet of religious belief.
Parable A parable is a story intended to teach a moral lesson. The stories in The Faerie Queene are designed to teach people how to be better Christians and how to live moral lives. The New Testament is one source of parables. This tradition stems from a period in which most men and women could not read, and the clergy found that stories were the most effective way to deliver moral lessons. Spenser uses parables to tell stories that teach a lesson.
Setting The time, place, and culture in which the action of the play takes place is called the setting. The elements of setting may include geographic location, physical or mental environments, prevailing cultural attitudes, or the historical time in which the action takes place. The location for The Faerie Queene is mostly Britain, but the time is in flux, with Spenser interjecting contemporary ideas into his work as he recalls a much earlier period of knights and chivalry.
Spenserian Stanza The Spenserian stanza contains nine iambic lines, the first eight lines in pentameter and the ninth line, called the alexandrine, in hexameter. The interlocking rhyme scheme of abbabbcbcc provides unity and tightness. The finishing alexandrine, with its extra length, gives a sense of completion and inclusion.
V o l u m e
1
1 9 5
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Humanism and Education Tudor England in the sixteenth century was a place of significant social, religious, and political changes. One transformation occurred in the way English boys and young men were educated. Education had typically focused on males rather than females, but as the fifteenth century drew to an end, the emphasis on education changed. Instead of educating boys and young men as members of the clergy, a new emphasis prepared them for careers in government, requiring a different sort of education. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the intellectual movement that became known during the Renaissance as humanism, urged preparing young men for public service. New emphasis fell on rhetoric and classical texts and on a need to learn Latin grammar, the language of diplomacy. Latin had always been thought necessary for the clergy, but now, it became clear there were other uses. Each country conducted its international business in Latin, and increased international travel and trade called for men to assume new duties. In this new world, there was a close connection between universities and the government. The sons of nobility attended colleges, but so, too, did an increasing number of commoners, many of whom were destined for government service. Initially, humanism combined classical learning with Catholicism. In humanism’s early development, Sir Thomas More enthusiastically supported the study of Greek classical texts, but he was also a Catholic who chose to die rather than agree to take the oath that acknowledged the king of England as head of the national church in England. With the adoption of a new religion, the second-generation movement of humanism included Protestantism. Like many men of his period, Spenser was a strong advocate of humanism, and so one of his desires in composing The Faerie Queene was to create a model for the ideal gentleman. Spenser was enamored of the medieval world, which was seen as an age of chivalry in which men were honorable and adhered to a code of behavior that emphasized morality and truth. In composing his epic, Spenser sought to educate the public in chivalric ideals, recalling the medieval romance, which, he thought, presented a better society.Spencer’s text not only revives the classical epic, which, in its purest form, had not been used since Virgil, but it emphasizes the ideals of charity, friendship, and
1 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
virtue, which are the hallmarks of the humanistic movement. In addition, Spenser uses allegory to tell his story, and allegory was commonly used in the medieval period for biblical interpretation and teaching. The setting of Spenser’s epic is medieval England, but the topic is Renaissance in origin. As Philip Sidney argued in his Defence of Poesy, poetry has merit in its ability to make education sweeter and easier to swallow. Spenser accomplished this by resurrecting the medieval romance and the chivalric knight as instruments to demonstrate the righteousness of the Church of England and the righteous path of humanistic, Protestant men.
Religious Turmoil In The Faerie Queene, Spenser reflects the Renaissance emphasis on leading a life of beneficial action. At the same time, his text depicts the real-life tensions between the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England, which was formally established by Elizabeth I in 1559. The pope’s response to the queen’s action was her excommunication in 1570, but officially, there was little notice of the pope’s actions. After the formal establishment of the Anglican Church, some of the tension of the previous twenty-five years dissipated, primarily because the queen was more tolerant of religious choice and less likely to endorse the extreme persecution that Mary I favored. When Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and abbeys in 1536, it was not because he would not tolerate dissenting religious views. Certainly he rejected the Catholic Church but that was primarily because the pope refused to permit his divorce. And, to assure the succession of any heir he might have after divorcing his first wife, Henry required that his citizens take an oath that recognized him as head of the Church of England. But Henry’s decision to dissolve the monasteries and abbeys was not primarily motivated by religious ideology but by a desire to claim the land, buildings, monies, and expensive art and jewelry that lay inside. Henry understood that eliminating the Catholic Church would make him rich; it was simply a sound economic move. After Henry died, his young son became king as Edward VI and for a while the religious component of Tudor life remained stable. But the young king did not live long, and at his death, his elder sister, Mary, became queen. During the brief reign of Mary I, from 1553 to 1558, religious intolerance and religiously inspired
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Sixteenth century: In 1517, Martin Luther’s actions grow into the Protestant Reformation. This event has important ramifications for England, when King Henry VIII seeks a divorce from his wife. When the pope refuses to grant a divorce, the king creates himself as leader of the English church. This act, in 1534, creates the Anglican Church and establishes Protestantism as the official religion. In effect, it also outlaws the Roman Catholic Church, since Henry seizes all church property, liquidating it into a source of revenue. Spenser uses this history to depict Una as Truth, the Anglican Church. Duessa represents falsehood, the Roman Catholic Church. Today: In many ways, the English view the Catholic Church with suspicion. Still current laws prohibit a member of the royal family from marrying a Catholic, and the Anglican Church remains the official Church of England. No Catholic can inherit the throne. However, in 2009, the British prime minister, Gordon Brown, opens talks with the royal family about ending the ban on their marrying Catholics.
Sixteenth century: After Henry VIII and his only son, Edward VI, die, Mary I inherits the throne. In 1555 she restores Catholicism to England and outlaws Protestantism. After marrying Spain’s heir to the throne, Mary begins persecuting Protestants, burning those who fail to embrace the Catholic faith. Mary becomes known as Bloody Mary because of her actions. These persecutions lead to an enormous animosity between Protestants and Catholics, which Spenser depicts in his epic by having many evil characters portrayed as Catholic, such as Archimago, Duessa, and Error. In contrast, the good knights, such as the Red Cross Knight, are represented as Protestant.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Today: Not surprisingly, religion is still a source of conflict around the world. The United States directs its War on Terror against Islamic people and nations, some of whom see the conflict as a jihad or holy war. As in sixteenth-century England, the conflict between Protestants and Catholics still rages, accounting for bombings and deaths in London and Ireland. Each side still views the other as evil and destructive, much as they did when Spenser was writing his epic. Sixteenth century: In 1588, Elizabeth I defeats the Spanish Armada. The Spanish Armada, consisting of 132 vessels, sails against England, with intent to invade and claim the country for the Catholic Church. The English rebuff the invasion and, with the aid of a storm, destroy more than half the ships. Elizabeth is seen as a heroic monarch and thus is depicted in Spenser’s epic as the Faerie Queene, the virginal queen who inspires such loyalty from her knights. Today: The English have a record of successfully defending their small island nation against invasion for the last four hundred years, defeating first Napoleon, and later, Hitler. Devotion to country and ideals celebrated in Spenser’s epic continue to be popular. Sixteenth century: In 1587, Elizabeth I has her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, executed, ending nearly twenty years’ imprisonment. While a prisoner, Mary has been the center of frequent plots to overthrow Elizabeth and place the Catholic Mary on the throne. Duessa, tried and found guilty, represents the evil and deception many English citizens assign to Mary. Today: Although the English royalty firmly occupy on the throne, many other countries face the possibility of or experience a coup. Such an overthrow is unlikely in England, where the monarchy remains popular.
V o l u m e
1
1 9 7
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
relatively peaceful, religion remained a factor that could divide the people. Spenser reflects these widespread fears in The Faerie Queene.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Across the centuries The Faerie Queene has had a lasting effect on the literary community. Spenser’s nine-line Spenserian stanza influenced poets such as Burns in The Cotter’s Saturday Night, Shelley in The Revolt of Islam and Adonis, Keats in The Eve of St. Agnes, Tennyson in sections of The Lotos-Eaters , and Byron in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
Title page from the first edition of The Faerie Queene (Bettmann / Corbis)
murder became commonplace. Mary, who was Catholic, immediately reinstated Catholicism as the official religion in England. Moving quickly, she outlawed Protestantism to please her new bridegroom, Philip of Spain. Protestants were persecuted, and hundreds were burned at the stake when they refused to convert to Catholicism. Mary’s ruthlessness earned her the nickname, ‘‘Bloody Mary.’’ In contrast to Mary’s rule, Elizabeth seemed a refreshing new breath in the kingdom. She was young and beautiful, vibrant and full of energy. She quickly established Protestantism as the official religion, and she manifested none of the intolerance of her older sister, Mary. The legacy of Mary’s reign was a fear of Catholicism and a determination not to permit Catholics to hold government office or any position of power. The immediate effect of Mary’s reign was that any plotting that was discovered, any subversion that was detected, any unexpected crisis, could well be credited to Catholic sympathizers. Although Elizabeth’s reign was prosperous and
1 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
Spenser’s influence extended, however, far beyond the construction of a new stanzaic form. In Paradise Lost, Milton’s depiction of Sin draws from Spenser’s depiction of Error in Book I. More significantly, Spenser resurrected the classical epic literary genre that had been virtually ignored for hundreds of years. While there had been other epics, such as Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, most of these works did not draw on classical traditions. However, Spenser revived the Greek and Latin epic and renewed interest in Homer and Virgil. This new attention to the classical epic inspired Milton in creating his own. Paradise Lost, like The Faerie Queene, is modeled on the classical Greek origins of the genre. Spenser’s work also made a social and political contribution. During Elizabeth’s rule, the handling of female characters in literature was affected by the fact that the country was ruled by a virgin queen. Elizabeth was the object of enormous flattery. She was called Diana (the virgin goddess of the moon and of hunting), Cynthia (celebrated as the goddess of the moon), and Semele (mother of Dionysus). Elizabeth was Gloriana in The Faerie Queene. Few women enjoyed the liberty and personal freedom of Elizabeth. Patriarchal and religious views maintained that women were inferior, but as queen, Elizabeth could proclaim her superiority. As the ordained representative of God, the queen inverted the traditional assumption of male superiority. Poets responded with exaggerated claims of her virtue, wisdom, and strength. The problem with the Cult of Elizabeth was that it provided little for ordinary women, who lacked God’s endorsement of their adequacy. The patronage system and genuine admiration for his queen combined to make Spenser a leading
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
proponent of Elizabeth. As an anti-Catholic nationalist, Spenser hoped to leave a legacy of national pride to inspire the sort of chivalry that he found missing in the Elizabethan world. Moreover, the patronage system was an important factor in Spencer’s glorification of Elizabeth. Simple economics influenced Spenser’s work. With Elizabeth providing his income, the grateful poet might be expected to exaggerate her virtues, as well as the strengths of her court and courtiers. Typically, only the first book or at most the first three books of Spenser’s epic are read by students. Spenser’s use of archaic language is difficult for many students, as is the convoluted plot and the many characters, most of whom appear only briefly. First time readers, who are unprepared for the effort it takes to read and absorb the poem, are often intimidated. In spite of these difficulties, however, writers from Spenser’s death into the early twenty-first century have found inspiration in Spenser’s language. Early twentyfirst century critical works on the poem include The Cambridge Companion to Spenser, edited by Andrew Hadfield (2001). The book comprises a useful compilation of essays covering such topics as Spenser’s life and career, the historical context in Britain and Ireland, and critical analysis of The Faerie Queene. In 2006, Nadya Q. ChishtyMujahid’s analysis of character development in the poem and how it affects interpretation of the allegory was published as Character Development in Edmund Spenser’s ‘‘The Faerie Queene’’ (Edwin Mellen Press).
CRITICISM Sheri Metzger Karmiol Karmiol teaches literature and drama at the University of New Mexico, where she is a lecturer in the University Honors Program. In this essay, she discusses The Faerie Queene as an example of the literary ideal and the usefulness of literature in educating people and creating social change. Sixteenth-century England is framed by two fictional works that depict an ideal society. Sir Thomas More’s Utopia (1516) and Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590), each of which creates an ideal world where men behave with dignity, truth, and valor. This is a world in which personal values are more important than greed or lechery. When More wrote his Utopia, he was responding to changes in English life, as English
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Virgil’s Aeneid (19 BCE ) tells the story of Aeneas and establishes a mythic history for the Roman people. Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur (1485) is the story of King Arthur.
The Cambridge Cultural History: SixteenthCentury Britain (1992) is an accessible history of the period, including cultural and social life, architecture, literature, music, art, and Renaissance gardens.
Tamora Pierce’s young adult novel First Test: Protector of the Small (2000) tells the story of a ten-year-old girl who is determined to become a knight. She has to overcome prejudice against girls in a male world and the many obstacles that are thrown in the way of her quest.
Peter David’s adult or young adult novel Knight Life (2002) is a comic updating of Arthurian legend to a modern New York City setting.
The Conch Bearer, by the Indian-American author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, (2003) is a novel targeted at readers aged nine to twelve. Set in modern-day India, it tells the story of a boy’s quest to help his mentor, a member of the Brotherhood of Healers, to return a magical conch shell to its home in the Himalayas. To succeed in his quest, the boy must learn the virtues of honesty, loyalty, and compassion, reflecting Spenser’s focus on the teaching of morality in The Faerie Queene.
society moved from the Middle Ages into the Renaissance. In More’s world, the emphasis in education was shifting, as men are being prepared for public service. Men were increasingly shifting their interest from careers in the clergy to secular interests. At the end of the century, when Spenser wrote his epic, England is once again facing change. Queen Elizabeth had ruled more than thirty years, nearly all of Spenser’s life, and the country had begun to worry about
V o l u m e
1
1 9 9
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
For Spenser, the pleasant taste could be delivered by Prince Arthur and his knights, who can teach honor and truth through entertainment. BY RECAPTURING THE PAST, SPENSER MADE THE PRESENT MORE PALATABLE, AND HE INSTILLED HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.’’
an heir to the throne. Although the queen was healthy (she lived until 1603), the idea of a virgin queen had lost its appeal. Elizabeth resisted all attempts to persuade her to marry and give birth to an heir or, barring that, to name someone as her heir. In short, the Elizabethan world is on the cusp of change, just as More’s Tudor world was eighty years earlier. The composition of a national epic was Spenser’s response, an illustration meant to effect social change. The Faerie Queene depicts Spenser’s concept of an ideal England. In the letter to Sir Walter Raleigh that was published with Books I–III, Spenser states that his purpose in writing is to create a model for educating young men, but he is not simply providing an academic model. Spenser maintains that his purpose is to ‘‘fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline.’’ To ease this learning, Spenser points out that his work will ‘‘be most plausible and pleasing, being coloured with an historicall fiction, the which the most part of men delight to read.’’ Spenser understood that his audience needed to find education palatable, and he stated further that he chose King Arthur and his world as the topic of his epic because Arthur’s story carried no political implications. In fashioning his epic in order to teach valor and graciousness, Spenser met the challenges set forth by Sir Philip Sidney only a few years earlier. In his Defence of Poesy (1579), Sidney argued that poetry creates pleasure and that pleasure makes learning more enjoyable. Sidney pointed out that men learn best when they want to learn, when they are eager to learn. Making learning pleasurable is one goal of the poet, according to Sidney: ‘‘he [the poet] doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice any man to enter into it.’’ The poet, Sidney wrote, has the power to make the distasteful more agreeable: ‘‘even as the child is often brought to take the most wholesome things by hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste.’’
2 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
A classical epic, such as those composed by Homer or Virgil, requires a hero of imposing stature, one of national importance. Prince Arthur, the Red Cross Knight, Guyon, Artegall, and Calidore, all fit this definition, since each knight has exceptional abilities far beyond the reach of ordinary men. Their deeds are those of great valor, often demanding super human courage, just as the epic tradition requires. Spenser drew on England’s legendary past, recalling a time of greatness and grandeur. He implied that with these models to guide them, England’s people could achieve greatness. In Spenser’s world, there is sin and evil, balanced by virtue and goodness. Moreover, the manifestations of these qualities are interesting and alive, filled with plotting and deception and the ability to create change. Spenser’s heroes and villains are stereotypes, with the Anglicans pitted against Catholics the common plot. An effective writer needs both heroes and villains to illustrate an idealized world. Unlike Sir Thomas More in Utopia, Spenser takes a chance and reaches back into England’s history to appropriate his knights and their quests. Like More, Spenser was an apostle of humanism, but Spenser sought to use his work to promote chivalric ideals, which he thought were superior to contemporaneous values. In his reading of Spenser, Graham Hough states that Spenser intended to educate the nobility to chivalric integrity by recalling the medieval romance, which he thought represented a better society. Hough points out that there are no exact locations, with everything in Spenser’s epic appearing abstract and dream-like. This vagueness of location conveys an ideal world. He is not competing with his own politicized world, and no one can condemn the poet for wanting to replace England with a dream—no matter how idealized. In his work, Spenser emphasized the importance of leading a life of beneficial action. At the same time, his text reflects the real-life tensions between the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England. Northrop Frye argues that Spenser saw The Faerie Queene as a means to reclaiming the virtue and education necessary to return fallen men to a higher level of nature in the upper world (Frye divides nature into four worlds and man should be closer to the top). Frye argues that education is the central theme
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
of The Faerie Queene, pointing out, ‘‘if we had to find a single word for the virtue underlying all private education, the best word would perhaps be fidelity: that unswerving loyalty to an ideal which is virtue, to a single lady which is love, and to the demands of one’s calling which is courage.’’ This emphasis on fidelity is the underlying ideal that motivates all of Spenser’s heroic action. For Spenser, the Anglican Church epitomized this fidelity. Thus, Spenser’s text relies on biblical allegory to present his perfect world. The imperfect world was represented by allusions to the Catholic Church. For instance, Archimago is first seen as a hermit singing Latin, the Ave Maria, the language of the Catholic Church. He represents evil, deception, and the pope. His accomplice, Duessa, is false, and at different times, she is Mary Queen of Scots, the Roman Catholic Church, and the Whore of Babylon. Her attempts to deceive the Red Cross Knight reveal the attempts of the papacy to deceive the faithful. To serve as contrast to the evil of Archimago and Duessa, Una is truth, the Anglican Church. Red Cross Knight, the hero of Book I, represents St. George, the Patron Saint of England and the Christian man who must rescue Una’s parents and defeat hypocrisy. When he is driven to the brink of despair (a serious sin in Renaissance life), only the teachings of the church (in the House of Holiness) restore him. In this epic, truth defeats the world (the House of Pride), flesh (Duessa at the fountain), and the devil (the cave of despair). Prince Arthur (ancestor to Elizabeth) defeats the giant, Orgolio, and the Catholic Church is defeated by the Anglican Church. The characters in Spenser’s epic are allegorical representations of this tension between Protestant and Catholic belief. The setting is medieval England, but the topic is Renaissance. As Sidney argued, poetry has merit in its ability to make education sweeter and easier to assimilate. Spenser accomplishes this by resurrecting the medieval romance and the chivalric knight as instruments to demonstrate the righteousness of the Church of England. Spenser’s attempt to create an ideal world and to remind men of the importance of virtue was not new. Sir Thomas More had attempted something similar at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The setting for More’s Utopia is the ideal community that More wished could be created in England. This was More’s opportunity to criticize government and the ruling class in a less obvious way. If, as Horace argued (and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
later Sidney), the purpose of art is to educate, that must certainly be what More had in mind with Utopia. In this work, More offered political solutions disguised as fiction. Reform is at the center of More’s design, and religious tolerance is his purpose. More felt that only an objective outsider could see the problems that plagued England. His work, then, was to serve as a guide for how to improve the world. Utopia’s ideal society is a democracy of equal representation and equality of class. More envisioned the responsibilities of government being shared by the people—at least through their elective choices. Tyranny in a ruler would not be tolerated. Interestingly, More rejected medieval chivalry, which Spenser embraced in The Faerie Queene. Because More was really on the cusp between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, this omission is curious. Warriors have no place in his world. Perhaps More was saying that his Utopian people are better Christians than his contemporary Englishmen. Asking such questions in England could be dangerous, as it ultimately was for More. Because of this danger, More used fiction and a fictional faraway location to ask serious questions about, and propose solutions to, the domestic, political, and religious strife that defined English society. The problem with More’s idealized world is that it is boring. There is no art, literature, or drama. There is no difference of opinion and it is too safe. Why does man need God, if his life is already perfect? This Utopian ideal contradicts human nature, which thrives on dissension and argument. Creativity and new ideas evolve out of conflict. Spenser appeared to understand this, since the world he created is idealized and full of conflict; it offers plenty of risk and the opportunity for redemption. In each author’s need to create an ideal world, there existed a desire to make England a better place. A heroic past, which emphasized honor and truth, was particularly important in a society where so much disorder reigned. Peace and the end of the Wars of the Roses were only a century old. In addition, the reign of Mary, which was particularly bloody and painful, was a recent memory. There had also been recent rumblings from Mary Queen of Scots and plots to seize the throne. Elizabeth I craved order, as did her subjects. Peace and order in the monarchy were too recent to be taken for granted. The setting of The Faerie Queene may not evoke Renaissance England, but the content of the epic was still topical and important to its time. By
V o l u m e
1
2 0 1
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
A POET VOLUPTUOUS BUT HARDLY SENSUAL, SPENSER CONVEYS A SENTIMENT FOR BEAUTY RATHER THAN A SENSATION OF IT.’’
poem, Raleigh was so perplexed by some parts of it, that he was obliged to ask Spenser to explain them to him. Spenser did so in the letter to Raleigh that is often prefixed to editions of The Faerie Queene. In clarifying his procedure to Raleigh he clarifies it to us.
Illustration by Walter Crane of the Red Cross Knight, representative of Protestant England, killing the dragon, who represents Catholicism and evil, 1894 96. (Ó INTERFOTO / Alamy)
recapturing the past, Spenser made the present more palatable, and he instilled hope for the future. Source: Sheri Metzger Karmiol, Critical Essay on The Faerie Queene, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Donald Bruce In the following essay, Bruce discusses Spenser’s vision of beauty in The Faerie Queene. Ousted from the Court of Elizabeth I by newer favourites, in 1589 Sir Walter Raleigh retreated to his estate in Ireland to write an epic poem. There he met Edmund Spenser, Clerk to the Council of Munster, and owner of Kilcolman Castle, in County Cork, where they smoked many pipes of tobacco together. Spenser was also at work on an epic, The Faerie Queene. As well as the first three Books, he was able to show Raleigh a long passage from The Mutabilitie Cantos, now assigned to Book Seven: evidence that Spenser, like Virgil, did not write his epic seriatim, but pieced together inspired fragments. Dazzled yet confused by the
2 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
One of Raleigh’s difficulties had been in finding out exactly why Spenser’s knights were riding out on their quests. Spenser does not make it plain early in the poem. That would have emerged fully in the course of the narrative itself, had Spenser been able to complete it. In accord with the advice of Horace in his Art of Poetry, the structure of The Faerie Queene, and of each Book within it, is involuted, and starts in medias res: in the middle of gripping events. As Spenser points out in the letter, ‘a poet thrusteth into the midst, even where it most concerneth him.’ Although Spenser does indeed thrust into the midst, for the most part he continues from there as if he was leading his readers through a picture-gallery in which each picture is clear in its own context. Raleigh’s perplexity was no doubt due to his soldier-like wish to scan the whole terrain at once. Through eight cantos of The Faerie Queene flees the Lady Florimell, glimpsed now and again: beauty in panic at its own effect. Along the wind she ‘flies now, of her own feet afeared.’ Sometimes she pauses in her flight to settle upon the dusty ground, ‘as glad of that small rest as bird of tempest gone’. In the various lechers who hunt Florimell, Spenser represents the wrong kind of love of beauty or, at least, the lower kind. Following Plato, Spenser acknowledges, in his Hymne in Honour of Love, that the desire for physical beauty is not distinct from that for spiritual beauty, but a preliminary searching for it. He admits that the love which responds to beauty merely stirs sensual longing in the ‘baser wit’ that ‘cleaves into the lowly clay’: But in brave sprite it kindles goodly fire That to all high desert and honour doth aspire (F.Q. III v I).
Spenser does not condemn outright the lower kind of love of beauty:
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
For beautie is the bayt which with delight Doth man allure for to enlarge his kind; Beautie, the burning lamp of heavens light, Darting her beams into each feeble mynd.
Beauty, then, is an inducement to reproduction, which Plato calls, in his Phaedrus, immortality within mortality. In his Symposium, Plato defines earthly love as a means of sexual selection: the overwhelming urge to propagate and thus immortalise oneself in what one finds beautiful. Spenser describes himself in his Hymne in Honour of Beauty as beauty’s ‘poor liegeman’ (1.273). The contemplation of beauty was a cure in his bouts of depression and the two serious illnesses he had before the completion of his work on The Faerie Queene. In his hymn he addresses Venus on the power of beauty: What wondrous powre your beauty hath That can restore a damned wight from death (11.286 7).
Spenser is amazed at that power, not always benign: Or can proportion of the outward part Move such affection in the inward mynde That it can both sense and reason blynd? (11. 75 7).
Yet the Lady Florimell approaches the abstract. She is the white Florimell, whiter than her milk-white horse, and her face is ‘clear as crystal stone’ (F.Q. III v 5 & III i 15). When a witch makes a copy of Florimell, she makes it out of cold aerial snow. In the lower kind of beauty in Spenser there is generally some subterfuge, as employed by the enchantresses Duessa and Acrasia. Like heavenly beauty, as defined by Plato, Florimell has nothing of the mortal bloom which fades and decays. Florimell is the Idea of Beauty. There was ‘none alive’, Spenser proclaims, ‘but joyed in Florimell’. When she departs from the Faerie court, the court empties as its knights hurl after her. She remains elusive: as unattainable as, in the same Book, Adonis is to Venus through sexual disparity of mind, or Britomart is to Lady Malecasta through sexual parity of body. No more than Acrasia’s veil can Florimell be grasped: More subtile web Arachne can not spin Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see Of scorched deaw, do not in th’aire more lightly flee.
As Lucretius, whose work Spenser knew well, stresses, there is always some futility in bodily love. The bedmates ‘cling desperately together and press upon each other lips, teeth and salivating mouths—pointlessly, because they cannot rub
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
themselves into each other, or interpenetrate, or absorb body into body’. Fearful of her pursuers’ motives, Florimell hastens even from her would-be rescuers, among them Prince Arthur (F.Q. III iv 46). Arthur (in one aspect, and at some points in the story, the Earl of Leicester) wishes to identify Florimell with Gloriana, the Faerie Queene who embodies the public splendour of the Elizabethan state, and thus to relate his quest for the Faerie Queene to his Platonic chase after absolute Beauty (F.Q. III iv 54). When he loses Florimell in the dark, he is compared to a ship when the star which guides, it is out of sight (F.Q., III iv 53). The abusers of Florimell— the witch’s clownish son, the fisherman who throws her down in his boat among the fish-scales and thrusts his hand ‘where ill became him’, the sea-god who woos her in several shapes, but ends by holding her in duress—all perceive beauty, but misapply their perceptions. They ‘cleave into the lowly clay’. Sir Scudamore, Spenser’s type of the true but still earthly lover, is the mean between his professed foes, the womanising Sir Paridell and the womanhating Sir Druon (F.Q. IV ix 30). His love for Amoret is high-minded and ambitious, although sometimes he despairs of the difficulties which, as a courtly lover, he has opted for. He is forced to seek ‘my life’s dear patroness’ (like Spenser himself, who was still courting Elizabeth Boyle at this time) through trials and hardships (F.Q. IV x 28). After overcoming many difficulties, Sir Scudamore enters the Temple of Venus and carries off Amoret, her foster-daughter. Amoret’s coy protestations are belied by the paraphrase from Lucretius’s invocation of Venus, as the goddess of procreative desire, which precedes the abduction; and also by Amoret’s subsequent behaviour. Amoret’s physical charm is more accessible than he fears or she pretends. Spenser provides both a Christian and a pagan explanation of beauty. Beauty was made to represent ‘the great Creator’s own resemblance bright’, but is debased by human sordidness. Yet from the ‘heavenly house’ of Venus ‘all the world derives the glorious Features of beautie’ (F.Q. III vi 12). Such reconciliations of the Christian and the pagan are not unusual in his poetry. Florimell is described as ‘Beauty excellent’ (beauty on high, or Heavenly Beauty) fostered by the three Graces: Comeliness, Modesty and Pleasure. Florimell’s beauty is regarded as sacred: when the witch with whom she hides worships her, Spenser
V o l u m e
1
2 0 3
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
comments, ‘T’adore thing so divine as beauty, were but right’ (F.Q. III vii 11). After Florimell, aware of her danger from the witch’s son, has absconded from the witch’s hovel, the witch constructs a False Florimell to comfort him and entertain him with shadows: Earthly Beauty as a substitute for pure or Heavenly Beauty; the parhelion or optical illusion of the sun instead of the sun itself (F.Q. V iii 19). At the first Tournament of the Girdle of Chastity the False Florimell wins the prize which, because of her unchastity, drops from her loins. At the second tournament Sir Artegall, the knight of Justice, exposes her by placing her next to the true Florimell, so that even the crowd—‘the rascal many’, to use Spenser’s favoured phrase—can see the difference. Although he has rejected love as perilous, Marinell (joyfully accepted) yields to Florimell, or Heavenly Beauty, which eluded Prince Arthur, distracted by his vision of patriotic glory. Marinell is a man such as Raleigh, or Spenser himself, whose desire for worldly advancement at last gives way to his ardour for such manifestations of the spiritually beautiful as poetry and philosophy. Laden though it is with treasure, Marinell’s Precious Strand is sterile (F.Q. III iv 23). For all the riches washed up on it, it remains sand, and nothing will grow there. Yet Spenser places limits upon the love of beauty. He always prefers the moral to the aesthetic. Nothing on Earth is more sacred to him than Justice (F.Q. V vii 1). Artegall weakens in his fight with Radigund, Queen of the Amazons, because of her beauty: ‘No heart so hard/But ruth of beauty will it mollify’ (F.Q. V v 13). He throws away his sword: ‘So was he overcome, not overcome’. As a result, Sir Terpine, whom Artegall tried to save, is unjustly hanged. Like the enchantress Acrasia, Radigund is beautiful but vicious. She is ruthless in taking advantage of Artegall’s sentiment. The knight of Justice, Sir Artegall, also represents something in Spenser’s inner life: the stern moral exactitude with which Spenser intended to write The Faerie Queene. Artegall is defeated by beauty, like the conquerors conquered by love in the Tapestries of Cupid in Book Three; and Spenser’s severe morality is ever on the edge of being defeated by beauty too. He excuses Artegall as one allured by: Beauties lovely bait, that doth procure Great warriors oft their rigour to represse, And mighty hands forget their manlinesse;
2 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
Drawne with the powre of an heart robbing eye And wrapt in fetters of a golden tresse (F.Q. V viii 1).
Beauty is changeful: the rose falls; yet it is the poignant beauty of the transient that induces Jove to stay his hand and his thunderbolt when, in the final Cantos of The Faerie Queene, the new aggressor, Mutability, invades the heavens themselves: ‘Such sway doth beauty even in Heaven beare’. (F.Q. VII vi 31). The sharpness and the urgency in the rose’s beauty is that if will not last: Gather therefore the Rose, whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age, that will her pride deflowre (F.Q. II xii 75).
Prince Arthur reviles night and sleep which keep him from an incessant alertness to beauty: What had th’eternall Maker need of thee The world in his continuall course to keepe, That doest all things deface, ne lettest see The beautie of his worke? (F.Q. III iv 56)
Plato held that the constant awareness of earthly beauty was the beginning of a perception of heavenly beauty, which Spenser here, perhaps awkwardly, equates with Gloriana, or Queen Elizabeth I in her self-avowed guise as wife to all her people. Radigund can boast, like the conceited Lady Mirabella later in the poem: That with the onely twinckle of her eye She could or save or spill (F.Q. VI vii 31).
Thus Artegall, like Spenser himself, is taken by beauty’s lovely bait; overpowered by a twinkling eye; rapt in the fetters of a golden tress; swayed, like the heavens, by beauty. Whilst Radigund and Mirabella, both earthlings, misuse their beauty, Florimell is answerable in her conduct to the firmest rectitude Spenser can devise for her. Taken together, Florimell and the witch’s false Florimell approximate to Angelica, whose beauty causes so much havoc in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, a poem from which Spenser at times borrows. Spenser divides Angelica into two figures, so that the False Florimell is Angelica in her guise as a wanton whose immodest adventures lead her, like Shakespeare’s Cressida, into the enemy’s camp, whilst Florimell remains irreproachable in Angelica’s capacity as beauty frequently fleeing lust. At the Tournament of the Girdle in Book IV Artegall first appears in masquerade, decked with moss and oak-leaves, the trappings of a Savage Knight, to represent the fact that he is, so far, wild and untamed by Cupid. (F.Q. IV iv 39). He is soon overpowered by love, a lord stronger than himself,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
as Dante is overpowered in La Vita Nuova by his first sight of Beatrice Portinari, then aged nine, as Dante was himself;, when his body shook violently and his heart said to him in Latin, ‘Here is a god stronger than I am, who has come to rule over me’: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Artegatall’s impending love for Britomart will teach him, as the knight of Justice, to adopt the softer female principles of extenuation and equity. On the other hand, physical love misleads both Malbecco and Hellenore. Malbecco dotes on his young wife, whom he can keep chaste only by force, so that his jealousy torments him and pesters her (F.Q. III x 3). Paridell, a ‘learned lover’ practises upon Hellenore a regular technique of seduction which he has often used before. He does not make much distinction between one woman and another. After he has deserted her (‘so had he served many one’), the satyrs take her up: ‘And every one as common good her handeled’ (F.Q. III x 36). For all her degradations, she refuses to return to Malbecco: ‘But chose among the jolly satyrs still’ to dwell (F.Q. III x 51). Spenser withdraws his eyes from depraved beauty. Like Sir Guyon, the knight of Temperance, he marches through the Bower of Bliss looking ‘still forward right, Bridling his will, and maistering his might’ (F.Q. II xii 53). Moral judgement supersedes sensory pleasure. It is not the libidinous Bower of Bliss which changes at the end of Book II, but Sir Guyon’s appraisal of it: from the fairest to the foulest place (F.Q. II xii 83). Spenser’s own love of beauty is as disinterested and as dispassionate as ever Plato could have wished. It has little admixture of lowly clay. What Spenser aspires to is a beauty, in Plato’s words ‘uncontaminated with the intermixture of human flesh and colours, and all the other idle and unreal shapes attendant on mortality’. A poet voluptuous but hardly sensual, Spenser conveys a sentiment for beauty rather than a sensation of it. His imagination is a sun-mist or dreams, airily suspended. He is as captivated by the butterfly in his Muiopotmos as by Acrasia, or the fleeting nudities of the Bower of Bliss, or even his bride Elizabeth on their wedding day. Faint through heat, lightly sweating in the languor of ‘her late sweet toyle’, the drops of her sweat as clear as nectar, Acrasia lies wrapped in a veil as subtle as a net of ‘scorched dew’: And her faire eyes sweet smyling in delight, Moystened their fierie beames, with which she thrild Frail harts, yet quenched not; like starry light
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
Which sparckling on the silent waves, does seem more bright (F.Q. II xii 78).
Acrasia is defined by light falling upon her; shaped by air and brightness no less than the butterfly; enhanced by them as much as are his wings, his horns, his eyes: The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, The silken down with which his back is dighte, His broad outstretched horns, his airy thies His glorious colours, and his glistering eies
One remembers the axiom of another great delineator, John Constable: ‘Light never stands still’. In Spenser’s poetry, as in Constable’s landscapes, colour and form exist only according to the light, the fluid polychrome twists of space and climate. Spenser’s butterfly possesses ‘the Empire of the aire/Betwixt centred earth and azured-skies’. It rejoices in ranging abroad ‘in fresh attire/Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast’ (M. 18–37). Where the human form is concerned, Spenser is the most amorous and the chastest of poets. His fervent eroticism is matched by another fervour, solemn and devout, for the ‘great Sabbaoth God’ whose creation includes womanhood. His worship is reverent and its outward sign is delight. Spenser’s Amoretti is the record of the decorous Christian courtship which concluded in his marriage to Elizabeth Boyle and his passionate but gentle Epithalamion. Spenser once made a translation, now lost, of the Song of Solomon. Lost though it is, its content maybe traced in many places in Spenser’s surviving poetry, such as his account of the nuptials of St George and Una in the First Book of The Faerie Queene. Spenser’s imagery for a woman’s nakedness, whether he is writing of Acrasia or of Belphoebe, of Florimell or of Serena, of the goddess Diana or of his bride Elizabeth, is always in the spirit of the Song of Solomon, at once a hymn of thanksgiving and of victory. He opens the twelfth stanza of his own Epithalamion with religious words, derived from Psalm 24: Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in.
Serena despoiled by the savages is both a triumph and a sacrifice. Her torso, ‘white and clear’, swells like an altar, and her thighs are like a triumphal arch upon which are reared ‘the spoil of princes’ (F.Q. VI viii 42). Belphoebe’s legs are like ‘two faire marble pillours . . . / Which do the temple of the gods support’ (F.Q. II iii 28). The body of Spenser’s bride is:
V o l u m e
1
2 0 5
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
about her shoulders (F.Q. III vi 18). Hesper, the evening star, drenches his golden hair in the ocean.
like a pallace fayre Ascending uppe, with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
The loveliness of Belphoebe, the sight and scent of her, is able ‘to heale the sicke, and to revive the ded’ (F.Q. II iii 22). The simile which Spenser uses for her appearance as she rushes through the forest recalls Virgil’s description of Venus as a huntress in the First Book of the Aeneid: Such as Diana by the sandie shore Of swift Eurotas, or on Cynthus greene.
Trompart, echoing Aeneas’s words to Venus, addresses Belphoebe as certainly a goddess: O Goddesse (for such I thee take to bee) For neither doth thy face terestiall shew Nor voyce sound mortall (F.Q. II iii 33).
The clown Trompart is no Aeneas, but at least he has a respect for beauty, whilst his master, Braggadochio, has only a relish for copulation. No sooner has Belphoebe finished her speech in praise of simple virtue than Braggadochio tries to ravish her: With that she swarving back, her javeline bright Against him bent, and fiercely did menace: So turned her about, and fled away apace (F.Q. II iii 42).
What allures Spenser above all things is the gloss of eyes and hair. St George, ‘too simple and too true’, is easily enticed by the blue eyelids and newly alert eyes of Duessa waking from a pretended swoon (F.Q. I ii 45). Belphoebe is dismayed to find her suitor Timias, equally tender, kissing the eyes of the unconscious Amoret: From her faire eyes wiping the deawy wet, Which softly stild, and kissing them atweene (F.Q. IV vii 35).
Setting out at dawn with Prince Arthur, Amoret chases from her eyelids ‘the drowzie humour of the dampish night’ (F.Q. IV viii 34). Acrasia, the ‘fair witch’, hangs over her humideyed lover, her own ‘false eyes fixed in his sight’ as she sighs ‘as if his case she rewed’. (F.Q. II xii 72–3). Her eyes moisten too, so that they sparkle like ‘silent waves’ by starlight (F.Q. II xii 78). The eyes of the fainting Pastorella shine like stars in a fog (VI xi. 21). Thirty-seven times Spenser solemnises the glories of blonde hair. It would be tedious to cite them all, but there are some it would be a pity not to mention. The sun-god rends his golden hair at the loss of Hyacinthus, and breaks his garland, ever green (F.Q. III xi 37). Diana’s locks, unbraided after the hunt is over, hang loose and golden
2 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
Water drops from the lustrous hair of the dawn as it rises from the sea (F.Q. V x 16). The morning star, to which Una is compared as she issues from her bedchamber—an anticipation of Spenser’s own wedding hymn—emerges bright with flaming locks (F.Q. I xii 21). Cupid’s curls are golden and his garments vernal green: the tapestries in Busirane’s castle, figured with Cupid’s victories, are likewise green interwoven with gold, which glows like a snake which, in the grass, ‘his long bright burnisht backe declares’ (F.Q. II viii 5 & III xi 28). Spenser’s own lady had fair hair. In the ninth stanza of his Epithalamion he refers to her ‘long loose yellow locks’. All the heroines, and all the enchantresses of The Faerie Queene are blondes. Una’s hair is the colour of the dawn. Belphoebe’s yellow locks wave behind her like a banner and enwrap the leaves and blossoms which have been caught up in them (as in a painting by Botticelli) during her chase through the greenwood (F.Q. II iii 30). Florimell’s fair tresses trail like the blaze of a comet (F.Q. III i 16). Britomart’s blonde hair bewilders Sir Artegall as he battles with her. It is as luminous as sand in sunlit water, as the gold sand which Midas’s river rolled down to Sardis. Falling to her heels, it unwinds like the crests of the Northern Lights in all their twisting refulgence. It floats like the air lanced by the rays of the sun. At Malbecco’s castle it unloosens like shafts of daylight thrusting through a cloud. The eyes of her companions feed upon the wonder of Britomart’s beauty. Soiled though they are—Paridell and the rest—by the world, their gaze is for a while fixed ‘in contemplation of divinitie’ (F.Q. IV vi 20, IV i 13 & III ix 20 ff.) In these descriptions, themselves celebrations of the falling, pouring light, Spenser often alludes to the sky, its source. He is always aware of the sky, always responsive to the weather. Britomart’s face, flushed and damp with sweat from her second duel with Artegall, is like the pink dawn dewed with a rain of silver drops (F.Q. IV vi 19). The face of the swooning Radigund is like the moon on a foggy winter’s night (F.Q. V v 12). Spenser revivifies the spent classical metaphors for dawn and sunset. Dawn draws ‘night’s humid curtains’ from the east (F.Q. V v 1). At evening the sun-god waters his ‘faint steedes’ in the sea (F.Q. I xi 31). The horses sink refreshed into the waves: The Sunne that measures heaven all day long At night doth baite his steedes the Ocean waves emong (F.Q. I i 32).
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
They are renewed, as an eagle renews its plumage, by plunging into the water. In a prompt alternation, the evening star arises—the evening star which Spenser invokes in his Epithalamion as: Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of love, That all the host of heaven in ranke doost lead (Ep. 298 9).
At midnight, when the lamps of heaven are half burnt-out, the Hyades, ‘moist daughters of huge Atlas’, drive their weary flock into the sea. Sunset and dawn generally mark important new stages in this insomniac’s narration. The heavens swim with the motion of the air. The Guardian Angel who flies down to Sir Guyon divides ‘the flitting skyes’ in its descent (F.Q. II viii 2). Florimell is like a dove which ‘with her pineons cleaves the liquid firmament’ in its flight from a falcon (III iv 49). Phaedria’s scallop slides through the water ‘more swift, then swallow sheres the liquid skie’ (F.Q. II vi 5). On the wheeling, subtle flow of the air life is borne as well as weather: Next is the Ayre: Who feeles not by sense (For of all sense it is the middle meane) To flit still? and, with subtill influence, Of his thin spirit all creatures to maintaine, In state of life? (F.Q. VII vii 22).
Upon the air storms also hover: Like to a storme, which hovers under skie, Long here and there, and round about doth stie, At length breaks downe in raine, and haile, and sleet, First from one coast, till nought thereof be drie; And then another (F.Q. IV ix 33).
By the air static heat is shaken off, when all beasts ‘hunt for shade, where shrowded they may lie/And missing it, faine from themselves to flie’ (F.Q. IV iv 47). Into the air gnats rise from the fens and sound ‘their murmuring small trompets’ wide as they strive ‘to infixe their feeble stings’ (F.Q. II ix 16 & I i 23). The circumambient air spreads out upon the ocean, with its ‘sea-shouldring Whales’, and encompasses the mariner soused in ‘swelling Tethys saltish teare’ (F.Q. II xii 23 & I iii 31). In his evocation of beauty Spenser does not address himself to the sense of sight alone, but to the senses in unison, and above them to the mind, in his own division of it into Reason, Memory and Imagination (F.Q. II ix 49 ff.). Spenser is a painter who, when he paints a flower, also paints its scent and feel, its movement in the air and in the percipient mind. As his eighteenth-century admirer John Upton said, ‘You do not read his descriptions, you
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
see them’. In sleep both the senses and the mind are most open to suggestion. When Spenser envisages sleep or repose, he amalgamates several perceptions in one trickling delight. The traveller in the Bower of Bliss, at ease by the fountain, is insinuated into sleep by the water on its indistinct course through the pebbles: Whilst creeping slomber made him to forget His former paine (F.Q. II v 30).
The hunt over, Diana undresses, ‘after her heat the breathing cold to taste’ (F.Q. III vi 18). The Red Cross Knight discards his armour and rests on the grass by a fountain: ‘he feedes upon the cooling shade’. Britomart drowses: ‘so that at last a little creeping sleepe / Surprised her sense’ (F.Q. III ii 47). Arthur dissembles weariness in Turpine’s castle: ‘as he unable were for very neede / To move one foote’ (F.Q. VI vi 19). Soon afterwards, ‘wearie of travell in his former fight’, he truly sleeps, loosened in silver slumber: ‘in silver slomber lay, / Like to the Evening starre adorn’d with deawy ray’ (F.Q. VI vii 19). In his Epithalamion Spenser writes of the lassitude of his bride: Behold how goodly my faire love does ly In proud humility; Like unto Maia, when Jove her tooke In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras, Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
(Maia, one of the seven daughters of Atlas who were later changed into stars, became the mother of Mercury.) Not content with that alone, Spenser prays for a calm night without storm, or affray, and as protracted as the three nights unbroken by day in which Jove engendered Hercules, native of Tirynthus: Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groome (Ep. 305 ff.).
No doubt Spenser dwelt upon the pleasures of sleep so closely because he was well acquainted with sleeplessness, like those other great insomniacs of Literature, Chaucer, Herrick, Proust and Colette. He had reason to be so, on his precarious estate in Ireland, surrounded by the vengeful disposssessed and by his litigious neighbours. In his portrayal of Sir Scudamore’s wakeful nights Spenser’s personification of Anxiety, whom he envisages as a blacksmith beating his anvil to pieces in his vehemence, is heartfelt: His name was Care; a blacksmith by his trade, That neither day nor night from working spared, But to small purpose yron wedges made; These be unquiet thoughts (F.Q. IV v 35).
V o l u m e
1
2 0 7
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
For his allegories Spenser often attempts a pictorial which can be conceived but not pictured, unless by such modern symbolist painters as Giorgio de Chirico, Rene´ Magritte or Paul Delvaux, with whom Spenser has much in common. Hope, carrying an anchor, comes arm-in-arm with Faith to greet St George at the House of Holiness (F.Q. I x 12–14). Florimell’s ‘faire yellow locks’ disperse behind her like a comet: All as a blazing starre doth farre outcast His hearie beames, and flaming lockes dispred, At sight whereof the people stand aghast (F.Q. III i 16).
The delicate bodies of Britomart and Radigund are denoted even whilst they fight each other in armour: they wound each other’s ‘dainty parts, which nature had created / . . . For other uses’ (F.Q. V vii 29). Most often in Spenser description is interfused with action, as when the dragon approaches St George, ‘halfe flying and halfe footing in his hast’, or gathers himself up ‘out of the mire, / With his uneven wings’ (F.Q. I xi .8 & 40); or when the little woodgod Faunus, dragged by Diana’s nymphs from the bushes where he has been spying on them, casts down his eyes like a snared skylark: not daring up to looke On her whose sight before so much he sought. Thence, forth they drew him by the hornes, and shooke Nigh all to peeces (F.Q. VII vi 47).
Many of Spenser’s scenes are not directly described, but implied by action. There is a constant sense of the forest background of the ‘wandering wood’ traversed by maidens in vivid and mysterious flight, as in a painting by Paul Delvaux: Florimell, Serena, Samient, Amoret, Belphoebe, with their streaming hair. Nearby objects are figured in detail, but against a leafy, romantic haze— a vague perspective of forest, seacoast and castle. Often the greenwood setting is suggested only by passing allusion, as when Timias is ambushed there: Till that at last unto a woody glade He came, whose covert stopt his further sight (F.Q. VI v 17).
Not even in his passages about works of art is Spenser’s description static. His carved and tapestried representations remain mobile. The putti on Acrasia’s fountain ‘did them selves embay in liquid joyes’ (F.Q. II xii 60). In the tapestries at the Castle Joyous, Venus watches the adolescent Adonis, and
2 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
with her eyes ‘she secretly would search each daintie lim’ (F.Q. III i 36). The Tapestries of Cupid at Busirane’s Castle are all activity. Leda spies on Jupiter beneath her eyelids as she pretends to sleep. As Ganymede is carried off by the eagle, the shepherds below call out to him to take surer hold on the eagle’s feathers. Whilst Jupiter is on earth, busied with his amours, Cupid slips into his throne, scoffing that he, not Jupiter, rules the heavens. Neptune’s beard drips ‘with brackish deaw’ as with his trident he clears a ‘long broad dyke’ through the breakers for his chariot: His sea horses did seeme to snort amayne, And from their nosethrilles blow the brinie streame (F.Q. III xi 34 41).
The comprehensiveness and mobility of Spenser’s spectacles, and the luminous swing of his imagery, bear out his own claim that the skill of a poet ‘passeth Painter farre/In picturing the parts of beautie’ (F.Q. III pr. 2). At times he stands in a convolution of splendours. His imagination, like a rainbow straddling a sea-mist and half-lost in it, is sunk in a shining drift of delight. He is enamoured of the surrounding world. His caritas flows out in embracing Franciscan waves towards fair-haired sunrises and dawning womanhood; towards constellations and butterflies. Poetry’s chaste libertine, Spenser is in love with beauty, both earthly and, as far as he can perceive it, heavenly. His is a child’s pious amorousness which extends equally to delectable maidens and glistering winged creatures and the ‘flitting skies’ and the ‘great Sabbaoth God’ who shaped them. Source: Donald Bruce, ‘‘Spenser’s Poetic Pictures: A Vision of Beauty,’’ in Contemporary Review, Vol. 288, Summer 2006, pp. 73 86.
Kathleen Williams In this essay, Williams discusses the use of symbolism to create unity throughout The Faerie Queene. To give unity to so complex a poem as The Faerie Queene would seem a formidable task, and it was a task which Spenser left unfinished. Our loss, in the six unwritten books, is great; and all the greater because of the cumulative method by which the poem’s meaning is revealed. The later books enrich the content of those which have gone before, so that from the first book to the fragmentary seventh the reader becomes increasingly aware of a clear and comprehensive vision, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
THE WORLD OFTHE FAERIE QUEENE IS ONE IN WHICH THE VALUES OF NEOPLATONISM AND OF CHRISTIANITY ARE FAMILIARLY BLENDED.’’
of a steady purpose which impels him, through a mass of significant detail, towards a final unity. That unity, at the court of Glory herself, was never reached, and without the unwritten books our appreciation of those we have must be incomplete. But even as it stands, half-finished and culminating in the fragment of the presumed seventh book, the poem is a unified whole. For the kind of unity which Spenser achieves, though cumulative, is not architectural; he works not by adding section to section so that the structure is meaningless until it is finished, but by revealing new levels of a structure which we thought complete at our first sight of it. Faeryland is only partially revealed, but it is unified and consistent as far as we know it, though if the poem had been completed it would be seen as only part of a greater unity and a fuller truth. The first book of The Faerie Queene has a simplicity which is proper both to its theme and to the plan of the poem; Spenser begins at the centre of his universe, with the proper conduct of man in relation to God, and the link which still exists between the world of mortality and the realm of eternal truth. Book II shows, almost as simply, the control which is a necessary part of the good life. Themes so essential must be firmly and directly established, but in later books the concern is less exclusively with man, and the natural world too plays its part. Around the centre other and related themes appear, making a richer and more complex whole. Yet Spenser’s method is not a matter only of decorum or deliberate choice. As with any great poet writing seriously about the nature of man and of the universe, his method arises directly out of his vision. An eighteenth century poet, like Pope, will find it natural to write in contrasts, extremes whose balance will produce a truth more central than either. Spenser too sometimes uses a set framework of the Aristotelian mean and its two corresponding extremes, and finds it on occasion a useful piece of machinery;
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
but it is not, as with Pope, his most natural way of seeing things. The living world of The Faerie Queene is not one of contrast and balance, but of analogy and parallel, with many kinds of life each complete in itself yet only fully comprehended when seen in relation to the rest. The full poetic effect cannot be contained in Spenser’s own statement to Raleigh, ‘‘The generall end therefore of all the book is to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline.’’ Man holds a place of prime importance in Spenser’s vision of the world, but the conduct proper to mankind cannot be divined by looking at man alone. The other planes of existence must be comprehended too. So Spenser’s is not a simple allegorical world of black and white, concerned only with the ‘‘twelve morall vertues as Aristotle hath devised.’’ There are degrees and kinds of goodness, and these can be seen only when all the parallels are drawn, all the analogies completed. Allegory may present an ideal of moral or political conduct, but beyond a certain point the reader must, to apprehend all of Spenser’s vision, yield to the deepening effect of the poem as a whole. The Aristotelian framework and the allegory of the virtues, the vices, the parts of the mind, form a pattern; one may fit together into a satisfying unity the various kinds of chastity as shown in Belphoebe, Britomart, Amoret, and Florimell. But there is another and more organic pattern, resulting from the inevitable ordering of the material in accordance with Spenser’s way of seeing the world, and developing from book to book to a temporary culmination in the Cantos of Mutability. In this pattern, the shape of the poem is part of its meaning, while characters like Belphoebe and Florimell are symbols which release certain aspects of Spenser’s apprehension of life, and cast about them ‘‘shadows of an indefinable wisdom.’’ Much of the significance of The Faerie Queene is conveyed in the correspondences and parallels which are gradually established throughout the poem, and of course in the choice of symbol; and in both it is the Platonic rather than the Aristotelian influence on Spenser’s mind which is most noticeable. For a poet so much in tune with Neoplatonism it is natural to express not personal reactions only but an interpretation of the universe by means of symbol. ‘‘All things that are above are here below also,’’ and material things which more or less embody the Ideas are themselves already latent symbols of those Ideas. Spenser is always conscious of things as deriving from, and partially embodying, their heavenly counterparts, and as bound together by their common derivation, their
V o l u m e
1
2 0 9
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
common if varying possession of ideal truth. Chastity lives in heaven, but is embodied and displayed in each chaste woman. Shamefastness exists as the fountain of Guyon’s modesty, and is not a mere abstraction formed by generalising the modesty of many individuals, as so often in the personifications of later ages. Courtesy, like all virtues, grows on Parnassus, but its ‘‘heavenly seedes’’ were planted on earth, while as a copy among men of this heavenly process the Queen is an ocean of courtesy, from whom all virtues proceed to those who surround her, and to whom they return as rivers to the sea. Such an outlook enables the poet to see about him a multiple unity which is embodied in the development of his poem. There is no division between literal and symbolic truth, for things exist in an order of precedence which is valid in itself, but they have at the same time a symbolic validity as imperfect copies of the world of spirit from which they take their source. In The Faerie Queene events are never merely events; they partially show forth something beyond themselves. Spenser’s battles, it has often been remarked, have less variety of incident and less actuality than Ariosto’s or Tasso’s, but Spenser is interested in something else. Tasso’s Dudon strives three times to raise himself before he dies, and there is a gain in suspense and dramatic climax, but when Red Crosse falls three times to rise again during his fight with the dragon Spenser is concerned less with the dramatic effect of the particular event than with the greater struggle of which it is a shadow. The four-fold repetition of ‘‘So downe he fell,’’ at the death of the dragon is again not only dramatic, it is a solemn ritual repetition meant to emphasize not the size of a dragon but the terror of sin even at the moment of its defeat: ‘‘The knight himselfe even trembled at his fall.’’ Symbol and allegory, often difficult to separate, are especially so in Spenser’s case, for he often uses the same figure now as part of a moral or political allegory, now as a symbol of an indefinable truth. His characters move freely from one plane to another, or exist simultaneously on more planes than one, and that existence is at once both a means of unifying the poem and a symbol of the multiple unity of the world which—among other things—the poem expresses. Occasionally Spenser makes use of incidents or figures which might support the definition of allegory quoted by W. B. Yeats: ‘‘Symbolism said things which could not be said so perfectly in any other way, and needed but a right instinct for its
2 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
understanding, while Allegory said things which could be said as well, or better, in another way, and needed a right knowledge for its understanding.’’ The giant of false justice, in Canto II, of Book V, is such a contrived and limited figure, fitting one occasion, but not suggesting others. But the Giant, and those like him, serve to throw into relief the far greater number of creatures in The Faerie Queene who, like Wordsworth’s monumental shepherds and travellers, hint at the terrible greatness of the events of this world. Nothing exists in isolation, but draws with it an immense but controlled suggestion of other occasions which are yet the same. Another of the figures of Book V, the deceitful Malengin who harries Mercilla’s kingdom, may refer to the guerilla warfare and treacherous behaviour of the Irish, but this falsity is a part of, and a symbol of, all deceit. The chase and the traditional beast transformations suggest the old menace of the covens, and even the primal deceit of the devil; for Malengin is killed as he changes into a snake, and his dwelling goes down to hell. Malengin is one of the representatives of that evil which devil and man have brought into the world, and evil is shown here, as so often in Spenser, as deceit. Like the giant Orgoglio, who vanishes when Prince Arthur kills him, it is based upon nothingness, upon a false view of things. It tries to break the unity and shatter the truth of the universe, but it is doomed to defeat, for ‘‘Truth is One in All,’’ and against that solid truth, present in some degree throughout the created world, evil can have no lasting force. It is seen as an alien intruder into the world of reality, and is embodied in the evil spirits which are used to make the false images of Una and Florimell, or in the devilish Malengin, Despair, and Archimago. To the clear sight of complete virtue it is irrelevant, but to a lesser goodness it is formidable indeed, for it is part of man’s inheritance, making impossible for him the innocence of the natural world, and present in man alone. Nature may be involved in the fall and the suffering of man, but not through its own fault. It is only through the presence of a fallen angel that the snow which makes the false Florimell is corrupted. The world of The Faerie Queene is one in which the values of Neoplatonism and of Christianity are familiarly blended, and of course it is very far from being peculiar to Spenser; but it is expressed in his poetry with a particular vitality. What other poets must show in the flash of an image, Spenser develops through the six Books of The Faerie Queene into a living and consistent universe. Through the growing pattern of the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
poem can be traced levels of being which extend from pure intelligences to inanimate nature, distinct but related by their common reference to the guiding and informing spirit which gives unity and order to a multiple world. It is not a dual world of pointless change contrasting with eternal changelessness; the changing world derives from, and returns to, unity, and each of its levels is good in its degree, being a reflection of the eternal. In ascending scale, created things are more beautiful because more pure—clearer manifestations of the spirit which informs them; Still as everything doth upward tend, And further is from earth, so still more cleare And faire it growes, till to his perfect end Of purest beautie, it at last ascend.
But though distance from the home of pure spirit, and involvement in matter, must lessen the purity and beauty of the creatures at certain levels, all have their beauty and in Spenser’s symbolism their goodness. All are made with wondrous wise respect, And all with admirable beautie deckt,
and in no part of Spenser’s universe is the hand of God absent. His providence sustains and guides even the apparently lawless world of the beasts and the apparently aimless world of inanimate nature, but in this orderly universe springing from and guided by God the disruptive and unruly element is man. Spenser writes in Book V of the impotent desire of men to raine, Whom neither dread of God, that devils bindes, Nor lawes of men, that common weales containe, Nor bands of nature, that wilde beastes restraine, Can keepe from outrage, and from doing wrong.
Other created things are restrained by the laws proper to their being, and when Spenser considers evil the emphasis is, here as in An Hymne of Heavenly Love, on the sin of man, rather than on any sinfulness inherent in the whole material world. Our ‘‘sinfull mire,’’ in which we endure fleshly corruption and mortal pain, is part of the inherited frailty of fallen humanity. We all are subject to that curse, And death in stead of life have sucked from our Nurse.
Amavia, telling Sir Guyon the story of her husband’s submission to Acrasia, accepts it as part of the weakness of man when faced by temptation through fleshly lusts: For he was flesh: (all flesh doth frailtie breed).
The same emphasis appears in the myth of Chrysogone and her two children. In the world of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
humanity, conception is involved in the ‘‘loathly crime’’ of the fall; but Chrysogone conceives in all the lustless innocence of the natural world, without sin and without pain: Unwares she them conceived, unwares she bore: She bore withouten paine, that she conceived Withouten pleasure.
Her children are born of sunshine and moisture, sharing the purity which characterises all the natural world when uncontaminated by the inherited sin of human flesh. Belphoebe is Pure and unspotted from all loathly crime, That is ingenerate in fleshly slime,
but Amoret too shares in the innocent birth, and the fruitful Garden of Adonis in which she is reared is presumably as much a symbol of primal innocence as are the cool chaste forests through which Belphoebe ranges. The innocence and even holiness of nature, when considered without reference to the contamination of sin in the case of humanity, is one of the most noticeable features of Spenser’s world, but there is nothing of that sentimental idealisation of the ‘‘natural’’ to which a later age was to fall victim. Spenser’s clear vision of the ascending planes of existence prevents any loss of proportion, any concentration on a part of life to the detriment of the rest. The satyrs of Book I are innocent and, in their degree, good. Only the sacredness of the old religious rites is shown in their worship of Una, and they are an instrument of ‘‘eternall Providence exceeding thought,’’ an example, like the noble lion of natural law who is killed by Sansloy, of the guidance of God even in the non-human world. But this is not the whole truth about the satyrs, for there is a parallel picture in Canto 10 of Book III, where Hellenore, garlanded like Una, is escorted by a similar band of dancing satyrs. Here the word used is not, as in Una’s case, ‘‘queen,’’ but ‘‘Maylady,’’ and in the scenes which follow the license of the old nature cults, which the word suggests, is fully revealed. The satyrs have not changed; they are still charming, innocent, a ‘‘lovely fellowship,’’ but Spenser is looking at them from a different point of view, and drawing an exact parallel with Una’s story to make clear both the likeness and the difference in their good and our own. Hellenore is capable, as a human being, of a higher and more conscious goodness than that of the innocent brute world, and in entering that world she misuses it just
V o l u m e
1
2 1 1
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
as, with Paridell, she had misused the natural goodness and the sacred symbolism of wine.
detailed treatment of earlier books, drawing all their diversity into unity.
There are many of these lesser planes in The Faerie Queene, and Spenser shows them in themselves and in relation to man. In forests and above all in the sea, we are shown kinds of being which, good in themselves, are not proper to mankind. The seas and forests are unknown, lacking by human standards in morality and in spirit. They can contain creatures of non-human goodness, like Belphoebe, but those who go there from man’s world—Hellenore, the forester who pursues Florimell, the fisherman who attacks her—become brutalised. But nature, even at its most remote from man, has its share of the spirit which is the meaning of Spenser’s world. The mutable is not necessarily the meaningless, but can ‘‘work its own perfection so by fate.’’ What is meaningless and dead is the work of sin, of pride and distorted values, the places of Mammon or of Malecasta, where the lifeless glitter of gold and jewels is shown up in all its emptiness by the sudden reference to the stars in their order, reflections of mind and symbols of the steady life of the spirit,
One of the most far reaching of Spenser’s series of inter-linked and expanding symbols is that of Florimell and Marinell, which stretches through three books and embraces many meanings and many characters. In the moral allegory, it is a story which displays Spenser’s knowledge of humanity, and of the various temptations to which different natures will be subject. Florimell is one kind of chastity, the kind which maintains itself not by the awe which Belphoebe and Britomart inspire, but by fear and flight. Her temptation is not, like Amoret’s, passion, but a timorous softness and gratitude. She escapes from her brutal pursuers by instinctive flight, but is disarmed by the protective kindness of Proteus, to be imprisoned by him as Amoret is imprisoned by Busyrane. On the same level of moral allegory, Marinell’s is the nature which refuses to commit itself, and lives remote and self-sufficient, fearing the harm which may come to its own completeness by contact with others. But they are, both of them, more than this, for they play an important part in the network of symbol. Both seem to be creatures of the natural world which stands apart from the life of men but which yet, such is the unity of things, has its relevance to that life as it has to the life of pure spirit. The sea which is so intimate a part of their story is the remotest of all things from man, home of hydras and ‘‘sea-shouldring whales,’’ and yet it is the most perfect of all symbols for the whole multiple, changing, but unified world, ‘‘eterne in mutabilitie.’’ The sea can symbolize the character and meaning of the universe and so embodies a truth beyond itself, but it stands also, in its own right, for nature at its least formed and most nearly chaotic. It can show the thoughtless, blameless cruelty of nature, its blind suffering, and also the justice which works through it as through all creation. Such meanings play through the story of Marinell and Florimell, and the other stories which surround it, drawing even the Fifth Book, in which the justification of one man and one policy plays so large a part, into the scheme of the whole.
th’eternall lampes, wherewith high Jove Doth light the lower world.
It is, then, a universe with varying degrees of good, and evil which is a distortion, or sometimes a subtly distorted copy, of the good: the unnaturalness of Argante, Ollyphant, and the ‘‘damned souls’’ who capture Serena, or the magic and deceit of Acrasia, Duessa, and the false Florimell; and it is revealed partly by the gradual accumulation of correspondences between one kind of life and another. There are parallels between Una and Hellenore, Mercilla and Lucifera, the Garden of Adonis and the Bower of Bliss, Cleopolis and the New Jerusalem, the veiled Venus of Book IV, and the goddess Nature of Book VII. The virtues are seen, more and more, as various aspects of the same heavenly good, embodied in different ways in different kinds of life. ‘‘Truth is one in All,’’ or to put it in another way,
We meet first Florimell, ‘‘beautie excellent’’ and of a kind which delights the world,
O goodly golden chaine, wherewith yfere The vertues linked are in lovely wize.
It is not a matter only of interlinked stories or of characters overlapping from one book into another. It is a linking, by symbol and allegory, of Justice with Constancy, Love with Courtesy; a deepening of content by reference to earlier themes so that nothing is lost, and so that certain passages, pre-eminently the Mutability Cantos, can call up by the briefest of references the more
2 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
For none alive but joy’d in Florimell,
but apparently of a lesser order of being than that to which the great champions of virtue belong. Britomart, usually so prompt to relieve distress, refuses to join in the pursuit of Florimell, and she is clearly right. Britomart’s constant mind, Would not so lightly follow beauties chace.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
She remains faithful to her search for Justice and noble deeds, one aspect of that quest for ideal goodness to which her companions also, Guyon, Arthur, and Arthur’s squire Timias, are in their various ways committed. In abandoning their quest, these others are leaving their proper sphere of spiritual endeavour, constancy to an unchanging truth, to pursue the fleeting charm of a mutable world. As a result, even the steadfast Prince Arthur finds himself at the mercy of passing events and emotions, and is perceptibly a lesser figure during this period of pursuit. Forgetting for the moment his vision of Gloriana, the true object of his quest, he gives way to confused fancies, wishing that Florimell were the Faerie Queene: And thousand fancies bet his idle braine With their light wings, the sights of semblants vaine: Oft did he wish, that Lady faire mote bee His Faery Queene, for whom he did complaine: Or that his Faery Queene were such, as shee: And ever hastie Night he blamed bitterlie.
After a night of sleepless irritation, Magnificence itself becomes almost petulant: So forth he went, With heavie looke and lumpish pace, that plaine In him bewraid great grudge and maltalent.
Florimell’s innocent beauty is too nearly empty of meaning for man to be other than harmful to high endeavour. She has little understanding of what is happening to her, but flies instinctively and suffers blindly, with the infinite uncomprehending pathos of nature. She has no place with the knights and ladies who represent human virtues but encounters, rather, creatures of nature like Satyrane and Proteus, and brutalized human beings who try to make use of her for their own ends. Yet this pathetic, fugitive creature, embodiment of transitory beauty, has her own element of constancy; her desire for union with Marinell, who is born of the sea, symbol of the source and home of all changing things. Her long flight and her suffering begin and end in her love for Marinell, and her story has its meaning, though to the world of men, of Arthur and of Britomart, it may seem to have none. Florimell’s story is a parallel to that of Amoret, and their fates are compared at the beginning of Book IV, while Amoret alone can wear the girdle Florimell has lost. Both are held captive, and the tapestries portraying Jove’s metamorphoses in the House of Busyrane are an echo and reminder of the transformations which Proteus undergoes
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
earlier in the same book in his attempts to win Florimell. It may be that in trying to define the meaning of such myths as these one can only rob them of their power. ‘‘Symbols are the only things free enough from all bonds to speak of perfection,’’ and to limit them to a definable meaning is to bind them. Yet one may perhaps suggest, if only as one possible meaning among the many meanings which Spenser’s myths contain, that Florimell is the prototype, in the world of inanimate nature, of the steadfast womanliness of Amoret. Both are saved by truth to the nobler and more constant elements of their own being, for Amoret overcomes enslavement to physical passion by the power of chaste and enduring love, while through her love for Marinell Florimell escapes from the mutable Proteus and so finds safety and the unchanging peace at the heart of a changing world. The two may be remote from one another, but they embody the same truth: that escape from bondage to what is fleeting and inessential can be achieved by a steadfast attention to eternal values, and that so we may work our own perfection. Man and nature both, apparently bound by the physical, subject to chance and change, have none the less their share in lasting truth. So Florimell’s world and Marinell’s can shadow the things above them, just as Cymoent’s bower of hollow waves imitates the home of the gods, being vaulted like to the sky In which the Gods do dwell eternally.
Contemplating their life, we may ‘‘in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity.’’ But it is a blind and innocent life, striving only for survival and self-protection through avoidance of danger, and unable to comprehend the decrees of fate and justice which work through it. Cymoent and Proteus have only faint inklings of the true meaning of the prophecy which Proteus himself makes. Yet justice works even by means of that blindness, and the sea, which is its instrument in ending the troubles of Florimell, forms a background still to the adventures of Artegall in Book V. Artegall himself enters the story of Florimell and Marinell when he deals justice at their wedding in the affair of the false Florimell, and the Book of Justice draws together some of the themes of earlier books. The Proem is another version of the theme which appears in so many guises in The Faerie Queene, and is hinted at in Florimell’s story; that of change and constancy. Mutability in the natural world is paralleled by inconstancy and a
V o l u m e
1
2 1 3
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
lack of proper values in man, but beyond this instability Justice, the ‘‘most sacred vertue,’’ lives unchanged, Resembling God in his imperiall might.
Artegall’s reply to the giant in Canto II continues the theme, with its echoes of the Garden of Adonis and of Concord who holds the parts of the universe together As their Almightie Maker first ordained.
Concord persists even through the hostility of the world, and Providence works through apparent change and loss in the interests of a wider justice. What though the sea with waves continuall Doe eate the earth, it is no more at all: Ne is the earth the lesse, or loseth ought, For whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto an other brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought. Likewise the earth is not augmented more, By all that dying into it doe fade. For of the earth they formed were of yore, How ever gay their blossome or their blade Doe flourish now, they into dust shall vade. What wrong then is it, if that when they die, They turne to that, whereof they first were made? All in the powre of their great Maker lie; All creatures must obey the voice of the most hie.
The giant’s notion of justice is presented as false not only in the case of human institutions but in relation to the whole of the created world, and it is the sea, symbol of ultimate unity and of the justice present in all things, which swallows the giant and all his works. The ‘‘mighty sea’’ is again the instrument of Providence in the episode of Amidas and Bracidas, for its ‘‘imperiall might’’ is a manifestation of the power which disposes of things justly for nature and man alike. Spenser’s interlinked themes are now so well established that in Book VI he is able to add to his symbols, but here too he writes much of nature, and of the exchanges of courtesy proper to it, for the charm of courtesy in man has its counterpart in the poetry of a pastoral world. Florimell has her place here too, for she was reared by the Graces on that same Acidalian mount on which they appear to Colin, where nature is at its loveliest and most fruitful, the heightened but still truthful nature of poetry. Spenser indicates the importance of the passage by his almost reverent preparation for it; and part of its importance may lie in the impression it gives of the order and unity of things as they
2 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
appear to the shaping mind of the poet. The double circle of the dancing ladies moves, to Colin’s piping, around his ‘‘countrey lasse,’’ poetic symbol of all grace and virtue, while the imagery suggests earlier, related themes. The treatment of nature contrasts with that of the Bower of Bliss, the bridal imagery of Ariadne is a reminder of the Garden of Adonis and the Temple of Venus, and Florimell, child of the Graces, is also part of this ceremonious world of love, poetry, and natural grace. The passage is almost a copy in little of the widening circles of the poem and its meaning. But the latest and fullest of such unifying passages as these is to be found in the fragment Of Mutability, a more explicit statement of the great theme which earlier books express chiefly by symbol and by arrangement of material. These two cantos, and the two final stanzas, are the culmination of the poem as it now stands, both unifying and illuminating it. Spenser’s description of Nature, and Mutability’s address to her, show her as the source—or rather as nearest to that source which man may know—of the conceptions in other books. She embodies Justice and Concord, she is veiled like Venus, and by her likeness to the transfigured Christ she suggests the Holiness of Book I. Mutability, on the other hand, is Corruption, sin, or the consequences of sin as seen in our world: For she the face of earthly things so changed, That all which nature had establish first In good estate, and in meet order ranged, She did pervert, and all their statutes burst: And all the worlds faire frame (which none yet durst Of Gods or men to alter or misguide) She alter’d quite, and made them all accurst That God had blest; and did at first provide In that still happy state for ever to abide.
She is of mortal race, for it is this which saves her from the anger of Jove, and it is she who death for life exchanged foolishlie; Since which, all living wights have learned to die.
In her pride she has distorted what God had left in good order, has broken the laws of nature, justice, and policy, and has brought death into the world. She is a composite creature, for in her beauty can be seen the charm of Florimell’s world of innocent partakers in the sorrows of man, but in her too is the guilt of man himself. The story of Faunus and Molanna is a pathetic and absurd parallel to the high seriousness of Mutability’s trial and its theme of the effects of sin upon the world. Through the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
stupid presumption of Faunus the sacred Arlo hill, once the haunt of Diana and the setting chosen for Nature’s court, becomes a place of desolation. The issue of the trial is made clear. Mutability’s claim to rule over the earth is allowed, but Jove retains his sway over ‘‘Heaven’s empire,’’ and is ‘‘confirm’d in his imperiall see.’’ Indeed, once the realm of earth is left behind, and the higher places of the Universe are approached, Mutability’s arguments lose much of their force. Her struggle with Cynthia in the sphere of the moon, traditionally the border of the regions of decay, is left unresolved, and her answer to Jove’s claim that the gods control time and change is hardly conclusive. She begins with a flat denial: What we see not, who shall us perswade?
and continues with a description of the changes of the moon and the motions of the planets which Nature has no difficulty in answering. The moon may have its phases, and the spheres move, but they return again to themselves. They are not changed from their first estate,
for time and change are, as Jove has claimed, part of God’s plan. But Nature’s reply presumably deals with the whole of Mutability’s case, including her claim to earth, and one may suppose that even there, where through sin and death she does now rule, the guidance of Providence is not absent. Even there things ‘‘by their change their being doe dilate,’’ and are being led to that same time when no more Change shall be, But stedfast rest of all things, firmely stay’d Upon the pillours of Eternity.
On earth, the calm and orderly process through which the universe works it own perfection has been disrupted by sin, and is more difficult to perceive; but heaven can make use even of the disasters which sin has brought, and will at last bring the earth ‘‘to itselfe again,’’ resolving change and death in eternal rest. It is the world through which all the characters of The Faerie Queene can be seen to move, a world in which the linked orders of created things range from the least conscious and least spiritual upwards to the ranked angels Singing before th’ eternall majesty, In their trinall triplicities on hye,
and in which God has ordained for each creature a steady movement towards its own perfection. Even in the life of man and of the hapless creatures which share in his fall, the remnant of this joyous order may still be seen in the justice and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
love which Spenser shows us at work in so many spheres and embodies in myth and symbol. Even now, if he is steadfast in devotion to truth, man may experience directly some part of the glory of eternity. Red Crosse, his quest over, delights in the company of Una, Yet swimming in that sea of blisful joy,
and hears for a moment the songs of the angels themselves. All the virtues have their home in that Sabaoth, and on earth they are all—Holiness, Chastity, Temperance—made manifest by a constant attention to the unchanging truth. It is this proper movement of all the richness of created things towards the unity which produced them and works through them that the poem expresses, and by one of the fortunate chances of poetry it ends, as we have it, with the two great stanzas which sum up the Spenserian universe: For, all that moveth, doth in Change delight: But thence forth all shall rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight: O that great Sabbaoth God, grant me that Sabaoths sight.
At the end of the poem, ‘‘the total life has suddenly displayed its source.’’ Source: Kathleen Williams, ‘‘‘Eterne in Mutabilite’: The Unified World of The Faerie Queene,’’ in English Literary History, Vol. 19, No. 2, June 1952, pp. 115 30.
SOURCES Chishty Mujahid, Nadya Q., Character Development in Edmund Spenser’s ‘‘The Faerie Queene,’’ Edwin Mellen Press, 2006. Frye, Northrop, ‘‘The Structure of Imagery in The Faerie Queene,’’ in Edmund Spenser’s Poetry, edited by Hugh McClean, Norton, 1968, pp. 582 93. Hadfield, Andrew, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Spenser, Cambridge University Press, 2001. Hough, Graham, ‘‘The Structure of The Faerie Queene,’’ in Edmund Spenser’s Poetry, edited by Hugh McClean, Norton, 1968, pp. 575 81. Sidney, Philip, The Defence of Poesy, in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, edited by M. H. Abrams, Vol. 1, 6th ed., Norton, 1993, pp. 480 500. Spenser, Edmund, ‘‘A Letter of the Authors,’’ in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, edited by M. H. Abrams, Vol. 1, 6th ed., Norton, 1993, pp. 516 19. , The Works of Edmund Spenser: The Faerie Queen, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002. Stump, Donald V., ‘‘Edmund Spenser,’’ in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 167: Sixteenth Century British
V o l u m e
1
2 1 5
T h e
F a e r i e
Q u e e n e
Nondramatic Writers, Third Series, edited by David A. Richardson, Gale Research, 1996, pp. 228 63. Watt, Nicholas, ‘‘Gordon Brown in Talks to End Ban on Catholics Joining Royal Family,’’ in Guardian (London), March 27, 2009, http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2009/ mar/27/monarchy catholicism constitutional reform (accessed February 5, 2010).
FURTHER READING Cavanagh, Sheila T., ‘‘Nightmares of Desire: Evil Women in The Faerie Queene,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 91, No. 3, Summer, 1994, pp. 313 338. Cavanagh examines the way women function in Spenser’s epic, arguing that the dreams and visions of men suggest that women are dangerous. Ferry, Anne, The Art of Naming, University of Chicago Press, 1988. Ferry’s book is a study of the language in Spenser’s epic. Ferry makes connections between grammar and repetitions, for example, and then makes fur ther connections to historical interpretations. Frye, Susan, Elizabeth I: The Competition for Represen tation, Oxford University Press, 1996. Frye uses three separate episodes from Eliza beth’s reign to explore the queen’s struggle for power. A significant portion of this text focuses on the queen’s response to Spenser’s epic. Hales, John W., A Biography of Edmund Spenser, Hard Press, 2009. Hales uses quotations from Spenser’s letters and poems as well as some documentary evi dence to enrich this biography of Spenser, which includes an analysis of the poet’s time in Ireland. Heale, Elizabeth, The Faerie Queene, Cambridge Univer sity Press, 1999. This guide for students or teachers covers all six books of The Faerie Queene. It discusses key episodes, themes, and characters, along with the poem’s historical and cultural background.
2 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
King, Andrew, ‘‘The Faerie Queene’’ and Middle English Romance: The Matter of Just Memory, Oxford Univer sity Press, 2000. King presents the first comprehensive study of the impact of Middle English romance on The Faerie Queene, demonstrating in various ways Spenser’s debt to medieval native romance and to Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. McCabe, Richard A., ed., The Oxford Handbook of Edmund Spenser, Oxford University Press, 2010. This handbook contains forty two scholarly essays on the entire body of Spenser’s work and is an invaluable resource on the social and intellectual context in which Spenser wrote. Summers, David A., Spenser’s Arthur: The British Arthurian Tradition and ‘‘The Faerie Queene,’’; University Press of America, 1997. Summers traces the history of the Arthurian legend through literature and examines its impact on British society.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Arthurian legend chivalry Edmund Spenser Edmund Spenser AND Faerie Queene Elizabeth I epic Faerie Queene King Arthur romance romantic AND epic Spenser AND Faerie Queene Spenserian stanza
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Gerusalemme Liberata When Torquato Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata (Jerusalem Delivered) first appeared in a pirated edition in 1579, it was hailed as a great, albeit slightly flawed, art epic in the tradition of Dante and Virgil. Tasso, himself, was angry that the poem had appeared in print without his permission, especially since the manuscript had received some harsh criticism from its first readers. By the time the poem was printed in an authorized version, in 1581, its reputation as an uplifting, patriotic, influential, and brilliant examination of Christian Europe’s heroic past was already established. Fellow Italians and other Europeans celebrated the poem’s meaning and message. The English poets, especially those writing in the 1650s to the 1680s, were heavily influenced by Tasso’s skill as a poet and wordcrafter. Edmund Spencer and John Milton both credited Tasso’s poem as an inspiration to their own epic poems, while literary critics such as John Dryden (1631–1700) and William Hayley (1745–1820) praised the work as the best modern epic poem before Paradise Lost (1667). Although his poem achieved great success, Tasso either did not believe the praise or did not like the moral looseness of his characters. By 1591, he had drastically rewritten the poem, eliminated all of the romance, magic, and adventure elements, leaving only a moralistic and religious core. Tasso liked the finished product, but no one else did. Although fewer people read epic and heroic poetry for pleasure in modern times, Gerusalemme Liberata continues to be one of the most important and
TORQUATO TASSO 1581
2 1 7
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
Rinaldo is an epic romance dealing with a young man in the springtime of life. At the time, Tasso was enjoying some poetic success and working for Luigi, the Cardinal d’Este. His courtly love poetry addressed to the cardinal’s sisters, Lucrezia and Leonora d’Este, won him considerable praise. According to his letters, this was the happiest time of his life.
Torquato Tasso (Archive Photos, Inc. / Getty Images)
influential works from the late Italian Renaissance. An accurate and readable translation of this epic by Edward Fairfax, including character notes and an introduction, was published in 2010.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Torquato Tasso, long regarded as the last great poet of the Italian Renaissance, was born in Sorrento, Italy, on March 11, 1544. His father, also an epic poet, had political problems and was forced to move frequently; Tasso’s mother died mysteriously when he was just twelve years old. Tasso, like most other poets of his time, sought patrons from among wealthy aristocrats and churchmen. Tasso started the poem that would become Gerusalemme Liberata when he was sixteen and continued working on the poem until 1593. Many critics agree that all three of his major poems, Rinaldo (1562), Gerusalemme Liberata (1581), and Gerusalemme Conquistata, are essentially the same poem with different foci that mirror Tasso’s emotional state at the time of each publication.
2 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
Heavily influenced by Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and Matteomaria Bioardo’s Orlando Innamorato, Tasso set out to write an epic poem that joined the adventure, magic, and intrigue of those works with the heroic, moral, and religious ideals of Dante’s Divine Comedy and Virgil’s Aeneid. Between 1562 and 1575, Tasso worked on Gerusalemme Liberata while living with Duke Alfonso II. This period of his life was a painful one. Tasso began displaying a mental disorder that drove him to paranoid delusions and to see conspiracies all around him. He had given his poem to several friends for comment and constructive criticism and was stung by their harsh treatment of his masterpiece, and his grip on reality spun out of control. His behavior became so erratic that the duke was forced to have Tasso confined in a mental institution for seven years. While he kept in contact with the outside world, and even published his prose treatise on epic and heroic poetry, Tasso never really regained his sanity. Duke Alfonso did release Tasso in 1586, but the author did not recover. Tasso roamed Italy for the next nine years, never securing a stable patron or quieting the demons inside his mind. He rewrote Gerusalemme Liberata, removing all of the romance, intrigue, and chivalric elements, in order to reinforce the moral duty of Christians in an unchristian world. Gerusalemme Conquistata was published in 1593 much to Tasso’s delight, but to his supporters’ disappointment. His earlier works, especially Gerusalemme Liberata won him many admirers, but he no longer trusted anyone. In fact, Tasso’s reputation was so respected and well-known that the pope named him poet laureate for the Papal States in 1594. However, Tasso no longer cared for fame. On April 25, 1595, after a serious illness, Torquato Tasso died in the convent of Saint Onofrio in Rome. His work would go on to influence generations of poets, especially English poets such as Edmund Spencer, John Milton, and Thomas Gray.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
PLOT SUMMARY Overview Gerusalemme Liberata is, nominally, a poem about the First Crusade in the eleventh century CE . The First Crusade was ordered by Pope Urban II in 1094 as a way for European Christians theoretically to liberate Jerusalem from the Muslim Turks who had conquered the city several years earlier. The leader of the First Crusade was Godfrey of Bouillon (in modern-day Belgium), and he marched his multinational army across Europe, Asia Minor, and finally into the Middle East. He surrounded Jerusalem and eventually defeated the Turkish armies stationed there. He then set up the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem so Christians could travel to the Holy Land without having to pay taxes. To the historical record, Tasso adds several knights, an enchantress, some Amazons, and a good deal of magic. The plot of the poem revolves around Godfrey’s desire to capture the city and the love affairs of Clorinda, Tancred, and Erminia and those of Armida and Rinaldo. The poem is divided into twenty cantos of varying lengths. Tasso suggests a four-part structure in terms of the storyline.
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS Gioacchino Rossini (1792–1868) wrote the opera Tancredi based on Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata; it is available as a CD sound recording from CBS Masterworks (1985) and features Marilyn Horne. A poorly rated Italian film version of Gerusalemme Liberata was produced in 1961 with Carlo Ludovico Bragaglia as director.
The opera Rinaldo, based on Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata and written by George Frederic Handel can be seen on a DVD produced by Kultur studios (2003).
A 2006 audio book version of Gerusalemme Liberata is available from Open Source Audio.
Part I The first section of Gerusalemme Liberata includes Cantos I, II, and III. Here, the groundwork for the developing plot surrounding the adventures of Godfrey and the various lovers is laid. Godfrey’s campaign against the Turks is divinely inspired. Much like the Greek and Roman gods did with their epic heroes, the Christian God selected Godfrey and told him to gather all the bravest Christian men together and to pick a leader. Godfrey’s companions elect him leader, and they all swear loyalty to him. Tasso uses this opportunity to introduce the major Christian characters, both historical and imagined. The army then sets out for the Holy Land. Their fame quickly precedes them and Aladine, the Turkish king, prepares for war. Tasso does mention the real reason for the Crusade in stanza 84 when he suggests that Aladine eliminated the taxes on the Muslim population but kept them on the Christians. Aladine, already described as a cruel king, decides to execute a couple of Christians, Sophronia and Olindo, because they have been accused by Ismen, a magician, of hiding the location of an idol that could destroy Godfrey’s approaching army. Of course, they deny this accusation, but Aladine intends to execute them. They are saved by the arrival of Clorinda, a Persian Amazon warrior,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
who offers to lead the Muslim troops on the condition that Aladine spare the two lovers. He agrees to this arrangement. Meanwhile, the Egyptian Muslims send ambassadors to Godfrey to find out what he wants. The Egyptians are bound by treaties to help Aladine, and they want to avoid Godfrey’s invasion altogether. However, Godfrey rejects their offer of peace and tells the ambassadors that as long as Jerusalem remains in the hands of pagans, he will continue to fight. The ambassadors leave as Canto II closes. Canto III finds the Christians at the walls of Jerusalem. Aladine brings in a refugee to identify the Christian knights. Erminia, niece of the dead king of Antioch, knows all of these knights since they were the ones who killed her uncle and destroyed her city. She points out each one, identifying the remaining characters. Clorinda proves her mettle as she leads the Muslims in the initial encounter. The Muslims win, a Christian knight named Dudon is killed, and the Christians lay siege. They set up their tents and start building the catapults, towers, battering rams, and other siege engines needed to destroy the city walls.
V o l u m e
1
2 1 9
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
Part II In the second group of cantos (IV-IX), all kinds of problems get thrown in the Christians’ way, most of them coming from Satan. Like most epics, the battles on earth are mirrored by battles in the cosmos. Here God is allowing Satan to torment and derail most of Godfrey’s plans. In fact, Satan summons his fallen angels into a conference much like the one earlier in the poem. The result is an agreement to try to stop the Christians by any means necessary. One of the most successful ways is through the use of sex. One of the devils devises a plan with Armida as the lynchpin. Armida is a beautiful enchantress who seeks out Godfrey’s camp. She pretends to need his help, but in reality is trying to seduce as many of his men as possible. She is quite successful, especially after Godfrey refuses to help her. In Canto V, Rinaldo, one of Tasso’s creations, is elected to replace the warrior killed earlier, but he is unpopular among some of the army. Rinaldo is the best fighter Godfrey has, yet Godfrey does not trust or believe him. The tension in the Christian camp is raised when Rinaldo kills Genrando for spreading lies about him. Rather than staying and explaining things to Godfrey, Rinaldo leaves. Meanwhile, Godfrey has allowed Armida to choose a few soldiers to help her get back home, and they are chosen by lot. She departs taking her champions with her. Much to Godfrey’s dismay, she has also captured many other knights with her beauty and charm. The problems in the Christian camp continue. Without Rinaldo, Godfrey cannot launch a full scale assault on the city and must settle for single combat. He does not have his greatest warrior, so he names Tancred as the Christian champion. Tancred is the second best warrior, and he fights with the Muslim champion, Argantes. So well matched are they that their fight continues the entire day, ending only at nightfall. Both men are severely wounded and so the fight is a draw. However, the Muslim princess, Erminia, longs to nurse her beloved Tancred. She fell in love with him when he destroyed her city, Antioch. Unfortunately, she cannot go outside the city walls dressed as she is, so she borrows Clorinda’s armor. Since no one would stop the leader of the Muslim army, Erminia is able to get outside the city walls. However, she is not a warrior, and the guards recognize the armor and attack her, thinking she is Clorinda, who has killed the father of one of the guards earlier. Erminia flees
2 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
without ever seeing her beloved. Her appearance does help Tancred heal, though. He gets up from his sickbed because he thinks that the woman who came to him was his beloved, Clorinda. He has seen her in a dream much earlier in the poem and has fallen in love with her. Canto VII, VIII, and IX follow several lines of the plot simultaneously. Erminia gets away yet cannot get back to the city, and so ends up being taken in by some shepherds, while Tancred ends up being imprisoned in Armida’s castle. Raymond then fights Argantes and almost wins. However, the demons fly in and disrupt the combat as a terrible storm drives the Christians back to their camp. Once they are back in their camp, they receive devastating news: Their re-enforcements, Sven, Prince of Denmark, and his army, have been destroyed by Solyman. Solyman brutally murders Sven, who is a kinsman of Rinaldo and a survivor brings Sven’s sword so that Rinaldo can take revenge. However, Rinaldo is no longer in the Christian camp. The news gets worse when report of Rinaldo’s death reaches Godfrey’s camp. Indeed, the entire Italian portion of the army threatens to pack up and go home. Godfrey is barely able to keep order. The only thing that prevents disintegration of the Christian army is a nighttime raid by the Muslims. Solyman and Alecto attempt to destroy the Christians, and they appear to be winning. However, God has had enough and forbids any further meddling by Satan and his demons. This breaks the spell Armida has put on the men who followed her and they now return. Their return helps the Christians win the battle, and Solyman flees back to the safety of Jerusalem.
Part III The third part of Gerusalemme Liberata comprises the cantos to which all the earlier action has been building. Here, Rinaldo and Godfrey are reconciled, the first assaults on the city are launched, the great battles are fought, and plans are laid. Cantos X and XI deal with the plans for the first assault against Jerusalem. The Muslims plan their strategies inside, while the Crusaders celebrate Mass and plan their attack. Godfrey is happy when he learns that Rinaldo is alive and feels just a little justified when he finds out that Armida is an enchantress and not just some helpless maiden. The Crusaders attack Jerusalem at dawn and make a bloody day’s work of it. Clorinda and Solyman lead the city’s defenses, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
Tasso describes the fighting in heroic and chivalric terms. Godfrey is wounded, and nightfall brings an end to the Christians’ attack. The battle has proved to Clorinda that the siege machines that Godfrey built must be destroyed, and in Canto XII, she decides to burn them to the ground. Before Clorinda can put her plan into action, her earliest history is told. Instead of being born a Muslim, she was born a Christian and raised a Muslim. She finds this interesting, but it does not change her mind in anyway. She and a select few men steal out of the city and torch the wooden machines. On their way back to the city, Clorinda stops to kill a Christian soldier who has insulted her and gets locked out during her delay. She tries to blend in with the Christian troops, but she is recognized, not as herself, but as a Muslim. Tancred attacks her, not knowing who she is. He kills her and when he finds out her identity, he goes crazy with grief. Tancred does manage to baptize Clorinda before her death, but he is inconsolable. He even contemplates suicide, which was the only unforgivable sin for Renaissance Catholics, and is talked out of it by Peter the Hermit. The Muslims are now without a leader, and Argantes swears revenge. Cantos XIII and XIV deal with the reasons Godfrey reconciles with Rinaldo, while Cantos XV and XVI detail the trouble Godfrey goes through to get Rinaldo to come back. After Clorinda successfully burns the siege machines, Ismen persuades the devils and evil spirits to haunt only the nearby woods. Godfrey’s people cannot get rid of them. All of his heroes fail, but finally Godfrey has a dream. Peter the Hermit interprets this dream as instructing Godfrey to send two men to find Rinaldo and bring him back. As much as Godfrey resists, he eventually complies. Charles and Ubaldo seek out Dame Fortune, who tells them about Christopher Columbus and directs them toward Armida’s palace. After many hardships, they arrive and find Rinaldo. They convince him to come back with them, but even Armida cannot get him to change his mind. Armida is a woman scorned; she destroys her palace and returns to Jerusalem angry and thirsty for vengeance.
L i b e r a t a
are massing, including the armies of the king of Egypt and, backed by Armida and Emiren, they march towards Jerusalem. Armida even offers to marry any man who brings her the severed head of Rinaldo. Meanwhile, Rinaldo arrives in the Holy Land and receives Sven’s sword. He even takes a tongue lashing from several priests for abandoning his fellow Christians. The tension continues to mount as the attack proceeds. Rinaldo defeats the spirits in the woods, and the Christians are able to build their machines again. Without Clorinda, the Muslims do not have a prayer. The Christians attack the city and claim control over parts of the walls. They slaughter the troops hiding in Solomon’s Temple and plant the Cross on the city walls. Canto XIX details a pitched battle within the city itself. All of the major characters are accounted for: Tancred kills Argantes, while Rinaldo and Godfrey pursue Solyman and Aladine from the Temple Mount to the Tower of David. The battle is suspended because Godfrey’s spies inform him of the approaching Egyptian troops. One of the spies, Vafrine, rescues Erminia, and they find Tancred, almost dead, near Argantes’s body. Erminia nurses Tancred in a portion of the city that the Christians control. After the crushing defeat of the Muslims in the following canto, Rinaldo and Armida declare their love for each other, she is baptized, and their engagement is announced. Canto XX is the resounding end to the battles and to the poem. The Egyptian and the Christian troops face each other and wreak great havoc on each other. Solyman attacks the Christians from the rear and kills a number of them. Tancred rallies the Christians and Solyman is killed by Rinaldo. Tancred and his group take the Tower of David and Aladine is killed. Godfrey pursues the Egyptian general and kills him as well. The battle is over; the Christians have liberated Jerusalem. Godfrey hangs his weapons in Solomon’s Temple.
CHARACTERS Part IV
Aladine
The last section of Gerusalemme Liberata contains the final four cantos of the poem, which describe the final assault on Jerusalem and record the deaths of all the major Muslim characters. Canto XVII sets the stage for the last battle. The Muslims
Aladine is the commander of the Saracen army in Jerusalem. His position mirrors Godfrey’s in that he does not do that much fighting, leaving it to Clorinda, Solymon, and Argantes. He is killed by Tancred.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
2 2 1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
Argantes Argantes is the Saracen second in command. He challenges the Christian knights to single combat and defeats most of them. He almost kills Tancred, which spells certain doom for the Christians. However, Tancred rises from his sickbed, rallies the Christians, kills Argantes, and saves the day.
Armida Armida is a witch. Summoned by Satan to seduce and destroy Godfrey, Armida eventually seduces and captures over thirty knights, including Rinaldo and Tancred. Most of her captives escape or are rescued, but Rinaldo has fallen in love with her and she with him. On her island paradise in the Atlantic Ocean, Armida and Rinaldo spend much of the poem living in love. After Rinaldo is rescued, Armida swears revenge, even offering a reward to any Saracen knight that brings her Rinaldo’s head. After the battle, she realizes that Rinaldo still loves her, and she accepts both her conversion to Christianity and his offer of marriage. Although Tasso is not exactly clear about her use of sexuality, most English translators suggest that while she uses her sexuality to kidnap men, she only consummates the act with Rinaldo, thus making her an acceptable wife for him.
Clorinda Clorinda is the princess of Damascus, an Amazon, and the most pivotal character in the poem. She is the leader of the Saracen attack forces and is a ruthless fighter. She is a brilliant military strategist as well as a tough woman. As long as she is alive, the Christians cannot hope to take Jerusalem. Several Christian heroes fall to Clorinda’s sword, as well as most of their battle plans. She manages to destroy all of Godfrey’s wooden siege equipment, which almost spells defeat for the Franks, and would have continued to reduce his army, but she is killed by the man who desperately loves her. Tancred does not realize that he has fought Clorinda until it is too late. He baptizes her as she lies dying and then loses his mind. Only after her death can Godfrey gather his forces and defeat the Saracens.
her city and killed her father and uncle before the poem opens. In Canto II, she identifies for the Saracen king all the knights, thus introducing the characters to readers. She is also desperately in love with Tancred. She watches his battles from the city walls and even tries to nurse him when he is wounded. She dresses in Clorinda’s armor in order to sneak out of the city, but is recognized by the Christian guards and forced to flee without seeing Tancred. He follows her, but she escapes him. Their love affair is not resolved and her role as prize object or woman scorned is unclear.
Gildippe Gildippe is the Christians’ answer to Clorinda. Gildippe is a great Amazon warrior who does not, however, fight the Saracen Amazon, Clorinda. She is killed by Solymon.
Godfrey of Bouillon Godfrey, modeled on the historical person, is one of the major characters in Gerusalemme Liberata. He is the French knight who is chosen by God and his fellow crusaders to lead the Christian armies against the Muslim Turks, called Saracens, who have taken Jerusalem. Godfrey does not actually fight in most of the battle, but rather directs the attacks and plans the siege. He has much in common with Thomas Malory’s King Arthur and Homer’s Agamemnon. Godfrey is the perfect Christian knight, in that he does not waver from his beliefs, yet will always obey the word of God. He banishes Rinaldo for murder, but when Peter the Hermit tells Godfrey that only Rinaldo can defeat the spirits in the demonized forest, Godfrey recalls him and forgives him of his sins. Godfrey does participate in the final battle that liberates Jerusalem. He kills the last Saracen general and hangs his weapons in Solomon’s Temple, showing that he fights only for honor and God.
Peter the Hermit
Emiren
Peter is the mystic advisor, much like Merlin in Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. He advises Godfrey to recall Rinaldo. Throughout the epic, Peter delivers the word of God regarding the Christians’ actions.
Emiren is the Saracen king of Jerusalem. He is killed by Godfrey.
Rinaldo
Erminia Erminia is the niece of the king of Antioch, who knows the Christian knights because they destroyed
2 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
Rinaldo is one of the major characters Tasso inserted into his history of the First Crusade. Critics suggest that he is modeled on Tasso’s patron at the time, Cardinal d’Este. He is heroic, romantic,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
and courteous, one of the most important characters in the poem.
Solymon Solymon becomes the major Saracen warrior after Clorinda’s death. He attacks and destroys the prince of Denmark’s army and does serious damage to the morale of the Christian troops. He also kills the great Christian warrior, Gildippe. He is killed by Rinaldo.
Tancred Tancred is another Christian knight whom Tasso introduces to the First Crusade. He is a great warrior who loves Clorinda from afar. He worships her military ability as well as her beauty. After Clorinda has set fire to Godfrey’s siege equipment and gets locked out of the city, Tancred fights this unknown warrior and kills her. Realizing his mistake, he is overcome by grief and is barely able to go on. He continues to fight for the Christians and lives through the battle at the end of the poem. His affair with Erminia, however, is not resolved.
THEMES Honor as Combat One of the major themes in Gerusalemme Liberata concerns the concept of honor, or what makes someone a good person. The major element of honor is the character’s ability to fight. Generally this trait applies to the male characters, with the exception of the two Amazons, Clorinda and Gildippe, since women’s honor had to do with their sexual reputation and not an ability to fight. Godfrey, Rinaldo, and Tancred are examples of good and honorable men because they are able to fight when called upon and they are fighting for the side of the Christian God. Although Clorinda fights for the Saracens, she is a Christian by birth and does renounce paganism, i.e. Islam, right before her death. For Solyman, Argantes, and Aladine, honor is not obtainable since they are the bad guys. Their military victories are described as murders, while the military victories of the Christians are considered honorable acts.
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Research the Crusades, or just the First Crusade, and compare the actions, behaviors, and outcomes of the historical record to the events, characters, and outcomes in Tasso’s poem. Make a comparison/contrast chart as an individual project or as a class. Chivalry is an important element in the Renaissance art epic. In a PowerPoint presentation, list the elements of the chivalric code, then comment on Tasso’s treatment of the heroic ideal in comparison to the medieval chivalric code. If possible, illustrate the presentation with pictures that depict chivalry in action. Tasso suggests that his poem is an attempt to merge the Christian philosophy of Dante’s work with the political ideology of Virgil’s writings. Divide the class in two groups and have one of them explore Dante and the other explore Virgil (outlines of their works can be found on the Internet) Then discuss how well Gerusalemme Liberata fulfills Tasso’s goal.
Women are not often thought of as warriors and historically were not allowed to fight in most Renaissance European armies, yet the major warrior for the Saracens is female. Individually, research Amazon women in literature and comics, then select one for a report, using media or a research paper or a poster. Include pictures, if possible.
As a culture, American society does not glorify war, yet a lot of literature takes it as a subject. Name three war novels or major war movies, such as Red Badge of Courage, All Quiet on the Western Front, or Saving Private Ryan, and discuss how they deal with the conflict between war and peace. As an alternate assignment, each student can choose a war novel or movie, give a summary, and explain how that work deals with the conflict between war and peace.
Religious Truth as Justification Tasso wrote his poem to a Christian audience who would not find anything wrong with his portrayal of the Muslims as pagans, Satan worshipers, or evil-natured brutes. The entire reason for Godfrey’s attack on Jerusalem is the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
fulfillment of religious truth. From the moment Godfrey is nominated by God, the audience knows that Godfrey and the Christians are
V o l u m e
1
2 2 3
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
This painting depicts Rinaldo being enchanted by Armida. (Ó The Print Collector / Alamy)
going to win. All of his actions, and those of his army, are justified by the truth of their religious beliefs. The question of whether they could be wrong does not even enter the picture. Tasso wanted his readers to take the same surety that Godfrey and his comrades had and apply it to their own lives and struggles.
Transcendence of Love In addition to the idea of religious truth, Tasso also emphasized the idea of the transcendence of love. Love conquers all, says any good fairy tale, and when love is mixed with honor and the so-called right religion, it can be miraculous. Armida and Rinaldo discover that they truly love each other, even though she tricks him, he abandons her, and she puts a contract out on his life. She is willing to give up her religion, her powers, and her home for the man she loves, while he is willing to risk public scorn and humiliation for her. Even Tancred’s relationships with Clorinda and Erminia display the all-powerful aspects of romantic love.
2 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
Tancred’s affair with Clorinda may be one-sided, but it is enough to save her from eternal damnation to Hell, while Erminia displays the fidelity and faithfulness of a good woman and a version of Penelope, the model of wifely devotion and patience. While Rinaldo and Armida announce their engagement at the end of the poem and Tancred is still mourning Clorinda, there is a suggestion that Erminia’s love for Tancred and the idea of love in general will win in the end.
Might Makes Right One of the major themes in almost every epic, whether poem or prose, is the idea of might establishing the rules. Whether this is the author’s intention or not, this theme recurs throughout epic literature. Since the hero is the best fighter, by definition, his/her ability settles arguments and establishes how the society shall function. Godfrey gets to make the rules for how Jerusalem runs because he defeats the previous king. Aladine, the Saracen king, rules Jerusalem and runs it his way.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
It is a simple matter of who is the better fighter. Tasso, like most epic authors, makes his heroes absolutely the best, so there is no question of their being defeated, but none of these characters is able to legally get what they want. They must fight for it. So in the end, whether Tasso likes it or not, military ability (might) makes the rules (right).
STYLE Epic Features In many ways, Gerusalemme Liberata is a perfect epic, rhetorically speaking. Many of the prominant features found in Greek and Roman epics are found in Tasso’s work. For example, the idea of a perfect hero who is the salvation of his group is enacted by both Godfrey and Rinaldo. Military ability, the intervention of the supernatural (God versus Satan), and the trip to the underworld with Rinaldo’s supposed death and rebirth are all key features. Tasso was followed the models of Virgil, Dante, and Ariosto. In his Discourses on the Heroic Poem (1594), Tasso suggests that there are four major elements to epic poetry that must be followed by all epic poets: the story or fable, the morality of the characters, the purpose behind the story, and the language. All of these elements can be manipulated in the extreme, but they have to be present for an epic poem to work. Tasso’s definition of epic elements basically survived to modern times.
Point of View The point of view is a traditional third-person unlimited narrator. All the characters’ thoughts, desires, and fears are laid open by the narrator. This is an essential part of epic poetry. Since epic characters were created to serve as examples of proper behavior, their motives and actions must be easy to understand. A first-person narration would not work effectively for Tasso’s purpose. A third-person narrator also lends an air of finality or absoluteness to the poem.
Setting Gerusalemme Liberata is set in Palestine, in the area of modern Israel and Palestine. Tasso acknowledged that this area is the religious homeland of the three major monotheistic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, but he did not recognize the political nature of the First Crusade. Tasso’s Jerusalem bears almost no resemblance to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
the real city. Solomon’s Temple was destroyed in 79 CE by the Romans, while the Tower of David was a ruin since ancient times. There is also very little description of the countryside or the city itself. Details of setting are not important in a heroic epic. For heroic poetry, the setting is not as important as the action. The fact that all these men fight and fight bravely is what matters. The idea that all these knights, Christian and Saracen, fight by the same rules and in the same way takes precedence over any debt to reality. Tasso himself suggested the limits of using a real historical event, but he could not find a storyline that he liked better for exploring his ideas on morality and heroics.
Figurative Language The language of Gerusalemme Liberata is determined by the translation one reads. Since few Americans read Italian, many of them read the poem in translation. In fact, Gerusalemme Liberata is one of the more frequently translated epic poems. The earliest complete translation into English was that of Edward Fairfax in 1600. Fairfax transformed the epic into English heroic verse, with a rhyme scheme of abababcc and with English cultural references, metaphors, and allusions. The poem continued to be translated, with important versions by poets such Elizabeth Singer Rowe (1725), James K. King (1884), and Ralph Nash (1987). The Nash edition belongs to a group of translations from the late 1970s to mid-1980s that translated poetry into English prose. In doing so, a good deal of the poetic or figurative language was lost. Nash addressed this problem in his introduction. He stated that he was more interested in preserving Tasso’s story than his language and so chose to use prose, which is easier to read, and more like a narrative. Nash’s translation is readable and focuses on the storyline, but it does lose the fire and beauty of the earlier, poetic translations. The following examples from the Nash prose translation (1987) and the Fairfax poetic translation (1600) illustrate this point: Solyman, Solyman, reserve to a better time your sluggish slumbers; for the country where you reigned is yet a slave, under the yoke of foreign peoples. Can you sleep on this earth and not call to mind that it holds the bones of your unburied men? Where so great a token of your shame remains, are you lazily awaiting the new day? O Soliman! Thou far renowned king, Till better season serve, forbear thy rest; A stranger doth thy lands in thralldom bring; Nice is a slave, by Christian yoke oppress’d; Sleepest thou here, forgetful of this thing,
V o l u m e
1
2 2 5
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Sixteenth century: Although women are not accepted into the military, several women have leading military roles because of position or circumstance. Indian Sikhism, founded in 1500, advocates equality of the sexes, so women participate in combat; Christina of Saxony, Catherine of Aragon, Mary of Guise, and Mary, Queen of Scots, all make appearances on the field of battle; other women secure arms or actually lead battles, including Muslim Queen Chand Bibi who fights the Mughals.
Today: Women are represented in all branches of the U.S. military. Women serve in the general corps and can be found in high-ranking positions. Although women serve in the military in most countries, only a few permit women to have combat roles, but this restriction changes frequently. The United States allows women on submarines and in most combat flying positions. Sixteenth century: Religious intolerance predominates as Tasso writes his epic. The Protestant Reformation has begun a century
That here thy friends lie slain, not laid in chest, Whose bones bear witness of thy shame and scorn, And wilt thou idly here attend the morn?
The prose translation is easier to read and understand, but the poetic translation has a better rhythm and use of figurative language.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Italian Renaissance Tasso is considered the last of the major Italian Renaissance poets. The Italian Renaissance, which began, traditionally, with the fall of Constantinople in the fifteenth century, was a period of renewed literary, architectural, and artistic creativity that slowly spread across Europe. The
2 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
earlier and fuels animosity between Catholics and Protestants. The Vatican initiates the Counter Reformation and the Inquisition in predominately Catholic Italy, Spain, and France. Today: Religious tolerance is practiced in many western countries. However, in the Middle East and elsewhere, conflicts continue between certain religious groups.
Sixteenth century: Many Europeans believe in magic and mysticism to explain phenomena they cannot understand. Despite resistance from the Roman Catholic Church to scientific discovery, a new worldview develops with exploration and scientific experimentation. Today: Scientific inquiry and laboratory experimentation are the hallmarks of many areas of medical and industrial research. Magic, for many people, is relegated to amusing card tricks, listening to fortune tellers, and reading one’s daily horoscope.
renewal was largely a result of the recovery and translation of many classical texts and a new interest in classicism. The Italian Renaissance launched artists such as Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, and Titian; writers such as Castiglione, Petrarch, and Machiavelli; and artisans such as Amati, the teacher of violin-maker Stradivarius. There was a renewed sense of cultural identity, religious clarity, and pride in nationality. Literature was to be written in Italian rather than Latin. At the same time, educated people were to be knowledgeable about everything from art to warfare, from politics to dancing, and were expected to be able to express this knowledge and these abilities effortlessly. The Italian Renaissance ended soon after Tasso died, and the baroque period in art followed. But the Renaissance, as a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
The leaders of the First Crusade secured the cooperation of the Orthodox Church in the Byzantine Empire and so were able to invade Palestine and conquer Jerusalem. The city was quickly retaken by the Turks in the early twelfth century, thus launching the Second Crusade, led by Philip of France and Eleanor of Aquitaine, and the Third Crusade, led by Philip III of France and Richard I of England. However, by that time, the Crusades had deteriorated into European fights with the European kings making deals with the Turkish generals to betray one another. Throughout these military campaigns, the moral question of killing thousands of people in the name of God was never addressed. The immorality and increasing length of the Crusades led to a number of social, political, and religious reforms, including the end of serfdom, the rise of the nation-state, and the Protestant Reformation.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Second attack of the Crusaders on Jerusalem (Ó Bettmann / Corbis)
historical period, remained a high point in cultural flowering.
The Crusades The Crusades were a series of military campaigns ordered by the Roman Catholic Church in Rome against the ever-expanding Turkish/Ottoman Muslim Empire between the eleventh and the sixteenth centuries. Although there were Crusades as late as the seventeenth century, the major crusades were in the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries. The First Crusade, called for by Pope Urban II in 1094, was arguably the most successful. The Ottoman Turks had captured Jerusalem and forced all pilgrims to pay travel taxes. The Turks were followers of Islam, a monotheistic religion similar to Judaism and Christianity, but for the medieval Roman Catholic Church, the Muslims were just another group of pagans, comparable to the Jews. Godfrey of Bouillon was selected to head the multinational force to retake the city with the holiest of Christian shrines, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (the tomb of Jesus) and Mount Calvary (the site of the crucifixion of Jesus).
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Gerusalemme Liberata was a great critical success when it was published in 1581. Tasso was hailed as the greatest poet in all of Europe for combining the heroic, the romance, and the moral tale in one poem. The early English translations spoke highly of Tasso’s moral plan and his political allegory. Italian critics, who had originally hated the poem, claimed Tasso as the poetic successor to Virgil and Dante. This praise did not please Tasso, however, partly because he did not believe it and partly because he felt the poem had too much erotic and supernatural content. The poem did not provide Tasso with economic security, but its popularity helped him secure the post of poet laureate of Rome in 1594. Tasso’s reputation and the poem’s critical impact continued to grow after his death. The English poets seemed to be more influenced by Tasso and Gerusalemme Liberata than were French, Spanish, or Italian poets. Edward Fairfax’s translation in 1600 brought numerous new readers to the poem, and poets such as Edmund Spencer, Rachel Speght, and Margaret Cavendish credited Tasso with teaching them how to write poetry. John Milton, Thomas Gray, and various Victorian poets referred to Tasso’s work as a model of epic poetry. The idea of the moral duty of the poet was very popular among literary circles in Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and Tasso was regarded as the shining example of a poet with
V o l u m e
1
2 2 7
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
his readers’ best interests at heart. Both French and English literary critics favored Tasso over Ariosto since Tasso’s message of honor, truth, and victory through God’s help seemed a better influence than Ariosto’s tales of lust and sex. John Dryden preferred Tasso as an epic poet and recommended him to several young poets, including Mary, Lady Chudleigh; John Oldham; and Anne Killigrew. Elizabeth Singer Rowe, the most popular epic poet in eighteenth-century England, also recommended reading and translating Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata as a way of learning how to write epic poetry, both in terms of style and content. The French critics were not as admiring as the English, however. Nicholas Boileau argued that, although Tasso was the master at instructing his readers, he found the didacticism overpowering and the plot dull in places. He also did not like poetry with heavy moral messages, but he praised Tasso for his use of figurative language and sustained cadence. Anne Dacier, a prominent French intellectual and translator of Homer’s epics, also liked Tasso’s style and his use of language. She did not mind his use of real history since he chose a time and place unknowable to most of his audience and could, therefore, delight and instruct them without really telling them outright lies. Gerusalemme Liberata continued to fare well in the eighteenth century, and it continued to be translated and to influence other poets, holding a place in European literary history as the finest Italian art epic. As the popularity of epic poetry declined in the nineteenth century, Tasso was still ranked among the most influential poets of the Renaissance, but his work was no longer read with the regularity it had been in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Tastes in poetry, especially epic poetry, were changing toward a more satirical view of the heroic warrior code. In the twentieth century, epic poetry was abandoned almost entirely as a genre, with critics such as E. M. Tillyard arguing that epic poetry died with Milton’s Paradise Lost. While Tillyard credits Tasso with creating a masterpiece, he does not consider Gerusalemme Liberata a must-read work. Later in the twentieth century, however, a new interest developed among scholars in epic poetry. Critics such as Barbara Lewalski and David Quint argued that epic poetry needs to be reread in social and political terms. They examined these aspects of Tasso’s poem as did postcolonial theory critics, mining the poem for what Tasso has to say about the creation of empire and religious interaction between peoples. Despite
2 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
fluctuating tastes, it is clear that Gerusalemme Liberata will continue to be an influential poem and the finest example of the religious art epic.
CRITICISM Michael Rex Rex holds a PhD in English from Wayne State University and is a member of the Department of English at Cumberland University in Lebanon, Tennessee. In this essay, he explains how Tasso uses and manipulates images of femininity in traditional art epic terms. Gerusalemme Liberata has rightly been called the finest Renaissance art epic written in terms of style, action, message, and characters. Torquato Tasso successfully combines elements of the heroic epic with elements of the medieval romance. One of his major contributions to the art epic is his handling of female characters. Traditionally, there are two types of female epic characters: the beautiful prize object and the beautiful Amazon. The prize objects are usually characters who are hyper-feminine; they cannot defend themselves, they are usually the reward for some heroic act by the male characters, and they provide the impetus for the majority of the male-centered action. The Amazons, by contrast, are female warriors who refrain from anything feminine and fight, act, and generally behave like men. Numerous mutations of these types exist in epic literature, but the idea of women as the source of tension in epic literature is a dominant feature of the genre. While Tasso uses these types of female characters in his poem, like other epic poets, he subtly molds them, trying to give his female characters more credibility and human focus. Although his female characters are, in epic terms, evil, i.e. the bad guys, they are redeemed by the power of love. Tasso’s three main female characters, Clorinda, Erminia, and Armida, reshape the traditional definitions of epic femininity and recast the role of women in Renaissance society. Clorinda is, perhaps, the most traditional of Tasso’s women. She is the typical epic Amazon in that she dresses in armor, fights the enemy, and detests anything feminine. However, she is different from the Amazons in epic literature before her. However, unlike the Amazons in Boiardo’s and Ariosto’s epics, Clorinda is on the wrong side. She is a Persian princess who
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
L i b e r a t a
TASSO’S THREE MAIN FEMALE CHARACTERS, CLORINDA, ERMINIA, AND ARMIDA, RESHAPE THE TRADITIONAL DEFINITIONS OF EPIC FEMININITY AND RECAST THE ROLE OF WOMEN IN
The epics of Homer, written in the eighth century BCE , shaped the western epic literary tradition. The Robert Fagles translations of the Iliad and Odyssey were published as a box set by Penguin Classics in 1999. Virgil’s Aeneid (19 BCE ) tells the story of the Trojan prince Aeneas, his search for a new homeland, and the founding of Rome. Robert Fagles’s translation of the Aeneid was published by Penguin Classics in 2008.
Dante’s three-part medieval masterpiece, the Divine Comedy (1321), one of the most widely read and influential epic poems, features Virgil as a guide through Hell and Purgatory, while Beatrice (the poet’s childhood sweetheart) serves as a guide to Heaven. An edition of this work, with additional information, was published by Oxford University Press in 2008.
The Tale of Genji, written in the eleventh century by Murasaki Shikibu, an aristocratic woman, tells an epic story of romance, political intrigue, and court life in medieval Japan. A complete edition was published by Penguin Classics in 2002.
Le Morte d’Arthur (1485), by Thomas Malory, is a collection of the King Arthur tales. A Norton Critical edition of this work appeared in 2003.
John Milton’s epic in blank verse, Paradise Lost (1667), tells the story of the Fall of Lucifer and the Fall of Man. His description of Eden comes directly from Tasso’s poem. A Norton Critical edition of this work, edited by Gordon Teskey, appeared in 2004.
Jerusalem Besieged: From Ancient Canaan to Modern Israel (2005), by Eric H. Cline, traces the history of Jerusalem across three thousand years. In The Crusades: The Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land (2010), Thomas Asbridge presents a scholarly and well-written history, including the perspectives of both Muslims and Christians and the legacy of the Crusades.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
RENAISSANCE SOCIETY.’’
arrives in Jerusalem just before Godfrey and his Christian knights lay siege to the city. Her reputation as a warrior proceeds her, and the Saracens seem to have no problems with her taking command of the troops. This action is odd, however, given the widespread Renaissance reluctance to envision women as being any other than silent, passive, and obedient. But at the time Tasso was writing the poem, there were powerful female rulers who directed troops in battle, including Mary, Queen of Scots; the Italian-born French queen Catherine De Medici; and Elizabeth I. In his characterization of Clorinda, Tasso might be arguing for a more inclusive role for a limited class of women. However, his manipulation of Clorinda’s character does not end with making her the commander of the Saracen army. Tasso also makes her the love interest of the Christian knight Tancred, whom she has never met. This is a traditional epic/romance convention and fits with Tasso’s theme of love and wrath. As Julia Cozzarelli explains in an essay on the relationships of love, war, and madness in Gerusalemme Liberata, strong emotions are part of war—warriors can hate and admire each other at the same time, so given one warrior is a woman, and her counterpart could fall in love with her. However, Clorinda is never informed of Tancred’s love until she is dying, slain by his sword in battle. The affair is completely one sided. Tasso seems to be commenting on the inequities of European society and literary tradition that insist that a woman should accept whoever declares love for her, merely because the man has fallen in love. Tasso’s Amazon, unlike those in Boiardo and Ariosto, does not revert to a typical woman when love enters the picture. Neither does she kill herself for love, as Virgil’s Amazon, Dido, does. While Clorinda is redeemed, in a religious sense, by Tancred, she
V o l u m e
1
2 2 9
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
does not submit to his wooing and remains true to her own code of conduct. This divergence from the traditional form is also shown in the fact that Tasso makes Clorinda a Christian by birth, but a Saracen by culture. The revelation that she was born a Christian does not change Clorinda’s commitment to the Saracen cause. In fact, she seems to ignore the possible conflict and proceeds to wreak the most damage against the Christians by burning their siege engines. Tasso makes the argument that just being born into a certain race, culture, or religion does not confirm one’s membership in that group. To consider oneself within a group, one must embrace its traditions, practices, and beliefs. Because Clorinda never has embraced Christianity, she does not consider the Christians she fights as her people. Tasso’s view on this issue takes on greater meaning in light of the religious and ethnic wars that were tearing Europe apart during the Renaissance. Erminia does not fit neatly into either major category. She is a Syrian princess who is in love with Tancred, the man who destroys her family and home. She loves him because he protected her when the Christians sacked Antioch. She, too, is on the wrong side, in terms of this narrative, and she is in love with the enemy. However, Erminia is not an Amazon, nor is she only a prize object. Tasso creates a complex character in her, one who wants to help her people yet is torn between her duty and her desire. She loves Tancred, but he does not know that she exists. She tells Aladine the names of all the Christian knights as they assemble around Jerusalem, and she watches the battle between Tancred and Argantes. Although she is a Saracen and a woman, she is horrified when Tancred is wounded in the combat and longs to go and comfort him. This is the typical emotional response of a prize object female. However, Erminia realizes that she cannot venture outside the city walls as a woman; she needs a disguise. Unlike a true Amazon, Erminia borrows Clorinda’s armor instead of a man’s armor, suggesting that she wants the strength of an Amazon, but lacks the inner nature to pull off the role. She acts like a typical prize object as she flees from the Christian soldiers, who think she is Clorinda, but this role becomes highly ironic when the reader realizes that her main pursuer is Tancred. Erminia wants Tancred to pursue her, but when he does, she panics and rejects the prize object role. Erminia’s fate is unclear at the end of the poem. She is
2 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
tending Tancred’s wounds, but he is still grieving for the loss of Clorinda, and Tasso leaves their story unresolved. In his handling of this character, Tasso exposes the risks and problems faced by real women in his era when they step outside prescribed roles. By far the most interesting and creative female character in Gerusalemme Liberata is the Saracen enchantress, Armida. She is gorgeous and wicked, and she marries the hero in the end. Armida enters the story as Satan’s ploy to destroy Godfrey’s army, thus taking on the traditional female role of evil temptress in the religious literature of the period. Here too, though, Tasso does not let these traditional definitions of female literary types go unaltered. Godfrey is portrayed as the best and most chivalric knight in all of Europe, and one of the main rules of knighthood was that knights were to give aid to whomever asks for it, especially women. However, Godfrey refuses to grant Armida’s request, so Godfrey is as much to blame for what happens as Armida is. Armida enjoys the role of prize object. She uses her sexuality and her beauty to seduce over fifty knights from Godfrey’s army, including Rinaldo, Godfrey’s best fighter. Armida seduces Rinaldo and takes him to her enchanted castle out in the Atlantic Ocean. There she entertains him with sex, food, wine, and beautiful objects. Under Tasso’s pen, this prize object becomes the sexual aggressor. When Rinaldo decides to return to Godfrey’s camp, he and Armida reverse roles. He is now the prize object and she the pursuer. Although Armida has destroyed her palace and gone after Rinaldo, she still sees herself as the ultimate prize. She offers herself in marriage to any man who will bring her the prize she wants: the severed head of Rinaldo. Even after these events, the sexual freedom, the difference in religion, the contract on his life, Rinaldo still loves Armida. This love is not onesided as is the case with Tancred, Clorinda, and Erminia. Armida and Rinaldo have spent much time together. Yes, her beauty drew him to her at first, but there was no talk of marriage four hours after meeting as there is in most fairy tales and epic romances. Rinaldo and Armida discover that they truly love each other after the battle for Jerusalem is over and the Christians have won. Ironically, the least honorable female character in the poem, Armida, wins. She converts to Christianity and gets her man.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
TASSO’S LIBERATA TRANSFORMS DANTE’S THEOLOGY, FOUNDED ON LOVE, INTO A THEOLOGY OF WRATH.’’
epic and romance. Tasso is not satisfied with creating flat, static characters that can be easily defined or manipulated. Instead he plays with the traditional forms of the prize object and the Amazon to create three-dimensional female characters that live in the imagination of Tasso’s readers. Source: Michael Rex, Critical Essay on Gerusalemme Liberata, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Julia M. Cozzarelli Medieval map of Jerusalem, depicting how the city looked at the time the poem takes place (Copyright Ó Gianni Dagli Orti / Corbis)
Since so many readers find this remarkable conversion incredible, Melinda Gough addresses it in an article on Tasso’s women. Gough finds similar character transformations in Jerome and Boccaccio as a means of justifying Christian adaptations of pagan stories: If the pagan converts, then it is acceptable to bring this element into the narrative. Besides, Tasso prepares his readers for this conversion by having Armida first change from a capturer of hearts to a captive. Rinaldo has also gone through transformation from warrior to lover and back to warrior, so further changes between the two should not be all that surprising. Through her marriage, Armida becomes the successful woman in the poem, according to Renaissance standards, rather than the honorable Clorinda or the longsuffering Erminia. Tasso rewrites the social code of conduct for women with the creation of Armida. By making her the only successful woman in the poem, Tasso argues for female agency, the freedom of sexual choice, and the redeeming power of romantic love. The wild women of Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata challenge the traditional definitions of real Renaissance women and female characters in
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
In the following essay, Cozzarelli discusses Tasso’s approach to war and religion, as well as his ideas about the path to Christian beatitude. Torquato Tasso lived in an era profoundly influenced by the Catholic church and perceptions of religious difference, and his carefully selected subject of Christianity battling Islam is a conflict with a long history and reverberations that still persist today. In the first octave of the Gerusalemme Liberata, Tasso invites comparison with Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, whose knights’ religious beliefs seemed secondary to their heroic roles. While it is easy for a reader of the Furioso to forget characters’ allegiances as they follow their individual adventures, Tasso’s text makes stark distinctions. Tasso designed the Liberata as a religious epic, and he begins the work by clearly identifying the crusaders as chosen by God to fight Islam. Zatti has written that Islam in Tasso’s text actually represents Hell itself as well as the negation of Christianity (‘‘Torquato’’ 219). Nonetheless, this official and ideological position is not as concrete as it may appear. In this paper I will show how Tasso’s approach to war and religion, as well as his ideas on the proper path to Christian beatitude, both shape and are shaped by his stance on the imagination and passion. Tasso’s famous predecessor chose to make the furore of the lover and the poet the centerpiece of his work of art. Tasso, likewise, intimately binds this concept to his own epic. Through an exploration of furore’s role we can see how Tasso at once divides and joins together the followers of both religions through the
V o l u m e
1
2 3 1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
themes of love, imagination and reason, while simultaneously looking for a resolution to his own internal struggles. Furore is a term tied both to passion and to a lengthy literary history as a madness often linked to the divine. For Plato, both poetic and erotic madnesses are listed among the four types of divine fury (Works 310). Tasso recalls the idea of poetic inspiration in the opening of his epic by formally acknowledging heavenly inspiration. But Tasso’s purpose in invoking the Muse is to ask for pardon for the use of pleasing ornamentation in his text. The Renaissance scholar Cristoforo Landino praised poetry specifically for its ornamentation as a tool used to guide the reader to knowledge through contemplation of beauty. In contrast, Tasso’s invocation of the Muse is to apologize for his craft; a reaction that Lawrence Rhu interprets as ‘‘defensive,’’ almost subordinating poetry to ‘‘a merely decorative function.’’ While Tasso does indeed recognize poetry’s divine fury, his conception of its origin differs from that of Plato. Francois Graziani posits Tasso’s divine inspiration as more akin to Aristotle’s theories of imitation, ‘‘parce que sans nier l’inspiration il ne lui donne pas une origine externe mais interne’’ ‘because without denying inspiration, [Tasso] gives it an internal rather than external origin’ and as a result, ‘‘la fureur poetique se confond pour lui [ . . . ] avec le genie poetique’’ ‘he confuses poetic fury with poetic genius’ (137; English mine). Nonetheless, Tasso considers his poet to be divine. This is not, however, because of inspiration, but because, in creating, the poet acts in the manner of God Himself. In the Discorsi dell’arte poetica, Tasso writes of the excellent poet that ‘‘non per altro divino e detto, se non perche al supremo artefice nelle sue operazioni assomigliandosi, della sua divinita viene a partecipare’’ ‘he is called divine for no other reason except that by resembling the supreme a artificer in his works he comes to share in his divinity’ (Discorsi 675; English mine). The poet is compared to God, but the poet is seen as a craftsman, and art as crafted artifice.’’ Tasso’s work reflects a shift in the nature of furore over time. For Plato, inspiration and madness were the link between the gods and humanity. Landino and other Renaissance humanists portrayed the poet as divinely inspired with prophetic gifts and also the natural gift of ingegno. Landino’s contemporary, Marsilio Ficino, brought the fury of Plato down from the divine to the earthly by focusing on melancholy and the potential for madness in his De vita libri tres. In that text, the
2 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
creative individual, susceptible to melancholy, is subject to furor and its divinely inspired creation, but also, more critically, to risks to the mind and body. Tasso’s sense of furore’s interiority binds it to Ficino’s madness and grounds poetic ingegno, with implications both to Tasso’s work and his life. The Liberata opens with God’s search for a champion to join the Christian armies together in order to take Jerusalem. Through this, Tasso both recalls and blatantly challenges his predecessor’s choice of Orlando in the role of God’s champion. Ariosto’s epic was centered on its protagonist’s mad fury, a furore emanating from his involvement in love’s passion. But Tasso’s God deliberately rejects the lovesick knight Tancredi for the role, choosing Goffredo instead. This decision is illuminated in Tasso’s Allegoria dei poema, published in 1581. In the Allegoria, Tasso lists the internal impediments to human beings in their struggle towards civic felicity (represented by Jerusalem) and Christian beatitude. He places emotions that are ungoverned by reason (especially sensual love and anger) in a primary, prominent position as obstacles on the path. In the allegory, Goffredo ‘‘e in vece d’intelletto’’ ‘stands for the intellect,’ and the knights Rinaldo and Tancredi are ‘‘in luogo delle altre potenze deli’animo’’ ‘for the other faculties of the soul’ (vii–viii; 470), representing, respectively, excessive wrath and lustful desire. Tasso’s dialogue, the Messaggero, underscores the role of furore and the imagination in Tasso’s thought. Tasso wrote the first version of this text, completed in 1580, while imprisoned in the hospital of Sant’ Anna and in the throes of battling isolation, depression and mental illness. In one passage, the visiting Spirit explain to Tasso’s character how the soul can be guided either toward good or bad, reminiscent of the Platonic flight of the soul. Human beings are easily led astray, for ‘‘Cio, che e soggetto a passione, e corruttibile’’ ‘that which is subject to the passions is corruptible’ (89). God realizes that, in humans, he must battle the ‘‘appetito del senso’’ ‘sense appetite,’ and so he assigns a guide to the ‘‘volonta’’ ‘will,’ and to be fair, another to guide the ‘‘parte sensuale’’ ‘sensual part.’ This idea echoes the Allegoria, where the passions are presented as distracting from the movement of human reason and will towards God. In the Messaggiero the love of God plays a central role in assisting the human struggle to rise to Heaven. The Liberata, however, is not focused on questions
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
of divine love. Instead, it is the earthly love among its warriors and the battle itself that are its focus. But this passage in the Messaggero mirrors the Liberata in another, more critical way, for it ties together passion, creation, poetry and God by repeatedly using the terminology of war. And in both texts, it is the soul that is at stake in the battle, and it is love’s dangerous excess in the human realm that is emphasized as most perilous. The heart of the Liberata’s war of religion, and love’s place within it, falls squarely on the tragic relationship between Tancredi and Clorinda, who battles fiercely to defend Islam and Jerusalem but who converts to Christianity while dying. Tancredi slays his beloved Clorinda because he fails to recognize her. Tasso’s language highlights fierce emotion—especially anger— throughout the description of their extended duel. The couple, like two bulls ‘‘gelosi e d’ira ardenti’’ ‘jealous and inflamed with love’ (XII.53), embraces in a struggle with overt erotic overtones, but anger’s furore has taken the place of love, and their ‘‘nodi tenaci’’ ‘clinging embraces’ are ‘‘di fer nemico e non d’amante’’ ‘of a fierce enemy, not a lover’ (XII.57.3–4). And ultimately, it is madness that enables the exhausted pair to fight on. ‘‘Oh fera pugna, / u’ l’arte in bando, u’ gia la forza e morta, / ove in vece, d’entrambi il furor pugna!’’ ‘Ah savage struggle! where skill is banished, where strength is dead, where in their place the madness of each is waging the fight!’ (XII.62.2–4). Through this duel, love has been removed from war and replaced by anger—but the furor of anger is also akin to that of love, as the knots of their embrace encompass both mortal enemies and lovers. Tancredi’s turbulent passions had helped to conceal Clorinda’s identity from him, calling attention to the inverse relationship between fury and clarity of vision in this passage. In intertwining the two passions here, Tasso is also demonstrating that both earthly love and unrestrained anger lead to blindness. In the Apologia Tasso makes the connection between anger and blindness outright. He defines the anger of Homer’s Achilles in battle as ‘‘una passione potentissima deli’anima nostra, che accieca la ragione’’ ‘a very potent passion of our soul that blinds reason’ (29; English mine). Fury permeates the Liberata, as do its linguistic variants. Anger is fundamental to the characters arrayed against the crusaders, and is these warriors and leaders the type that dominates is furore’s unrestrained rage. Aquinas divided anger into three types: fel (wrath—anger that is quickly aroused), mania (ill-will—enduring anger) and furor, stating that furor ‘‘utrumque importet, et velocitatem ad
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
irascendum et firmitatem propositi ad puniendum’’ ‘may imply both quickness to anger and a firm intention to obtain revenge’ (Summa la2ae. 46.8). Tasso’s interchangeable use of furore and many other terms to express anger in his characters blurs the distinctions between these words. More importantly, it also serves to reposition furore much more closely to human madness and emotion than to divinity. Furore and its variants are also tied to the crusaders’ enemies from the very first canto, when Aladino, king of Jerusalem, is metaphorically described as a lion with ‘‘innato suo furor’’ ‘inborn fury’ (85.8), and four octaves later, as filled with ‘‘rabbia insana’’ ‘insane fury’ (89.1) when he is made aware of the crusaders’ plans. The defining moment of Tasso’s association between anger’s fury and the pagan army is also the moment in which the war begins. When Argante, sent to Goffredo as an ambassador from Egypt to offer peace, suffers a hostile reception from the crusaders, he forms a pouch to symbolically represent the alternatives open to them, asking in an ominous voice for a choice between peace and war. When the crusaders unhesitatingly shout for war, Argante dramatically undoes the pouch, as if releasing ‘‘il Furor pazzo e la Discordia fera’’ ‘insane rage and discord fierce’ (II.91.2) Argante’s ‘‘Furor’’ with a capital letter evokes both passion and the infernal Furies themselves, two of whom are also mentioned in this octave. Fury Aletto (whose name resonates with ‘‘allettare,’’ meaning to allure or entice) is a female from the depths of earth, and the mirror image of the Liberata’s heavenly messengers sent from God. In Dante’s Inferno the Furies’ appearance horrified and distracted the pilgrim from Virgil’s words (IX.34–39), and here, too, Aletto inspires destruction among human beings with her missives, assisting in the battle against the crusaders both directly and indirectly. Argante is compared directly with Aletto in VI.33.5 (‘‘In sembianza d’Aletto’’ ‘In the likeness of Alecto’), and in battle he is tied to her by name and through the term furore itself, ‘‘non percio nel disdegnoso petto / [ . . . ] vien l’ardire o ’l furor manco, / benche suo foco in lui non spiri Aletto’’ ‘not for that does the heat or the fury grow less in [his] scornful breast [ . . . ], though Alecto breathe no more her fire into him’ (IX.67.1–4). In this passage, Tasso uses language that accentuates Argante’s belligerent actions; but at the same time, the author portrays the crusaders as the aggressors who called for war, implying an underlying commonality between the two sides. Similarly, Argante’s symbolic unleashing of fury
V o l u m e
1
2 3 3
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
is echoed throughout the text by repetitive references to furore in many other characters. Although in the Liberata, the majority of these references are to the pagan forces, furore is a characteristic not only of the non-Christian soul, but also of the Christian soul that is on the wrong path. This is clear in the duel between Clorinda and Tancredi, and afterwards when Tancredi laments that he must now wander the earth, driven to madness— a clear reference to Ariosto’s Orlando. But Tasso’s use of the word, ‘‘errante,’’ reminds us that this is a temporary state, for Tancredi will ultimately be brought under Goffredo’s unifying force to assist in the conquering of Jerusalem. In the Liberata, the fury of the poet’s divine inspiration has been moved to the background and the fury of the warrior is front and center. But the confusion between the sacred and the profane in the battle of the lover-enemies (and throughout the Liberata in less obvious positions) underlines the influence of furore over what Tasso sees as correctly guided reason. The confusion of the mind due to the effects of the passions on the imagination is of great importance to Tasso, and not only in the Liberata. In the Messaggiero Tasso is deeply concerned with the question of how to distinguish the real from the imaginary, and the false from the true, with a mistrust of the imagination pervading his arguments. Tasso maintains a Ficinian awareness of the connection between furore’s madness and causes that are altogether bodily and not divine. He refers specifically to divine fury bluffing the judgment of the mind in the same manner as drunkenness or love. Torquato also incorporates Dante’s Purgatorio XVII (verses 13 and 16) in expressing his concerns: ... Nor did Dante show himself any less compelled by fantasy, / when [ . . . ] he broke into this exclamation: / O imagination, that do sometimes so snatch us / who moves you if the sense affords you naught? / And certainly he himself cannot deny that one enters into / some alienation of the mind, which, whether sickness from / madness, [ . . . ] or divine fury, like those who by Bacchus or / Love are taken, is such that it can no less represent true / things as false, like that which dreams do; in fact it seems it is /more able to do so, because in sleep only the senses are / restrained, whereas in furore the mind is impeded [ . . . ]
2 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
Through the Messaggiero we see that Tasso does not place the processes of the imagination into an ethical hierarchy based upon their source. He doesn’t speak of the images of divine inspiration as being superior to other types of image-making, nor does he dwell upon the positive powers of utilizing such inspiration. Plato had said that through furore, although it is an ambivalent force, we can ascend to God. Dante used love and divine inspiration to draw human beings closer to God. Ironically, Tasso cites Dante in order to show how the images in the mind of one subject to divine fury are even less trustworthy than those in the mind of a sleeper. The basis for this distinction is the telling comment that in sleep, ‘‘solo i sentimenti sono legati’’ ‘only the senses are restrained’ but ‘‘nel furore la mente e impedita’’ ‘in furore the mind is impeded’ (63). Furords madness—whether of the poet or the impassioned warrior—has one and the same result; the blindness of the mind and of reason, and the straying from the true path to God. In the Liberata Tasso is officially opposed to Islam (and all other non-Christian religions) and ideologically his enemies are clear. It has been observed, however, that Tasso demonstrates an underlying empathy for some of the individuals on the opposing side. This conflict makes sense given his stance toward furore. For Tasso, furore is many things. It is characteristic of the errant Christian and the enemy of the Christian hero; the emblem of the battle for the soul; and also Tasso’s inner enemy. Tasso was tied to furore not only because of the traditional connection between divinity and poetry, but also because of his literal madness. But Tasso has a solution to the chaos of furore, and what he offers is reason’s control. The pagans, like the errant Christians, lack the proper guidance of the will and intellect, for they have no focused head; and in addition, the pagan god is repeatedly referred to as deaf to their prayers. As furore can blind and deafen, Tasso portrays the god chosen by the people defending Jerusalem as without hearing. But Tasso’s Christian god is in communication with his armies, and he has supplied them with a unifying head in the figure of Goffredo. And Goffredo, described as free from the madness of passion, is also able to control the passions in his warriors and to guide them correctly. The Christian knight Rinaldo is a key example of Goffredo’s guidance. In the Allegoria, Tasso presents Rinaldo as representative of the ‘‘irascible
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
faculty,’’ or righteous wrath. It is reason’s guidance that humbles Rinaldo and ultimately distinguishes his ira from the uncontrolled furore exhibited by the pagan warriors and errant Christians. But if the irascible faculty is not properly harnessed, ‘‘si lascia trasportare dal suo proprio impeto’’ it ‘allows itself to be carried away by its own violence’ (xii; 473), blurring any distinction between the ira of the crusader and the furore of the enemy. Rinaldo himself was temporarily alienated from the crusader’s camp due to an excess of wrath. In the Allegoria, Tasso compares the violent, warlike passion Rinaldo represents to a watchdog that may work for its master. This analogy echoes Dante, whose wrathful sinners are called ‘‘cani’’ ‘dogs’ in Inferno VIII (42). Virgil’s words in turn echo Aquinas, who states that each type of animal is inclined to a particular emotion, including the ‘‘canis ad iram’’ ‘dog to anger’ (1a2ae.46.5). Tasso reiterates this tendency toward anger by warning that, if left unchecked, the watchdog of righteous anger is capable of attacking the charges it is intended to protect. In the Allegoria the irascible is presented not only as an aid to the intellect, but also as the faculty that can keep the concupiscent faculty in check. (14) This concept is confirmed by the repeated conquering of love’s passion as a prerequisite for the victory of the Christian knights. Rinaldo’s relationship with his lover Armida personifies the intimate ties between love and anger in the Liberata itself. Early in the text, Rinaldo is described in this way: ‘‘se ‘I miri fulminar ne l’arme avolto, / Marte lo stimi; Amor, se scorpe il volto’’ ‘If you see him glittering all clad in armor you think him Mars; but Love, if he discover his face’ (I.58.7–8). But Rinaldo’s role is re-defined when Carlo and Ubaldo find him with Armida. Rinaldo, the lover, is forced to confront his weakened reflection. The result is his rejection of Armida’s love, for ‘‘die vergogna a sdegno loco,/ sdegno guerrier de la ragion feroce’’ ‘shame gave way to anger—anger, fierce warrior of the reason’ (XVI.34, 3–6). Rinaldo is portrayed as coming back to himself; his vision is restored and he re-aligns his passions in their proper hierarchy. Armida also changes after she is abandoned by Rinaldo. Within her, ‘‘cede la vergogna a l’ira’’ ‘her sense of shame gives way to wrath’ (XVI.72.8), mirroring Rinaldo’s change earlier. But Armida’s anger is uncontrolled, driving her to become wild and dangerous. She descends like Ariosto’s Orlando into madness, ‘‘Cosi in voci interrotte irata
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
freme / [ . . . ] / mostrando ben quanto ha furor raccolto’’ ‘So wrathfully she rages in broken syllables, [ . . . ] showing plain how madness has engulfed her’ (XVI.67.5–7). Her rage, unbridled by reason, is counterbalanced by Rinaldo’s properly focused anger. Rinaldo’s guided wrath now distinguishes him from the enemy engulfed in fury. And ultimately, it is Rinaldo’s renunciation of his love that allows him to overcome the enchanted wood and lead the crusaders to victory. Rinaldo and Armida recall the duel of love and wrath embodied by Tancredi and Clorinda. Their last meeting takes place in the same canto in which the lovers Gildippe and Odoardo are slain. Gildippe (called ‘‘Amor’’) had been struck down by the enemy Solimano ‘‘di furor piu che mai pieno’’ ‘filled with fury more than ever’ (XX.96), and Odoardo’s death was hastened by his love and concern for her, immobilizing him in a tug-of-war between ‘‘Ira e pietade’’ ‘anger and pity’ (XX.97.1). Armida and Rinaldo’s relationship is also characterized by the conflict between rage and love. But now their roles have been reversed, and she is enslaved by her emotions. The role of controlled guidance in the Liberata underscores that in Tasso’s thought, the passion of human love in particular must be severely restricted if not renounced altogether. But even as earthly love is banished from the Liberata, wrath remains. Tasso’s Liberata transforms Dante’s theology, founded on love, into a theology of wrath. Anger and its form are what determine the individual’s movement towards the divine. Anger is also the quality shared in differing degrees by Christian and Muslim alike, making the two sides at heart the same. Wrath takes the place of the other passions in the war over the soul, assisting reason in their renunciation; and ultimately even repressing itself. This theology of anger reflects the ever-present exercise of control over human nature that saturates Tasso’s text. The significance of Goffredo’s control in the Liberata extends beyond the boundaries of the text and into Tasso’s own life. Tasso’s world is a maze of perilous illusions and dangerous temptations, lying in wait to capture the poor soul who strives to rise to heaven. In the Messaggiero, Tasso fears his imagination is deceiving him through dream. We have seen in the Liberata that passion’s furore has an effect similar to sleep, causing blindness and deafness of the intellect. Human beings face incredible obstacles
V o l u m e
1
2 3 5
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
in the journey to Heaven, and at the same time, they are placed well below the divine, on an earth judged as squalid and inferior in both the Liberata and the Messaggiero. Tasso’s texts may suggest his attempt to escape the paradox of heavenly and earthly separation. The hierarchical ranking of both warriors and human faculties in the Liberata reflects an underlying message about the need for a strict ordering not only of the poem and the characters within, but of life itself. The Messaggiero reflects this need by presenting an extended, detailed, and strict hierarchy of divine and infernal beings. In Tasso’s Allegoria, ‘‘civic felicity’’ implies political happiness, but Tasso’s city is also the city of the mind, and Tasso is setting out a path to this internal city and beyond in order to find relief from his own mental sufferings. The allegory illustrates that the rigid structure Tasso imposed on his characters and on the imagination to create his poetry also extended to his own life. Tasso’s own visions were under constant scrutiny, as he questioned his trust in his own imagination and the corruption of his judgment. Through his work, Tasso makes explicit his renunciation of Epicurianism; apparitions, deceptions, and the delusions of the fantastic are intended to lure humankind away from the pursuit of true virtue. Such false images are double-edged; they frighten and also lure one from the correct path with the promise of earthly pleasure. Harmony, structure, correlations with truth; the distinctions between dream and reality, based on order, illustrate Tasso’s theological solution. It lies in the Liberata, in the structure of the epic poem itself, and within it the relationship between love, passion’s furore and the hero. For Tasso, the key to the escape from the labyrinth of the self lies in the creations of the imagination, in the form of a work of art. Poetic creation connects the poet to God. Poetry gives order to chaos, structures the imagination and makes it valid— and it makes the images of the imagination take on a physical, visual form in the shape of the poetic text—an undeniable, objective reality. Tasso also likens the poet to a doctor, sweetening his poem’s bitter lessons like medicine in order to help save himself and the reader; a metaphor reiterated at the beginning of the Liberata. Poetry harnesses and guides the flight of the imagination, and saves us from the dangers of an unbridled fantasy that transgresses all boundaries. Tasso’s extensive writings on the rules of poetry, and their
2 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
underlying sense of divine inspiration now seen as laborious human ingenuity, illustrate his effort to control the uncontrollable. Tasso’s theories embody the balancing act between utilizing the positive powers of the creative imagination and becoming a victim to its fury. He was aware on some level of the paradox in the use of a creation of the imagination to lead us away from imagination’s deceptions. Tasso, after all, was the author who wrote (in the duel between Tancredi and Clorinda) ‘‘toglie l’ombra e ’l furor l’uso de l’arte’’ ‘darkness and fury take away the use of art’ (XII.55.4). There is no conclusive, satisfying resolution to this conflict, because for Tasso the imagination remains an ambivalent faculty of the soul, close to madness and deception. In Tasso’s work, fury is tied to the movement away from heaven, and both hero and poet are susceptible to it. Furore is a passion that defines the enemy and the errant Christian. It is represented by Hell’s Furies, and also the overwhelming emotions that blind the characters on both sides to divine truth. Tasso makes it clear that love, a kind of madness, has no place in war, and even war’s defining characteristic— anger—must be strictly controlled. In writing this epic of theology, and in emphasizing the role of the poet as theologian, Tasso aligns himself with the hero, who must purge his passions and lead by example. The Liberata concludes with Goffredo hanging up his arms and praying, a detail that is central in Tasso’s solution to the danger of the furore of imagination and the passions. In the Allegoria, Tasso writes that Goffredo’s act represents the final goal of the intellect, which is to ‘‘riposarsi [ . . . ] nelle contemplazioni de’ beni dell’altra vita’’ ‘rest itself [ . . . ] in contemplation of the goods of that other life’ (xiv; 474). In the same text, Tasso states that the noblest part of human being is the mind. To contemplate purely with the intellect, he writes, to participate with divinity, we must transcend the human and strive to become angelic. In the Liberata, heroes such as Tancredi and Clorinda represent the war of the passions in the human soul. Tasso’s desired solution was to make our minds ascend to God; but it would seem that to reach the lofty heights of heaven, we must, ironically, reject the very essence of our nature. But this is a tragic paradox for Tasso’s hero. It is heroic because it demands a total commitment of oneself—soul, mind, body—to God. And yet in the Liberata there is only one
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
way in which a human being can take up wings and move to the divine—and it is not the human body, but the ‘‘bella anima sciolta’’ ‘lovely liberated soul’ that, after death, spreads its wings to heaven (XII.71.3). This conflict of the passions and of life itself can only end with death. Tasso states of the hero that ‘‘gli obblighi, che s’hanno per l’onore, son maggiori di quelli, che si hanno per la vita’’ ‘the obligations that they have to honor are greater than those they have to life’ (Apologia 14; English mine). In Tasso’s Christian heroic epic, the hero must honor God, and that duty overrides the hero’s obligation to life itself. Tasso fears the illusions of the mind, and his efforts to control the furies of passion and poetic activity exemplify his desire to remove both the poet and the hero from the human world. The Liberata personifies Tasso’s belief in such control, while his constant revisions show the danger of control’s excesses. Tasso was a man destroyed by his own tortured fears and perceived failures, even as he sought resolution. Albert Ascoli has noted that, for Tasso, death provides the means to escape the plurality of life and the self (178). As Tasso showed through Clorinda, death is a surrender, of life and especially of being human, and in death Clorinda’s face is peaceful, free of the war of the passions. Tasso’s attempts to overcome the excesses of furore, a force at work in all human beings, often blurs the differences between the opposing sides in his epic. His underlying theology appears instead to be a renunciation of life itself in hopes of another, better world. But even this thought cannot bring him peace, for beneath it all is Tasso’s fear that even as he separates heaven from earth, and rejects earth’s illusions, heaven itself is an illusion: like the Spirit of the Messaggiero, it may also be a product of the mind that will vanish abruptly into the air. Source: Julia M. Cozzarelli, ‘‘Torquato Tasso and the Furore of Love, War, and Madness,’’ in Italica, Vol. 84, No. 2 3, Summer Fall 2007, pp. 173 86.
V. Stanley Benfell In the following essay, Benfell discusses Tasso’s attitude towards narrative authority and its relationship to the divine. He suggests that Tasso tried to confuse authorship of the epic to gain a greater authority in his telling of the conquest of Jerusalem. Beginning with the fifteenth-century Neoplatonists, Renaissance poets and critics often
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
HISTORICAL TRUTH IS IMPORTANT NOT FOR ITS OWN SAKE BUT RATHER BECAUSE OF THE AUTHORITATIVE WEIGHT THAT IT CARRIES; TRUTH IS LESS IMPORTANT THAN VERISIMILITUDE.’’
defended poetry by drawing attention to the parallels between God’s creation of the world and the poet’s act of creation. Philip Sidney’s assertion that the poet’s creative powers surpass Nature’s, so that the poet delivers a golden world in place of Nature’s brazen one, is only the best known of such attempts to exalt the creative powers of the poetic maker. Robert Durling has argued that Ludovico Ariosto consistently makes such claims in the Orlando Furioso (1532) through his insistence that he controls the poem’s seemingly unwieldy multiple plots. But it is the later epic poet Torquato Tasso who, in his Discourses on the Heroic Poem (Discorsi del poema eroico), much more clearly states the Neoplatonic idea: the truly excellent poet ‘‘is called divine for no other reason than that as he resembles the supreme Artificer in his workings, he comes to participate in his divinity.’’ And indeed, throughout his Gerusalemme Liberata (1581) Tasso seeks to equate God and poet, though in a somewhat different fashion and for different purposes than his Neoplatonic assertion of divine creativity might lead us to expect. Rather than claiming a divine status as the creator of an alternate reality, Tasso endeavors to confuse his own identity as creator of the epic with that of the character of God within the poem. Tasso, in other words, authors a poem that recounts how God ‘‘authored’’ the events of the first crusade, fostering a deliberate confusion over who, in fact, ‘‘writes’’ or ‘‘authors’’ the events recounted in his epic. In this article, I will explore the attitudes of both Ariosto and Tasso toward narrative authority and its relationship to the divine, and I will suggest that Tasso seeks to confuse the issue of authorship in an effort to gain a greater authority for his account of the conquest of Jerusalem. Primary among Tasso’s objections to the Orlando Furioso, as stated in his early Discourses on the Art of Poetry (Discorsi dell’arte poetica), was the
V o l u m e
1
2 3 7
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
poem’s tendency toward multiplicity in plot, character, and—ultimately—meaning. Tasso argued that the confusion of plots and the moral complexity of Ariosto’s central characters (and of the title character in particular) undermined the very purpose of epicpoetry,whichhedefinedinrhetorical terms.The epic poet must seek for exemplary characters and a unity of effect. Ariosto’s poem was not only flawed but dangerous because its confusing multiplicity threatened to destroy the possibility of meaning altogether. The Orlando Furioso, to put it simply, lacked authority, a fact that Ariosto seemed to flaunt in the poem’s lunar episode, where Saint John himself appears to undercut all claims a poet makes to truth. I wish now to turn to that episode, where the question of poetic authority, of the poet’s relationship to truth and to the divine Logos, is at issue. Ariosto’s lunar episode has received a substantial amount of critical attention. Critics have often suggested that the ‘‘unmeaning’’ that ostensibly characterizes this scene also characterizes the entire poem. The voyage to the moon certainly occupies a key moment in the Furioso’s plot; Astolfo’s retrieval of Orlando’s (and his own) lost wits leads to the eventual triumph of the Christian forces and the unification of the dispersed Christian knights as Ariosto begins to subdue his wandering romance narrative into that of a unified epic. The structure of the episode, which constitutes an abbreviated and parodic reenactment of Dante’s journey, also leads us to expect some form of transcendent illumination. When we voyage to the moon with Astolfo, however, and look for a unifying explanation of the confusing diversity of earthly reality, we simply find an equally confusing diversity that mirrors the earth’s. The moon, that is, does not provide a unifying explanation that breaks out of the confines of the earth’s hermeneutic circle; rather, it points back to the earth, simply enlarging the circle. Poised above all earthly reality, the moon presents Astolfo with an enormous Lost and Found that testifies to the vanity and instability of all humanity. In addition to the lost wits that Astolfo recovers, Saint John shows him ‘‘infiniti prieghi e voti . . . / che da noi peccatori a Dio si fanno’’ [infinite prayers and vows made to God by us sinners] (34.74.7–8); he sees ‘‘l’inutil tempo che si perde’’ [the useless time lost] (34.75.2), ‘‘vani disegni’’ [vain plans] and ‘‘i vani desideri’’ [vain desires] (34.75.4–5). But here on the moon we fail to see any possibility of redemption for this folly. In fact, the only redemption this episode seems to offer comes
2 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
from poets, who rescue the names of their patrons from the ravages of time. In an allegory of death and fame that derives from Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, Astolfo witnesses the spinning out of various threads, each representing the fate of an individual life, the most glorious of which is for Ariosto’s patron, Ippolito d’Este. The thread is then cut, and the nameplate representing the fame of that life is tossed into the river Lethe, where it is doomed to oblivion. Only the rare name is rescued by swans, who represent true poets (‘‘poeti che non sian del nome indegni’’ [poets who are not unworthy of the name], 35.23.2) and who are able to save the name: ‘‘gli uomini degni da’ poeti / son tolti da l’oblio, piu che morte empio’’ [worthy men are taken from oblivion—crueller than death—by poets] (35.22.3–4). After thus distinguishing between the true poets and flatterers and sycophants, and claiming that poets confer fame on the worthy, Saint John praises poets by exalting not only their power to preserve the names of the heroic but also to change the truth in order to fabricate, if necessary, a good name for their patrons. The poet’s great talent is to create a story more persuasive than historical truth itself, and Saint John justifies this opinion by telling Astolfo that the great poets of the past all changed the truth to suit those who paid their bills. Homer and Virgil conferred fame by distorting history: Aeneas was not, in reality, ‘‘pietoso,’’ Achilles not ‘‘forte.’’ In fact, Nero could have left a better reputation than Augustus, only he did not know enough to be kind to poets. ‘‘E se tu vuoi che ’l ver non ti sia ascoso, / tutta al contrario l’istoria converti’’ [And if you want the truth not to be hidden from you, change the entire story to its opposite] (35.37.5–6), Saint John tells Astolfo: the Greeks lost the Trojan war and Penelope, rather than Helen, was a whore. Poets, Saint John tells us, change the truth so as better to praise their patrons; they are, to put it bluntly, liars. Thus, in the process of praising the power of poets, he seems to equate them with the ‘‘adulatori,’’ or sycophants, that he earlier disparaged. The Evangelist does more than undermine the historical truth of the epic tradition. He even implicates his own gospel in his discussion of poetry: ... Do not marvel if this makes me bitter and if I speak about it at length. I like writers and am doing my duty; for in your world I was a writer too. And I, above all others, acquired some thing which neither time nor death can take from me: and it suited Christ, whom I praised,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
to give me the reward of great good fortune. (35.28.5 29.4)
Saint John himself, author of the fourth Gospel, who announces Christ as the ‘‘Verbo incarnato’’ [Word Incarnate] (35.4.8), is a writer like Homer and Virgil, and his gospel, it seems, a text like the Aeneid. Ariosto, in other words, turns the truth of the gospel on its head; rather than the gospel being the product of the Logos, the Logos turns out to be the product of the gospel and its writer, and we must invert John’s story, too, to get at the truth. We may well ask ourselves, however, if we can take Saint John’s words themselves at face value, or if this undercutting of the poetic tradition is not itself undercut. Furthermore, we should recall that John’s gospel and the Aeneid, together with many other scriptural and poetic texts, are self-conscious about their status as limited, written artifacts created by fallible human beings. Indeed, Dante’s Commedia, Ariosto’s principal subtext here, and many scriptural texts are explicit about the fact that their human authorship renders their truth value problematic. The question of human authorship and how far it influenced the composition of the Bible were important issues for theologians from the Church fathers through the Scholastics and the Christian humanists. For the biblical authors John and Paul, however, there is an authority that guarantees the truth of the scriptural words written by fallible humans: the Holy Spirit, the ‘‘Spirit of Truth’’ (Spiritus veritatis). Ariosto’s Saint John offers no such verification, only the advice to reverse the stories we have heard and an unqualified assertion of the transforming power of the poetic word. Where Ariosto ultimately comes down on the issue of scriptural truth is deeply uncertain, but how he views the power and authority of the words of great poets is clear. Homer, Virgil, and Saint John may (or may not) be liars; nevertheless, all of them have determined through their writings how later readers have viewed the historical world. Whether their writings accurately mimic history or reverse it, they are, in a social sense, constitutive of truth; they create it. Although Ariosto may undermine the epic poet’s claim to historical truth, he insists on the poet’s ability to construct authoritative narratives. Ultimately, gospel truth is supported only by a text and its writer; its credibility is a tribute to the writer as much as to the subject. The result is that Ariosto does not wholly undermine poetic authority; rather, he suggests that it derives uniquely from the poet himself.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
Tasso strongly objected to this passage in the Furioso, and his attempt to avoid what he saw as Ariosto’s pitfalls led him to write a very different poem, one in which he could provide the kind of extratextual authority that Ariosto’s Saint John boldly denied possessing. We can gain some insight into Tasso’s reactions to Ariosto by turning to his Discourses on the Art of Poetry. It is now widely accepted that this early work is central to understanding the Gerusalemme Liberata, more important than Tasso’s later and better known Discourses on the Heroic Poem. Indeed, these discourses should not be viewed as disinterested attempts to formulate a poetics. As Daniel Javitch has shown, sixteenth-century critical discourse was frequently motivated by an attempt to justify the author’s own poetic practice, and Tasso’s critical writings exemplify this self-authorizing impulse. In these early Discourses Tasso initially confronts the legacy of Ariosto’s wildly successful Orlando Furioso; Tasso must respond both to Ariosto’s success and to the failure of Gian Giorgio Trissino’s Italia Liberata dai Gotti (1547), an epic that attempted to follow a rigid Aristotelianism. He thus endeavors to make a place for many of the appealing and popular features of Ariosto’s poem while carefully distinguishing his own conception of epic from that of Trissino on the one hand and that of Ariosto on the other. Much of these Discourses defend Tasso’s notion of poetic unity, which allows for multiple subplots, but only within an overarching plot that unites all of the narratives. His insistence on unity of plot accords with sixteenth-century Aristotelianism, which was based on a fusion of the Poetics and other ancient sources, most notably Horace. This Aristotelianism often used ancient authors to construct much more original theories of poetry than is commonly acknowledged. Tasso’s objections to Ariosto are a case in point; his criticism of the Orlando Furioso’s digressive plot and his insistence on the necessity of a unified narrative do not simply reflect a deference to ancient authors. His poetic theory stems from deeply considered moral and ideological beliefs. He argues above all that the poet must constantly look to the effects that a poem produces on its readers, and he proposes the creation of a rhetorically effective poem. In this passage from the first of the Discourses, for example, Tasso argues that only a unified plot will avoid the confusion and indeterminacy that stem from the wanderings of a romance narrative:
V o l u m e
1
2 3 9
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
If the plot is single, the end [il fine] will be single; if there are many and diverse plots, there will be many and diverse ends; but how much better off is he who seeks only one end than he who sets himself several ends, since from diversity of ends is born distraction in the mind and a hindrance to work, so much the better will be the imitator of a single action than the imitator of many. I add that from the multiplicity of actions is born indeterminacy; and this may multiply indefinitely unless art prescribes or circumscribes some limit. (1:28)
Like many sixteenth-century commentators, Tasso objected to the Orlando Furioso because it seemed to support so many contradictory meanings. Tasso accentuates the importance of unity of plot in order to ensure unity of meaning. The poetic theory that Tasso expounds in the early Discourses thus requires unity in order to achieve rhetorical effectiveness, a poetic goal that necessitates more than unity alone (which, after all, Trissino’s poem possessed); the epic must create a believable and moving narrative so that it can affect its reader properly. Tasso underscores the importance of the reader’s credence in the poetic narrative by emphasizing the necessity of verisimilitude, a rhetorical concept that refers to the believability of the narrative. When discussing the necessity of choosing a historical subject, for example, Tasso writes that the poet must above all attempt to persuade his readers that they are actually witnessing the events the poet narrates: ‘‘For this reason, since the poet must with the semblance of truth deceive his readers [con la sembianza della verita ingannare i lettori], and not only persuade them that the things narrated by him are true, but place them before their senses in such a way that they believe not that they read them but that they are present and see and hear them, it is necessary to win in their souls this opinion of veracity, which can easily be done with the authority of history’’ (1:5; emphasis mine). The sustained rhetorical effect that Tasso envisages for the epic poem can only be brought about if the readers are fully engaged in the narrative, and it seems that, for Tasso, engagement requires belief. If a poet chooses an unhistorical subject, for instance, readers will reject it simply because they deem it false, ‘‘and esteeming it false [falsi stimandoli], they do not consent to be so easily moved now to wrath, now to terror, now to pity; to be now made happy, now saddened, now held in suspense, now entranced; and in brief they do not attend with that expectation and with that delight the succession of events, as they would
2 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
if these same events, in full or in part, they esteemed to be true [veri stimassero]’’ (1:5; emphasis mine). The issue, in other words, is authority. Historical truth is important not for its own sake but rather because of the authoritative weight that it carries; truth is less important than verisimilitude. If readers accept a subject as historical, they will believe the poet’s narrative even if he makes substantive alterations to the received historical account. And indeed, in the second of these discourses, Tasso argues that poets must change their historical subject so as to make it more ‘‘fitting’’ for poetry; they should portray things ‘‘not as they happened, but in the way that they should have happened’’ [non come sono state, ma in quella guisa che dovrebbono essere state] (1:20). They must take care, however, lest they change their subject too broadly; a poet who narrates, for instance, that Rome was conquered by Carthage takes excessive liberty. This kind of change undermines the very authority that the epic poet, for Tasso, must possess. He proceeds to argue that ‘‘the audacity of Homer would have been similar, if it were true what some falsely say, che i Greci rotti e che Troia vittrice, / e che Penelopea fu meretrice [Greece was routed, and that Troy was victorious and Penelope a whore]. As this takes away from poetry that authority that comes to it from history’’ (1:21). The maintenance of poetic authority requires, as we have seen, an extratextual verification for Tasso, and the claim that Homer completely alters the facts of history undermines the essential authority that an epic demands. The passage that Tasso cites, calling into question the historical reliability of the Homeric narrative, comes, of course, from the lunar episode of the Orlando Furioso. Saint John’s praise of poets, we may recall, undermines any possibility of authority from outside the text. He suggests that great poets are selfauthorizing, creating authoritative narratives that are accepted as true. Tasso is looking for an external authority, however, and Ariosto’s Saint John seems to undermine that possibility altogether. Since Tasso is searching for authority rather than truth, he feels justified in frequently altering his historical sources, the most important of which is William of Tyre’s A History of Deeds Done beyond the Sea (Historia rerum in partibus transmarinis gestarum), in order to unify the plot or to add to its epic grandeur. He thus reshapes William’s account of the First Crusade, transposing events from earlier in the crusade (particularly
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
from the siege of Antioch) onto the siege of Jerusalem, rearranging chronology, and inventing both plots and characters in order to create an epic similar to the Iliad or the Aeneid. Tasso made these changes, it seems, with the aim of making the meandering, often disjointed events of the crusade, with its all too brief narrative of the siege of Jerusalem, into a unified epic plot. He extended, for example, the length of the crusade from three to seven years. In his Judgment on the Author’s Jerusalem (Giudizio sovra la sua Gerusalemme), he noted: ‘‘I wanted to increase the fatigues and the dangers of the enterprise, with that art demonstrated by Plutarch, which art is used to augment its truth.’’ Tasso refers to ‘‘the truth’’ here in an obviously nonhistorical sense, as he suggests that he is able to ‘‘augment’’ the truth of the enterprise by changing its historical reality. Many of the alterations serve to unify the poem and add more epic elements to the narrative, but many also seem calculated to increase the authority of the poem in the mind of the reader. The extratextual authority of the historical subject is thus a necessary but not a sufficient creator of poetic authority. Tasso also seeks methods internal to the poem in order to ‘‘win in [his readers’] souls this opinion of veracity’’ (1:5). Nowhere is this strategy more apparent than in Tasso’s use of God as a character within the poem. We noted that in the Orlando Furioso Ariosto explicitly avoids providing readers with a celestial perspective just when it is most expected. Tasso, in a telling contrast, begins his poem with just such a perspective. Following the statement of the epic theme (in which he asserts God’s favor for the crusade—‘‘Il Ciel gli die favore’’), the epic invocation, and his indication that the action begins in the sixth year of the first crusade, Tasso shifts to a celestial vantage point: ... from His lofty throne that lies in Heaven’s purest realm., the eternal Father turned his eyes below and saw in one moment and in one glance whatever the world contains within itself. (1.7.3, 7 8)
The poet then recounts, with God’s understanding, the status of the leaders in the Christian army, especially Goffredo, who ‘‘pien di fe, di zelo, ogni mortale / gloria, imperio, tesor mette in non cale’’ [full of faith, of zeal, makes no account of any mortal glory, empire, treasure] (1.8.7–8). The ‘‘Padre eterno’’ then summons Gabriel and sends him to take a message to Goffredo on earth: ‘‘lo
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
qui l’eleggo; e ’l faran gli altri in terra, / gia suoi compagni, or suoi ministri in guerra’’ [I here elect him: the former earthlings, formerly his companions, now will be his subordinates in the war] (1.12.7–8). The army is currently in a state of confusion and seems incapable of action. God’s choice of Goffredo initiates the movement of the poem; his intervention through Gabriel causes the Christian army to move toward Jerusalem. Thus, God seems the author of the crusade, its first cause and moving agent. We are, nevertheless, reading Tasso’s poem, and we have just heard his invocation of the muse, in which he asks for the muse’s pardon for his alterations of the historical record within his poem: ... grant me pardon if with the truth I interweave embroiderings, if partly with pleasures other than yours I ornament my pages. (1.2.6 8)
Indeed, one of Tasso’s most obvious changes to the historical record is his clear selection of Goffredo not only as the hero of the Crusade but also as its unambiguous, single leader. According to William of Tyre, it was only after the capture of Jerusalem that Godfrey was chosen as the unambiguous leader of the Christian forces and as ruler of Jerusalem. In fact, Tasso portrays Goffredo not only as the head of the armies and sole leader, but also as the primary motivator of his troops. William informs us that the leaders had a tendency to drag their feet, especially toward the end of the crusade, after the siege, capture, and defense of Antioch, and that it was only the incessant demand of the common people that induced them to leave. In William’s account, Raymond, the Count of Toulouse (Raimondo in Tasso’s poem), is the first of the prominent chiefs to leave for Jerusalem (only, though, when he could ‘‘no longer resist [sustinere] their [the people’s] pleadings’’). Godfrey and the other leaders follow after they have been ‘‘spurred to action [persuasi]’’ by the demands of the people. This alteration at the very opening of the poem serves as an example of the kinds of changes Tasso made and how he authenticated them within the body of the poem. His change here supports a Counter-Reformation insistence on religious unity based on centralized authority; all Christians must bow to one head and embrace one doctrine, and much of the poem will detail Goffredo’s laborious attempts to unify his Christian army both geographically and spiritually. Throughout his
V o l u m e
1
2 4 1
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
attempts, Tasso will continually insist on God’s approval of Goffredo’s actions and His interventions to secure their success. God is thus portrayed as the ‘‘author’’ of Tasso’s history and serves as a narrative justification for his version of the crusade, in which he makes narrative alterations— creating an authoritative leader who is able to bring together his often unruly men into a unified, and thus divinely favored, force suited to capture Jerusalem—in order to serve his vision of how God should intervene in history, a vision that in many ways parallels Counter-Reformation ideology. And it is at moments such as these, when Tasso most obviously alters the historical record, that he most vigorously insists on God’s authorship of the poem’s events. Tasso found the poetic precedent for his insistence on a divinely ordained history in both chronicle sources (William often provides evidence of the crusaders’ divine favor) and the epic tradition; his opening celestial perspective parallels Virgil’s portrayal of the council scene between Jupiter and Venus in the first book of the Aeneid, where Jupiter tells of his favor of Aeneas and the Roman empire that his descendants will establish: ‘‘imperium sine fine dedi’’ [I . . . make a gift of empire without end] (1.279). David Quint has recently argued that Virgil converts the divine machinery of the epic and the basic teleology of its plot into tools in service of an imperial ideology, a practice followed by Renaissance poets who imitate him. The epic’s goal becomes the conquest of a foreign people, and the success of the imperialist enterprise is favored by the presiding deity. Those who oppose Aeneas (or Vasco da Gama or Goffredo) are not simply resisting conquest; they fight against the gods and fate itself. Tasso’s poem, of course, does not portray the establishment of a nationalist empire after the manner of Virgil and Camoes (in spite of the use of Rinaldo as a dynastic figure). Instead, he promotes the creation of a unified Christendom, which is able to overcome the inner threat of schism (with some obvious and not so obvious parallels to the religious divisions of Tasso’s day) and achieve military triumph over a pagan enemy. His Counter-Reformation epic thus adapts the generic convention of the divine machinery to portray a God who favors, and brings about, a militant Christianity under a single, divinely appointed leader. Tasso’s implicit attempt to attribute authorship of the poem’s events to God becomes most clear in the seventh canto, which narrates the
2 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
duel between one of the most valiant of the pagan warriors, Argante—the poem’s Turnus figure—and Raimondo, the count of Toulouse. Argante had originally dueled with Tancredi, an inconclusive exchange halted by darkness. When Tancredi fails to appear the next day, the Christians are forced to choose someone to fight in his stead. Tasso models this episode on the duel contained in Iliad 7, where Hector challenges to a duel any Achaean warrior who will fight him. At first, all are too afraid to take up Hector’s challenge; only after Nestor gives the troops a tongue lashing by recounting a few of his own glorious exploits are the warriors spurred to action, with the result that nine volunteer. They cast lots, which are placed in Agamemnon’s helmet in order to determine Hector’s opponent, and Ajax is chosen to fight. Tasso’s episode follows the main outlines of Iliad 7: Argante returns to the field of battle and sends a messenger to challenge ‘‘the champion of Jesus’’ (7.56.4). When Tancredi is not found, no one steps forward to volunteer until Goffredo himself undertakes the task. Raimondo immediately rebukes him, however, because by endangering his person he endangers the ‘‘head’’ of the army and thus the army itself. Raimondo then echoes Nestor by recounting one of the valorous exploits from his youth and by wishing for the strength he once possessed. His speech rouses the valor of several warriors, and Goffredo decides to cast lots to determine the champion. He chooses this method, he explains, because the hidden workings of the lottery reveal the influence of divine providence. ... and let chance be the judge; or rather God the judge, of whose will fortune and fate are min ister and slave. (7.69.8 70.2)
Tasso underscores the importance of perceiving ‘‘chance’’ as providence by having Goffredo alter his statement of the workings of the lottery at the very beginning of stanza 70, emphasizing the correction of the view he expressed at the end of the previous stanza by opening the following one with the word ‘anzi.’ The suggestion that God governs all of the events recounted in the poem, even those that seem the product of chance, sets the stage for the duel, where Raimondo emerges victorious because of divine aid; ‘‘the eternal Father’’ sends an angel who helps the Christian warrior by shielding him from the blows of Argante with a celestial,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
adamantine shield that breaks the pagan’s sword and offers Raimondo a chance for victory. Just when Raimondo is about to win the duel, one of the pagan soldiers, in a narrative device taken from Iliad 4 and Aeneid 12, breaks the truce by shooting an arrow at the Christian combatant, and a battle ensues. The Christians quickly begin to dominate the pagan armies and, we are told, are on the verge of ultimate victory. ... And had it not been that it was not the day that God had written in his eternal decrees, this had been perhaps the day that the invincible host arrived at the end of its holy labors. (7.114, 1 4)
The infernal spirits, seeing that their empire is about to crumble, quickly send a violent storm that causes the Christians to retreat to their camp. Tasso has made it clear, however, that the demons are allowed to create this storm only because the predestined day of Christian triumph has not yet arrived. In canto 9, God sends Michael to the demons to forbid their further intervention in the war. Here in the seventh canto, however, Tasso accounts for the delay by appealing to the workings of divine providence. In an intriguing description of divine determinism in history, Tasso describes God’s control of history as that of an author writing a book. God has already ‘‘written’’ (scritto) this history, and Tasso’s poem simply accords with that history already inscribed by the divine author. Tasso accounts for a narrative delay (the Christian army cannot triumph yet; it is not yet unified, and we are far too early in the poem) by implying that it was written and willed by God. According to William’s account, however, the capture of Jerusalem requires only two days’ fighting with siege engines. As I have already noted, Tasso lengthens the siege of Jerusalem by transposing events onto it from the siege of Antioch. Thus, the delay that Tasso portrays as necessary because of the working out of divinely ordained history is actually required by the purposes of the poet, and it is Tasso who writes this necessity into the First Crusade, all the while insisting that it was inevitable because of divine providence. He thus once again attributes divine authorship to those events that are uniquely his own, an attribution that serves as an authenticating device and provides a divine causality and an authoritative interpretation of the poem’s events. For when Tasso portrays God’s view of the crusade, he provides us with a transcendent perspective, which Ariosto’s poem lacks.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
Tasso’s use of a divine perspective to delimit authoritative interpretations is certainly not unique in the epic tradition. Virgil, for example, used Jupiter and the divine council scenes in the Aeneid to reinforce the Augustan ideology of an empire willed by providence, although the official party line enunciated by Jupiter and others throughout the poem becomes further complicated by the conflicted pantheon that Virgil portrays. Juno’s opposition to Aeneas can be read, in other words, as a qualification to the divine favor that Venus and Jupiter bestow on the hero and his fellow Trojans. There is, as many critics have noted, an inherent ambiguity in Juno’s wrathful opposition to Aeneas and in the ideological program of the poem. Tasso, on the other hand, works to eliminate this kind of ambiguity in his poem. He Christianizes the divine counsels of epic tradition, for example, and relocates the opposition normally found in them to the demonic realm. He also portrays ambiguity and uncertainty regarding the workings of providence as characteristic only of pagans or unfaithful Christians. This last strategy becomes clearest, perhaps, in the twelfth canto, where Tasso narrates Clorinda’s death. Canto 12 opens with the decision of Argante and Clorinda to leave Jerusalem on a night sortie in order to destroy the siege machines with which the crusaders threaten Jerusalem. The episode is based on book 9 of the Aeneid, where Nisus and Euryalus decide to leave the Trojan camp at night in order to carry a message to Aeneas. When Nisus decides to undertake the risky mission, he asks Euryalus: ... This urge to action, do the gods instill it, Or is each man’s desire a god to him, Euryalus? For all these hours I’ve longed To engage in battle, or to try some great Adventure. In this lull I cannot rest. (9.184 87)
In words that echo those of Nisus, Clorinda tells Argante of her desire to engage in a night mission: ... It is quite some time, my lord, that my restless mind has been revolving within itself I know not what daring and unheard of scheme: whether God inspires it, or man makes for himself his God out of his own will. (12.5.1 4)
In the case of Nisus, we never learn whether a deity has implanted the desire for adventure in his mind; the poem remains ambiguous. For Clorinda, however, we come to learn that God has indeed inspired her wish, as it will lead to her
V o l u m e
1
2 4 3
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
salvation (albeit at the cost of her life). As she arms herself for her mission, Arsete tells her the story of her birth to Ethiopian Christians and how he was commanded by Saint George to escape with her and to baptize her. When Arsete fails to perform the baptism after having successfully taken her away, however, he receives (shortly before Clorinda’s mission) another visit from the celestial knight, who informs him that he will take matters into his own hands: ... the hour draws nigh that Clorinda must undergo change of her life and her fate. She will be mine, in spite of you, and yours will be the pain. (12.39.5 7)
Sure enough, when Clorinda is shut out of the city on her return from burning the siege machines, Tancredi follows her and, learning that she was one of the knights responsible for the destruction of the machines, begins to duel with her. Unaware of the identity of his beloved, he mortally wounds her, but as she falls she asks Tancredi to baptize her. Tasso tells us that these final words are the result of the ‘‘vertu ch’or Dio le infonde, e se rubella / in vita fu, la vuole in morte ancella’’ [a grace that God now sheds upon her, and if she has been a rebel in her life, He wants her now in death His handmaiden] (12.65.7–8). We readers are informed, that is, of the divine workings to bring about Clorinda’s conversion, even at the cost of her life. Within the world of the poem, Christians as well become privy to the insight we as readers enjoy. Thus, Peter the Hermit informs Tancredi that his grief should be understood as a message from God calling him back from his wandering path (see 12.86.5–8); later Clorinda appears to a mourning Tancredi in order to assure him of her own happiness, thanks to his act of mercy in baptizing her, and to assure him of his own place in heaven, when they will be reunited (see 12.91–93). Indeed, Peter asks Tancredi if he cannot ‘‘hear’’—through the event of Clorinda’s death—God’s ‘‘words’’ that are recalling him to righteousness (non odi i detti suoi? [12.86.6]). Tasso portrays Clorinda’s death as willed and orchestrated or authored by God himself, as it ensures Clorinda’s salvation and leads Tancredi back to his divinely ordained mission. Only the pagans fail to see and understand this reality. Argante, when he learns of her death, blames first those who would not let him out of Jerusalem to rescue her and then the gods themselves: ‘‘Ma che potevo io piu? parve al consiglio / de
2 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
gli uomini altramente e de gli dei’’ [But what more could I do? To the counsels of men, and of the gods, things appear otherwise] (12.103.5–6). Argante’s attribution of responsibility for Clorinda’s death to an inscrutable heaven underscores his own incomprehension. God indeed understands things differently than do the pagan soldiers, but the Christian crusaders and we as readers are granted a privileged insight into His workings. Argante’s words of lament recall the remarks of Aeneas made to Dido when recounting the death of Ripheus during the fall of Troy: ‘‘cadit et Rhipeus, iustissimus unus / qui fuit in Teucris et servantissimus aequi / (dis aliter visum)’’ [and Ripheus fell, / A man uniquely just among the Trojans, / The soul of equity; but the gods would have it / Differently] (Aeneid 2.426–28). Ripheus, of course, becomes a crucial figure in Christian readings of Virgil when Dante places him in the heaven of Jupiter, where he becomes a sign of God’s inscrutable grace. Whereas Aeneas can only wonder at the injustice of the Gods, Dante tells us that God has extended His mercy to Ripheus, even though we cannot understand why He has not given it to others. For Tasso, even the inscrutability of grace seems to dissipate in canto 12. We learn why Clorinda is saved and see how God works to bring about her salvation. Only those outside of the fold fail to see God’s hand writing the pages of history. Tasso thus provides us with an episode in which God’s control of the events of the poem, while not explicitly shown (as is the case elsewhere), is demonstrated through dreams, visions, and authorial interventions, and the crusaders learn to read the events as the products of God’s authoring control. The faithful learn the causes of the events, while Argante and the other pagans can only show the ignorance of their epic predecessors. The result of the episode is that Tasso is able to remove the ambiguity found in the deaths of Nisus, Euryalus, Ripheus, and others in the Aeneid and to impose a rational sense of historical causality in which all events work toward a divinely ordained end. We can understand Tasso’s narrative teleology more fully by examining Goffredo’s address to his now unified troops before the final, triumphant battle. He tells them that this is the moment willed by God for the completion of their mission: ... behold the last day, behold now present here that which so long you have desired. And not without deep cause does Heaven consent that His rebel people be now assembled here: Heaven has united here your every enemy to
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
finish many wars at a single blow. We shall achieve many victories in one, and the danger will be no greater, nor the trouble. Let not, let not there be any fear in you to see the host of the enemy so vast, for ill accorded among themselves they are poorly organized and entangle themselves in their own maneuver ings. (20.14.3 15.6)
It turns out that there is good reason that God wrote an ‘‘eternal decree’’ postponing their triumph until now. For here the Christians, unified under one leader, will be able to defeat all of the pagan forces, as numerous as they are, because of their diversity and lack of unity. The Christians are favored by God because they have finally learned to organize their army according to Counter-Reformation ideology, a sure way to defeat the forces of dispersal and disunity. Thus, the heavens have ordained this moment. Tasso’s God works within the world of the poem, therefore, to bring about the Christian victory. I therefore disagree with Quint’s description of Tasso’s God as a ‘‘Platonized divinity, operating from without upon the human world of the poem, [who] provides a model for a poetics which claims a source of intelligibility and authority outside the text, a source which lies, however, beyond the text’s representation.’’ Tasso posits, according to Quint, a Platonic gulf between ‘‘the Christian source of meaning and a virtually autonomous world of action.’’ Tasso often portrays his God in Platonic fashion, as existing utterly above all worldly reality, but his influence directed downward to the earth determines the world of action; and indeed Tasso often describes God as not only authorizing but even authoring that world of action. Though the poet would no doubt claim that God lies ‘‘beyond the text’s representation,’’ the poem works to locate him within the text so that he can, as Derek Walcott states the idea, ‘‘perform for the good of the poet.’’ The authority of Tasso’s poem is very much internal to it. If we contrast Tasso’s epic purpose with William of Tyre’s sense of the crusaders’ success, we will be better able to understand the purpose behind the narrative movement in the poem. Whereas Tasso repeatedly emphasizes Goffredo’s role as the divinely ordained head of the army (a point he also details in the ‘‘Allegoria del Poema’’), William, while praising the valiant leaders (and portraying Godfrey as the first to enter Jerusalem), gives a small but crucial role to the common soldiers and pilgrims, details that Tasso chooses not to include. William also portrays the chief princes as equal rulers who decided
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i b e r a t a
important policies and strategies as a group. A typical description of this process is found during William’s narrative of the siege of Antioch: ‘‘The chiefs assembled, therefore, to consult on a situation which seemed to be the crisis of the whole campaign.’’ As Jonathan Riley-Smith states, ‘‘the crusade was, in fact, run by committees and assemblies.’’ And while Tasso emphasizes the superiority of the Christian forces because of their unity and discipline, William portrays the siege of Antioch as a triumph of divine grace. It is only through the betrayal of the city by a prominent Christian that the crusaders are able to gain entrance to the city. And later, when besieged in Antioch, William can only explain the Christian success by the advent of heavenly aid: ‘‘The truth of the proverb, ‘God hath not forsaken them that hope in him,’ was . . . made manifest in this same experience, when a people, needy and almost perishing from famine, were able, solely by the aid of God, to defeat such a host of strong warriors and, far beyond any hope of their own, to confound in one battle the entire strength of the orient.’’ The battle the crusaders fight while besieged in Antioch forms the basis of the Gerusalemme Liberata’s final battle, recounted in the poem’s final canto. In both instances, the crusaders are besieged, facing a reverse force representing many different armies from the Middle East. In William’s account, however, the crusaders are dying of hunger, barely able to fight, and the victory can be attributed solely to God’s intervention. While Tasso continues to insist on divine intervention, he also portrays the Christians as unified, disciplined, and effective warriors. Tasso has no use for William’s account of God’s choosing ‘‘the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty’’ (1 Cor. 1:27); his army becomes a personification of the Church militant, well able to defend itself. In his early Discourses, Tasso wrote that the poet may take liberty with his historical subject but not so broadly that he actually changes the outcome of the event he recreates. Tasso indeed avoids such an extreme alteration of history, but he takes broad liberties in narrating how the crusaders take Jerusalem and how God intervenes to bring about the conquest of the Holy Land. We may recall in this context Tasso’s insistence, in his Discourses, on a unified plot that ensures unity of meaning, a poetic doctrine that parallels the ability of the unified Christian forces to rout the diverse and confused pagan armies. Tasso’s carefully manipulated narrative recounts God’s careful manipulation of history to ensure a glorious Christian triumph. And as we have seen, Tasso’s inclusion of a divine perspective limits and
V o l u m e
1
2 4 5
G e r u s a l e m m e
L i b e r a t a
determines the possible meanings of the poem, often eliminating interpretations of the crusade put forward by his primary historical source. The result is an epic whose narrative strategies reinforce the interpretive program set out by the author and whose God acts in order to provide authentication of Tasso’s historical changes. The conflation of authoring God and authoring poet occurs, as suggested above, as early as the poem’s opening stanza where Tasso, following epic tradition, states his epic subject: ‘‘Canto l’arme pietose e ’l capitano / che ’l gran sepolcro libero di Cristo’’ [I sing the pious arms and the captain who liberated the great sepulcher of Christ] (1.1.1–2). This opening is directly reminiscent of the Aeneid’s opening ‘‘Arma virumque cano’’ and contrasts with Ariosto’s indication of his multiple and diffuse subject at the beginning of the Orlando Furioso: ‘‘Le donne, i cavallier, l’arme, gli amori, / le cortesie, l’audaci imprese io canto’’ [Of ladies, knights, arms, loves, chivalry, and courageous deeds I sing]. Tasso’s first octave ends, however, with an assertion of God’s intervention, of his authorship of the events of the poem: ... Heaven granted him favor and compelled his wandering companions back under the holy standards. (1.1.7 8)
As we have seen, this assertion of divine intervention can be read as a narrative ploy, a way of verifying and authenticating a poem that is verisimilar rather than true. Just as God constrains or reduces (ridusse) the wandering companions of Goffredo, so Tasso constrains or reduces the wandering aspects of romance within the poem. But of course the poet himself has created this very parallel that he emphasizes. Tasso ultimately writes God into the poem to create a ‘‘true’’ version of the First Crusade, and one is struck by the degree to which Tasso not only changes the events of history in order to make his subject more fitting for epic poetry, but also by the ways in which he alters William’s sense of God’s intervention on behalf of the crusaders to make his subject better suited to the demands of his ideological age. Andrew Fichter has justified Tasso’s alterations in the following way: ‘‘The Christian poetprophet . . . Pseeks to go beyond the letter of recorded fact, even where the immediate past is concerned. He is capable of attributing a more substantial reality to events as they conform to a providential plan than as they arrange themselves in human experience.’’ What is fascinating about
2 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
Tasso’s poem, however, is not that he claims that the events ‘‘conform to a providential plan’’—William of Tyre claimed the same—nor that he ‘‘goes beyond the letter of’’ recorded fact to bring out that plan, but that his sense of that providential plan itself differs from the one presented in the historical record, from William’s sense of God’s providence, which seemed out of step with contemporary notions of how God acted to bring about His purposes. In Tasso’s hands, therefore, God still intervenes in the First Crusade but now in a way that corresponds to a more correct understanding of His workings. Ultimately, Tasso is less the Christian poet-prophet than he is the craftsman seeking the authority of verisimilitude. While, as I argued above, Tasso’s wide-ranging rewriting of his historical sources does not contradict his insistence in his epic theory on the importance of a historical subject as a source of verisimilitude, it does reveal that he requires extratextual authority largely in order to increase the internal authority of the poem, an authority reinforced by God’s authoring presence. Here one cannot help but be reminded of Ariosto’s assertion, stated by Saint John to Astolfo, of the poet’s ability to create meaning and even religious truth. For like Ariosto’s Homer and Virgil, Tasso hopes to create a fiction so persuasive that it will overwhelm historical truth, and that this version will become true and make crusade history fitting for the ideological vision of Counter-Revolution Italy. Despite his objections to Ariosto’s multiple plots, to his frivolous use of the marvelous, his own poem ultimately claims the same privilege that Ariosto’s Saint John accords to poets: the power of authoring God. Source: V. Stanley Benfell, ‘‘Tasso’s God: Narrative Authority in the Gerusalemme Liberata,’’ in Modern Phi lology, Vol. 97, No. 2, November 1999, pp. 173 194.
SOURCES Boileau, Nicholas, Art of Poetry (1683), translated by William Soames, Oneworld Classics, 2008. Cozzarelli, Julia M., ‘‘Torquato Tasso and the Furor of Love, War, and Madness,’’ in Italica, Vol. 84, Nos. 2 3, 2007, p. 173. Dacier, Anne, ‘‘Letters, ‘Preface to Homer,’ and Notes to Iliad,’’ in Madame Dacier: Scholar and Humanist, edited by Fern Farnham, Angel Press, 1976. Dryden, John, Essays of John Dryden (1900), edited by William P. Ker, Kessinger, 2008.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
G e r u s a l e m m e
Gough, Melinda J., ‘‘Tasso’s Enchantress, Tasso’s Cap tive Woman,’’ in Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 54, No. 2, 2001, p. 523. Lewalski, Barbara Kiefer, ‘‘The Genres of Paradise Lost,’’ in The Cambridge Companion to Milton, Cambridge University Press, 1989, pp. 79 96. Quint, David, Epics and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton, Princeton University Press, 1993. Tasso, Torquato, Discourses on the Heroic Poem, trans lated by Mariella Cavalchini and Irene Samuel, Oxford University Press, 1973. , Gerusalemme Liberata, translated by Edward Fairfax, CreateSpace, 2010. Tillyard, E. M. W., The English Epic and Its Background, Oxford University Press, 1966.
Asbridge, Thomas, The First Crusade: A New History: The Roots of Conflict between Christianity and Islam, Oxford University Press, 2005. Designed for adult and high school students, this book covers the causes and effects of the First Crusade and includes maps, illustrations, an annotated list of important figures, and a glossary. Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros.
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Black, John, Life of Torquato Tasso: With an Historical and Critical Account of His Writings, Nabu Press, 2010. Originally published in 1810, this two volume work is a reproduction of a rare biography of Tasso. Cavallo, Jo Ann, The Romance Epics of Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso: From Public Duty to Private Pleasure, University of Toronto Press, 2004. A critical interpretation of the Renaissance romance epic in northern Italy, this book explains the differences of approach and theme of three major chivalric poets. Gregory, Tobias, From Many Gods to One: Divine Action in Renaissance Epic, University of Chicago Press, 2006. Gregory’s book is the first comparative study of poetic approaches to the problem of divine action in the epics of Petrarch, Vida, Ariosto, Tasso, and Milton. Zatti, Sergio, The Quest for Epic: From Ariosto to Tasso, University of Toronto Press, 2006. Zatti traces the development of Italian narra tive from the chivalric romance to the epic, as it evolved during the Italian Renaissance.
FURTHER READING
E p i c s
L i b e r a t a
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Gerusalemme Liberata Torquato Tasso First Crusade Tasso AND Clorinda Tasso AND Godfrey Tasso AND Italian epic
V o l u m e
1
2 4 7
Iliad HOMER C. 700 BCE
Western literature began with the Iliad. The Epic of Gilgamesh is at least two thousand years older, but it is neither as well-known nor as influential in the West as Homer’s work. Nearly three thousand years after Homer’s poem was written, expressions such as ‘‘Achilles heel,’’ ‘‘Trojan horse,’’ or ‘‘the face that launched a thousand ships,’’ are still used, all with roots in the Iliad or rather the mythic cycle on which it is based. Also, at least in terms of the number of copies to survive from antiquity, the poems of Homer are second only to the Bible in popularity. Although ‘‘Iliad’’ means ‘‘the story of Ilion,’’ or Troy, the poem has much more to say about Achilles and Hector than it does about Troy. As the first word of the Greek text suggests, this poem has a lot to do with anger or rage. Honor, glory, and fate are also frequent themes. As a classical epic, the Iliad uses epithets, or formulaic phrases to describe an individual, an object, or even some events. It also uses similes. For example, in Book 11 Ajax is compared to a donkey that has gotten loose in the crops and the Trojans beating him back reluctantly toward the ships are compared to a crowd of boys beating the donkey with sticks to drive him out of the field. For more than fifteen hundred years, the Iliad and the Odyssey set the standard by which epic poetry was judged. The epic form in poetry seemed less popular after Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667), but the story of Troy has remained a
2 4 8
I l i a d
the most common dialect in Homer’s Greek is Ionic, many scholars believe that Homer probably lived and worked in Ionia, the region along the west coast of what is now Turkey. When Homer lived and wrote is open for debate. Some ancient writers believed that Homer lived relatively close to the time of the events he described. The fifth-century historian Herodotus in his Histories said that Homer could not possibly have lived more than four hundred years before the fifth century. Nonetheless, the rediscovery of writing by the Greeks around 750 BCE and the development, at about the same time, of some of the fighting techniques described in the Iliad have led scholars to assign Homer to the middle or late part of the eighth century BCE . Accurate dating of Homer’s poems is impossible, but it is generally thought that the Iliad is the older of the two, as the Odyssey displays certain advanced stylistic features. Both poems were completed before the Peisistratid dynasty came to power in Athens in the sixth century BCE , since a member of that family commissioned a standard edition of the poems and ordered that both the Iliad and the Odyssey be recited in full at the Great Panathenaia, a religious festival in honor of Athena, which was observed in Athens every four years.
Homer (Hulton Archive / Getty Images)
favorite topic into modern times. Among the many new editions is an accessible and critically acclaimed modern translation of the Iliad published by Penguin Classics in paperback in 2003.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Everything known about Homer is either traditional, mythical, or some kind of an educated guess. Traditionally, probably following the Odyssey and one of the so-called Homeric hymns from the middle of the seventh century BCE , Homer, like his own character Demodocus, was believed to be a blind bard or singer of tales. At least seven different places have claimed that Homer was born on their soil in the ancient world. The two with the strongest claims are the island of Chios and the city of Smyrna (modern Izmir, in Turkey). Because he records many details of Ionian geography and seems to know less about other areas (like western Greece, where part of the Odyssey is set), and because
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
There have been various controversies about Homer since his time, beginning with the contention over just exactly where and when he was born, lived, and died. Some scholars have questioned whether Homer existed at all, whether he actually wrote the poems attributed to him or compiled them from popular folklore, and whether the same person is responsible for both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Most scholars likely would agree that there was an epic poet called Homer and that this poet was instrumental in producing the Iliad and Odyssey in their known forms.
PLOT SUMMARY The Background to the Story The goddess Eris (Discord) was not invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis (Achilles’s parents), so she threw a golden apple inscribed ‘‘for the fairest’’ into the banquet hall in revenge. All the goddesses claimed it for themselves, but the choice came down to three—Aphrodite, Athena, and Hera. They asked Zeus to make the final decision, but he wisely refused.
V o l u m e
1
2 4 9
I l i a d
over Greece; and Aphrodite promises that he will have the most beautiful woman in the world for his wife. Paris picks Aphrodite, which of course means that from then on both Hera and Athena are deadset against him, and Trojans in general.
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS In 1985, the British Broadcasting Corporation produced an historical television series, starring Michael Wood, entitled In Search of the Trojan War. The companion book to this series was published by the BBC in 1986. A 2003 audio book, read by John Lescault, is available as an electronic download from OverDrive Audio, a source used by many libraries.
The Iliad and the Trojan War is a 2004 animated version of Homer’s story produced on DVD by Educational Video Network and intended to acquaint students with the epic.
In 2004, Warner studios released Troy, starring Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom. The movie covers some parts of the Trojan War. Both 163- and 196-minute versions are available on DVD. The Iliad and the Odyssey, a Kindle edition of the Samuel Butler translation, which includes historical and geographical background, was made available in 2007 by MobileReference. Many audio versions of the Iliad have been made. One is the Blackstone Audio 2008 CD edition with W. H. D. Rouse and Anthony Heald narrating.
The Perseus Project, administered by the Classics Department at Tufts University, is available online. This excellent resource for studying the classics or classical texts includes the original Greek (the Oxford Classical Texts version) and the Samuel Butler translation of the Iliad.
Instead, Zeus sent them to Mount Ida, where Paris was tending his father’s flocks. Priam had sent the prince away from Troy because of a prophecy that Paris would one day prove the undoing of the city. Each of the three goddesses offers Paris a bribe: Hera promises to make him lord of Europe and Asia; Athena promises to make him a great military leader and let him rampage all
2 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
The most beautiful woman in the world at the time is Helen, a daughter of Zeus and Leda, who is married to Menelaus, the king of Sparta. Helen’s adoptive father Tyndareus knew what to expect when the time came to choose a husband for his beautiful daughter. He made anyone who wanted to marry her swear a solemn oath that they would all come to the assistance of Helen’s eventual husband, if anything happened to him as a result of the marriage. Paris visits Menelaus in Sparta and abducts Helen, taking her back to Troy with him, seemingly with her active cooperation. Paris also takes a large part of Menelaus’s fortune. This was a serious breach of the laws of hospitality, which held that guests and hosts owed specific obligations to each other. In particular, a male guest was obliged to respect the property and wife of his host as he would his own. Menelaus, his brother Agamemnon, and the rest of Helen’s original suitors, invite others to join them on the expedition to Troy to recover Helen. An armada of some twelve hundred ships eventually sails to Troy, where the Achaeans fight for years to take the city and engage in skirmishes and plundering raids on nearby regions. The story opens in the tenth year of the war.
Book 1: The Wrath of Achilles Agamemnon has offended Chryses, the priest of Apollo, by refusing to ransom back his daughter. Apollo sends a plague on the Achaeans in retribution.Ata gathering ofthe whole army,Agamemnon agrees to give the girl back but demands another woman as compensation and takes Briseis, Achilles’s concubine. Achilles is enraged at this slight and pulls his whole army out of the war. In addition, he prays to his mother, the goddess Thetis, to beg Zeus to avenge his dishonor by supporting the Trojans against the Achaean forces. Zeus agrees, though not without angering his wife, Hera.
Book 2: Agamemnon’s Dream and the Catalogue of Ships Zeus sends a false prophetic dream to Agamemnon, telling him that if he will rouse the army and march on Troy, he can capture the city that very
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
night. As a test, Agamemnon calls another assembly and suggests instead that the whole army pull up its tents and sail back home. This turns out to be a very bad idea. The troops rush away to get ready for the voyage home and their leaders have a very hard time restoring them to order. The army is eventually mobilized for war, and a catalogue of the Achaean and Trojan forces involved in the fight follows.
In what is most likely a flashback episode, a truce is called so that Menelaus and Paris can meet in single combat, the winner to take Helen and all her treasures home with him. Solemn oaths are sworn by both sides to abide by the outcome of the duel. Helen watches the fight with King Priam from the walls of Troy and points out the chief leaders of the opposing forces. Just as Menelaus is on the point of killing Paris, the goddess Aphrodite sweeps him safely out of the battle and back to his bedroom in Troy.
Book 4: The Truce Is Broken Hera schemes with some of the other gods to break the truce. Athena tricks Pandarus, an ally of the Trojans, into shooting an arrow at Menelaus, wounding him slightly. General fighting breaks out again.
Book 5: The Aristeia of Diomedes Helped by Athena, Diomedes sweeps across the battlefield, killing and wounding Trojans by the dozen. He even wounds Aphrodite when she tries to rescue her son Aeneas, and Ares, the god of war, when he tries to rally the Trojan forces against Diomedes. (The word aristeia is Greek for excellence and here refers to an episode in which a particular character demonstrates exceptional valor or merit.)
Book 6: Hector Goes Back to Troy While hacking his way through the Trojans, Diomedes meets Glaucus, the grandson of a man his own grandfather had hosted—which makes them guest-friends who cannot harm or fight against each other. Meanwhile, Hector has gone back to Troy to urge his mother to offer a sacrifice to Athena in an attempt to win back her favor for the Trojans. He then meets his wife and baby son on the wall of Troy before getting Paris and taking him back to the battle.
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
Hector and Paris return to the fighting, and Hector challenges one of the Achaeans to a duel. Ajax is chosen, but the outcome of the fight is indecisive. As night falls, arrangements are made for a truce to allow the dead on both sides to be collected and buried. During this truce, the Achaeans fortify their camp.
Book 8: The Trojans Gain the Upper Hand
Book 3: The Duel between Paris and Menelaus
E p i c s
Book 7: The Greeks Build a Wall
E d i t i o n ,
When the fighting resumes after the burial truce, Zeus forbids the other gods to interfere with the war and begins actively assisting the Trojans, as he promised to do. Things go very badly for the Achaeans all day, and they retire behind their new fortifications for the night, while the Trojans camp out on the plain to be ready for battle the following morning.
Book 9: The Embassy to Achilles At the urging of several of his advisers, Agamemnon sends an embassy to Achilles and offers to give Briseis back, with interest, and a promise of much more booty to come when Troy is finally conquered. Since Agamemnon has not apologized, Achilles refuses to consider the offer and instead vows to sail home with his army the next morning.
Book 10: A Night Raid Agamemnon spends a restless night and eventually decides to send a spy into the Trojan camp to see what can be learned. Diomedes and Odysseus are chosen from among the volunteers. They capture a Trojan spy sent to reconnoiter their own camp and, based on information they get from him, the two men kill the newly arrived Thracian king Rhesus with some of his men and make off with a team of their horses.
Book 11: The Aristeia of Agamemnon When fighting resumes the following morning, Agamemnon gets his day of glory, but eventually is wounded (as are many of the other leading fighters in his army). The Trojans push their opponents back to the wall of the camp, and Achilles sends his friend Patroclus to find out what is happening. Nestor meets Patroclus on this errand and urges him to get Achilles to come back to the fighting or, failing that, to borrow Achilles’s armor himself and masquerade as his friend in an attempt to trick the Trojans into giving the Achaeans some breathing room.
V o l u m e
1
2 5 1
I l i a d
Book 12: The Trojans Break Through
Book 17: The Aristeia of Menelaus
Before Patroclus can even get back to Achilles’s tent, the Trojans break through the fortification wall and head for the beached ships, intending to set them afire and prevent the Achaeans from returning home.
Hector strips Achilles’s armor from Patroclus’s body and would have tried to take the body as well, but the Achaeans fight him off, led by Menelaus. Helped by Ajax, Menelaus distinguishes himself in the fighting against Hector and Aeneas.
Book 18: The Shield of Achilles
Book 13: The Battle for the Ships The fighting swirls up and down the beach, and the Achaeans are barely able to keep the Trojans away from their ships. Zeus leaves Mount Ida temporarily, and Poseidon covertly assists the Achaeans. Ajax, with Poseidon’s help, manages to halt Hector’s advance.
Book 14: Hera Distracts Zeus Hera schemes to distract Zeus while Poseidon helps the Achaean forces. She borrows a girdle from Aphrodite on a ruse and uses it to help her seduce her husband into making love on the top of Mount Ida. As the two of them sleep after their lovemaking, Poseidon continues to help the Achaeans, who drive the Trojans back from the ships. Ajax stuns Hector and all but kills him.
Book 15: The Achaeans at Bay When Zeus wakes up and discovers what has been going on while he slept, he forces Poseidon out of the fighting. This swings the balance back toward the Trojans, who once more drive their opponents back to the ships and try to set fire to them.
Achilles hears the news of Patroclus’s death and vows to revenge himself on Hector for the injury. His mother points out that if he kills Hector, his own death will follow shortly, but Achilles insists he will have revenge. She asks the god Hephaestus to forge new armor for her son. Patroclus’s body is recovered as Hephaestus makes a beautiful new suit of armor, including a richly worked shield, for Achilles.
Book 19: Achilles Is Reconciled with Agamemnon Prodded by Odysseus, Achilles agrees to a formal reconciliation with Agamemnon and accepts the gifts he is offered in recompense for Agamemnon’s slight but vows not to eat or drink until he has revenged Patroclus’s death by killing Hector. He puts on his new armor, and his immortal horse Xanthus foretells his coming death.
Book 20: The Gods Themselves Go to Battle Zeus now gives the gods permission to interfere in the fighting again, which they do with great enthusiasm. Achilles goes on a rampage against the Trojans, and only direct divine intervention seems to be able to save anyone who is unlucky enough to cross his path.
Book 16: Patroclus Fights and Dies Patroclus finally gets back to Achilles, who lets his friend borrow his distinctive armor and lead his troops against the Trojans. Achilles warns him, however, not to pursue Hector or to get too close to the city itself. As Patroclus is putting on Achilles’s armor, Hector sets fire to the first of the ships. When Patroclus and the Myrmidons enter the battle, the Trojans fall back and Patroclus has his aristeia, killing many Trojans, including Sarpedon, a son of Zeus. But Patroclus ignores Achilles’s advice and pursues Hector and the Trojans all the way back to the walls of Troy. There he is confronted by Apollo, who stuns and disarms him. The Trojan Euphorbus wounds Patroclus, and Hector finishes him off, but not before Patroclus prophesies Hector’s own impending death.
2 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
Book 21: Achilles and the River Scamander Achilles continues to hack his way through the Trojan ranks and eventually has killed so many that the river Scamander is clogged by their bodies. The river god attempts to drown Achilles but is balked by Hephaestus. Achilles eventually sweeps past the river and on toward Troy, where he is diverted by Apollo just long enough to allow the Trojans (except for Hector) to pull back behind the city walls.
Book 22: The Death of Hector Hector stands outside the gates, debating whether to stand and fight Achilles or to head for the city himself. As he ponders, Achilles catches up to him, and they begin to run around the city walls.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
CHARACTERS Achilles Son of the mortal Peleus and the sea goddess Thetis, Achilles is the best warrior at Troy. He leads the Myrmidons (from the Greek word for ‘‘ant,’’ as their ancestors were created by Zeus from ants after a plague had depopulated part of the kingdom of Achilles’s grandfather, Aeacus). His mother dipped the baby Achilles in the River Styx, which made him invulnerable. But she forgot to dip the heel by which she held him, which left one place where a weapon could injure him: hence the expression Achilles heel signifies a weak or vulnerable spot.
Achilleus See Achilles
Aeacides See Achilles
Aeneas Ajax fights Hector (Ó Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy)
After the third circuit of the city, Apollo withdraws his protection from Hector and Athena, taking the form of one of Hector’s brothers, tricks him into fighting Achilles, who of course kills him. Still enraged, Achilles straps Hector’s body behind his chariot and drags it back to the camp, as Hector’s family watches in horror from the walls of Troy.
Book 23: The Funeral of Patroclus Patroclus’s ghost comes to Achilles at night and asks him for a speedy burial. The next day his friend gives him a magnificent funeral, complete with memorial games, at which Achilles presides.
Son of Anchises and the goddess Aphrodite, Aeneas is a minor character in the Iliad, where he is portrayed as a fighter to be reckoned with (especially in Books 5 and 20), and at least once is described as Hector’s equal in ‘‘both war and counsel,’’ though apparently not everyone agreed with that assessment.
Agamemnon Son of Atreus, brother of Menelaus, and king of Mycenae, Agamemnon is in overall command of the Achaean forces at Troy. His position is emphasized in the original Greek by the fact that the epithet anax andr on (lord of men), which appears nearly sixty times in the Iliad, is for all intents and purposes used only in reference to Agamemnon (the five exceptions are all forced by the rules of the meter).
Aias See Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater)
Book 24: Hector’s Body Is Recovered and Buried On the orders of Zeus and with the protection of Hermes, Priam makes his way to Achilles’s camp at night to ransom back the body of his son. Achilles is moved to pity the old man and makes him comfortable after agreeing to accept the ransom he offers for Hector’s body. Achilles guarantees the Trojans a suitable amount of time to prepare for and conduct Hector’s funeral.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Aineias See Aeneas
Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser) When Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser) is in company with Ajax the Greater (Telamonian Ajax), Homer will sometimes refer to the two of them as Aiantes, the plural form in Greek of the name Ajax. Since this expression, though perhaps confusing, is more
V o l u m e
1
2 5 3
I l i a d
graceful than ‘‘the two Ajaxes,’’ it is often used by translators. Son of Oileus and leader of the Locrians at Troy, Ajax is shipwrecked on his way home after the war. When he boasts of having escaped the sea in spite of the gods, he is drowned by Poseidon.
Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater) When Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater)is in company with Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser), Homer will sometimes refer to the two of them as Aiantes, the plural form in Greek of the name Ajax. Since this expression, though perhaps confusing, is more graceful than ‘‘the two Ajaxes,’’ it is often used by translators. Son of Telamon and grandson of Aeacus (who was also grandfather of Achilles), Telemonian Ajax was king of Salamis, an island off the coast of Attica and not far from Athens that would later be the site of a major naval battle between the Greeks and Persians under Xerxes in 480 BCE . One of the bravest and strongest fighters at Troy, he is nevertheless portrayed by Homer as somewhat obstinate and rather plodding, as if all he knew was fighting and nothing else. It should be noted, though, that Telemonian Ajax does all his own fighting without divine aid. At the funeral games after Achilles’s death, Ajax and Odysseus competed for Achilles’s arms. When they were awarded to Odysseus, Ajax sulked and, in a fit of madness, slaughtered a flock of sheep in the belief that they were his enemies. When he discovers what he had done, he falls on his sword, unable to live with the shame. His death forms the subject of Sophocles’s tragedy Ajax.
her son is killed, and she is given as a prize to Achilles’s son Neoptolemus.
Antenor One of the elders of Troy and a counselor of King Priam, Antenor is perhaps best known in the Iliad for having fathered many sons who appear throughout the poem.
Aphrodite Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love, and, according to Homer, the daughter of Zeus and Dione. The poet Hesiod (who likely lived and wrote not long after Homer’s time), however, claims that she sprang from the foam (aphros in Greek) of the sea, as seen in Sandro Botticelli’s painting The Birth of Venus (c. 1485). She is married, though not faithful, to Hephaestus, god of fire and smithcraft.
Apollo The son of Zeus and Leto, and twin brother of Artemis, Apollo is the god of archery, prophecy, music, medicine, light, and youth. Plagues and other diseases, and sometimes a peaceful death in old age, were often explained as being the result of arrows shot by Apollo (for men), or by his sister Artemis (for women). Although he also worked with Poseidon at building the walls of Troy and was cheated out of his proper payment, he supports the Trojan side in the war.
Ares The son of Zeus and Hera, Ares is the god of war (or, more precisely, of warlike frenzy). He is more of a name in the Iliad than an actual character. When he actually does appear, however, Homer portrays him as a bully.
Ajax the Lesser
Artemis
See Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser)
Daughter of Zeus and Leto, twin sister of Apollo, Artemis is the virgin goddess of the hunt, the moon, and, in some traditions, of childbirth and young things. With her brother, she supports the Trojan side. Plagues and other diseases, and sometimes a peaceful death in old age, were often explained as being the result of arrows shot by Artemis (for women) or by her brother Apollo (for men).
Akhilleus See Achilles
Alexandros See Paris
Andromache Andromache is the daughter of Eetion and wife of Hector; she is the mother of Astyanax. After Hector’s death, Andromache marries the seer Helenus. When the city falls to the Achaeans,
2 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
Athena The daughter of Zeus and Metis, whom Zeus (following in the tradition of his own father, Cronus) swallowed when it was revealed that she
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
would someday bear a son who would be lord of heaven and thus usurp Zeus’s place. She was born, full-grown and in armor, from the head of Zeus after Hephaestus (or, in some traditions, Prometheus) had split it open with an axe.
while in others she merely incites Aegisthus to do it for her (which is the tradition Homer follows in the Odyssey). She is eventually killed by her own son Orestes, in vengeance for his father’s death.
Diomedes Athene
Son of Tydeus and king of Tiryns and Argos, Diomedes is one of the principal fighters in Agamemnon’s army, ranking second only to Achilles. He and Ajax the Greater bear the brunt of the fighting after Achilles withdraws to sulk in his camp. The bulk of the action in Books 5 and 6 centers on Diomedes.
See Athena
Atreides See Agamemnon
Atrides See Agamemnon
Hector The son of Thestor, Calchas is a highly respected seer or prophet accompanying the Achaean forces. In addition to being the one to provoke Agamemnon by telling him it was his fault that Apollo was angry with the army, Calchas is said to have been the prophet who foretold the necessity of sacrificing Agamemnon’s daughter, Iphigeneia, to Artemis in return for a fair wind on the way to Troy.
Son of Priam and Hecuba, husband of Andromache, and father of Scamandrius (also called Astyanax), Hector is the prince of Troy and leader of the Trojan forces. As Achilles is for the Achaeans, so is Hector the preeminent fighter on the Trojan side. In the face of all that he must endure, both in the present and anticipated in the future, Hector retains a certain quiet dignity and nobility of character that represents humanity at its best.
Cassandra
Hecuba
Cassandra is the daughter of Priam and Hecuba. Apollo fell in love with her and gave her the gift of prophecy. When she rejected his advances, he gave her a companion ‘‘gift’’: Even though her prophecies are always true, no one ever believes her. After the fall of Troy, she is taken as a slave and concubine by Agamemnon and is killed with him on his return to Mycenae.
Daughter of Dymas and wife of Priam, Hecuba is the mother of Hector, Paris, and Cassandra, among others. When Troy falls, she is given to Odysseus as a prize and has to watch as her daughter Polyxena is sacrificed at the tomb of Achilles. She is the central character in two surviving plays of Euripides (c. 480–406 BCE ), the Hecuba, which is undated, and The Trojan Women (415 BCE ).
Chryses
Hekabe
A priest of Apollo, Chryses comes to Agamemnon seeking to ransom his daughter, taken in a raid on their city. When Agamemnon refuses to accept the offered ransom, Chryses prays to Apollo, who inflicts a plague on the army as a punishment. Once the girl is returned safely, he again prays to Apollo, who lifts the plague.
See Hecuba
Calchas
Clytemnestra Clytemnestra is the daughter of Tyndareus (who was also Helen’s adoptive father) and the unfaithful wife of Agamemnon. She takes as her lover Aegisthus, who is Agamemnon’s cousin and foster brother, during Agamemnon’s absence and with him plots to murder Agamemnon on his return from Troy. In some traditions she kills Agamemnon herself (by muffling him with a cloak or blanket in the bath and bludgeoning him with an axe),
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Hektor See Hektor
Helen Daughter of Zeus and the human woman Leda, whom Zeus raped and impregnated while in the form of a swan, Helen was the most beautiful woman of her time. Every man in the Greek world (or so the myths suggest) wanted to marry Helen. Her foster father Tyndareus took the advice of Odysseus and had all her suitors swear a solemn oath to protect her, even after her eventual marriage. Of course, after she married Menelaus, Paris abducted Helen. The Trojan War results when her husband and erstwhile suitors lay siege to Troy in order to recover her.
V o l u m e
1
2 5 5
I l i a d
Hephaestus
Nestor
Son of Zeus and Hera (or, according to Hesiod, of Hera alone, out of spite at Zeus’s having given birth to Athena all by himself), Hephaestus is the god of fire and the arts related to it such as smithcraft. He is lame (in Homer, the result of being thrown off Olympus for taking Hera’s side in a quarrel with Zeus), and he is a source of amusement to the gods in addition to being their master craftsman. He makes thunderbolts for Zeus, houses and furniture for the other gods, and forges a shield and a new suit of armor for Achilles after Hector strips the old one from Patroclus’s body.
The only son of Neleus to survive, Nestor is the elderly king of Pylos, where it is said that he has reigned already over two generations and is now ruling over the third. Nestor’s role is that of the elder statesman and advisor.
Hephaistos See Hephaestus
Hera Daughter of Cronus and Rhea, full sister to Zeus and also his wife, Hera is goddess of marriage and childbirth. She is known for her jealousy of Zeus and her intrigues against him and against his many human mistresses and illegitimate children. In the Iliad, Hera is a partisan of the Achaeans, because their main cities are under her protection and because she is angry at the Trojans because of Paris’s decision to give the golden apple marked ‘‘for the fairest’’ to Aphrodite.
Odysseus Son of Laertes and Anticleia, Odysseus is king of Ithaca, an island off the western coast of what is now Greece. Odysseus had been one of the suitors for Helen’s hand in marriage; having decided his chances were not good, he married Penelope instead. It was his advice that caused Helen’s stepfather Tyndareus to bind all her prospective suitors with an oath of mutual assistance if something should befall her eventual husband as a result of the marriage.
Oilean See Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser)
Paris
See Calchas
Son of Priam and Hecuba and a prince of Troy, Paris was the subject of a prophecy that foretold he would one day bring great troubles to the Trojans. In an attempt to avoid this prophecy (which, as usually happens in Greek mythology, only made certain that it came true), Priam sent Paris out of the city to tend some of his flocks on Mount Ida. There he was confronted by the goddesses Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera, all of whom wanted him to judge which of them was the most. Paris chose Aphrodite, who awarded him the right to take the most beautiful of all mortal women, Helen, for his wife.
Kalkhas
Patroclus
Iris Iris, the goddess of the rainbow and messenger of the gods, is the daughter of Thaumas and Electra, and married to Zephyrus, god of the west wind.
Kalchas
Patroclus was the son of Menoetius, who had sailed with the hero Jason on the Argo during the quest for the Golden Fleece. In Homer’s depiction, Patroclus is compassionate, caring, strong, brave, and level-headed, except when Zeus sends a ‘‘huge blind fury’’ (XVI.685-6) upon him, and he forgets Achilles’s command not to pursue Hector, once he has driven the Trojans away from the Achaean ships. As a result of this fury, Patroclus is first disarmed and stripped of his armor by Apollo, wounded by Euphorbus’s spear, and finally killed by Hector.
See Calchas
Kassandra See Cassandra
Klytaimestra See Clytemnestra
Menelaos See Menelaus
Menelaus Son of Atreus and brother of Agamemnon, Menelaus is king of Sparta and the husband of Helen.
2 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
Patroklos See Patroclus
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
Pelides
Ulysses
See Achilles
See Odysseus
Phoenix
Zeus
Son of Amyntor, Phoenix quarreled with his father (and, in some versions of the story, was blinded by him, then cured by the centaur Chiron) and was taken in by Peleus, who made him king of the Dolopians. Phoenix helped raise Peleus’s son Achilles and eventually accompanies him to Troy. Phoenix dies on the way home and is buried by Neoptolemus.
The son of Cronus and Rhea, husband of Hera, brother of Poseidon and Hades, Zeus is the god of sky, storm, and thunder, and ruler over the other gods. Homer says he is the eldest child of his parents, though his is a minority opinion: Elsewhere Zeus is said to be the youngest child, who was hidden away by his mother and raised in a cave before eventually overthrowing his father.
Phoinix See Phoenix
Poseidon Son of Cronus and Rhea, and brother of Zeus and Hades, Poseidon is the god of the sea, earthquakes, and horses. He is typically portrayed as a stately, older figure, though one capable of great passion and bluster (not unlike the storms at sea that were said to be caused by his anger).
Priam The son of Laomedon and husband of Hecuba, Priam was king of Troy at the time of the Achaean expedition against the city. He is often referred to but appears rather infrequently in the poem. When Priam does appear, however, Homer portrays him as a kindly older gentleman, courteous to everyone and trying to do his best despite his age and weakened condition. Priam knows, or at least suspects, that his city will eventually fall to the Achaeans with their superior force. He refuses to dwell on that unpleasant fate or allow it to cloud his judgment, however. Tradition held that he was killed by Achilles’s son Neoptolemus during the sack of Troy.
Smintheus See Apollo
Thetis A sea nymph and daughter of Neleus (whom Homer calls the ‘‘Old Man’’ of the sea). She was married to a mortal, which is somewhat unusual in Greek mythology, though not unheard of.
Tritogeneia See Athena
Tydides See Diomedes
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Scholars of ancient religion have long thought that Zeus represents a fusion of a multitude of local head gods, which may explain the numerous children he is said to have fathered and the equally numerous women (mortal and immortal alike) with whom he is said to have dallied. As with the other gods, Zeus is portrayed in the Iliad as, essentially, a larger-than-life human being, with augmented powers and knowledge but all of the passions, quirks, and shortcomings of any person. Zeus is, however, given a little more in the way of dignity and majesty than some of the other Homeric gods.
THEMES Anger As the first word of the Greek original suggests, anger is a central theme in the Iliad. That specific term is only used in reference to three characters: Achilles (five times), Apollo (three times), and Zeus (three times), and twice of the gods in general. Yet the problem is widespread: The Trojans, for example, are angry with the Achaeans for making war on them; the Achaeans are angry with the Trojans for harboring Paris and refusing to give Helen back to her rightful husband. Hera and Athena are angry at the Trojans generally, and Paris specifically, because he chose Aphrodite over them in a beauty contest even before the war began.
Betrayal Related to the theme of anger in the Iliad is the theme of betrayal. Achilles feels betrayed when Agamemnon belittles him in front of the whole army. Pandarus betrays the terms of the truce (and infuriates the Achaeans) by shooting and slightly wounding Menelaus in Book 3. Helen feels that she has betrayed both Menelaus and
V o l u m e
1
2 5 7
I l i a d
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
What role do the gods play in the Iliad? Compare and contrast this role with the role of the divine in a contemporary religious tradition (your own or another that interests you). Share your insights in a class discussion. Consider how Homer explains the origin of human suffering. Do a research paper on the subject, in which you describe Homer’s handling of this question and then present other explanations, taken from such disciplines as psychology or anthropology. Do some research on the host-guest relationship in ancient literature. Apply what you learn to an example of the host-guest relationship in classical literature. Divide the class into groups and each group present one example for discussion. Consider the following examples: in the Iliad between Glaucus and Diomedes that begins in Book 6, at line 119; between Baucis and Philemon in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book 8, 619ff.); regarding Abraham at the oak of Mamre (Genesis 18:1-8); or the reception of Telemachus by Nestor (Odyssey, Book 3, 31ff.) or Menelaus (Odyssey, Book 4, 30ff.). Each group can
Paris by her actions, and Paris himself certainly betrayed the sacred obligations of a guest toward a host when he carried her off with him to Troy.
Fate and Chance The concept of fate, or destiny, is explicitly mentioned at least forty times in the Iliad. It is used in such formulaic expressions as ‘‘red death and strong fate seized his eyes.’’ It gets its most notable and extended treatment, however, in Book 16 (lines 433 and following) when Zeus ponders whether to save his son Sarpedon from his fated death at Patroclus’s hands. It is also an important part of the subtext of the poem, the story behind the story or what one can read between the lines.
2 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
report to the class on this subject as it is handled in a given work.
Put the term ‘‘cultural hospitality’’ into an Internet search engine and compare in a written report the concept of hospitality of one or two other cultures to that of the Greeks in this epic.
Pay careful attention to how Homer handles the character of Helen. Take a class vote on whether Helen really regrets leaving Menelaus or whether she is making it up. For further discussion consider the following: How do you think Homer wanted his audience to look at Helen? What does the way in which her character is portrayed suggest about the role of women in Homeric society?
Have small groups each bring to class a children’s or young adult version of the Iliad found at the school or local public library. Pass the books around and then discuss what elements of the story remain in the different versions and what has been taken out. What are the differences in language used? Are there issues that become clearer for you when you read the simpler versions? How do these versions compare to your textbook version?
It is not entirely certain just how fate works in Homer’s thinking. Most of the time (as when Zeus balances ‘‘two fateful portions of death’’ in his scales, or when Achilles talks about the two different possible outcomes of his life in Book 9), it seems that a man’s fate is set at birth and cannot be changed, even by Zeus. In the Sarpedon story, however, Hera’s words at XVI.444 and following seem to imply that Zeus could meddle with destiny but that he chooses not to out of fear either of the ridicule of the other gods or the chaos that might result.
Honor Virtually every character in the Iliad values highly the concept of honor. This is especially true of the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
After the people of Troy bring the mysterious wooden horse into their city, the Greek army climbs down from inside and takes over the city, winning the Trojan War. (Rischgitz / Hulton Archive / Getty Images)
gods, who can get very upset if a mortal skimps on a sacrifice or forgets it altogether, or—as in the case of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite—if a mortal names one of them as possessing qualities in greater abundance than another. It is also true of the major heroes—Achilles and Agamemnon in particular. Indeed, Achilles considers a life of glory and everlasting honor that ends in battle at Troy preferable to a long, dull (at least in his opinion) life of respect at home.
Love Love is one of the subtler themes in the Iliad, but also one of the most powerful. In Chryses’s actions at the opening of Book 1, or those of Hecuba and Priam in Books 22 and 24, readers see eloquent testimony to the love of parents for their children. The tender scene between Hector and Andromache at the end of Book 6 is one of the most poignant depictions of the love between husband and wife in Western literature, as well as one of the oldest. And no matter what other relationships there may have been between them, no one could fail to notice the loving friendship Achilles and Patroclus express for each other.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Helen, while perhaps the obvious character to consider in this context, remains something of a mystery. She certainly seems fond of Priam and at least those Trojans who do not hate or shun her. Her apparent love for both her lover Paris and her husband Menelaus has been seen as fickleness or caprice by some, but Homer and his audience would most likely have taken it to represent the workings of Aphrodite—who is, after all, the goddess of love and passion and thus stands for a power that frequently overwhelms rational thought and other, seemingly lesser considerations.
Patriotism Ironically, most of the patriotism that is found in the Iliad is expressed on the part of the Trojans. It is Hector’s favorite rallying tactic, as for example when he rebukes the seer Polydamas for predicting an eventual defeat for the Trojans and counseling a retreat with the words, ‘‘Fight for your country—that is the best, the only omen!’’ (XII.243). This is not to imply that Homer thought more of the Trojans than the Greeks, merely that the Greeks of Homer’s day had only begun to develop a sense of themselves as a single nation—
V o l u m e
1
2 5 9
I l i a d
perhaps at least in part through Homer’s own work, which describes, as Thucydides observed some centuries later, the first action taken in common by the Greek-speaking peoples.
Peer Pressure and Shame Peer pressure is found virtually everywhere in the world of the Iliad. For example, the gambit is used twice by Hera and once by Athena to get Zeus to do what they want: ‘‘Do as you please . . . but none of the deathless gods will ever praise you’’ (IV.29, XVI.443, and XXII.181). Menelaus’s debate with himself as he tries to prevent the Trojans from making off with Patroclus’s body at XVII.90 and following is in a similar vein, as is the fairly common tactic of encouraging a reluctant soldier by pointing out the potential consequences to his reputation of being found with a wound in the back. Even Helen pleads a need to avoid the ridicule of the Trojan women when she tells Aphrodite that she will not rush off to make love to Paris after Aphrodite has rescued him from the duel with Menelaus (III.406ff.).
STYLE Meter English meter involves patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables. Greek meter, by contrast, involves patterns of long and short syllables where, as a general rule, two short syllables equal one long syllable. Greek poetry does not rhyme, either, although it does make use of alliteration and assonance (repeated use of the same or similar consonant patterns and vowel patterns, respectively). The Iliad is written in dactylic hexameters, which is the standard form for epic poetry: in fact, this particular meter is sometimes referred to as epic meter or epic hexameter. Hexameter means that there are six elements, or ‘‘feet,’’ in each line; dactylic refers to the particular metrical pattern of each foot: in this case, the basic pattern is one long syllable followed by two shorts, although variations on that basic pattern occur. The final foot in each line, for example, is almost always a spondee (two long syllables, instead of one long and two shorts). Homer sometimes varies the meter to suit the action being described, using more dactyls when the subject described is moving quickly (horses galloping, for example), and more spondees when the subject is slow or sad (as, for example, at I.3, where ‘‘strong souls by thousands’’ are ‘‘hurled down to Hades’’).
2 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Similes One of the techniques for which the Iliad is justifiably famous is its use of similes. A simile is a comparison between unlike subjects using as or like. The subject of the simile is called the tenor, and the subject to which the tenor is compared is called the vehicle. Most scenes include at least one simile. Moreover, for a poem in which most of the action takes place on the battlefield, most of the similes are drawn from peacetime and peaceful occupations; the ranks of the armies are compared to rows of grain in a field, for example. Homer’s similes are drawn from commonplace, everyday objects and occurrences in the lives of his audience. Consider the following passage from Book 11, when the Trojans are driving Ajax back toward his own lines: as when country dwelling men and their dogs have driven a tawny lion away from the cattle pen . . . as when boys are driving a sluggish don key past a cornfield and many sticks have been broken across his back, but he gets in anyway and mows down the deep grain (XI.547 48; 557 59).
In this case the subject of the Trojans being pushed back is described in terms of two vehicles, first, the men and dogs causing a lion to retreat, and second, boys who break their sticks trying to get a donkey out of a field of grain. Two vehicles are used here to describe the same action, and both are likely to have been familiar to readers who make their living from farming and who have fought back against encroaching wild animals or who have witnessed how domestic animals can consume crops intended for the family.
Foreshadowing Foreshadowing, the technique of hinting at future developments in the plot either explicitly (e.g., in the formofprophecies)orimplicitlythroughsomeother indirect suggestion (such as a foreboding change in weather), is used frequently in the Iliad. It is not uncommon for dying men to make some kind of a prophecy with their last breath—usually, though not always, involving the impending death of the man who has mortally wounded them. For example, the dying Hector foretells the death of Achilles. One example of an implicit foreshadowing can be seen in the name of Achilles’s home country, Phthia. This name is similar to the Greek verb phthi o, which means ‘‘decay, wane, waste away, perish.’’ In fact, an earlier term for tuberculosis (‘‘consumption,’’ as it used to be known in English)
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
was phthisis, from the same verb. Achilles, who will die in his prime, comes from a place whose name might be translated as ‘‘Deathville.’’
Flashbacks This technique, in which a character in the present moment recalls an earlier event, is in its infancy in the Iliad. It is thought that the events in Book 3 represent an extended flashback, even though they do not appear to be labeled as such. It is otherwise difficult to imagine how, after nine years of war, King Priam would be unable to recognize the chief leaders of the Achaean forces, and why no one had thought before of having the two interested parties fight in single combat for Helen, and thus decide the conflict and avoid warfare.
Ring Composition Ring composition is an organizational technique, most often seen in poetry, in which the work ‘‘comes around’’ regarding a particular theme, statement, or event, returning at the end of the work or at the end of a significant segment of the work to a point similar to what is seen at the outset. The Iliad begins with a ransom and a quarrel in Book I, continues with a figurative muster of the armed forces (Book II), followed by a duel (Book III). In Book XXII, there is another duel, this time between Achilles and Hector, which is followed by a literal mustering of the armies for Patroclus’s funeral games in Book XXIII. The poem ends in Book XXIV with the ransom of Hector’s body from Achilles by Priam, thus returning to and repeating the action with which the poem begins.
Distinctive Mycenaean pottery, used as art pieces intended for display and ceremonial use, and to ship traded goods such as oil, grain, or perfume, is found all over the Mediterranean coastline and quite a ways up the Nile River, proving the extensive trading system. Military tactics were largely as depicted in the Iliad: face-to-face combat between individuals or small groups of men, with little in the way of coordinated effort. It does seem, however, from wall paintings and other archaeological finds, that chariots were used for fighting ahead of the infantry, and not just for transporting people across the battlefield, as Homer describes their use. TheTrojan War, orratherthehistoricalconflicts between Greek city-states and the inhabitants of Ilium that fueled the mythology of the Trojan War, came very near the end of this flourishing civilization. The Greeks, using generational calculations, set the date of the war at around 1184 BCE ; modern scholarship, based on archaeological evidence at Troy and other sites, puts it some seventy-five years earlier, around 1250 BCE . But the traditional victors at Troy did not have very long to enjoy their victory. These conflicts had more to do with challenging the dominance of Ilium, which controlled and protected the approach to the Hellespont (Dardanelles) and grew rich from tolls and tribute it collected from ship traffic through the narrow water way. Homer suggests that the Trojan War was fought because of the abduction of Helen; it is far more likely that widespread piracy and the Achaean intention to rob the coffers at Troy fueled the long war.
The Dark Age HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Bronze Age The Trojan War and its aftermath took place in the late Bronze Age, which began around 1250 BCE , the date of the very wealthy graves found in 1873 by Heinrich Schliemann in Grave Circle A at Mycenae. For this reason, the period is sometimes also called the Mycenaean era. It was a time of artistic refinement, political stability, and military conflict between competing adjacent kingdoms. The dominant powers in the eastern Mediterranean were the Hittites in the central part of what is now Turkey, the Egyptians in what is now called the Middle East, and, the Mycenaean kings in Greece and the surrounding islands. Trade flourished despite the uncertainties of shipping and other means of transportation.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
For reasons modern scholars do not fully understand, this civilization began to wane around 1220 BCE with the mysterious destruction and subsequent abandonment of Pylos. That event ushered in a period of decline that lasts until roughly 1050 BCE , when the Mycenaean civilization literally disappeared. One theory is that a series of invasions led to the razing of the major fortressed cities. These invasions may have succeeded because of internal conflicts that left local governments vulnerable to newcomers. Whatever its causes, the disappearance of the Mycenaean civilization marked the start of about 250 years of difficult times in Greece, aptly referred to as the Dark Age. This period has its end with the traditional date of the first Olympiad in 776 BCE , very close to the time when Homer is believed to have lived. Of this Dark Age little is known beyond what can be deduced
V o l u m e
1
2 6 1
I l i a d
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Late Bronze Age (the time of the Trojan War): The bodies of the dead are buried, often with grave goods and weapons, at least among the upper classes, in dug graves, stone-walled tombs, or tombs built in the shape of a beehive, often under a hill. Iron Age (Homer’s own time): The bodies of the dead are cremated, and the remains are collected in an urn (often richly decorated), which is then buried in a specially dug pit. In the case of very important burials, a hill of earth or stone is raised above the grave, and the spot may be marked with a column or other grave marker. Today: The majority of bodies are buried; however, cremation is increasingly used.
Late Bronze Age: Kings rule small kingdoms, often in conflict with neighboring kingdoms. Iron Age: Oligarchic societies based on family or clan groupings are numerous. Family kinship often determines political and military action. Today: Worldwide, democracies and dictatorships are more common than monarchies. A few countries have superpower status and are highly influential. Cooperation is practiced to
from the period immediately following and the scanty evidence in the archaeological record. Writing was lost, and with it, most trade seems to have disappeared except on at a local or regional basis at best. Archaeologists working in this period report finding little in the way of luxury goods such as fancy pottery. William Biers, in his study of Greek archeology, suggests that there may have been as much as a 75-percent decrease in population from Bronze Age levels.
The Iron Age Beginning around the eleventh century BCE , the Greeks began to use iron in place of bronze, to
2 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
some degree through such international entities as the United Nations and the World Court. Late Bronze Age: Walled fortresses appear around cities as anxiety over protecting accumulated wealth increases. Iron Age: Aggression is largely prompted by piracy, the desire to rob wealthy others and use the booty for self-aggrandizement. Today: Huge differences exist between consumerist societies such as the United States and poor countries such as many African countries that barely survive by exporting local natural resources to them.
Late Bronze Age: Trade, although extremely difficult and time-consuming, is widespread. Mycenae is built at the intersection of major trade routes and gains revenue from taxes imposed on trade. Iron Age: Phoenicians dominate trade in jewelry and artistically crafted articles. Today: Trade is worldwide and imbalance in rates of export and import traffic determine national and international economic conditions. Communication technologies, especially the Internet, and rapid transportation enable a complex global marketplace.
cremate their dead as opposed to burying bodies intact, and to establish colonies along the west coast of what is now Turkey. By Homer’s day, roughly the middle of the eighth century BCE , these trends were well-established. Writing appeared in a new alphabet borrowed from the Phoenicians, and foreign trade improved, helped in no small part by the colonies along the Ionian coast which tended to remain on friendly terms with their mother states. The population was again on the rise, which spurred another wave of colonization, this time chiefly toward the west, including Sicily, parts of Italy, and the south of France.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
vaguely described in Book 6 when Hecuba goes to lay a robe on the knees of the statue of Athena, have not been identified in the archaeological record much before the ninth century BCE and become much more frequent thereafter. After Homer’s day, while the population, wealth, commerce, and industry of Greece were generally on the rise, the political structure varied between aristocratic and democratic models to varying forms of one-man rule until just before the dawn of the Golden Age in the fifth century BCE .
CRITICAL OVERVIEW A chart of the pattern of the images portrayed on the shield of Achilles (From A Companion to the Iliad, by Malcolm M. Willcock. The University of Chicago Press, 1978. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.)
At least on the Greek mainland, the era of kings was rapidly drawing to a close. By the beginning of the eighth century, the nobles had taken the reins of power from the kings almost everywhere and were ruling over family groups or tribes in what came to be called the polis, or city-state. Largely because of the decorations found on pottery from the period, this era has come to be known as the Geometric period, but increasing regularity was a feature of more than just the decorative arts. In this period, the beginnings of a Greek national identity began to shape (prompting and/or prompted by the founding of the Olympic games and the dissemination of Homer’s works, among other cultural developments). More coordinated military tactics were beginning to be used, including the hoplite formation—a line of men with shields overlapping—alluded to by Homer and depicted on a wine bowl found at Veii and dating to around 650 BCE . Religious practices were also becoming more standardized. While the Homeric heroes sometimes go to specific places for religious observances, the majority seem to be family- or group-centered rituals that take place wherever the family or group may happen to be when the ritual is observed, and archaeological evidence from the Bronze Age tends to confirm this view. Actual temples, like the one
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The critical reputation of the Iliad is perhaps best demonstrated by noting that it is generally regarded as the first work of literature in Western culture. This is significant not only because the poem stands at the head of the list, as it were, but also because it had to beat out a fair amount of competition to achieve that status. By the middle of the sixth century BCE , around the same time as the Peisistratids in Athens ordered the first standard edition of Homer’s works to be made, there were at least six other epic poems treating various parts of the Trojan War story. Most of these were fairly short, although the Cypria was at least half as long as the Iliad and covered material from the decision of the gods to cause the war through Agamemnon’s quarrel with Achilles that begins Homer’s work. Unlike the Iliad and the Odyssey, however, none of the other poems in this epic cycle has survived except in fragmentary quotations in works by later authors. Perhaps these poems simply could not measure up to Homer’s standard. Certainly by the beginning of the sixth century, and possibly late in the seventh, there was already a group of poet/performers calling themselves the Homeridae (Sons of Homer). This group may have been the forerunner of the rhapsodes, trained singers who, while they did apparently compose and improvise works of their own, were best known for performing Homer’s poetry. At least on Plato’s authority, the rhapsodes seem to have begun taking liberties with the poems. These changes may have led the Peisistratids to have the so-called official text written down for the judges at the Great Panathenaia (a religious festival in honor of Athena held every four years). There a contest for the rhapsodes required them, presumably
V o l u m e
1
2 6 3
I l i a d
in shifts and over several days, to recite the whole of the Iliad and the Odyssey. For most people, those public performances were probably their main exposure to Homer’s work. For the educated class, however, knowing one’s Homer quickly became the sign of culture and refinement. Homer is mentioned by name at least six hundred times in surviving Greek literature, in texts that include history, philosophy, religion, and even legal speeches. In his Poetics, Aristotle praises Homer as the ‘‘supreme poet in the serious style’’ and as the forerunner of both tragedy and comedy. Herodotus, in his Histories credits Homer and his near contemporary Hesiod with giving Greek religion its standard forms: the names, the spheres and functions, and descriptions and descent of the gods. The one dissenting voice in the ancient world seems to have been that of Plato. Plato quotes Homer on more than one occasion, and even lampoons the rhapsodes and their embellishment of the standard text in his dialogue Ion. But in his Republic, Plato dismisses Homer as a mere imitator and excludes him (and poets generally) from his educational program. Homer was frequently imitated in the classical world, whether by the authors of the other poems in the epic cycle or lampooned as he was by Aristophanes in several of his plays (especially the Birds and the Clouds), yet his work was never equaled. Several Roman poets (chiefly Virgil, Ovid, and Lucretius) wrote epics, and even used Homer’s hexameter line, but their works are not quite on the same level with Homer’s originals. Interest in Homer continued well into the Christian era, as evidenced by Macrobius’s Saturnalia (dated to the early part of the fifth century CE ), when educated Romans still know their Greek and spend an evening discussing the relative merits of Homer’s treatment of the Troy story as compared to Virgil’s version. With the fall of Rome in 455 CE , however, Homer and his works fell into obscurity for roughly a thousand years, until the scholars of the Renaissance rediscovered classical antiquity and learned to read Greek again. The story of Troy, however, remained popular throughout the period and was widely known: There are accounts of the war in several languages, including Anglo-Saxon, Norman French, and English. It was from Caxton’s Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye (c. 1475), not Homer’s original work, that Shakespeare got his material for writing Troilus and Cressida in 1602.
2 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
With the Renaissance came a revival of interest in Homer and his texts, which were first published in the modern era in Florence in 1488. This interest was further sparked in the eighteenth century when F. A. Wolf posed the so-called Homeric Question (Who wrote what, and when?), and again in the late nineteenth century and into the twentieth with the excavations of Schliemann, Do¨rpfeld, and Blegen at Troy and Evans at Knossos, the work of Milman Parry and Adam Parry on the transmission of oral poetry like Homer’s original sources, and the decipherment of Linear B in 1952 by Michael Ventris. It is thought that Milton was significantly influenced by Homer in composing Paradise Lost, and Homer certainly provided inspiration for later poets such as Byron and Tennyson, though their works are narrower in scope than those by Homer. The ever-growing resources in libraries and on the Internet confirm that Homer and his epics generate ever increasing appeal. In fact, a 2007 collection of essays gathered by Barbara Graziosi and Emily Greenwood emphasizes the impact of Homer in the twentieth century, lifting the epics from an already revered position as the starting point of Western literature to that of a classic of world literature. Clearly, the Iliad continues to garner the critical acclaim and popular interest that have been associated with it throughout most of the two and a half millennia since it was first composed.
CRITICISM Michael J. Spires In the following essay, Spires discusses some extraliterary concerns, including the historical and cultural importance of the Iliad, both in its own time and in the centuries that followed. In one sense, it is unjust to give Homer all the credit for the Iliad, since it is all but certain that he had at least some help in composing it. Whether he merely cobbled together shorter poems into one epic work or improvised the majority of the Iliad from a pre-existing repertoire of themes, epithets, and episodes, Homer had the benefit of several centuries’ worth of material to draw upon in composing his own poem. Looked at from another perspective, however, it is no less unjust to refuse Homer the credit for his work. Surely there were other artists, now lost in the distant past, from whom Homer drew
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
WE ARE INVITED TO CONSIDER THAT WAR AFFLICTS BOTH THE VICTORS AND THE VANQUISHED, THOUGH IN DIFFERING DEGREES, OF COURSE, AND TO REMEMBER ALL THE GOOD THINGS IN LIFE THAT
For a modern fictional treatment of the Trojan War, see Marion Zimmer Bradley’s young readers’ novel The Firebrand (originally published in 1987 but reprinted in 2009), which tells the story from the perspective of Cassandra, Priam’s ill-fated prophetic daughter. Diane P. Thompson’s The Trojan War: Literature and Legends from the Bronze Age to the Present (2004) presents selected works designed for students. This book includes mythology, traditional Troy stories and poetry, historical information about the Bronze Age, and a survey of Troy-related materials such as novels, plays, games, films, and Internet sites.
The Odyssey was probably written at least a short time after the Iliad. It describes the tenyear homeward journey of Odysseus after the Trojan War has ended, and events in his absence from his home in Ithaca. Many translations have been made, one of which is the 2006 Penguin Classic edition, edited by Bernard Knox and translated by Robert Fagles. Virgil’s Aeneid is an epic poem that describes the wanderings of Aeneas and his group of Trojan and allied refugees following the fall of Troy. After many stops along the way (including a visit to the underworld), Aeneas and his people land in Italy and settle not far from the city that eventually becomes Rome. One of many translations of this poem is the 2008 Penguin Classic edition, edited by Bernard Knox and translated by Robert Fagles.
The War Novels Anthology (2009), available in a Kindle edition from Amazon Digital Services, is a collection of ten classic war stories, including the Iliad, and Russian, British, and American authors of different time periods such as Leo Tolstoy, Rudyard Kipling, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Dos Passos, Upton Sinclair, and Stephen Crane.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
WAR DESTROYS.’’
inspiration, technique, or source material. Yet it is his artistry that made the poem sing, if you will. If we compare Homer to Ella Fitzgerald, for example (a metaphor which I owe to Michael Silk’s commentary on the Iliad), no one would deny that some credit is due to the original author of the piece being interpreted or improvised, and some as well to the inventors and refiners of the art itself: Yet it is indisputably Fitzgerald’s artistry (or Homer’s) that makes the piece something more than an exercise in musical theory or poetic technique. While the Greeks would certainly have considered the poem an artistic creation, they saw more in it than merely great literature. For them, it contained elements of both history and religion. Herodotus and Thucydides both accepted Homer as an historical source, to some degree, and archaeologists have found evidence of votive offerings and literal hero-worship at sites connected with the poem (Mycenae, for example, and at the tomb of Achilles even down to the days of Julius Caesar) that date back at least to the eighth century BCE . For centuries, Greek culture was saturated with the Iliad. The aristocracy was accustomed to hearing parts of the poem, or at least the Troy cycle, in private performances at dinner parties and other functions. By the time of the Golden Age in the fifth century BCE , Homer was a standard part of the school curriculum and was widely quoted in later literature. At least in Athens the Iliad was recited, in full, every four years at the Great Panathenaia, giving everyone regular opportunities to experience the poem in performance. In order to understand the original importance of the poem, it is vital to remember that the modern conception of history was first put forward by Herodotus in the middle of the fifth
V o l u m e
1
2 6 5
I l i a d
century BCE , some three hundred years after Homer. Lacking a written historical record, the only route to immortality for the Greeks of Homer’s day was through the memory of the gods or the memory of an artist: One could never be certain about the survival of one’s family line in a world where disease, famine, and war were much more common than they are in modern times. As Sarpedon says to Glaucus (XII.322-328, my translation): O my friend, if we could get through this war, live forever and be both ageless and immortal, I would neither myself fight in the front rank, nor command you to fight where men win glory: But now, seeing as the dooms of death stand all around in their thousands, which no mortal can either flee or escape, let us go on and grasp glory for ourselves, or yield it to others.
This is also the impetus behind the repeated invocations to the Muses scattered throughout the poem. (Especially revealing in this context is II.484-85, the beginning of the Catalogue of Ships: ‘‘Tell me now, O Muses who have homes on Olympus: for you are goddesses, you are everywhere, and you know all things.’’) It is harder for us to get in touch with this mindset, living as we do in an age in which all sorts of records and identifications follow us around for most of our lives, and, in many cases, well afterward. Yet we do still yearn to be remembered for something more than just having ‘‘lived and moved and had our being’’ here for a period of time, to borrow a phrase from Scripture. That is enough to explain why the Iliad was important to the Greeks, in Homer’s time and afterward. Why is it important to us, nearly three millennia later? Why do people still read this poem? Of course, because it is good literature. But what makes it not only good, but even popular? The continued popularity of the poem is due to several factors. Chief among them are, first, the richness of its imagery, coupled with a certain sparseness of detail that allows the imagination of the reader (or, originally, the listener) to fill in the outlines left by the poet, thus inviting audience participation in the work, as it were; second, the balanced treatment it gives to each side; and third, the excellent portrait of the human condition offered by the protagonists, Achilles and Hector. The chief rule in poetry, as one of my teachers once described it, is to show rather than tell, and Homer is a master at this tactic. From the ubiquitous descriptive epithets through the frequent
2 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
similes and metaphors, to such masterful scenes as the bed of flowers put forth by the earth on Mount Ida when Hera seduces Zeus to draw his attention away from the war (XIV.345ff.), or the intricacies of Achilles’s new shield, which occupies the latter half of Book 18, the Iliad is a richly woven tapestry of descriptive detail. But like any good poet, Homer uses images that would have been familiar to his audience (though, as with those used by Jesus in his parables, they may be less so to us today), and he uses them to sketch a scene, no more. Consider, for example, that we have almost no description of Troy itself beyond the very general formulaic expressions ‘‘well-built,’’ and ‘‘wide-wayed,’’ and the detail that it contains a high place where there are temples to the gods. The rest is left to our imagination. It would have been very easy, in writing about the Trojan War, to play up or favor one side over the other (as later accounts did), but Homer opts for the middle road instead. More Trojans than Achaeans are killed, but in all other respects, the poet treats both sides equally. There is nobility and savagery on both sides: Even the gods are fairly equally divided, if we hold Zeus and Ares to be fairly impartial, or at least alternatively favoring both sides. This keeps the poem from becoming a cheap bit of nationalistic propaganda, but it also says something, I think, about the nature of war itself, a supposition that is strengthened by the repeated use of peacetime imagery to describe the events of war. We are invited to consider that war afflicts both the victors and the vanquished, though in differing degrees, of course, and to remember all the good things in life that war destroys. This balance is also found in Homer’s treatment of the two protagonists, Achilles and Hector, who serve as literal and metaphorical bookends to the poem. Achilles is the first person, and Hector the last, to be named in the poem, in the first and last lines, respectively. Achilles is mentioned by name 322 times, and Hector, 447 (probably because Achilles sits it out for the majority of the poem, while Hector continues to fight). Achilles is better in war than Hector, but Hector clearly outshines Achilles in the activities of peace. Granted, we do not have an opportunity to see Achilles in such peacetime activities as Hector’s interlude with Andromache in Book 6. Achilles’s main concern seems to be with war. Hector, by contrast, is quite clearly a man of peace who had rather be doing anything but fighting: He fights because he must and because it is expected of him.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
At the beginning of the poem, Achilles is god-like in more than just the name. His rage is boundless, his fury is all-consuming: We see in him all the worst characteristics of humankind, all on a par with those of the divine characters of the poem. With Hector, we see the reverse: It is the exception for him to become enraged, and if anger does come upon him, it goes as quickly as it comes. He embodies many of the best qualities of humanity and the better aspects of the gods. It is in Hector’s direction that Achilles moves throughout the course of the poem. He does not reach that goal until his rage has destroyed Hector, however. It may be that Homer was again making a moral point about the destructive tendencies of war in showing us how it destroys all that is good in us. Yet Hector is not without flaws. He rounds on Polydamas and refuses to heed his (usually sound) advice on several occasions. What is more, he and Achilles seem to share the same major flaw—an over-developed concern about what other people think of them—although it is expressed in different ways. Achilles’s need for the regard of others is explicit; he says repeatedly that he is concerned about his reputation, both while he is yet alive and in years to come after his death. He knows he will die whether or not he fights at Troy, but if he is denied his rightful honors, he seems to feel that he has lost everything, and all his efforts will have been in vain. As he tells Odysseus (IX.315-22, my translation): I do not think that I will be persuaded by Agamemnon, the son of Atreus, nor by the rest of the Danaans, since there was no grati tude rendered for fighting on and on against [your] enemies, without end. The fate for one who hangs back and for one who fights well is the same, the coward and the brave man are held in a single honor: The man who has done much dies just the same as the man who has done nothing. Nor is there any advantage for me, now that my heart has suffered such pains, in forever holding out my life as bait in the fighting.
Homer depicts Hector’s need for others’ respect more sketchily than Achilles’s, but it is there. Feeling as he does about the cause of the war, surely Hector could have refused to fight in it or prevailed on his brother (directly or indirectly, through Priam) to give Helen and the looted treasures back. Why, then, does he fight on? Homer hints at the answer twice in Book 6, at the opening of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Sculpture of Mycenean king Menelaus located at the Loggia della Signoria in Florence, Italy. This sculpture is a late first century CE Roman copy of a Greek original from the third century BCE . (Image copyright Timur Kulgarin, 2010. Used under license from Shutterstock.com)
Hector’s speech to Andromache, and the close of his speech to Paris: He would be unable to hold up his head in Troy if he failed to fight, even in a war he felt to be unworthy. In his portraits of Hector and Achilles, Homer shows us the best and the worst of humanity, set against the backdrop of the war that eventually destroys them both. Neither one learns the lesson of self-respect in time to save himself, and that is the true tragedy of the Iliad. Source: Michael J. Spires, Critical Essay on Iliad, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
William Duffy In the following essay, Duffy discusses the character of Ajax the Greater and his relationships with two of the gods in the Iliad.
V o l u m e
1
2 6 7
I l i a d
IRONICALLY, ZEUS’ PLEDGE TO HONOR THE MOST SELFISH OF THE ACHAEANS (ACHILLES) HAS FORCED HIM TO PUNISH UNJUSTLY THE MOST LOYAL MEMBER OF THE ARMY.’’
The first pieces of evidence about Zeus’ relationship with Aias come during the hero’s monomachia with Hektor at Il. 7.206–311 and the events leading up to it. While the god does not expressly act or speak here, the prayers to him and the speeches about him provide valuable clues about what factors will influence his later dealings with Aias. Before Aias meets Hektor in battle, the Greeks (on Aias’ request) pray to Zeus for a favorable outcome:
The question of the Greater Aias’ relationship to the gods is actually two questions: what Zeus’ inconsistent behavior towards the hero means and why Aias does not receive assistance from the gods. The first issue is complicated by the contradictory nature of the Zeus/Aias interactions, the second by the lack of evidence inherent in any question about why something does not happen. The close examination of evidence from the Iliad and other literacy sources ultimately reveals that both questions are iterations of the same phenomenon: the emotional feeling of a god towards a hero complicated by the circumstances of the Trojan War. The question of Aias’ relationship with Zeus will ultimately impact the issue of the hero’s lack of divine aid. Therefore, we must address that issue first. Zeus interferes in Aias’ affairs eight times. These interferences are dispersed throughout the hero’s time on the battlefield. The number of interactions between the god and the hero, although substantial, is not unusual. The inconsistency of Zeus’ behaviors towards Aias, on the other hand, deviates from other hero/god interactions, which are typically consistent. Zeus is partially (if not mostly) responsible for all of Aias’ battlefield defeats, but Aias prays exclusively to Zeus, and the god shows kindness to the hero more than once (Whitman 1958, 173). However, nearly all of the Zeus/Aias interactions have one thing in common—the presence of Hektor. Seven of the eight points of contact between Zeus and Aias on the battlefield involve Hektor. The fact that Hektor and Aias meet sixteen times on the battlefield, far more often than any other pair of opposing heroes (Scott 1918, 608–609), certainly has something to do with this. Still, Hektor’s involvement in the Zeus/Aias interactions may influence how the god treats the Achaean hero. The first substantive meeting between Hektor and Aias, their Book 7 monomachia, provides some clues as to what this influence might be.
2 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
‘‘Father Zeus, ruler from Ida, most glorious (and) greatest, Grant (that) Aias receive victory and shining glory: But if you also love Hektor and take care of him, Bestow the same strength and honor upon both of them.’’ (Il. 7.202 205)
This prayer is strangely ambivalent (O’ Higgins 1989, 45), possibly indicating that the Achaeans are so unsure of the outcome of the battle, and specifically about what side Zeus will take, that they are unable to even wish for victory without qualification. Kirk refers to the Greeks’ refined prayer as ‘‘a prudential wish for a draw in case Zeus is favoring Hektor’’ (1990, 260–61). But why would the Achaeans feel the need to make such a prayer? Zeus did promise to aid the Trojans against the Greeks at Il. 1.511–27, but the Achaeans did not know this. At the time of the prayer, the Trojans have broken an oath (at 4.104–25) and the Achaeans have outperformed them on the battlefield. Therefore, the Greeks had no reason to believe that they were on the wrong side of the gods’ intentions. Perhaps the unusual prayer does not reflect the Achaeans’ circumstances, but rather the characters mentioned within it: Zeus, Aias and Hektor. If so, it provides an important jumping-off point for a discussion of how the god’s interactions with the former hero might be affected by his relationship with the latter one. The Argives’ qualified prayer to Zeus at Il. 7.202–05 is predicated on a specific concern—that Zeus’ love for Hektor will prevent him from granting glory to Aias. Since Zeus’ future interactions with Aias will almost always involve the Trojan prince, this prayer provides something specific to look for in the god’s dealings with the hero. If the Greeks’ fear foreshadows future events in the poem, Zeus’ works against Aias should directly benefit Hektor, not just the Trojan army in general.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
If the Argives’ prayer to Zeus before the Aias/Hektor monomachia accurately predicts the god’s future behavior, it could indicate that when Zeus works to Aias’ detriment he does so out of love for Hektor. It could not, on the other hand, say anything about Zeus’ feelings toward Aias. For this, Idaios’ speech to Aias and Hektor at the end of their battle may prove helpful. When attempting to persuade Aias and Hektor to stop fighting, Idaios makes the following speech: Dear young men, do not fight or battle any longer: For the cloud gatherer Zeus loves both of you, And both [of you are] skilled spearmen: And indeed we all know this. But night now is coming upon us: and it is good to obey the night. (Il. 7.279 82)
Several scholars have stated that Idaios says that Aias and Hektor should stop fighting because of the arrival of night. While the herald certainly mentions this, the first reason he gives for why the two should hold off is Zeus’ love for the two warriors. If Idaios’ statement accurately relates Zeus’ feelings, this passage provides the first explicit statement in the Iliad concerning the god’s feelings towards Aias. Possible concerns about the veracity of Idaios’ statement derive from the questions of whether he can relay Zeus’ thoughts and whether his comment is appropriate considering the way the Aias/Hektor monomachia ended. A look at these issues shows that neither one should cause the herald’s words to be discounted. There is no evidence in the Iliad that suggests that Idaios cannot act as a messenger of Zeus. Il. 7.274 identifies Talthubios and Idaios as ‘‘messengers of Zeus and men (Dios aggeloi eˆde androˆn).’’ This phrase describes heralds elsewhere (Kirk 1990, 271), but that does not argue against Idaios’ ability to perform the function of Zeus’ messenger. If anything, it bolsters the claim that heralds in general were thought to have a connection to the divine. Moreover, nothing in the passage suggests that Idaios is relating a message from a mortal source. Idaios’ speech does not mention the Trojans’ concerns about the battle; the beings whose thoughts and intentions he relates are Zeus’ and personified Night’s. Also, the poem does not indicate whether the heralds received any orders from their respective armies (Kirk 1990, 271). Finally, the battle ends exactly in the way that the Greeks prayed to Zeus
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
for it to end (provided he loved Hektor), a way that Hektor did not count as among the possible outcomes of the duel (O’ Higgins 1989, 45), potentially indicating the god’s involvement. The combined weight of the evidence allows for the possibility that Zeus had something to do with Idaios’ statement, although the herald would not have to act under the direction of the god to accurately transmit his feelings. At the very least, the Iliad gives us no reason to doubt the accuracy of Idaios’ speech on account of who makes it. Still, before accepting the herald’s statement as true, it is necessary to make sure that the timing of the speech does not preclude this. At first glance, the heralds’ intervention seems to have prevented Aias, who had been winning the fight, from killing Hektor (O’ Higgins 1989 46). If Idaios’ statement that Zeus loves Aias occurred in the context of a speech which denied the hero a sure victory, its veracity would be questionable. A closer look at the end of the Aias/Hektor monomachia, however, indicates that stopping the battle did not necessarily hurt Aias: And he [Hektor] was lain out on his back With his shield pressed into him: but Apollo imme diately stood him upright. And now they would have thrust [at each other] at close range with swords, if the heralds, messengers of Zeus and men, had not come, one from the Trojans, the other from the bronze chitoned Achaeans, Talthubios and Idaios, both wise. But they held their staffs in the middle of the two [heroes]. (Il. 7.271 76)
Apollo’s interference at Il 7.272 completely changes the state of the battle. At the very least, Hektor is upright and healthy. More likely, he is now fighting with a god at his side. When Apollo and the other pro-Trojan gods wish to stop battles before their favored heroes are killed, they typically spirit the heroes away from the battlefield. Here, Apollo stands Hektor upright, an act that shows that he wants the Trojan to continue fighting Aias. Since Aias is clearly besting Hektor at this point, Apollo’s behavior makes sense only if he intends to continue helping the Trojan warrior. The god’s behavior at Iliad 15.236–325 provides a useful parallel. In Book 15, Apollo helps Hektor, knocked unconscious by a devastating stone-
V o l u m e
1
2 6 9
I l i a d
throw from Aias, make a miraculous recovery, just as he does at 7.272. He then leads Hektor into battle and helps the hero drive back the Greeks. Since Apollo’s behavior in the two passages is identical up until Hektor resumes fighting, it is likely that, had the Aias/Hektor monomachia continued, Apollo would have helped Hektor as he helps him eight books later. Finally, the poem provides no evidence that Apollo’s whereabouts changed in the few moments between when he healed Hektor and when the heralds arrived. This, alongside the example provided by the events of Book 15 and the logical ramifications of Apollo’s initial interference in the battle, argues that when Idaios asks Aias to stop fighting, he probably stops him from engaging a divinely-assisted Hektor in battle. Kirk states, ‘‘[Idaios’] present assertion that he [Zeus] loves both [Aias and Hektor] equally is unexpected in view of what has actually happened, namely that Aias would have killed Hektor were it not for Apollo’s miraculous intervention’’ (1990, 272). If Apollo’s action had been ordered by Zeus, Kirk’s observation would throw into doubt the veracity of Idaios’ statement that the god loves Aias. However, nothing in the Iliad indicates that Zeus had anything to do with Apollo’s action. If anything, he influenced the heralds to stop the fight, an action that undermined Apollo’s efforts. Therefore, Idaios’ statement about Zeus’ love for Aias need not be discounted on account of its placement. Along with the Achaeans’ prayer at Il 7.202–05, it hypothesizes a relationship between Zeus and Aias that the subsequent interactions between the two characters can confirm or refute. The events of Book 7 provide two statements about Zeus’ connection to Aias—that he loves Aias and that his actions to the Achaean hero’s detriment are due to his desire to aid Hektor. An investigation of the future interactions between the god and the hero reveals that these statements accurately represent the tensions at play in the Zeus/Aias interactions. Between Books 8 and 17, Zeus acts directly on Aias five times, hindering the Achaean hero three times and helping him twice. A look at these actions reveals a clear pattern. When Zeus’ plan demands that the Trojans, Hektor in particular, succeed, the god works against Aias. As Hektor’s glory becomes progressively more dependent on Aias’ misfortune, Zeus’ actions become
2 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
progressively more damaging to the hero. When Zeus is not bound by other concerns, his behavior towards Aias indicates that he has an emotional bond with him. After Iliad 7, the next interaction between Zeus and Aias occurs at Iliad 8. Here, Aias is just one of several Greek heroes affected by Zeus’ action: And he [Zeus] thundered greatly from Ida, and a blazing thunderbolt came amongst the host of the Achaeans; and seeing [it] they were amazed, and pallid fear seized them all. Idomeneus dared not stay, nor Agamemnon, Nor did the two Aiantes, Ares’ henchmen, remain. (Il. 8.75 79)
Zeus’ thundering, which scatters Aias and most of the other Greeks, sets the stage for Hektor’s arrival at Iliad 8.88. Zeus’ actions against Aias here help Hektor, matching what the Argives’ prayer at 7.202–05 predicted. However, since the god’s actions affect several other Greek heroes, it cannot tell us much else about the Zeus/ Aias relationship. The next interaction between god and hero, three books later, will be more helpful in this regard. At Il. 11.544–47 Aias is the last Greek hero of note on the battlefield, making him the only thing standing between the Trojans and the victory that Zeus promised them in 11.79. Unfortunately for the Trojans, this obstacle proves too much for them to overcome. At 11.489–542, Aias singlehandedly devastates the Trojan army. The violence and imagery of the scene are similar to what appears in the aristeiai of Diomedes and Odysseus (Hainsworth 1993, 277). Hektor, an inferior warrior to Aias judging by their duel in Book 7, avoids the Greek hero, even though he was summoned to the middle of the battlefield specifically to engage him (Moulton 1981,3 n.5). Zeus then personally drives the Achaean hero from the battle to ensure the Trojans’ temporary victory: And father Zeus, seated aloft, aroused fear in Aias: And he [Aias] stood stunned, and threw his seven layered shield behind him, and glancing about he withdrew from the battle throng, continually turning around, like an animal, slowly shifting his weight from knee to knee. (Il. 11.544 47)
The timing of Zeus’ action indicates that it is specifically linked to Hektor. The only change between the circumstances of 11.489 and those of 15.544 is that Hektor has now failed to even
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
try to stop Aias. This failure would have made the Trojan prince culpable for whatever future destruction Aias would have wrought, had Zeus not intervened. Zeus’ action against Aias therefore protects not only the Trojan army but also Hektor’s reputation. Once again, the ideas expressed in 7.202–05 hold. Zeus acts against Aias to help the Trojan at moments that augment or protect Hektor’s personal glory. Nothing suggests that Zeus has any enmity towards the Achaean hero. In fact, the next interaction between the god and Aias provides evidence that the opposite is the case. In Book 11, Zeus acts against Aias not because of any wrongdoing by the hero, but in order to further his divine plan. While this plan will culminate in a Greek victory, Aias will not live to see it. Zeus’ interaction with Aias in Book 13 may reveal something about how he feels about this. At Il 13.810–20, Aias makes a speech which is both a rallying cry to the Argives and a verbal attack on Hektor. The speech itself resembles other speeches in the poem that extol the speaker’s allies while insulting his enemies. What happens afterwards does not: ‘‘Possessed one [Hektor], come close: Why do you uselessly try to frighten the Argives? We Achaeans are not ignorant of battle, But rather have been overpowered by the wicked whip of Zeus. And now your heart expects to destroy [our] ships; But certainly there are also hands for us to defend [with], And your well inhabited city may be seized and sacked by our hands beforehand. And I say to you that [the time] comes soon, the time when You, fleeing, pray to father Zeus and the other immortals for the beautifully maned horses that bear you into the city to go faster than falcons as they kick up dust from the earth.’’ Just as he said these things a bird flew by on the right, a high flying eagle: thereupon the band of Achaeans, shouted taking courage at [the sight of] the bird. (Il. 13.813 24)
The eagle is an omen from Zeus, confirming Aias’ prediction (Duckworth 1966, 24). A sign of this sort does not appear under similar circumstances at any other place in the Iliad (Fenik 1968, 156). Since other events in the epic foreshadow the predicted events (Hektor’s death and the fall of Troy) more strongly, the omen’s
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
message does not demand its strangeness. Maybe its uniqueness is due to the person who receives it. Zeus’ omen at Iliad 13.821 marks the only time in the Iliad that Aias receives an omen, and the scene, which seems to be heading towards a battle between the Aias-led Achaeans and the Hektor-led Trojans, abruptly stops in a way not mirrored elsewhere in the epic (Fenik 1968, 156). The nature of the omen is therefore only one of three unique events occurring at the same time in this passage. Perhaps these three events mark a single unusual event—Zeus acting without regard to his divine plan. While Hektor and Aias interact in Book 13, no fighting ensues. With no battle breaking out, Zeus can act without concern for carrying out his divine plan or keeping his Book 1 oath to give Hektor and the Trojans glory. This is exactly what he does. Zeus does not send the omen in Il 13.821 to spur the Greeks (whom he is still working against) to victory, but to make up for the suffering Aias has endured and will go through by giving him a glimpse of the Achaean victory he will not live to see. Through this selfless gesture Zeus may be confirming Idaios’ statement from 7.280—that the god does love Aias. Despite this, the god’s divine plan remains of paramount importance to him. When Aias stands in the way of its fruition three books later, Zeus works against him yet again. In Book 16 Aias once again stands as the primary impediment to Trojan victory and glory for Hektor, just as in Book 11. Here, however, the stakes are higher. In Book 11 the Trojans had only to perform well to accomplish Zeus’ plan; by Book 16 the god has promised that the Trojans would set the Greek ships aflame and that Hektor will have glory in war (Il 15.14–133). For this to happen, Aias cannot be removed briefly from the battlefield as he was earlier; he must be completely eliminated as a threat. Zeus’ afflicting of Aias with phobos in Il 11.544 removed him from the battle only for a short time. Within 12 lines, he resumed beating back the Trojan attack, albeit while retreating. Such a minor hindering of the Achaean hero will not permit the Trojans to set the Greek ships aflame. From Il 16.101–24, the Trojans and Zeus focus on removing Aias for a longer period of time.
V o l u m e
1
2 7 1
I l i a d
At Il 16.102–04, the mind of Zeus (noos Zeˆnos) and the Trojan soldiers drive Aias from his post, but he remains on the boats, despite receiving innumerable blows. Finally, Zeus and Hektor find a way to remove Aias from the fray completely; they break his weapon: Hektor, taking position nearby, struck Aias’ ashen spear with a great sword, behind the point across the end of the shaft, and he smote it utterly: Then Telemonian Aias vainly shook a spear shaft in his hand, but the bronze point fell to the ground far away clattering loudly. And Aias knew the works of the gods in his illus trious heart, and he shook, because high thundering Zeus was wholly thwarting him in the arts of war, and he planned victory for the Trojans: and he [Aias] withdrew from the missiles. And tire less fire fell upon the swift ship. And immediately unquench able flame spread across it. (Il. 16.114 23).
The destruction of Aias’ spear finally forces the hero to leave the battlefield, allowing the Trojans to set the Greek ships aflame. This passage manifests the connection between Zeus’ plan and his treatment of Aias. Zeus’ promises to Hektor and the Trojans can come to fruition only if he personally eliminates the Argive champion as a factor. Although Aias is not to blame for the Trojans’ reaching the Achaean ships (in fact he probably did more than any other hero to delay them), Zeus’ actions make the Argives’ loss into his personal failure (O’Higgins 1989, 46). Ironically, Zeus’ pledge to honor the most selfish of the Achaeans (Achilles) has forced him to punish unjustly the most loyal member of the army. While Zeus’ omen in Book 13 appears to indicate his care for Aias, his action to the hero’s benefit is nowhere near as substantive as his actions to the hero’s detriment in Books 8–16. This creates the impression that the god does not care about him. But is this impression the result of Zeus’ feelings towards Aias or the necessities of his divine plan? The interaction between the two during the Book 17 battle over Patroklos’ corpse, which occurs after Zeus’ promise to help the Trojans has been fulfilled, may provide some information about this. Hektor plays a major role in this battle, as he did at the other times when Zeus interfered in Aias’ affairs.
2 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
When Zeus makes his first entrance into the battle over Patroklos’ corpse, he acts on behalf of the Trojans: Thus he [Zeus] spoke, and a dark cloud of grief enveloped him [Hektor]. And he went from the lead fighters, clad in shining bronze. And then the son of Kronos took up his glittering, tasseled aegis, and hid Mount Ida with clouds, And sending forth much lightning he thundered greatly, and he shook it [Ida], And he gave victory to the Trojans, and struck fear into the Achaeans. (Il. 17.591 96)
At first glance, the change in Zeus’ plan does not seem to have affected his relationship to Aias, but a closer look reveals that there is a substantial difference between this passage and the previous interactions between god and hero. In all the previous passages, Zeus’ actions explicitly affect Aias, whether as the sole object of the god’s action or, in the isolated case of Il. 8.75–79, as one of his named victims. Here, Aias, who keeps fighting as if nothing has happened, is one of the few Greeks unaffected by the god’s works. The god’s actions towards the hero therefore deviate from the pattern set in the rest of the Iliad. The deviation, perhaps not coincidentally, matches a change in the behavior of Aias towards Zeus. In Book 17, Aias makes his first prayer in the Iliad to Zeus, or any god for that matter. His prayer is unlike other prayer in the poem: Come now, father Zeus, drag the sons of the Achaeans from under the mist, Place them in the clear air, and give [the ability to] see to their eyes: And destroy [us] in the sun, since thus it is pleasing to you. (Il. 17.591 96)
Aias’ prayer, unlike those of other heroes, asks the god not to grant the Greeks victory outright, but to make it possible for them to win or lose on their merits (Hinckley 1986, 214). In Il 17.629– 47, Aias is reacting to a twofold problem on the ground: Zeus’ obvious favoring of the Trojans and the fog that prevents him from seeing his allies (Edwards 1991, 124). Since Aias knows that he can do nothing about the first problem (Hinckley 1986, 214), he focuses on the second. Fortunately for Aias, the two issues are not connected. While Zeus did indeed put the mist on the battlefield in Il 17.269–70, he did so not to hinder the Greeks, but to protect the body of Patroklos from harm (Edwards 1991, 89). In fact, immediately after the mist arrives (at Il
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
17.272–3) the poet states that Zeus briefly supports the Greeks before returning to the Trojans’ side. Also, the fog does not affect the Trojans less than it does the Greeks; neither side can tell friend from enemy until Aias entreats Zeus to remove the fog (Severyns 1966, 52–53). Therefore, Zeus can remove the mist while still favoring the Trojans. Zeus’ prompt response to Aias’ prayer provides two important pieces of information about the god’s relationship with the hero: Thus he [Aias] spoke, and the father felt pity for the man who was shedding a tear. And immediately he scattered the fog and sent away the mist, and the sun shone, and the whole fight was revealed. (Il. 17.649 51)
The passage clearly depicts Zeus helping Aias, contradicting the theory that the hero receives no divine aid whatsoever. Zeus’ pity also shows that he has an emotional attachment to the hero. While Aias accepts that Zeus has placed him in peril (West 1965, 293), the god shows his sadness at having to do so. When the interactions between Aias and Zeus are looked at as a whole, a distinct pattern appears. Every time that the god’s actions hurt the hero, the purpose is not harming Aias but helping Hektor and the Trojans. When Zeus acts on Aias without trying to further his divine plan, his actions reflect an emotional attachment to the hero. Thus, the two statements made about Zeus and Aias in Book 7 stand: the god does indeed love the hero, but will deny him glory in order to further the Trojan cause. Once Hektor’s role in the Aias/Zeus interactions is revealed, it becomes clear that the god’s seemingly inconsistent behavior towards the Achaean hero follows a set, predictable pattern. While this is an important step in understanding Aias’ relationship to the gods, it does not deal with the aspect of the relationship that has attracted the largest amount of attention—the lack of divine aid the hero receives. In the Iliad, a lack of divine action can mean just as much as its presence, particularly in the case of Aias (Whitman 1958, 222). With the exception of his connection to Achilles, no aspect of Aias’ character is mentioned more often than his perceived lack of divine aid, particularly his lack of an aristeia. I say ‘‘perceived’’ here because the gods do in fact help Aias. As discussed earlier, Zeus
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
answers his prayer at Il 17.649–51, a clear example of divine aid. Poseidon also encourages Aias at Il 13.46–47. This means that the two most powerful Greek gods assist Aias over the course of the Iliad. Therefore, the question of Aias’ lack of divine assistance must refer specifically to ‘‘direct aid,’’ namely a god appearing physically on the battlefield to help a hero. Zeus and Poseidon do not provide this sort of aid to any of the Achaeans. In fact, there is only one divinity in the Iliad who enters the battlefield on the Argives’ behalf with any regularity—Athena. Therefore, the question is not why the gods do not help Aias, but why Athena does not help him. Athena and Aias’ history in the Greek literary tradition makes this a loaded question. Aias and Athena do not interact in the Iliad, but other literary sources depict an adversarial relationship between the two. One of things Aias is best known for is his madness and suicide—a tragic event brought about by Athena (Whitman 1958, 173). Since the Book 23 funeral games clearly foreshadow the judgment of arms (Schein 1984, 23), the event which leads directly to Aias’ suicide (Burgess 2001, 142), it is logical to assume that the Iliad was composed with knowledge of this tale. Could Athena’s treatment of Aias in extra-Iliadic tales reflect her treatment of the hero within the epic? Her behavior towards Aias Oileus indicates that this is possible. During the funeral games for Patroclus, Athena causes Aias Oileusto slip in dung, causing him to lose a footraceto Odysseus(Il23.774–80).Her method of giving Odysseus victory (as opposed to just making her favored hero faster) indicates a dislike of the Lesser Aias and a desire to manifest her enmity towards him. The best attested reason for the goddess’ dislike of the Locrian Aias is his rape of Cassandra at her altar, which does not take place until after the events of the Iliad. The presence of a manifestation within the Iliad of Athena’s enmity towards a character for an action that occurs after the end of the epic may have bearing on the goddess’ dealings with the Greater Aias. Also, the connection between the two Aiantes may invite a comparison between their experiences with Athena. Although the precedent certainly does not prove that Athena’s dislike of theGreaterAiascarriesfromthetraditioninforming the Iliad to the poem itself, it does permit us to entertain the possibility.
V o l u m e
1
2 7 3
I l i a d
Much as the events of Book 7 do for the Zeus/ Aias relationship, the extra-Iliadic enmity between Aias and Athena provides a hypothesis about how they feel about each other within the poem. Does Athena’s lack of aid to Aias within the poem indicate that she dislikes him? The Iliad does not make an explicit statement on this issue, but enough evidence exists to support a suggestion. While Athena and Aias do not interact, they do appear in the same place on a couple of occasions. An investigation into these moments can provide insight into the relationship between the two characters. If Athena’s behavior in these scenes deviates markedly from how she acts elsewhere in the text, or if her action or inaction directly works against her stated goals, this could indicate that her feelings about Aias are influencing her behavior. Here it is important not to assume before analyzing her actions that Athena dislikes Aias. For this reason, I will not discuss how Athena’s enmity towards the hero would affect the interpretation of these events until after analysis based solely on the information provided within the Iliad. Athena does not physically appear on the battlefield from the beginning of Book 8 until Il 17.542–46, banned from it (like all of the proGreek gods) by Zeus (Whitman 1958, 277). Athena’s absence from the fray makes it impossible to ascribe any significance to her not helping Aias for that period, but it also makes two books where the hero is most prolific (judging by how often his name appears) particularly important for the goddess’ character. Athena’s last appearance on the battlefield for nine books is during Aias’ Book 7 battle with Hektor, her first appearance after her hiatus during the battle over Patroklos’ body in Book 17, where Aias appears prominently. In fact the hero’s name appears more in these two books than in any others. Athena’s last physical action in the Iliad before her forced withdrawal from the battlefield is somewhat surprising given how active she has been up until this point in the poem and how active she will be later. She simply takes her place as a spectator for the Aias/Hektor monomachia: And Athena and Apollo of the silver bow, resembling vultures, sat down on the high oak of aegis bearing father Zeus, taking pleasure in the men: and the dense lines of men sat, bristling with shields and helmets and spears. (Il. 7.57 61)
2 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
Athena and Apollo, like all the seated soldiers, are part of the audience to the Aias/Hektor monomachia. Apollo, though, does not stay an audience member, but instead joins the battle on Hektor’s behalf at Il 7.272–73. Therefore, when Aias decides whether or not to continue the battle after the heralds’ interruption, he is probably deciding whether or not to combat a divinelyaided warrior. As the events in Book 5 show, Athena sometimes advises the Greek soldiers at such times. When Athena heals Diomedes’ wounds at Il 5.121–32 (right before his aristeia restarts), she does more than just heal him. She gives him important advice: And I also removed the mist from your eyes, [the mist] which was upon them before, so that you might see both god and man clearly. Therefore, if a god making trial of you should come here, do not now fight the other immortal gods face to face: but if you come upon Aphrodite daughter of Zeus in battle, wound her with sharp bronze. (Il. 5.127 32)
In this passage, Athena both orders Diomedes to avoid fighting the gods (except the non-threatening Aphrodite) and gives him the ability to see them, lest he accidentally engage one. From Il 7.272 on, Aias is in the same situation that the goddess warned Diomedes about in Book 5. Given the goddess’ earlier action, she could be expected to intervene here unless prevented by an outside factor. Instead, Athena neither reveals the god’s presence to the hero nor tells him what to do about it. The circumstances surrounding the goddess’ inaction make her behavior problematic. In Book 5, Athena came down from the heavens to help Diomedes, and then took heroic measures to protect him from a battle with the gods that might or might not happen. Here, Apollo and Athena are watching the battle on Earth, and are sitting right next to each other when Apollo leaves to interfere (Schein 1984, 60).The threat to Aias is more immediate than the one to Diomedes, Athena’s knowledge of it is clearer, and she is much closer to the hero. Ignoring the extra-Iliadic information about her enmity towards the hero, the goddess’ inaction, which is both inconsistent with her earlier behavior and liable to hurt her cause, makes little sense for her character. Kirk states that the Iliad’s audience is not meant to wonder what Athena’s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
reaction is to Apollo’s interference in the battle between Aias and Hektor (1990, 271), but given the circumstances and the precedent of the goddess’ past behavior, curiosity about her inaction here is justified. In Book 7, Athena took no action on Aias’ behalf after Apollo interfered on Hektor’s. The circumstances of the situation made her inaction inconsistent with her general character. Still, it is possible that she simply did not feel that the Aias/Hektor monomachia was the sort of event that required her intervention. Athena’s next appearance on the battlefield nine books later does not permit such a possibility (Il 17.542–46): And a great battle stretched out over Patroklos, burdensome and woeful, and Athena stirred the battle coming down from the sky: for far thundering Zeus sent [her] down to rouse the Danaans: for his mind had in fact turned [to them]. (Il. 17.542 46)
As the passage shows, Athena returns to the battlefield in Book 17 to participate in the fight. Her return is directly connected to the struggle over Patroklos’ body, a battle in which Aias plays a prominent role (West 1965, 292). Athena is free to act here, and she and Aias are working towards the same goal, making this scene a likely place for Athena to interfere on the Achaean’s behalf. Instead, she chooses to support Menelaos: Thus he [Menelaos] spoke, and the grey eyed god dess Athena rejoiced, That he prayed to her first of all the gods. And she placed might into his shoulders and knees, And she inspired the boldness of a fly into his breast One who is eager to bite even though being kept off From a mortal man, and the man’s blood is pleasant to him. She placed that sort of boldness into his dark heart, And he walked over to Patroklos, and threw his shining spear. (Il. 17.567 74)
Why does Athena choose to support Menelaos instead of Aias? His statement to the disguised goddess at Il 17.561–66 helps to a degree, but that cannot be the entire reason, since Athena came to Menelaos at Il 17.551, fifteen lines before the hero made his prayer to her. The goddess is not depicted as a staunch supporter of the son of Atreus elsewhere, nor does the hero often pray to her in the poem. With no indication given that Athena had to approach Menelaos before Aias, her decision seems counter-intuitive, unless we assume some ill will towards the latter hero. Aias is a superior hero and is commanding the Greek
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
troops at the time of her arrival. The ineffectiveness of Menelaos’ aristeia makes the goddess’ decision even more questionable. Athena’s choice to aid Menelaos instead of Aias has serious consequences. Unlike Aias, Menelaos is not a particularly great warrior, a point made clear at several points in the text. Apollo mentions this at Il 17.589, fifteen lines after the goddess put her force behind the hero. By making a poor choice about which hero to back, Athena renders her aid meaningless; Menelaos’ aristeia lasts a scant 16 lines, and has no effect on the outcome of the battle. While it is not certain (although I would argue that it is likely) that Athena could have had a stronger impact on the fight over Patroklos’ corpse if she had strengthened Aias instead of Menelaos, the goddess’ decision certainly did not help her cause. At Book 7, Athena did not help Aias when Apollo came to Hektor’s aid, a decision that put the hero’s life at risk. In Book 17, she chose to help Menelaos instead of Aias during the fight over Patroklos’ corpse, a choice that rendered her aid to the Greek army meaningless. This resulted in a lengthening of the battle over Patroklos’ body and the unnecessary loss of Greek life, two things which Athena’s actions purposefully sought to avoid. The two scenes rule out many of the understandable reasons why Athena would not help Aias in the Iliad. It cannot be because she is otherwise occupied, since she clearly is not during Book 7. The events of Book 17 show that her inaction on Aias’ behalf does not come solely from being away when he fights. Finally, the results of her aid to Menelaos reveal that she could not expect the same results from helping any Greek hero. It does not make sense that Athena fails to help Aias for no reason, hurting her own cause in the process. Still, before accepting that the goddess’ extra-Iliadic disdain for the hero causes her inaction, we should make sure that the characters’ roles within the poem do not force the goddess not to help the hero. Athena is strongly associated with success throughout the Iliad (Schein 1984, 57). Aias, on the other hand, has been associated with defeat by many scholars due to his status as a defensive hero (Hinckley 1986, 210). If this idea is correct, it would explain why Athena does not help Aias— the goddess does not help him because she only helps those, like Achilles, who are going to win
V o l u m e
1
2 7 5
I l i a d
without her (Schein 1984, 58). This explanation does not apply to the scenes discussed above, where Athena’s failure to help Aias is most problematic. Aias fights Hektor to (at worst) a draw in Book 7, and plays a key role in the retrieval of Patroklos’ body in Book 17, a clear victory for the Achaean side. Since Athena’s lack of help to Aias cannot be due to the hero’s inevitable defeat, this explanation for her inaction does not satisfy. If we look solely at the Iliad for information about Aias and Athena’s relationship, we see that the goddess’ behavior towards the hero is aberrant, but the poem itself does not explicitly say why. If, on the other hand, we accept that Athena’s extra-Iliadic hatred for Aias is present within the poem, Athena’s behavior becomes understandable. Her decision to help Menelaos instead of Aias makes sense in this context: the goddess’ choice would be predicated on which hero she did not want to help. Moreover, Athena’s role in the Iliad would explain why there is not a more overt display of hatred towards Aias. Just as Zeus’ promise to aid the Trojans often prevented him from acting on his love for Aias, Athena’s goal of destroying Troy would have prevented her from acting on ill will she bore the Achaean warrior, for fear of hurting her cause beyond repair. She could, however, withhold her aid from the hero. Since the Iliad does not explicitly state that Athena hates Aias, we cannot be certain that this is the case, but it would explain all the problems created by her lack of aid to the hero. It would also provide another link between the Iliad and the rest of the Greek mythological tradition. The key to understanding the relationship between Aias and the gods in the Iliad lies in expanding our search slightly beyond the parameters of the question. The inconsistent nature of Aias and Zeus’ interactions is resolved by accounting for the presence of Hektor. As comments from Book 7 indicated, Zeus cares for the Aias, but has to work against him to grant glory to Hektor, as he swore to do. Aias’ lack of divine aid, once boiled down to the issue of his inability to obtain Athena’s aid, can be understood by considering the extraIliadic tradition alongside pertinent passages within the poem. Athena’s traditional dislike of Aias proves to be the likely reason that she does not help him. Ultimately, while the two gods have divergent opinions of the hero, both are similarly restricted as to what they can do by the
2 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
IN THAT TIME GODS INTERVENED OPENLY IN HUMAN AFFAIRS, AND IT IS THEIR PASSIONATE CONCERN AND PERSONAL PARTICIPATION WHICH MARKS HEROIC EVENTS AS POSSESSING SIGNIFICANCE.’’
circumstances of the Trojan War, just as Aias’ success is limited by their actions. Source: William Duffy, ‘‘Aias and the Gods,’’ in College Literature, Vol. 35, No. 4, Fall 2008, pp. 75 96.
Jasper Griffin In the following excerpt, Griffin looks at the ways in which the Iliad deals with a past mythic age in which the gods involved themselves in the lives of godlike, heroic humans. With small exceptions, the serious poetry of Greece is concerned with the myths; and the subject of Greek mythology is the heroes. These are two obvious facts. Epic dealt with the ‘‘deeds of gods and men,’’ and so did the choral lyric, while even the personal lyric is full of mythical narratives and excursions. Tragedy, too, tended to restrict itself to the mythical period, although the Capture of Miletus, by Phrynichus, and the Persians, by Aeschylus, show that this was not actually a rule. The mythical period was quite a short one, two or three generations about the time of the Theban and Trojan wars; the rest of the past, however vivid or striking in the memory, was felt to be different, and inappropriate for serious poetic treatment. Hence no tragedies about Pisistratus or Periander, the colonizing period, or the Lelantine War. There was something special about that time. Heroes, we read, were bigger and stronger than we are—a hero of Homer could pick up and throw a rock which ‘‘nowadays two of the best men in a city could barely hoist on to a wagon’’— but that is not the important thing. In that time gods intervened openly in human affairs, and it is their passionate concern and personal participation which marks heroic events as possessing significance. Aeschylus, brooding upon the morality of war and conquest, writes about King
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
Agamemnon; Euripides, brooding upon the relation of the sexes, writes about Jason and Medea. An event like the murder of a husband by his wife, or a question like that of civil disobedience, is raised to the level at which it can be ‘‘seen’’ and taken seriously, when a poet writes of Clytemnestra or Antigone. In the epic, the divine presence and concern ensure that the story of Paris and Helen is a tragedy, not a mere spicy tale, and that the fall of Troy is not just one more disaster but an event of moral significance. The gods find nothing so enthralling as the spectacle of human heroism and suffering; their attention marks its importance, but equally their superiority marks its smallness in another perspective. The heroes were nearer to the gods than later men. ‘‘Born of Zeus,’’ ‘‘nourished by Zeus,’’ ‘‘honoured by Zeus’’; these are standard epithets for Homeric kings and princes, and not less interesting are ‘‘loved by Zeus’’ and ‘‘god-like.’’ ‘‘Like Zeus in counsel,’’ ‘‘the equal of Ares,’’ ‘‘a man equal to the gods,’’ ‘‘god-like,’’ ‘‘resembling the immortals,’’ ‘‘divine,’’ ‘‘with the appearance of a god,’’ ‘‘honoured by his people like a god’’—no reader of Homer needs to be told that these and other such epithets are among the commonest in the poems. Heroines, too, ‘‘have beauty from the goddesses’’ or ‘‘look like a goddess in face,’’ and can be compared to Artemis or Aphrodite. A hero may be compared to several gods at once, as when Agamemnon is said to be ‘‘in eyes and head like Zeus who delights in thunder, in girdle like Ares, in chest like Poseidon.’’ Priam says of his son Hector that ‘‘he was a god among men, and did not seem like the son of a mortal man but of a god.’’ But these passages suggest complications, for Agamemnon is being led to disaster by Zeus, while Hector is dead, his body in the power of his ruthless enemy. What is it to be ‘‘god-like’’? There is one great difference between gods and men. Gods are deathless and ageless, while men are mortal. When Apollo thrusts Diomede back into the limits of his mortality, he shouts, ‘‘Reflect, son of Tydeus, and fall back; do not try to be the equal of the gods. Never is the race of immortal gods on a level with earthbound men.’’ When Achilles is misled into attacking Apollo, the god says, ‘‘Son of Peleus, why do you pursue me, when you are a mortal and I a deathless god?’’ He declines to fight with Poseidon ‘‘for the sake of mortal men, wretched creatures, who one day flourish and another day are gone.’’ The heroes who are ‘‘god-like’’ are subject to death, and we see them die. The epithets which belong to them as
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
heroes contrast poignantly with their human fate. Sometimes the effect seems so light that it is not certain whether it is meant to be felt at all: as when in the boxing match the only challenger for the formidable Epeius is ‘‘Euryalus, that man equal to a god’’—who is promptly knocked out and helped off by his friends, ‘‘with feet dragging, spitting out thick blood, with his head lolling to one side.’’ Similarly light is the stress in a passage like that where Briseis tells the tragic story of her life: Achilles slew her husband and destroyed ‘‘the city of divine Mynes.’’ The attentive listener is aware of a certain faint resonance, in the first case of irony, in the second of pathos. More positively striking, perhaps, are such passages as those where old Nestor indulges himself in reminiscences of his great exploit in youth: ‘‘Would that I were young, as I was when I slew god-like Ereuthalion,’’ and ‘‘Ereuthalion was their champion, a man the equal of gods . . . he was the biggest and strongest man I ever slew.’’ Ereuthalion was a Goliath-figure whom nobody but the youthful Nestor dared to face; his great stature and terrifying power are dwelt upon by his slayer, who adds ‘‘He lay sprawling, far in both directions.’’ He was like a god—but I slew him. The emphasis becomes, I think, clearly deliberate when we read of Paris, when he has gaily challenged any Achaean champion and Menelaus has appeared to fight him, that ‘‘When Paris, beautiful as a god, saw him appear, his spirit was dashed, and he slunk back into the ranks to avoid his fate . . . . So did he slip back into the body of the haughty Trojans, Paris as beautiful as a god, in fear of Atreus’ son.’’ For the poet makes it very clear that the beauty of Paris is what characterizes him, and is at variance with his lack of heroism: Hector at once rebukes him as ‘‘Evil Paris, great in beauty, woman-mad, seducer . . . .’’ and adds that ‘‘Your music and your gifts from Aphrodite, your hair and your beauty, would not help you when Menelaus brought you down in the dust.’’ But the poet can find deeper notes of pathos and significance in this way. When ‘‘the god-like Sarpedon’’ is dead, his body fought over by the two armies, ‘‘then not even a discerning man would have recognized god-like Sarpedon, for he was covered with weapons and blood and dirt, from his head right down to his feet.’’ Zeus, his father, keeps his shining eyes fixed on the struggle over the body of his son,
V o l u m e
1
2 7 7
I l i a d
unrecognizable in blood and dirt; that is all that remains of the handsome warrior Sarpedon, who in life was like a god. The epithet helps to bring out the human pathos, and also to underline the contrast of the human, even at its greatest and most attractive, and the really divine. When Achilles has killed Hector, he starts a paean of triumph over his body: ‘‘We have won a great victory: we have slain the god-like Hector, whom the Trojans adored like a god in Troy.’’ Here the epithet, and the idea of adoration by one’s fellow citizens, become a triumphant taunt, in which what was largely left implicit in the boasts of Nestor is fully developed. It becomes pathetic explicitly when Hecuba laments her son: ‘‘You were my pride night and day, and you were the defender of all the men and women of Troy, who hailed you like a god. Alive, you were their great glory; but now death and fate have caught you.’’ The greatness of his fall and her loss emerge in this touching claim. In the light of these passages I think it is clear that we are also to see force in the epithet ‘‘godlike’’ when it is used in the context of Hector’s body being dishonoured by Achilles. Thus the poet tells us that after Achilles’ triumphant paean ‘‘he wrought acts of humiliation on god-like Hector,’’ piercing his ankles and dragging through the dust of his own country ‘‘his head that before was comely.’’ The immediate juxtaposition of ‘‘godlike Hector’’ and ‘‘acts of humiliation’’ enables the poet to bring out, without sentimentality, the pathos of the greatest possible fall for a man, from god-like stature to humiliation and helplessness. I find the same technique repeatedly in the last book of the Iliad. ‘‘Achilles in his rage was abusing god-like Hector, and all the gods, looking on, felt pity for him.’’ ‘‘He has tied god-like Hector to his chariot, having robbed him of his life, and is dragging him round the tomb of his friend. That is not right or good for him; we gods may grow angry with him, for all his strength; for he is abusing dumb earth in his rage’’—so says Apollo, and we see in the speech of the god the full nature of man, at once capable of being ‘‘godlike’’ and also doomed to be ‘‘dumb earth.’’ A last and rather different example: when Patroclus is called by Achilles to go on the mission which will lead to his return to battle and to his death, the poet, with unequalled economy and power, presents him in one line: ‘‘He came out, the equal of Ares; and that was the beginning of his
2 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
doom.’’ His greatness and his fragility emphasize and reflect upon each other. The love of the gods for men is not less capable of bearing a range of emotional overtones. That great gods ‘‘loved’’ great kings was an age-old part of the belief of Egypt and the kingdoms of the Levant. There it was a simple and unambiguous conception. The god would be on our side and would frustrate the knavish tricks of our enemies; our king was the special favourite of mighty forces, and rebellion against him was as wicked as war against him was futile. Such an idea is to be found in Homer, as when Odysseus warns the Achaeans not to provoke their king Agamemnon: ‘‘Great is the anger of kings nourished by Zeus: their honours come from Zeus, and Zeus the Counsellor loves them.’’ But the subject of the epic is not a simple and one-sided narration of ‘‘our’’ king’s career of conquest, like an Assyrian or Egyptian historical inscription. Zeus honours Troy, he tells us himself, more than any other city under the starry heaven, and he loves Hector and his own son Sarpedon, on the Trojan side, no less than he loves Achilles and Patroclus, their slayers. And he loves Achilles, the opponent of Agamemnon, more than he loves the sceptred king himself, as Agamemnon is forced to learn. Zeus loves Hector and Sarpedon, Patroclus and Achilles; but by the end of the Iliad three of the four are dead, and the fourth is to be slain very soon. He loves Troy, yet Troy will fall. He loves Agamemnon, but he sends a lying dream to him to deceive and defeat him. Odysseus, indeed, loved by Zeus and Athena, will survive, but that is the exception rather than the rule in the Homeric poems, and even he reproaches his patron goddess bitterly for her failure to protect him in his sufferings. Aphrodite claims that she has ‘‘loved exceedingly’’ the Helen whom she forces against her will into the shameless embrace of Paris: ‘‘Do not provoke me, wretch, lest I be angry and forsake you, and hate you even as I have exceedingly loved you; between both sides, Trojans and Achaeans, I shall devise bitter suf fering for you, and you will come to a miserable end.’’ So she spoke, and Helen, daughter of Zeus, was afraid. She followed in silence, shielding her face with her shining robe, and none of the Trojan women saw her; the goddess led the way.
That is what it might be like to be loved by a god. Even the greatest of the sons of Zeus, Heracles himself, ‘‘who was the dearest of men to Zeus,’’ did not for that escape suffering and disaster. Peleus,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
Hera tells us, was dear above all men to the immortal gods and all the gods attended his wedding to Thetis, but now he is alone and miserable, far away from his only son, who will never come home. Amphiaraus was ‘‘loved exceedingly by aegis-bearing Zeus and by Apollo, with all kinds of love; yet he did not reach the threshold of old age, but died at Thebes by reason of a woman’s gifts’’— betrayed to death by his wife for a bribe. The poet of the Odyssey tells us with inimitable objectivity that the singer Demodocus was blind: ‘‘the Muse loved him exceedingly, and she gave him both good and evil; she robbed him of his sight, but she gave him sweet singing.’’ The ancients believed that Homer was a blind man, and that belief adds to the poignancy of his representation of another singer, his counterpart in his epic. Zeus is a father to men, and Athena sometimes looks after a favourite ‘‘like a mother’’; Zeus is said to ‘‘care for and pity’’ Priam in his misery. It has often been emphasized that the gods of Homer love the strong and successful, not the weak and poor, but it is wrong to think that means a straightforward idealizing of successful power and force. The gods love great heroes, but that love does not protect them from defeat and death. The heroes who engross the attention of the poet of the Iliad are those who are doomed—Sarpedon, Patroclus, Hector, Achilles; they it is whom the gods love, and who will exchange their strength and brilliance for the cold and darkness of death. As they come nearer to that terrible transition, the shining eyes of Zeus are fixed on them all the more attentively; he loves them because they are doomed. They in their mortal blindness cannot know, as the god allows them temporary triumph, that in his longterm plan they must die; the victories of Hector and Patroclus, which show Zeus’ love for them, are in that perspective only a stage in their planned defeat and death. The hero who is most often compared with the gods is Achilles. But not only is he said to be ‘‘god-like,’’ but also we observe in action how like the gods he is, and above all how like Zeus himself. He has sacked twenty-three cities in the Troad, he boasts, and he numbers ‘‘Sacker of Cities’’ among his formulaic titles: Zeus ‘‘has brought down the towers of many cities and will bring down many more.’’ His quarrel with Agamemnon over his ‘‘honour’’ . . . is reflected in heaven when Poseidon resents the claim of Zeus to higher rank. Zeus rubs in his quelling of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Hera’s attempted mutiny by saying, ‘‘In the morning, if you wish, you will see the paramount son of Cronus destroy the Argive host yet more, ox-eyed Lady Hera.’’ In the same words Achilles tells the envoys of Agamemnon that despite all their pleas he will go home: ‘‘Tomorrow . . . you will see, if you wish, and if you are interested, my ships sailing at dawn on the Hellespont.’’ He possesses a special cup, from which no man drinks but himself, and libations are poured to no god but Zeus. He is urged to ‘‘be like the gods,’’ whose prepotent power does not prevent them from relenting and giving way to suppliants, but his nature is god-like in a different sense. Patroclus, who knows him better than any other man, says ‘‘You know what he is like; he is terrible. He may well blame the innocent.’’ We remember what Iris says that Zeus will do, if his will is crossed: ‘‘He will come to Olympus to cast us into confusion; he will seize in succession on the guilty and the innocent.’’ The poet even creates a parallel between the bringing of the mourning figure of Thetis before the gods on Olympus and the appearance of the mourning Priam before Achilles. In both scenes the incomer emerges from the darkness, dressed in mourning, and finds the other in the light, sitting at ease and drinking; the gods press a wine-cup into Thetis’ hand; Achilles insists that Priam eat and drink with him. But above all it is in being irresponsible and arbitrary that kings resemble gods. Achilles, we have seen, is apt to blame the innocent. The conduct to be expected of a king is viewed in the same light, and with the same apprehension, in both epics. Calchas asks in advance for a guarantee of protection before he names Agamemnon as the cause of the plague, ‘‘for a king is too powerful when he is angry with a man of lower rank: even if he digests his wrath for a time, yet he keeps his anger in his heart thereafter, to pay him out.’’ In the same way we hear of Zeus: ‘‘if the Olympian does not bring it to pass at once, he brings it out in the end, and men pay for it dearly.’’ Penelope describes the normal kingly behaviour, to which Odysseus was such an exception: ‘‘This is the custom of god-like kings: one man he will hate, another he will love—but Odysseus never did violence at all to any man.’’ The gods, in their superior power, can be arbitrary. Kings, placed on the pinnacle of mortal power, try to emulate them. Agamemnon tries to treat Achilles with mere force, as he tried with the suppliant Chryses. In both cases a greater force defeats him. Achilles is asked to be like the gods and yield; he might have replied that he emulated the gods at least
V o l u m e
1
2 7 9
I l i a d
as well in refusing to yield to prayer. We see in the Iliad Zeus accept the sacrifices but reject the prayer of the Achaeans for an early victory, reject the prayer of both sides for a negotiated peace, disregard the passionate prayer of Asius, and plan disaster for the Achaeans though they pour anxious libations to him all night long; and we see Athena reject the prayers of the women of Troy. The motives which impel the gods to intervene in human affairs are personal and arbitrary, all-toohuman in fact. Men try to act in the same way and come to grief, for Achilles, god-like beyond any other hero and indulging his passionate and arbitrary will in rejecting prayers which he knows to be right, causes the death of Patroclus and wishes only to die himself. While he lives, the hero is god-like and loved by the gods. In his martial rage, the high point and essence of his existence, he is like a lion, a wild boar, a storm, a river in flood, a raging forest fire, a bright star from a dark cloud; his armour blazes like the sun, his eyes flash fire, his breast is filled with irresistible fury, his limbs are light and active. The mere sight of his onset and the sound of his great battle-cry are enough to fill enemy heroes with panic. Encouraged by gods, even ‘‘thrust on by the mighty hand of Zeus,’’ he mows down opponents like a reaper in a cornfield, like a wind scattering the foam of the sea, like a great dolphin swallowing little fishes. Men fall and are crushed under his chariot wheels, and he drives on, his chariot rattling over them. He challenges his opponent to single combat with insults and exults over his body, so that the defeated must die with the taunts of the victor in his ears. He then aims to strip off his armour and abolish his identity by depriving him in death of burial, and leaving his corpse to be mauled by scavenging animals and birds. ‘‘To be alive and to see the light of the sun’’ is in the Homeric poems a regular phrase, along with ‘‘while I have breath in my lungs and my knees are active.’’ To die, conversely, is to ‘‘leave the light of the sun’’ and to ‘‘go into the dark,’’ or to have one’s knees or limbs ‘‘undone.’’ The Iliad is full of detailed accounts of the moment of death of the warrior. The poet dislikes any account of men being gravely wounded but not dying; a wounded man either dies quickly or recovers and fights again. The incurable Philoctetes is left far from Troy, groaning on the island of Lemnos; the Achaean chieftains wounded in Book II are healed and will return to battle. This works with the removal of chance as a possible cause of a hero’s death (no arrow at a venture can kill a Homeric hero as Ahab or Harold were killed), and the virtual
2 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
suppression of trickery and treason, and the fact that, in the poem, prisoners are no longer taken, all suppliants being killed. The effect of all this stylization is to concentrate attention as exclusively as possible on the position of the hero, face to face with his destiny at the hands of another hero: either he must kill or be killed, dying a heroic death. When a hero dies, dark night covers him, he is seized by hateful darkness; he is robbed of his sweet life, his soul rushes forth from the wound; it goes down to Hades bewailing its fate, leaving behind its youth and strength. The doom of death covers his eyes and nostrils, his armour rings upon him, he breathes out his life in the dust, hateful fate swallows him up, he gluts the god of war with his blood. Stabbed in the back, he lies in the dust, stretching out his hands to his friends; wounded in the bladder, he crouches breathing his last, and lies stretched out on the earth like a worm. With a spear driven through his eye he collapses, arms spread wide, and his killer cuts off and brandishes his head; he lies on his back in the dust, breathing his last, while all his guts pour from his wound to the earth; he dies bellowing with pain, clutching the bloody earth, or biting the cold bronze which has severed his tongue, or wounded between the navel and the genitals, ‘‘where the wound is most painful for poor mortal men,’’ writhing like a roped bull about the spear. His eyes are knocked out and fall bloody before his feet in the dust; stabbed in the act of begging for his life, his liver slides out and his lap is filled with his blood; the spear is thrust into his mouth, splitting his white bones, and filling his eye sockets with blood which spouts at his mouth and nose; hit in the head, his blood and brains rush from the wound. Wounded in the arm and helpless, he awaits his slayer, seeing death before him; his prayer for life rejected, he crouches with arms spread out waiting for the death-stroke. After death his corpse may be driven over by chariots, his hands and head may be lopped off, all his enemies may surround his corpse and stab it at their leisure, his body may be thrown into the river and gnawed by fishes, or lie unrecognizable in the meˆle´e. His soul goes down to a dark and comfortless world, to a shadowy and senseless existence, for ever banished from the light and warmth and activity of this life. That is what the hero faces every time he goes into battle. It is clear in Homer that the soldier would, in general, prefer not to fight. Not only do the Achaeans rush for the ships and home, the moment they see a chance, but the rank and file
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
I l i a d
need constant and elaborate appeals and commands to keep them in the field, and even heroes have at times to reason themselves into a fighting mood, and at others to be rebuked by their superiors or their comrades. Women attempt to hold them back from the battlefield, as we see in Book 6, where Hecuba, Helen, and Andromache in turn try to detain Hector in the safe and comfortable women’s realm, but the true hero, like Hector, must reject the temptation and go. We are not dealing with berserkers in the pages of Homer, whatever Mycenaean warriors may have been like in reality. Self-respect, respect for public opinion, the conscious determination to be a good man— these motives drive the hero to risk his life; and the crowning paradox of the hero, the idea of inevitable death itself. ‘‘If we were to be ageless and immortal once we had survived this war,’’ says Sarpedon to Glaucus, ‘‘then I should not fight in the fore-front myself, nor should I be sending you into the battle where men win glory. But in fact countless dooms of death surround us, and no mortal man can escape or avoid them: so let us go, either to yield victory to another or to win it ourselves.’’ If the hero were really god-like, if he were exempt, as the gods are, from age and death, then he would not be a hero at all. It is the pressure of mortality which imposes on men the compulsion to have virtues; the gods, exempt from that pressure, are, with perfect consistency, less ‘‘virtuous’’ than men. They do not need the supreme human virtue of courage, since even if they are wounded in battle they can be instantly cured; and since they make no sacrifice for each other, as Hector does for his wife and child and Odysseus for his, their marriages, too, seem lacking in the depth and truth of human marriage. We see no union on Olympus which has anything of the quality of those of Hector and of Odysseus. Death is constantly present in the hero’s thoughts. Hector knows that Troy will fall, and hopes only that he will be dead and buried first. Before his duel with Ajax he makes careful provision for the burial and memorial to be allotted to the man defeated. Achilles describes his life, fighting and ravaging the Troad, ‘‘constantly exposing my own life in battle,’’ and in his speech to Lycaon he says ‘‘I too am subject to death and cruel fate: there will be a morning or an evening or a noonday, when someone will take my life in battle, hitting me with a spear or an arrow from the bow-string.’’ No hero, not even the greatest, is spared the shameful experience of fear. Hector
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
runs from Achilles; Ajax is put to flight, ‘‘trembling and looking at the crowd of men like a wild beast’’; Achilles himself is alarmed by Agenor’s spear, and later, reduced by the attack of the River Scamander to seeing a miserable death apparently unavoidable, he is told by Poseidon, ‘‘Do not tremble too much nor be afraid.’’ We have seen that in some ways the fighting described by Homer is highly stylized, and that it omits some of the characteristic horrors of war. Yet the audience remains convinced that in fact the poet has done full justice to its nature, that its frightfulness has not been palliated or smoothed over. That effect is achieved, in great part, because the poet insists on presenting death in its full significance as the end, unsoftened by any posthumous consolation or reward; in depicting it dispassionately and fully in all its forms; and showing that even heroes fear and hate it. The hero is granted by the poet the single privilege of dying a hero’s death, not a random or undignified one, but that death haunts his thoughts in life and gives his existence at once its limitations and its definition. It is in accordance with this overriding interest in human life, in its quality as intense and glorious yet transitory, and its position poised between the eternal brightness of heaven and the unchanging darkness of the world of the dead, that the Homeric poems are interested in death far more than they are in fighting. Homeric duels are short; heroes do not hack away at each other, exhausting all their strength and cunning, as do the heroes of Germanic epic or the knights of Malory. Recent work has emphasized the brevity and standardized character of these encounters. When a hero’s time of doom has arrived, his strength is no use to him. The armour is struck from the shoulders of Patroclus by a god; Athena secretly gives back to Achilles the spear with which he has missed Hector, ‘‘and Hector, shepherd of the people, did not notice’’—while as for his doomed opponent, when his death was foreshadowed by the Scales of Zeus, then ‘‘Phoebus Apollo abandoned him.’’ In many killings the victim seems rather to wait passively for his death than to be killed fighting. The most powerful descriptions of death in battle are like that of Hector, recognizing that ‘‘the gods have called me to my death . . . now my destiny has caught me,’’ and resolving to die fighting; Patroclus, disarmed and exposed helpless to death; Lycaon, arms outstretched, seeing death before him. Achilles, too, though the poem does not show his death, accepts and faces it; for this is what
V o l u m e
1
2 8 1
I l i a d
interests the poet very much, the sight of a hero succeeding in facing his own death. It is to produce and emphasize this situation that Homeric fighting is stylized as it is, when it might for instance have been developed much more as blow-by-blow accounts for the expert, interested in the technical details of fighting. The chariot race in Book 23 is treated much more in that manner. Walter Marg called the Iliad ‘‘the poem of death.’’ I think it will be more appropriate to call it the poem of life and death: of the contrast and transition between the two. This is what the poet is concerned to emphasize, and on this he concentrates his energies and our gaze. It is part of the greatness of Achilles that he is able to contemplate and accept his own death more fully and more passionately than any other hero. Source: Jasper Griffin, ‘‘Death and the God Like Hero,’’ in Homer on Life and Death, Clarendon Press, 1980, pp. 81 102.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Lattimore, Richard, trans., The Iliad of Homer, Univer sity of Chicago Press, 1961. Lattimore’s translation successfully reproduces Homer’s original line structure, without sacri ficing either the ease of reading or the flow of the translation. It remains a personal favorite of many seasoned readers of the Homeric epic. Powell, Barry B., Homer, Blackwell, 2004. This book contains the two Homeric epics with excellent introductory information and notes. Wood, Michael, In Search of the Trojan War, British Broadcasting Corporation, 1998. This is the companion volume to the BBC ser ies of the same name. It is easy to read, lavishly illustrated, and Wood is careful to note when he is engaging in speculation and what the consensus of scholarly opinion may be on any given point.
SOURCES Biers, William R., The Archaeology of Greece: An Intro duction, Cornell University Press, 1996. Ford, Philip, ‘‘Homer in the French Renaissance,’’ in Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 59, No. 1, 2006, p. 1. Graziosi, Barbara, and Emily Greenwoods, eds., Homer in the Twentieth Century: Between World Literature and the Western Canon, Oxford University Press, 2007, p. 1. Knox, Bernard, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Iliad, translated by Robert Fagles with notes by Bernard Knox, Viking, 1990. Rieu, E. V., and D. C. H. Rieu, eds., The Iliad, by Homer, translated by Peter Jones, rev. ed., Penguin Classics, 2003. Silk, Michael, trans., Homer: The Iliad, Landmarks of World Literature Series, 2nd ed., Cambridge University Press, 2004.
2 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Iliad Homer Homer AND epic Homer AND poet Troy AND Greece Trojan War Greek epic Achilles AND Paris
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Kalevala The Kalevala is Finland’s national epic, drawn from a rich oral tradition with roots stretching back more than two millennia. Its compiler was Elias Lo¨nnrot, a nineteenth-century physician and folklorist who traveled throughout the FinnishRussian borderlands recording the lyrics, ballads, charms, and epics sung by the rural people. From these poems (called runes) he assembled a coherent whole, a literary epic that fired the imaginations and the national consciousness of the Finnish people.
ELIAS LO¨NNROT 1849
Steeped in magic, by turns dreamlike and dramatic, the Kalevala recounts the mythic history of the ancient Finns in a series of fifty poems. Its heroes are the sons of Kaleva: the wise shaman Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, the skillful smith Ilmarinen, and the feisty warrior Lemminka¨inen. Stories of their interactions with one another, the spirit world, the natural world, and with their northern neighbors, the tribe of Pohjola, unfold in the resonant, musical cadences of Finnish oral poetry. The Kalevala became the foundation of Finnish cultural identity. Published in its final form in 1849, Lo¨nnrot’s epic immediately took its place alongside the Greek Iliad and Odyssey, the German Nibelungenlied, and the Norse Poetic Edda. It established Finnish as a literary language and inspired a flowering of Finnish art and music, and it also played a crucial role in the Finns’ struggle for independence, giving a heroic history and a focus for their national pride.
2 8 3
K a l e v a l a
that a nation’s cultural identity must be rooted in the language and oral traditions of its ordinary folk. Following the Turku fire of 1827 that destroyed most of the city, the university relocated to Helsinki, where Lo¨nnrot continued his studies and earned his medical degree in 1832. From 1833 to 1853, Lo¨nnrot worked as a district physician and traveling health inspector in the remote northern town of Kajaani. Though he was the only doctor in that part of northeastern Finland, the job did not occupy him full time except during periods of epidemic, leaving Lo¨nnrot free to pursue his study of Finnish language and folklore. Between 1830 and 1850, he took several leaves of absence to travel through rural Finland, Ingria, Estonia, and eastern Karelia, meeting traditional singers and gathering folk poetry. During one of these trips, he was struck by the idea of arranging these poems and fragments into a single, coherent epic narrative. In 1834, he wrote:
Elias Lo¨nnrot (Ó INTERFOTO / Alamy)
The interest in Finland’s national epic reached a worldwide audience in the twentieth and twentyfirst centuries. A major inspiration for the writings of English fantasist, J. R. R. Tolkien (1892–1973), the Kalevala spread its influence to other fantasy writers in Scandinavia, Great Britain, and the United States. Progressive rock bands in Finland, Italy, Germany, France, and the United States have used the lyrics and ideas for song material. Films such as Jade Warrior (2007), a co-operative effort of Finnish and Chinese filmmakers, base their plots on the epic. Clearly, the Kalevala is no longer merely a national treasure; it belongs to the world.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Elias Lo¨nnrot was born in the southern parish of Sammatti, Finland, in 1802, the fourth of seven children in a poor tailor’s family. In spite of his humble background, Lo¨nnrot managed to attend the University of Turku, where he studied folklore and linguistics while supporting himself with various jobs. At Turku, Lo¨nnrot became involved with the Finnish nationalist movement. He was strongly influenced by the ideas of Professor Henrik Gabriel Porthan, an historian who encouraged the study of folklore and believed
2 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
As I compared [the results of my collections on my fourth journey] to what I had seen before, I was seized by a desire to organize them into a single whole in order to make of the Finnish legends of the gods something similar to that of the Edda, the saga of the Icelanders. So I threw myself into the labors before me immediately and continued working for a number of weeks, actually months.
The result was the Kalevala, or Old Karelian Songs from the Ancient Times of the Finnish People. Published in 1835, it consisted of thirty-two runes (poems) totaling 12,978 lines. Lo¨nnrot continued his fieldwork, and in 1840 and 1841 he published the Kanteletar, a collection of ballads and lyric poetry intended as a companion to the Kalevala. Lo¨nnrot’s work awakened the Finnish national consciousness and inspired others, most notably D. E. D. Europaeus and M. A. Castre´n, to undertake their own poetry-collecting trips shortly thereafter. The mass of oral material Lo¨nnrot and others gathered during the 1830s and 1840s caused Lo¨nnrot to revise the Kalevala, and by 1849 he had finished a greatly expanded and revised version. Published under the title New Kalevala (and later known simply as the Kalevala) it superseded the shorter 1835 edition. Though he is remembered chiefly as the compiler of Finland’s national epic, Lo¨nnrot was also a pioneer of the Finnish language movement. He spent nearly forty years compiling the first FinnishSwedish dictionary. He also founded the first
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
Finnish language periodical, translated books on medicine and agriculture for use by non-specialists, and conducted linguistic field research with Castre´n, the founder of the study of Finno-Ugric languages. In 1853, he succeeded Castre´n as professor of Finnish language and literature at University of Helsinki. He died in Sammatti in 1884.
PLOT SUMMARY Creation (poems 1-2) The world is young and empty, and the Airdaughter, weary of being alone, steps down into the ocean. Impregnated by the wind and sea, the Air-daughter/water-mother floats for seven centuries without giving birth. A sea-bird nests on her knee and lays seven eggs. When they begin to hatch, the water-mother jerks her knee, scattering the eggs into the water and smashing them to pieces. From the egg fragments are formed the earth and the heavens, the clouds and the stars, the moon and the sun. The water-mother shapes the shoreline and seabed. Finally she gives birth to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, who floats to shore. Finding himself in a treeless land, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen has the boy Sampsa Pellervoinen plant all kinds of trees. Only the oak refuses to sprout. A creature arises from the sea, burns a pile of hay, and sows the acorn again in the ashes. This time the oak grows so tall that its branches overshadow the whole earth, blocking out the sun and moon. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen calls upon his mother, who sends a tiny sea-creature to cut down the oak with three strokes of his axe. Those who gather fragments of the fallen oak are blessed with magic, happiness, and love. Now the sun and moon shine once more. Birds sing and berries ripen, but the barley does not grow. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen cuts a great clearing in the forest but leaves one birch tree standing so that the birds will have a place to rest. The eagle, grateful for this kindness, strikes a fire to help Va¨ina¨mo¨inen burn the clearing. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen plants his barley in the ash-rich soil, prays to the earth and the clouds, and comes back a few days later to find that the barley has taken root.
Aino (poems 3-5) Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s fame as a singer and wise man spreads to the Northland, arousing the envy of a young Lapp named Joukahainen. Heedless of his parents’ warnings, Joukahainen sets off for
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Kalevala to challenge Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, who easily defeats the young upstart, backing him into a swamp. As Joukahainen sinks up to his neck in the mire, he offers his sister Aino to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen as a bride. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen releases Joukahainen, who flees back north and tells his family the story. Though his mother is overjoyed at the prospect of having such a famous son-in-law, Aino is miserable. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen encounters Aino while she is out cutting leafy birch twigs to use as whisks in the sauna. When he asks her to be his wife, she tears off her jewelry and ribbons and runs home weeping. Her mother urges her to cheer up. Tearfully insisting that she does not want to be the wife of an old man, Aino runs off and loses her way in the woods. Finally she reaches the sea, where she goes for a swim and drowns. Her mother mourns. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, also distraught at Aino’s death, goes to the water to search for her body. He catches a strange fish and is about to cut it open when it leaps back into the water and reveals that it is Aino. He begs her to come back into the boat, but she refuses, leaving the old man disconsolate. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen returns home, wondering aloud how he will get over his grief. His mother speaks from beneath the waves, advising him to travel northwards and woo the virgins of Pohjola (the Northland).
The Forging of the Sampo (poems 6-10) Aino’s resentful brother Joukahainen lies in wait with a crossbow and tries to shoot Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, but the arrow hits Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s horse instead. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen falls into the water and is washed out to sea. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen drifts for many days. An eagle spots him and, remembering the birch tree that Va¨ina¨mo¨inen spared, carries him to the shores of Pohjola. The Mistress of the Northland (Louhi) receives him well, but Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is homesick for Kalevala (the lands of Kaleva). Louhi promises she will return him to his homeland and give him her daughter in marriage if he will forge a Sampo for her. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen pledges he will send the master smith Ilmarinen to make the Sampo, and Louhi sends him home in her sleigh. On his way, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen meets Louhi’s daughter and asks her into his sleigh. She assigns him several seemingly impossible tasks, which he performs without difficulty. The maiden then challenges him to carve a boat out of pieces of her spindle and launch it into the water without
V o l u m e
1
2 8 5
K a l e v a l a
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS The music of Finnish composer Jean Sibelius (1865–1957) has introduced countless nonFinns to the Kalevala. Sibelius visited Karelia (areas in southeast Finland and northwest Russia) in the 1890s and was enchanted by the rune singers. He based many of his symphonies on Kalevala poems. An appendix listing his works can be found in Keith Bosley’s 1989 translation of the Kalevala. Recordings of Sibelius’s music can be found in the classical music sections of most music stores and online. Though the Kalevala has inspired many Finnish film and television productions, most have not been translated for English-speaking audiences. However, the 1959 film The Day the Earth Froze is based on the Sampo cycle and Louhi’s theft of the sun and moon. The DVD, which is dubbed in English, is available online. A rather campy movie, The Day the Earth Froze is probably more familiar to American television viewers as episode 422 of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (produced by Comedy Central and originally aired on January 16, 1993). Pathfinder, a critically acclaimed 1988 film from Lapland, is not based on the Finnish epic; nevertheless, it depicts a world similar in many ways to that of the Kalevala. It is the story of a young Laplander’s attempt to stop the marauding Tchude tribesmen who destroyed his village. The film is based on a twelfth-century Lapp legend and contains many cultural elements familiar from the Kalevala: the shaman with his rituals, the sauna, the use of skis and crossbows, and
small arctic villages where people subsist by hunting and fishing. Pathfinder was directed by Nils Gaup, is in Saami (Lapp) with English subtitles, and is eighty-eight minutes long.
touching it. When Va¨ina¨mo¨inen begins carving, his axe slips and cuts a deep gash in his knee. Unable to remember the charm for healing wounds made by iron, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen limps away, bleeding heavily, and eventually finds an old man who can heal him. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sings about the
2 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
The Kalevala Heritage: Recordings of Ancient Finnish Songs (1996), available through Ondine Audio CD and MP3 download, includes both old and new recordings of rune singers chanting ancient songs. The sound quality varies with the time of the recording (some samples were preserved on wax cylinders in the early 1900s), but the album gives an authentic feel for the unaccompanied rhythmic verse as it was preserved through oral tradition.
Kalevala, a 3-CD progressive rock epic (Musea, 2004) is a thirty-part version of the traditional epic, each part played by a different band from eight different countries. Each band performs in its native language or as an instrumental. The magazine of the Finnish Progressive Music Association, Colossus, invited the bands, and its editor, Marco Bernard, coordinated the project. The liner notes give a synopsis by section, lyrics in English, and details on the groups.
Jade Warrior, a martial arts film, is based on the Kalevala and is set in both Finland and China. Co-produced by the Finnish and Chinese, it was released by Blind Spot Pictures on DVD in 2006. The film combines motifs of the wuxia (Chinese literary genre of martial art fiction) and Kalevala myth. It was written and directed by Antti-Jussi Annila and stars Tommi Eronen, Zhang Jingchu, and Krista Kosonen.
origin of iron, and the old man weaves this information into a charm that stops the flow of blood. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen returns home and tries to convince Ilmarinen to go to Pohjola and forge a Sampo. When Ilmarinen refuses, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
sings up a wind to carry the unwilling smith to Pohjola. Ilmarinen forges the Sampo, a bright metal mill that magically produces salt, money, and endless bins of grain for the people of the North. When he asks to marry Louhi’s daughter, though, the maiden says she has too many tasks at home and cannot leave with him. Dejected, Ilmarinen sails back to Kalevala.
Lemminka¨inen’s Adventures (poems 11-15) The wanton young Lemminka¨inen goes to woo the island maiden Kylliki, who has refused all suitors. He gets work as a herdsman on the island and manages to seduce all the other women living there. Kylliki is the only maiden he cannot charm, and he finally abducts her. Kylliki weeps, saying she does not want a husband who is forever going off to war. Lemminka¨inen swears he will not go to war as long as Kylliki refrains from visiting the village. When Kylliki forgets her oath and goes down to the village, Lemminka¨inen deserts her in a rage and goes north to court the Maiden of Pohjola. His mother tries to stop him, and Lemminka¨inen throws down his comb, saying that blood will run from it if he is killed. Arriving in Pohjola, Lemminka¨inen sings his way past the guard dog and casts a spell over all the men except for one herdsman whom he sneeringly dismisses. Insulted, the herdsman runs off to the river Tuoni to prepare an ambush for Lemminka¨inen. Lemminka¨inen demands one of Louhi’s daughters, and Louhi assigns him several tasks to perform. He catches the Demon’s Elk and bridles the Demon’s foam-jawed horse, but when he goes to the river of Tuoni (Death) to shoot the swan, the herdsman kills him and throws him into the water, where Tuoni’s son cuts him to pieces. Lemminka¨inen’s mother and wife know he is dead when blood drips from the comb. His mother rushes to Pohjola, where Louhi tells her what has happened. Lemminka¨inen’s mother searches the river Tuoni for pieces of her son’s body, which she reassembles and sings back to life with charms and ointments.
Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s Adventures (poems 16-17) Va¨ina¨mo¨inen builds a boat by chanting but cannot remember the three words for getting it into the water. His search for the words takes him to Tuonela, the land of the dead. Tuonela’s inhabitants try to trap him there with nets, but he sings himself into a snake and slips away.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Va¨ina¨mo¨inen goes to get the words from the sleeping giant Antero Vipunen. When Antero swallows him, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen hammers at the inside of his stomach and refuses to leave until Antero relents and reveals all his magic songs.
Courting the Maiden of Pohjola (poems 18-19) Va¨ina¨mo¨inen finishes building his boat and sails northward to court the Maiden of Pohjola. On the way he passes Ilmarinen’s sister Annikki, who rushes off to warn her brother of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s plans. Ilmarinen bathes and sets off for Pohjola on horseback. Seeing the two suitors approach, Louhi advises her daughter to choose Va¨ina¨mo¨inen for his wisdom and wealth, but the maiden says she prefers Ilmarinen, the handsome forger of the Sampo. Louhi tells Ilmarinen he can have her daughter only when he has plowed a field of vipers, captured Tuoni’s bears and wolves, and caught the pike from Tuoni’s river. Ilmarinen succeeds with the maiden’s help, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen returns home, filled with regret that he never married in his youth.
Ilmarinen’s Wedding (poems 20-25) Preparations are made for the great wedding feast in Pohjola: A giant ox is slaughtered, beer is brewed, and guests are invited, but Louhi warns her servant not to invite Lemminka¨inen because of his reputation for picking fights. Wedding guests sing songs of celebration and praise as well as laments for the bride who must leave her home. Bride and bridegroom journey to Ilmarinen’s home. There is another feast at which Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sings their praises. On his way home, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s sleigh breaks down, and he has to fetch a spike and a drill from Tuonela to repair it.
Lemminka¨inen’s Second Journey to Pohjola (poems 26-30) Enraged at not being invited to the wedding, Lemminka¨inen storms off towards Pohjola, disregarding his mother’s warnings about the dooms that await him on the way. He chants his way past many perils, barges into the hall, and engages the Master of Pohjola in a contest of spells and of swords. Lemminka¨inen slays the Master and flees from Louhi and her soldiers. Lemminka¨inen’s mother directs him to an island where he can take refuge. True to form, he seduces all the women and eventually has to flee from the island men who want to kill him. He
V o l u m e
1
2 8 7
K a l e v a l a
survives a shipwreck and swims home only to find that the armies of Pohjola have burned down his house. Believing his mother to be dead, Lemminka¨inen wanders off weeping, but he soon finds her hiding in the woods. Lemminka¨inen takes his old friend Tiera and sets out to fight against Pohjola. Louhi sends the Frost to freeze them, but Lemminka¨inen banishes Frost with spells. Tiera and Lemminka¨inen wander around wretchedly for a while before finally heading homeward.
Kullervo (poems 31-36) Untamo wages war on his brother Kalervo, slays his people, and takes his infant son Kullervo. Kullervo grows into a troublesome boy, and Untamo sells him to Ilmarinen as a slave. Ilmarinen’s wife hides a stone in Kullervo’s bread before sending him to watch the herd. The stone breaks Kullervo’s knife, and in vengeance he sends bears and wolves disguised as cattle to kill Ilmarinen’s wife. Kullervo flees and learns that his family is still alive. He finds his parents, who tell him his sister was lost long ago. When Kullervo proves inept at most tasks, his father sends him to pay taxes. On his way home he meets and seduces a young woman who turns out to be his lost sister. She drowns herself in shame. Ever vengeful for the mistreatment he has suffered, Kullervo destroys Untamo’s farm before killing himself as well.
Ilmarinen’s Second Journey to Pohjola (poems 37-38) Ilmarinen mourns his dead wife. After an illconsidered attempt to forge a new wife out of gold and silver, Ilmarinen returns to Pohjola to ask for Louhi’s other daughter. When he is rejected, he abducts the maiden. She complains and insults him until he becomes angry and turns her into a seagull.
The Theft of the Sampo (poems 39-42) Ilmarinen tells Va¨ina¨mo¨inen about the great prosperity Pohjola enjoys thanks to the Sampo. The two friends set out to retrieve the Sampo and return it to Kalevala, and Lemminka¨inen joins them. On the way, their boat becomes stuck on an enormous pike’s back. They manage to kill the pike, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen makes a kantele (a harp) out of its bones. Many try to play it, but only Va¨ina¨mo¨inen succeeds; his music is so beautiful and moving that all the creatures in the world come to listen. Tears roll down Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s cheeks and turn into pearls when they hit the water.
2 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
When the three arrive in Pohjola, Louhi refuses to share the Sampo. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen plays her soldiers to sleep with his kantele, and the three heroes steal the Sampo. Louhi awakes and sends a storm after their ship, causing the kantele to fall overboard.
War Between Pohjola and Kalevala (poems 43-49) Louhi pursues the heroes, and there is a great sea battle, during which the Sampo is broken. Defeated, Louhi returns to Pohjola with only the Sampo’s lid; Va¨ina¨mo¨inen gathers the other fragments and plants them joyfully. Unable to find his pike-bone kantele, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen makes a new one of birch. Louhi curses Kalevala with plague, but Va¨ina¨mo¨inen heals the people with charms and ointments. Louhi then sends a bear to destroy Kalevala’s herds, but Va¨ina¨mo¨inen kills the bear and there is a great feast, at which Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sings songs sweet enough to bring down the sun and moon. Louhi then captures the sun and moon, hiding them in a mountain and putting out the fires of Kalevala. Ukko (God) kindles fire for a new sun and moon. The fire falls to the ground, and Ilmarinen and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen go to find it. They release the fire from a fish that has swallowed it, and it burns out of control, injuring Ilmarinen and destroying many lands before the heroes can subdue it. Ilmarinen uses it to forge a new sun and moon but cannot get them to shine. He journeys to Pohjola and compels Louhi to release the sun and moon.
Marjatta (poem 50) The virgin Marjatta swallows a lingonberry, which causes her to conceive and bear a son. After some dispute, the boy is baptized and declared King of Karelia. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen departs from Kalevala, leaving behind his birch kantele and his songs and prophesying that he will return someday when the people need him.
CHARACTERS Ahti of the Island See Lemminka¨inen
Ahti Saarelainen See Lemminka¨inen
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
32, 35, 45, and 47. When Lemminka¨inen first journeys to the Northland, Louhi has him capture Hiisi’s Elk, a creature made of wood and grass and brought to life by magic.
Ahtinen Kauko See Lemminka¨inen
Aino The character of Aino is Lo¨nnrot’s own invention and addition to the Kalevala. On one of his field trips to eastern Karelia, he heard a song about Anni, a reluctant bride who hangs herself in her wedding clothes rather than be married. Seizing on this motif, Lo¨nnrot expanded on the basic story and created the character of Aino. She appears in Poems 3-5 as Joukahainen’s sister, promised in marriage to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen in exchange for Joukahainen’s freedom. Unwilling to marry an old man, Aino runs away weeping. She drowns herself in the sea and is transformed into a fish. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen catches her, but does not recognize her until she leaps out of the boat, reveals her identity, and swims away, never to be seen again.
Annikki In Poem 12, Annikki is the name of Lemminka¨inen’s sister, who tells him that his wife Kyllikki has broken her vow not to go into the village. In Poem 18, Annikki is the name of Ilmarinen’s sister, who questions Va¨ina¨mo¨inen on his way to the Northland and then runs to tell her brother what the old man is planning. In general, the name Annikki seems to be associated with characters who are tattletales.
Death’s Daughter See Tuonetar
Ilmarinen One of the three main figures in the Kalevala, Ilmarinen the smith is a great Finnish cultural hero, second only to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. Ilmarinen’s name derives from the Finnish word ilma, meaning air, and the ancient Finns may have considered him a deity of the weather and elements. There is no trace of this divine identity in Lo¨nnrot’s epic, however, except for the mention that Ilmarinen once hammered out the sky and the stars themselves. Rather, he is depicted as the steadfast, skillful craftsman, forever laboring at his forge. Ilmarinen’s most famous feat is the creation of the Sampo, a mysterious mill that provides its owner with endless prosperity. Less successful are the gold and silver bride he forges to replace his dead wife and the new sun and moon he makes after Louhi steals the real ones: The bride is cold, and the sun and moon do not shine. In many ways, Ilmarinen occupies the middle ground between wanton young Lemminka¨inen and celibate old Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. Ilmarinen, who woos and marries Louhi’s daughter, is the figure of a man in his prime, representing mature, married sexuality.
Ilmarinen’s wife See Maiden of Pohjola
Demon See Hiisi
Joukahainen Devil See Lempo
Eternal Sage See Va¨ina¨mo¨inen
Far-Mind See Lemminka¨inen
Flower of Saari See Kyllikki
Hiisi Hiisi is foremost among the many evil spirits referred to in the Kalevala. He does not participate directly in the action of the epic, but his name is mentioned in Poems 4, 6, 14-17, 19-20, 23, 25,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Joukahainen is the young upstart from the northern regions who foolishly challenges Va¨ina¨mo¨inen to a singing match in Poem 3. His childish, secondhand verses are no match for the wise old man’s vast knowledge. When Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sings him into a swamp, Joukahainen saves his own skin by offering his sister Aino as a bride to the old man. After Aino drowns herself, Joukahainen bears a grudge towards Va¨ina¨mo¨inen and tries to ambush and kill him (Poem 6). Not realizing that his arrow has missed Vaiamoinen and hit his horse instead, the young Lapp boasts of the deed to his mother, who upbraids him for shooting at the great man.
Jouko See Joukahainen
V o l u m e
1
2 8 9
K a l e v a l a
Jumala
Lemminka¨inen
See Ukko
Impetuous, young, handsome, and warlike, Lemminka¨inen is one of the three main heroes of the Kalevala. He embodies the heroic, manly virtues of the Viking Age: courage, strength, fighting zeal, restlessness, and sexual appetite. He is always ready to avenge any affront to his honor. Though he is knowledgeable, it is fair to say he is not always wise; his headstrong and belligerent ways earn him a bad reputation and get him into trouble on more than one occasion.
Kalervo A Karelian fisherman and farmer, Kalervo is Untamo’s brother and Kullervo’s father. A long-standing and bitter feud between the brothers escalates until Untamo kills Kalervo and destroys his lands (Poem 31). Only Kalervo’s wife, pregnant with Kullervo, is left alive. The name ‘‘Kalervo’’ is possibly a variant of ‘‘Kaleva.’’
Lempo
Kaukomieli
Lempo is an evil spirit who assists Hiisi.
See Lemminka¨inen
Lokka Kauppi Kauppi is the ski-maker who builds the skis that Lemminka¨inen wears to track down the Demon’s Elk in Poem 13.
Kullervo Kullervo, son of Kalervo and nephew of Untamo, is a tragic figure whose story unfolds in Poems 31-36. Mentally unbalanced after having been badly raised as an orphan on his uncle’s farm, Kullervo is a bother and inconvenience for everybody else. He is lazy, stupid, bitterly defiant, and unfit to do a young man’s work; he makes a mess of Untamo’s farm, ruins the threshing, and kills a small child he was assigned to care for. Finally Untamo rids himself of the troublesome youth by selling him to Ilmarinen as a serf. Kullervo is the embodiment of the poorly raised and unloved child who grows into an antisocial, inept, and vengeful man, bringing damage and death wherever he goes.
Louhi Louhi is the Mistress of Pohjola (Sariola), the dark and cold land three days’ journey north of Kalevala. Her tribe is apparently matriarchal, for though Louhi has a husband (killed by Lemminka¨inen in Poem 27), she is clearly the leader of her people. She is a powerful sorceress, but her magic is not as strong as Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s. At first, relations between her people and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s are fairly peaceful, and her daughter marries Ilmarinen in Poems 20-25. After the theft of the Sampo, though, Louhi becomes Kalevala’s nemesis, sending plagues, beasts, and darkness in an ultimately unsuccessful effort to destroy the southern tribe.
Loviatar See Tuonetar
Lyylikki See Kauppi
Kylli See Kyllikki
Maiden of Pohjola
Kyllikki Kyllikki is an aloof and beautiful maiden nicknamed the ‘‘Flower of Saari.’’ Lemminka¨inen woos her unsuccessfully and finally takes her by force. She and her new husband swear a mutual oath: He will not go off to war as long as she does not go gadding about the village. Her mother-inlaw is quite pleased with her, but the happy marriage does not last long. When Kyllikki breaks her promise and goes down to the village alone, Lemminka¨inen deserts her in a rage, returning to his adventurous bachelor life.
2 9 0
Lokka is Ilmarinen’s mother, who is mentioned in Poem 25 and called a ‘‘daughter of Kaleva.’’
E p i c s
f o r
The Maiden of Pohjola is Louhi’s unnamed eldest daughter, famed for her beauty and courted by both Ilmarinen and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. She asserts her own will in the matter, choosing Ilmarinen against her mother’s advice and secretly helping him to complete his three courtship tasks. She marries Ilmarinen in Poems 20-25 and journeys to his home, where she seems to undergo a strange personality shift. When she next appears, it is as the spiteful mistress who bakes a stone into the bread of her slave Kullervo before sending him out to herd the cattle. In vengeance, Kullervo sends bears and wolves back to Ilmarinen’s farm disguised as
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
cows. When Ilmarinen’s wife goes to milk them, they tear her to pieces. Ilmarinen mourns her death.
all over the land speaking to various trees until he finds an enormous oak in the far south. He cuts it down and brings it to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen.
Mana See Tuoni
Short-and-Squat See Tuonetar
Marjatta Marjatta appears in the final poem of the Kalevala. Her story parallels that of the Virgin Mary: She is the purest and most modest of all virgins, but when she eats a lingonberry and miraculously conceives a child, others revile her and refuse to let her into their saunas to give birth. Eventually, she finds a stable where she delivers a son. He is crowned King of Karelia, causing Va¨ina¨mo¨inen to depart from the earth.
Master of Pohjola The Master of Pohjola, Louhi’s husband, appears only in Poem 27, when Lemminka¨inen barges into his hall with belligerent words. The Master engages Lemminka¨inen in a contest of sorcery but is unable to beat him. He then grabs a sword off the wall, and the two fight furiously until Lemminka¨inen wins, cutting off the Master’s head.
Mielikki Mielikki is Mistress of the Forest, Tapio’s consort, mentioned in Poem 14.
Suvantolainen See Va¨ina¨mo¨inen
Tapio Tapio is the god of the forest; his realm is Tapiola. There is evidence that worship of Tapio and other forest spirits continued well into the Christian era: In 1828, Lo¨nnrot journeyed to the home of a great Karelian hunter and singer named Kainulainen. He records that Kainulainen sang songs to the forest gods and goddesses and attributed his hunting success to their favor.
Tellervo Cattlemaid of Tapio and perhaps his daughter, Tellervo is one of the forest spirits. She is mentioned in Poems 14, 32, and 46.
Tiera Tiera appears in Poem 30 as Lemminka¨inen’s old friend and comrade-in-arms, whom Lemminka¨inen enlists to help him attack Pohjola. Like Lemminka¨inen, Tiera has a knight-errant personality; his lust for adventure and battle make domestic life unsatisfying for him, and he readily agrees to leave his new bride at home and accompany his friend.
Mimerkki See Mielikki
Osmo See Kaleva
Osmoinen See Kaleva
Tuonetar
Otso
Mentioned in Poems 16, 23, and 45, Tuonetar meets Va¨ina¨mo¨inen at the River of Death and tries to thwart his attempt to enter the underworld.
See Otsonen
Otsonen Otso(nen), the ‘‘forest’s apple,’’ is a euphemistic name for the bear, used by the people of Kalevala in Poem 46 because the word ‘‘bear’’ is ritually taboo.
Sampsa Pellervoinen Sampsa, whose surname means ‘‘of the fields,’’ is the tiny boy who helps Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sow trees all over the earth in Poem 2. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen calls on him again in Poem 16, asking him to find an oak from which he can carve his boat. Sampsa travels
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Tuoni Tuoni is the ruler of the underworld. His realm, called Tuonela or Manala, lies just across Tuoni’s River. None but the dead may enter Tuonela, but Va¨ina¨mo¨inen ventures there twice in search of knowledge and materials (Poems 16 and 25). In Finnish myth, the underworld lies to the far north, near Pohjola. This proximity may explain why Louhi’s courtship tasks often involve Tuoni’s animals or his river.
V o l u m e
1
2 9 1
K a l e v a l a
Tursas Tursas is a benign water spirit who helps Va¨ina¨mo¨inen with his sowing in Poem 2. Tursas should not be confused with the evil sea monster Turso.
Turso Turso is an evil sea monster sent by Louhi to retrieve the Sampo from the three heroes in Poem 42. Turso should not be confused with Tursas, a friendly water spirit.
Ukko Ukko, meaning ‘‘ancient one,’’ is a pagan deity similar to the Norse thunder god Thor; ukkonen is the modern Finnish word for thunder. Eventually Ukko came to be equated with the Christian god (Jumala means God). In the Kalevala, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen often prays to Ukko.
Untamo Untamo is Kalervo’s estranged brother and Kullervo’s uncle. Not much explanation is given for the fraternal strife between Untamo and Kalervo. In Poem 31, Untamo wages war on his brother and kills him. Only Kullervo’s pregnant mother survives, and Untamo takes her back to his own home. When Kullervo is born, his uncle tries to make use of him around the farm, but since the boy does more harm than good, Untamo finally sells him to Ilmarinen as a serf (Poems 34-36). Later Kullervo returns to kill Untamo and destroy his farm.
Untamoinen
As a Finnish cultural hero, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is depicted as bringing both fire and agriculture to his people in their earliest history (Poems 4 and 48). He heals them of disease (Poem 45), and secures their prosperity by carefully collecting and planting the pieces of the broken Sampo (Poem 43). His birth is described in the opening poem, but he only appears in the narrative as an old man. On two occasions, his great age prevents him from winning a bride. Like King Arthur in British folktales, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is not lucky in love. The fate of such great men is to serve as a founding father of a whole nation, not to find personal happiness with a wife and family of his own. When Va¨ina¨mo¨inen departs the earth to make way for Marjatta’s son, he leaves his songs and his kantele behind as a gift to his tribe. Also like King Arthur, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen predicts that someday he will return from ‘‘the land between earth and sky.’’
Antero Vipunen Antero Vipunen is an ancient giant, a great shaman who now lies underground, more or less dead, with trees growing above him. In Poem 17, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen visits the sleeping giant to obtain his knowledge. Vipunen revives enough to swallow Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, in a scene reminiscent of the biblical story of Jonah and the whale. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen hammers on Vipunen’s innards until the giant finally reveals all his spells and releases him. Vipunen is a puzzling character: It is never clear, for instance, whether he is alive or dead, and whether his body is decomposed or intact. What is known is that he is a repository of ancient knowledge and magical songs.
See Untamo
Va¨ina¨mo¨inen Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is the central character of the Kalevala. He is born from the sea at the beginning of the world. In oral tradition he is often depicted as a god, but in the Kalevala he is a great shaman and singer, an Eternal Sage and prophet who prays to Ukko. Shamans are magician/priests able to achieve trance states in which they leave their bodies and travel in the spirit world, to see into the future, prophesy, and commune with the gods. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s visits to Antero Vipunen and Tuonela in search of knowledge can be read as the dream- or trance-journey of a shaman. More skilled in both music and magic than any other living human being, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sings better than Louhi, Joukahainen, and even Death. Like the myth of the Greek singer Orpheus, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is able to enchant all hearers with his music and thus is able to escape from the underworld.
2 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
THEMES Magic and Ritual Finnish poetry is steeped in magic. In the world of the Kalevala, knowledge of spells and skill in singing are prized above other qualities such as morality, valor, or strength. Scholars categorize the Kalevala as a shamanistic epic because its heroes are sorcerers and singers rather than kings and warriors. Almost every action in the poem is accomplished by incantation, even everyday activities like building a boat, brewing beer, or binding a wound. Some critics complain that the charms and ceremonial songs are extraneous and that they distract from the flow of the epic. However, spells and rituals pervade the Kalevala because they were a prominent feature of Finnish rural life.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Various political factions have interpreted the Kalevala to suit their ideological purposes. What elements of the Kalevala lend themselves to a political interpretation? Can the Finnish political parties’ use of the Kalevala be compared to the Nazi propagandists’ use of Nibelungenlied during the 1930s and 1940s? Are there other instances in which a literary work has been used to support a political ideology? Write a research paper in which you discuss how a national epic can be used as propaganda and evaluate when or if doing so is ever justified. As a young adult and multicultural assignment, select examples from current world events in order to explore the benefits and the dangers of ethnic pride. You might consider ethnicity issues among the former Soviet republics, in the Middle East, in the United States, or in the republics of the former Yugoslavia. Is there a difference between ethnic pride and tribalism? In a group discussion, have one team present the benefits of ethnic pride, and another team present the dangers. After discussion, students can write up a one-page summary, ending with their own opinion on the subject. Some critics argue that the Kalevala is patriarchal and sexist. These individuals assert that the epic shows women as subservient and as objects of exchange among men. Do you agree or disagree? Write a short paper in which you explain your argument, supporting it with examples from the text and discussing the female characters and the nature of their lives.
Swiss psychologist Carl Jung (1875–1961) was fascinated by the Kalevala. Create a psychological or symbolic interpretation of a Kalevala poem? Use a PowerPoint presentation of key phrases from the poem to support your argument and to generate discussion of your interpretation.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The United States has no national epic, but North Americans share myths about their origins. Consider what material an American folklorist would use in order to write a national American epic. Consider myths about the Pilgrims and pioneers in the westward expansion. Can stories from Native Americans, African Americans, and/or other ethnic or racial groups be used? Write a national poem or short story that is designed to unite all Americans with a shared identity.
Compare and contrast the structure, themes, or types of characters in the Kalevala to those of the another epic. Consider choosing the Iliad, Nibelungenlied, Sundiata from West Africa, or another major world epic. Give a presentation using visual aids such as clips from movies based on the chosen epics. How does each epic embody a specific place and group of people? How does each epic generate universal interest as well?
What might an anthropologist infer about the material culture and daily life (diet, habits, clothing, possessions) of ancient Finns from reading the Kalevala? Find illustrations that describe the lifestyle of ancient Finns and match them to verses in the poems. Give a talk on the findings, displaying the illustrations with a projector.
Lo¨nnrot has been called the last great Finnish folk singer. In what way is his method similar to, or different from, that of today’s folk singers and rap artists? The band Negativland claims that copyright law is the death of folk music because original folk music requires incorporating music that passed to subsequent generations but was not owned. As a young adult assignment, give a group presentation on this topic and end with a class discussion about free sharing of music on Internet and sound collage bands with examples of music clips.
V o l u m e
1
2 9 3
K a l e v a l a
Lo¨nnrot’s own written comments make clear that one of his chief aims was to create for Finnish posterity a sort of poetical museum of ancient Finno-Karelian peasant life, with its farmers, huntsmen, and fishermen, seafarers and sea-robbers, the latter possibly faint echoes from the Viking Age, also housewives, with social and material patterns looking back no doubt centuries—all reflecting a quickly passing way of life.
Man and Nature Many of the songs and rituals reflect human attempts to appease and control nature. The world of the Kalevala is marked by animism, the worship of nature spirits such as the forest god Tapio. Ilmarinen’s wife chants spells to protect the cattle from wild beasts, Louhi conjures up a frost which Lemminka¨inen subdues with spells, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s people sing a ceremonial song to welcome and placate the bear that Va¨ina¨mo¨inen has slain. Such rituals reflect the ancient Finns’ daily struggle for survival in a harsh natural environment. For these people, the symbol of success and prosperity is the mythic Sampo, a magical mill which grinds out abundant food and wealth for the tribe that owns it.
Va¨ina¨mo¨inen plays his kantele of bone.
Order and Chaos Another recurrent theme is the creation of order out of chaos. In the creation poem, the watermother shapes the sea and shoreline out of broken eggs. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen turns a wilderness into a barley field, and he repeatedly takes shattered fragments (of wood, of the magic mill the Sampo, for example.) and makes them into something useful. Lemminka¨inen’s mother is even able to reassemble the pieces of her son’s body and sing him back to life. In some ways, these actions parallel Lo¨nnrot’s own labors in creating a single coherent epic narrative out of scattered bits of folk poetry. For Finns, the sauna is both a site and a symbol of this transition from chaos. Yvonne Lockwood explains in her essay ‘‘Immigrant to Ethnic: Symbols of Identity among Finnish-Americans, ‘‘that ‘‘sauna bathing transforms situations of disorder to order—for example, it can change illness to health, drunkenness to sobriety, anger to calm, and weakness to strength.’’ The sauna turns Ilmarinen from a soot-smeared laborer into a handsome suitor, and it delivers Marjatta from her labor pains.
Life and Death Finnish people believed that the line between life and death was a fine one. A person’s death
2 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
was not seen as an ending, but rather as a bridge between physical life and the other realm, the honored community of the dead. This realm is Tuonela or Manala—the realm of the dead, across the river of Tuoni. It is similar to Hades, the underworld or world of the dead described in Greek mythology, even to its encompassing border of a river. In the Kalevala, Tuoni’s daughter plays the role of the Greek Charon the ferryman, who will not allow the living to enter Death’s realm. Finnish mythology about Tuonela originally resembled Greek myths, too, in describing it as the realm of the righteous and unrighteous dead alike. Under the influence of Christianity, Tuonela came to be depicted negatively, as a gloomy, helllike place, to which only the evil dead are sent. Because of the cyclical nature of life and death in the Kalevala, and traditional attitudes toward death in ancient Finnish culture generally, death is often a transformation rather than an ending. Vipunen, ‘‘dead these many years,’’ sleeps underground and can still speak and sing to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. Aino drowns in the sea but returns as a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
fish. Lemminka¨inen is not only murdered but dismembered and scattered in a river, but with the help of spells and ointments his mother is able to reassemble and revive him. The heroes themselves do not die: Va¨ina¨mo¨inen has been alive since the beginning of the earth, and in the final poem he departs for another world ‘‘between earth and sky,’’ promising to return someday. Only in the Kullervo tragedy does a death have the air of grim finality; the many characters who die in the Kullervo cycle are neither transformed nor resurrected. Fate has made Kullervo a bringer of death. Ruin follows wherever he goes; he kills some people deliberately and others by accident, and in the end both he and his sister are driven to suicide by guilt. Incest that results in irreversible tragedy is a recurrent theme in both literature and film. Disparate examples include Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle (1969); Philippa Gregory’s late-1980s Wideacre Trilogy; and Wendy MacLeod’s 1990 play The House of Yes, which was made into a film by the same title in 1997.
STYLE Compilation By 1835, Elias Lo¨nnrot had already read previously collected songs and wondered if he might be able to collect songs about Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminka¨inen and other memorable Finnish heroes. He wanted to collect and preserve the stories that had been transmitted in songs, just as the Greeks had done for the Homeric epics and the Icelanders had done for Poetic Edda. On his research trips, Lo¨nnrot heard hundreds of short poems (a typical Finnish rune or epic song ranges from fifty to four hundred lines and treats a single episode), which he judged to be imperfectly preserved. Bits had been forgotten, and in many cases, Christian interpolations had replaced original names and themes. His wish was to take these distorted and corrupted poems and, by comparing as many variants as possible, attempt to reconstruct the truest versions, meaning versions as much like the ancient forms as possible. In traditional Finnish rune-singing or chanting, two singers sit together with hands joined, while a third accompanies them on a kantele, a stringed musical instrument. The first singer sings one line, then the second responds, both of them swaying back in forth in rhythm with the music.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
During his researches, Lo¨nnrot sat near the singers, copying down their words by hand. Lo¨nnrot did not compose the Kalevala from complete poems; in fact, researchers have determined that Lo¨nnrot took no more than a few lines from each song variant. Contemporaries joked that he stitched these fragments together like a tailor. (Lo¨nnrot’s father was a tailor). Others have compared him to an artist who creates mosaic. In fact, as Domenico Caparetti pointed out in 1891, Lo¨nnrot’s own technique was the same as that of the folk performers he recorded, but he used pen and paper rather than voice or kantele to tell his stories.
Philologically Constructed National Epic Lo¨nnrot followed the example of philologist Jacob Grimm (1785–1863) in Germany, by not merely collecting folk material from Finnish ancestors, but also delving into the Finnish language itself and promoting it along with the folk material. Grimm used the study of Old German as the basis for valuing the oral material preserved in that language. Lo¨nnrot’s use of Finnish for the collected poems, instead of translating the material into Swedish, the national language of Finland at the time, was perhaps more potent than the story for mobilizing national identity. He wrote dictionaries of Finnish to complement his storytelling. This philologically inspired approach to recreating ancient myths makes the Kalevala a consciously modern construction serving a patriotic purpose.
Plot Structure Lo¨nnrot imposed a thematic structure and coherence on the Kalevala to make it resemble existing works of epic literature. One plot device he introduced was the gradually mounting hostility between Pohjola and Kalevala. For the sake of unity, Lo¨nnrot also substituted names and frequently combined several characters into one. Lo¨nnrot has been compared to the ancient Greeks who composed the Homeric epics; unlike the Aeneid,Iliad, and Odyssey, however, the Kalevala has an entirely earthly setting and a predominantly human cast of characters. Because Lo¨nnrot was more concerned with human history than with the activities of the gods, he strengthened the historical, realistic elements in the poetry and reduced the mythological and Christian material.
V o l u m e
1
2 9 5
K a l e v a l a
Formulas and Repetition Although he recast the runes into a single long work of literature, Lo¨nnrot retained all the poetic characteristics of his oral material, including stock epithets and formulas, oral fossils, which may date back as far as two thousand years. Formulas include frequently repeated phrases like the Iliad’s ‘‘wine-dark sea’’ or the Kalevala’s ‘‘Steady old Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, Eternal Sage.’’ A typical feature of oral composition, formulas help singers remember the poems and retain the poetic meter of their singing. Repetition—particularly threefold repetition— is also characteristic of Finnish oral poetry. The Kalevala is filled with triads: there are three heroes, embodying three qualities: the wise old singer Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, the diligent craftsman Ilmarinen, and the reckless young lover Lemminkainen. Each in turn courts the Maiden of the North, and their courtship tasks are always grouped in threes. Kullervo attempts to seduce three maidens on his way home; Louhi tries three times to destroy Kalevala, and so on.
Mieleni minun tekevi, Aivoni ajattelevi, La¨htea¨ni laulamahan, Saa’ani sanelemahan, Sukuvirtta¨ suoltamahan, Lajivirtta¨ laulamahan (Mastered by desire impulsive By a mighty inward urging I am ready now for singing Ready to begin the chanting Of our nation’s ancient folk song Handed down from by gone ages).
For more on the poetic devices used in the Kalevala, see Robert Austerlitz’s study, ‘‘The Poetics of the Kalevala.’’ For more on Lo¨nnrot’s method of composition, see Domenico Comparetti’s ‘‘Conclusions,’’ in his Traditional Poetry of the Finns. For more on the philologically constructed epic, see Constructing Nations, Reconstructing Myth.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT In Search of a National Identity
Parallelism Repetition in the Kalevala often takes the form of parallelism: a line or verse followed by another line that repeats the same thought in slightly different wording: ‘‘Bring a trump from beyond, from / the pole of heaven yonder / bring a honey-trump from heaven / a mead-trump from mother earth’’ (32: 117-20). Repetition of this type lends to the cadences and echoes that make Kalevala poetry unique and difficult to imitate. Lo¨nnrot also employs a parallelism of motifs, which gives the entire work a certain symmetry and resonance. The sun and moon are blotted out in both the second and the second-to-last poems; the oak fragments in Poem 2 parallel the Sampo fragments in Poem 43, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s birth at the beginning of the epic is balanced with his departure from the world at the end. Rhetorical techniques such as these contribute to the thematic consistency and unity of Lo¨nnrot’s epic and keep it from being a disconnected aggregate of poems.
Poetics Finnish folk poetry consists of eight-syllable trochaic lines (a troche is a two-syllable foot, with stress on the first syllable). It is unrhymed, and like most oral poetry, it relies heavily on alliteration, as can be seen in the opening lines:
2 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
The Kalevala was a part of a project for independence, providing the social mandate of the nationalist period in Finland’s history (1809–1917). During the Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815), in 1809, Finland was annexed to Russia as an autonomous Grand Duchy, a distinct political entity with its own governing body, subject to the czar’s ultimate authority. Finland had been ruled by Sweden for 600 years prior to the annexation, and the people of the central Turku region were so heavily assimilated into the dominant foreign culture that many of them thought of themselves as Swedes. Though over 85 percent of population continued to speak Finnish, Swedish had long been the official language of Finland’s administration, education, and literature. Suddenly cut off from their Swedish affiliation, and having little in common with the new Russian rulers, the intelligentsia of Finland experienced something of an identity crisis. Ethnic self-definition seemed to be based, at this point, on little more than a process of elimination. As a saying of the time went, ‘‘we are not Swedish; we can never become Russians; let us therefore be Finns.’’ Educated Finns yearned for a national identity that would earn them respect and put them on the same footing as the other civilized nations of Europe; however, with no literature of their own, no history, and scarcely
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Kalevala period: Before 1000, women are judged by how well they perform daily tasks such as baking bread, preparing the sauna, and working in the fields.
little besides religious instruction is written in Finnish. The Kalevala confers legitimacy on Finnish and lends momentum to the Finnish language movement.
1800s: Women take factory jobs, though they earn less than men. Only men can vote and hold elected office. However, in 1906, Finland becomes the first country to extend the franchise to women.
Today: Finland’s inhabitants speak Finnish as their first language. Many speak Swedish and English as well. Finland’s literacy rate is one of the highest in the world, and according to UNESCO, Finland publishes more books per capita than any other nation.
Today: In 1987, the Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church begins accepting women for the priesthood. Finns elect Tarja Halonen as their first female president in 2000; she wins a second term in 2006.
Kalevala period: Before 1000, Finns worship many gods and nature spirits and probably venerate dead ancestors as well. Spells and incantations are a part of daily life. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, Byzantine Orthodoxy reaches Finland from the east, while Roman Catholicism penetrates from the southwest; many Finnish rites are integrated into Christian worship. 1800s: Protestantism replaces Catholicism in the sixteenth century, and most Finns are devout Lutherans.
Today: Finland is Lutheran but largely secular. Kalevala period: People speaking a FinnoUgric language settle in Finland between 4200 and 2200 BCE . During the Iron Age (c. 500–400 CE ), they develop a rhythmic, alliterative Finnish folk poetry in trochaic tetrameter. Throughout the Middle Ages, Finnish is the language of oral tradition, and Latin is the language of literacy and learning. 1800s: Swedish is the language of administration, education, and literature in Finland;
any knowledge of their country’s language and traditions, they had no basis for such a national identity.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Kalevala period: Music plays a central part in people’s daily lives; many charms and ceremonial songs that are later collected in the Kalevala are sung by ordinary people. 1800s: The end of the nineteenth century and the early 1900s are known as the golden age of Finnish art. Scenes from the Kalevala inspire many works of art. Folk singing survives in remote areas, and classical music thrives, most notably in the works of Jean Sibelius. Today: Finland has about fifty art museums, and the visual art displayed in them tends to follow international trends. The Kaustinen Folk Music Festival attracts thousands of visitors.
Kalevala period: Medicine includes incantations, spells, and prayers, supplemented by ointments made from natural ingredients. 1800s: Though Lo¨nnrot is the only doctor in his district, he has ample time to pursue his research into regional folklore because people are not in the habit of consulting doctors. Today: Finland has modern medical facilities and universal health care.
Romanticism Certain nineteenth-century University of Turku scholars were inspired by a new approach to
V o l u m e
1
2 9 7
K a l e v a l a
philosophy and the arts, later called romanticism. For them, romanticism was associated with the work of German scholar John Gottfried von Herder (1744–1803). The philosophy posited that culture is an organic unity that grows out of a people’s interaction with their particular ecological context. Eino Friberg explains it this way: ‘‘Herder claimed that a people’s character expressed itself in the form of folk poetry and other cultural systems, which thereby took on the aspect of a mirror of the national soul.’’ Thus the folk, peasants living in the remote rural areas least touched by outside influences and modern developments and most in touch with nature, preserved in their culture and oral traditions the essence of the national consciousness. Herder’s ideas echoed what Finnish professor Henrik Gabriel Porthan (1739–1804), among others, had been teaching his students at the University of Turku. Believing that the essence of Finnishness was to be found in the oral traditions of the peasants, Porthan encouraged students to collect folklore in an attempt to recover the ancient cultural unity that had been submerged by disruptive historical events and foreign intervention. His teachings inspired a group of students to apply their linguistic and historical training to a project of cultural reclamation. One of these so-called Turku romanticists was Elias Lo¨nnrot, who would eventually compile the Kalevala. Romantic nationalism had already begun to take hold among intellectual circles, but it was the uncertainty produced by Russia’s 1809 annexation of Finland that lent urgency to the scholarly quest for a Finnish national consciousness. Michael Branch explains: ‘‘Following the establishment in 1809 of Finland as a Grand Duchy in the Russian Empire, Finnish interest in Herder’s and Porthan’s ideas grew in strength, and the cultivation of a national identity became a veritable duty for many educated Finns despite the fact that most of them scarcely understood Finnish at all.’’ Thus, a current esthetic approach, romanticism, fueled self-protective or defensive nationalistic needs of a people who felt their identity threatened by a neighboring power.
A National Epic Ironically, after the first edition of the Kalevala was published in 1835, many Finns had to read it in a Swedish translation. Nevertheless, they were aware of its importance and welcomed it for what it represented. At a stroke, Lo¨nnrot’s national epic gave Finns what they lacked: a rich and versatile
2 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
literary language, an ancient heroic past, and a link to the land. It provided an incentive to learn the Finnish language and fed the nationalist aspirations of many who longed for and sought an independent Finland.
Toward Independence As one of the first books written in Finnish, the Kalevala gave the Finns a language not only worthy of literature, but also admired by foreigners, some of whom even attempted to imitate the trochaic meter of Kalevala poetry. To ‘‘a nation yearning for self-expression,’’ as Tracy Karner puts it, the Kalevala provided the model for an emerging literature. Literary works in Finnish, previously censored, began to be produced, and many of them had a nationalistic flavor. The Kalevala was a spur to the Finnish language movement and helped foster national unity and democracy. If the peasants held the keys to ethnic identity, then the elite class would need to learn Finnish in order to share in that cultural heritage. Previously the social distinctions had been drawn along language lines; the Swedishspeaking upper and middle classes had become cut off from the peasants. The Kalevala, however, was something all Finns could share, including the rural people, who saw their own lives reflected in the poems. Thus the Kalevala bridged both language and class barriers and reversed the prejudice that had held the Finnish language to be inferior. Karner notes that as ‘‘people of different social classes began to interact for the common goal of Finnish culture,’’ liberal, democratic ideals of equality were also strengthened. During the middle years of the nineteenth century, the Finnish language movement made significant strides, though it had to struggle against the pro-Swedish party, whose adherents claimed that the elite Swedish-speaking minority in central Finland constituted a separate nationality and that Swedes were racially superior to Finns. In 1858, the first secondary school to teach in Finnish opened. The Kalevala began to be taught in school, and in 1863, the czar was persuaded to elevate Finnish to equal status with Swedish as an official language of the Grand Duchy.
Russification and Resistance At first, the Russian authorities allowed and even encouraged Finland’s budding nationalism, reasoning that it would weaken whatever remained of the Duchy’s old ties to Sweden. In the 1890s,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
the church opposed them and backed the czar’s Russification efforts. However, the decades spent building ethnic solidarity had prepared Finns to face the crisis of Russification. The achievements of this period, including universal suffrage and opening of higher education to Finnish language speakers, paved the way for the resistance. There followed violence, anti-Russian demonstrations, and a general strike, as the struggle against assimilation continued through World War I. On December 6, 1917, in the wake of Russia’s Bolshevik Revolution, the Finnish Parliament declared Finland independent, and one month later Lenin recognized the fledgling nation. Over the course of a century and with the help of the its national epic, the Finnish nation had both discovered and invented itself.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Foreign Reception
Title page of the 1835 edition of the Kalevala
however, Czar Nicholas II reversed this policy of tolerance and instituted a program of Russification. His aim was the complete assimilation of all the provinces in the Russian Empire, including Finland. With the February Manifesto of 1899, Russia usurped Finland’s right to govern itself, declared Russian the official language of Finland, abolished the Finnish military, and made Finnish men subject to conscription into the Russian army. The country was thrown into immediate turmoil. The Kalevala had helped generate European interest in Finland’s independence, and the intellectuals of Europe showed their support for the nationalist cause with a petition to the czar entitled ‘‘Pro Finlandia.’’ Paradoxically, however, the epic had alienated the Finnish church. The clergy considered the Kalevala pagan and attempted to squelch the widespread fascination with folk poetry and pre-Christian myths. Because the nationalists drew so much of their inspiration from the Kalevala,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Kalevala was translated into several languages soon after its initial publication and was hailed by European scholars as one of the world’s great epics. A commentary by German linguist Jacob Grimm (of Grimm’s Fairy Tales) brought the Kalevala international recognition and prepared the way for its positive reception by other critics. Friedrich Max Mu¨ller (1823–1900), the influential German-born British philologist, is said to have predicted in the late 1880s that the Kalevala was important enough to rank with the Iliad and Nibelungenlied among the world’s top five national epics.
Reception in Finland The majority of Finnish-speaking people knew little of the Kalevala when it was first published. Ironically, many members of Finland’s urban intelligentsia first read their national epic in M. A. Castre´n’s 1841 Swedish translation. They greeted the Kalevala with excitement and treated it as a source of ethnic pride. Many urban sophisticates saw the folk-epic as the cultural contribution of those whom they called the remote people. These intellectuals believed the nation’s future and how Finns were viewed by other peoples might be determined, at least in part, by the epic’s having earned a prominent place in world literature.
V o l u m e
1
2 9 9
K a l e v a l a
Because it had such a decisive impact on the Finnish nationalist movement, the Kalevala was often treated with an uncritical reverence that hindered attempts to analyze it. Even in the twentieth century, some Finns regarded the Kalevala as a sacred artifact: In a 1985 article celebrating the Kalevala, Paavo Haavikko proclaims: ‘‘The Kalevala is not for criticism. It is there to be admired.’’ Though admiration in the early 2000s among Finns is unabated for the epic and its compiler, a more critical trend can be traced among Finnish critics. The work of Raija Majamaa has gone beyond the national image of Elias Lo¨nnrot as a humble and saintly reformer. In her 2006 study, ‘‘Lo¨nnrot Lives!’’ in Scandinavian Review, Majamaa sees in him a shrewd genius, a man who knew how he was shaping public opinion.
Provenance and Attribution When the Kalevala first appeared, people wondered what its history was and how it had been constructed prior to its publication. Members of the Finnish Literature Society were of the opinion that Lo¨nnrot had found the Kalevala in the forest, that is, they thought the Kalevala was the collective masterpiece of the Finnish folk and a manuscript preserving it had been rescued from oblivion and painstakingly restored to its original form by Lo¨nnrot. This theory about its provenance ignored Lo¨nnrot’s own artistic contribution to the Kalevala. Whatever his enthusiastic contemporaries would have liked to believe, he had not found a national epic lying somewhere intact in the backwoods of Karelia, nor did he claim to have reconstructed something that had existed in antiquity. Rather, he had chosen fragments from the huge, shapeless mass of oral poetry and turned these selected bits into a mosaic work of epic literature. As quoted in Honko’s essay, ‘‘The Kalevala and Finnish Culture,’’ in 1848, Lo¨nnrot wrote to a friend: ‘‘I must explain to you that from the runes collected to date I could get at least seven volumes of Kalevalas, each unlike the other.’’ Despite the fact that the 1849 Kalevala differed markedly from the earlier edition in both structure and content, the notion of a restored original persisted for some years.
Authenticity Questioned One of the works to which the Kalevala had been compared was the Scottish Poetical Works of Ossian, a collection of supposedly ancient poems that had been useful in Scotland’s national movement. In the
3 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
1880s, the discovery that the Poetical Works of Ossian was a modern fraud raised doubts about the authenticity of the Kalevala and, according to John B. Alphonso-Karkala, led to charges of ‘‘fakelore.’’ In order to refute the contention that Lo¨nnrot had written the entire epic himself, scholars began to study the oral poetry on which it was based. They were able to prove that the Kalevala, like the Iliad and Nibelungenlied, was indeed compiled from genuine folk material, with only a few additional lines supplied by Lo¨nnrot. Some additional criticism was aimed at Lo¨nnrot for his role in the composition. A. I. Arwidsson and C. A. Gottlund criticized him for blurring the poems together and distorting the original material. Many, beginning with Gottlund, objected to the non-epic material in the Kalevala. As quoted by Pentikainen in Kalevala Mythology, Gottlund asserted: ‘‘[Lo¨nnrot] poured and stirred into the epic materials quite different in nature and of differing periods, mixing all manner of charms and conjurer’s words into it, long incantations . . . and other ancient prattling, wedding verses, as well as additional superfluous verses.’’ However, the Italian scholar Domenico Comparetti recognized the value of this material. Also quoted by Pentikainen in Kalevala Mythology, Comparetti claimed the charms ‘‘tell of the life of the people and relate this to its religious past, its remembrances and ideals.’’ Charms were consistent with Lo¨nnrot’s purpose of preserving a record of Finnish rural life, and he deliberately added many more of them to the 1849 edition of the epic.
Mythological versus Historical Interpretations Lo¨nnrot himself took a historical view of folk poetry, believing that it preserved the deeds of ancestors who had lived during Finnish Viking Age, albeit magnified through centuries of poetic imagination. Nevertheless, Jacob Grimm’s mythological interpretation of Kalevala poetry predominated among European romantics. According to Grimm, ancient folktales should be read as myths rather than historical records, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminka¨inen should be seen as gods. Many in Finland adopted this view that the struggles in the Kalevala were symbolic or divine, because it seemed to put the Kalevala on a more equal footing with the Greek epics. As quoted by Pentikainen in Kalevala Mythology, M. A. Castre´n dismissed the controversy: ‘‘For a mythologist, it is quite the same whether
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
Pohjola or Kalevala existed in reality or not, and how they existed: [Lo¨nnrot] clarifies only what people thought about those places.’’ For Castre´n, the poetry was significant not for its historical accuracy, but as an expression of what the ancient Finns thought about their surroundings and their experiences. Keith Battarbee belongs to a group of scholars that sees the Kalevala as part of a complex interconnection between philology and nationalism. In ‘‘The Forest Writes Back: The Asbau of Finnish from Peasant Vernacular to Modernity,’’ he speaks of the power of the vernacular language in synthesizing the runes Lo¨nnrot collected. Lo¨nnrot used his interests in Finnish philology and Finnish oral folklore equally as tools for constructing a national identity. According to Battarbee, he had no literary intention of creating Finland’s national epic.
CRITICISM Deborah Jo Miller Miller holds a PhD from Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. In the following essay, she discusses the importance of the Finns’ national epic to their sense of national pride and as an historical artifact. Eino Friberg in his The Kalevala, Epic of the Finnish People, claimed that the Finnish people came into existence through the Kalevala. What made this epic such a powerful unifying force during a period of national awakening? For the Finns, the Kalevala was more than simply a collection of fifty poems compiled by a country doctor in his spare time. It was, according to Pentika¨inen, in ‘‘The Ancient Religion of the Finns,’’ the source of their language and provided a system of symbols for describing and envisioning their world. A PORTRAYAL OF FINNISH MYTHOLOGY
In the Middle Ages, the emerging nations of Europe used quasi-historical literature to forge national identities. France’s Song of Roland glorified Charlemagne and Frankish valor, while the Arthurian legends captured the English imagination. As paganism gave way to the universalizing force of Christianity, Icelandic poets rescued the Norse gods from oblivion, giving the Scandinavian people a link to their pre-Christian past and a source of ethnic cohesion. For these and other
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
LO¨NNROT’S EPIC DREW INTERNATIONAL ADMIRATION AND LEGITIMIZED FINNISH CULTURE IN THE EYES OF OTHER EUROPEANS. TO HAVE A NATIONAL EPIC OF WORLD STANDING WAS A GREAT SOURCE OF PRIDE TO THE FINNS.’’
European countries, transferring oral mythology into writing was part of a process of self-definition. Finland’s legends, however, remained unrecorded into the nineteenth century. The church had attempted to banish the ancient Finnish demigods, shaman-heroes, and nature spirits, and centuries of cultural and political domination by Sweden had driven the legends even further to the periphery of the nation’s cultural life. Preserved only in the songs of peasants, these myths were unknown to the outside world and familiar only in a vague and fragmentary way to most Finns; before Lo¨nnrot set out to compile the folksongs into an epic, it was difficult to discover anything about what Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, Ilmarinen, and the other figures from Finnish legend had meant to the Finnish people. The romantics had begun to suspect, though, that this scattered oral poetry was Finland’s greatest cultural treasure. Eighteen years before the Kalevala’s first publication, K. A. Gottlund remarked in the Swedish Literary News for June 1817 that compiling and publishing the ancient folksongs would likely bring to life the equivalent of a new Homer and the resulting epic would give Finns a sense of independence and generate for them admiration from other nations. However, Lo¨nnrot’s stated aim was more modest. In the Preface to Magoun’s 1963 translation, Lo¨nnrot is quoted as saying that it would be all right with him if the songs proved Finnish ancestors were unenlightened. The songs were still worth having and preserving. In fact, both Lo¨nnrot’s hopes and Gottlund’s grandiose predictions were fulfilled. The Kalevala showed the world that the Finns, far from being unenlightened or backward, had a long history of intellectual and artistic creativity. Lo¨nnrot’s epic drew international admiration and legitimized
V o l u m e
1
3 0 1
K a l e v a l a
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) attempted to imitate the meter and spirit of the Kalevala in his narrative poem The Song of Hiawatha (1855), the tale of a wise and heroic leader of the Ojibway Indian tribe.
Emil Peta¨ja¨, a Finnish-American author, wrote several science- fiction novels based on the Kalevala myths. One of these works is Stolen Sun (1967).
In The People Shall Continue (1977), Simon Ortiz, an Acoma Pueblo poet, retells the history of his people in the United States. The book for young readers is written in a poetic Native American voice and spans from the creation to the present day, attempting to do what Lo¨nnrot tried to do for natives of Finland, give Native Americans pride by preserving their origins and myths.
P. H. Sawyer’s Kings and Vikings (1982) is a survey of the Viking Age, with emphasis on Scandinavian society and its links to Western Europe.
Heroic Epic and Saga: An Introduction to the World’s Great Folk Epics (1988) contains fifteen essays on epic literature from Great Britain, Mesopotamia, and elsewhere and a useful introduction on oral tradition.
Finnish culture in the eyes of other Europeans. To have a national epic of world standing was a great source of pride to the Finns. Perhaps even more significant was the effect Kalevala mythology had on Finns’ capacity to express themselves. The Kalevala gave them a rich source of subject matter, themes, and characters; moreover, it was their own mythology. Within a few decades of its publication, the Kalevala began to be universally read and studied in schools; hence when one referred to ‘‘Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’’ or ‘‘the Sampo,’’
3 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
Elias Lo¨nnrot’s Kanteletar, a collection of lyric poems and ballads published in 1840 and 1841 as a companion work to the Kalevala, give a vivid and varied picture of daily life in rural Finland. In 1992, Keith Bosley’s translation of one hundred of the Kanteletar poems was published by Oxford University Press.
Donald Duck is a favorite cartoon character in Scandinavian countries. Donald Duck: The Quest for Kalevala, by Keno Don Rosa, is an Uncle Scrooge comic (number 334), published by Kalle Anka in 1999 and by Boom! Studios in 2004. In the story, Scrooge McDuck goes on a quest to find the Sampo. He awakens Va¨ina¨mo¨inen and Louhi who engage in epic battle once more. The Sami of Northern Europe (2002), by Deborah Robinson, is a young-adult book about the indigenous people of Northern Finland. The book describes the history, economy, culture, and political struggle of the Sami. Photographs, book lists, and Web sites help readers understand Sami culture from ancient to present times. The Kalevala Graphic Novel (2005) is a comic book version of the Kalevala, with illustrations by Kristian Huitula and English translation by Eino Friberg.
practically every Finn would understand the allusion and what it symbolized. By 1860, artistic and literary works inspired by the Kalevala began to appear. Aleksis Kivi, for example, built his Kullervo tragedy on the Kalevala’s plot but deepened the characterization of the evil and malicious figure. By explaining Kullervo’s violent rage as a result of his oppression and enslavement, Kivi magnified the political reality of his own day. Such artistic elaboration on Kalevala themes resonated with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
Finnish audiences and helped foster dreams of independence. The period of Russification which began in the 1890s coincided with a period of great interest in folk romanticism as well as a flourishing age of Finnish art. The music of Jean Sibelius, the poetry of Eino Leino, and the writings of Juhani Aho were all inspired by Kalevala mythology. This creative activity was in part a form of resistance, an affirmation of the Finnish national identity in the face of a foreign power’s attempts to erase it. THE ‘‘MYTHOLOGICAL DREAM’’: KALEVALA SYMBOLISM
Nineteenth-century Finns looked at their ancient poetry and saw allegories for their current political situation. Thus the Kalevala mythology provided people of various backgrounds with a common frame of reference for describing their world and investing their own experiences with meaning. Like all dreams, the mythological dream of the Finnish people expressed itself through the language of symbols. The oak that blotted out the sun might represent the shadow of foreign rule, and Pohjola could be equated with any enemy of the Finns. The reassembly and revival of Lemminka¨inen could be read as a metaphor for Finnish culture itself, with the folklorists playing the part of Lemminka¨inen’s mother, singing the dispersed parts of a great whole back into life. Much of the literature of the day invoked Kullervo as the embodiment of social revolution. The Kalevala is full of such symbols, but the most potent of all is the Sampo, a mysterious object which could be interpreted in many ways depending on the needs of the teller of the tale. An 1896 political poem by Eino Leino, for example, uses the Sampo as a symbol of the FinnoUgric people’s ancient renown—fragmented and buried, yet not completely lost: Beloved is a father’s labored field, sweet the bread baked by a mother, stubborn a stranger’s soil, bitter a stepmother’s cake. Long our Fin land ate barkbread, begged alms along the roads, gathered with its tears too many crumbs from others. But one day the begging will cease and the stranger’s insult will end and Finland will stand tall and the people will raise their heads: Already Vaino’s crop takes root and Kaleva’s grain grows, and lack of bread is ban ished from the land and the longing for a stranger’s crop! Thus the ramparts of the Fin nish state will rise, so the Finnish Sampo will be readied. The wave hath taken the Sampo and borne off the wondrous work of Ilmarinen and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
the renown of the Ugric tribes lies buried ‘neath the skirts of night. But leaning on familiar strength we discover stars in the night and with love in our eyes find bits of Ilmarinen’s labor. (Translated in Pentika¨inen 1989: 223)
A Finnish audience would have recognized and appreciated Leino’s poignant allusions to Kalevala Poems 23, 2, and 43. Such literary resonances allowed Finns to feel they were linked to the mythical time when Va¨ina¨mo¨inen had buried pieces of the Sampo with a prayer for his people’s future: Grant, Creator, vouchsafe, God grant that we may be lucky that we may live well always, that we may die with honour in Finland the sweet, in Karelia the fair! Keep us, steadfast Creator, and guard us, fair God, from the whims of men, from the wiles of hags . . . Build an iron fence, construct a stronghold of stone round my property on both sides of my people . . . that no foe may eat too much, no enemy steal the wealth ever in this world, not in a month of Sundays. (43: 401 434)
Nineteenth-century Finns could see themselves as the inheritors of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s blessing and prophecy. WORLDVIEW OF THE FINNISH PEOPLE
J. G. Linse´n, the chairman of the Finnish Literary Society, greeted the initial publication of the Kalevala by declaring that Finland finally had a history. It was a poetic, fictionalized history, but it gave Finns something on which to model their expectations of the future. Reaching back to a time before Swedish domination began, the Kalevala depicted an idyllic epoch in Finnish history. The people of Kaleva are autonomous, noble, and prosperous; moreover, they are wiser and more resourceful than the northern enemies who try to destroy them. They have a deep knowledge of their natural environment and an amazing facility with the Finnish language, two things from which nineteenth-century Finnish intellectuals were largely cut off. Though the Kalevala contains songs about the exploits of great men, Lo¨nnrot deliberately made it an epic about the daily life of an entire people. It is heroic but homey, concerned with such activities as preparing for a feast, brewing beer, heating the bath, taking a sauna, and tending to livestock. It depicts the rhythms of the tribe’s life: courtship and marriage, childbirth, building and repair, injury and healing, planting and hunting, music and feasting. Thus the Kalevala linked Finns to the timeless customs of
V o l u m e
1
3 0 3
K a l e v a l a
previous generations. The peasants saw their own lives reflected in the Kalevala, and the elite saw the heritage they had misplaced. (The world of the Kalevala is in many ways a model for a more democratic society; it is free of aristocracy and hierarchy, and wealth is shared by the entire tribe.) As anyone who has lived abroad knows, these simple, familiar things combine to create a sense of home, of a place where one belongs and which one is willing to defend. The sweetness of home and the unpleasantness of foreign lands are recurrent themes in the epic: brides weep in despair at leaving their own people; Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sighs with homesickness when he is detained in Pohjola, and Kullervo epitomizes the wretched, wandering exile with no kin to claim him. The idealized world of the Kalevala offered Finns a meaningful connection to their land, to their customs, and to one another in the face of an external enemy. THE KALEVALA AFTER INDEPENDENCE
When their previously disregarded country suddenly attained world recognition, it was a source of pride for the Finns. Ethnic pride is a useful but potentially dangerous force; there is always the chance that it will be carried too far, mutating into national chauvinism and expansionist zeal. This happened in the 1920s, when a group of Finns nearly sang themselves into war. Finland’s political right wing wished to expand the nation’s borders to include eastern Karelia, still in Russian territory after the peace of 1920. They combed the Kalevala for metaphors to inspire and justify the dream of a Greater Finland. To them, the stealing back of the Sampo might represent the rescue of Karelia from foreign domination. The movement was brief and unsuccessful, but it illustrated the way national mythologies can be twisted into war propaganda. The appeal of the Kalevala endured long after Finland achieved its independence. In modern times, Finnish children study the epic from the age of twelve to fourteen, and it provides the basis for behavior and activities at annual Kalevala festivals. Thus, the Kalevala has become for modern Finns a cultural icon rather than a work of literature to be enjoyed; it is a focus of pride, a cherished relic of Finland’s national awakening and coming of age. As such, it is perhaps valued most by Finnish emigrants to other lands, because it reminds them of who they are and whence they came.
3 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
In large part, the success of the Kalevala’s success lies in its providing a national political selfconsciousness. In the homogenized and shrinking world of the early 2000s where one country is much like another, people’s desire for ethnic affiliation and cultural pride seems stronger than ever. To some extent, national myths like the Kalevala still answer that need. Source: Deborah Jo Miller, Critical Essay on Kalevala, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Thomas A. DuBois In the following essay, DuBois discusses expectations that listeners would bring to folklore songs and an epic based on them. He uses the Sampo song and narrative expectations that listeners would have to explore aspects of the Kalevala. The notion of ‘‘narrative expectations’’ presents interesting challenges and implications for the student of traditional song. Many of the modern scholar’s initial assumptions regarding the complex relation between narrative expectation and narrative experience are predicated on the example of reading, particularly the reading of a new or unfamiliar piece of prose. Such an experience presupposes ideas of novelty and individual interpretation which in fact differ markedly from the ways in which narrative folksongs have been traditionally received and experienced in living oral traditions. In these, a song is seldom experienced as ‘‘new,’’ even if each performance contains new touches or emphases. Hearing a song for the first time is not the norm nor is it viewed as the ideal. In the case of Finnish and Karelian Kalevalaic folksong—the musical tradition that formed the basis and source for Elias Lo¨nnrot’s epic Kalevala (1835, revised 1849)—songs were steeped in traditional understandings, performance ideals, and familial associations that assumed prior knowledge of the song being performed. These traditions of interpretation and assessment made the experience of a narrative song quite a different thing from what a reader from outside the tradition might experience in confronting a printed version of a song for the first time. In this paper, I compare the understandings which nineteenth-century Karelian peasants shared concerning songs about the mythical Sampo with those evident in Elias Lo¨nnrot’s Kalevala. While Lo¨nnrot uses the Sampo song as the backbone of an epic that relies on reader-based narrative expectations, Karelian singers and audiences of the nineteenth century experienced the same songs within an interpretive framework informed by narrative, customary, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
IT TAKES PAINS TO CREATE A COHERENT NARRATIVE LINE, ONE MEETING THE PRESUMED LITERARY EXPECTATIONS OF LO¨NNROT’S READING AUDIENCE BUT DIFFERENT IN SUBSTANCE FROM THAT OF THE MYTHIC EXPECTATIONS OF THE SONGS’ KARELIAN PERFORMERS AND AUDIENCES.’’
ecological details. The fundamentally different nature of this form of expectation is the heart of what I hope to illustrate, for it helps account for the rich and complex ways in which oral traditions maintain elements of repertoire and meaning over time. I choose the Sampo song as an example for this study because its details are likely to be familiar to readers of the Kalevala. The stirring and mysterious tale of the creation, theft, and eventual loss of the all-giving Sampo is memorable to anyone who has read Lo¨nnrot’s epic and often stirs considerable interest in what the Sampo actually is, i.e., in how Karelian peasants understood their songs. As Kaarle Krohn demonstrated already in 1927, however, Lo¨nnrot based his version of this song on only two impressive but rather unique renditions: that of Ontrei Malinen from 1833, and that of Arhippa Perttunen from 1834. Lo¨nnrot himself collected many other versions of the Sampo song prior to the publication of the Kalevala, many of which differ markedly in detail from the versions used in Lo¨nnrot’s work. These other versions have been published in the first volume of the authoritative anthology of Finnish folk song Suomen Kansan Vanhat Runot (abbreviated SKVR), along with more than 120 different notations of the song made by folklorists before and after Lo¨nnrot in the same area of Karelia. For the purpose of this paper, I will examine the plot and character features of all of Lo¨nnrot’s recorded Sampo songs from Viena (Dvina, Archangel) Karelia (SKVR I(I): 30, 51, 54, 55, 63C, 79, 80, 95, 96, 97, 105, 106, 107, 108). After first examining what elements of plot and character are most widespread in these songs, I survey Karelian customs, and beliefs which helped explicate details of the songs within Karelian folk culture. Together, I
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
argue, these features of plot and association helped create an understanding of the Sampo song that acted as a powerful normative force in folk interpretations. By speaking of ‘‘normative,’’ of course, I do not mean ‘‘uniform’’ nor do I mean ‘‘original.’’ Singers and audiences of folk songs often share a normative model of a song, a model against which they evaluate or appreciate any new performance. The aesthetic and interpretive experience of a folk song in its traditional context comes in part from recognising how the singer has taken traditional material and adapted or embodied it. The norm helps predict the range of variations and shapes the form of new performances, but it seldom exists without a good deal of variation from performance to performance. The ‘‘original’’ form of a folk song, on the other hand, is the object of theoretical reconstruction, often based in part on the norm, but often finding evidence in stray details from a single variant or two, as anyone knowledgeable in historical-geographic research would attest. Thus, my study is far more limited and humbler than the monumental attempts at understanding the Sampo song authored by Finnish folklorists from Krohn (1927) to Seta¨la¨ (1932) to Haavio (1952) to Kuusi (1977b). I am not trying here to answer the ‘‘riddle of the Sampo’’ as Seta¨la¨ so aptly put it, nor to discover its ‘‘original’’ meaning. My question is more synchronic and more limited, but ultimately, I believe, just as intriguing. To begin with, then, we should note that when hearing a song that contained a Sampo episode, Karelian audiences expected a song about the hero Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. The Sampo per se figures only occasionally in so-called Sampo songs, and in any of these, it is seldom the sole narrative focus. Rather, the songs center around the singer/sage Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, so much so that informants often referred to them as Va¨ina¨mo¨inen virsi [Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s Verse]. As Leea Virtanen has shown (1988), Viena Karelians often thought of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen as a real person, someone who had lived in their vicinity and who might eventually return. He not only figures in the songs of the Sampo cycle, but in a variety of other popular songs as well, such as Va¨ina¨mo¨inen polvenhaava [The Knee Wound], Kantele [The First Kantele] or Kilpalaulanta [The Song Duel]. This fact gave Va¨ina¨mo¨inen a notoriety which extended beyond any single song and allowed him in certain ways to outshine the narrative elements of the songs themselves.
V o l u m e
1
3 0 5
K a l e v a l a
Associations with Va¨ina¨mo¨inen may have also influenced the variations within the corpus of songs classified as the ‘‘Sampo cycle’’ itself: Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s recurrence in several songs would help merge them narratively. When the Sampo song recounts Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s putting the people of Pohjola to sleep, for instance, it is easy to see how singers and audiences alike would think of the account of the first kantele, whose music at Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s fingertips charms all the world into ecstasy. And so we find variants of the Sampo songs that have the narrative of the first kantele folded into them at precisely that logical moment in the plot (30, 96, 105, 106). Likewise, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s misadventures at wooing could easily be incorporated into the Sampo song, which seems to contain a subplot of wooing a maiden in many variants. So it is that in Aunus Karelia especially, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s voyage to Pohjola is depicted as an attempt to woo a bride (55, 80, 97, 105, 106). This Va¨ina¨mo¨inen-centered narrative understanding parallels Lo¨nnrot’s own approach to the songs of the Kalevala, although, as we shall see, with certain crucial differences. What, then, did singers and audiences expect to hear of as Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s acts? For Lo¨nnrot’s Viena informants, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s first act was nearly always getting shot and falling into the sea, in which he must float for six to eight years (30, 51, 54, 63c, 79, 95, 97, 105, 106, 107). Only in a small number of variants does the song begin any other way: one depicts Va¨ina¨mo¨inen creating an island at the outset (80), another two begin with details of the crying boat song, in which Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s boat laments its disuse and longs to go on an expedition (96, 108). One begins with Ilmarinen’s sister Anni seeing Va¨ina¨mo¨inen headed off to woo the maiden of Pohjola (55). In all others, very standard lines introduce the attack on Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, perpetrated by an illwilled lappalainen (30, 54, 63c, 79, 97, 105, 106, 107), Lemminka¨inen (51) or Joukahainen (95). Here again, we find the narrative stability strongest around the figure of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, not his enemy, nor even the exact nature of his acts. In general, however, his subsequent acts are the same: they begin with a sea journey, which involves the hero in both the digging of sea beds and fishing holes (79, 95, 97, 108) and in the creation of the world from an egg (30, 79, 95, 97, 105, 106, 107). Seldom does the creation or blessing of seabeds occur without the egg creation narrative, but occasionally it does (e.g., 108). In several, the
3 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
seabed detail occurs later in the narrative after the Sampo has been lost in the water and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is raking the bottom to find it (95, 105, 106). In any case, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s excessively long floating appears one of the song’s most prevalent or stable elements. This act in itself is mythic in quality, and when combined with the hero’s quintessentially cosmogonic acts—assistance in the creation of the earth, digging of seabeds, creation of an island, creation of the kantele or commissioning or creation of the Sampo—establishes Va¨ina¨mo¨inen as a primordial figure in both the creation of the sea scape and land. Lo¨nnrot did not concur entirely with his informants, however, despite having written a master’s thesis on Va¨ina¨mo¨inen as a god (Hautala 1954). In fact, in the introduction to the 1835 Kalevala, Lo¨nnrot expresses the view that too many primordial acts are attributed to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen: ... Nowadays one can always sing about Va¨ina¨ mo¨inen what formerly was sung in the name of others, and who can stop that? What is attrib uted to him concerning the creation of the world, the moon, the sun and stars, one could of old have told of any of the gods, and then, when the proper names were forgotten, pass the credit over to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. For what rea son was Antero Vipunen, for what reason Kaleva, for what reason the supreme god Ukko, left so soon wholly unsung, although in these oral accounts it is still first and fore most told of Antero Vipunen that ‘‘Va¨ina¨mo¨i nen was a mere child compared to him’’? If in these songs [i.e., the Kalevala] Va¨ina¨mo¨inen has here and there been reduced from his for mer reputation as a god, I can of course do nothing about it. [Magoun 1963, 371]
Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s mythic status in the songs is thus seen as a historical artifact, the product of the advanced stage of decay in which Lo¨nnrot believed he had found the pre-Christian belief system of the Finns and Karelians. This attitude allowed Lo¨nnrot to euhemerize Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, viewing him as a human hero whom Karelians had erroneously deified. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s role in the egg creation and the digging of the seabeds— so central to the folk Sampo song—is thus transferred to the character of the floating Ilmatar in the 1849 Kalevala’s Poem 1. It is she who is portrayed as a goddess, not he. In the subsequent poem of Lo¨nnrot’s epic (Poem 2), Va¨ina¨mo¨inen plays roles which can be regarded as grand, but quintessentially, human: he fells a forest and establishes a field. The truly mythic acts here—
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
the seeding of the primeval forest and the felling of a great oak which blots out the sun—are witnessed by Va¨ina¨mo¨inen but effected by attendant mythical beings. In this sense, then, Lo¨nnrot set out to correct the narrative expectations of his informants: not aiming his corrections at Karelians however, but preventing their deified view of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen from carrying over into his printed text. The question of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s initial assailant— i.e., the character who shoots Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, toppling him into the sea—appears of little real significance to Lo¨nnrot’s informants. The name of the perpetrator varies, as noted above, and tends generally to be stated simply as a lappalainen [Sa´mi, Lapp] with an unspecified grudge. In a small number of variants, his mother and/or nature spirits urge him not to attack Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, but he does so anyway (30, 105, 106). He does not emerge in any song to play any further role in the narrative: after his single act of aggression, he disappears, serving only as a device to advance the plot. Lo¨nnrot, for his part, made much of the idea of the assailant as a Sa´mi in the introduction to the first edition of the Kalevala, seeing in many of the songs and folklore of Finland signs of ageold internecine strife between Finns and Sa´mi, some of which had been subsequently misattributed to the farm wife of Pohjola instead: ... If also they had wars with the Sa´mi who for merly lived in Finnish territory, Sa´mi from whom there was reason to fear everything bad and who were regarded as superior wizards, then the farm wife of Pohjola soon got the blame for it. [adapted from Magoun 367]
The farm wife, like Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, then, would seem to have been too prominent in Viena Karelian minds from Lo¨nnrot’s point of view. In any case, Lo¨nnrot eventually follows the lead of his one informant who identifies the assailant as Joukahainen (95), moving the Song Duel and Aino episodes from the end of his epic to the beginning in the 1849 revision (Poems 3–5) in order to furnish the antagonist with a reason for his grudge against Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. When the shooting does occur (Poem 6), it is now motivated by human emotions (envy, revenge) and followed not by cosmogonic acts (the world is already created, after all) but simply by Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s mournful lament about his predicament and his rescue by an eagle. Lo¨nnrot’s text accentuates the human qualities and emotions of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen even while depicting him amid wondrous events. And . . . it takes
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
pains to create a coherent narrative line, one meeting the presumed literary expectations of Lo¨nnrot’s reading audience but different in substance from that of the mythic expectations of the songs’ Karelian performers and audiences. What can we say, then, of the scheming farm wife, the figure so fearsome in Lo¨nnrot’s epic and so ambiguous to any modern reader of the Kalevala? First, she goes by several names in Lo¨nnrot’s collected songs, but these are in fact very similar to one another. In five of Lo¨nnrot’s notations she is called Pohjolan ema¨nta¨ (79, 95, 97, 105, 106) [Farm wife or mistress of the North]; in five, she goes by the more pejorative Pohjan akka (30, 54, 63c, 80, 108) [Old Woman of Pohja/ North]. In one she is given the more menacing but telling name of Ilman tieta¨ja¨ (51) [Wizard of the Weather]. Whatever her name, however (and ema¨nta¨ and akka were simply common terms for farmwives in nineteenth-century Karelia), she is depicted at the outset as a rather fussy and keeneared farm wife. Lines remarkably stable from version to version depict her morning activities when she first hears Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s crying: ... Old woman of Pohja, gap toothed one, rose when it was quite early quite early in the morning soon warmed the mainroom cleaned the rooms up swept the floor as well, she took the dust out to the far field and stopped by the rubbish heap . . .
It is usually, she herself who hears the cries of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, although in two versions, a daughter is either the first to hear (108) or told to go investigate the cries (80). In any case, it is always the farm wife herself who recognizes the crying as that of a bearded man and who subsequently questions Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, sometimes asking him to make a Sampo in exchange for help (79, 51), sometimes promising her daughter to sweeten the deal (30, 105, 106), sometimes simply demanding the Sampo without any promise of recompense at all (97). In a few versions collected by Lo¨nnrot, her role as instigator of the Sampo is absent altogether, although other details of the narrative (such as the Sampo’s creation or the wooing of the daughter) remain, unexplained, in the song (e.g., 63c, 80, 95, 96, 108). From the point of view of song stability and thus likely audience expectations, the farm wife’s
V o l u m e
1
3 0 7
K a l e v a l a
initial acts as a finder, rescuer, and questioner of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen overshadow her more nebulous role in commissioning the Sampo. She certainly appears involved in this latter act as well, but here Va¨ina¨mo¨inen appears to outweigh her in narrative importance and she shrinks at times into obscurity. The same could be said for her role in leading the pursuit after the theft of the Sampo, a struggle in which she is only occasionally named as the leader of the rowing pursuers or as identical to the winged bird who attacks the heroes’ boat (54, 79). Notably, it is in the Perttunen and Malinen versions that her roles in these latter acts are most clearly enunciated, accounting for their incorporation into Lo¨nnrot’s Kalevala. Yet from the standpoint of typical Viena Karelian songs, the farm wife fades from view over the course of the narrative. Like the initial assailant, she plays her part in Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s song and then recedes. It is Va¨ina¨mo¨inen who again takes center stage in the actual creation of the Sampo, either creating it himself (97, 105, 106) or more usually, causing Ilmarinen to undertake the task (54, 55, 63c, 79, 80, 108). Little is said of the Sampo at this point in the song, except that it is made of deceptively simple elements (54, 79, 97) or that the maker worked by day and wooed the maiden by night (54, 79, 80, 97, 105, 106). It tends to be called a sampu (80, 97, 105, 106) or Sampo (30, 54, 96), occasionally samppo (51, 55), although none of these notations is fully reliable, based as they are only on Lo¨nnrot’s often abbreviated written notes. In any case, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen often figures as the wooer of the maiden (30, 55, 80, 97, 105) and consistently leads the subsequent raid to steal the completed Sampo (54, 63c, 79, 96, 97) putting the people of Pohjola to sleep in order to get it (30, 63c, 79, 96). During the pursuit which follows, he helps defend the Sampo through armed conflict or by throwing magic objects behind the boat, a familiar folktale motif (30, 54, 63c, 79, 96). In a few versions, he makes and plays the first kantele during this adventure (105, 106), and in a few others he asks Ilmarinen to make a rake for combing the sea bed (95, 96). In this latter part of the song, then, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen remains the central prime-mover of the narrative, hardly challenged by either opponents or allies. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen is not alone, however. A sizeable portion of the songs include Ilmarinen as a secondary and markedly less important character. In the Malinen version (79), Va¨ina¨mo¨inen tricks Ilmarinen into climbing a tree, from which
3 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
he is blown to Pohjola. In the Perttunen version (54), Va¨ina¨mo¨inen merely dispatches Ilmarinen. Such details recur in some other versions collected by Lo¨nnrot (55, 63c, 80, 108). In others, however, Ilmarinen does not enter the story until after the creation of the Sampo either as an accomplice in the attempted theft or as a rival suitor, or as a maker of a rake (95, 97, 105, 106, 107). Joukahainen also appears occasionally in the songs (96), as does Iku Tiera (54). In these cases, the younger characters figure as companions to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen in his journey away from Pohjola. Their narrative roles are usually limited to asking foolish questions or attempting unsuccessful acts of defense, which Va¨ina¨mo¨inen must then redo successfully. We are not speaking, in other words, of co-stars in the epic, but of a supporting cast, functioning primarily to delineate the powers and success of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen. Lo¨nnrot’s text, predictably, fleshes these characters out, creating depth by adding motivation drawn from lyric songs (DuBois 1995) and, in the case of Ilmarinen, from other epic songs within the tradition. The result is a narrative in which a more human Va¨ina¨mo¨inen acts in response to other characters of similar stature and type. If Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s human interactants remain shadowy, however, the birds with whom he interacts play singularly clear and important roles in the song. In fact, their appearances, though sometimes short and circumscribed by a single mythical act, are equally as vivid in the songs as that of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen himself or of the farm wife at her first appearance. The songs Lo¨nnrot collected contain two, sometimes three such birds: a waterfowl, an eagle, and a crane. It is noteworthy that all three species are migratory and that the appearance of each announces the arrival of spring in Viena Karelia. As such, they must have represented very sympathetic characters for a Viena Karelian audience, an assumption bolstered by the wealth of folklore surrounding each in Karelian tradition. Ontrei Malinen’s version (79) describes the first of these efficacious birds as hanhonen [little goose] and ilman lintunen [little bird of the air], a description matched by other versions (95, 97) or ones which call her sotkoinen (30) [little duck]. The diminutive ending -nen here probably derives from metrical needs as well as feelings of affection for the bird. Waterfowl, including geese, ducks, swans, grebes, and divers in general were of intense symbolic importance to Karelians. Karelian folklore and folk songs recurrently
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
equate such fowl with women (Kuusi 1961) and sometimes depict them as women transformed, a widespread motif shared also by Russian folklore. The swan in particular held symbolic significance and figures in songs as, for example, a guardian of Tuonela, the land of the dead. In Orthodox Christian symbolism as well as medieval western Christian art, the swan was seen as a symbol of the purity of the Virgin Mary (von Kirschbaum 1968–76, Sirota 1992). Karelians feared hurting such waterfowl, seeing them as bringers of luck, impending marriage, or other blessings. To disturb the nest of such a bird would bring about supernatural reprisals. These attitudes, resonant with the content of the Sampo song, differed strikingly from that of other Nordic peoples, who regularly raided the birds’ nests in the springtime for eggs and captured and killed the adults during their summer molt. Thus, by the 1940s, the whooper swan (Finland’s national bird today) had been reduced in population in Finland to a mere fifteen breeding pairs; in Karelia, in contrast, it remained widespread and numerous (Haapanen 1973, Haapanen and Waarama¨ki 1977). Observations of these birds’ nesting patterns help make sense of the details of the Sampo song, as they may have for Karelian audiences. In Karelia, such birds tend to rake up plant debris from the bottoms of lakes to make large nesting platforms, ones nicely reminiscent of a great knee or elbow. On these large floating islets they incubate their eggs for roughly a month, with hatching occurring usually in mid-June (Haapanen and Waarama¨ki 1977). With the hatch, the fowl quickly abandon the islets, foraging on insects and plant matter for the remainder of the summer. The mother, famished from a full month of incubation, searches frantically for food to regain her fat stores before the autumn migration. Likewise, the young must gain size, feathers, and strength enough to participate in the impending flight south. From this point of view, the image of the devoted nesting waterfowl dredging the bottom of the sea frantically in search of her broken eggs would have seemed familiar and somehow natural to a nineteenth-century Karelian audience. Beliefs and knowledge about such birds must have helped reinforce narrative details of the song itself, just as the song helped explain the beliefs and behaviors observable to Karelians of the day. In many of the songs collected by Lo¨nnrot in Uhut, however, this initial world-creating bird is not a waterfowl but an eagle (105, 106, 107). The
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
same detail surfaces in the report made by Fellman in 1829 in discussing the origin of the world with an old singer from Vuokkiniemi (66). Writes Fellman: ... As evidence of how old and primordial the worldview among these folk is even now, we can note that when I asked an older man in Vuokkiniemi what he believed about the creation of the world, he answered: ‘‘well, holy brother, we have the same belief as you. An eagle flew from the north, layed an egg on Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s knee and created the world from it. That’s what you believe too.’’
Similarly, in 1839, Castre´n collected much the same explanation of the creation of the world from a singer in Uhut: ... Originally there existed in the world only the sea and an eagle. The tradition proceeds by follow ing Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, driven about by the surge. The eagle came and laid some eggs on Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s knee. They rolled off into the sea. The eagle the mother comes and looks for her eggs, does not find them where she had laid them, and finds them finally in a pike’s belly, but destroyed. Then the eagle cried out . . . According to my informant, since the eggs could not become eagles, their mother made them into an entire world instead.
The presence of the eagle here may indeed be ancient or it may be influenced by the bird’s later appearance in the song, where she plays a climactic role in the pursuit of the heroes after their theft of the Sampo (30, 54, 79, 96, 105, 106). A number of the songs describe the heroes’ slashing of the eagle’s talons as she attempts to carry off the Sampo, leading to the bird’s fewer toes today and the differing fertility of land and water (the fertility being conferred to the element upon which the severed toes land). Other versions portray the bird as the farm wife transformed as in both Ontrei Malinen’s and Arhippa Perttunen’s versions (79, 54; also 30). The imperial or golden eagles are both native to northern Europe and have been associated since antiquity with power, royal dominion, and nobility in the Russian Empire as elsewhere (Tjerneberg 1986, Forsman 1999). Even more important to the region’s ecology, however, were the white-tailed eagle and the osprey, whose swooping dives on pike or other surface-dwelling fish represent some of the most memorable aerial feats visible in Finnish and Karelian marshlands (Chanceller 1977, Love 1983, Pool 1989, Forsman 1999). The image of
V o l u m e
1
3 0 9
K a l e v a l a
an eagle flapping mightily as it carries a struggling fish in its talons underlies the final image of the Sampo in the Sampo songs at a very basic and obvious level. Ospreys are known to fly in this way for miles, even carrying fish along while migrating (Forsman 1999, 29). Such birds of prey arrive in the region in April (Forsman 1999, 21, 77ff.) and incubate clutches for some thirty days, brooding the chicks in the nest for a further month after hatching. Their nests may be built in trees or cliffs, but in marshy areas and especially islands, species like the osprey may also use hummocks of vegetation as with waterfowl (Brown 1977, 90). Alongside these birds, the songs collected by Lo¨nnrot consistently contain the image of a crane, whose call reawakens a slumbering Pohjola. This is all the more striking when we note how decidedly Lo¨nnrot altered the role in his 1835 and 1849 editions of the Kalevala. In the 1835 text, the crane is disturbed by Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s singing, flying off to alert the sleeping denizens of Pohjola: ... The crane heard the strange cry of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen singing; the crane set forth on a great flight, whimpered an evil sound All of Pohjola awoke, the evil force revived. (1835 Kalevala 23: 132 7)
In the 1849 edition of the epic, rather more logically, Lo¨nnrot attributes the disturbing singing to Lemminka¨inen (42: 285–98). Such, however, is not the turn of events expected by Karelian audiences in their experience of the Sampo song. Their expectations were framed by lines such as the ones used in the Malinen version (79): ... An ant, black bird, two pieced warrior he pissed on a crane’s foot; the crane let out a strange cry whimpered an evil sound. Pohjola noticed that . . .
Much the same delightful image recurs in the version of the Sampo song collected Arhippa Perttunen (54) as well as most others in Lo¨nnrot’s collection (e.g. 30, 96). It is the sole reason ever given for the awakening of the people of Pohjola after Va¨ina¨mo¨inen has put them magically to sleep. The blame for their revival is never attributed to Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s singing, as in the 1835
3 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
Kalevala, nor to that of the reckless Lemminka¨inen, as in the 1849 edition. Why, then, the ant and the crane? First, of course, we can note the ecological realities of the image (Walkinshaw 1973, Prang 1989, Elpich 1995). Ants return to activity in the spring, renewing their nests and stinging trespassers, human and animal alike, with acidic urine. The cranes, too, arrive in impressive flight formations in the early spring, heralding the return of warm weather, an insight noted in proverbs such as Kun sa¨ kuulet kurjen a¨a¨nen, a¨la¨ aja lammin ja¨a¨lle [When you hear the crane’s call, don’t drive on pond ice]. The crane’s loud, trombone-like call, one which can carry for over a mile in low, swampy terrains, would have been familiar to nineteenth-century Karelians. Then, too, the springtime for Karelians was marked in part by the elaborate mating dances of cranes, which involve circling and flying into the air as well as the male’s occasional grabbing and tossing of plant materials. Some of this imagery must lie behind the popular children’s song of the crane as plougher, found especially in Savo and Karelia (Kuusi 1980, 245; Tuomola 1937). It is noteworthy also that the crane is a skittish bird prone to fly off rapidly and with loud report whenever approached by humans. The return of the cranes, along with the springtime resumption of anthill activities, appears the clear ecological background for this stable image of the squawking crane in the Karelian Sampo song. Such is not to say that Lo¨nnrot’s alteration of the crane scene is entirely without basis in the songs, however. A number of the songs available to Lo¨nnrot contain lines signalling an injunction against singing while in a boat. Gottlund’s 1815 notation has the character Jompainen ask Va¨ina¨mo¨inen to sing immediately before the raiders realize that Pohjola’s troops are pursuing them (SKVR 7(5): 10). Ilmarinen, likewise, asks Va¨ina¨mo¨inen why he is not singing in Ontrei Malinen’s version (79). Here, the people of Pohjola have already been alerted to the theft of the Sampo by the crane’s timely call, but Va¨ina¨mo¨inen does not know that yet, and is wary of awakening his enemy. The same sequence of events occurs in Arhippa Perttunen’s version (54), where Iku Tiera encourages Va¨ina¨mo¨inen to sing but the latter wisely defers, since their boat is still in sight of Pohjola’s gates. The songs’ details, then, seem to warn against needless song while in a boat rather than including the lines to account for Pohjola’s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
revival. Such a warning was consistent with Karelian folk belief. In Venehja¨rvi, for instance, needless whistling or singing while in a boat was said to be forbidden by Va¨ina¨mo¨inen himself (SKVR 1(3): 2010). Juhani Kainulainen of Kesa¨lahti informed Lo¨nnrot in 1828 that Va¨ina¨mo¨inen forbade shouting over deep still pools of water or yelling while in a boat (SKVR: 7(3): 4459). Such beliefs again, like those of waterfowl and their nests, must have existed in a kind of symbiosis with the Sampo song, each reinforcing and helping explain the other. That Lo¨nnrot changed these details of the Sampo song so markedly in his printed adaptation indicates that neither the crane nor the traditions concerning proper human behavior were sufficiently clear or significant to the Finnish editor to warrant their inclusion in their usual form within the pages of his epic. For nineteenth-century Karelians, however, these ecological and behavioral images were closely related to the mythic significance of the narrative events. As they explained the song, the battle for the Sampo had resulted in sea and land receiving an unequal share of fecundity. Borenius collected a comment from the singer Timo Petrinen of the Karhunen clan in Latvaja¨rvi, who stated that had the Sampo made it to land in this great pursuit, the district that owned it would be rich indeed (61). Maksima Martiskainen told Genetz in 1872 that if Va¨ina¨mo¨inen had succeeded in retaining the Sampo, the land would be like harvest time all through the year. Because it fell in the sea, however, the sea is now pohatta [rich] producing every manner of sealife. Sjo¨gren collected a similar account of this landsea split of fertility from a singer in Vuokkiniemi in 1825. Petri Kuttunen understood the sa¨mpy to have been a millstone used for grinding both salt and seed. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen sunk it in the sea thus making the sea salty today (64). Ontrei Malinen, on the other hand, attributed the sinking of the Sampo to the farm wife but noted that it was this act which made the sea richer than the land. Martiska Karjalainen’s song from 1834, performed for Lo¨nnrot in Lonkka, makes the land/ sea dichotomy forcefully in the very lines of the song itself, noting that the result of the Sampo’s loss made ‘‘maa kvo¨ha¨ [sic], meri pohatta’’ (96:268) [the land poor, the sea rich]. This view concurs with that of Marja Turpoinen, a singer living in Sa¨fsen, Dalecarlia, from whom Gottlund collected the earliest extant version of a Sampo song (SKVR 7(5): 10). According to this singer, the differing productivity of land and sea owed its existence to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
the landing places of the toes severed from the pursuing sammas, the eagle who chases the hero in her song. For Karelians, the song had not only mythic associations but also ritual ones. Iivana Jyrkinen of Vuonninen told Krohn in 1881 that both planting incantations (kylvo¨sanat) and the Sampo song were sung during spring and autumn plantings. The same singer described his song as relating how Va¨ina¨mo¨inen rid the world of the frost sent by the farm wife (88b), a detail which makes her into a mythic source of cold and infertility and helps explain the logic of singing the song at the time of planting. Mikko Huitturi of Jyskyja¨rvi told Berner in 1872 much the same information. The eagle carried away the kirjokansi, bringing cold weather into the North. This was done out of the wickedness of Pohjolan ema¨nta¨, and if she had not obtained the object, Karelia would not have frosts and chill northern winds today (14). Lines within a Sampo song collected by Lo¨nnrot in Kivija¨rvi in 1837 support the idea that Karelians associated it with planting (52), and the song Lo¨nnrot collected in Lonkka (96) ends with lines derived from a planting charm. Such agriculturally-related conceptions of the Sampo song were further supported in Karelian folklore by astral lore connected with Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, as Martti Haavio (1952) has shown. The constellation of Orion, for example, was commonly known as Va¨ina¨mo¨inen viikate [Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s scythe], a name which reflects the fact that Orion returns to the early morning sky in July; during the time of haying and harvest (Haavio 1952: 221). The Pleiades, too, went most often by the name Va¨ina¨mo¨inen virsu [Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s birchbark slipper] or simply Va¨ina¨mo¨iset. The common term for the constellation today Seulaset [sieves] points to fish netting and is linked to folk terms for calm patches of water such as Va¨ina¨mo¨isen tie, or Va¨ina¨mo¨isen kulku (Haavio 1952: 226) [the road or path of Va¨ina¨mo¨inen]. These terms clearly suggest Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s floating in the Sampo songs and a dual association with both farming and fishing. Lo¨nnrot noted in his introduction to the 1835 Kalevala that men’s fishing trips were prime occasions for the performance of epic songs, a context that would stand alongside that of the planting season. The fact that both Orion and the Pleiades disappear from sight in the early spring and reappear only around the time when Karelians were harvesting and fishing most intensively must have added to this imagistic
V o l u m e
1
3 1 1
K a l e v a l a
linkage between the constellations, the events of the Sampo song, and the activities of Karelian peasants. From this evidence, then, it appears that Lo¨nnrot’s Karelian informants understood songs about the Sampo in a fairly consistent and integrated manner. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen stood at the center of the narrative, as well as at the center of a variety of beliefs and customs activated or reinforced by the narrative: a tabu against disturbing waterfowl, concern for quietness when around water, and the names of constellations. Va¨ina¨mo¨inen’s activities were associated with the creation of both fishing and farming environments, and he interacted with both figures associated with the frost (the farm wife) and with the return of spring (the birds). Through the narrative of the song, Karelians understood why the hard-won harvest of the year’s planting paled by comparison with the fecundity of the waters, evidenced by the fishing catches which Karelians were able to haul and salt at the same time as the harvest. The sea was rich, the land less fertile. But had events gone otherwise in the adventure of the Sampo, life might have been much easier. Lo¨nnrot’s understandings of the Sampo song differed from those of his informants. For him, Va¨ina¨mo¨inen was a deified historical figure, and the events of the Sampo song needed at times to be emended to make better textual sense. Part of this view must have derived from Lo¨nnrot’s understandings of epics: they were to be interpreted as folk memories of a Golden Age of heroism located in the prehistoric past. Yet part of the view must have come also from the disjunction which existed between his understandings of the cosmos and those of his Karelian informants. While they saw the Sampo song imagistically as well as narratively through a unified lens of folk beliefs and Orthodox religiosity, he saw it primarily in terms of plot, a piece of mythologized history. Source: Thomas A. DuBois, ‘‘Narrative Expectations and the Sampo Song,’’ in Scandinavian Studies, Vol. 73, No. 3, Fall 2001, pp. 457 74.
Kenneth Rexroth In the following excerpt, Rexroth explains why the Kalevala has endured as a work of literature that still has meaning for modern readers. Philosophical critics in the nineteenth century decided that a culture is most solidly based on a great epic which incorporates all the prime factors in the national or folk consciousness—or ‘‘unconscious.’’ There is a whole nest of very
3 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
disputable assumptions hidden here. First, that Greek culture was solidly based. It was not. Its glory was in its dynamic equilibrium—which was short-lived. National consciousness does not come from the Nibelungenlied or The Iliad. It is an intellectual notion, born with the nationstate, which came to fruition with the State as an Armed People in the French Revolutionary Wars and degenerated into the idea of the ‘‘folk unconscious’’ in the long drawn-out struggle of the Germans for a national identity. All national literatures today seek for epic foundations—the Shahnama, The Knight in the Leopard Skin, Digenes Akritas, the Ramayana and Mahabharata, the Serbian Ballads; even Dante’s Divine Comedy has been forced into the service of the national consciousness. (The Italian national epic is in fact the operas of Verdi.) In many cases these constructions are purely synthetic, as manufactured for the purpose as ever was Virgil’s Aeneid for Augustus, or Kallimachos’ Serapis Cult for Ptolemy. Yet astonishingly, this does not necessarily invalidate them. It would be easy to narrow the definition of a classic to the point where it applied only to literature that fulfilled such a role. Conversely, all literature that deserves the name of classic does, in a sense, define the consciousness of a particular people and yet is in extension a moment in the conscience of mankind. In the narrowest sense again, many synthetic epics, written as myths to shape the life of a people, have been successful and have been classics in the wider sense as well. The Aeneid, the Kojiki and Nihongi, the Kalevala, the history plays of Shakespeare, the Shah-nama, these are all synthetic myths, made by intellectuals, which succeeded. They did provide foundations for the structural relationships through which their peoples saw themselves. There is nothing really strange about this. The Iliad and Odyssey and even The Epic of Gilgamesh are literary products. The notion that they were grunted out by Folk sitting about a fire and munching bones was a hallucination of a few nineteenthcentury German scholars. If effect on his own people is a measure; if intensity, profundity, and duration of impact is a measure, the most successful of all was Elias Lo¨nnrot. ‘‘Who on earth was he?’’ most people will say. He was a country doctor in the most remote country in Europe, a country that had never been a nation and would not become one for another century: the Grand Duchy of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
Finland. As with so many country doctors, his hobby was philology and folklore. Early in the last century he began collecting the folk songs and narrative ballads of the peasantry, especially in the most remote regions—along the borders of Lapland, and in the forests of Karelia. He became convinced that these songs were fragments of a connected epic narrative that had once been as coherent as the Iliad, or the Nibelungenlied. In this assumption he has been proved wrong, but it does not matter. As he worked his folk materials into what he imagined the original must have been, he produced the most successful constructed myth in modern literature, and one of the most successful of all time. The Kalevala saturates Finnish life. Its deep, resonant evocation of the natural environment, the rich dark green or snow-white land of forests and lakes and pastures where herdsmen, hunters, and fishers go about their timeless ways; its strong matriarchal bias; its ironic acceptance of the tragic nature of life; its dry humor; its praise of intelligence and hospitality as prime virtues—all these elements go to sustain the unique Finnish character to this very day, and that amongst the most advanced sections of the intelligentsia as well as amongst the common people. Yet most non-Finnish readers find the Kalevala puzzling and hard to read. In the first place, the trochaic meter, which is natural to Finnish, sounds artificial and monotonous when imitated by German and English translators. In Hiawatha, Longfellow deliberately imitated the Kalevala in meter, method, subject, and purpose. He took one of the first comprehensive collections of American Indian legends, itself distorted and Europeanized, and formed them into a connected, narrative with many elements of the story borrowed from the Kalevala. He cast his American epic in the same eight-syllable trochaic lines and used the same repetitive devices and fixed epithets—none of them natural in English or American speech. He hoped to write a poem that would connect white Americans with the earth beneath their feet through the Indian past, as the Greeks had been connected with groves and springs and mountains through their nymphs and satyrs and local deities. For two generations Hiawatha was taught in school and every American child could recite it, and the poem did play, feebly, something of the role Longfellow had hoped for it. Then it began to fail, and today most Americans, young or old, consider it comic, if they have ever heard of it. Yet the Kalevala is still successful
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
amongst Finns who read Paul Eluard and Finns who read nothing. Why? First, both Elias Lo¨nnrot and his peasant informants were much better poets. Recited in the original language, the Kalevala has a gripping sonority and haunting cadences that make it quite unlike any other great poem in any language, and the repetitions and recurring epithets have a chime and echo very different from Longfellow’s mechanical use of them. Longfellow’s trochaics have the thump of doggerel and, since the meter is so unnatural in English, sound absurd. Lo¨nnrot’s meter swings; the rhythms are native to the language, and he continuously varies them; his trochees shift back and forth across the beat—swing, in other words. It is the difference between a heartbeat and a metronome. The plot of Hiawatha is as clear as Longfellow could make it, far clearer than his sources—an incomparably more logical narrative than anything in the Kalevala. Modern research has proved that Lo¨nnrot’s sources were inchoate indeed, much of them not narrative at all. He reworked them into a most extraordinary pattern—not a story or series of tales, but a long-drawn-out dream sequence. The heroes of the Kalevala are not warriors or knights-errant; they are shamans—magicians, smiths, and dreamers—men of mystery and cunning. Their adventures are inconclusive, often seemingly pointless, and cryptically frustrating, and their connections are hidden underground. The original Hiawatha was such a person too, but Longfellow exorcised him—took away his magic—and assimilated him to nineteenthcentury rationalism. Lo¨nnrot did the opposite. He awoke the night side of the nineteenth-century professional and middle-class mind, represented by himself, and connected it with the prehistoric culture of the subarctic medicine men which he found surviving amongst the Finnish peasantry. No wonder Carl Jung was fascinated by the Kalevala. It is a kind of socially negotiable Jungian dream, full of archetypes and animuses and animas, totemic symbols of the soul; Methuselah figures; sacred, unobtainable maidens; impossible tasks and mystic beasts—all set in the forests, lakes, and waterfalls of primeval Finland. All its tales seem to be moving toward an unknowable end—the ultimate integration of the integral person—just like the dreams of Jungian patients under analysis. Yet the Kalevala is far more than any psychoanalytic text. Its heroes struggle in dreams,
V o l u m e
1
3 1 3
K a l e v a l a
but they simultaneously live wide awake in the Finnish land, in conflict with a hard but beautiful environment. They are undivided beings, in a real world. In our modern destructive world civilization, Finland stands out as enjoying a high level of ecological success. The Finns cope with their setting of living nature far better than do the Russians or Americans. This talent is reflected in and reinforced by the Kalevala, certainly the most ecological of epics. In the poem, as in Finnish life, there survives that ecological life philosophy without which no subarctic people could endure. Like the Lapps or Eskimos, they must cooperate with nature or perish. They are still there. So the Kalevala succeeds and endures because it expresses not just a national consciousness, but the consciousness of the kinship of a race of men with all living creatures about them. Maybe it was put together by a country doctor five generations ago, but it is the opposite of a synthetic epic: it is a synthesis of nature, man, time, and place. Source: Kenneth Rexroth, ‘‘The Kalevala,’’ in Classics Revisited, New Directions, 1968, pp. 24 28.
Francis Peabody Magoun Jr. In the following excerpt, Magoun notes ways that the Kalevala is significantly different from most national epics and proposes that first-time readers of this work abandon the usual approach of a straight-through reading and instead read different sections or story cycles almost at random. He identifies several sections that stand well on their own and repay such an approach. Again and again the Kalevala has been described as the national heroic epic of the Finnish people, a description which, at least outside Finland, has tended to do the work a certain disservice by raising expectations that the reader is not likely to find fulfilled, regardless of what else he may find that is richly rewarding at a poetical, folkloristic, or ethnographic level. Any talk about a national heroic epic is bound to evoke thoughts of the Greek Iliad and Odyssey, the Old French Chanson de Roland, or the Middle High German Nibelungenlied, all of which possess a more or less unified and continuously moving plot with actors who are wealthy aristocratic warriors performing deeds of valor and displaying great personal resourcefulness and initiative, often, too, on a rather large stage. The Kalevala is really nothing like these. It is essentially a conflation and concatenation of a considerable number and variety of traditional songs, narrative, lyric, and magic, sung by unlettered singers, male and female, living to a great
3 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
extent in northern Karelia in the general vicinity of Archangel. ... Lo¨nnrot’s title Kalevala is a name rare in the singing tradition; it describes a completely legendary region of no great extent, and is rendered here ‘‘the Kaleva District,’’ The personal name Kaleva upon which the local name is based refers to a shadowy background figure of ancient Finnish poetic legend, mentioned in connection with assumed descendants and with a few nature or field names. The action, like that of the Icelandic family sagas, is played on a relatively small stage, centering on the Kaleva District and North Farm. . . . The actors are in effect Finno-Karelian peasants of some indefinite time in the past who rely largely on the practice of magic to carry out their roles. Appearing at a time when there was little or no truly bellelettristic Finnish literature, the Kalevala unquestionably—and most understandably—became a source of great satisfaction and pride to the national consciousness then fast developing among the Finns, who had been growing restive under their Russian masters. To some extent the Kalevala thus became a rallying point for these feelings, and permitted and in a measure justified such exultant statements as ‘‘Finland can [now] say for itself: I, too, have a history!’’ (Suomi voi sanoa itselleen: minullakin on historia!). Lo¨nnrot’s own comments in his prefaces . . . make clear that one of his chief aims was to create for Finnish posterity a sort of poetical museum of ancient Finno-Karelian peasant life, with its farmers, huntsmen and fishermen, seafarers and sea-robbers, the latter possibly faint echoes from the Viking Age, also housewives, with social and material patterns looking back no doubt centuries—all reflecting a way of life that was, like the songs themselves, already in Lo¨nnrot’s day destined for great changes if not outright extinction. Thus, from Lo¨nnrot’s point of view the many sequences of magic charms and wedding lays, at times highly disruptive to the main narrative, are for what they tell of peasant beliefs and domestic life quite as significant as the narrative songs about the Big Three—Va¨ina¨mo¨inen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminka¨inen. Owing to the special character of its compilation or concatenation, the Kalevala possesses no particular unity of style apart from the general diction of the Karelian singers and the indispensable ubiquitous traditional formulas. . . . Comprising miscellaneous materials collected over many years
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
K a l e v a l a
from many singers from all over Karelia and some bordering regions, these poems range in style and tone from the lyrically tragical, as in Poem 4, to almost sheer horseplay, as in Poem 3; some are poems of warfare, while a number consist of magic incantations and magic charms. Among the most interesting, though perhaps superficially pedestrian, are the so-called ‘‘Wedding Lays’’ (Poems 21–25), with their keen, detailed observations on the daily life of the Karelian peasant. All call for quite varied styles in any English rendering. The digests at the beginnings of the poems are Lo¨nnrot’s and were written in prose. Lo¨nnrot is also the artless composer of Poem 1, lines 1–110, and Poem 50, lines 513–620; both these passages are pure flights of Lo¨nnrot’s fancy, and, despite a semblance of autobiography, bear no relation to the author’s life. In reading a new poem or a sequence of poems it is normal to begin at the beginning and read straight ahead, but in the case of the Kalevala this natural procedure has little to recommend it, since in a general way the present order of the poems is quite arbitrary, differing considerably, for example, from that of Lo¨nnrot’s 1835 Old Kalevala. Instead of starting with Poem 1 and reading through to the end, the reader is likely to derive greater satisfaction by beginning with some single story cycle—say, the Lemminka¨inen stories (Poem 11 and following); though not in sequence, these can easily be picked out from the table of contents. One might then pass on to the Ilmarinen stories and to those dealing with Kullervo. The Va¨ina¨mo¨inen poems form a somewhat miscellaneous group, and Va¨ina¨mo¨inen keeps appearing here and there in a large number of poems dealing primarily with the other principals. The many magic charms, inserted here and there, can usually be skipped on a first reading of the poem or poems in which they occur, though some of the shorter are entirely appropriate in their contexts and do not appreciably obstruct the flow of the narrative. Some of the more extensive charms and series of charms—for example, the Milk and Cattle Charms of Poem 32 and the Bear Charms of Poem 46—can be enjoyed when read out of context. ... There are surely many possible approaches to a first reading of the Kalevala, and the remarks in the preceding paragraphs should be taken only as the suggestion of one person, proffered in the hope of making a first acquaintance with this
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
remarkable work a greater pleasure and more meaningful than the head-on approach. Source: Francis Peabody Magoun Jr., ‘‘Foreword,’’ in The Kalevala; or, Poems of the Kalevala District, com piled by Elias Lo¨nnrot and translated by Francis Pea body Magoun Jr., Harvard University Press, 1963, pp. xiii xxiv.
SOURCES Alphonso Karkala, John B., ‘‘Transformation of Folk Narratives into Epic Composition in Elias Lo¨nnrot’s Kalevala,’’ in Jahrbuch fu¨r Volksliedforschung, Vol. 31, 1986, pp. 13 28. Austerlitz, Robert, ‘‘The Poetics of the Kalevala,’’ in Books from Finland, Vol. 29, No. 1, 1985, pp. 44 47. Battarbee, Keith, ‘‘The Forest Writes Back: The Asbau of Finnish from Peasant Vernacular to Modernity,’’ in Con structing Nations, Reconstructing Myth: Essays in Honor of T. A. Shippey, edited by Andrew Wawn, Graham Johnson, and John Walter, Brepols, 2007, pp. 71 96. Bosley, Keith, trans., The Kalevala: An Epic Poem after Oral Tradition by Elias Lo¨nnrot, Oxford’s World Classics, Oxford University Press, 2009. Branch, Michael, ‘‘Kalevala: From Myth to Symbol,’’ in Books from Finland, Vol. 19, No. 1, 1985, pp. 1 8. Comparetti, Domenico, ‘‘Conclusions,’’ in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, Vol. 6, Gale Research, 1991, pp. 219 27; originally published in Domenico Comparetti, Traditional Poetry of the Finns, translated by Isabella M. Anderton, Longmans, Green, 1898, pp. 327 59. Friberg, Eino, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Kalevala: Epic of the Finnish People, translated by Eino Friberg, Otava, 1988, p. 16. Haavikko, Paavo, ‘‘What Has the Kalevala Given Me?’’ in Books from Finland, Vol. 29, No. 1, 1985, p. 65. Hollo, Anselm, ‘‘The Kalevala through My Years,’’ in Books from Finland, Vol. 19, No. 1, 1985, p. 13. Honko, Lauri, ‘‘The Kalevala and Finnish Culture,’’ in The Finns in North America: A Social Symposium, edited by Ralph J. Jalkanen, Michigan State University Press, 1969, p. 49. , ‘‘The Kalevala Process,’’ in Folklife Annual, 1986, pp. 66 79. Karner, Tracy X., ‘‘Ideology and Nationalism: The Fin nish Move to Independence, 1809 1918,’’ in Ethnic and Racial Studies, Vol. 14, No. 2, April 1991, p. 160. Lockwood, Yvonne Hiipakka, ‘‘Immigrant to Ethnic: Symbols of Identity among Finnish Americans,’’ in Folk life Annual, 1986, pp. 92 107. Majamaa, Raija, ‘‘Lo¨nnrot Lives!’’ in Scandinavian Review, Vol. 93, No. 3, Spring 2006, pp. 51 57.
V o l u m e
1
3 1 5
K a l e v a l a
Pentika¨inen, Juha Y., Kalevala Mythology, translated and edited by Ritva Poom, Folklore Studies in Trans lation Series, Indiana University Press, 1990, pp. 9, 25 26, 66. , ‘‘The Kullvervo Tragedy: An Epical Drama,’’ in Kalevala Mythology, translated and edited by Ritva Poom, Folklore Studies in Translation Series, Indiana University Press, 1990, pp. 39 42. Wawn, Andrew, Graham Johnson, and John Walter, eds., Constructing Nations, Reconstructing Myth: Essays in Honor of T. A. Shippey, Brepols, 2007.
FURTHER READING Books from Finland, Vol. 29, No. 1, 1985. Books from Finland is a quarterly journal on Finnish literature. The first issue of 1985, sub titled ‘‘Kalevala 1935 1985,’’ is entirely devoted to the Kalevala. It contains numerous articles and essays, beautiful illustrations, and sugges tions for further reading. Crawford, John Martin, The Kalevala, The Epic Poem of Finland into English, 2 volumes, Nabu Press, 2010. Crawford produced the first complete transla tion of the Kalevala into English. This verse edition includes a useful preface on the myths, language, and culture of Finland. Kirby, W. F., trans., Kalevala: The Land of Heroes, 2 volumes, Everyman Series, 1907. Even in the early 2000s, Kirby’s translation is considered one of the best because it preserves the trochaic meter of the Finnish original. Each poem is preceded by a brief synopsis. Lehtola, Veli Pekka, The Sami People: Traditions in Transition, University of Alaska Press, 2005. This book describes the changes in the culture
3 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
of the indigenous people of Northern Finland whose ancient lifestyle is depicted in the Kale vala. Lehtola is a research fellow at the Univer sity of Oulu, Finland, a Sami who tells the story of his people, no longer remote reindeer herd ers, but part of the global culture. The study is illustrated with photos and maps, juxtaposing traditional and modern Sami life. Petty, Anne C., ‘‘Identifying England’s Lo¨nnrot,’’ in Tol kien Studies: An Annual Scholarly Review, Vol. 1, No. 1, 2004, pp. 69 84. Petty groups Lo¨nnrot, Tolkien, Danish poet Nikolaj Grundtvig, and Norwegian folk archiv ist, Jorgen Møe as philologist authors who cre ated myths promoting national identity. Sawin, Patricia E., ‘‘Lo¨nnrot’s Brainchildren: The Rep resentation of Women in the Kalevala,’’ in Journal of Folklore Research, Vol. 25, No. 3, 1988, pp. 187 217. Sawin argues that Lo¨nnrot deliberately inserted negative depictions of women into the Kalevala to further a nationalistic and patriarchal agenda. Men are the heroes of the epic, whereas female characters are either self sacrificing or evil.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Elias Lo¨nnrot Elias Lo¨nnrot AND Finnish language Finnish AND epic Kalevala Kalevala AND Finnish independence movement Kalevala AND romanticism Kalevala AND runes
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
The Lord of the Rings In 1997, in a poll run by Waterstone, the major British bookseller, The Lord of the Rings was voted the greatest book of the twentieth century. That vote reflected the fact that The Lord of the Rings had been a steady bestseller since the first volume was published in 1954. Despite its critics, the work continued in the twenty-first century to be extremely popular.
J. R. R. TOLKIEN 1954–1955
Popularity and critical disquiet constitute the mixed response to the work of J. R. R. Tolkien, an Oxford University professor who specialized in the study of language development and early medieval literature. Tolkien created characters and situations common to epic and folktale. His novelistic technique made his work popular with general readers, but left some critics hostile. Despite its roots in medieval literature, The Lord of the Rings is a modern work, confronting its characters and its readers with modern moral dilemmas regarding knowledge and power. Also, the work assumes absolute ethical principles, affirming an overarching providence while asserting the importance of human choice. Tolkien created a new type of hero who complements but does not replace the old epic hero. Moreover, in his handling of the Ruling Ring and its destruction of the natural world, Tolkien expressed his fear that human beings would destroy the earth and themselves. Tolkien clearly rejected certain types of knowledge and uses of power, and in The Lord of the Rings, he leveled an attack on the belief in progress as it had developed in western civilization.
3 1 7
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Tolkien, from his first lessons in Latin, showed a facility for and interest in languages. As well as learning Latin and Greek at school, he taught himself Old English and Gothic, an extinct German language with its own alphabet. Tolkien soon went from inventing Gothic words to filling out the surviving vocabulary, then to inventing a language. He drew upon his love of languages and his love of the countryside in envisioning Middle Earth and its history. At Oxford University, Tolkien specialized in philology, the study of how languages develop. As his studies were drawing to a close, World War I broke out. In 1916, after he married Edith, Tolkien volunteered for the British Army and served in France, but he was invalided out with trench fever later that year. Between 1917 and 1929, Tolkien and his wife had four children. Combat experiences and the deaths of nearly all his closest friends affected both Tolkien’s creative and critical writings in the years that followed. After the war, he worked on the Oxford English Dictionary then taught at the University of Leeds. In 1925, he joined the faculty at Oxford, first at Pembroke College and later at Merton College, from which he retired in 1959.
J.R.R. Tolkien (AP Images)
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born January 3, 1892, in South Africa, where his father, Arthur Reuel Tolkien, was a banker. His father died in 1896 while Tolkien, his mother, Mabel, and younger brother, Hilary, were visiting family in England. To economize, his mother moved the family to a village near Birmingham where she began educating her sons, teaching them French, German, and Latin, as well as botany and drawing. Here Tolkien fell in love with the English countryside. Mother and sons converted to Catholicism in 1900. Tolkien was deeply religious; beneath the surface of The Lord of the Rings is a profound faith in God’s providence. His mother died when Tolkien was eleven. They had moved back and forth from country to city, but her death meant a final move into the industrial city of Birmingham. There at sixteen he met his future wife, Edith Mary Bratt. His guardian, worried by an infatuation in a teenager studying for an Oxford scholarship, insisted that Tolkien break off contact until he was twenty-one. (A similar period of working and waiting is seen in Aragorn, who must not hope to marry Arwen, daughter of Elrond, until he has restored his ancestors’ kingdom.)
3 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
Alongside his academic work and scholarly publications, Tolkien wrote creative pieces for his children and over the years composed what he called the history of Middle Earth, the world of his invented languages, discussing it with friends such as C. S. Lewis (1898–1963). In 1936, he published The Hobbit, a story written for his children. An incident in that work, the finding of the Ring, became the point of departure for the next work, The Lord of the Rings, which appeared originally in three volumes: The Fellowship of the Ring (1954); The Two Towers (1954); and The Return of the King (1955). The Lord of the Rings was written during World War II and the beginning of the cold war. Although Tolkien insisted it was not an allegory, he and it were not untouched by current events. The U.S. use of the atomic bomb intensified his misgivings about modern technological progress and the corruption of power. His concept of the heroic, already affected by his experience in World War I, shifted further away from the traditional in the context of a world now capable of destroying itself. The publication of The Lord of the Rings in 1954 and 1955 was greeted with bitter criticism from some members of the literary establishment, but sales were steady into the mid-sixties when it became a cult bestseller. Tolkien, meanwhile, worked on The Silmarillion, the prehistory
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
of Middle Earth. He died in England on September 2, 1973, and under the guidance of his son Christopher John Reuel Tolkien, whom he had appointed his literary executor, the work was published posthumously in 1977. Of his diverse and numerous critical publications, Tolkien’s Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics (1937), On Fairy Stories (1939), and the short study Ofermod (1944), particularly reflect the interaction of his scholarship and his creativity, as well as his profound ethical concerns.
PLOT SUMMARY Overview In The Lord of the Rings, the inhabitants of Middle Earth join to save themselves from enslavement by the malevolent Sauron. Centuries before, Sauron forged a Ring, putting much of his power into it, so as to control through a series of lesser rings, men, dwarves, and elves. Some men fell into his power, but an alliance of men and elves defeated him, and the Ring was cut from his hand. It should have been destroyed, but a human prince, Isildur, took it. Isildur was slain, and the Ring fell into a river. There, the hobbit-like Deagol eventually finds it. His friend, Smeagol, kills Deagol for the Ring. From Smeagol it passes to Bilbo Baggins, who, innocent of its powers and dangers, takes it back to his home and eventually leaves it to his cousin and heir Frodo Baggins. Once it is understood what the Ring is and that Sauron is trying to recover the ring, it becomes clear that it must be destroyed. It can, however, only be destroyed in the same fire in which it was forged, the volcano Orodruin deep in Sauron’s realm. Although it appears a rash and hopeless plan, requiring that the last forces of Middle Earth fight as a decoy while sending Sauron’s ultimate weapon back into the heart of his realm, the very unlikelihood of the plan confuses Sauron. The Ring is destroyed in an act of providential irony, but not without enormous loss and a fundamental change to Middle Earth.
The Hobbit The Lord of the Rings is preceded by a prologue, The Hobbit, which introduces the hobbits, Middle Earth, and Sauron’s Ring. Bilbo Baggins, on a superficially unrelated adventure, finds, steals, or wins—actually a little of all three—a magic ring. His first act while wearing the ring is to spare the life
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The 1978 animated film The Lord of the Rings was directed by Ralph Bakshi.
Recorded Books, in 2002, produced a fiftytwo-hour CD audio book of The Lord of the Rings. The trilogy film, collectively titled, The Lord of the Rings, including The Fellowship of the Ring (2001); The Two Towers (2002); and The Return of the King (2003), became available in 2003 as a DVD box set. In 2003, Kulture Video produced Secrets of Middle-Earth: Inside Tolkien’s ‘‘The Lord of the Rings,’’ a four-disc set that provides a biography, analysis of the trilogy by experts, and a recreation of Middle Earth achieved by mapping techniques and artwork. In 2003, National Geographic made a sixtyminute video titled Beyond the Movie: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. The film looks for a historical context for Aragorn’s dilemmas and makes connections between the real world and Middle Earth.
of its previous owner, Gollum, despite the creature’s murderous intentions. Bilbo uses the ring throughout the rest of the book to help his companions, raising their estimation of him from something like an awkward piece of baggage to a statesman, if not quite a hero. Returning home, he finds both that his reputation will never recover from his adventure and that he does not care.
The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 1 Gandalf the Wizard, an old family friend of Bilbo and his companion in The Hobbit, suspects Bilbo’s ring is Sauron’s lost Ring. Bilbo’s advanced age and vigor are unusual even for a hobbit, and the Ring has begun to fill him with unease. Bilbo leaves the Shire, bequeathing the Ring, on Gandalf’s advice, along with the rest of his estate, to his cousin and heir Frodo. Eventually, Gandalf returns and makes a final test by
V o l u m e
1
3 1 9
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
In the early 2000s, Peter Jackson directed a trilogy of critically acclaimed movies based on The Lord of the Rings. Elijah Wood, pictured here in a scene from the first installment, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), played Frodo. (Ó Pictorial Press Ltd / Alamy)
which he and Frodo become convinced that the Ring does belong to Sauron. Sauron has built up his power and is searching for his Ring. He sends his most terrible servants, the Ringwraiths, to find it. Frodo, his servant Sam, and cousins Merry and Pippin barely manage to elude them with the help of Aragorn, the heir of the ancient kings who has fought Sauron in the past. Frodo nearly falls under Sauron’s power when he puts on the Ring and is wounded by a Ringwraith.
The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 2 The hobbits and Aragorn reach Rivendell with the Ringwraiths closing in. There a council of men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits is held. They decide the Ring is too dangerous either to use or to hide. It must be destroyed. Frodo offers on behalf of mankind to take and destroy it in the fire where it was forged. With him go Gandalf,
3 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
Aragorn, and Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor; Legolas, son of Mirkwood’s Elf-king, for the elves; Gimli, son of Gloin of the Lonely Mountain for dwarves; Sam, Merry, and Pippin for the hobbits. Gandalf leads them until, thwarted in their attempt to cross the mountains, he takes them underground through the mines of Moria. There he falls in battle with an evil creature from the earth’s depths. Aragorn takes over leadership of the band, guiding them to the elven kingdom of Lo´rien where its queen Galadriel tests their resolve and gives each a gift. Then they go down the river Anduin to the Rauros falls. There they must decide whether to turn east towards Sauron’s realm or go with Boromir to the aid of Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor. Already they realize Gollum is following them. When it becomes clear Frodo will continue the apparently hopeless quest to destroy the Ring,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
Boromir tries to take the Ring. Frodo, horrified at the Ring’s effect, leaves the others. Sam insists on coming with him. Orcs from Mordor and from the renegade wizard Saruman attack while the rest search for Frodo and Sam. Boromir dies trying to protect Merry and Pippin from the Orcs who have been told to capture hobbits.
The Two Towers: Book 3 Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas return at Boromir’s horn call, but arrive only in time for Boromir to confess trying to take the Ring and to beg Aragorn to save his people. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli pursue the Orcs. The three are overtaken by a troop of horsemen, the Riders of Rohan, led by Eomer, nephew of their king. Eomer tells them that he and his men overtook a band of Orcs at the edge of the great forest of Fangorn and slaughtered them. He lends them horses to search for their friends on condition they afterward come to his uncle’s court to justify his help. The hobbits, however, have escaped and met Treebeard the Ent, the master of the forest. Hearing their story, Treebeard decides the time has come to move against Saruman who has begun to imitate Sauron, destroying or enslaving everything within his reach. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas reach the forest where Gandalf, sent back from the dead to finish his work, meets them. He tells them that the hobbits are safe and have found them allies: the Ents. They travel to the court of Theoden, king of Rohan. The wizard turns the king from the despair induced by the insinuations of Grima, the king’s councilor and Saruman’s agent. They and the Ents help Rohan fight off Saruman’s invasion and then go with Theoden to confront Saruman, now besieged by the Ents. There they are reunited with Merry and Pippin. Saruman refuses to give up his bid for power; Gandalf breaks his staff. Grima throws a palantı´ r, one of the last three seeing stones, brought from the lost land of Nu´menor, at Gandalf. Pippin, overcome by curiosity, looks into the stone and is seen by Sauron, who thinks he is the Ringbearer. Gandalf gives Aragorn, heir of the kings of Nu´menor, the palantı´ r and rides with Pippin to Minas Tirith in Gondor. Merry becomes King Theoden’s squire.
The Two Towers: Book 4 Frodo and Sam are found by Gollum whom Frodo befriends, almost winning him over from his malice. Gollum leads them through the desolation around Mordor, but they discover that
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
they cannot enter its Black Gate. Gollum offers to show them another, hidden way. As they journey there, a scouting party under command of Boromir’s younger brother, Faramir, catches them. Faramir learns of the Ring and their plans but resists any temptation to seize it. He gives them supplies and warns them that Gollum’s secret way, the Spider’s Pass, is more dangerous than Gollum has said. They follow Gollum, however, having no other choice. A monstrous spider, Shelob, bites Frodo. Sam thinks he is dead and takes the Ring to complete Frodo’s task. Just as he is about to cross into Mordor, Sam overhears Orcs bickering and realizes that Frodo is not dead. He attempts to follow the Orcs carrying off the unconscious Frodo but collapses.
The Return of the King: Book 5 Pippin and Gandalf reach Gondor and meet Denethor, the ruling steward. Denethor questions Pippin closely about his dead son. He is not happy with what he hears. He resents Aragorn. He believes the Ring should be used to defeat Sauron. Pippin, who admired Boromir, offers his sword to Denethor who accepts him as one of his guardsmen. Meanwhile Aragorn has been joined by a small band of his kinsmen. He takes leave of King Theoden and rides for the Paths of the Dead to demand the help of a ghostly army cursed to have no peace until they fight against Sauron. Gimli and Legolas go with him. Longing for glory and in love with him, E´owyn, niece of Theoden and regent in his absence, begs Aragorn to let her come with him. Aragorn is miserable. He knows she loves him, but he has spent his whole adult life trying to win Elrond’s permission to marry his daughter Arwen. He also understands she is frustrated by woman’s work. He refuses and tries to convince her that her regency is vital. When Theoden sets out for Gondor, E´owyn, disguised, rides with the army. Merry, who had been ordered behind by the king, comes with her. At Gondor, meanwhile, Denethor, aged prematurely by the watching events distorted by Sauron in the palantı´ r of Minas Tirith, falls further into despair. When Faramir, whom he berated for not seizing the Ring, is brought back wounded, he slips into madness. The Riders of Rohan arrive at Minas Tirith and attack the besieging army. In the battle, the Chief Ringwraith, mounted on a flying beast, attacks Theoden and kills his horse, which kills the king with its fall. E´owyn, who has stayed close to the king through the fighting, comes between the Ringwraith
V o l u m e
1
3 2 1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Bernard Hill as Theoden and Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn in the second installment of the movie trilogy, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002). (Ó Pictorial Press Ltd / Alamy)
and her dying uncle and, with Merry’s help, kills the Ringwraith. Eomer finds his uncle in time to be named king and receive Theoden’s last message for E´owyn. Finding E´owyn apparently dead, he goes into a rage and charges through the enemy, overstretching his lines, but bringing them within sight of Aragorn arriving with the fleet he has liberated from Sauron. Denethor has seen the approach of the fleet in the palantı´ r and, thinking it is Sauron’s, decides to kill himself and Faramir. Pippin, looking for Gandalf, meets the guard Beregond whom he sends to try to delay Denethor. With the help of Pippin and Beregond, Gandalf rescues Faramir, but Denethor commits suicide. The battle won, Aragorn refuses to officially to enter the city for fear of stirring up dissension but comes secretly to nurse Faramir, E´owyn, and Merry. With Minas Tirith secured for the moment, the leaders decide to send a small force under Aragorn to Mordor to draw Sauron’s attention
3 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
away from the Ringbearer. When they reach the gates of Mordor, they are met by the Mouth of Sauron who shows them Sam’s sword, an elven cloak, and Frodo’s armor.
The Return of the King: Book 6 Sam rescues Frodo from the Orcs, helped by their in-fighting and the power of Galadriel’s gift. He hands Frodo back the Ring, and they travel on, still shadowed by Gollum. They abandon their few possessions as they abandon their hope of doing anything more than destroying the Ring. The landscape grows increasingly bleak as they approach the volcano, Orodruin. Frodo grows weaker, and Sam carries him when he can no longer walk. Gollum catches up with them and knocks both down. Frodo rises with sudden strength and orders Gollum out of his path: ‘‘Begone and trouble me no more! If you
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom,’’ and taking his leave of Sam walks up the path to the fire. Sam, left alone with Gollum, almost kills him, but having known briefly the burden of the Ring, cannot for pity. He follows Frodo and sees him, at the fire’s edge, claim the Ring for himself. Gollum attacks Frodo, they struggle, and Gollum bites off Frodo’s ring finger. Then, dancing with glee, Gollum topples into the flames, destroying the Ring. At the gate of Mordor, the little army is at bay. Eagles arrive just as the armies of Mordor are thrown into panic with the destruction of the Ring. Gandalf sends the eagles to rescue the hobbits. Nearly two weeks later, Sam and Frodo wake in Aragorn’s camp. They are reunited with the rest of the Fellowship and formally honored. The army returns to Minas Tirith, where Faramir and E´owyn have fallen in love during their convalescence. Aragorn is crowned. On Midsummer’s Day, Aragorn and Arwen are married. They and the Fellowship escort the body of Theoden back to Rohan where, after his burial, E´owyn and Faramir are betrothed. Arriving at Orthanc, they discover Treebeard has allowed Saruman to leave. Accompanied by Gandalf, the hobbits travel on to Rivendell, meeting Saruman and Grim on the way. The hobbits visit with Bilbo and travel on to learn the Shire has not escaped unscathed. Gandalf leaves them telling them to hurry. Entering the Shire, they find that Lotho Sackville-Baggins and then Saruman under the name of Sharkey have turned the Shire into a police state and the beginnings of an ecological disaster. They rouse their fellow hobbits to see off the men who have terrorized them but discover that Grim has murdered Lotho and that Sharkey is Saruman. Frodo tries to keep them from bloodshed and will not allow the hobbits to harm Saruman. The miserable Grim, who is in turn killed, murders Saruman. Merry, Pippin, and Sam re-enter the life of the Shire as acknowledged heroes. Sam marries Rose Cotton; the newlyweds live with Frodo in Bag End. Frodo, however, does not recover from his ordeal. Just three years after they had fled the Shire with the Ring, Sam accompanies Frodo to the Havens where together with Bilbo, Gandalf, Galadriel, and Elrond, he takes a ship for the west. With Merry and Pippin, Sam watches as the ship sets sail and then returns home to his wife and baby daughter.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
CHARACTERS Aragorn The last descendant of the kings of the west, Aragorn, named Estel (Hope) by his mother, is born in the northwest of Middle Earth. There his kinsmen and people have dwindled to a small clan of hardy, relatively long-lived men and women. His father is killed soon after his birth; Aragorn is raised in Rivendell, the last secret hope of his people. He has spent his adult life, like the other men of his people, as a Ranger, protecting the northwest lands of Middle Earth (particularly the Shire, since the finding of the Ring) from the threat of Sauron. He has ridden under an assumed name with the Riders of Rohan and fought under the assumed name Thorongil in Gondor.
Arwen A half-elf and Elrond’s daughter, like all elves, Arwen is immortal. Arwen (also known as Undomel) is called Evenstar because of her resemblance to her great-grandmother, Luthien Morningstar, who also renounced immortality for the love of a mortal man. She has waited for Aragorn through all his labors and marries him shortly after the end of the War of the Ring, assigning her right to pass over the sea to the uttermost west to Frodo should he wish. After Aragorn’s death, she goes back to her mother’s home of Lo´rien and, the elves all departed, dies alone.
Bilbo Baggins Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit who accompanies a group of dwarves on an attempt to kill a dragon and reclaim their home and treasure. He relinquishes the ring to Frodo, his heir, and goes off to Rivendell. He eventually passes over the sea into the west with Frodo, Elrond, Gandalf, and Galadriel. Bilbo is the first author and compiler of the Red Book of Westmarch, the so-called source of Tolkien’s history of Middle Earth.
Frodo Baggins Cousin and adopted heir of Bilbo, Frodo Baggins inherits a clearly magical ring along with the rest of Bilbo’s property and is warned not to use it. After his adventure, he can find no peace in his return home and takes up Arwen’s offer to pass over the sea into the west in her place.
V o l u m e
1
3 2 3
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Balin
Meriadoc Brandybuck
One of Bilbo’s dwarf companions, Balin goes to restore the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria where he is killed by Orcs.
See Merry
Beregond A man of the Guards of the Citadel, Beregond and Pippin save Faramir from death at the hands of Faramir’s father, Denethor. To do this, Beregond leaves his post and kills three of his comrades, who attempt to stop him, following orders from Denethor. Beregond’s dilemma illustrates divided loyalties and competing moral imperatives. His trial is one of Aragorn’s first acts as the newly crowned king of Gondor, shifting from warleader to judge.
Bergil Bergil is the son of Beregond who guides Pippin about Minas Tirith and fetches the herb Athelas, which Aragorn uses to save Merry, E´owyn, and Faramir.
Bregalad Bregalad is one of the youngest of the Ents or shepherds of the trees. He makes up his mind with most un-Entish speed and, having made up his mind that Saruman must be stopped, is excused from the Entmoot or parliament to play host to Merry and Pippin.
Barliman Butterbur Owner of the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, Barliman Butterbur is often patronized by Gandalf. He forgets to send on Gandalf’s letter to Frodo warning him to leave the Shire. He thinks Aragorn is at best a dubious character.
Celeborn
See Witch King of Angmar
The husband of Galadriel, Celeborn is the ruler, with his wife, of the elves of Lo´rien. He is a somewhat shadowy figure compared to his wife. His reactions to men and events seem less shrewd than hers.
Black Riders
Cı´rdan
See Ringwraiths
Cı´ rdan is the elf lord who originally wore one of the three rings of the elves and who rules the Grey Havens from which the elves depart to the lands of the Valar in the west. Cı´ rdan provides the ships that make the voyages. He departs with the other leaders of the elves and the Ringbearers Frodo and Bilbo.
Black Captain
Fredegar Bolger Fredegar Bolger, also known as Fatty, is another cousin of Frodo and Bilbo. For as long as possible, he tries to keep up the pretense that Frodo is still in Buckland. He raises Buckland against the Ringwraiths and later leads guerilla warfare against Sharkey’s rule, emerging from the Lockholes in Michel Delving a much thinner hobbit.
Tom Bombadil A character something like Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill, Tom Bombadil has a power that can be asserted over nature, but it is not certain that he has any role in guarding or tending it as the Ents have. The Ring has no power over him. At times, he seems like a vision of what man would have been if Adam had not fallen in Eden.
Boromir Boromir is the eldest son of Denethor and the last ruling steward of Gondor. He is a masterful man, who loves the glory of battle and, like his father, thinks only in terms of preserving the status quo in Gondor.
3 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
Farmer Cotton A farmer from near Bywater and a local leader, Farmer Cotton and his sons rally to five hobbits returned from the War of the Rings and help them clear the Shire of the interloping men under the leadership of Saruman, now called Sharkey. His daughter Rose marries Sam Gamgee.
Rose Cotton Daughter of Farmer Cotton, Rose Cotton marries Sam Gamgee the year after he returns from the quest to destroy the Ring.
Dain Dain, the dwarf king of the Lonely Mountain, dies fighting beside King Brand of Dale against the forces of Sauron in the Ring War.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Denethor
Entwives
The last ruling steward of Gondor, Denethor is very much in the mold of the ancient men of the west. His resemblance to Aragorn is mentioned at more than one point. Nevertheless, he pays only lip service to the essential nature of the stewardship. It is clear he would not relinquish, with any good grace, his rule to the true king should he return.
Female Ents, they are more interested in fruit trees than in forest trees and are famous for their gardens. They seem to have been instrumental in teaching humankind agriculture. They choose to live in cultivated lands rather than with the male Ents who prefer the wild woods. Eventually the Entwives are lost to the Ents. The Ents search for them but find only their broken gardens.
Eomer
Dernhelm
See Eomer Eadig
See E´owyn
Eomer Eadig
Dunhere Dunhere is the Lord of Harrowdale and one of the lords of Rohan at the muster.
Elanor
Eomer Eadig is Third Marshal of Rohan and the son of King Theoden’s beloved younger sister, Theodwyn. When he is orphaned as a young boy, his uncle takes him and his sister E´owyn into his home and raises them as his own.
Elanor is Sam Gamgee’s oldest daughter and named for a flower of Lo´rien. According to the Appendices, she marries Fastred Fairbairn. It is in their family that the Redbook of Westmarch, represented as Tolkien’s source, was handed down.
E´owyn
Elessar
Estel
See Aragorn
Sister of Eomer, E´owyn has been like a favorite daughter to her uncle. She stands by him while Grima makes an old man of him and has to resist Grima’s advances.
See Aragorn
Elladan and Elrohir
Undomel Evenstar
Elladan and Elrohir are the sons of Elrond who have long fought alongside the Rangers and come with them to meet Aragorn in Rohan and fight under his banner.
See Arwen
See Treebeard
Faramir
Elrond The son of Ea¨rendel the Mariner, son of Idril Celebridal and Tuor, and Elwing, daughter of Luthien Tintu´viel and Beren, Elrond was a master of ancient learning, a careful councilor, and his house in Rivendell in the northwest of Middle Earth was a citadel against the rising power of Sauron.
Ents Ents are great tree-like beings, among the oldest beings on Middle Earth. Slow and careful of speech and judgment, when aroused they are capable of enormous destruction. They care for all trees, and it is in defense of their trees that they attack Saruman at his fortress Isengard. They and the Huorns turn the tide of the battle at Helm’s Deep.
E p i c s
Fangorn
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The younger son of Denethor, Faramir is a scholarly man, but nonetheless, a formidable warrior. Although his father has preferred his older brother, he and Boromir were always close. Faramir admires Gandalf and attempts to learn as much as he can from him. Unlike his brother and father, Faramir is not tempted by the Ring and makes good his boast that he would not stoop to pick it up if he found it on the road when he finds Frodo and the Ring in his power. Instead, he gives what help he can to Frodo’s quest. Broken-hearted by his father’s anger against him and worn out by incessant fighting, he is seriously wounded and infected with the Black Breath while trying to cover his men’s retreat to Minas Tirith. While recuperating, Faramir falls in love with E´owyn, whom he marries. Aragorn gives him Ithilien to restore.
V o l u m e
1
3 2 5
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
See Fredegar Bolger
Galadriel bring a new rapprochement between the long estranged peoples.
Bill Ferny
Glorfindel
Fatty
A Breelander man in league with the Ringwraiths, Bill Ferny is in the Shire when the companions return.
Galadriel Galadriel is a powerful elf woman who, with her husband Celeborn, rules Lo´rien, a land where the ravages of time, or the effects of the waves of evil that have swept over Middle Earth, are held at bay by the power of her Ring. Galadriel is a political being, despite her sylvan trappings.
Gaffer Gamgee Gaffer is Sam’s father, the gardener at Bag End.
Sam Gamgee The youngest son of Bilbo and Frodo’s gardener, Gaffer Gamgee, Sam Gamgee is acting gardener of Bag End when he is caught eavesdropping on Frodo and Gandalf. A practical, long suffering soul, he has a streak of the sublime in him and longs to come in contact with the higher sensibilities of the Elves, meeting obstacles with unconscious heroism. He emerges as a hero on the level of Aragorn, specifically mirroring many of the qualities of Faramir.
Gamling the Old Gamling the Old is the commander of the men of Rohan holding Helm’s Deep.
Glorfindel is the elf prince who rides out from Rivendell to find and help Frodo and his companions. His horse carries Frodo and the Ring to safety.
Goldberry Goldberry is the wife of Tom Bombadil.
Gollum Gollum, also known as Sme´agol, is a hobbit-like creature who came into possession of the Ring by murdering his friend Deagol who had found it.
Gorbag Gorbag is a commander of a body of Orcs who capture Frodo.
Great Captain See Witch King of Angmar
Grima Also known as Wormtongue, Grima is Councilor of Theoden in the pay of Saruman. It is he who throws the Palantir of Orthanc. He finally murders Saruman.
Grishnakh An Orc of Mordor Grishnakh attempts to spirit Merry and Pippin away before the final battle with the Riders of Rohan.
Ha´ma
Gandalf the Grey Gandalf the Grey is a wizard, one of five sent from the west to Middle Earth to help in the fight against Sauron.
ˆ ˆ Ghan-buri-Gh an Ghan-buri-Gh ˆ an ˆ is the leader of the Wild Men, an indigenous primitive people, in the forest of Dru´adan. He leads the Riders of Rohan through secret paths and brings them news of the Siege of Gondor. Aragorn confirms their possession of the forest and bans others from entering it without their permission.
Ha´ma is the warrior who keeps the door to Meduseld, the house of King Theoden. He allows Gandalf to take his staff into the hall, which is instrumental in the fall of Grima, a spy of Saruman. It is Ha´ma who tells Theoden that the people will want E´owyn as their regent. Ha´ma is killed by the Orcs at the battle at Helms Deep. Theoden refers to the mutilation of his body by Saruman’s men when he refuses to be swayed by Saruman’s offers of help and power.
Her Ladyship See Shelob
Gimli
Hirgon
Son of Bilbo’s companion, Gloin, Gimli represents the dwarves among the Fellowship of the Ring. His friendship with Legolas and love for
Hirgon is the messenger who brings the red arrow of summons from Gondor to Theoden. He is killed by Orcs on his return journey.
3 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
L o r d
Holdwine of the Mark
The Mouth of Sauron
See Merry
See Lieutenant of the Tower
Huorns
Nazgu´l
A large group of Ents who have grown wild and treeish. They are extremely dangerous to meet unaccompanied by an Ent. They annihilate the army of Saruman at Helm’s Deep.
The Necromancer
o f
t h e
R i n g s
See Ringwraiths
See Sauron
The Nine
Gildor Inglorion Gildor Inglorion is the elf whose people meet Frodo, Sam, and Pepin on their flight from the Shire. He invites them to stay the night with them, which briefly frustrates the Ringwraiths. He sends word through other elf bands, which eventually reaches Elrond and Rivendell.
See Ringwraiths
Old Man Willow Old Man Willow is a malevolent tree that infects the whole of the old forest east of the Shire. He attempts to kill the hobbits.
Pimple
Ioreth A talkative nurse in the House of Healers in Minas Tirith, Ioreth reminds Gandalf that ‘The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.’ This message brings Aragorn to the beds of Eowyn, Faramir, and Merry.
Ironfoot
See Lotho Sackville-Baggins
Pippin Pippin, also known as Peregrine Took and later, the Thain of the Shire, is the youngest and most thoughtless of Frodo’s companions. He makes the same impression on events as his cousin Merry, saving the life of Faramir.
See Dain
Quickbeam Legolas
See Bregalad
The son of the King of the Mirkwood elves, Legolas represents the elves among the Fellowship. He and Gimli become inseparable friends.
Rangers
Lieutenant of the Tower The Lieutenant of the Tower, also known as the Mouth of Sauron, is not a Ringwraith, but a living man, a sorcerer of the same people as the men of the West, but of those who worshipped Sauron for the sake of his wicked knowledge.
Farmer Maggot A substantial hobbit in the Marish, a district of the Shire, Farmer Maggot once set his dogs on Frodo for trespassing on his land after mushrooms but welcomes him and his companions to his home and helps them to the crossing of the Brandywine River, despite being approached by one of the Ringwraiths.
The Rangers are the remnants of the men from Nu´menorean kingdom of Arnor in the northwest of Middle Earth. They have kept watch over the Shire as well as the rest of the lands north and west of Gondor since the fall of the Northern Kingdom over a thousand years before the action of The Lord of the Rings.
Rhadagst the Brown Rhadagst the Brown is a wizard, particularly interested in birdlore. He is innocently used by Saruman to capture Gandalf.
Ringwraiths Ringwraiths, also known as Black Riders, the Nine, and Nazgul, are the nine human kings enslaved by the nine rings forged by Sauron ‘‘for mortal men doomed to die.’’ They are led by the witch king of Angmar.
Merry Merry is Frodo’s younger cousin. Later the Master of Buckland, he is slightly older and more serious than his cousin Pippin.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is the cousin by marriage of Bilbo and Frodo. Her husband Otho
V o l u m e
1
3 2 7
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
was Bilbo’s heir until he adopted Frodo. Lobelia has never forgiven Bilbo for coming back from his adventure just as she was about to move into his eminently desirable hobbit hole, Bag End.
on by Grima’s poisonous take on events and people, but his cure is quick and complete.
Thorongil See Aragorn
Lotho Sackville-Baggins Otho and Lobelia’s son, Lotho (also known as Pimple), was used to gain a foothold in the Shire. He is murdered (and possibly eaten) by Grima.
Peregrine Took
Sauron
The oldest of the Ents or shepherds of the Trees, Treebeard (also known as Fangorn) can remember the first age. He sees the world largely in terms of his trees but realizes the interconnectedness of the trees’ welfare with that of all those who desire to follow the good in Middle Earth. His meeting with Merry and Pippin is the catalyst for his decision to call out the Ents in defense of their trees and take Saruman in hand.
Sauron has great power; he has tricked elves, men, and dwarves to their destruction even when he has not actually enslaved them. His malevolence and hunger for power is insatiable.
Saruman the White Saruman the White, also known as Sharkey, is one of the wizards sent from over the sea and the one master of realpolitik in the narrative. He is obsessed with creating a power base from which he can rule Middle Earth.
Shagrat Shagrat is the Orc officer who captures Frodo.
See Pippin
Treebeard
Uglu´k Uglu´k is a captain of the Isengard Orcs. His men capture Merry and Pippin. He is brought to bay at Fangorn and is killed in single combat with Eomer.
Witch King of Angmar
Sharkey See Saruman the White
Shelob Shelob, also known as Her Ladyship, is the great, all-devouring, primeval spider who guards the secret entrance to Mordor. She wounds Frodo but is wounded in turn by Sam with his knife made by the men of the west for the battles against the Witch King of Angmar.
The Witch King of Angmar, also known as the Black Captain or the Great Captain, is the leader of the Nazgu´l, a renegade Nu´meno´rean who finally broke the power of the northern kingdom of Arnor and forced Aragorn’s people into the role of Rangers.
Wormtongue See Grima
Sme´agol See Gollum
THEMES
Snaga
Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely
Snaga is an Orc of Shagrat’s command.
Strider See Aragorn
Theoden Theoden is king of Rohan. He is an exceptionally gentle and loving man in spite of being the warrior king of a warrior people. His relationship with Merry, more father than lord, gives a brief sense of what his relationship with his people must have been. He falls into despair brought
3 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
In the 1880s, Lord Acton (1834–1902) wrote, ‘‘Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.’’ While many earlier philosophers and writers would have agreed, such a clear and unequivocal vision of the intrinsic dangers of power could only come with the sharply increasing ability of humans to control and destroy not only themselves, but the earth itself. The Ring is the embodiment of the will to have power. It exists because of the human appetite for domination. It corrupts, driving a wedge between the wearer and his own better nature, and it separates the wearer from all others, no matter
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY J. R. R. Tolkien’s lifelong interest in philology, the study of change and development in language, is one of the foundations of his narrative. Research, online and in a library, a language family that interests you culturally and write a short report on this language group, including how many speakers it has, where it is spoken, and how it is related to other languages. Attach a diagram of world languages and highlight the area of the one you chose. The Lord of the Rings has attracted the work of many illustrators. Tolkien himself was a gifted illustrator and a number of his illustrations for his stories have been published. Select a character or scene from The Lord of the Rings then find illustrations in books or on the Internet from various artists, including Tolkien if available. Print or copy these illustrations and create a poster presentation that shows the different interpretations. Explain why you think certain ones are more accurate or attractive. Tolkien served in World War I during the Somme offensive. Study his biography and the Battle of the Somme and then write a paper or make a detailed list identifying how
his war experiences influenced The Lord of the Rings.
how dear. Tolkien expresses this appetite for power leading to corruption in the language of addiction. Everything is sacrificed to the insatiable desire for the Ring, for power: Those who want power are seduced by it, and those who have power are corrupted by it.
Providence Critics have often noted that there is nothing that amounts to religion in The Lord of the Rings and no mention of God. Providence, however, hovers over the world of the narrative, a beneficent power working through events and through individual willed actions, good and bad, to bring about the destruction of the Ring
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
For a time in 1965 and 1966, Tolkien and his publishers were involved in a battle with Ace books over its unapproved paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings. In pairs, investigate copyright laws and examples of infringement suits. Relate these to issues connected to how students should document their use of secondary sources. As a class, discuss what you have learned and draw conclusions about what is permissible and what is not.
Some critics have noticed the similarity between the society Tolkien drew in the Shire and the social ideas of William Morris. Study the ideas of Morris regarding work, art, and society, and, as a group, make a comparison/ contrast chart showing the extent to which Tolkien’s depiction of the Shire agrees with or diverges from Morris’s ideas.
For an interdisciplinary project, create or find a copy of a map of Middle Earth and label its features using terms from geography. Add information gleaned from the book regarding cultural factors, population size, languages spoken, and other features.
and the end of Sauron. Tolkien’s providence does not produce happily ever after endings, as it relies on the speaking people and leaves them with the cumulative results of their choices, but it does not leave them alone. Elves, men, dwarves, Ents, and hobbits must act, but providence ensures that their actions are not without results. The victory of the good cannot restore what is lost or even preserve all that is saved. Nevertheless, the far greater, unthinkable evil is averted.
Mercy and Pity Pity in The Lord of the Rings presupposes understanding, sympathy, and recognition of a moral imperative to alleviate rather than cause pain. In
V o l u m e
1
3 2 9
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
In the movie trilogy, Frodo was played by Elijah Wood (left) and Samwise Gamgee by Sean Astin (right), pictured in this scene from the third installment, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. The character of Sme´agol, or Gollum (center), was brought to life by Andy Serkis, whose body movements, facial expressions, and voice were captured to create the digitally animated form. (Ó Photos 12 / Alamy)
action, it seems closer to empathy than to the common modern use with its overtones of contempt. Acts of mercy born of sympathetic pity are clearly subsumed into the providential purpose. Gollum is spared again and again by the pity of others, notably Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam. In the end, this mercy saves not Gollum who cannot break the addiction to evil, but those who have been merciful.
Death and Deathlessness While most readers and critics concentrate on the absolute corruption of power, Tolkien wrote that The Lord of the Rings was about death and deathlessness. The importance of the theme often comes as a surprise to even the most assiduous readers of the trilogy, although in the context of the larger history of Middle Earth, it emerges clearly. The juxtaposition of the effectively immortal elves
3 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
with mortal men (not to mention dwarves and hobbits) confronts the reader at every turn. Sauron’s initial temptation to men was based on the fear of the unknown and an unspoken jealousy of the elves. It is the attempt to seize immortality that destroys the island kingdom in the western sea Nu´menor, the preoccupation with death and ancestors that leaves Minas Tirith underpopulated. Tolkien has the inhabitants of Middle Earth call death a ‘‘gift’’ and insinuates death is a welcome natural movement from earth to the presence of earth’s creator. It is probably only in the context of the larger body of Tolkien’s writings—notably the Silmarillion and The Book of Lost Tales—that its ubiquity and centrality becomes apparent. Even more than men, the landscape of Middle Earth itself is again and again described in terms of loss, change, and decay. The juxtaposition of the effectively immortal and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
changeless elves with a flawed and transitory environment indicates the elves are in an uncertain and ambiguous position. Perhaps the false mutable world is more surely the ‘‘long defeat’’ of which Galadriel speaks.
Moral Absolutes Tolkien has been accused of seeing events in black and white, but throughout the trilogy, it is clear that while moral absolutes are the touchstone of actions, they do not prescribe specific and unvarying action. They are the weights against which the characters must balance competing right actions. Merry and Pippin both swear oaths of allegiance. Both of them consciously break those oaths in pursuit of a higher good, but as Brian Rosebury writes in a book of critical assessment about Tolkien, ‘‘it is precisely these kinds of departure from a facile and predictable structuring of ethical action which exemplify the work’s moral subtlety and openness to contingency.’’ Tolkien drew his characters in terms of moral and imperfection and intellectual limitation. Even Gandalf’s character reflects a strong sense of the imperfections of humanity. Tolkien’s wisest characters maintain this wisdom with a balance of restricted knowledge. Frodo demonstrates this when he quotes the proverb, ‘‘Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.’’ The elf Gildor replies, ‘‘Elves seldom give unguarded advice for advice is a dangerous gift, even from the wise to the wise, and all courses may run ill.’’
STYLE Point of View Tolkien in the Prologue to The Lord of the Rings adopts a common literary convention: He claims to have ‘‘translated’’ the book from Bilbo and Frodo’s own Red Book of Westmarch. For long stretches of The Lord of the Rings the point of view is third person, but there are important flashes of omniscience. These flashes derive from a complex set of circumstances rooted in the convention of translation from an autobiographical account, not a wavering of approach. What a character is thinking is usually revealed by means of words or actions. Where omniscience occurs, the mind involved usually is Frodo’s. In the narrative of the debate before the company leaves Lo´rien, Boromir’s thought is revealed by his words and actions, while the reader is taken into Frodo’s mind.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
A more complex example occurs when Frodo’s struggle with the eye of Sauron is reported. When Frodo puts on the Ring, the narrator becomes fully omniscient, but the ground has been carefully prepared for this effect of the Ring. If readers will accept that the real authors are part of the action and one of those authors has the heightened awareness born of the Ring, it will not be strange to find that at times that the readers know the mind of Frodo, Sam, or even, at the end, the reaction of Sauron himself.
Setting Tolkien wrote of Middle Earth in the Prologue to The Lord of the Rings: ‘‘Those days, the Third Age of Middle Earth are now long past, and the shape of all lands have been changed; but the regions in which the hobbits lived are doubtless the same as those in which they still linger: the North-West of the Old World, east of the Sea.’’ The landscapes Tolkien brings his characters through and describes in such loving detail are clearly European, suggesting landscapes from the arctic Norway to the shores of the Mediterranean. It is a sparsely inhabited, pre-industrial world, with scattered self-sufficient communities. Along with his care in describing the landscape and mapping the larger topography of Middle Earth, is the careful chronology and the accurate astronomical data that suggests he set his narrative in a time which was not long ago in astronomical terms. Despite this, the landscape of Middle Earth recapitulates epic landscapes back to Homer. The movement of battle across the Pelennor Fields can be compared to the Iliad. Lo´rien draws on both the island of Circe and the land of the Phoenicians. Medusel is a calque on Heorot.
Imagery Tolkien’s imagery is rooted in the traditional. There has been some critical disquiet at his use of black and white, but careful reading demonstrates that it is complex and nuanced. The corrupt wizard Saruman’s color is white, Aragorn’s banner is white on a black field and he wears black armor. Grey is a privileged color; elven cloaks are grey; Gandalf’s color is grey. Similarly some critics have equated Tolkien’s use of the socalled industrial landscape with class hatred or dislike for the urban industrial proletariat, an idea which is as far from his opinions as it was from William Blake’s when he wrote of ‘‘dark satanic mills.’’ Two images are worth particular
V o l u m e
1
3 3 1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
attention. One is the of a great wave rearing up over fields, houses and trees, drowning the land of Nu´menor, the reflex of a dream Tolkien had from childhood. The second is Tolkien’s complicated handling of trees and forests, investing them with a range of positive and negative meaning, from the trees of the Valar to Old Man Willow.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT
Quest or Anti-Quest The Lord of the Rings has been discussed as a quest at least since the assessment of Anglo-American poet W. H. Auden (1907–1973. Gandalf himself announced, ‘‘The realm of Sauron is ended. The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his quest,’’ as Mordor and its armies collapse. A quest, however, presupposes something or someone that is sought. Circumstances and enemies will have to be overcome, but even if this involves the destruction of evil beings or places, the destruction is not the quest, only the means by which the quest is achieved. In The Lord of the Rings only Sauron and his forces and Gollum are strictly on a quest, seeking the Ring. Frodo and his companions have the Ring. Their journey has only one purpose, to destroy it, ending Sauron’s threat. Even Aragorn, who apparently turns to save Gondor and take up his responsibilities, offers himself to his followers as bait to distract Sauron from the Ringbearer. In this sense, The Lord of the Rings is similar to the pattern in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, in which Victor Frankenstein struggles to destroy his creation that has proved to be deeply flawed and uncontrollable.
Fantasy Although all fiction writers create the world of their fictions, fantasy involves this act of subcreation, creating a world or vision of the world that has an inner consistency and honesty, to a much greater extent. Fantasy worlds are drawn with sharper outlines and clearer colors. At its best, fantasy draws the audience to fresh awareness of reality. The reader believes not because the genre requires suspension of disbelief, but because the consistency and coherence of the imaginary world compels belief. The Lord of the Rings succeeds in equal measure because it delineates a physical world and invests it with an historical sense of cause and effect. Fantasy requires enormous discipline on the part of the writer, or it will slide into sentimental wish fulfillment. The fantasy writer can allow his or her characters an almost unlimited range of experience, but the writer must be
3 3 2
rigorously selective in the characters’ reaction to them. The most successful type of modern fantasy extends the range of reaction by skewing the expected characters. In this, Tolkien took a lead, introducing an almost Dickensian level of invention.
E p i c s
f o r
Tolkien as Outsider Tolkien is often approached with the expectation that he was a typical child of late Victorian and Edwardian England and deeply embedded in the British intellectual establishment. He was in some ways, however, atypical. His Catholicism, passion for philology, profound love and respect for the earth, and distrust of the benefits of technology, particularly that of the internal combustion engine, made him a potentially uneasy member of his society. As the atomic bomb was being by scientists involved in the Manhattan Project in the United States, the Ring was emerging in his narrative as the technology that cannot be harnessed and must be destroyed, the source of unlimited power that corrupts and destroys even the best and highest. His picture of the Shire, which works as a society because justice and law are internalized rather than imposed, while admittedly ideal, is an ideal that has more in common with the Jeffersonian ideal of the democracy than imperial or post-imperial Britain. Far from being an imperialist, Tolkien was the champion of the local, wherever it was, as is clear from Aragorn’s treatment of Rohan, the Woses, and the Shire. He identified deeply with the West Midlands of England and spent much of his scholarly life working on its medieval texts, which he felt preserved a literary language and a sense of worth and identity through the dark days of Norman French domination.
Philology Tolkien’s passion for language emerged in his earliest Latin lessons with his mother. Philology, as it developed in the early nineteenth century after the discovery of Sanskrit, was one of the intellectual success stories of the first half of the century. The discovery of a family of languages stretching from Ireland to India and the pattern of their development, the history fossilized in words and their changes of pronunciation and meaning can be compared to the great developments in cosmology in the twentieth century. Indeed philology, which is the study of the history of languages combining linguistics and literary study, could be described
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
COMPARE & CONTRAST Early 1900s: Tolkien’s secondary school education is centered on the language and literature of Greece and Rome. He is expected not only to be able to read and write both languages, but to be able to speak them with some fluency. Debating in Latin is common and in classical Greek occasionally. Today: Even though many Europeans learn three to four languages, mastering Latin and Greek is no longer an essential part of a good education. In the United States, although Latin was commonly thought through the mid-1900s, few American high schools now offer the subject. Most schools require a year or two of foreign language study, but few Americans know even two languages. With the influx of Hispanic immigrants, however, Spanish is often heard and bilingual materials are expected. Some cities have areas where immigrant groups congregate and even signs in shopping centers and on the street can be in Chinese, Vietnamese, Arabic, or other languages. Early 1900s: The society that Tolkien depicts in his epic is an essentially self-sufficient one in which families grow their own food, and most goods are produced locally. Trade, when
mentioned, is usually in luxuries: wine, pipeweed, and dwarf-made toys. In Tolkien’s own childhood in the English countryside, local economy, production, and trade are the way of life.
astheparticlephysicsofliterature.Philologyallowed scholars to comprehend patterns of thought deep in the past. At its best, philology sensitizes the reader to nuancesandsubtleshiftsofwordmeaning,whichare the manifestations of conceptual development. To outsiders, philology may look like an arid and endlessly refining word game. Philology, properly done, requires a facility for languages and a willingness to expend infinite care upon a text. Even at Oxford University in Tolkien’s time, philology was under attack by some faculty members who thought their students should not be bogged down in what they perceived as minutia. Also at the university throughout Tolkien’s time there and continuing in the decades after his retirement was the work of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Today: Nearly all goods are mass-produced, often on a world-wide scale of distribution, and even the production of meals from basic ingredients is being superceded by readyprepared foods.
Early 1900s: Many British people are prejudiced against Catholics. Mabel Tolkien’s conversion to Catholicism distances her and her children from both her own and her husband’s family. Her sister, who converts at the same time, is forced by her husband to renounce her new faith. Today: Britain has a large population of Sikhs, Muslims, Hindus, and many other sects whose religious views and observances are generally treated with respect and who are legally protected from discrimination. Further, in 2009, the Roman Catholic Church opens negotiations for a corporate reunion with nearly 500,000 members of the traditional Anglican communion.
compiling the Oxford English Dictionary, the monumental work that presents the history of every English word from its first appearance in print to the presentday.So while philologyhad itscritics, the fact is many academicians believed the pursuit invaluable and witnessed its application in the work of the great dictionary.
Progress, Industrialization, and Their Costs In the ‘‘Scouring of the Shire’’ chapter of The Return of the King, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin return to find that Sharkey (Saruman) and his men have been busy destroying the Shire, constructing ugly buildings, cutting down trees, and fouling the
V o l u m e
1
3 3 3
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
It is not unlikely that they [Orcs] invented some of the machines that have since troubled the world, especially the ingenious devices for kill ing large numbers of people at once, for wheels and engines and explosions always delighted them, and also not working with their own hands more than they could help; but in those days and those wild places they had not advanced (as it is called) so far.
He wrote of the prisoners and slaves that they made to work ‘‘until they die for want of light and air.’’ That said, it is also true that the Ring transcends being the symbol for the atom bomb, and Sauron has no true historical counterpart. They are embodiments of the idea of evil in which historical evils participate, symbols of a situation in which people in the mid-twentieth century found themselves, possessing the power to destroy in the name of progress. The possession of such power is a threat to humanity so immense that even the contemplation and desire of its use corrupts. It is not enough that it be kept out of the hands of the evil, because it will seduce the good into evil.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Manuscript page from Beowulf. Tolkien’s story contains ancient and archetypal patterns of events and characters derived from Old English models like Beowulf. water and air. This is only the beginning on a smaller scale of a process on an almost unimaginable scale in Mordor and in mimicry of Mordor at Isengard. Tolkien was deeply distrustful of the doctrine of progress, a widely accepted belief that seemed to be driving his world. Unlike many of his colleagues, he had experienced the real face of industrialization when he lived in industrial Birmingham. He wrote in incomprehension of colleagues who described the enormous car factories growing up around Oxford as the real world, as if there was something essentially unreal about fields and trees. He mourned for a large tree that had a neighbor cut down on a whim. He was acutely aware of the uses made of technology and the greedy impulses that often drove its development. In The Hobbit, he wrote:
3 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
The Lord of the Rings has in many ways been a blockbuster success. Though critical assessment was mixed, especially soon after the work appeared, through the second half of the twentieth century and into the early 2000s Tolkien and his work have been very much appreciated. It might be safe to say, at least regarding this one work, appreciation among his general reading audience preceded appreciation among his critics. But sooner or later the critics caught up. Many early reviews were divided in opinion to say the least. The work was accused of ethical flatness, lack of character development, and escapism. Many saw it as marginal, belonging to the genre of fantasy entirely outside the mainstream of serious twentieth-century literature. The best example of this attitude was voiced by the important literary critic, Edmund Wilson. In his famous (or infamous) 1956 review ‘‘Oo, Those Awful Orcs,’’ like many writers after him, Wilson did not give serious consideration to The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien was faulted for having rejected the relativism and irony that for many contemporary critics was the only possible stance for a serious
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
writer and an intelligent reader. Wilson felt obliged, moreover, to politely excuse the apparent bad taste of respected poet W. H. Auden, a former student of Tolkien, who took the work seriously and, worse yet, praised it. Granted, escapism is part of the lure of The Lord of the Rings, and the fact is its popular success spawned thousands of fantasy novels in the following decades. But that did not make it good literature in the eyes of certain establishment critics. Nonetheless, as decades passed, The Lord of the Rings remained popular, and the fact that many films were made of it fanned its audience. Little over a hundred years after Tolkien’s birth, a collection of essays appeared, J. R. R. Tolkien, Scholar and Storyteller: Essays in Memoriam (1979), which drew attention to the many facets of Tolkien’s thought and accomplishment. Richard Purtill, in his 1984 study, J. R. R. Tolkien: Myth, Morality, and Religion, discussed Tolkien’s handling of immortality and also explored the nature of modern fantasy, linking it to science fiction. In his Tolkien: A Critical Assessment (1992), Brian Rosebury explored the methods Tolkien used in creating his fictive world and moved from method to Tolkien’s aesthetics and philosophy. These are only a few of the varied responses to Tolkien. No author who can command the interests and controversies of so many critics can possibly be dismissed as minor.
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain suggests that Tolkien’s treatment of women is far more sensitive than critics have generally allowed. Tolkien has been accused of being perfunctory in his treatment of his female characters and excused as being merely a man of his times. Regarding the female characters in The Lord of the Rings, however, it could be argued that Tolkien returned to possibilities for female participation that the epic traditionally afforded, but which were long overlooked in criticism. While Tolkien’s own relationships with women were
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
The Hobbit, or There and Back Again first appeared in 1937. Intended as a children’s story within the world of Middle Earth, it became, after significant revisions of the Ring-finding episode, the prelude for The Lord of the Rings.
Tolkien’s The Silmarillion (published posthumously in 1977) is a narrative about the Elder Days. Tolkien worked on this book shortly after the end of World War I. Laura Rival’s The Social Life of Trees: Anthropological Perspectives on Tree Symbolism (1998) is an interdisciplinary work for students and covers a wide range of subjects, such as anthropology, the politics of ecology, the occult and neo-paganism, and the historical and social aspects of environmentalism. Tolkien’s tree characters fit into the lore presented here.
Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull include more than two hundred of Tolkien’s drawings, sketches, and paintings in J. R. R. Tolkien: Artist & Illustrator (2000). The Fellowship of the Ring Visual Companion (2001) includes photos from the Peter Jackson films to show Middle Earth and its characters. It also provides a history of the free peoples of this fantasy land in an attractive and understandable manner for students.
Grimm’s Teutonic Mythology, translated by James Steven Stallybrass originally in four volumes, 1882-1888, has been reprinted in the early 2000s. (Volume 4 appeared in 2010). This work, which stems from the original work by the Brothers Grimm of fairytale fame, is a rich collection of fragments of Germanic mythology and legend and illustrates the type of material that Tolkien used to create his epic.
largely a product of his time, his handling of female characters was modern in a way that speaks to readers in the twenty-first century.
V o l u m e
1
3 3 5
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
what she remembers, hears, and experiences. She is a repository, transmitter, and commentator. TOLKIEN DOES NOT CREATE A FEMALE CHARACTER WHO MUST LEARN TO ACCEPT A FEMALE ROLE. RATHER, HE CREATES A FEMALE CHARACTER WHO COMES TO LOVE A MAN WHO, LIKE HER, CAN CROSS THE TRADITIONAL BOUNDARIES OF GENDER ROLES.’’
A man born in the reign of Victoria, who spent most of his life in the men’s club atmosphere of the Oxford colleges, Tolkien demonstrated an unexpected, but genuine, sensitivity in The Lord of the Rings. He gave recognition to the spirit and courage that has nothing to do with gender and the effects of a gender-based division of opportunities on ability. Indeed, Nancy Enright, in ‘‘Tolkien’s Females and the Defining of Power’’ (2007), proposes that the female characters in Tolkien’s trilogy are important to the theme of power in that they provide a vehicle for Tolkien’s critique of traditional powers, showing his belief that Christian love is a better choice than pride, that it places the lowly over the mighty and is more powerful than any other force. Three women are pivotal in The Lord of the Rings: Ioreth, Eowyn, and Galadriel. Each of them is important to cause and effect in the narrative, and each gathers up important thematic threads. Ioreth is the lineal descendant of Juliet’s nurse, if less earthy, and, if she could be stopped for the question, unlikely to suggest deception and bigamy as the answer to any problem. But for all the comedy of her character, Ioreth performs a vitally important cluster of functions. She might be called the tenth muse, the muse as philologist with those all-important literary functions: preservation and transmission. It is she who remembers that ‘‘the hands of the king are the hands of the healer.’’ She and her kind remember the old rhymes and words and ponder them, ‘‘‘kingsfoil’ . . . ’tis a strange name, and I wonder why ’tis called so; for if I were a king I would have plants more bright in my garden.’’ Her garrulousness is more than comic; it is deeply characteristic. She must repeat
3 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
On Aragorn’s triumphal re-entry into Gondor, Ioreth begins the transmutation/transposition of the event into literature: ‘‘Would you believe.’’ Ioreth is not mere comic relief, though; she is a moral reality check. She wrenches the narrative away from the dash and superficial glories of battle, to the real purpose of the fight outside the walls. As she says, ‘‘All I hope is that those murdering devils do not come to this House and trouble the sick.’’ Battles are a means to an end and nothing more. It is characteristic of Tolkien to place so much weight on a minor character, albeit in highly specific areas. Eowyn, the Lady of the Golden House, and Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, are much alike. Their differences are of degree not kind. To see Eowyn, one intuits in The Lord of the Rings, is to see Galadriel in her youth. This suspicion is confirmed in the Silmarillion and the Unfinished Tales. Tolkien wrote that Galadriel was ‘‘tall and valiant among the contending princes . . . she yearned to see the wide unguarded lands and to rule there a realm at her own will.’’ In Unfinished Tales, ‘‘she was strong of body, mind, and will, a match for both the loremasters and athletes of the Eldar . . . she had a marvelous gift of insight into the minds of others.’’ Eowyn is Galadriel’s mortal equivalent for the fourth age. At her first meeting, she looks at Aragorn and is ‘‘suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise with many winters, greycloaked hiding a power that yet she felt.’’ If Theoden is slow to recognize her as the equal of any man of his house, other men are not. When Theoden asks whom he shall leave in charge of the Mark when his nephew cannot be spared from the host, the warrior Hama replies that Eowyn ‘‘is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as Lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.’’ Eowyn and Galadriel, both in their own way, have fought the long defeat: Eowyn, the premature dotage of her uncle; Galdriel, the flawed and mutable nature of Middle Earth. Both were looking for a stage for their talents, Galadriel in Middle Earth, Eowyn on the battlefield. Both of them, in defying an injunction, bring themselves into danger but, nevertheless, fight the good fight and end up rejecting their original desires. Galadriel, offered the Ring and all the power she has ever desired, rejects it and accepts that she will depart and go into the west. Eowyn
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
gives up the glory of battle for another life but not quite the life that she has flown. Feminist readers may complain of Eowyn’s change of heart, but to describe this as merely a move from the ‘‘masculine’’ (and, therefore, high status) arena of warfare to the ‘‘feminine’’ (and, therefore, low status) forum of marriage and the restoration of Ithilien is to willfully misread the episode and the characters involved. Eowyn is not a minor character. She does not represent the young woman who learns her place or even moves from infatuation with death and glory to life’s quieter victories. She carries first the burden of representing the woman who can move across the stereotypical roles of male and female—she does this even before she disguises herself—and her ability to cross these boundaries is acknowledged by the institutions of her society. In this, she replaces Galadriel in the second half of The Lord of the Rings as the woman who crosses the traditional boundaries by virtue of her character, a character and ability that cannot be denied. In her speech to Aragorn, Eowyn bluntly sweeps aside all the rhetoric of the glory of war and idealized romantic womanhood: She points out that there is no glorious immortality of fame for the non-combatants. Aragorn may plead with her to recognize that her duty and valor are all the greater for being uncelebrated, but Eowyn now equates the war with her one chance of being with Aragorn. Her infatuation with him is only a symptom of her desire to excel in a way her society has traditionally recognized. It is in this context that the stage is set to place Eowyn with Merry and Beregond, who make a conscious decision to disobey orders and to leave their posts. Her dereliction of duty is perhaps the most reprehensible, since a people depend upon her. Tolkien’s treatment of this issue is sympathetic, partially because it fits into his scheme of providence: She and Merry kill the chief Ringwraith, partially because he is essentially sympathetic to her frustration. Her dereliction of duty is never alluded to by any of the characters or by the narrator. Even more important is what lies behind Merry’s belief that ‘‘There seemed to be some sort of understanding between Dernhelm and Elfhelm, the Marshall who commanded the e´ored in which they were riding.’’ Eowyn is not thinking of glory; however, when she stands between her dying uncle and the Witchking, she is acting out of pure love to protect the man who has raised her as if she were
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Tolkien was influenced by Anglo-Saxon history and the adventures of its main characters, the Vikings. (Picture Collection, The Branch Libraries, The New York Public Library. )
his own child. Her change of heart, however, does not begin then. It begins when there is an alternative offered that is worthy of her. She does not marry Faramir because she cannot have Aragorn, neither does she betray her abilities. The opposite is true. Faramir has been carefully developed to offer an alternative measure of courage and honor, heroism focused on more than warfare, to include creating and conserving. Faramir’s own nature and his talents
V o l u m e
1
3 3 7
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
have been consistently placed in opposition to mere military prowess. Tolkien does not create a female character who must learn to accept a female role. Rather, he creates a female character who comes to love a man who, like her, can cross the traditional boundaries of gender roles. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on The Lord of the Rings, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning,2011.
ARAGORN’S BLADE IS NOT ONLY A SYMBOL OF LORDSHIP AND KINGLY RESPONSIBILITY, BUT ALSO A METAPHOR IN THE NOVEL’S REPRESENTATION OF MIDDLE EARTH’S MILLENNIAL RENEWAL.’’
Michael J. Brisbois In the following essay, Brisbois discusses the symbolism in artifacts in The Lord of the Rings. If one considers the term ‘‘artifact’’, in relation to the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien, several thoughts spring to mind. First and foremost is the way in which his work has been regarded as cultural artifact, born out of his generation’s experience in World War One, but so wildly received by subsequent generations that its popularity informs, either for or against his work, in scholarly opinions of his novels. It is also an artifact of both the medieval and the modern world. The frame story conceit of The Lord of the Rings, that Tolkien is not a novelist but a translator, and the story we read is in fact ‘‘Frodo and the One Ring’’ found in the fictitious Red Book of Westmarch (The Lord of the Rings [LotR] Prologue 1) is an echo of the medievalist practice of classifying certain works by color. The academic presentation of the novel, with its publisher’s note on the text, forward, lengthy appendices and multiple indexes, arrays the symbols of scholarship and the early medieval period in the intellect and imagination in order to further acceptance of the fantastic elements that are necessary to both understanding and enjoying the narrative. In order to further discuss the way in which artifacts function as symbols, I will explore the way in which one particular marker of medievalism, the sword, serves to reinforce the themes of The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien’s novel is filled with wondrous and magical items. They range from the innocuous— magical ropes and bread—through to the important, such as Frodo’s mithril shirt, and on to the definitive in the One Ring. Each contributes to the symbolic construction of Middle-earth, but prior scholarship on Tolkien’s artifacts has, understandably, been focused almost exclusively on the One Ring. Prior work on source texts has led to excellent connections being drawn between the One Ring and Plato’s Ring of Gyges in The Republic (Cox) and various works of medieval
3 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
literature, including the Norse Sagas and the Nibelungenlied (Shippey, The Road to Middleearth). There are very few scholars who have taken issue with the Ring’s metaphor of addiction, power and corruption. As Tom Shippey has said, the Ring is ‘‘far too plausible, and too recognizable’’ for a Twentieth Century audience to easily dismiss (J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Just as understanding the Ring is critical to understanding the novel, it is equally important not to overlook other artifacts in the text. No image or artifact, aside from perhaps an armored horseman, is as effective in presenting the medievalism of the novel as the sword. The Ring, as powerful as it is, is a far more universal and atemporal figure when compared to a sword. Throughout the novel, swords serve as markers of identity and authority and serve to ennoble their bearers. Paradoxically, when used as a tool of violence swords demonstrate the villainous intent of the bearer. Unlike the Ring, which works by corrupting the bearer’s intentions, as Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel each in their own turn insist and Frodo’s ultimate failure confirms, the sword is a symbol that is defined through the actions of the individual. The sword is less polarizing and predetermined, but no less defining, and it is through the use of the sword that a character’s true nature can be revealed. Throughout the novel, the Fellowship does everything within its power to avoid conflict and only fights in self-defense. Conflict, with the exception of a few brief moments of action, such as the Orc Chieftain’s charge in Moria or Sam’s struggle to capture Gollum, is rendered in broad strokes (LotR II:5; VI:1). Swords instead play a larger role in the hero’s social activism. Both Pippin and Merry mark their willingness to serve their respective lords by offering their swords to them, and despite the possibility of great humor in these scenes, there is so much self-sacrifice
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
apparent in this use of these weapons that there is no laughter (V:1; V:2). Eowyn proves her arguments regarding the strength of women and the equality of the sexes by defeating the Witch-king of Angmar on the field of battle (V:6). Even the assault on Mordor’s Black Gate is understood as a sacrificial rearguard action intended to distract Sauron and hopefully allow Frodo time to destroy the Ring (V:9). This social use of the sword is an interesting sign of how Tolkien’s imagined world circulates its social powers. Swords, a weapon of violence, are contrasted with rings, commonly a symbol of alliance (wedding bands, signet rings used to seal pacts). Swords, used responsibly, allow those without power to gain access to respect in cultures which marginalize them (be it on grounds of race, like the hobbits, or gender, as in the case of Eowyn). These characters do not use their swords as tools against their own cultures, but use them as signs of their service, proving their worth in execution of their duties. Rings, on the other hand, are most commonly placed in the hands of the powerful, to disastrous consequence: the ‘‘dwarf-lords’’ are undone and the ‘‘mortal’’ kings of Men become slaves to Sauron’s will (I:2, 49). There are two main complications in this brief mention of the magical rings: the elf-rings, and Faramir’s rejection of the One Ring. In the former case, none of the elf-rings are in possession of mortals—only the semi-divine (Galadriel and Elrond) and the divine (Gandalf) bear them, so the problems relating to the corruption of the bearers is rendered null by this fact; the rings are protected by the exceptional natures of their bearers. Galadriel’s and Gandalf’s temptations by the One Ring are momentary and make the latter case of Faramir a figure worthy of more consideration. Boromir is corrupted by the One Ring because of his desire for power—he believes in winning war by any means necessary. Faramir clearly does not. He is unwilling to sacrifice the virtues he is fighting for. This disregard for power and focus upon virtue is similar to Sam’s focus on simple domestic pleasures—both remain largely unaffected by the Ring because neither desires power. This is similarly the source of Frodo’s strength as well, though his corruption by the Ring raises questions about Frodo’s character. Rings are tools of the powerful, and circulate power among entrenched authorities, while swords can provide greater social mobility to those disadvantaged by the feudal societies of Middle-earth. Of course, there are exceptions to the use of swords as social tools of self-defense. Orcs, along
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
with Saruman and his ravagers, are all too eager to use their weapons against others. This willingness to harm, the desire to harm, presents a culture which is prone to internal violence and cruelty. Consider the multiple times throughout the novel in which Orc quarrels with Orc, most critically while they have captured Frodo at Cirith Ungol (VI: 1, 885–87). Similarly, Saruman meets his end at the hands of Wormtongue, though in that case it is a knife, a far more common bladed tool and meant to show just how diminished Saruman has become as Sharkey (VI:8, 996). These societies use swords as tools of violence, and their ability to maintain coherence is constantly tested by this flawed use of the sword. In a recent issue of Mythlore, K. S. Whetter and R. Andrew McDonald also turned to the neglected subject of swords in the novel. Their essay ‘‘In the Hilt Is Fame’’ is an excellent consideration of the way in which Tolkien’s medieval sources resonate with his novel’s world, and I would direct any scholar interested in the source texts or the instrumental magical practice of naming weapons to that particular article. And although my immediate concern is with the use of swords as semiotic markers in the text, I find it most useful to reiterate Whetter and McDonald’s position that the novel is as much a recreation of a heroic age as it is a forerunner of the modern fantasy genre (26). Far too often, Tolkien is read in view of his imitators, rather than as the continuation of the romance tradition. In fact, it is exactly the use of a heroic past as a literary model that spurs the reader to engage with the text more completely, and it is the lack of this traditional continuity that diminishes so many authors who attempt to duplicate Tolkien’s feat. In the faux-historical conceit of The Lord of the Rings, the presentation of the subject matter generates interest in the reader and attracts those interested in serious medieval material. The Lord of the Ring’s continued popularity is due in part to its use of authentic medieval texts in its source material. The construction of the imaginary world of Middle-earth was done in such a careful manner, with an intentional turn away from direct allegory, that the novel is able to appeal to readers from many walks of life. The nonreligious reader might take comfort in its lack of Western religion, as the youth of the 1960s did (Walmsley). But a religious reader might also take comfort in the statement by Tolkien that this work is ‘‘a fundamentally religious and Catholic
V o l u m e
1
3 3 9
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
work’’ (Tolkien, Letters 172). A pacifist reader might take heart in Frodo’s struggle to destroy the weapon of the Enemy, while a militaristic reader will thrill at the desperate battles of Helm’s Deep, Minas Tirith, the Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate, however much that might be a result of misreading. The Lord of the Rings presents a world which allows its model readers to engage their contemporary subjectivity with an idealized image of medieval life. The historical re-creationist hobbies that many Tolkien readers engage in, from social costume parties to isolated video games, indicate that people interested in the Middle Ages also find Tolkien’s work interesting. The connection between Tolkien’s academic and personal writings is made clearest in the way in which his writings on Beowulf express his own methodology: As the poet looks back into the past, surveying the history of kings and warriors in the old traditions, he sees that all glory (or as we might say ‘culture’ or ‘civilization’) ends in night. The solution of that tragedy is not treated [ . . . ]. We get in fact a poem from a pregnant moment of poise, looking back into the pit, by a man learned in old tales who was struggling, as it were, to get a general view of them all, perceiving their common tragedy of inevitable ruin, and yet feeling this more poeti cally because he was himself removed from the direct pressure of its despair. (Tolkien, ‘‘Beo wulf: The Monsters and the Critics’’ 23)
Tolkien looks back, sees the end of culture and civilization in his Somme experience, but offers a way out of it through the creation of Middle-earth. There are considerable idealism and contemporary echoes in the way the novel presents its medieval world. The quaint Shire is far more recognizable as Edwardian than AngloSaxon, and the heroics of the Fellowship have far more to do with modern theology and morality than with Beowulf’s fame-seeking. The sword, as more than simply a weapon, plays a role in this relationship between the medieval and the reader. As no other character is as marked by his relationship with the sword as Aragorn, the narrative connection between character and weapon makes him an ideal subject for closer reading. As the man who would be king, Aragorn is certainly not constructed in a historically accurate manner. Through signification, Aragorn is tied to the image of the medieval, perhaps even preChristian, king, but he is rendered more palatable to a modern audience through his kindness and
3 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
compassion. While he is indeed fearless and skilled in battle, he is far more an ideal of a medieval king rather than the reality. Much like the returning Richard the Lionheart of the Robin Hood legend, Aragorn is valiant and noble, a benevolent monarch more concerned with the well-being of his people than his own success. His kindness is evident in his gentleness to Frodo following the death of Gandalf, and his selflessness is clear in his desire to rescue Merry and Pippin. Along with his sword, Anduril, Aragorn is an example of Tolkien’s process of reflecting the present in the symbolic construction of Middleearth. As a medievalist Tolkien was intimately aware of the importance of a king wielding a sword through the many iterations of the figure found throughout medieval literature—the herochieftain of the lays, sagas, and Arthurian legends. Swords, such as Arthur’s Excalibur, have always been symbols of leadership (DeVries 2021). Their effectiveness as a weapon and their high cost of manufacture have made them the most elite of arms in most cultures. Many Bronze and Iron Age burial sites are the final resting places of king’s swords, and there is evidence that swords were used as votive sacrifices, usually to the rivers where they have been found, a practice reflected in the myth of the Lady of the Lake (Bradley 99–101, 132–3). Anthropologist Christian Keller notes that while ‘‘a sword is obviously made for killing people [ . . . ] it carries a symbolic message, which could be killer, soldier, free man, aristocrat or the like’’. Aragorn’s place as monarch demands the use of a sword. The cultural conventions built up around weapons and their wielders as well as the cultures that produce them (consider the katana and Japan) are aspects of a deeply entrenched relationship that cannot be ignored. The model reader of The Lord of the Rings would intuit that any other weapon would conflict with Aragorn’s role as king. A ranged weapon, such as a bow, is too removed from one’s opponents and often signifies lawlessness (as it does in the Robin Hood legend). Despite Legolas’s mastery of such a weapon, it bears lower class connotations in a medieval context. Class relationships also eliminate hafted weapons, such as spears and halberds, because these were the weapons of the peasant infantry, not noble kings. In Aragorn’s ascendancy in Gondor, he fights as a chevalier, the proper medieval place for a king and knight (LotR V:10). While it is true that rods and scepters are symbolically linked to kings,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
Aragorn could not have satisfactorily wielded a blunt weapon such as a mace, due to the clerical connotations of such a weapon in medieval warfare and the connection between lordship and the sword. Aragorn’s blade is not only a symbol of lordship and kingly responsibility, but also a metaphor in the novel’s representation of Middle-earth’s millennial renewal. In the novel, Aragorn’s sword is originally Narsil, the sword wielded by Elendil at the Battle of the Last Alliance, during the final days of the Second Age. When Elendil was struck down by Sauron, his son Isildur rushed to his aid. In the battle, Narsil is shattered, but Isildur manages to cut off the finger bearing the One Ring. Following these events, the sword remained shattered to serve as a reminder of Isildur’s corruption by the Ring (LotR I:2). When we first meet Aragorn in the novel, he is still Aragorn-Strider, a roguish figure misunderstood by those who do not know him. When the hobbits challenge his virtue in the Inn at Bree, Aragorn uses the broken blade as a marker of identity: He stood up, and seemed suddenly to grow taller. In his eyes gleamed a light, keen and commanding. Throwing back his cloak, he laid his hand on the hilt of a sword that had hung concealed by his side. [ . . . ] ‘‘I am Ara gorn son of Arathorn’’ [ . . . ] He drew out his sword, and they saw the blade was indeed bro ken a foot below the hilt. ‘‘Not much use is it, Sam?’’ said Strider. ‘‘But the time is near when it shall be forged anew.’’ (I:10)
Aragorn’s transformation from ranger to returning king and Middle-earth’s revitalization in the coming of the Fourth Age is here telegraphed through Narsil’s fallen form. Once the sword has been remade and renamed Anduril following the Council of Elrond, it serves as a symbol of renewal and a marker of Aragorn’s identity throughout the remainder of the novel, as evidenced by Aragorn’s encounter with Eomer and his Riders on the Plains of Rohan: Aragorn threw back his cloak. The elven sheath glittered as he grasped it, and the bright blade of Anduril shone like a sudden flame as he swept it out. ‘‘Elendil!’’ he cried. ‘‘I am Ara gorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunadan, the heir of Isildur Elen dil’s son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again!’’ [ . . . ] He seemed to have grown in stature while Eomer had shrunk; and in his living face they caught a brief vision of the power and majesty of the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
kings of stone. For a moment it seemed to the eyes of Legolas that a white flame flickered on the brows of Aragorn like a shining crown. (III:2).
Aragorn’s use of Narsil in Bree and Anduril in Rohan indicate that the reader should understand the sword as being representative of kingship and the virtues associated with it. Aragorn might use the weapon to mark his identity, but in Gondor it is not necessary for him to use it assume the throne. He fights no war of unification nor suffers any martial challenge from his nobles. The distinction Tolkien draws between Aragorn’s role as king and warrior is best examined through a comparison with a source text Tolkien was familiar with: The Volsunga Saga. In short summary, The Saga of the Volsungs tells the story of the dragon-slayer, Sigurd. It begins with a genealogy tracing back to Asgard and progresses through the death of Sigurd’s father, a king, to Sigurd’s life with his adoptive father, Regin. In time, Sigurd receives a special sword forged to represent his kingship, slays the dragon Fafnir, and becomes a proper king. In the course of his adventures, he marries the beautiful and willful Gudrun and aids his friend Gunnar in seducing the Valkyrie Brynhild by assuming Gunnar’s form, riding through a wall of fire, and spending three days and nights with her. This seduction ultimately leads to his downfall as he is betrayed by his allies over the deceit and is murdered in bed (Byock). At this point, a brief comparison of the Volsunga Saga and the Nibelungenlied is warranted, as it contains the seeds of the historical development that Tolkien’s narrative represents. The Sigurd of the Volsungs is quite similar to the courtly hero Siegfried of the Nibelungenlied, but there are distinct differences between the two works. The romance is far less magical than the Saga. There is no dragon, no shape-shifting (although a cloak of invisibility is a key element of the romance). The Nibelungenlied is also less bloody. In both stories, the betrayal and murder of the hero is an act of cowardice, but Siegfried’s death is poetic, for he is speared in the back while crouched at a stream, with narrative emphasis placed on the flowers stained by his blood (Hatto 131–2). In contrast, Sigurd is killed in bed, with his wife Gudrun next to him. He is cut so viciously that the killer’s blade drives into the bed. Sigurd awakens and though fatally wounded and unable
V o l u m e
1
3 4 1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
to rise, grasps a sword and hurls it at his fleeing murderer. The sword hits with such force that it splits his target in two. Amidst the commotion, Gudrun awakens covered in blood, appropriately screaming and lamenting proud Sigurd’s murder (Byock 90). The contrasts between Sigurd and Siegfried show how the basic outline of a story can remain similar, while the actual events may be changed to suit the audience’s sensibilities. Sigurd is a Norse hero. Some of his actions are unconscionable to a Christian reader. Siegfried is the medieval, Christian knight. His violent impulses are supposedly tempered by courtly romance and etiquette. His tale is similar to Sigurd’s but different in tone and morality. The change in tone and morality between the pre-Christian source and the reformation of the text is exactly what takes place within Tolkien’s use of pre-Christian myth. If we recall the summary of the saga above, there are obvious similarities: the saga tells the story of the downfall of a king, whose son is raised by a trusted friend. In time, this son receives a sword that marks him as a king, undertakes great challenges and risks, and becomes a proper king. In many of these details, Aragorn and Sigurd are nearly identical. Both are orphaned sons of kings. Both are raised by a foster father-figure: Sigurd by Regin, Aragorn by Elrond. Both embark on a period of travel and receive proper education in courtly and intellectual matters. More interestingly, both characters have a shattered sword in their past. In Sigurd’s case, his father Sigmund shatters his sword against a foe’s spear, while Aragorn’s ancestral blade Narsil is shattered by Sauron. Similarly, each receives a sword forged at the hands of or by command of their adopted father. The swords are both named, Gram and Anduril respectively, lending them the air of instrumental magic. Both Sigurd and Aragorn are presented as characters in tune with nature: Sigurd can speak to birds and Aragorn is a Ranger (an exclusive group of wilderness guides and warriors). While Aragorn does not exactly slay a dragon as Sigurd does, he does vanquish many foes and achieves a singular victory over the ghosts in the Paths of the Dead, who may be considered to be similar in nature to dragons, due to their connection with the fall of Empires and the inevitability of death (Bates 7578). In a more complex manner, both characters are selflessly willing to help others and both immediately take responsibility for their actions,
3 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
but many of the inner psychological aspects of the characters differ. Sigurd never pauses in his pursuit of adventure. He shows little caution and never doubts the correctness of his action, nor does he show any regret over wrongdoing: ‘‘He did not lack in courage and he never knew fear’’ (Byock 73). His actions, while often thrilling, are aggressively violent, with Sigurd actively waging wars of conquest. Many sections of the saga are focused on the seductive conquest of women, mostly under false pretenses. Aragorn is not like Sigurd in these respects. Whereas Tolkien’s hero is confident of his right to be king, he is neither womanizing nor dishonest (though subterfuge plays a role in The Prancing Pony). He does not glory in war, nor fight a war of conquest. His war is a war of rearguard action, desperately buying time for the passive quest of Frodo to succeed. In order to be recognized as king, Aragorn must be recognized through an act of healing, not killing. Aragorn is also a monogamous hero, remaining true to Arwen despite the advances of Eowyn. What this means is that Aragorn is patterned after Sigurd in outward appearance and experience, but is morally and psychologically different. There are also key narrative differences between the two works and the two characters. The events of Sigurd’s past are less clear, less singular. Sigurd’s father’s death in the saga is random, an accident of battle, but in The Lord of the Rings, Sauron, the one who sunders Elendil’s sword and becomes Aragorn’s nemesis, is so important he becomes the titular character. Sigurd’s sword is made fresh and new, which contrasts markedly with renewal of the past that is marked by the reforging of Aragorn’s blade. This distinction indicates a change in the way history is viewed. For the Norse, history is more abstract, less permanent, but for the Christian Tolkien, all history must be teleological and therefore requires a similarity to major mythic events. Ultimately, Aragorn’s right to kingship rests entirely upon his ability not to use his sword. It is instead his role as healer to Eowyn and Faramir that fulfills the prophecy of his return. The prophecy is a clear break from the medieval role of king as military leader and has a far greater connection with the Christian virtue of charity, although it does resonate with the medieval belief in divine providence. Tolkien presents us with a narrative that is all too familiar to readers because it is a structure that repeatedly appears in both
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
history and literature. The millennial process that Middle-earth undergoes, in brief, the prophet of Gandalf using the heroes Frodo and Aragorn to return the glorious past to the present and usher in a golden age, is Tolkien’s own attempt to poetically remove himself and his readers from the direct pressure of modernity. Sigurd is like a shell, hollowed-out by Tolkien and refashioned into his ideal king—a Christian king. Aragorn is externally a pre-Christian northern European hero, but internally he is a much more modern, self-aware, and moralizing Christian hero. In this process lies a large part of the appeal of romance and fantasy: it creates a continuum in which the images of the past seem to hold our values, reassuring the reader that their moral position is correct and has always been so. The characters of the Volsunga Saga are at times very alien to us. But the characters of The Lord of the Rings are not. This is because of the theme of modernity Tolkien explores in his work. The Lord of the Rings asks questions of modernity, criticizing its apparent lack of values or spirituality. It asks questions of its intentions and its possible endpoints. The growing isolation of the individual and the growing power of hegemony are expressed through Sauron and the emptiness of Middle-earth. Part of the reason the Shire is so appealing is because of the sense of community found in those sections of the novel. Questions of power and the nature of governance are brought out through depictions of the One Ring and Aragorn. Of course, some of the answers are Christian. Pity, mercy, and Christian charity are dominant themes in the book, both through Gollum’s and Aragorn’s stories. Many of the novel’s events are very conservative and based on Tolkien’s monarchism. But throughout the narrative, the novel’s response to Modernity is millenarian, invoking the renewal of the past and the coming of a golden age. Tolkien’s conservativism is not a matter of social regression or inertia, but driven by utopian longing that finds expression in his masterpiece. Tolkien’s attempt to provide a new way in which to discuss modernity, distinct from both the prior realism and the broader Modernist experiment, relies on the semiotic use of history as an artifact. The blade of the sword becomes the tool against the dangers of totalitarianism and wanton industrialism. Just as the Ring is a burden upon Frodo’s mind and body, the risks of using militarism to combat despotism seems an equal burden upon the men and women of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Middle-earth. The tragedy of Boromir, the fall of Saruman, and the madness of Denethor all rely upon an arrogant conviction that their use of offensive violence would be justified. Sadly, the novel’s portrayal of economic greed, environmental degradation, and war as an excuse to extend power and wealth still resonates with contemporary readers. For Tolkien the key is knowing not when to use the sword, but when to lay that burden down. Source: Michael J. Brisbois, ‘‘The Blade against the Bur den: The Iconography of the Sword in The Lord of the Rings,’’ in Mythlore, Vol. 27, No. 1, Fall Winter 2008, pp. 93 103.
James Obertino In the following essay, Obertino examines Gandalf’s sacrifice and its relation to the Bible in The Fellowship of the Ring. The death of Gandalf is a moment of transcendent heroism in The Fellowship of the Ring, yet Celeborn, reflecting on it later, remarks, ‘‘And if it were possible, one would say that at last Gandalf fell from wisdom into folly, going needlessly into the net of Moria.’’ An understanding of the strongly overdetermined etymology of Moria helps to clarify the significance of Gandalf’s death and the question of his fate and folly. Moria’s roots would have to include mors (Latin for death), as well as Moira (Greek for fate) and moria (Greek for madness, late Latin for folly). Celeborn’s remark unwittingly stresses the thematic linkage of fate (Moira) or ‘‘net’’ (a frequent image for fate) and folly (moria). The drumbeats that sound within the earth before and after Gandalf’s death seem to stress fate: ‘‘doom, doom.’’ It is, however, also possible to see, as Celeborn does, Gandalf’s death as perhaps foolish or unnecessary, as his fall at the Bridge of Khazad-dum (emphasis supplied) may imply. But is Gandalf’s leading the company into Moria, where he dies, as foolish as Celeborn implies? In fact, far from ‘‘going needlessly’’ into Moria, Gandalf first considers other tactical options and even tries one—the ascent of Caradhras—as an alternative to the underworld journey. To go around the mountains would endanger the quest by prolonging it and open the company to further observation from the air and interference by the enemy. The company attempts to climb over the mountains but is rebuffed by Caradhras itself. By the time Gandalf recommends the descent, Moria is the only reasonable option available. Later in
V o l u m e
1
3 4 3
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Lothlorien, Galadriel sees this more clearly than her husband Celeborn: ‘‘Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life.’’ Nevertheless, even Frodo, who was present during the deliberations that took the company into the earth, seems to have doubts about whether Gandalf’s death was wise: ‘‘In Khazad-dum, his wisdom died.’’ Frodo’s lament suggests that he may see his friend’s death, a result of the descent into Moria, as foolish. A way to reconcile Gandalf’s fate (in the sense of unavoidable death) with a wisdom that also addresses the issue of folly is found in the New Testament, and especially Corinthians. The Christian precept ‘‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’’ (John 15:13) pairs love with the willing self-sacrifice of death, and the god-hero of Christendom would for Tolkien be the principal exemplar of self-sacrifice for love. The path of martyrdom or ‘‘the wisdom of the Cross’’ is foolishness to the non-Christian (I Cor 1.18), who prefers the ‘‘fleshly wisdom’’ (2 Cor 1.12) that serves oneself and not others. Following the slain hero and often expecting themselves to be slain, the early Christians turned upside down the conventional wisdom that seeks self-preservation above all else. Thus St. Paul notes, ‘‘God’’ has ‘‘made foolish the wisdom of this world’’ through the folly of freely chosen self-sacrifice (I Cor 1.20–23). To refuse to give one’s life and instead to follow the way of the world by pursuing a longer life and more pleasure for the flesh was, in the view of the marginalized early Christians, a colossal error: ‘‘The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God’’ (1 Cor 3.19). To see Gandalf’s sacrificial death as perhaps foolish is a temporary lapse of judgment on Celeborn’s and Frodo’s part, perhaps useful to remind the reader that the flesh and its wisdom make their strong demands despite what real wisdom compels one to do. But Gandalf must not be measured by the wisdom of the world, as his rebirth makes clear. Gandalf fits the Pauline model, for his death to save others and preserve Frodo’s quest shows a foolishness that is ‘‘wiser than men’’ (1 Cor 1.25). The place of Gandalf’s death—Moria—in addition to having the associations noted earlier also echoes Moriah in Genesis 22.2, the land where Jahweh commands Abraham to take Isaac to sacrifice him ‘‘as a burnt offering on one of the mountains.’’ Gandalf is pulled by the burning Balrog into the depths of a mountain. While Jahweh relents in the matter of the
3 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
sacrifice of Isaac, God the Father in the New Testament does not in demanding the sacrifice of his only begotten Son. Another dissimilarity between the Genesis Moriah and the trek into Moria is that circumstances, rather than the voice of God, dictate the journey in Tolkien and the stand at the bridge. But Gandalf’s selfsacrificial death is in accord with the precept of obedience to the higher good that the Genesis story endorses. His death also reveals the same strategy of renunciation Gandalf recommends Frodo take in bearing the Ring into the center of darkness that is Sauron’s home and there throwing it into the cracks of Doom, because Sauron will not expect the Ring-bearer to willingly give it up and throw it away. About this strategy Gandalf remarks, ‘‘It is wisdom to recognize necessity, when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope’’. The paradox that wisdom may be found by going before one’s time into the earth and that only a crazy person would go there to find it is also seen in The Aeneid, where the Sibyl calls Aeneas’s quest into Hades a fantastic project, or ‘‘insanus labor’’. But Tolkien goes beyond the Roman model of catabasis because Gandalf, unlike Aeneas, actually dies in the underworld. Gandalf’s apparently foolish, yet ultimately wise, death through sacrifice, for both his friends and the good of all Middle Earth, is folly to those who refuse to see the goodness of the gesture, but through redemptive self-surrender ‘‘God has made foolish the wisdom of this world’’ (1 Cor 1.20). That this sacrifice occurs in Moria (Moriah) is especially appropriate. Source: James Obertino, ‘‘Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring,’’ in Explicator, Vol. 54, No. 4, Summer 1996, pp. 230 33.
Ralph C. Wood In this essay, Wood explains the Christian elements in The Lord of the Rings. J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings is a massive epic fantasy of more than a half-million words. It is also a hugely complex work, with its own complicated chronology, cosmogony, geography, nomenclature and multiple languages, including two forms of elvish. The plot is so grand, moreover, that it casts backward to the formation of first things while glancing forward to the end of time. How did this huge and learned work—written by an obscure Oxford philologist—become a classic?
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
THE LORD OF THE RINGS RECOUNTS A PRE BIBLICAL PERIOD OF HISTORY A TIME WHEN THERE WERE NO CHOSEN PEOPLE, NO INCARNATION, NO RELIGION AT ALL FROM A POINT OF VIEW THAT IS DISTINCTLY CHRISTIAN.’’
The answer has to do with Tolkien’s central characters. They are humanoid creatures called hobbits, and their unlikely hero has the unheroic name of Frodo. During the 1960s, so many American youths were drawn to these diminutive creatures that Tolkien became something of a cult figure. ‘‘Frodo Lives’’ was a popular graffito of the time. T-shirts declared that ‘‘Tolkien is Hobbit-Forming.’’ No doubt there was something escapist about this hobbit-habit. Perplexed by our nation’s carnage in Vietnam and by the ultimate threat of a nuclear inferno, a whole generation of young Americans could lose themselves and their troubles in the intricacies of this triple-decker epic. Indeed, the rumor got about— a wish seeking its fulfillment, no doubt—that Tolkien had composed The Lord of the Rings under the influence of drugs. Yet The Lord of the Rings has outlasted its cult status. Repeated readings do not exhaust its potential to deepen and define our moral and spiritual lives. Young and old alike keep returning to it for both wisdom and delight. True fantasy, Tolkien declared in his 1939 essay ‘‘On Fairy-Stories,’’ is escapist in the good sense: it enables us to flee into reality. The strange world of hobbits and elves and Ents frees us from bondage to the pseudo-reality that most of us inhabit: a world deadened by bleary familiarity. Fantasy, Tolkien observed, helps us recover a sense of wonder about ordinary things: ‘‘stone, and wood, and iron; tree and grass; house and fire; bread and wine.’’ Despite the Eucharistic hint, Tolkien’s work is not self-evidently Christian. As C. S. Lewis observed when it was first published, the Ring epic is imbued with ‘‘a profound melancholy.’’ The ending is tearfully sad. Frodo is exhausted by his long quest to destroy the Ring of coercive power that had been fashioned by the monster Sauron. Though the victory has been won, Frodo
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
cannot enjoy its fruits. And so he sails away to the elven realm, leaving his companions behind. Sauron and his minions of evil may have been defeated, but the triumph is only temporary. Evil will reconstitute itself in some alarming new form, and the free creatures of Middle Earth will have to fight it yet again. The word ‘‘doom’’—in its Anglo-Saxon meaning of damning judgment as well as final fate in ruin and death—pulses like a funereal drumbeat throughout the entire work. Toward the end of volume I, the elf Legolas offers a doom-centered vision of the world. It sounds very much like an elvish and Heraclitean version of entropy. ‘‘To find and lose,’’ says Legolas, is the destiny ‘‘of those whose boat is on the running stream. . . . The passing seasons are but ripples in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.’’ Though elves are so long-lived that they seem immortal to humans and hobbits, the tides of time will sweep even them away. A deeply pagan pessimism pervades all three of the Ring books. Yet it is a mistake to read Tolkien’s work as sub-Christian. Tolkien, the finest Beowulf scholar of his day, had a thesis about the Anglo-Saxon epic that may be applied to his own fiction. Beowulf is a pagan work, Tolkien argued, exalting the ancient Scandinavian and heathen virtue of an unyielding, indomitable will in the face of sure and hopeless defeat. Yet it was probably written by a Christian, Tolkien contended, who infused it with Christian concerns: ‘‘The author of Beowulf showed forth the permanent value of that pietas which treasures the memory of man’s struggles in the dark past, man fallen and not yet saved, disgraced but not dethroned.’’ In a similar way, The Lord of the Rings recounts a pre-biblical period of history—a time when there were no Chosen People, no incarnation, no religion at all—from a point of view that is distinctly Christian. This judgment may seem strange because there is little that is Christian about The Hobbit, Tolkien’s first fantasy work, published in 1937. It is a standard quest-story about the seeking and the finding of a tremendous treasure, a delightful ‘‘there and back again’’ tale concerning the adventures of Bilbo Baggins. But by the time he published The Lord of the Rings in 1954 and 1955, Tolkien had deepened and widened his vision, especially concerning the nature of heroism. The hobbits prove to be perennially attractive characters because they are very unconventional heroes. They are not tragic and death-defying
V o l u m e
1
3 4 5
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
warriors like Ajax or Achilles or Beowulf; they are frail and comic foot soldiers like us. The Nine Walkers—four hobbits, two men, an elf, a dwarf and a wizard—constitute a company not of the noble but of the ordinary. They all learn, in a proleptically Christian way, what every mortal must confront: that we no sooner find our lives than we have to give them up. Unlike Bilbo, Frodo his nephew is called not to find but to lose, indeed to destroy, his great gem: the Ring of Total Control. It is a task that he does not seek but reluctantly accepts. Yet Frodo proves to be a fit bearer of the Ring. Not only does he possess native powers of courage and resistance; he is also summoned by a mysterious providential grace. The destruction of the Ring is nothing less than Frodo’s vocation. And the epic’s compelling interest lies in our discovery of how, just barely, Frodo remains faithful to his calling. In so doing he does far more than save his beloved Shire from ruin. Frodo learns—and thus teaches—what for Tolkien is the deepest of all Christian truths: how to surrender one’s life, how to lose one’s treasure, how to die, and thus how truly to live. Early in the narrative, Frodo recalls that his Uncle Bilbo, especially during his latter years, was fond of declaring that . . . there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary. ‘‘It’s a danger ous business, Frodo, going out your door,’’ he used to say. ‘‘You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.’’
Tolkien’s work is imbued with a mystical sense of life as a journey that carries one, willynilly, beyond the walls of the world. To get out of bed, to answer the phone, to open the door, to fetch the mail—such everyday deeds are freighted with eternal consequence. They immerse us in the river of time: the ‘‘ever-rolling stream’’ which, in Isaac Watts’s splendid rendering of the 90th Psalm, ‘‘bears all its sons away.’’ Whether engaged in great or small acts of courage or cowardice, we are traveling on the path toward ultimate joy or final ruin. For Tolkien the Christian, the chief question— and thus the real quest—is how we are to travel along this Road. The great temptation is to take short-cuts, to follow the easy way, to arrive quickly. In the antique world of Middle Earth, magic offers the surest escape from slowness and suffering. It is the equivalent of our machines. They both provide
3 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
what Tolkien in a letter called immediacy: ‘‘speed, reduction of labor, and reduction also to a minimum (or vanishing point) of the gap between the idea or desire and the result or effect.’’ The magic of machination is meant for those who lack patience, who cannot wait. Sauron wins converts because he provides his followers the necromancy to coerce the wills of others, the strength to accomplish grand ends by instant means. The noble prove to be most nobly tempted. Gandalf, the Christ-like wizard who lays down his life for his friends, knows that he is an unworthy bearer of the Ring—not because he has evil designs that he wants secretly to accomplish, but rather because his desire to do good is so great. Lady Galadriel, the elven queen, also refuses the Ring of Force. It would make her enormous beauty mesmerizing. Those who had freely admired her loveliness would have no choice but to worship her. Perhaps alone among modern writers, Tolkien understood that evil’s subtlest semblance is not with the ugly but with the gorgeous. ‘‘I shall not be dark,’’ Galadriel warns, ‘‘but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!’’ The one free creature utterly undone by the lure of total power is Saruman the wizard. Like Judas, he is impatient with the slow way that goodness works. He cannot abide the torturous path up Mount Doom; he wants rapid results. Since the all-commanding Sauron is sure to win, Saruman urges Gandalf and his friends to join forces with the Dark Lord. Those who face defeat can survive only by siding with the victor, using his coercive power to achieve their own noble aims: ‘‘We can bide our time, we can keep our thoughts in our hearts, deploring maybe evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak or idle friends.’’ Saruman is doubly blind. He fails to see that laudable designs, when achieved by compulsive force, become demonic. Neither does he perceive the hidden strength of the hobbits. The chief irony of the entire epic is that hobbitic weakness is the solution to the problem of Absolute Might. The hobbits are worthy opponents of Sauron because their life-aims are so modest. Wanting
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
nothing more than to preserve the freedom of their peaceable Shire, they have no grandiose uses for the Ring. Their meekness uniquely qualifies them to destroy the Ring in the Cracks of Doom. This is a quest that can be accomplished by the small even better than the great. In fact, the figure who gradually emerges as the rightful successor to Frodo is the least likely hobbit of them all, the comically inept and ungainly Samwise Gamgee. In the unlikely heroism of the small and the weak, Tolkien’s pre-Christian world becomes most Christian. Their greatness is not self-made. As a fledgling community of faith, the Nine Walkers experience a far-off foretaste of the fellowship that Christians call the church universal. Their company remarkably transcends both racial and ethnic boundaries. Though it contains representatives from all of the Free Peoples, some of them have been historic enemies—especially the dwarves and the elves. No shallow commitment to diversity binds them together. They are united by their hatred of evil, and even more by their ever-increasing, selfsurrendering regard for one another. Through their long communal struggle, they learn that there is a power greater than mere might. It springs not from the force of will but from a grace-filled fellowship of kindred minds and souls. Perhaps we can now understand what Tolkien meant when he called The Lord of the Rings ‘‘a fundamentally religious and Catholic work.’’ Its essential conflict, he insisted, concerns God’s ‘‘sole right to divine honor.’’ Like Milton’s Satan, Sauron will not serve such a deity. He is intent upon his own supremacy, and he reads all others by his own light. He believes that anyone, having once possessed the power afforded by the Ring, will be determined to use it—especially the magical power to make its wearer invisible. He assumes that Frodo and his friends will seek to overthrow him and to establish their own sovereignty. Sauron’s calculus of self-interest blinds him to the Company’s strategy. Under Gandalf’s leadership, they decide not to hide or use the Ring, but to take it straight back into the Land of Mordor—Sauron’s lair—to incinerate it. Not for want of mental power is Sauron deceived. He is a creature whose craft and power are very great, as his fashioning of the Ring proves. Sauron also embodies himself as a terrible all-seeing Eye. He can thus discern the outward operation of things, but he cannot discern the inward workings of the heart. Sauron’s fatal lack
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
is not intelligence, therefore, but sympathy. He cannot ‘‘feel with,’’ and so he is incapable of community. The ores, the evil creatures whom Sauron has bred to do his will, constantly betray each other and feud among themselves. Tolkien thus holds out the considerable hope that evil cannot form a fellowship: there is no true Compact of the Wicked, but there is a real Company of the Good. The animating power of this Company is the much-maligned virtue called pity. Frodo had learned the meaning of pity from his Uncle Bilbo. When he first obtained the Ring from the vile creature called Gollum, Bilbo had the chance to kill him but did not. Frodo is perplexed by this refusal. ’Tis a pity, he maintains, that Bilbo did not slay such an evil one. This phrase angers Gandalf, and prompts him to make the most important declaration in the entire epic: ‘‘Pity? It was pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy; not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that [Bilbo] took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his own ership of the Ring so. With Pity.’’ ‘‘I am sorry,’’ said Frodo. ‘‘But . . . I do not feel any pity for Gollum . . . He deserves death.’’ ‘‘Deserves it! I daresay he does,’’ [replies Gan dalf]. ‘‘Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement . . . The pity of Bilbo will rule the fate of many yours not least.
‘‘The pity of Bilbo will rule the fate of many’’ becomes the motto of Tolkien’s epic. It is true in the literal sense, because the Gollum whom Bilbo had spared so long ago is the one who finally destroys the Ring. The saying is also true in a spiritual sense. Gandalf the pagan wizard describes the nature of Christian mercy. As a creature far more sinning than sinned against, Gollum deserves his misery. He has committed Cain’s crime of fratricide in acquiring the Ring. Still, Gandalf insists on pity, despite Frodo’s protest that Gollum should be given justice. If all died who deserve punishment, none would live. Many perish who have earned life, and yet who can restore them? Neither hobbits nor humans can live by the bread of merit alone. The unstrained quality of mercy makes The Lord of the Rings an enduring Christian classic despite its pagan setting. As a pre-Christian work, it is appropriately characterized by a melancholy sense of ineluctable doom and defeat: the night that comes shall cover everything. Such
V o l u m e
1
3 4 7
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
profound pessimism must not be disregarded. It has its biblical equivalent, after all, in the dark omen of death found in Ecclesiastes 12:5: ‘‘man goeth to his long home.’’ Yet this gloomy saying is not the ultimate word. Near the end of their wearying quest, Frodo and Sam are alone on the slopes of Mount Doom. All their efforts seem to have failed. Even if somehow they succeed in destroying the Ring, there is no likelihood that they will themselves survive, or that anyone will ever hear of their valiant deed. Amid such hopelessness, Sam—the bumbling and unreflective hobbit who has gradually emerged as a figure of great moral and spiritual depth—beholds a single star shimmering above the dark clouds of Mordor: The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of that forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. . . . Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his mas ter’s ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep and untroubled sleep.
TOLKIEN’S OWN PROFESSIONAL SCHOLARLINESS SERVED, ONE SUSPECTS, BOTH TO REINFORCE HIS AWARENESS OF HUMAN NON OMNISCIENCE, AND TO AFFORD HIM A CERTAIN PLAYFUL PLEASURE IN THE ACT OF ‘DOCUMENTARY’ COMPOSITION.’’
under the pressure of events Frodo and his companions gain a measure of enlightenment. The Prologue, meanwhile, acts as a marker: our recollection of it maintains the awareness that Frodo’s perspective is an incomplete one, and more generally that the hobbits’ customs and values are not absolute or universal.
In this essay, Rosebury discusses Tolkien’s style of narration as a modern form of language.
This double awareness is part of the work’s paradoxical realism. In the real world we have individual perspectives, and we have collective knowledge, consolidated in documents: the sense of a gap between these, between the world we see before our eyes and the wider world of which we acquire fragmentary knowledge, is part of the structure of our experience. What we do not have in reality is access to omniscience; and Tolkien’s ‘donnish’ device—favoured by non-donnish novelists from Defoe to Nabokov—of representing the fictional narrative as a document (or a collection of documents if we include the Prologue and Appendices), is a realistic reflection of this point. Tolkien’s own professional scholarliness served, one suspects, both to reinforce his awareness of human non-omniscience, and to afford him a certain playful pleasure in the act of ‘documentary’ composition.
The party and associated events are described at leisurely length, while hints about the nature of the Ring, and rumours about trouble beyond the borders of the Shire, are quietly insinuated through dialogue. For hundreds of pages the perspective of the hobbits, and particularly of Frodo, is preserved with unbroken temporal continuity, with careful linking passages accounting for the time-lapses between major incidents—Bilbo’s party and sudden departure, Gandalf’s return to Hobbiton to warn Frodo about the Ring, Frodo’s flight, and so on. A gradually broadening sense of what is going on in Middle-earth is achieved, as
In another respect, too, The Lord of the Rings adheres unusually closely, in its narrative proceedings, to actual experience. Our normal experience offers nothing corresponding to the structure of many novels and most plays, in which the action switches abruptly, or with minimal linkage, from one protagonist, locale or sub-plot to another, before (usually) integrating all the elements for the de´nouement. This kind of structure (which might be called ‘symphonic’ by analogy with the separate exposition, and eventual integration, of themes in a sonata movement, or compared to the brisk switches of scene achieved by editing in film
Sam discerns that light and shadow are not warring in uncertain battle. It is the gleaming star that defines the darkness. These hobbits cannot name their source, but they know that Goodness and Truth and Beauty are the first and the last and the only permanent things. Source: Ralph C. Wood, ‘‘‘Traveling the one road’: The Lord of the Rings as a ‘Pre Christian’ Classic,’’ in Christian Century, Vol. 110, No. 6, February 24, 1993, pp. 208 11.
Brian Rosebury
3 4 8
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
or television drama) can make for great force of contrast and complexity of development, but its sudden and frequent transitions tend to make authorial design very apparent Where, on the other hand, there is unmotivated narrative movement, the effect can be faintly meretricious. The clearest case is the inversion of chronological order which allows the ‘surprise’ of Aragorn’s arrival during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, before the besieged walls of Minas Tirith. The black sails of Sauron’s allies, the Corsairs, appear up the river—but the ships contain Aragorn and his host, who have overthrown the Corsairs and liberated their galley-slaves. Despite a surge of triumphant rhetoric (‘the mirth of the Rohirrim was a torrent of laughter and a flashing of swords, and the joy and wonder of the city was a music of trumpets and a ringing of bells’) the episode fails to be the emotional climax of the battle, just because it comes out of the blue and not out of a developed situation. (The true climax is formed by the connected deaths of The´oden and the Witch-King, which both have complex resonances from far back in the narrative.) The subsequent retrospective account of the capture of the ships— narrated by Legolas and Gimli to Pippin—has an inevitably dutiful and ‘staged’ quality, as Tolkien was aware. On the other hand, when Denethor, secluded within the Citadel while the battle rages, concludes his outburst of defeatism by saying to Gandalf, ‘even now the wind of thy hope cheats thee and wafts up Anduin a fleet with black sails’, the dramatic irony is highly effective, because the grounds of Denethor’s error have been so carefully prepared that the text does not even need to spell them out. (Denethor has used a palantı´r to scrutinise Sauron’s strategy and view his armies from afar: Sauron’s more powerful will has ensured that he sees those images most likely to drive him to despair. It is consistent with Denethor’s intellectual pride that he should seize the opportunity to trump Gandalf’s optimism with this misleading card.) The danger that a narrative of such length may lose cohesion amid a profusion of highly localised points of view is obviated not only by the sustained presentation of characters’ perspectives, and the interweaving of plot lines, but by a number of key passages in which an approach is made to a more nearly objective perspective. These passages can be divided into two kinds: passages of intellectual reflection, associated mainly with Gandalf, and passages of imaginative vision, associated mainly with Frodo. In the former category
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
are the Council of Elrond, and the ‘Last Debate’ of the surviving Captains, at which the diversionary assault on Mordor is conceived. These episodes, in which the situation and the issues at stake are reviewed and summarised with Gandalf’s exceptional authority, come at approximately one-fifth, and four-fifths, of the way through the main narrative; the latter may be said to reaffirm the dominance of Gandalf’s moral and strategic perception, taken for granted when he makes his initial disclosures to Frodo, endorsed at the Council, but contested subsequently by Saruman, The´oden, Denethor and others, and of course removed entirely for ten chapters by his fall into the abyss. The Council completes the exposition of the strategic themes; the Debate prepares for their de´nouement. Gandalf’s wisdom, not infallible but validated repeatedly in action, signals the existence of a coherent reality beyond the circumscribed perspectives of individual characters; and (given the structural role of Middle-earth itself) this is both an aesthetic and an ethical matter: the work is cohesive because the history of Middle-earth is rationally and morally intelligible, not a chaos of perspectives. Frodo’s glimpses of cohesion are products of revelation rather than reason. Three times, once at Crickhollow and twice in the house of Tom Bombadil his dreams disclose the unknown past or future—though in images whose significance is only apparent much later, and then only in part, for the evocation of the quality of dreams is throughout naturalistic and not allegorical. The handling of styles, or rather styles, sometimes stretches Tolkien’s resourcefulness to its limits. He had confronted himself with the daunting task of presenting a wide range of scenes, incidents and cultures in a pre-modern world, of giving voices to a variety of ‘speakingpeoples’, human and otherwise, in the medium of an English which must seem to twentieth-century readers both intelligible and appropriate to its subject-matter. I have suggested already—and numerous quotations from the work should by now have borne this out—that what one might call the bread-and-butter style of The Lord of the Rings, the basic style of narration and description which accounts for perhaps ninety per cent of the text, is transparent, and largely free from archaic, let alone obsolete, forms. That is not to say that it lacks distinctive features. Catherine Stimpson’s exasperated claim that ‘shunning ordinary diction, he wrenches syntax . . . If we
V o l u m e
1
3 4 9
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
expect, ‘‘He came to an island in the middle of a river’’, he will write, ‘‘To an eyot he came’’’ is demonstrably false (quite apart from its questionbegging notions of ‘ordinary’ diction and normative, unwrenched syntax), for Tolkien employs the style ‘we expect’, as Stimpson has it, far more often than the inversions and rarer forms which concern her. But her overstatement conceals two truths: firstly, that Tolkien’s phrase-order in sentences, though rarely archaic, is carefully considered for expressive effect—he does not simply employ the sequence most likely to occur in colloquial speech; and secondly that his diction draws on the full range of ‘words that remain in literary use . . . among educated people’. ‘Eyot’ is certainly among these: indeed it is still in non-literary use, for the excellent reason that it is much the briefest way of referring to ‘a small isle in the middle of a river’ (though in fairness to Catherine Stimpson it should be said that it is little used in U.S. English). A glance at the three actual appearances of ‘eyot’ in The Lord of the Rings is illuminating, and will also serve to suggest the prevalence of ‘unwrenched’ syntax in the text. That night they camped on a small eyot close to the western bank. A long whitish hand could be dimly seen as it shot out and grabbed the gunwale: two pale lamplike eyes shone coldly as they peered inside, and then they lifted and gazed up at Frodo on the eyot. ‘ . . . Still there are dangerous places even before we come there: rocks and stony eyots in the stream . . . .’
One might usefully consider how, without a loss of meaning or economy, ‘eyot’ could be replaced in any of these cases. In the first case, ‘a small eyot’ is decisively smaller than ‘a small island’: this helps to establish that Gollum has no cover on land, and must approach Frodo out of the water, as indeed he does in the second sentence. In the third, ‘island’ perhaps might be substituted, but ‘eyot’ more firmly suggests something small enough to be overlooked until one runs aground. All three sentences are syntactically unexceptional by any twentieth-century standards: Ernest Hemingway could have written them. My next example shows a more idiosyncratic phrase-order; in order to highlight Tolkien’s compositional choices, I have preceded it with a notional ‘primitive version’ in a more commonplace syntactical mode, making minor changes of diction when the altered syntax seemed to require this.
3 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
A grey mist gathered about Saruman’s body, to the dismay of those standing by. It rose slowly to a great height, like smoke from a fire, and loomed over the hill as a pale shrouded figure. Then it wavered for a moment, looking to the West; but a cold wind came from that direc tion. The figure bent away, and dissolved into nothing with a sigh. [‘ Primitive version’] To the dismay of those that stood by, about the body of Saruman a grey mist gathered, and rising slowly to a great height like smoke from a fire, as a pale shrouded figure it loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered, looking to the West; but out of the West came a cold wind, and it bent away, and with a sigh dissolved into nothing.
The rules of the ‘primitive version’ are, firstly, that subject and main verb initiate each sentence, and the remaining clauses then fall into line behind them; and secondly, that each sentence is rationed to a single conjunction. In other words, there is an inhibition, in the name of stylistic modernity, on inversion (in the sense of the delayed appearance of the subject) and on the potentially dignifying, or ‘biblical’, cadences (‘and . . . and . . . and . . . ’) latent in multiple conjunctions. The consequence is four sufficiently competent sentences. Tolkien’s version, by abandoning these inhibitions while avoiding archaism, achieves greater clarity and fluency as well as an appropriately grave tone. By making flexible use of phrase-order, and converting the first and second, and the third and fourth, sentences in each case into a single sentence, it brings into proximity the crucial verbs describing the continuous motion of the mist (‘gathered, and rising slowly’ . . . ‘it loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered’) which are widely separated in the primitive version. It also juxtaposes the cold wind and the bending away which is its consequence. The repetition of ‘West’ becomes stylistically acceptable if the subject of the second clause (‘wind’) is delayed to produce the compact and rhythmically symmetrical formula ‘looking to the West; but out of the West . . . ’, whereas a moment’s reflection will show that the repetition becomes awkward if the subject-verb-predicate sequence is maintained. The immediate verbal echo is important, for the West is more than a geographical ‘direction’: it represents the other-world from which the Wizards have been sent, incarnate, to the aid of Middle-earth, and the shade of Saruman should be felt here to be engaging in a brief, fatal dialogue, signalling an appeal which meets with rejection. Both sentences are sequenced for expressive effect. The first begins with an indication of emotional tone (‘dismay’), invites us to share the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
attentiveness of the bystanders, and then closes in on the body and follows the movement of the mist that rises from it. The second displays the ‘dialogue’ across the brief pause of the semi-colon, and comments on its pathos by the windingdown effect of the two ‘and . . . ’ clauses and the strategic placing of ‘nothing’. Even in such passages, moreover, the risky heroic mannerisms are the exception rather than the rule. The presence of Merry as an observing consciousness generates numerous examples of plain syntax: ‘Merry crawled on all fours . . . . He dared not open his eyes or look up . . . . He opened his eyes and the blackness was lifted from them. There some paces from him sat the great beast . . . . The face of their enemy was not turned towards him, but still he hardly dared to move’ This stylistic variation could make for an unsightly patchwork, but in fact the amplitude of the narrative is such as to allow gradual modulations between the exalted style and the plain. The point may be illustrated by a passage towards the end of the episode, when the Witch-king and The´oden are both dead, the battle has moved to another part of the field; and Merry stands wounded, having used his short sword, retrieved from the Barrow many chapters earlier, to pierce the sinew behind the Witch-king’s knee. And still Meriadoc stood there blinking through his tears, and no one spoke to him, indeed none seemed to heed him. He brushed away the tears . . . Then he looked for his sword that he had let fall; for even as he struck his blow his arm was numbed, and now he could only use his left hand. And behold! there lay his weapon, but the blade was smoking like a dry branch that has been thrust in a fire; and as he watched it, it writhed and withered and was consumed. So passed the sword of the Barrow Downs, work of Westernesse. But glad would he have been to know its fate who wrought it slowly long ago in the North Kingdom when the Du´nedain were young, and chief among their foes was the dread realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other blade, not though mightier hands had wielded it, would have dealt that foe a wound so bitter, cleaving the undead flesh, breaking the spell that knit his unseen sinews to his will.
The first paragraph opens with essentially plain syntax, with phrases that might be modelled on Merry’s speech-patterns (‘no one spoke to him . . . now he could only use his left hand’). Yet woven into the clauses are nuances of diction—‘heed’; ‘let fall’ rather than ‘dropped’; ‘for’, in the sense of ‘because’; ‘even as’, in the sense of ‘at the very
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
moment that’, and not least the full version of Merry’s name—which keep in touch with the heroic tonality, so that when attention shifts from Merry to the sword, and its historic relation to the Witch-king, the accompanying stylistic shift is not too abrupt. The ‘behold!’ signals Merry’s shock of surprise (and alarm, when he makes the connection with his numbed arm) at the dissolution of the sword-blade, so eloquently conveyed through the sustained image of the burning branch; and by placing the sword in the same stylistic frame as the Witch-king, it prepares us for the revelation in the next paragraph: the Witch-king’s unholy perpetuation of ‘undead’ existence has been ended by the indirect agency of his long-dead victim, the sword’s maker. (And yet there is no facile determinism: the blow might not have been struck had Merry’s courage failed him, as it almost does; and in any case it is E´owyn’s stroke, not Merry’s, which actually kills the Witch-king.) The dignified prose of the second paragraph effectively sustains the heroic tone, though the archaic adjective ‘dread’ is a superfluous note, except rhythmically. The quasi-conclusiveness of its first sentence prepares us for a sudden shift of focus and mood, confirmed by the opening phrase of the second (another emotional marker). The sentence employs inversion as much for economy and elegance as for expressive effect. (Compare the awkward uninverted version, ‘But he who wrought it long ago, etc., etc., etc. . . . would have been glad to know its fate.’) The final sentence triumphs over its elements of cliche´ through its musicality—the widely-spaced assonances (‘blade . . . wield . . . dealt . . . cleaving . . . flesh . . . spell . . . will), the alliterative group ‘wield . . . wound . . . will’, and the sinuously memorable ‘unseen’ sinews—and the ruthless simultaneity of its present participles, ‘cleaving . . . breaking’: the suppression of ‘and’ here is as important as its elegiac repetition in the passage describing Saruman’s death. To some critics the sense of inevitability is precisely the cause of their disapproval. Catharine Stimpson again represents the hostile consensus forcefully when she asks ‘why Tolkien so blandly, so complacently, so consistently, uses the symbol of light and of white to signify good and the symbol of dark and black to signify evil’. One answer is that Tolkien does not so anything so crude, and does not much employ symbolism anyway (though some of his characters do: Saruman, for example, uses the device of a White Hand on his soldiers’ livery; and Aragorn’s standard
V o l u m e
1
3 5 1
T h e
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
is predominantly black). Names can be misleading: the Black Riders, for example, are not black—if anything they are white; it is only their outer garments that are black, and their inner robes are ‘white and grey’. The Black Stone of Erech is associated with the essentially positive figure of Isildur, and his war against Sauron. If Tolkien were a Manichean he might employ the symbolic system Stimpson suggests, but he is not, as I have pointed out: the corruption of ‘Saruman the White’ is sufficient to show this. Nevertheless it is true that Tolkien draws upon the emotional potency of images of light and dark. These are by no means invariably correlated respectively with good and evil, joy and fear: among the most eerie images in the work are the candles that glow in the Dead Marshes, and the ‘corpse-light’, the ‘light that illuminated nothing’ of the tower of Minas Morgul. Still, Tolkien’s use of imagery assumes that certain associations of image with emotion can be depended upon among his readers. Many modern writers have worked on that assumption: it is integral to the symbolist movement in poetry, and to Eliot’s notion of the objective correlative. But there is a twentieth-century tradition of radical scepticism which would question it. As Elizabeth Kirk says, some disparaging judgements of Tolkien’s style ‘reflect a comparatively modern assumption that the function of language in any work of art is to force the reader out of the reactions, awarenesses, associations of ideas and value judgements which he shares with others and to substitute for them sharper, more distinctive, individual and original modes of awareness . . . This is a function of postRomantic views of the artist as a privileged sensibility.’ Tolkien, she suggests, stands outside this tradition: for him the artist speaks to our common nature, and his aim is the ‘recovery’ (to use his own term), the re-creation in new materials, of a clear and lively and generally accessible vision of beauty and value. Kirk’s cites in support Eliot’s lines from East Coker. There is only the fight To recover what has been lost, and found and lost Again and again; and now under conditions That seem unpropitious.
To align Tolkien with a modernist (whom he did not particularly admire) against a tradition derived from Romanticism is challenging; but of course many Romantics supposed themselves to be ‘men speaking to men’, to be engaged in revealing ‘the primary laws of our nature’. The
3 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
rejection of the very notion, however qualified, of human nature, is intrinsic neither to Modernism nor to Romanticism. But this question takes us beyond the scope of the present chapter. Source: Brian Rosebury, Tolkien: A Critical Assessment, St. Martin’s Press, 1992, pp. 57 64, 65 70, 79 80.
SOURCES Auden, W. H., ‘‘The Quest Hero,’’ in Tolkien and the Critics, edited by Neil D. Isaacs and Rose A. Zimbardo, University of Notre Dame Press, 1968, pp. 40 61. , ‘‘At the End of the Quest, Victory,’’ in New York Times Book Review, January 22, 1956, p. 5. Carpenter, Humphrey, J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography, Allen and Unwin, 1977. Enright, Nancy, ‘‘Tolkien’s Females and the Defining of Power,’’ in Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature, Vol. 59, No. 2, 2007, p. 93. Isaacs, Neil David, and Rose Zimbardo, eds., Tolkien and the Critics, University of Notre Dame Press, 1969. , Tolkien: New Critical Perspectives, University of Kentucky Press, 1981. Leigh, David J., ‘‘Chesterton and Tolkien as Theolo gians: The Fantasy of the Real,’’ in Theological Studies, Vol. 70, No. 2, June 2009, pp. 469 70. Purtill, Richard L., J. R. R. Tolkien: Myth, Morality, and Religion, Harper and Row, 1984. Rosebury, Brian, Tolkien: A Critical Assessment, St. Martin’s Press, 1992. Shippey, Tom, ‘‘Creation from Philology in The Lord of the Rings,’’ in J. R. R. Tolkien, Scholar and Storyteller: Essays in Memoriam, edited by Mary Salu and R. T. Farrell, Cornell University Press, 1979, pp. 286 316. , The Road to Middle earth: How J. R. R. Tolkien Created a New Mythology, Harper Collins, 1992. Tolkien, J. R. R., The Lord of the Rings, Mariner, 2005. Wilson, Edmund, ‘‘Moral Vision in The Lord of the Rings,’’ in Tolkien and the Critics, edited by Neil D. Isaacs and Rose A. Zimbardo, University of Notre Dame Press, 1968, pp. 100 108. , ‘‘Oo, Those Awful Orcs,’’ in Nation, April 14, 1956, p. 182.
FURTHER READING Bloom, Harold, ed. J. R. R. Tolkien, Chelsea House, 2000. This book presents a collection of critical essays on Tolkien’s works from a variety of poets, playwrights, and novelists.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
T h e
Carpenter, Humphrey, J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography, Houghton Mifflin, 2000. This book is the new edition of the 1987 author ized biography of Tolkien. De Koster, Katie, ed. Readings on J. R. R. Tolkien, Green haven Press, 2000. De Koster’s book contains a biography and fifteen essays, favorable and unfavorable, on Tolkien’s style, sources, and themes. Rutledge, Fleming, The Battle of Middle earth: Toklien’s Design in ‘‘The Lord of the Rings,’’ Eerdmans, 2003. Rutledge, an Episcopalian priest, exams the logic and faith in Tolkien’s trilogy, based on his reading of Toklien’s letters. Rutledge finds God in the divine plan executed by the charac ters in the books as they seek redemption. Scull, Christina, and Wayne G. Hammond, The J. R. R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Chronology and Reader’s Guide, Houghton Mifflin, 2006. This two volume set reviews Tolkien’s life and works and provides a critical analysis, bibliog raphy, index, reader’s guide, and chronology.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o r d
o f
t h e
R i n g s
Tolkien, J. R. R., ‘‘On Fairy Stories,’’ in The Tolkien Reader, Ballantine Books, 1966, pp. 3 82. Written while Tolkien was beginning The Lord of the Rings, this essay presents his critical theory and justification for the trilogy. Tyler, J. E. A., The Complete Tolkien, St. Martin’s Press, 2004. A total revision and update of the original 1978 edition, this book explains, translates, and links every reference in all of Tolkien’s works.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Lord of the Rings J. R. R. Tolkien fantasy AND fiction Tolkien AND Hobbit Frodo Baggins Gandalf
V o l u m e
1
3 5 3
Mahabharata ANONYMOUS (ATTRIBUTED TO VYASA) C. 400 BCE – 400 CE
The Mahabharata (officially known as Bharat) is the great epic poem of India. Comprising one hundred thousand stanzas of verse divided into eighteen books, or parvas, the poem remained in the early 2000s the largest single literary work in existence. Originally composed in the ancient language of Sanskrit sometime between 400 BCE and 400 CE , the work is set in a legendary era thought to correspond to tenth-century BCE Indian culture and history. Its main subject is a feud between two branches of the ruling family of the northern Indian kingdom of Kurujangala, the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Their conflict culminates in an eighteen-day battle and the annihilation of nearly all those involved in the conflict, except for the victors, the five Pandava brothers—Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva —and a handful of others. The poem’s theme concerns the Hindu concept of dharma, or sacred duty. In essence, the epic is an extended exploration of the responsibilities set forth by the code of dharma. In addition to recounting a heroic tale, the Mahabharata contains a collection of writings on a broad spectrum of human learning, including ethics, law, philosophy, history, geography, genealogy, and religion. It also features a number of legends, moral stories, and local tales, all woven into the elaborate narrative. In the rest of the world, the poem is largely recognized for several of these exotic tales and for the Bhagavad Gita, which encapsulates many of the basic tenets of Hinduism. In India, the Mahabharata is considered one of the finest
3 5 4
M a h a b h a r a t a
works on Hindu culture, and it is widely read and studied. In addition, it is viewed as the nation’s most valued classical work of literature and continues to provide inspiration to new generations of Indian writers and artists. The encyclopedic inclusiveness and cultural importance of the Mahabharata cannot be overstated. A modern, highly praised translation by Kenneth Anderson appeared in 1999.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Scholars tend to agree that the Mahabharata was not written by a single individual. The belief is multiple authors compiled it over the course of several centuries. According to mythic tradition, however, the rishi (sage) Vyasa, who is also a character in the Mahabharata, wrote the work. In Sanskrit, the name Vyasa means collector, compiler, or arranger. Thus, Vyasa likely represents the countless individuals who put together the various tales, stories, histories, legends, and treatises that are known collectively as the Mahabharata. A legendary figure occupying a prominent position in ancient Sanskrit literature, Vyasa is said to have composed the eighteen puranas, or ancient tales, and to have written the four Vedas, the sacred texts of the Hindu religion. Also according to myth, he is supposed to have written more than three million stanzas of the epic poem, the majority of which were for the entertainment and enlightenment of the gods, while only one hundred thousand of the stanzas were to be repeated among human beings as the Mahabharata. The legend of Vyasa’s creation of the poem explains that the great seer Vyasa wanted to write down the story of his people, the Bharata (an ancient Aryan tribe whose name became synonymous with India). While meditating on how he would give the work to his disciples, the elephant-headed god of writers, Ganesha, appeared. The deity offered to write down Vyasa’s story on the one condition that the wise man never stop telling his tale. If he did, the god would disappear, never to return. Vyasa weighed Ganesha’s proposal and agreed to it, providing that he could stop if ever Ganesha failed to understand something he had said. The agreement was made, and thus, so the legend goes, the Mahabharata is filled with many digressions and complexities because of Vyasa’s need to confuse and bewilder his scribe.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
PLOT SUMMARY Adi-Parva, First Book: The Origins of the Families The story opens as Sauti, a storyteller returning from the snake sacrifice of King Janamejaya, approaches several wise men, or rishis, in the forest of Naimisha. He relates to them the Mahabharata as he has heard it from Vaisampayana, a disciple of the poet Vyasa. Sauti begins by recounting the death of King Parikshit of the Bharatas at the hands of Takshaka, a Naga, or snake-man. King Janamejaya, Parikshit’s son and successor, had held the snake sacrifice in order to avenge the death of his father, but the ceremony was stopped by the intervention of the learned Naga, Astika. Sauti then recounts the origins of the Bharatas (also known as the Kurus), a race descended from King Bharata of Kurujangala. Sauti quotes the story as told by Vaisampayana at the sacrifice. Vaisampayana describes the origins of Santanu, a descendent of Bharata loved by Ganga, the goddess of the Ganges. She and King Santanu have a child called Bhishma. Later Santanu falls in love with Satyavati, a beautiful woman born from a fish. Long ago Satyavati had given birth to the poet Vyasa, but now she agrees to marry Santanu on the condition that her future son by Santanu becomes king. Santanu tells his son Bhishma of this wish, and Bhishma forsakes his right to the throne. The two then marry, and Satyavati bears two sons, Chitrangada and Vichitravirya. Chitrangada, the elder, becomes king after Santanu retires to the forest. But the new king is killed in battle before he can produce an heir, and the young Vichitravirya takes his place. Bhishma, in an attempt to continue the royal line, abducts three princesses from a neighboring kingdom. Two of them, Ambika and Ambalika, agree to marry Vichitravirya, while the third, Amba, departs to be with her true love. But the young king dies of consumption before siring any children, so Bhishma asks his half-brother Vyasa to father children by Vichitravirya’s wives. When Vyasa approaches Ambika she closes her eyes, and thus her son Dhritarashtra is born blind. When her sister Ambalika sees Vyasa, she turns pale with fright, and her son, Pandu (meaning pale), is born with very light skin. Although Dhritarashtra is older, Bhishma makes Pandu king because his brother cannot see. Pandu
V o l u m e
1
3 5 5
M a h a b h a r a t a
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS The Mahabharata was adapted as a full-length ` and prestage play by Jean-Claude Carriere miered in Avignon, France, in 1985. Peter ` Brook’s English translation of Carriere’s play toured in 1987 and 1988 with an international cast. Brook later directed a five-hour film version of the Mahabharata, televised worldwide in 1989 and subsequently available on DVD. An unabridged audio version of the Mahabharata, narrated by Richard Aspel, was released by Bolinda in 2008, in MP3 format.
marries Princess Kunti, who chooses him at her svayamvara, the ceremony of self-choice. Pandu also takes a second wife, Madri. He reigns as king of Kurujangala, living in the city of Hastinapura for several years, and he then retires to the Himalayas with Kunti and Madri. One day while out hunting, Pandu shoots a deer that curses him, foretelling that he will die while making love to one of his wives. The formerly sexually insatiable Pandu avoids sexual contact with his wives and encourages them to bear him sons from unions with the gods. His wife Kunti summons Dharma, the god of justice, who fathers Yudhishthira. Then she gives birth to Bhima by Vayu, the god of the wind, and Arjuna by Indra, the king of the gods. Madri also uses Kunti’s mantra, evoking the gods called the Aswins, who give her twin sons, Nakula and Sahadeva. Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra has become king and marries Gandhari, who chooses to live with her eyes blindfolded when she learns that her husband is blind. As Vyasa had prophesied, Gandhari gives birth to one hundred sons and one daughter—all of whom come from a single ball of flesh that lies in her womb for two years. Called the Kauravas, the eldest son is Duryodhana, the second boy is Duhsasana, while the sole daughter is called Duhsala. Several years later, Pandu gives in to desire and embraces Madri. He dies instantly, according to the prophecy, as does Madri, from fear.
3 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
Pandu’s sons, known as the five Pandavas, return with Pandu’s widow Kunti to Hastinapura. They are welcomed by King Dhritarashtra and raised with his own sons. All are instructed in the military arts by the tutors Kripa and Drona, as is Drona’s son Aswatthaman. The Bharata princes excel at warfare, but Drona’s star pupil is Arjuna. Adept with a bow, Arjuna has unparalleled skills, until one day an even greater warrior arrives. This is Karna. The son of Kunti and Surya (the sun god), Karna was born with golden armor attached to his skin. But Kunti, young and unmarried, set her son adrift on a river to be found and raised by suitable parents. He was adopted by Adhiratha, a charioteer. The Pandavas do not realize that Karna is their brother, and the armored warrior bests them all in martial feats. Kripa, however, questions Karna’s presence, noting that he is not a prince. Duryodhana is impressed with Karna, and more importantly, he has been looking for a warrior who could defeat Arjuna. Duryodhana and Karna become friends, but according to traditions of obligation, Karna is indebted to Duryodhana for his kingship and hence owes the prince a great favor. Led into battle by Drona, the Pandavas attack the nearby kingdom ruled by Drupada, and Drona seizes one half of the king’s lands. The Pandavas return to Hastinapura, and Yudhishthira becomes heir to the throne of Kurujangala. Jealous and fearing the loss of his future throne, Duryodhana hatches a plot to destroy the five and acquire the kingdom for himself. While his cousins and Kunti are visiting the town of Varanavata, they are to stay in a special house constructed by one of Duryodhana’s henchmen, which he plans to have burned. Before the Pandavas leave, however, Vidura warns Yudhishthira of the planned trap. Bhima plans an escape route by digging a tunnel under the house through which they escape. Kunti and the five Pandavas are thought to have perished in the flames; however, they actually flee into the forest. While traveling in the wilderness, Bhima happens upon Hidimba-asur, the beautiful sister of a Rakshasa, or forest-demon, called Hidimba. Bhima falls in love with her and kills her brother as the fiend is about to kill the Pandavas and Kunti. Hidimba bears Bhima a son, Ghatotkacha, meaning the pot-headed. The five brothers, disguised as Brahmans (religious men), and their mother continue to wander through the forest.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Bhima slays another Rakshasa, Vaka, saving the people in the village of Ekachakra. Hearing of the upcoming svayamvara (bridegroom choice ceremony) of King Drupada’s daughter, Draupadi, the Pandavas set out for his kingdom. Arjuna, still in disguise, succeeds in the king’s test of skill with a bow and wins the beautiful Draupadi as his wife. Fulfilling a prophecy, Draupadi marries not just Arjun but all five of the brothers. Dhritarashtra hears the Pandavas are alive and consults his advisors. Bhishma, Drona, and Vidura suggest that the kingdom be divided. Yudhishthira becomes king and the Pandavas construct the splendid city of Indraprastha. Yudhishthira’s rule at Indraprastha is peaceful for more than a decade. Meanwhile Arjuna leaves his brother’s kingdom for twelve years. He visits the wise and mighty Krishna in the city of Dwaraka. There he falls in love with Subhadra, Krishna’s sister, and embarks on several adventures.
Sabha-Parva, ‘‘Assembly Book’’: The Game of Dice Back in Hastinapura, Duryodhana is still jealous of five Pandavas and their growing power and wealth. He consults his uncle, Sakuni, asking him how he might defeat the Pandavas. Sakuni points out that Yudhishthira has a weakness for gambling and, if challenged to play at dice, will not decline. Duryodhana invites the Pandavas to Hastinapura and offers the challenge, which Yudhishthira accepts, playing against the cunning Sakuni in place of Duryodhana. But Sakuni cheats at the game, and soon the Kauravas win Yudhishthira’s wealth and kingdom, and also his four brothers, their wife Draupadi, and Yudhishthira himself. The Kauravas have Draupadi brought before them. She is in traditional monthly seclusion, so it is especially offensive that her privacy is thus violated. Compounding the insult to her honor, Duhsasana humiliates her and attempts to strip off her clothing. Bhima, enraged by this treatment of his wife, vows that he will kill Duhsasana and drink his blood. King Dhritarashtra rebukes his sons for their behavior and offers to grant Draupadi any wish to make up for the wrong done to her. She asks that Yudhishthira and his brothers, whose freedom has been forfeited in the dice game, be set free. The king complies. As the Pandavas and their wife turn to leave, the Kauravas, hoping to thwart their future vengeance, suggest a final gambling match. The losers of this final throw of the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
dice must spend twelve years in forest exile and a thirteenth year living in disguise in a foreign kingdom. The Pandavas agree, but Sakuni cheats again and they lose.
Vana-Parva, ‘‘Forest Book’’: Exile in the Forest The five Pandavas—Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva—and their wife Draupadi, depart for the Kamyaka forest. While there, under the advice of Vyasa, Arjuna leaves the others and goes in search of weapons to aid them when they return and seek to avenge themselves against the Kauravas. He encounters Shiva, god of destruction, who gives him a weapon called Pasupata. Later, Arjuna’s father, Indra, appears and takes his son up to heaven. There Arjuna meets a heavenly dancer, or Apsara, named Urvasi. Because Arjuna resists her amorous advances, she curses him so that he must spend one year of his life as a eunuch. Back in the forest, Yudhishthira meets the rishi Vrihadaswa. The seer relates the story of Nala and Damayanti to comfort the griefstricken king. Soon Arjuna returns from Indra’s heaven. He recounts his adventures to his brothers and Draupadi. Meanwhile, Duryodhana and Sakuni plan an expedition to the forest, hoping to taunt their exiled cousins. While there, the Kauravas engage the army of the Chitraratha, king of the Gandharvas, who imprisons them. Arjuna, armed with magical weapons, arrives and frees his cousin. Duryodhana, shamed by this turn of events, seeks to starve himself in the forest instead of returning, humiliated, to Hastinapura. Rebuking his hastiness, however, his brother Duhsasana dissuades him. Later, Jayadratha, king of Sindhu sees Draupadi in the forest and instantly falls in love with her. He abducts her while the Pandavas are away hunting. When they return, the brothers track down Draupadi and Jayadratha. Yudhishthira decides to spare the life of the unscrupulous king and lets him go. Soon another rishi, called Markandeya appears. He relates the tale of the princess Savitri to the Pandavas. Elsewhere, Indra endeavors to win Karna’s armor from him. Though warned by his father of this plot, Karna allows Indra, disguised as a Brahman, to remove his natural protection. In exchange he asks that the god give him a powerful dart. Guaranteed to kill any enemy, the weapon may be used only once. Back in the forest, Nakula happens
V o l u m e
1
3 5 7
M a h a b h a r a t a
upon a magical lake. Though forbidden to drink the water by an unseen voice, he disobeys and falls dead. Sahadeva, Arjuna, and Bhima follow and do the same; all are killed. Lastly, Yudhishthira walks to the lake. Seeing the dead bodies of his brothers, he hears the same warning. Then the voice asks him to answer its questions. Yudhishthira does this satisfactorily, and the voice reveals itself to be his father, Dharma. The god of justice, finding Yudhishthira truly worthy, then brings his brothers back to life.
Virata-Parva, ‘‘Book of Virata’’: The Thirteenth Year of Exile During their final year of exile, the Pandavas travel to the city of Matsya in the kingdom of King Virata. Each takes a disguise. Yudhishthira becomes Kanka, a Brahman and dice-player. Bhima takes the name of Vallabha, claiming to be a cook formerly in the service of King Yudhishthira. Draupadi assumes the identity of Sairindhri, a serving-maid in the employment of Virata’s queen. Sahadeva calls himself Tantripala, a cowherd and talented astrologer. Nakula disguises himself as Granthika, a horse-keeper. Arjuna invokes Urvasi’s curse, becoming the eunuch Vrihannala, the singing and dancing instructor of Virata’s daughter. One day toward the end of the last year of exile, Kichaka, Virata’s general, happens to see Draupadi. Enthralled by her beauty, he desires her as his wife. Draupadi refuses, but Kichaka will not yield. She asks for Bhima’s aid, and he kills the general, crushing him to death. Back in Hastinapura, Duryodhana hears of Kichaka’s demise and launches an invasion against Virata’s kingdom. Arjuna, with the assistance of Virata’s son, Uttara, as his charioteer and armed with his magical Gandiva bow, defeats the attacking Kauravas. Soon after, at the end of the thirteenth year, the Pandavas disclose their true identities. King Virata offers his daughter to Arjuna in marriage. Arjuna accepts the princess as a fitting wife for his son, Abhimanyu.
Udyoga-Parva, ‘‘Effort Book’’: The Preparations for War Eager for the return to his kingdom, Yudhishthira asks Krishna to travel to Hastinapura and secure Indraprastha from the Kauravas. Overriding the opinions of Dhritarashtra’s other advisors, Duryodhana refuses to give away half of Kurujangala, and war soon appears inevitable. Arjuna and Duryodhana both travel to
3 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
Dwaraka to seek Krishna’s aid in the upcoming hostilities. Krishna offers a choice, himself—as an advisor, not a warrior—or ten thousand of his Yadava troops. Arjuna selects Krishna, while Duryodhana is pleased with the soldiers, despite the fact that he was not allowed to choose first. Both princes depart, and back in Kurujangala further preparations for battle are made. At a grand assembly, Krishna, the avatar or physical manifestation of the mighty god Vishnu, reveals his divine form. Undaunted, the Kauravas continue to marshal their forces for war. Bhishma, forced to lead their army as a general, reveals that he will not fight against Sikhandin, a warrior of the Pandava forces. According to legend, Sikhandin’s soul was reincarnated from the princess Amba, who is fated to be the cause of Bhishma’s destruction.
Bhishma Parva, ‘‘Book of Bhishma’’: The Battle under Bhishma’s Command In order that he might relate the events of the battle to Dhritarashtra, Vyasa grants Sanjaya the power of heavenly sight, allowing him to see all things. On the first day, the armies gather on the vast Kurukshetra plain. Arjuna, viewing the assembled warriors, including his cousins, uncles, and grandfather, hesitates, unwilling to fight his kin. To dismiss his fears Krishna sings the Bhagavad Gita, or Song of the Lord. In it, Krishna assures Arjuna that all souls are immortal and that death is only a temporary state between incarnations. Strengthened by these words, Arjuna prepares to engage his foes. Before the conflict, however, Yudhishthira removes his armor and puts down his weapons. He moves toward Bhishma and asks his permission to fight. Yudhishthira does the same to Drona, Kripa, and Salya. For nine days the Kauravas and Pandavas wage war. Each day both forces align themselves in different formations and clash; many die in the carnage. Each night the warriors retire to their camps, while Rakshasas and ghouls feast on the decaying bodies of the slain. In the evening of the ninth day of battle, the five Pandavas and Krishna travel to Bhishma’s tent and ask him how he will die. They learn that he will not fight the warrior who was once a woman, Sikhandin. The following day Sikhandin, with the help of Arjuna, shoots Bhishma with his arrows. Soon, the general is pierced by Pandava arrows. Bhishma remains alive, however, and waits for the appropriate time of his death.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Drona Parva, ‘‘Book of Drona’’: Drona’s Command and Death Drona accepts Duryodhana’s invitation to become the new general of the Kaurava army and vows to take Yudhishthira alive, thereby ending the war. In order to accomplish this goal, Arjuna must be lured away from his eldest brother, a task to be undertaken by Susarman and the five brothers of Trigarta. On the day of battle, Arjuna defeats the warriors from Trigarta and thwarts Drona’s plan. Elsewhere Arjuna’s son, Abhimanyu, cut off from the main Pandava force by King Jayadratha, is slain by Duhsasana. That night Arjuna vows his revenge on Jayadratha. This he does the following day—despite the intervention of Karna—and Jayadratha dies. The battle continues into the night as Bhima’s demon son, Ghatotkacha, draws his power from the darkness and fights for the Pandavas. But Karna intercedes, ending Ghatotkacha’s destruction of the Kaurava forces by slaying him with his magical dart. On the twelfth day of battle, Krishna devises a ploy to eliminate Drona. Bhima kills an elephant called Aswatthaman—the same name as Drona’s son—and cries, ‘‘Aswatthaman is dead.’’ Drona asks the usually honest Yudhishthira if this is true. The Pandava prince carries on with the lie in order to win the war. Overcome with despair, Drona ceases to fight. Dhrishtadyumna, seeing he is undefended, ends Drona’s life, but Aswatthaman, still alive, is hungry for revenge. He uses the weapon of Narayana, which will kill all of those who do not immediately drop their weapons and turn their thoughts from war. Before the Pandavas are killed, the wise Krishna informs them of this defense and the warriors survive, preventing Aswatthaman’s vengeance.
Karna Parva, ‘‘Book of Karna’’: Karna’s Command and Death Following the death of Drona, Karna takes command of the Kaurava army. During that day of battle, Duhsasana attacks Bhima. Initially wounding him, Bhima retaliates by hurling his mace at the attacker. The Pandava prince then tears open Duhsasana’s chest and drinks his blood—as he swore he would—thereby avenging the humiliation of Draupadi. Later, Karna and Arjuna fight. When Karna’s chariot wheel sinks into the earth, he calls to Arjuna to stay his arrows until he might raise it. He claims that to kill him in such an undefended position
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
would be cowardly. Arjuna refuses to listen and beheads the mighty warrior.
Salya Parva, ‘‘Book of Salya’’: The Defeat of Salya and Duryodhana With Karna gone, Salya takes command of Duryodhana’s army. Bhima first engages the king of the Madras, but the conflict ends in a stalemate. Then Yudhishthira, usually mild rather than savage, pursues Salya. Flanked by his brothers, Nakula and Sahadeva, the eldest Pandava kills Salya and defeats his warriors. Duryodhana, seeing virtually his entire army destroyed, flees into the forest and seeks refuge at the bottom of a lake. Turning the water solid by means of a magical spell, Duryodhana stays hidden until the three remaining Kaurava warriors, Kripa, Aswatthaman, and Kritavarman arrive. They urge Duryodhana to defeat Yudhishthira or die in battle. Some nearby hunters hear this conversation and inform the Pandavas of their cousin’s whereabouts. Yudhishthira then arrives at the lake and challenges Duryodhana to fight any of the five Pandavas with the weapon of his choice. If he wins he will be king. According to his choice, Duryodhana and Bhima battle with maces. The conflict continues, and Bhima realizes that to win he must fight a deceiver with deception. He breaks Duryodhana’s thighs with his mace, outraging Balarama as he watches the match. Krishna’s brother calls Bhima an unfair fighter for attacking below the waist and leaves for Dwaraka. Still, Bhima is victorious, though Duryodhana upbraids him for his treachery. Later the eldest son of Dhritarashtra sends a message, making Aswatthaman his new general.
Sauptika-Parva, ‘‘Sleeping Book’’: The Destruction of the Pandava Army at Night Aswatthaman, with the aid of a weapon from Shiva, enters the Pandava camp and slays Dhrishtadyumna, Sikhandin, and the rest of the Pandava force in their sleep. Only the seven Pandavas not at the camp—the five brothers, Krishna, and Satyaki—survive the slaughter. When the seven catch up to Aswatthaman, he attempts to use the Brahmasira weapon, an implement of war so powerful that it is capable of destroying the entire world. Arjuna counteracts it with his own Brahma weapon, then withdraws it. But Aswatthaman, unable to stop his attack, only redirects it toward the womb of
V o l u m e
1
3 5 9
M a h a b h a r a t a
Abhimanyu’s wife, Uttarah, killing her unborn child. Krishna, however, restores the baby’s life.
Stri-Parva, ‘‘Eleventh Book’’: The Lament of the Wives The widows of the Kaurava and Pandava warriors, along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, visit the battlefield to mourn and count the dead. Meanwhile, Yuyutsu and Sanjaya build pyres and perform funeral rites.
Shanti Parva, ‘‘Book of Consolation’’: Bhishma’s Discourse A grieving Yudhishthira speaks to Bhishma, who tells him the ways of kings, the origins of all things, and the duties of humankind.
Anusasana Parva, ‘‘Book of Precepts’’: The End of Bhishma’s Discourse and His Death Bhishma continues to tell Yudhishthira of the duties of kings, of the gods, and of the nature of life in this world. He then bids his friends goodbye and his soul ascends to heaven.
Aswamedha-Parva, ‘‘Fourteenth Book’’: Yudhishthira’s Horse Sacrifice Yudhishthira sacrifices a horse in order to purify the sins of the combatants in this war.
Asramavasika-Parva, ‘‘Hermitage Book’’: Dhritarashtra’s Retirement Dhritarashtra officially grants the kingdom of Kurujangala to Yudhishthira and departs for the forest, accompanied by Gandhari and Kunti. Vyasa and the Pandavas travel to their hermitage, and the rishi raises the souls of all the fallen warriors from the Ganges so that the dead might visit the living for one night. Several years after the visit, the Pandavas hear news that Dhritarashtra and the two queens have been killed in a great forest fire.
Mausala-Parva, ‘‘Book of the Clubs’’: The Death of Krishna and the Yadavas Thirty-six years after the end of the great battle, evil portents prophesy the destruction of Dwaraka— Krishna’s city—in a mighty flood. Another curse tells of Krishna, incensed by an argument, picking up a handful of grass, which then became a club, and killing all of his people, the Yadavas. When Arjuna arrives to investigate, he finds that these stories are true and that Balarama and Krishna have died. Arjuna’s former companion, Krishna,
3 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
lies slain by an arrow that pierced his foot—the only vulnerable portion of his body—when a hunter mistook him for a deer.
Mahaprasthanika-Parva, ‘‘The Book of the Great Journey’’: The Five Pandavas Ascend Mount Meru Hearing of the Yadava’s destruction, Yudhishthira forsakes his throne and makes Parikshit, Arjuna’s grandson, king. Yudhishthira, his four brothers, Draupadi, and his dog walk north on their way to Mount Meru, the entranceway to Indra’s heaven. First Draupadi, then Sahadeva, then Nakula, then Arjuna, and finally Bhima, all fall dead. Indra appears in his chariot to escort Yudhishthira to heaven but demands that he leave his dog behind. Yudhishthira refuses to abandon the devoted animal. Instantly the dog transforms into Dharma, god of righteousness, praises his son, and the former king ascends to heaven.
Swargarohana-Parva, ‘‘Book of the Ascent to Heaven’’: The Five Brothers and Draupadi Arrive in Heaven Yudhishthira finds Duryodhana in heaven. He is there because he obeyed the dharma of the warrior and died on the battlefield. Yudhishthira asks to see his brothers and wife and is informed that they are in hell, serving penance for their sins. Soon cleansed, they join Yudhishthira. At this point Janamejaya’s ceremony of the snake sacrifice ends, thus closing Vaisampayana’s narrative. Soon after, Sauti finishes his retelling of the Mahabharata.
CHARACTERS Abhimanyu Arjuna’s son by Subhadra, Abhimanyu is killed in the great war by Duhsasana after his chariot is cut off from the main Pandava force by King Jayadratha. He fathers one son, Parikshit, by his wife Uttarah.
Adhiratha A charioteer from the kingdom of Anga, Adhiratha adopts and raises Karna after finding him floating in the Ganges.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Amba
Balarama
The eldest princess of Banaras, Amba is abducted by Bhishma along with her sisters Ambika and Ambalika to serve as wives for Vichitravirya. She refuses, and instead flees west to be with her true love, the king of Salwa. She later throws herself into a flaming pyre in order to be reincarnated as Sikhandin.
Krishna’s brother, Balarama teaches the art of mace warfare to both Bhima and Duryodhana.
Ambalika
Bhima
The second of Vichitravirya’s wives, Ambalika is impregnated by the poet Vyasa. Frightened by Vyasa’s appearance, she turns pale and gives birth to a pale-skinned son, whom she names Pandu, meaning ‘‘white,’’ ‘‘pale,’’ or ‘‘pale yellow.’’
Son of Kunti by Vayu and one of the five Pandava princes, Bhima possesses incredible strength. He is a rash, impulsive warrior who often fights with a huge mace and causes much carnage.
Bharata A legendary king called Chakravarti, or ‘‘Universal Emperor,’’ Bharata gives his name to the people who are the subject of the Mahabharata.
Bhishma Ambika Though married to Vichitravirya, Ambika’s son Dhritarashtra is fathered by the poet Vyasa. She reacts to Vyasa’s frightful appearance by closing her eyes, and her son Dhritarashtra is born blind.
Although Bhishma fathers no children of his own, he is more than any other figure in the Mahabharata the patriarch of the Bharata people. His name means ‘‘awe-inspiring,’’ and this son of Santanu and the goddess Ganga is an emblem of the wise warrior.
Chitrangada
Arjuna Son of Kunti by the god Indra, Arjuna is, next to Karna, the greatest warrior in the poem and one of the five heroes of the Mahabharata. Trained by the military expert Drona from a young age, this Pandava prince is skilled in archery, able to string and release quickly dozens of arrows with deadly accuracy. A gallant warrior, Arjuna is called Viyaya, or ‘‘victor,’’ and Dhanamjaya, or ‘‘winner of wealth.’’ Although an unconquerable fighter at the start of the great battle, Arjuna doubts himself and loses his resolve to fight when he sees his kinsmen lined up against him. His courage is restored by Krishna, who sings to him the Bhagavad Gita.
Santanu’s eldest son by Satyavati, Chitrangada dies in battle before marrying or producing a son.
Chitraratha Chitraratha is king of the Gandharvas, powerful supernatural creatures who are the heavenly musicians.
Chitrasena See Chitraratha
Danvir-Karna See Karna
Dharma
The learned son of a Naga and a hermit, Astika asks King Janamejaya to stop the snake sacrifice on behalf of his people.
God of justice, truth, and righteousness, Dharma fathers Yudhishthira and tests his son’s worthiness on several occasions in the Mahabharata. Dharma disguises his identity while on earth, taking the form of a crane or a dog.
Aswatthaman
Dhrishtadyumna
Son of Drona, Aswatthaman is a mighty warrior who fights with the Kaurava army. He employs magical weapons capable of killing the entire Pandava army.
Dhrishtadyumna is the son of King Drupada, brother of Draupadi, and the general of the Pandava army. Dhrishtadyumna fights valiantly in the great war, but shamefully slays Drona while his opponent kneels, unarmed.
Astika
The Aswins Twin gods known as ‘‘the harbingers of dawn,’’ the Aswins father Nakula and Sahadeva by Madri, Pandu’s second wife.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Dhritarashtra King of Kurujangala for most of the Mahabharata, Dhritarashtra, whose name means ‘‘he who
V o l u m e
1
3 6 1
M a h a b h a r a t a
supports the kingdom,’’ is the eldest grandson of Santanu. Blind from birth, he ascends to the throne after the abdication of his younger brother Pandu. He marries Gandhari, who bears him one hundred sons, the Kauravas, who are the antagonists of the poem and represent the forces of evil and chaos.
Draupadi Daughter of King Drupada of Panchala, Draupadi marries all five of the Pandava princes. Draupadi is brave, pure, noble, and beautiful. Her strength of character is equal to that of her five husbands and from her comes the most resolute feminine perspective in the Mahabharata.
Drona A Brahman and military man, Drona teaches the Bharata princes the art of warfare. His star pupil is Arjuna, whom he teaches—along with his own son, Aswatthaman—the most deadly techniques of war.
Drupada Drupada is king of Panchala and the father of Draupadi.
Duhsala Duhsala is the sole daughter of Dhritarashtra and Gandhari.
Ganesha Son of the gods Shiva and Devi, Ganesha is the elephant-headed god of writers and merchants. He appears, summoned by the great god Brahma, to record Vyasa’s poem, the Mahabharata.
Ganga Known as the goddess of the river, Ganga is the divine manifestation of the Ganges, the mother of Bhishma by Santanu.
Ghatotkacha Ghatotkacha is a powerful demon born to Bhima and Hidimba. He takes part in the great war on the side of the Pandavas.
Hanuman Endowed with incredible strength, Hanuman is a magical monkey who plays a significant part in the epic poem, the Ramayana He also appears briefly in the Mahabharata: Bhima encounters Hanuman on his travels through the Kamyaka forest. Hanuman imparts some of his vast wisdom to the Pandava prince.
Hidimba Hidimba is a Rakshasa, or forest demon.
Hidimba-asur
Duhsasana The second son of Dhritarashtra, Duhsasana forcefully attempts to publicly disrobe Draupadi after she is lost to the Kauravas in a game of dice. Bhima vows to avenge his insult to Draupadi by drinking his blood.
Duryodhana Eldest son of Dhritarashtra, Prince Duryodhana plays the role of chief antagonist in the Mahabharata. A wicked, powerful man, Duryodhana often scorns good advice. He is ambitious and lusts for power, leading to his absolute refusal to split the kingdom of Kurujangala with his cousin Yudhishthira and prompting the great war that is the subject of the poem.
Gandhari Queen and wife of Dhritarashtra, Gandhari is the former princess of Gandhara. When she learns that her future husband is blind, she blindfolds herself and never removes the veil from her eyes.
3 6 2
She is the mother of one hundred sons, the Kauravas, the antagonists of the Pandavas.
E p i c s
f o r
Hidimba-asur is a Rakshasa, or forest demon. She and her brothers ambush the five Pandavas and their wife Draupadi. Eventually she and Bhima fall in love and have a son, Ghatotkacha.
Indra The king of the gods and of thunder and rain, Indra rules in heaven. He fathers the hero Arjuna. Indra transports Arjuna to heaven for twelve years and advises him on a variety of matters.
Janamejaya Great-grandson of Arjuna, King Janamejaya rules Kurujangala as the story opens. In order to avenge the death of his father, Parikshit, at the hands of a Naga (snake-man), Janamejaya holds a snake sacrifice, during which the Mahabharata is recited by Vaisampayana.
Jayadratha The king of Sindhu, Jayadratha carries off Draupadi while the five Pandavas are away hunting in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
the Kamyaka forest. Bold and resourceful, Jayadratha is a troublesome foe of the Pandavas. He is motivated by a desire for personal gain, rather than hatred or vengeance.
Kritavarman A Yadava warrior, Kritavarman fights for the Kauravas under Krishna’s orders. He is one of the three surviving members of the defeated Kaurava army.
Kali Kali is the god of misfortune. In the famous tale of King Nala, Kali inhabits Nala’s body in an attempt to thwart the king’s love for Damayanti and gain the beautiful princess for himself.
Karna Karna, ‘‘the archer-king,’’ is son of Surya, god of the sun, and Kunti. A magnificent warrior, Karna is born with natural armor attached to his skin, making him nearly invincible in battle.
Kunti Kunti is the first wife of King Pandu. She has a powerful mantra that allows her to summon any god to sire a son with her. Prior to her marriage with Pandu, she tests the spell by calling Surya, god of the sun, who impregnates her with her son Karna. She calls down the gods Dharma, Vayu, and Indra. Each of them fathers a son with her. These three—Yudhishthira, Bhima, and Arjuna— are the heroes of the Mahabharata.
Kuru
Kichaka Virata’s general, Kichaka sees Draupadi disguised as a serving maid and attempts to win her for his wife. Kichaka faces Bhima and is killed for his presumptuousness. His death prompts Duryodhana to launch an invasion of Virata’s kingdom.
Kripa Found on a doorstep as a child by a Kuru soldier, Kripa rises to a position of respect in the court of Dhritarashtra. He serves as war tutor of the Bharata princes and advisor to the king.
Kripacharya
A legendary king, Kuru gives his name to the Bharata people.
Madri Second wife of Pandu and daughter of the king of Madras, Madri uses Kunti’s mantra to summon the fleet-footed gods, the Aswins. From them she bears the fourth and fifth Pandava brothers, the twins Nakula and Sahadeva.
Markandeya A sage, or rishi, Markandeya recites the tale of ‘‘Savitri’’ to comfort Yudhishthira after the abduction of Draupadi by King Jayadratha.
See Kripa
Nakula Kripi Kripa’s twin sister, Kripi was found as a child with her brother by a Kuru soldier. She later marries Drona.
Krishna The earthly manifestation of the Hindu god Vishnu (the Preserver), Krishna is chief of the Yadavas, a race hailing from the ancient city of Dwaraka in western India. A physical incarnation, or avatar, of the god in mortal form, Krishna is the binding force and spiritual center of the Mahabharata. Though mortal in the poem, he is able to reveal his divine form to those around him. During the great war, he refuses to fight on either side. He becomes Arjuna’s charioteer and advises him. He sings the Bhagavad Gita to Arjuna to dispel his doubts about the war.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Nakula is the twin brother of Sahadeva. The twins are the sons of Pandu’s second wife Madri by the Aswins, gods called the ‘‘harbingers of dawn.’’ A mighty warrior, fleet of foot, Nakula accompanies his brothers throughout the Mahabharata.
Nala King Nala is the protagonist of ‘‘Nala and Damayanti,’’ a tale told to Yudhishthira by Vrihadaswa. This tale parallels that of Yudhishthira’s situation, and its happy ending foreshadows the similar resolution of the epic plot.
Pandu Grandson of Santanu and primogenitor in name of the Pandavas, Pandu is crowned king of Kurujangala because his elder brother, Dhritarashtra, was born blind. He is regarded as the father of Arjuna, Yudhishthira, Bhima, Nakula,
V o l u m e
1
3 6 3
M a h a b h a r a t a
and Sahadeva, all of whom are born from unions between his wives and various gods.
Parikshit Son of Abhimanyu and Uttarah, and grandson of Arjuna, Parikshit succeeds Yudhishthira as king of Kurujangala following the former’s abdication and departure for the holy Mount Meru.
Parikshita See Parikshit
Sauti The name Sauti means ‘‘bard’’ or ‘‘storyteller.’’ Sauti quotes Vaisampayana’s recitation of the Mahabharata to a group of sages, or rishis, at the opening of the poem.
Savitri Savitri is the main character of a tale of the same name recounted by Markandeya to Yudhishthira about a wife who saves her husband from death.
Shakuni Sahadeva
See Sakuni
Sahadeva is the twin brother of Nakula. The twins are the sons of Pandu’s second wife Madri by the Aswins.
Shiva
Sakuni Uncle of the Kaurava princes, Sakuni cheats at dice to help them win Yudhishthira’s kingdom of Indraprastha. A sly and evil figure, Sakuni serves as a contrast to such men as Kripa and Vidura, who represent wisdom, restraint, and forthrightness.
Salya King of the Madras, Salya fights with the Kauravas and leads their army after Karna’s death.
Called ‘‘the Destroyer,’’ Shiva is a deity equal in importance to Vishnu, the Preserver, and Brahma, the Creator. In the course of the Mahabharata, Shiva provides a powerful weapon to Arjuna for his use in the war against the Kauravas.
Sikhandin A warrior in the Pandava army, Sikhandin is responsible for Bhishma’s death in battle. His soul was reincarnated from that of the princess Amba and Sikhandin was originally born a woman.
Subhadra Sanjaya Dhritarashtra’s charioteer, Sanjaya reports the events of the great war to his king after Vyasa blesses him with heavenly sight and magical protection in battle.
Santanu King of Kurujangala, Santanu is grandfather of Dhritarashtra and Pandu. The patriarch of the Bharatas, he falls in love with Ganga and then Satyavati, producing sons by both, though of them only Bhishma takes part in the main action of the poem.
Satyaki A Yadava who fights for the Pandavas, Satyaki is one of seven warriors from the Pandava army—the others being the five brothers and Krishna—to survive the great battle.
Krishna’s sister, Subhadra marries Arjuna and bears him a son Abhimanyu.
Surya God of the sun, Surya fathers Karna and warns his son that Indra will ask for his natural armor. In exchange, the sun god tells him that he must demand a mighty weapon of war, which Karna does.
Susarman King of Trigarta (Land of Three Castles), Susarman leads an attack on Arjuna to lure him away from Yudhishthira during the great war.
Takshaka Prince of the Nagas, a race of snake-men, Takshaka kills King Parikshit to avenge the murder of an innocent Naga.
Urvasi Satyavati Wife of Santanu, Satyavati gave birth to the poet Vyasa, the ostensible author of the Mahabharata.
3 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
A beautiful heavenly dancer called an Apsara, Urvasi curses Arjuna to living for one year as a eunuch after he rejects her offers of love.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Uttara
Yama
King Virata’s son, Uttara—along with Arjuna— repels Duryodhana’s invasion of Matsya. Later, Uttara and Virata’s forces fight for the Pandavas in the great war.
The god of the dead, Yama appears in Markandeya’s tale of Savitri.
Uttarah King Virata’s daughter, Uttarah marries Abhimanyu and gives birth to Parikshit.
Vaisampayana Sage and disciple of Vyasa, Vaisampayana recites the Mahabharata at the snake sacrifice of King Janamejaya.
Vaka The Rakshasa called Vaka terrorizes the town of Ekachakra by eating a cartload of food and one human sacrifice each year until Bhima slays the demon.
Yudhishthira Son of Pandu’s first wife Kunti by Dharma (the god of justice), Yudhishthira is the oldest of the five Pandava brother and destined to be king of Kurujangala. He is the foremost example of the Hindu warrior who follows the precepts of dharma, or sacred duty.
Yuyutsu Son of Dhritarashtra and a slave girl, Yuyutsu defects from the Kaurava to the Pandava army moments before the great battle begins.
THEMES
Vayu
Dharma: Responsibility and Sacred Duty
God of the wind, Vayu fathers the mighty Pandava prince Bhima.
Despite its size and complexity, the Mahabharata explores one over-arching theme: the observance of one’s sacred duty, called dharma. All other topics in the work relate to the question of whether dharma is obeyed or ignored. The characters that satisfy the dictates of dharma are eventually rewarded, whereas those who consciously refuse to obey their dharma are inevitably punished. According to Hindu law, each individual is a member of a particular social class and must behave in strict accordance to the requirements of that class. This arrangement is called the caste system. In the Mahabharata, all the important characters belong to the Kshatriya or warrior caste. Individuals such as Yudhishthira, Arjuna, Bhima, and Duryodhana must obey the dharma of warriors. They must be courageous, honorable, and respectful of their opponents. They must never take unfair advantage, for example, by attacking an unarmed or unprepared enemy. Duryodhana, for example, fights fairly against Bhima, who wrongly strikes him below the waist in their combat. At the end of the narrative, Duryodhana, despite his often evil and unkind actions, gains admittance to heaven because he always adheres to the code or dharma of the warrior.
Vichitravirya Second son of King Santanu, Vichitravirya has two wives, Ambika and Ambalika, secured for him by Bhishma.
Vidura Sage and uncle-advisor of both the Pandavas and the Kauravas, Vidura is representative of honor and wisdom.
Virata King of Matsya, Virata admits the disguised Pandavas and Draupadi to his court during their thirteenth year of exile. After they defend his kingdom from the attacking forces of Duryodhana, Virata offers his daughter Uttarah and support in the great battle with the Kauravas.
Vrihadaswa A rishi or sage, Vrihadaswa tells the tale of Nala and Damayanti to Yudhishthira.
Vyasa Vyasa is the poet given credit for writing the Mahabharata. Vyasa also appears in the work as the son of Satyavati from a union prior to her marriage with King Santanu. He is a powerful sage and seer. Vyasa fathers the kings Pandu and Dhritarashtra.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
More than any other figure in the Mahabharata, Yudhishthira represents the proper observance of dharma. This fact is underscored at the end of the narrative when he does not abandon the faithful dog who accompanied him on his
V o l u m e
1
3 6 5
M a h a b h a r a t a
fail to live up to these high ideals—as, for example, when he continues gambling until he has lost his wealth and kingdom as well as his wife and his own and his brothers’ freedom—he suffers greatly and pays a high price.
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Much of early Indian history exists only in literary form, as stories and tales. Examine the Mahabharata as a historical document. What does it say about the time in which it is set? How does modern archaeology validate the details of the epic? Give a report to a group, using slides of photos and maps. Regarding religion and society, investigate the similarities and differences between Hinduism, as it is presented in the Mahabharata, and Buddhism, another great world religion with its source in India. Compare the ways in which Hinduism structures society and salvation through the caste system and the criticism that Buddhism offers of this system. Write a research paper on your findings.
Have a group discussion on the nature of the epic hero. The Mahabharata contains many examples of the Hindu hero, one example being Yudhishthira. Outline his characteristics and then compare those to the qualities of an epic hero from the western tradition, such as Achilles from Homer’s Iliad or Odysseus from his Odyssey. Can you determine what distinguishes the eastern from the western hero? What qualities to they share? Afterwards, write up the conclusions and your evaluation. As a young adult assignment, give a talk on the difference between the epic hero, such as Arjuna, Yudhishthira, or Odysseus, and modern film heroes, using PowerPoint and film clips to present examples.
final journey. It is revealed to the reader that this dog is the god Dharma in disguise, testing his son’s worthiness one last time. Thus symbolically Yudhishthira is shown refusing to forsake his dharma and therefore demonstrating that he deserves to enter heaven when he dies. Likewise, most of his actions throughout the poem are those of a man committed to engaging in right behavior as a king and a warrior. When he does
3 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
In additional to depictions of the importance of dharma embodied in specific characters, the Mahabharata contains passages that teach specific lessons about social and spiritual responsibility. Bhishma’s speeches to Yudhishthira focus on the dharma of good leadership and effective ruling. Ultimately, the Mahabharata observes that existence and happiness depend less on courage and destiny than on an understanding and acceptance of the rules and responsibilities of dharma.
Virtue and Truth The concepts of virtue and truth are closely related to that of dharma. The Mahabharata includes the story of a great, epoch-spanning and empire-establishing war, and it often stresses the virtues of bravery, honesty, and nobility that form the basis of Kshatriya dharma, the code of warriors in ancient India. The narrative also shows many individuals violating various codes of conduct. Sakuni, for instance, cheats in order to defeat his guests, thus violating codes of hospitality and of fairness. This event stands as a telltale sign to original hearers and readers of this epic that Sakuni and his family are destined to be defeated in the coming war. Truth and truthfulness are also prominent in the Mahabharata. Krishna, an incarnation of the god of truth Vishnu, reveals many important truths to the moral characters. Most importantly, he sings the Bhagavad Gita to Arjuna before the great battle begins, revealing to the reluctant fighter the essential truths about the illusory nature of death and the cyclical nature of life. By itself the Bhagavad Gita is a sacred Hindu text; in the plot of the Mahabharata it has both sacred and secular functions, serving to fill Arjuna with the confidence and conviction of divine truth so that he may pursue his dharma. His destiny is to fight for the Pandavas and to defeat the Kauravas.
Order and Disorder, Good and Evil On a symbolic level, the Mahabharata tells an ancient story of a primal conflict between opposing forces of light and darkness. Pandu, the pale, and his sons the Pandavas, represent order and goodness in opposition to the blind Dhritarashtra, his son Duryodhana, and the Kauravas, who
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Hinduism
The Flesh versus the Spirit
Perhaps the most important transcendent or spiritual theme of the Mahabharata is primarily embodied in the Bhagavad Gita and entails the basic teachings of Hinduism. In particular, this section of the poem provides information about reincarnation and the possibility of ascension into heaven. As Krishna explains in his song to Arjuna, death is not the end of life. Human souls are immortal and are reincarnated through a process called samsara, or transmigration. Further, according to the concept of karma, those who have lived their lives in proper accordance with their dharma are rewarded in each subsequent life. The final step in the life cycle is that of nirvana, when both karma and samsara are transcended. The soul that attains nirvana moves beyond desire and individual consciousness to a pure, enlightened state, freed from the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.
STYLE Frame Stories The gods observe Krishna and Arjuna (Illustration by Shirley Triest. From Mahabharata, edited by William Buck, introduced by B.A. van Nooten. University of California Press, 1973. Reproduced by permission of publisher and illustrator.)
represent darkness and disorder. As an allegory, then, the poems show the classic conflict between the forces of good and evil. In the end, the forces of good triumph, aided by the god Vishnu, who comes to earth as Krishna to ensure the ultimate triumph of good. But in the process of winning, the Pandavas themselves are nearly destroyed. They also find themselves using deception and other dishonorable tactics to defeat their opponents. This point suggests that absolute good and absolute evil are not humanly possible, and further, that sometimes the right end can only be reached by unrighteous means. In the Mahabharata, the desired and rightful end is lasting peace. Yet to attain this goal, the Pandavas and Kauravas must engage in the great war. Many are killed on both sides. The people suffer and their nation is impoverished as the two groups fight. The symbolic goal, however, is the defeat of evil and the restoration of order.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The complex narrative structure of the Mahabharata is one of a series of stories and narratives nested one within another. It opens with the first of two frame stories, which act as introductions, leading the reader toward the heart of the poem, the epic story of the great battle between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. The reader first encounters the tale of Sauti, a bard or storyteller, who tells several listeners in the forest what he has heard of the Mahabharata. Sauti quotes the sage Vaisampayana, who has learned the poem from his master, Vyasa, the supposed author of the work. Vaisampayana’s tale thus comprises the second frame story. He recites most of the Mahabharata at the snake sacrifice of King Janamejaya. Within the main plot of the poem several more sages, or rishis, such as Markandeya and Vrihadaswa, recount legends, folktales, or popular stories that illustrate a moral or theme somehow relevant to the main plot. Occasionally Sauti surfaces within the narrative to make an observation, as does Vaisampayana, but these intrusions are generally brief. Overall, this structure allows for the many breaks in the narrative flow and the chronology of the plot line, and repeated accounts of events from different points of view and lengthy digressions also mark this massive poem.
V o l u m e
1
3 6 7
M a h a b h a r a t a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1000 BCE : India is ruled by feudal kings and princes, battling one another for land. Today: India is a federal, secular republic, the largest democracy in the world.
1000 BCE : The caste system, a strict hereditary social organization of classes, defines Indian society. Today: The caste system still exists to a degree, but social mobility is also a reality. India is a modern, industrializing nation.
Sanskrit Literature and Versification The Mahabharata is a fine example of classical Sanskrit poetry. Like Latin, classical Sanskrit is no longer a spoken language. The language of the work also differs from the Vedic language, a precursor of Sanskrit in which several holy texts of Hinduism, including the sacred Vedas and the Upanishads, were written. The subject of much scholarly study and several translations, the Mahabharata, while often referred to as an epic, is more specifically a purana, or ‘‘ancient tale’’ in verse. Perhaps originally written as one extended poem, the work eventually grew as more scenes, stories, and other material, including writings on ethics, law, philosophy, history, and religion, were added. The basic unit of the poem is the epic sloka, two verse lines with alternating stressed and unstressed syllables. Other meters are also employed, all of which adhere to the strict and formal rules of poetics that typify classical Sanskrit verse.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Indus Valley Civilization Archaeological evidence has uncovered a Bronze Age culture that existed along the Indus river in what is modern Pakistan, a nation situated to the immediate west of modern India. Contemporary
3 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
1000 BCE : Indian society is patriarchal, or male-dominated; women play a subordinate role in most aspects of life. Today: Educational opportunities and a democratic political system promote the status of and standard of living for women in India. Like Indira Gandhi, India’s first woman prime minister, women enter professional life.
with the ancient Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilizations, the Indus Valley culture thrived between about 2500 and 1500 BCE . Largely agricultural, the Indus peoples seem to have had a relatively complex society and an advanced material culture. They lived in mud-brick dwellings, produced art and pottery, lived under a loosely democratic form of government, and men and women enjoyed equal status. Other aspects of the social organization remain unclear, but these early people worshipped and sacrificed to many gods, including Indra and Agni, both of whom appear in the Mahabharata. Their belief system also seems to have been an early form of the Vedic religion. Its precepts were later organized and written down by the Aryans as the Vedas, the early sacred texts of the Hindu religion.
Aryan Culture By around 1500 BCE , the warlike Aryans (a northern tribe whose name means ‘‘noble’’ in Sanskrit) had begun to invade the Indus Valley, subjugating and later assimilating many of the indigenous peoples they found there. With their skills in iron metallurgy, the Aryans created an advanced civilization along the valleys of the Ganges and Yamuna rivers, the geographical location of the Mahabharata. In contrast to the Indus peoples, the Aryans were militaristic, with a strongly patriarchal, or male-dominated,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
Indra welcomes Yudhishthira to heaven. (Illustration by Shirley Triest. From Mahabharata, edited by William Buck, intro duced by B.A. van Nooten. University of California Press, 1973. Repro duced by permission of publisher and illustrator.)
society. Their society had a strict hierarchy that eventually developed into the caste system, a social design in which priests and warriors occupied positions of authority and power. By the fifth century BCE , the Aryan civilization in India had become an advanced feudal aristocracy, made up of several constituent states. Kingship and court life had grown increasingly important. Meanwhile, stable institutions, professional occupations, a trade economy, and a rich tradition of Sanskrit literature had developed.
Hinduism Out of the tradition of the Vedic religion that flourished in the Indus Valley came the major world religion called Hinduism. The term ‘‘hindu’’ comes from the word ‘‘sindu,’’ or river—specifically the Indus river. Founded by no one but rising out of centuries of Indian culture, Hinduism is the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
third largest religion in the world. Those who practiced the religion, which is prominent in India, parts of Africa and Southeast Asia, and other parts of the world, worship a large number, or pantheon, of gods. Among the most popular are Shiva and Vishnu, both of whom appear in the Mahabharata. Vishnu is the incarnation (physical manifestation) of the god Krishna. The sacred texts of Hinduism include the four Vedas and the Upanishads, a collection of ancient wisdom and ethical writings. Among the other great Hindu texts are several secular works. These include the eighteen puranas or ‘‘ancient tales,’’ the most important of which are Krishna’s speech to Arjuna known as the Bhagavad Gita (contained in the Mahabharata) and the Ramayana. These two works preserve the key ideas of Hinduism. To begin with, the religion teaches a cyclical conception of the universe. Over vast periods of time, the universe is repeatedly created and destroyed. Likewise, human life flows in cycles. The human soul, according to Hindu doctrine, is immortal and experience many lifetimes on earth. This process is called samsara, which means reincarnation or transmigration of the soul. The form that the soul takes in succeeding lifetimes is dictated by karma.Karma, sometimes characterized as ‘‘the fatality of the act,’’ is the cosmic law of retribution. According to karma, good actions in this lifetime are rewarded in the next, and evil deeds in this lifetime are punished in the next. Those individuals who are good in this lifetime may be reincarnated into a higher caste; those who are evil may be born into a lower one or even as a lower form of life, such as an animal or insect. For this reason, practicing Hindus are vegetarians. Heaven, in this system, still exists but only as a temporary stage where souls wait before being reborn. Eventually an end to the cycles of birth, death, and rebirth may be achieved; in which case, one attains moksa, or ‘‘release from worldly desires,’’ and no longer differentiates between the individual soul (atman) and the universal soul (Brahman).
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Synthetic versus Analytic The two main lines of critical thought concerning the Mahabharata have focused on whether this massive poem is artistically unified and coherent or riddled with inconsistencies that invalidate any
V o l u m e
1
3 6 9
M a h a b h a r a t a
possible theory of coherence. The first group, known as the synthetic camp, is represented by certain Indian scholars who contend that the Mahabharata is thematically unified and presents a clear statement on the effects of proper adherence to the rules of personal and sacred duty (dharma), and the negative results of abusing dharmaic responsibilities. Many other critics, however, approach the poem analytically, examining its parts without detecting coherence. Taking this analytic approach, these critics see the Mahabharata as a compilation of smaller works. They tend to agree that the Mahabharata is self-contradictory rather than unified, a feature caused inevitably by the fact that it grew over centuries as additional content material was included.
Myth and Symbolism Much modern criticism focus on mythology in the Mahabharata. Other work has sought to discover the meaning of the poem as it relates to its cultural context, the larger background found in India during the era between the Aryan conquest of the Indian subcontinent and prior to the advent of Buddhism in the sixth century BCE . Thus, the simple conflict between the powers of light and darkness is significant, but only part of the mythological picture of the poem. Other critics have explored the nature of the Hindu gods as literary figures and in compared them to western mythological systems, such as those in the literature of the ancient Greeks or the medieval Scandinavians. Georges Dume´zil, for instance, employed as system of comparative mythology to describe similarities between the carnage of the great battle in the Mahabharata and the Norse myth of Ragnorak, or the end of the world. Joseph Campbell has outlined the poem’s relation to other mythological systems and evaluated the symbolic conflict between truth and ignorance in the work. In addition to these individual approaches, many scholars have concluded that the Mahabharata is a collection and synthesis of hundreds of years of Hindu thought and spirituality.
Humanism With the rise of sectarian violence in modern India, fundamentalist groups used the ancient Sanskrit epics to validate their claims and criticized the right of secular scholars to treat their religious texts as literature. Their position led to a number of humanist rebuttals, asserting the Mahabharata as a source of important historical information and humanist values, belonging to the world.
3 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
John Brockington’s The Sanskrit Epics (1998) is a comprehensive handbook of critical approaches to Indian epic literature, summarizing scholarship during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, with an overview of the culture, social and religious background, and linguistic and stylistic features. The Argumentative Indian: Writings on Indian History, Culture, and Identity (2005), by Nobel Prize-winning economist and philosopher, Amartya Sen, presents the Mahabharata not as a source of rigid doctrine, but as evidence of India’s tradition of debate, rationalism, and liberalism. Chaturvedi Badrinath, in The Mahabharata: An Inquiry in the Human Condition (2006), agreed with this approach, citing the epic as promoting humanist values of individual liberty, freedom, equality, love, and friendship rather than lending itself to divisive politics. Celebrated historian of early Indian culture, Romila Thapar, in ‘‘War in the Mahabharata,’’ in Publications of the Modern Language Association of America (2009), used the Mahabharata and knowledge from the social sciences to uncover a new understanding of north Indian history. In The Hindus: An Alternative History (2009), noted Sanskrit scholar, Wendy Doniger addressed the topics of violence and dharma in the Mahabharata, finding compassion in the poem for the marginalized in Indian society: women, lower castes, and animals. Doniger’s study asserts the wisdom, diversity, and pluralism of Indian culture.
CRITICISM Sean McCready In the following essay, McCready discusses the role of dharma (sacred duty) for the characters in Mahabharata, focusing primarily on the five Pandavas and also on Bhishma. The Mahabharata holds a place of veneration in Indian society. An ancient tale, it continues to inspire poets, writers, and artists across the globe. Its creator is unknown, except as the mythic figure of Vyasa, a poet and seer who walks in the verses he is supposed to have written. Likely the poem was authored by countless hands who grafted its many tales and moral stories onto the skeleton of this epic tale of the Pandava brothers. Foremost among these brothers is Yudhishthira, the eldest, who was born to be a king. A pillar of morality, intelligence, restraint, and confidence, he possesses
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
CALLED A MONSTROSITY BY SOME CRITICS BECAUSE OF ITS SHEER SIZE, THE NATIONAL EPIC OF INDIA NEVERTHELESS HAS A CONSISTENT VISION. EMPLOYING THE NUMEROUS VOICES OF VARIED
The hero of Virgil’s Aeneid, the Trojan warrior Aeneas, departs from the Trojan War and wanders for seven years before founding a great nation in Italy. Written in the first century BCE , the Aeneid is a mythological glorification of the early Roman Empire. A Irish epic tale from the first century BCE , The Cattle Raid of Cooley describes an attack by Queen Mebd on the kingdom of Ulster in order to steal its prized Brown Bull. It features the Gaelic hero Cu´chulainn, a youth of great strength who defeats her.
Swiss Nobel Prize winner, Hermann Hesse wrote the allegorical novel Siddhartha in 1922. The novel traces the journey of a young, handsome prince who leave his royal home in search of enlightenment and meets Gautama the Buddha on his travels. Composed in German, the novel was first published in the United States in 1955.
The 1989 novel The Great Indian Novel, by Shashi Tharoor, is a funny and entertaining retelling of parts of the Mahabharata, drawing events and characters from twentieth-century Indian life.
The Coffin Quilt: The Feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys (2001) is a Young Adult novel by Ann Rinaldi, retelling the true story of a feud between mountain families of West Virginia and Kentucky from the post-Civil War era.
a small weakness, his love of fortune. He is a gambler at heart, or else he longs to test his luck at the throw of the dice in order to escape from the sacred duty that constrains him. Yudhishthira is the model Hindu hero. He embodies the tenets of Hinduism and is so well-versed in them that they have become part of his soul—a soul that is immortal, destined to eternal joy in Indra’s heaven. Still, Yudhishthira has a price to pay. He must lead
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
STORYTELLERS, SAGES, PRIESTS, DEMONS, AND HEROES, THE POEM DESCRIBES THE HINDU IDEAL OF SACRED DUTY.’’
his brothers in battle. He must fight the great war of the Bharatas, the Mahabharata. Fortunately this Hindu king has his four brothers and their shared wife to accompany him. Bhima, a mighty warrior indeed with the strength of a dozen men or more, is passionate, yet faithful and steadfast. Bhima may be easily moved to revenge, but he always has a good justification for his actions. But when his rage is enflamed it is not easily quenched. He has a thirst for blood, a substance he spills more often than any other man, good or evil, in the poem. Arjuna, the third brother, ultimately proves himself a warrior without equal. He possesses such great skill with a bow that his foes tremble in his presence. Yet there exists a match for Arjuna, a mysterious soul named Karna. Karna is a brother of Yudhishthira and Arjuna, though they do not know it. Karna suffers from the fact that his mother will not acknowledge him as her son and the half-brother of the Pandavas. Without such public acknowledgment, Karna has no choice but to honor his obligation to fight the Pandavas on the side of the Kauravas when asked to do so by the prince Duryodhana. The twins Nakula and Sahadeva appear as reflections of their oldest brother. Without saying or doing as much as either Arjuna or Bhima, they exemplify the same restraint and quiet power that one day restores Yudhishthira to the throne. Finally, the wife of all five brothers is Draupadi. Strong, noble, and beautiful, she matches each of her husbands in intelligence, will, and respect for the sacredness of right action. She knows the
V o l u m e
1
3 7 1
M a h a b h a r a t a
ways of dharma. For dharma, one’s sacred duty, is truly the subject of the Mahabharata. Called a monstrosity by some critics because of its sheer size, the national epic of India nevertheless has a consistent vision. Employing the numerous voices of varied storytellers, sages, priests, demons, and heroes, the poem describes the Hindu ideal of sacred duty. Similar ideas can be found in western philosophy. Plato’s conception of the ideal state as explained in The Republic places each individual in his or her specific place in society, each with duties and responsibilities that assure happiness for everyone. The Greek philosopher also elaborated an idea of the transmigration of the soul, reincarnation or samsara. The ancient Indians knew about the Greeks, and quite possibly Plato and his predecessors received their ideas from the East without giving explicit credit for these acquisitions, as philosophers rarely do. The Indians, however, much more than the Greeks, seem to have had their vision fixed on preparations for the next world. Happiness in this life is an important good, but the Mahabharata calls to mind more important struggles of cosmic significance. The poem details an imbalance between the forces of chaos and order. Thus, the mighty god Vishnu, the Preserver, has once again appeared. Hindu legend includes nine manifestations of Vishnu on earth, eight of which have occurred by the time in which the Mahabharata is set (the incarnation as Krishna is in fact the eighth; the ninth has not yet appeared). Many of these are contained in the ancient stories, or puranas, attributed to the prolific poet Vyasa. In each instance the god has appeared to restore the careful balance of harmony and dissonance in the world. The Mahabharata represents the eighth visit of Vishnu. He takes the form of Krishna. Chief of the Yadavas, Krishna hails from western India, but is well known along the Ganges in Kurujangala where the dispute between the Kauravas and the Pandavas takes place and escalates into a great cleansing war. Krishna represents wisdom and the true path of dharma. Therefore, he does not engage in battle himself, but he makes his presence known. He drives Arjuna’s chariot and spurs the Pandava prince to fight, even though he will slaughter his kinsmen: Duryodhana, Karna, and many others. Krishna speaks the sacred words of Hindu law, reciting the Bhagavad Gita, a work recognized worldwide as the central text of Hindu doctrine. Scholars, likewise, have noted
3 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
his affinities with Jesus in the western religious tradition of Christianity. He epitomizes truth, giving it a human form, and provides the spiritual center of the Mahabharata. Still, the Mahabharata is a poem about human suffering and war. It requires a link between the spiritual and the worldly. It needs an individual that focuses the qualities of human sacrifice, follows the most difficult path of dharma, and explains the proper way to achieve success in this world and the next. This man is Bhishma. The celibate warrior, Bhishma renounces his birthright to the throne of Kurujangala in order that his father might satisfy his desire for a woman. He cannot die, except by his own choosing, and therefore is above the world of the flesh and indifferent to many of the baser impulses of human beings. He represents the observance of dharma on an almost superhuman level, without fear for his neglect of worldly pleasures. His spreads his wisdom even after he should be dead. Lying on a bed of arrows each of which pierces his body, Bhishma recites the ancient knowledge of rulership to Yudhishthira, thereby preparing the Pandava to be king. The irony, of course, is that Bhishma might have made a greater king than any of the other men who sit on the throne of Kurujangala during the course of the poem. And, had he presided over Kurujangala in place of the weak-willed Dhritarashtra, the great war might never have been fought—all of this because his father wanted another woman. Bhishma’s near flawlessness and total renunciation of desire make him more a symbol of goodness than a real person. Tradition, however, requires internal struggle in the epic hero. Thus, Bhishma cannot provide the heroic center of the work. Vyasa reserved this role for Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, Sahadeva, and Draupadi—one hero split into six important, if unequal, sections. As commentators have noted, these individuals represent the human in all of its capacities: thought, action, wisdom, mind, body, emotion, and will. Each of these characters contains these aspects of human nature mixed in different proportions. Bhima represents violent power and strength; Arjuna symbolizes skill and grace. Yet Bhima’s strength sometimes becomes savagery, as when he drinks Duhsasana’s blood. Likewise Arjuna doubts himself when called to fight his kinsmen in the great war. Yudhishthira, who combines the superb qualities of his brothers with wisdom and restraint, also suffers from real defects. When gambling with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
THE COMPOSER OF THE MAHABHARATA HAS PORTRAYED THE ACTIONS OF THE WARRIORS IN BOTH A HEROIC AND A MORAL CONTEXT, AND IT SHOULD BE UNDERSTOOD AS A RE ENACTMENT OF A COSMIC MORAL CONFRONTATION, NOT SIMPLY AS AN ACCOUNT OF A BATTLE.’’
B. A. Van Nooten In the following excerpt, Van Nooten outlines the story told in the epic, provides historical background to the period in which it is set, and discusses the underlying systems of morality, eschatology (a branch of theology), and philosophy.
Bhisma on a bed of arrows (Illustration by Shirley Triest. From Mahabharata, edited by William Buck, introduced by B.A. van Nooten. University of California Press, 1973. Reproduced by permission of publisher and illustrator.)
Sakuni and Duryodhana, he loses everything thathe owns. He even stakes his wife after he has already lost himself. The remainder of the Mahabharata can be interpreted as Yudhishthira’s effort to regain what he has squandered, a process that results in incredible destruction. Yudhishthira has obeyed his dharma as a warrior in accepting the challenge of Duryodhana, but he betrays the dharma of a king by allowing his kingdom to be lost in a game of dice. What truly has been lost is order, sacrificed to the randomness of dice rolls. Yudhishthira has forsaken the wisdom of order so that he might engage in a game of chance. In so doing he—a symbol of order—unleasheschaosintotheworld.AsYudhishthira, the epic center of this immense poem, learns of his mistakes and conquers them, the wisdom of the Mahabharata unfolds. Source: Sean McCready, Critical Essay on Mahabharata, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Mahabharata is the story of a dynastic struggle, culminating in an awesome battle between two branches of a single Indian ruling family. The account of the fight between the Kurus and the Pandavas for the fertile and wealthy land at the confluence of the Yamuna and Ganges rivers near Delhi is enhanced by peripheral stories that provide a social, moral, and cosmological background to the climactic battle. We do not know exactly when the battle took place. The Mahabharata (pronounced with the stress on the third syllable: mahabha´rata) was composed over a period of some four hundred years, between the second century B.C. and the second century A.D., and already at that time the battle was a legendary event, preserved in the folk tales and martial records of the ruling tribes. The Indian calendar places its date at 3102 B.C., the beginning of the Age of Misfortune, the Kaliyuga, but more objective evidence, though scanty and inferential, points to a date closer to 140O B.C. At that time Aryan tribes had just begun to settle in India after their invasion from the Iranian highlands. The land from western Pakistan east to Bihar and south not farther than the Dekkhan was occupied by Aryan tribes whose names are often mentioned in records much older than the Mahabharata. The tribal communities varied in size and were each governed by the ‘‘prominent families’’ (mahakulas) from among which one nobleman was consecrated king. The kings
V o l u m e
1
3 7 3
M a h a b h a r a t a
quarreled and engaged in intertribal warfare as a matter of course, their conflicts were sometimes prolonged affairs, sometimes little more than cattle raids. It is in this context that the Bharata war took place. The Kurus were an ancient tribe who had long been rulers of the area in the upper reaches of the Yamuna River. The Pandus, or Pandavas, were a newly emergent clan living in Indraprastha, some sixty miles southwest of the Kuru capital, Hastinapura. According to the Mahabharata, the new aristocrats were invited to the court of the ancient noble house of Kuru to engage in a gambling contest. There they were tricked first out of their kingdom and then into a promise not to retaliate for twelve years. In the thirteenth year they took refuge at the court of the Matsyas, where they allied themselves with the Kurus’ eastern and southern neighbors, the Pancalas. Together in a vast host they marched up to Hastinapura, where they were met on Kuruksetra, the plain of the Kurus. Here the Kurus and their allies were defeated. In bare outline that is the story of which the bard sings. But the composer of the Mahabharata has portrayed the actions of the warriors in both a heroic and a moral context, and it should be understood as a re-enactment of a cosmic moral confrontation, not simply as an account of a battle. Unlike our Western historical philosophy, which looks for external causes—such as famine, population pressure, drought—to explain the phenomena of war and conquest, the epic bard views the events of the war as prompted by observances and violations of the laws of morality. The basic principle of cosmic or individual existence is dharma. It is the doctrine of the religious and ethical rights and duties of each individual, and refers generally to duty ordained by religion, but may also mean simply virtue, or right conduct. Every human being is expected to live according to his dharma. Violation of dharma results in disaster. Hindu society was classed into four castes, each with its own dharma. The power of the state rested with the Ksatriyas: kings, princes, free warriors and their wives and daughters. Their dharma was to protect their dependents, rule justly, speak the truth, and fight wars. The priest caste was not socially organized in churches or temples, but consisted of
3 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
individual Brahmans in control of religion. Among their other duties, they officiated at great sacrifices to maintain the order of the world and accomplish desired goals. They were also in control of education, could read and write, and taught history according to their outlook on life. The Mahabharata in its final form was largely the work of a Brahman composer, so we find in the peripheral stories an emphasis on the power and glory of the Brahman caste, although in the main story of the epic there is not one powerful Brahmin. The Vaisyas, of whom we hear little in the Mahabharata, were merchants, townspeople, and farmers, and constituted the mass of the people. The three upper castes were twice-born: once from their mothers and once from their investitures with the sacred thread. The lowest caste, the Sudras, did menial work and served other castes. They were Aryans, however, and their women were accessible to higher-caste men: Vyasa was the offspring of a ksatriya and a sudra, and so was Vidura. Outside the caste system were the ‘‘scheduled castes,’’ the tribal people of the mountains, such as the Kiratas, as well as the Persians and the Bactrian Greeks. Besides their caste dharma, people had a personal dharma to observe, which varied with one’s age and occupation. So we find a teacherstudent dharma, a husband-wife dharma, the dharma of an ascetic, and so on. One’s relation to the gods was also determined by dharma. The lawbooks specify the various kinds of dharma in detail, and this classifications and laws still govern Indian society. The Hindu system of eschatology is often expounded in the Mahabharata. In brief, it is the doctrine of the cycle of rebirths (samsara), the doctrine of the moral law (dharma), which is more powerful than even the gods. The moral law sustains and favors those creatures that abide by it, while thwarting those that trespass. Its instrument is karma, the inexorable law that spans this life and the afterdeath, working from one lifetime to another, rewarding the just and making the evil suffer. In this Hindu universe those in harmony with dharma ultimately reach a state in which rebirth is not necessary any more. If, however, the forces of evil are too strong, the moral law reasserts itself and often uses forceful means to restore harmony where it has been lost. To accomplish that, often a being
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
M a h a b h a r a t a
of a higher order, a god, who in his usual manifestation has no physical body, takes birth among the people and becomes an avatara, a ‘‘descent’’ of his own power on earth. Often the physical manifestation is not aware of his divine antecedents, but discovers them in the course of his life on earth. Therefore an avatara has many human qualities, including some that by our own standards would be less than divine: hostility, vengefulness, and an overweening sense of self-importance. These qualities are necessary for him to confront confidently the forces of evil, the asuras, who have taken flesh also and appear as bitter enemies committed to a battle to the end. The emphasis on morality in the Mahabharata brings with it considerations of the nature of the divine. There are many gods; the Indian pantheon is overwhelming in its diversity and vagueness. At the highest level of creation are the gods (devas), who are in continual conflict with the demonic forces, the asuras. Among the gods, Visnu, Siva, and Indra are especially important. Visnu is mainly manifest through his incarnation as Krisna. He is a supreme god worthy of love and devotion. Siva is also a supreme god, but represents the ascetic side of Indian religion. He dwells on a mountain, dresses in a tiger skin, and wears a characteristic emblem, the trident, still carried by Indian mendicants. The third eye in the middle of Siva’s forehead scorches his enemies. Indra is in name the king of the gods, but in fact his importance had declined by the time of the Mahabharata, although he remained a principle god. In the Mahabharata he is the god of rain and father of Arjuna, a Pandava.
three classes are usually benevolent to mankind. Gandharvas play heavenly music to which the nymphs, the Apsarases, dance. Indra also uses the Apsarases to seduce ambitious ascetics who, by their severe self-castigation, have accumulated so much spiritual power that it becomes a threat to Indra’s supremacy; as a result of seduction the anchorite loses his power. Yaksas are sprites, dryads, and naiads. Raksasas are malevolent demons who prowl around the sacrificial altars or in other ways disturb human beings. Humans look at the gods as powers to be appeased or controlled, with the exception of Visnu, who is simply adored. Gods often interact with humans, marry them, give them weapons, invoke their assistance or aid them. At times gods interact with men through the intermediary of wise old men, sages whose advice was obeyed by prudent warriors who would not violate the will of the gods in order to avoid incurring the sage’s curse. Upon his death, the ancient hero expects to go to Indra’s heaven, where there is feasting and rejoicing. Rivers and other landscape features are personified and function as both divine or semi-divine beings and as natural phenomena. In the Mahabharata gods communicate with men, animals talk and are sometimes real animals, sometimes human beings or gods. The story often moves into an idealized land where heroic feats, deeds of valour and physical strength are regarded with awe and fear. These incidents foster a sense of marvel in the reader: we are transported into an idyllic world where illusion and reality cannot be separated.
Less powerful are the elemental gods of fire (Agni), wind (Vayu), water (Varuna), sun (Surya), and moon (Soma). Kama is the god of love. Unlike the gods in Western mythologies, the prominent Indian gods are difficult to characterize. Although they are assigned obvious functions as powers, their spheres of power and their characteristics overlap because they are ultimately all manifestations of the universal principle, Brahman, the universal soul or being to which individual souls will be reunited after the illusion of time and space has been conquered.
The Mahabharata should be understood as a moral and philosophical tale as well as an historical one. Only in this way can we appreciate the significance of the Bhagavad Gita, the Song of the Lord, which is part of the Mahabharata, but which is usually excerpted and read as an independent religious work. In India, the Mahabharata as a whole has been regarded for centuries as a religious work, to awesome battles and gruesome deaths as tragic yet natural events in human experience, these are just a few of the features that have found response in the hearts of millions of Asian people.
At a lower level, still divine but progressively less lofty, are the hosts of the Gandharvas, Apsarases, Siddhas, Yaksas, and Raksasas. The first
Source: B. A. Van Nooten, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Mahabhar ata, translated by William Buck, University of California Press, 1973, pp. xiii xxiii.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
3 7 5
M a h a b h a r a t a
SOURCES Anderson, Kenneth, Mahabharata: The Greatest Spiritual Epic of All Time, Torchlight, 1999. Badrinath, Chaturvedi, The ‘‘Mahabharata’’: An Inquiry in the Human Condition, Orient Longman, 2006. Brockington, John, The Sanskrit Epics, Brill, 1998. Doniger, Wendy, The Hindus: An Alternative History, Penguin, 2009. Sen, Amartya, The Argumentative Indian: Writings on Indian History, Culture, and Identity, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Thapar, Romila, ‘‘War in the Mahabharata,’’ in Publica tions of the Modern Language Association of America, Vol. 124, No. 5, October 2009, pp. 1830 33.
Campbell, Joseph, ‘‘The Indian Golden Age,’’ in The Masks of God, Vol. 2: Oriental Mythology, Penguin, 1991, pp. 321 70. Campbell discusses the nature of Vyasa, the mythical author of the Mahabharata and the symbolic conflict between the forces of light and darkness in the epic. Easwaran, Eknath, The Bhagavad Gita, Nilgiri Press, 2007. Easwaran presents here introductory informa tion along with his modern translation of this sacred text, making it available for modern readers. Tharoor, Shashi, The Great Indian Novel, Arcade, 1989. This book is a modern retelling of the Mahab harata with a cast of characters and events drawn from twentieth century Indian political and cultural life.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Buck, William, trans., Mahabharata, University of Cali fornia Press, 2000. This version is a highly readable prose adapta tion and abridgment of the epic poem. Although Buck makes some minor adjustments and inter polations in the story, his translation is vivid and compelling.
3 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Mahabharata Sanskrit AND epics Bhagavad Gita Vyasa Mahabharata AND archaeology Hinduism Indian classical literature
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
Les Mise´rables When Victor Hugo’s novel Les Mise´rables first appeared in 1862, people in Paris and elsewhere lined up to buy it. Although critics were less receptive, the novel was an instant popular success. The French word mise´rables means both poor wretches and scoundrels or villains. The novel has a huge cast that includes both kinds of ‘‘mise´rables.’’ Written by one of France’s prominent romantic writers, Les Mise´rables paints a vivid picture of the seamy side of Paris, discusses the causes and effects of revolution, and includes discourses on topics ranging from the Battle of Waterloo to Parisian street slang. But the two central themes are the moral redemption of the main character, Jean Valjean, an ex-convict, and the moral redemption of a nation through revolution. The novel is a protest against human suffering, poverty, and ignorance. Its purpose is as much political as it is artistic.
VICTOR HUGO 1862
Readers wanting to read the complete novel may look to the 1,376-page Modern Library edition, published in 2009, with the modernized and acclaimed translation by Julie Rose. Barnes and Noble (2003) and Simon and Schuster (2005) published condensed versions that delete many subplots and minor characters but maintain the central plot and major themes in a comprehensible manner. As of 2010, both of these editions were available as audio books and on Kindle.
3 7 7
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
of his long and diverse literary career that also included drama and novels. He was acquainted with many major intellectuals and artists. His political convictions changed over time as various French governments rose and fell; however, his belief in human rights was consistent. In a letter to a friend describing why he wrote Les Mise´rables, Hugo stated that he was a radical, a pacifist, a proponent of human rights, and solidly against all forms of warfare and prejudice. He said he wrote Les Mise´rables to promote his humane convictions.
Victor Hugo
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY As a novelist, poet, political activist, and painter, Victor Hugo was a central figure in the romantic movement of nineteenth-century France. Both his family and his times influenced his social views and politics, which included the conviction that human rights violations, social injustice, and poverty were the roots of evil. Born in Besanc¸on, France, in 1802, Hugo grew up during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821). On June 18, 1815, Napoleon’s empire collapsed with his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, in modern-day Belgium, which Hugo describes in detail in Les Mise´rables. After that, a constitutional monarchy was established. Hugo’s father was a general in the Napoleonic army with republican sympathies, while his middle-class mother had royalist leanings. The young Hugo spent a large part of his childhood in Paris with his mother. He also traveled through Europe in his father’s wake and glimpsed the Napoleonic campaigns. After attending school in ` Paris, Hugo married his childhood love, Adele Foucher, in 1822. In that same year, Hugo published his first volume of poetry, which marked the beginning
3 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
Between 1840 and 1860, Hugo was highly productive as a writer. He was elected to the Acade´mie Franc¸aise in 1841 and to the peerage in 1845 in recognition of his literary achievements. In the late 1840s he became particularly active in politics. He spoke up in the Chamber of Peers, criticizing the legal system and the treatment of the poor, themes to which he returned in Les Mise´rables. Disillusioned with monarchism, he publicly espoused republicanism and participated in the revolution of 1848. These experiences gave him firsthand experience with barricade fighting, which he used in the novel. In 1848, Louis Napoleon (1808–1873), the nephew of Napoleon I, was elected president, but in 1851, he led a coup to become dictator and then ascended as king, becoming Napoleon III exactly forty-eight years after Napoleon I was crowned. Hugo criticized Napoleon III and ended up in exile, first in Belgium, then later on the Isle of Guernsey in the English Channel, where he remained until 1870. Here he wrote most of Les Mise´rables. Les Mise´rables was first published in 1862, appearing simultaneously in cities across Europe. In spite of a mixed critical reaction, the novel with its championing of the poor and disenfranchised was an immediate popular success in France and abroad. It sealed Hugo’s literary reputation. Upon his return to France in 1870, Hugo received a hero’s welcome. He continued to write for the rest of his life, but abstained from politics. After his death in 1885, Victor Hugo lay in state under the Arc de Triomphe and was buried in the Pantheon, in the heart of his beloved city, Paris.
PLOT SUMMARY Les Mise´rables is the story of four people— Bishop Myriel, Valjean, Fantine, and Marius— who meet, part, and then meet again during the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
most agitated decades of nineteenth-century France. It also tells the story of the 1832 revolution and describes the poor areas in Paris. The novel is in essence a plea for humane treatment of the poor and for equality among all citizens.
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Part I: Fantine
Les Mise´rables was made into a film in 1935, starring Fredric March, Charles Laughton, and Cedric Hardwicke. Directed by Richard Boleslawski, the film received Academy Award nominations for Best Cinematography and Best Picture. Directed by Glenn Jordan, Les Mise´rables was made into a film for television in 1978, starring Richard Jordan, Anthony Perkins, and John Gielgud. An animated version of Les Mise´rables appeared in 1979, produced by Toei Animation Company.
Les Mise´rables was adapted in 1987 for the stage as a musical by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg, with the lyrics composed by Herbert Kretzmer. The musical is available as a sound recording from Geffen with the original Broadway cast. Recorded in 1988, Les Mise´rables is available from Dove Books on Tape in an abridged version read by Christopher Cazenove.
A 1994 film version of the novel transposed its setting to early twentieth-century France. Directed, produced, and adapted by Claude Lelouch, the movie, starring Jean-Paul Belmondo, Michel Boujenah, Alessandrea Martines, and Annie Girador, received a Golden Globe award for Best Foreign Film.
In 1998, a dramatic retelling of Les Mise´rables was made by Sony Pictures and stars Liam Neeson, Geoffrey Rush, Uma Thurman, and Clare Danes.
A six-hour French television mini-series version of Les Mise´rables was presented in 2000. Starring Gerard Depardieu and John Malkovich, this lauded series is available on DVD.
Focus on the Family Radio Theatre presented an audio performance of this story in 2001 that is available as an audio book from Tyndale Entertainment.
A Japanese animated television series based on Les Mise´rables, made in 2007, is available on DVD from Nippon Animation.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
M i s e´ r a b l e s
E d i t i o n ,
The year is 1815 and Napoleon has just been defeated at Waterloo. Bishop Myriel lives a quiet life as a just man who is especially sympathetic toward poor people, bandits, and convicts. One day a strange man asks for shelter in his home, and, with his usual compassion, the bishop gives him room and board. This man is Jean Valjean, who has just been released from prison after serving a lengthy, unjust sentence, during which he tried to escape numerous times. Valjean is angry, hurt, and revengeful. His soul has ‘‘withered’’ and all but died. The bishop urges him to replace anger with goodwill in order to be worthy of respect: ‘‘You have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner, than over the white robes of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with goodwill, gentleness, and peace, you are better than any of us.’’ Valjean listens. Nevertheless, he decides to rob the good bishop. During the night, he runs away with the bishop’s silver. He is caught and brought back to the bishop who tells the police that he gave Valjean these precious objects. Later, Bishop Myriel tells Valjean, ‘‘You belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition and I give it to God!’’ Valjean is stunned. After he steals a coin from a little boy, he has an epiphany: ‘‘he could see his life, and it seemed horrible; his soul, and it seemed frightful. There was, however, a gentler light shining on that life and soul.’’ Fantine is a seamstress unjustly fired once her employer learns about her scandalous past. Abandoned by her lover, she is hungry, destitute, and unable to care for her daughter, Cosette. First she sells her hair, then her teeth before finally prostituting herself. Fantine leaves Cosette when her daughter is two years old to the care of the The´nardiers, who run a tavern in the outskirts of Paris. Cosette is poorly treated by the couple and their two daughters. The The´nardiers view Cosette as if she is their domestic slave all the while demanding more and more money for Cosette’s care. Fantine must continue selling her body to pay for Cosette’s keep.
V o l u m e
1
3 7 9
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Valjean assumes a new identity, using the name Mr. Madeleine. He becomes a good citizen, a rich industrialist, and ultimately mayor. Valjean saves Fantine from the police headed by Javert once he discovers she was fired from the very factory under his care. He wants to redeem her, but it is too late. Fantine is sick and dies soon after. At the same time, Champmathieu is falsely accused of being Valjean by the police officer Javert, whose lifelong goal is to find the escaped convict Valjean. Javert is a ‘‘formidable man’’ whose mother was a fortune-teller and whose father was in the galleys. After a long night of hesitation—to accuse Champmathieu would save him from Javert, to keep silent would send an innocent man to death—Valjean decides to confess his true identity to save the wrongly accused man. When the unyielding Javert arrests him, Valjean escapes, beginning a long hunt.
Part II: Cosette He does not go very far. Fantine tells him about Cosette. He goes to the The´nardiers’ and saves the little girl from her terrible life. They settle in Paris, where they constantly have to hide from Javert’s eye. They finally find shelter in a convent, the Petit-Picpus, where they spend five happy years of redemption, during which Valjean softens with gratitude and love for others.
Part III: Marius Marius is a young student, and like many other young men of his generation, he is passionately interested in Napoleon. In Paris he meets a group of young radical students, the Friends of the ABC, who are very much like him and who convert him to republicanism. One day, he spots a young woman in a park, walking with her father. He sees her again the next day, and the following until, six months later, he falls in love with her. The girl is the fifteen-year-old Cosette.
discovers that Marius and Cosette are in love and disapproves, but still he saves Marius’s life on the barricades. He carries the wounded and unconscious young man through the Paris sewers. He has one last confrontation with Javert, his nemesis, who is at his mercy. He decides to let him go. Moved by this gesture and appalled at himself, Javert kills himself. Many die in the street conflicts, including Gavroche, a little Parisian boy whose courage inspired the fighters of the barricades. Cosette restores Marius to health, and they decide to get married. On the wedding day, Marius meets Valjean who tells him who he really is, a convict still hunted by the police and that Cosette does not know anything about his criminal past. However, Valjean does not tell Marius that he saved his life during the insurrections. Marius wants to help Valjean win a pardon, but he refuses. Marius decides to stay silent, but he is horrified by the revelations. Valjean stops visiting the young couple. Soon, Marius learns that he was saved by Valjean and, accompanied by Cosette, rushes to Valjean’s home. It is too late, Valjean is dying. Valjean is buried under a blank stone.
CHARACTERS Bahorel A member of the ABC Society, a revolutionary group, Bahorel is also a student, but he has no respect for authority and is a real troublemaker, liking nothing better than a good fight.
Mademoiselle Baptistine The unmarried sister of the Bishop of Digne, Mademoiselle Baptistine lives with her brother and runs his household. She is a gentle, respectable woman who does good works.
Bishop of Digne See Charles Myriel
Part IV: Saint Denis Cosette has noticed Marius and falls in love with him, but she does not want Valjean to know about it. One day Marius writes to her, and they secretly meet. Valjean suspects nothing until he accidentally intercepts one of Marius’s letters.
Bossuet
Part V: Jean Valjean
Combeferre
Marius is an active participant as workers and republican students are on the barricades, opposing the police and the army of the monarchy. Many of the revolutionaries are killed in the struggle. Valjean
Combeferre is a member of the ABC society, a student, and a philosopher of revolution. He has a scientific mind and dreams of future inventions and how they will benefit the human race.
3 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
A member of the ABC Society, a revolutionary group, Bossuet is a law student. He is cheerful but unlucky; everything he undertakes seems to go wrong.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Cosette
Feuilly
Cosette is the illegitimate daughter of Fantine, a Parisian grisette (working woman) whose lover, ` abandons her when she is pregFe´lix Tholomyes, nant. Valjean rescues Cosette from the The´nardiers, and she becomes the love of his life and the motivation for his goodness. She is raised and educated in a convent. When she and Valjean move out into the real Paris, she turns into a beautiful young Parisian woman and falls in love with Marius Pontmercy.
A member of the ABC Society of revolutionaries, Feuilly earns his living as a fan-maker and is selfeducated.
Courfeyrac A member of the ABC Society, a revolutionary group of students and workers, Courfeyrac becomes Marius’s friend and takes him in.
Enjolras Enjolras is a leader of the ABC Society, a secret revolutionary society composed of students and workers. Marius first meets him there and ends up fighting with him on the barricade. The only son of rich parents, the scholarly Enjolras is a student of the revolution. He is indifferent to women and pleasure, but passionate about justice.
Fantine Fantine is a Parisian grisette (working woman), ` who falls in love with a student, Fe´lix Tholomyes. Just after Fe´lix breaks off their relationship, she gives birth to a daughter, Cosette. From that point forward her life goes downhill. She gives up her child to the mercenary The´nardiers and finds a job in her home town but is dismissed when her supervisor finds out about her past. She struggles to make ends meet, selling everything she has: her hair, her teeth, and her body (becoming a prostitute). Fantine illustrates the widespread cruelty to the poor and how poor women in particular are degraded. Only Valjean shows her any kindness.
` Fauchelevent Pere When Fauchelevent, an elderly carrier, gets caught beneath the wheels of his own cart, Valjean rescues him and afterward finds work for him as a gardener in a Paris convent. In doing so and thus showing his great strength, Valjean risks giving away his identity to Javert, who is already suspicious. But Fauchelevent pays Valjean back by taking him and Cosette in when he is on the run from the police. Fauchelevent, an educated peasant, is both shrewd and good willed. He recognizes his debt and finds the means to repay it.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Mademoiselle Gillenormand Monsieur Gillenormand’s eldest daughter, Mademoiselle Gillenormand, is a prudish, narrow-minded old woman who runs her father’s household.
Monsieur Gillenormand Monsieur Gillenormand, Marius’s grandfather and caretaker, is a relic of the past. He had his heyday during the decadent Ancien Re´gime, the pre-Revolutionary monarchy, in which the nobility dominated France. He still looks back to those days with nostalgia and regret. Gillenormand believes that in modern times people lack the gift of living life to the fullest and enjoying all its pleasures. When Marius discovers that his father was a revolutionary hero, it causes a bitter break between them.
The´odule Gillenormand The´odule is Monsieur Gillenormand’s greatnephew and a lieutenant in the army. He is a vain young man and a favorite of his Aunt Gillenormand. He tries to become Gillenormand’s favorite when Marius is out of the picture, but he cannot replace Marius in the old man’s affections.
Grantaire Although he belongs to the ABC Society, a revolutionary group of students and workers, Grantaire is a cynic and a hedonist and does not believe in the ideals of revolution. However, he does believe in Enjolras, whom he regards with love and admiration.
Inspector Javert Inspector Javert serves as Valjean’s nemesis, continually threatening to expose his past and bring Valjean under the control of the law. In his exaggerated, nearly fanatical devotion to duty and his lack of compassion, Javert represents a punitive, vengeful form of justice. Hugo suggests that Javert’s ‘‘respect for authority and hatred of revolt’’ are rooted in his past, for he was born in a prison. As if to compensate for this fact, he has spent his life in faithful service to law enforcement. When Valjean saves Javert by helping him escape from the revolutionaries, Javert’s fixed code of ethics is upset, for Javert realizes that Valjean, a criminal
V o l u m e
1
3 8 1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
who has not yet been officially punished, has performed an act of great kindness and courage. Javert previously would have overlooked such an act and arrested the criminal, but his recognition proves more than he can bear. Unable to resolve his inner conflict, Javert drowns himself in the Seine.
Joly A member of the ABC Society, Joly is studying medicine. He is something of a hypochondriac.
Monsieur Mabeuf An elderly churchwarden, he befriends Marius’s father Pontmercy, and Marius becomes friends with Mabeuf after his father dies. He is a gentle man whose main interests in life are his garden and his books, but he becomes very poor and has to sell all of his books. Impoverished and without hope in life, Mabeuf joins the rebels, courageously climbs to the top of the barricade to plant a flag, and is shot by the militia. His age and gentleness make his courage even more remarkable.
Madame Magloire Madame Magloire is the personal maid of Mademoiselle Baptistine and the housekeeper of Bishop of Digne.
Charles Myriel Myriel is the Bishop of Digne, a kind and generous man who gives Jean Valjean aid when everyone else refuses him. Searching for a place to spend the night, the ex-convict finds that he is a branded man and no inn will let him stay. His last resort is the home of the bishop, who takes him in and treats him as an honored guest. After Valjean steals the silverware and is caught by the police, the bishop protects him by insisting that the silver was actually a gift. The bishop’s selfless act inspires Valjean to change his life.
in his power. Marius worships his father as a hero and is strongly influenced by his political beliefs.
Marius Pontmercy Marius is a young law student who falls in love with Cosette. He also saves Valjean from a plot against his life by the innkeeper-turned-criminal, The´nardier. In turn, Marius is saved by Valjean while fighting on the barricade. He is the son of Georges Pontmercy, a colonel and war hero under Napoleon. But Marius’s grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand, despises Georges and takes Marius into his own home to raise him. Marius is at a stage of life where he does not know yet what he believes. His impression of the world widens as he encounters new points of view. When Marius discovers his father’s identity, he worships him as a war hero and adopts a proNapoleon stance opposed to his grandfather’s royalism. He gets into a quarrel with Gillenormand and storms out of the house to make his way through Paris as a starving student. Marius falls in with a group of students, led by Enjolras, who share his republican beliefs. At first he is reluctant to give up his belief that conquest and war are the greatest ideals of a nation. But he begins to have doubts when the students present him with a new ideal, freedom. When unrest stirs Paris in 1832 and his friends take up arms, he joins them on the barricades. However, this action is more one of desperation, because he fears he has lost Cosette, than out of political conviction. He is lured there by the voice of the street girl Eponine, telling him that his friends await him.
Jean Prouvaire Jean Prouvaire is a member of the ABC Society of students and workers. A wealthy student, he is interested in social questions but is also a poet and lover with a romantic side.
Colonel Pontmercy A hero of the Napoleonic wars, Colonel Pontmercy marries Gillenormand’s youngest daughter and has a son, Marius. The villainous innkeeper, The´nardier, drags Pontmercy to safety from the battlefield of Waterloo. Although Marius does not meet his father, Pontmercy watches him from afar in church and loves his son. He leaves Marius a note telling him to adopt the title of Baron (Napoleon gave it to Pontmercy on the field of battle) and to do The´nardier every good
3 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
Eponine The´nardier The poor daughter of the The´nardiers, Eponine The´nardier falls in love with Marius and becomes jealous of his love for Cosette. She is torn between wanting to help him and wanting to keep him away from Cosette. She courageously saves his life on the barricade by stepping between him and a bullet and dies in his arms. Her life is an example of poverty’s degradation.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
Gavroche The´nardier Gavroche The´nardier is a Parisian urchin (street child), the son of the villainous The´nardiers. Lively and clever, he lives by his wits. He dies by them as well and proves his courage, getting shot by soldiers when he is teasing them on the barricade. His fate is interwoven with that of Marius, Cosette, and the The´nardiers. The novel presents him as poor and homeless, but enjoying his freedom.
Madame The´nardier The coarse wife of the innkeeper The´nardier, Madame The´nardier takes in Fantine’s daughter, Cosette. But she treats her like a Cinderella, feeding and clothing her poorly and making her do the worst work in the household. She helps hatch a plot to entrap Valjean and steal his fortune, but instead ends up in prison. The narrator states that she is naturally cruel and scheming and offers her as an example of those who commit crimes not because they are driven to it, but because it suits them.
Monsieur The´nardier The unscrupulous innkeeper Monsieur The´nardier and his wife take care of Cosette, but treat her poorly. He embarks on a life of crime, getting involved with the worst criminals in Paris, and attempts to entrap and rob Valjean. Although he ends up in prison, he escapes. He helps Valjean escape from the sewers when Valjean is trapped there with Marius. The´nardier plays a central part in the plot. He does good in spite of his evil intentions, not knowing what the consequences of his own actions will be.
` Felix Tholomyes ` is A wealthy, rakish student, Felix Tholomyes Fantine’s lover for a while and then abandons her. Their affair ruins Fantine. She becomes pregnant and cannot earn enough to save herself and her child.
Jean Valjean The protagonist, Jean Valjean is an ex-convict who struggles to redeem himself morally and to find acceptance in a society that rejects him as a former criminal. Valjean’s process of redemption is the central plot of Les Mise´rables. The child of a poor peasant family, Valjean loses both his parents at an early age and moves in with an older sister. When her husband dies, Valjean supports her and her seven children by
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
pruning trees. Unable to feed the family on his earnings, he steals a loaf of bread from a baker and ends up serving nineteen years in prison for his crime. When he escapes, he discovers that he cannot find lodging, work, or acceptance in the outside world. As an ex-convict he is at the bottom of the social order. But Valjean has a transforming experience when he meets the bishop of Digne, who accepts and shelters him regardless of his past, even after Valjean tries to steal from him. Here Valjean experiences unconditional love and finds a reason for living that sustains him through all of his trials. And they are many. He lives on the run from two forces: the justice of the law, represented by Javert, a police detective who doggedly pursues him, and his own conscience, which leads him to make difficult choices. In all of his actions, he strives to be honorable and generous.
THEMES Change and Transformation The most important theme the novel examines is that of transformation, in the individual and in society. Jean Valjean, the chief protagonist, is transformed from a misanthropic and potentially violent ex-convict to a man capable of heroic love and self-sacrifice. The force that transforms him is love. The Bishop of Digne offers Valjean unconditional love, trusting the former criminal with his life and giving him all that he can. Valjean finds inspiration for an entirely new life from this example. He learns to put another person first when he raises Cosette as his own daughter, and he endures moral trials, such as risking his life to rescue Marius, who loves Cosette and whom Valjean hates. On the broader scale, the workers and students on the barricade fight for social transformation to create a new France, free of injustice and poverty.
Human Rights Closely related to the theme of transformation is that of human rights, which is the purpose for the barricade and what the students, workers, and downtrodden poor people of Paris want. The novel offers many examples of the violation of human rights. Valjean steals a loaf of bread because he has hungry children to feed. The law punishes him for nineteen years because of this
V o l u m e
1
3 8 3
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Divide the class into groups, with each group researching online and in the library on one of the following topics concerning current prison conditions in the United States: living conditions, job training/education, legal protections, or medical services. Compare current prison experience to Valjean’s as described in the novel. Present reports to the class using PowerPoint or other media. For a class discussion, consider the ethical issues surrounding imprisonment that the novel raises in book two, chapter seven (‘‘The Inwardness of Despair’’). Does Hugo see prison as an effective means of punishing criminals? Does prison reform criminals, according to Hugo, or does it make them more violent? How does the author suggest prisoners should be treated? Use examples from the book to support your answers.
3 8 4
Choose a research question on the subject of poverty from a list that your teacher has prepared on the economic, legal, and social definition of poverty in the United States today. What services are in place to assist those in poverty (think in terms of welfare, legal aid, court-appointed attorneys, food stamps, WIC, disability and unemployment insurance, and so forth. As a class, share your findings and create a ‘‘Then & Now’’ list on the board to compare your findings to the conditions of poverty in Paris as described in the novel. Bonus: find out what similar services are available in France. Select a movie version of Les Mise´rables and study how it varies from the novel and what the differences contribute to the work’s overall message. Give a presentation to the class, using clips from the movie as illustration, to explain how another version of a work of art communicates the original work’s meaning or changes it.
E p i c s
f o r
petty crime, and Valjean finds little peace at the end of his term. The police inspector Javert pursues him almost to the grave for the theft of a coin. Fantine loves a man who abandons her, and she ends up as a prostitute. She sacrifices her child and her body just to survive. Even worse, when she does defend her human dignity and accuses a bourgeois gentleman of assault, the police arrest her. As the novel presents it, the aim of revolution is to create a society in which all individuals have equal rights, in which poverty itself is undesirable and not the people who suffer from it.
Class Conflict The central struggle is also a class conflict: Revolution mobilizes the have-nots against the haves. The working-class of Paris is presented as an ominous force, ready to throw up a barricade at a moment’s notice. The barricade marks the site where the life-and-death struggle of the disenfranchised and the government takes place. The students and workers join and fight to create a new and better nation, even at the cost of their lives. Enjolras, their leader, puts it eloquently when he says: ‘‘[This] is the hard price that must be paid for the future. A revolution is a toll-gate. But mankind will be liberated, uplifted and consoled. We here affirm it, on this barricade.’’
Justice and Injustice Another major question the novel deals with is whether the legal institutions of the state achieve justice. While he is in prison, the convict Jean Valjean considers the question of whether he has been treated fairly. Readers must wonder if his crime, stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family, really merits the punishment he receives, four years of imprisonment that stretch to nineteen when he tries to escape. Valjean asks himself this question: whether human society had the right to . . . grind a poor man between the millstones of need and excess need of work and excess of punishment. Was it not monstrous that society should treat in this fashion precisely those least favored in the distribution of wealth . . . ?
He comes to the conclusion that, although he did commit a reprehensible crime, the punishment is out of proportion, and as a result, he develops an intense hatred for society as a whole. Fantine meets the same fate when she defends herself against attack. As a prostitute, she is on the bottom rung of society; the law offers her no protection.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
STYLE Structure In some ways the novel is structured traditionally. It has a rising action, meaning the part of the narrative that sets up the problems that are to be resolved. This part consists of Valjean’s life up to the point when he saves his enemy Marius by carrying him through the sewers of Paris to safety. The climax, or turning point, when the conflict reaches its peak, is the suicide of the police detective Javert. Caught between his rigid belief in the letter of the law and his conclusion that he has a moral obligation to break the law and free his savior, Valjean, Javert solves his dilemma by killing himself. The denouement, or winding-down of the story, which describes the outcome of the primary plot problem as well as resolving secondary plots, includes Marius’s recovery, the marriage of Cosette and Marius, the revelation of Valjean’s true story, and the young couple’s visit to Valjean’s deathbed.
Illustration by Emile Bayard for the 1862 edition of Hugo’s novel. The original caption read ‘‘Javert on the hunt.’’ (Ó Lebrecht Music and Arts Photo Library / Alamy)
Only respectable people with money appear to have any legal rights. The fact that the French noun mise´rables signifies both the poor people and scoundrels is apt: In the society Hugo depicts, poor people are treated as though they are evil; the legal system favors people with money, that is, people it views as good.
Meaning of Life Valjean’s great discovery, the one that transforms him, is that the meaning of life lies in love. His love is twofold, both the generalized love for one’s fellow creatures that the Bishop of Digne shows toward him and the specific love for another person that he feels for Cosette. Summing up this philosophy at the end of his life, Valjean says to Cosette and Marius: ‘‘Love one another always. There is nothing else that matters in this world except love.’’
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
But the narrative’s many departures from the main plot are important to the novel as well. The novel includes separate sections on the sewers of Paris, the criminal underworld, the convent, Parisian street slang, the Battle of Waterloo, revolutionary societies, and the barricades. Hugo tells more than the story of one man; he tells the story of Paris. His digressions, although they do develop the plot (move it forward), give the reader information about the novel’s themes, such as human rights, justice and injustice, class conflict, and the city. Hugo is primarily concerned not so much with narrating a story, but with criticizing society and presenting his notions of reform. It is important to keep in mind that in 1862, Hugo looked back thirty years to a politically unstable period in France following the defeat of Napoleon I at Waterloo. He viewed this period with the advantage of hindsight. From that vantage point, he could see the causes for social unrest and revolution and knew its outcome. In this sense, then, the novel is his way of examining a world that was transformed by social and political upheaval, and in that framework, he examines it with the closeup narrative of certain characters and with an historical perspective about the world in which these characters live.
Point of View The story is told from a third-person omniscient point of view. Omniscient narrators have an allknowing view, knowing more than their characters
V o l u m e
1
3 8 5
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
do. The narrator breaks in several times to equate himself with the author. For example, at the beginning of the Waterloo episode, the narrator says: ‘‘On a fine May morning last year (that is to say, in the year 1861) a traveller, the author of this tale, walked from Nivelles in the direction of La Hulpe.’’ Clearly, since Hugo was born in 1802, this narrator is not the author himself, but a persona, a fictional persona sharing some traits in common with the author. Also in describing Paris, he states: ‘‘For some years past the author of this book, who regrets the necessity to speak of himself, has been absent from Paris.’’ Although generally there is a distinction between the author and the narrator of a work, this device blurs the boundary. The novel is a vehicle of expression for Hugo’s social views. Whenever the narrator is not describing the actions, thoughts, and speech of the characters, the voice of authority emerges, for example, in discussions of Parisian street urchins, the sewers, the underworld, and the barricades. The narrator pulls back from the characters to look at the broader scene.
Setting For most of the novel, the setting is Paris around 1830, and the city becomes a character in its own right. The narrative devotes almost as much space to Pairs as to the novel’s protagonist, Valjean. It is a dark, gloomy, and sinister place, full of plaguecarrying winds and polluting sewers, rotting old districts and slums. Its secretive parts are a blessing, though, for Valjean, who seeks refuge in dark corners. The narrow alleys lend themselves, too, to the building of barricades. The narrative also presents Paris as a microcosm, reflecting the world as a whole, the macrocosm. The narrator states: ‘‘Paris stands for the world. Paris is a sum total, the ceiling of the human race. . . . To observe Paris is to review the whole course of history.’’ Paris also has areas of beauty and tranquility, such as the Luxembourg Garden on a fair day, but even here discontent lurks in the form of two hungry boys wandering in search of food. The novel presents Paris in all its wretchedness and grandeur, and the urban environment has power over those who live in it. Some characters, such as The´nardier, an innkeeper who gets involved with the worst criminal elements of the city, are corrupted by local temptations and hardships. Others, like Gavroche, the street urchin who is The´nardier’s son, demonstrate courage and compassion in spite of their circumstances. For Valjean, Paris is both a refuge and a testing-
3 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
ground. Diverse aspects of the city are portrayed, including the convents, the argot (slang) spoken on the streets, the city center, its half-tamed outskirts, its rooftops, its sewers. Then, too, the sewer system of Paris symbolizes the dark underside of the city, where its secret history is stored. Most of all, the citizens of Paris convey the city’s mixed character. The novel presents a sprawling picture of the Parisian society: criminals, orphans, students, the middle class, and others.
Symbolism On a grand scale, the novel employs symbolism, the use of one object to represent another. Paris stands for the world. Gavroche symbolizes the heroism of the average individual. The city sewers represent the seamy underside of Paris, filled with scraps of history, both good and evil, that have been discarded and forgotten, but not destroyed. The sewers also represent Valjean’s passage through hell to redemption. He carries Marius to safety on his back through the sewer passages like a martyr bearing a cross. A pair of silver candlesticks, stolen from the bishop, serves for Valjean as a symbolic reminder of where he has come from and how he should act. In these and other ways, the objects in the novel and specific events enacted in it underscore the work’s themes.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Romanticism Romanticism was an intellectual and artistic movement that swept Europe and the United States in the late-eighteenth to the mid-nineteenth century. This movement was preceded by the Enlightenment, which emphasized reason as the basis of social structure and pursuit of knowledge. The Enlightenment also promoted universal, formal standards, dating back to Greek and Roman classicism, for principles in art. The artists, philosophers, writers, and composers of the romantic movement rejected these standards and instead valued the individual imagination and immediate felt experience as the basis of art and source of truth. Nature, the state of childhood, and emotion, rather than logic or scientific investigation, were considered primary sources of eternal truth. Victor Hugo was one of the leading writers of the romantic movement in France, and Les Mise´rables was one of its major works. The novel is romantic in style and theme. It is written in a sweeping,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1830s: Under public pressure, French legislators reform prisons to some extent. They abolish some of the more barbaric forms of punishment that have been practiced under the Ancien Re´gime such as torture and hanging and offer education for petty offenders. 1850s: As a result of unemployment caused by industrialization, crime rates rise in France and the prison population increases. Inmates are not allowed to speak to each other. Riots and suicides take place in prisons.
Today: France has the worst prison conditions in Europe because the prisons are old (more than half built before World War I), overcrowded, and filthy, and defendants and inmates reputedly receive harsh treatment. French prisons have been condemned several times by the European Court of Human Rights. Heightened public awareness of the situation, however, may lead to reform. 1830s: France begins to be an industrialized nation, a process that eventually and totally transforms its economy, workplace, working class, and political landscape. 1850s: Increasing industrialization brings a rising middle class to France as well as increasing unemployment. Lack of work drives thousands of poor women into prostitution and many of the urban poor into crime. Today: Unemployment in France is the third highest in Europe behind Spain and Ireland; however, an economic upturn is expected. Young people between the ages of fifteen and
emotional manner, taking the experience of the individual as the starting-point for discovering truths about French society.
Revolution France in the late eighteenth century and well into the nineteenth century suffered from political and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
twenty-four have an unemployment rate of 20 to 25 percent, but subsidies for apprenticeship contracts are offered as are incentives for hiring and training unskilled workers.
1830s: Antigovernment protesters set up barricades in Paris after Charles X publishes three ordinances to abolish freedom of the press, dissolve Parliament, and limit voting rights to 25,000 landed proprietors. The 1830 revolution successfully removes Charles from the throne; succeeding him is Louis Phillippe. 1850s: A bloody protest occurs in Paris in 1848, removing Louis Phillippe from power and creating a provisional government that extends the right to vote and set up national workshops to combat unemployment. In 1848, Louis Napoleon (1808–1873), the nephew of Napoleon I, is elected president, but in 1851, he leads a coup to become dictator and then ascends as king, becoming Napoleon III exactly forty-eight years after Napoleon I was crowned. Today: France has functioned under the constitution of its Fifth Republic since 1958; it has a president who controls foreign affairs and defense, a prime minister who heads the government and domestic policy, and its Parliament consists of the Senate and the National Assembly. France is part of the European Union, a community of countries that shares a common currency and creates a formidable trading bloc.
social unrest. In 1789, the newly formed National Assembly created a document, Declaration of the Rights of Man, establishing the right to liberty, equality, property, and security, and adding that every citizen had a duty to defend these rights. After Louis XVI was executed on January 21, 1793, a period of confusion and violence followed.
V o l u m e
1
3 8 7
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Frederic March as Jean Valjean in the 1935 film version of Les Mise´ rables (The Kobal Collection / The Picture Desk Inc. Reproduced by permission.)
Many people, the innocent along with the guilty, were executed in the aftermath of the French Revolution, a period known as the Reign of Terror. With the bloody departure of the monarchy, the legislature appointed a five-man Directory in 1795. But conspirators, including Napoleon Bonaparte, staged a coup d’e´tat, or surprise overthrow of the state, in 1799. Napoleon became dictator and then crowned himself king, remaining in power until he was completely defeated at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Hugo’s novel Les Mise´rables begins with this historic battle. From 1815 until 1830, France was ruled by Louis XVIII and then Charles X under the Second Restoration. During this time, the French used a constitutional monarchy where the king governed alongside an elected parliament. This was a comparatively tranquil and prosperous period. In 1830, Charles X published ordinances dissolving Parliament, limiting voting rights to
3 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
land owners, and abolishing freedom of the press, actions that fomented another revolution. Charles was forced from the throne and replaced by Louis Philippe, the so-called citizen king who had fought in the French Revolution. This was a triumph for the middle class, but it left the working class and poor people without a voice. The insurrection of 1832, the first Republican uprising since 1789, started with the burial of Jean Maximilien Lamarque (1770–1832), a Revolutionary hero. Republicans shouted, ‘‘Down with Louis Philippe!’’ The barricades went up, and a violent clash ensued. The forces on the barricades, composed mainly of students and workers, lacked public support, and the rebellion was put down by government forces. In 1848, a new wave of revolution swept across Europe, triggered by the political unrest of bourgeois liberals and nationalists, crop failures several years in a row, and widespread economic troubles.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
In France, Louis Philippe was driven from his throne. After a bloody struggle between the working-class and the middle-class provisional government in Paris, the Second Republic was established with a mainly middle-class national assembly and Louis Napoleon, nephew of Napoleon I, elected as president. Hugo was sympathetic to the 1848 revolution, became a representative in the assembly, and initially supported Louis Napoleon. However, in 1851, the president assumed control of France in a military coup d’e´tat, and in 1852 the population voted to disband the republic and reestablish the empire. Hugo was disillusioned with both the French people who were willing to exchange freedom for stability and with Napoleon III, who had traded in his republican opinions to become a dictator and then king. Publicly criticizing the government and Louis Napoleon, Hugo was forced to leave France, going first for Belgium and then to the Channel Islands. Les Mise´rables, which Hugo composed from the late 1840s to 1862 during his exile, integrated his feelings about the political situation, his memories of the barricades of 1848, and his republican ideals. The novel denounces the degradation of the urban working class and widespread mistreatment and neglect of the poor, especially women and children.
Industrialization The continuing industrialization of France in the 1850s and 1860s created wealth for the owners of production, and it increased unemployment and poverty as machines replaced manual laborers in many jobs. This situation in turn led to an increase in crime. Poor working women turned to prostitution as a means of survival. They worked under the scrutiny of a Police Morals Bureau, which considered them corrupt. The character of Jean Valjean was drawn from a historical person, the petty thief Pierre Maurin who spent five years in prison for stealing bread for his sister’s children. Hugo draws a clear distinction in the novel between those who choose crime because they are corrupt and those who are driven to it by poverty and desperation. On the one hand, there is The´nardier, who is by nature ‘‘highly susceptible to the encroachments of evil.’’ On the other, there is Valjean, who stole only to save his family, and Fantine, who suffered for protecting her own child. The narrator blames society’s indifference and injustice for the situation of those who fall in the latter category.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Publishers bid against each other for the right to publish Les Mise´rables, no doubt sensing that the novel would be a gold mine. It had been awaited for years. The author’s exile to Guernsey only increased his international reputation and the suspense of waiting for his next major work. Hugo received an unprecedented 300,000 francs as the advance payment for the novel but the publishers more than realized their investment when the book came out. Les Mise´rables appeared in 1862, published by LaCroix of Brussels and Paris. It appeared simultaneously in Paris, London, Brussels, New York, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and other European capitals. Published initially in five parts and divided into ten volumes, the novel was released in three separate installments in April, May, and June. Hugo’s family and friends gave it a huge build-up in the press, advertising its release for a month in advance in all the major papers of Europe. Rumors that it might be banned in France built up the suspense even more. The book-buying public gave it an enthusiastic reception. Booksellers in Paris lined up to buy the second installment in such great numbers that police were needed to manage the crowd. It was an enormous success for its publishers and its author. Popularity was so great that available copies sold out immediately. The critical reception, by contrast, was mixed. Some of his contemporaries perceived Hugo’s style as long-winded, digressive, melodramatic, and full of unlikely coincidences. Others were inspired by his sweeping, passionate prose, championing of social issues and ideals of justice and morality. On the negative side, many critics disliked the novel’s digressions from the main plot, especially the long account of Waterloo. Adolphe Thiers, a historian, said the novel was detestable. The writer Barbey D’Aure´villy found the novel vulgar and full of improbabilities and criticized it for its socialist views. Hippolyte Taine, a critic and historian, thought the novel was insincere and its success was only temporary. Martyn Lyons, writing on readers and society in Hugo’s time, reported that Father Bethle´em, who founded the monthly journal Romans-revue in 1908 to provide reviews for Christian readers, condemned the book as subversive socialism for its invention of a rehabilitated convict and its sympathies for an unwed mother and the Revolution.
V o l u m e
1
3 8 9
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
On the positive side, the poet Charles Baudelaire offered praise for the work’s poetic and symbolic qualities. The English novelist George Meredith, though he thought it was drawn in oversimplified terms, thought the novel was a masterpiece. The great Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky considered Les Mise´rables superior to his own Crime and Punishment and saw Hugo as a champion of the idea of spiritual rebirth. Walter Pater was of the opinion that Hugo’s works were among the finest products of the romantic movement. In the first half of the twentieth century, Hugo’s reputation as a novelist waned, perhaps because of changes in the taste of writers and readers. First the realist then the modernist writers swept through the literary scene, and these writers debunked the previous romantic style as they created new ones. Les Mise´rables had achieved its stellar success partly because of the timing of its release. It was the longawaited work of a national hero returning from exile, and that historical moment passed, along with Hugo’s great impact on national opinion. But many writers, including Andre´ Gide and Jean-Paul Sartre, acknowledged his lasting influence. Hugo’s works are still widely read in the early 2000s, and he has his modern defenders. The literary critic Victor Brombert, for example, commented: ‘‘The dramatic and psychological power of Hugo’s novels depends in large part on the creation of archetypal figures. . . . The sweep of his texts and the moving, even haunting images they project are a function of the widest range of rhetorical virtuosity.’’ Les Mise´rables passed into modern legend in its well-known and popular adaptations for the movies and the stage, and it had proved itself arguably the most important romantic novel of the nineteenth century.
CRITICISM Anne-Sophie Cerisola Cerisola is a former teacher at the Lycee Francais de New York. In this essay, she provides some background information on the novel’s reception and critical assessment. Victor Hugo took seventeen years to write Les Mise´rables, his vast fresco of individual and collective destinies, which was published in 1862 when he was sixty years old. The novel is the parallel story of the redemption of Jean Valjean and France—and to a larger extent, the story of
3 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
IMBUED WITH THE NEW TESTAMENT VALUES OF GRACE, CHARITY, SELF SACRIFICE, AND UNCONDITIONAL LOVE, THE NOVEL DEPICTED THE STRUGGLES OF HUMAN CONSCIENCE WITH TEMPTATION AND THE EVENTUAL TRIUMPH OF DUTY OVER PASSION AND OF FREEDOM OVER NATURE.’’
human political and social progress. Above all, Hugo intended Les Mise´rables to be a novel about the people, and for the people, and he largely succeeded. When Les Mise´rables was published, it appeared simultaneously in Paris, London, Budapest, Brussels, Leipzig, Madrid, Milan, and Naples and was translated into many other languages. The novel’s extraordinary success has continued ever since, and understandably so: It is a gripping story well told. The book appeared with considerable publicity, and the response surprised even the most committed Hugo partisans. According to reports at the time, no one had ever seen a book devoured with such fury: Public reading rooms rented it by the hour. Within three days, the first printing was sold out in Paris. The novel’s power derived from its simple message. Humans are not inherently evil; they are made so by an unjust society. In the preface to the novel, Hugo wrote emphatically: ‘‘So long as the three problems of the age—the degradation of man by poverty, the ruin of woman by starvation, and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night—are not yet solved . . . books like this cannot be useless.’’ Jean Valjean was the perfect illustration of this principle. Valjean was not by nature a criminal. The motive that led him to steal bread, the origin of his fall, was not evil. He was seeking to provide food for hungry children, his sister’s offspring, only out of desperation. But his years of prison harden him. ‘‘He had for his motives,’’ writes Hugo, ‘‘habitual indignation, bitterness of soul, the profound feeling of iniquities endured, and reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the just, if such exist.’’
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Victor Hugo’s novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame was published in 1831.
Marie-Henri Beyle Stendhal offers a detailed account of the Battle of Waterloo in The Charterhouse of Parma, originally published in 1839, but still in demand as a romantic thriller with new editions published by Penguin Classics in 2007 and Oxford World’s Classics in 2009. The main theme of this novel is the struggle of the individual against a conformist society. Charles Baudelaire’s 1857 The Flowers of Evil is a collection of poems centered on life in Paris. One of the major poetry collections of the century, it bridged the romantic and modernist movements. It was reprinted by Create Space in 2009. Baudelaire was Hugo’s contemporary and often reviewed his work. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1866) tells the story of a man who commits a brutal murder and then cannot escape either his own conscience or the detective who pursues him.
Native Son (1940), a novel by Richard Wright, is the story of Bigger Thomas, a poor black boy raised in the Chicago slums. Wright describes how Bigger’s fear of white society and its fear of him turn him into a criminal.
In the Belly of the Beast is an insider’s account of prison life written by the controversial Jack Henry Abbott, a convict. Abbott was released after he published the book in 1991, at the urging of a group of writers, including Norman Mailer. Shortly thereafter, he killed a man in a bar brawl and was sentenced to life imprisonment.
The Hunchback Assignments (2009), by Arthur Slade, is a young adult novel that combines elements of Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen into a story about a hunchback boy with the power to change appearance who is hired by a spy agency in Victorian England.
The story of his conversion is exemplary. As Monsieur Madeleine of Montreuil-sur-mer, he is the good industrialist, the admirably just and efficient mayor, the caring philanthropist. Forced by the news of the imminent exile to the galleys of the innocent Champmathieu, who has been identified as Jean Valjean, he reluctantly fights again with his demons. From this ordeal, minutely analyzed in the chapter, ‘‘A Tempest in a Brain,’’ Valjean emerges triumphant, saves Champmathieu in time, and goes himself again to the galleys. After his escape, his life is a long record of care and self-sacrifice to Cosette, his adopted daughter. Even with Marius and his love for Cosette, Valjean is able not only to dominate his jealousy but to save the life of Marius (the famous episode of the sewers) and make possible the marriage of Marius and Cosette.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Moreover, Hugo draws constant analogies between Valjean’s spiritual progress and the human striving toward freedom and social justice. The fight for justice and freedom is led by Marius’s group of radical friends, the Friends of the Underdog, and in particular Enjolras, whose speech on the barricades echoes most of Hugo’s ideas: the nineteenth century is grand, but the twentieth century will be happy. Men will no longer have to fear, as now, a conquest, an invasion, a usurpa tion, a rivalry of nations with the armed hand . . . they will no longer have to fear famine, specula tion, prostitution from distress, misery from lack of work, and the scaffold, and the sword, and the battle, and all the brigandages of chance in the forest of events. . . . Men will be happy. . . . Oh! the human race shall be delivered, uplifted, and con soled! We affirm it on this barricade.
V o l u m e
1
3 9 1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
However, the young radicals die on the barricades, and Hugo sometimes seems pessimistic about the outcome of the fight. Despite the talk of progress, nothing much has changed for most people. Each following generation of the poor and uneducated are destined to face the same injustice and moral disintegration. Given that he wrote Les Mise´rables late in life, Hugo also wanted to leave a personal testimony on his own political fights. One of the central characters in the novel, Marius, passes through an intellectual evolution closely similar to the author’s. At first strongly royalist, then Bonapartist, later Republican, Marius fights for his convictions on the barricades. Hugo was born in 1802 to a royalist mother and a republican father who was one of Napoleon’s generals. By the time he was one years old, his parents were not living together anymore. Since he was often left by himself, he sought fulfillment in and through art. He wrote plays by the age of fourteen and read widely, for example, the novels of Sir Walter Scott, and by the time he was sixteen, he had written his first work of fiction, about a black rebel hero who foreshadows Valjean. Hugo’s poetry gave him national recognition, including a royal pension, before he had reached the age of eighteen. At first aesthetically and politically conservative, within years he backed the new school of innovators—Lamartine, Musset, Nodier, Vigny—who were labeled romantics. In 1830, his first play, Hernani, broke completely with dramatic conventions. Hugo became the leader of this group of writers, most of them democrats in a regime that suppressed civil liberties. However, only the 1848 Revolution— the model for the insurrection described in the novel—spawned a republic, which Hugo supported vigorously. He was even elected to the Parliament, on the left. The Republic did not last long. LouisNapoleon Bonaparte, whom Hugo had first supported, overthrew the young republic three years later in 1852 and became emperor. Hugo, who never hid his own republicanism, had to flee abroad to avoid arrest. It is from exile that he wrote Les Mise´rables. Since his earlier work, Hugo believed in the importance of the illusion of reality, what he called verisimilitude. Very often in the novel, Hugo pretends that he is copying from notes left by Myriel or Valjean. He quotes pseudonewspaper articles and letters purported to have come into his possession: everything must
3 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
suggest authenticity. In truth, he did work with various kinds of source material, and at least two characters of the novel, Bishop Myriel and Valjean, were inspired by real people whose story Hugo had read. Finally, Hugo was careful to have each character speak according to the language of his or her social class. So much so that when the novel came out he was accused by some critics of being low class. For example, Gavroche, the street urchin, always speaks slang, even to the two little orphans he has just met and for whom he buys some bread. Finally, like The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Hugo’s earlier historical novel, Les Mise´rables multiplies the digressions—on Waterloo, on slang, on the sewers—in an effort to give the historical background of the story. Various readers have noted that without its digressions, Les Mise´rables would be much less extraordinary representative of the nineteenth century. In its final form, the novel delivers the lesson of Valjean along with important historical information about a certain time and place. Hugo justified himself by saying he wanted to create a contemporary work of fiction that would rival such great national verse epics as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Les Mise´rables is arguably in their class, if for no other reason than it creates a world and its history as these other great epic works do. The political content of the novel divided the critics of the time. While popular opinion was virtually unanimous, the many critical assessments— by about one hundred and fifty reviewers in 1862 alone—fell roughly into two camps. Political, social, and religious conservatives assailed the author’s integrity, his motives, his intentions; to blame society for human suffering was, according to them, to deny individual responsibility and to undermine existing institutions. The more progressive, republican critics, by contrast, defended the novel as profoundly moral. Imbued with the New Testament values of grace, charity, self-sacrifice, and unconditional love, the novel depicted the struggles of human conscience with temptation and the eventual triumph of duty over passion and of freedom over nature. Critics were also uncertain about the genre and the composition of the book. Indeed, Hugo’s ambitious goal complicated the structure of the book. There is little linearity and numerous echoes and parallels, while the narration goes back and forth in time. The effect is somewhat disorienting for the reader who has problems following
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
HUGO INSISTS ON EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES, NOTABLY, ON THE BRUTALIZATION OF THE POOR BY SOCIETY. . . . HE, LIKE HIS CONTEMPORARY CHARLES DICKENS, DECONSTRUCTS THE SIMPLISTIC DICHOTOMY OF INNOCENCE AND CRIME THAT ALLOWS US TO EVADE SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY.’’
HUGO’S SOCIAL VIEWS
The musical version of Les Mise´ rables, produced by Cameron Mackintosh, became one of the longest-running American musicals in history.
Admired for his poetry and respected for his theater, which provided the main impetus for the militant romantic movement from 1827 through 1838, Hugo as a novelist has been severely underrated. Les Mise´rables (The Underclass) in particular may be more than his masterpiece: it may be ‘‘the great French novel’’ of the nineteenth century. Its sweep rivals Melville’s Moby Dick, Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and Manzoni’s The Betrothed.
Laurence M. Porter
After completing his great visionary poem cycles, Hugo turned eagerly to writing Les Mise´rables (1862). He finished the vast novel in 14 months. Its initial inspiration was probably his Dernier Jour d’un condamne´ a` mort (The Last Day on Death Row, 1829). There Hugo dramatized the plight of prisoners in the galleys at Toulon, especially one sentenced to five years for stealing a loaf of bread. Hugo insists on extenuating circumstances, notably, on the brutalization of the poor by society. ‘‘There but for the grace of God go I,’’ might be his hypogram, the matrix of his meaning. With it he, like his contemporary Charles Dickens, deconstructs the simplistic dichotomy of innocence and crime that allows us to evade social responsibility. Hugo’s attribution of near-satanic resentment to Jean Valjean seems overblown when we consider his behavior. His only actual crimes are two acts of petty larceny, plus a third of which he is falsely accused (stealing a loaf of bread, a coin, and some apples), but Hugo is making the point that he made in Claude Gueux: harsh law enforcement breeds the monsters it wants to eliminate.
In this essay, Porter provides an overview of various positions that Hugo focuses on in his epic.
Hugo himself had been a prisoner of conscience since 1851, remaining in voluntary exile
(JB Reed / Bloomberg via Getty Images)
the narration, as if Hugo were playing with his reader’s patience. Adding to this unconventional narrative style, the novel defies any attempt at classification. The mingling of literary styles—le melange des genres—was a hallmark of French romanticism since the 1820s. As a consequence, Les Mise´rables is a blend of epic, myth, and dramatic and lyrical components. Its contrary elements of the grotesque and sublime, satire and romance, comedy and tragedy, and realism and romanticism led many critics to exclaim that the novel did not fit into any one genre. Maybe it cannot, and yet, it still makes people dream. Source: Anne Sophie Cerisola, Critical Essay on Les Mis e´rables, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learn ing, 2011.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
3 9 3
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
because he refused to accept Napoleon III’s empire. Compensating for his exile in his thoughts, he makes a mental return to Paris, where he situates his epic novel, Les Mise´rables. The loving precision of his detailed Parisian topography there combines the realistic with the nostalgic. Frequently he describes a vanished scene and adds that he’s not sure what one would find there now. ‘‘[The author] doesn’t need to say he loves Paris; Paris is the birthplace of his intellect. Today demolitions and reconstructions have made the Paris of his youth, that Paris he religiously bore away in his memory, a Paris of former times. But let him speak of that Paris as if it still existed. He doesn’t know the new Paris, and he is writing with the [image of the] former Paris before his eyes, an illusion that is precious to him.’’ Hugo’s reminiscences of Paris often carry an implied symbolic commentary on how ephemeral neighborhoods and monuments can be. For example, see the passages concerning ‘‘l’e´le´phant de la Bastille.’’ The beast of the Bastille prison that swallowed innocent people before the Revolution has been transformed into an avatar of the whale that God sent to preserve Jonah. Napoleon I had had that monumental plaster elephant statue built—it stood on the site of the former Bastille from 1814 to 1846—to embody the idea of the might of the French people, but ‘‘God had made of it something greater; He housed a child there.’’ Today (in 1862) that grotesque reminder of Napoleon has vanished, Hugo observes. Similarly, the narrow, crooked streets near the Corinth Restaurant, where the rebels of 1832 led by Enjolras made their last stand behind a barricade at the social climax (as opposed to the climax of the personal drama) of Les Mise´rables, have been straightened and widened until no trace of the original site remains.
Some, like the criminal anti-father The´nardier, become indifferent not only to the sufferings of their victims but even to the survival of their own children. When his two youngest boys disappear, he makes no effort to locate them. And he does not care whether his older daughter E´ponine will be killed by other members of his gang for interfering in a burglary. Others such as the police detective Javert, born to a prostitute in prison, and without any family himself, react with uncompromising moral brutality toward the accused.
THE PLOT
His incarceration began in 1796, when Napoleon (who is just his age) first assumed a share of governmental leadership. Valjean’s release in 1815 corresponds to that of the French people, freed from the tyrannical leadership and bloody wars of Napoleon I. The individual spiritual drama reflects French history.
The plot of Hugo’s sprawling, sentimental novel focuses on the redemption of the convict Jean Valjean: first through a bishop’s Christian love for him, and then by Valjean’s love for the orphan girl Cosette. Although he literally cannot live without her, he eventually relinquishes her to the man she loves. Elements of the detective story (the police investigator Javert’s unrelenting search for Jean Valjean, and depictions of the underworld) remind one of nothing so much as a Dickens novel such as Oliver Twist or Our Mutual Friend. Both Hugo’s and Dickens’s major theme is that poverty dehumanizes.
3 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
Dickens and Hugo want to excite our compassion. But their benevolence is paternalistic, and their modest proposals for the voluntary, partial redistribution of wealth—as in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol—could not threaten well-to-do readers. Aside from his steadfast opposition to capital punishment, Hugo offers no practical solutions for reforming the police, the courts, or the prisons. He simply tries to stimulate our moral sensibilities as Fantine’s misadventures and steadfast love for her child stimulated the moral sensibilities of Jean Valjean. Hugo intends the reformed convict to serve as a model for us as Valjean comes to know God, whom Hugo equates with conscience. His message is that of the Gospels: ‘‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me’’ (Matt. 25:40). Eventually, Hugo will explicitly compare Valjean to Christ. A poor young tree pruner at the outset of the story, Jean Valjean is supporting his widowed sister and her seven children. One winter, lacking work and fearing that his relatives will starve, he breaks a bakery window to steal a loaf of bread. He is sentenced to five years in the galleys at Toulon. Four times he tries to escape. Each time he is recaptured, and his sentence is eventually extended to 19 years.
Valjean has become deeply embittered against society because of his excessively harsh punishment. After his release, this attitude is promptly aggravated: his ex-convict’s yellow passport makes everyone scorn and reject him. Only a saintly bishop, Monseigneur Myriel, is willing to give him lodging for the night. But Valjean cannot resist
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
stealing the bishop’s last remaining luxuries, his silver place settings. Valjean flees in the night. He is arrested and brought back, but the bishop saves him from imprisonment by saying he had given the place settings to Valjean. The bishop then adds two silver candlesticks, which his guest had ‘‘forgotten.’’ As Jean Valjean is released, and about to set off again, the bishop whispers in his ear that he has purchased Valjean’s soul with his gifts and that Valjean has promised him henceforth to embrace the good. Hugo’s depiction is not simplistic; the bishop’s beneficent influence will work progressively but intermittently on Jean Valjean. On the road north, impulse and residual rage lead Valjean to steal a coin from a little chimney sweep (a crime that will pursue him for the remainder of the novel), but then he repents and resolves to lead a virtuous life. He cannot forget the bishop’s act of kindness. ‘‘He fought against this heavenly indulgence with his pride, which is like the stronghold of evil within us.’’ An inner voice tells Valjean that he must choose between virtue and crime. He is obliged to judge himself; he exclaims: ‘‘Je suis un mise´rable!’’ [I am an abominable man!] The inner image of the bishop’s virtue makes the old selfimage of the hardened, vengeful criminal fade away as if Jean Valjean could contemplate Satan illumined by the glow of paradise. Incognito in a northern village, Valjean becomes the benevolent mayor ‘‘Monsieur Madeleine.’’ His name alludes to Mary Magdalene, the archetype of repentance. With Madeleine’s career, Hugo illustrates a paternalistic ‘‘trickle-down’’ theory of social progress: all redistribution of wealth is voluntary. He ensures the prosperity of an entire community by inventing a superior method for manufacturing glassware. Despite his modest protests, in time he is elected mayor. His period of achievement in this role, from 1815 to 1824, coincides with the first and relatively more liberal period of the French Restoration under Louis XVIII. Meanwhile Fantine, a young working woman impregnated and then abandoned by her cynical Parisian lover, has returned to her hometown to find work. Hugo has not received due credit for anticipating the naturalist movement in the chapters devoted to her life both in Paris and in her hometown. I would define naturalist literature as treating the working classes seriously and tragically while emphasizing the influences of heredity and environment. Naturalism tends to depict
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
drudgery. In the Paris scenes, however, Hugo depicts the grisettes (young women who wore gray smocks at their jobs, and who were stereotypically easy targets for seduction) at play rather than at work. And he emphasizes the inequities of their sexual exploitation by middle-class men in a way Zola, with his sexual insecurities, could not (cf. Zola’s Nana, 1880, depicting female sexuality as a monstrous source of social corruption). To be hired, Fantine—although a devoted mother—must conceal her illegitimate child, Cosette. Fantine innocently lodges the child with the evil The´nardier couple and their pampered daughters, E´ponine and Azelma. Unknown to Fantine, Cosette is starved, overworked, beaten, and terrorized. When the manager of M. Madeleine’s glassworks factory learns of Cosette, he fires Fantine. She must turn to prostitution to support her child. Eventually M. Madeleine learns of this situation and promises to reunite Fantine with her child and to care for them both. Ordering her release when she is unjustly accused of assault, he alienates the local police inspector, Javert, who has already sensed something suspicious about M. Madeleine. And soon his conscience compels him to denounce himself when an innocent vagrant, Champmathieu, is falsely accused of stealing apples, mistaken for Jean Valjean, and about to be sentenced to life in the galleys. (This episode may reflect the historical Hugo’s decision to ‘‘go public’’ with his opposition to the coup d’e´tat of Napoleon III, knowing that he would therefore face a possible lifetime in exile, when it would have been much more comfortable and convenient to keep silence.) Valjean has time to hide the fortune he made legitimately in glassware, but the rigid Javert will not allow him to bring Cosette to Fantine before she dies. Jean Valjean returns to prison in 1824, the year when the reactionary monarch Charles X took power. On the spiritual plane, Valjean’s renunciation of his freedom saves him from selfrighteousness, the first danger of loving one’s fellow humans: having done good, one feels superior. One must learn to relinquish this prideful, alienating sense of superiority. Considered in isolation, the generalizations with which Hugo characterizes the moral dynamics of his novel later in the story make its outcome seem inevitable: ‘‘The book the reader holds at this moment is from end to end, as a whole and in its details, whatever may be the interruptions, exceptions, or momentary weaknesses, the march from
V o l u m e
1
3 9 5
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
evil to good . . . from the void to God. The point of departure: matter; the point of arrival: the soul. The hydra at the beginning, the angel at the end.’’ In its details, however, Hugo’s moral vision remains too complex to let us assume that even the most saintly influences or the firmest resolve makes anyone’s regeneration a certainty. When Valjean begins actively practicing Christian charity, this new vocation provides him with the rationalizations—based on the importance of his service to others—that almost overwhelm him. The obscure old tree pruner Champmathieu seems expendable, whereas if ‘‘M. Madeleine’’ is arrested, as Valjean knows, the community he has nurtured will collapse. The accidental delays he encounters while rushing to the final session of Champmathieu’s trial tempt Valjean to give up his attempt at exonerating his substitute. He could say he had tried everything in vain (the possibility of his disclosing his identity after Champmathieu’s sentencing never is raised). To escape once more from prison, Valjean feigns a drowning accident; believed dead, he returns to Paris, where all the major characters will converge. With a note from Fantine authorizing him to take Cosette, he reclaims her from the The´nardiers. He brings her to hide with him in Paris. But Javert has been reassigned there and recognizes him. Pursued by Javert, Valjean finally manages to find a haven in a convent as an assistant gardener. (The regular gardener who lets him stay is a man whose life Valjean once saved.) Valjean raises Cosette like a daughter, and they love each other deeply. He is consoled by the thought that she will always stay with him because she will grow up ugly. Through Bishop Myriel, Valjean learned of virtue; but through practicing virtue, he risks falling prey to pride. The accident or providential intervention (the many apparent coincidences in Hugo’s novel constitute an indirect attempt to persuade us that God intervenes in human affairs, while preserving the imperatives of human commitment and responsibility in the overt rhetoric of the narrator) that leads Valjean to the safe shelter of the convent saves him from pride: he must compare his involuntary sufferings as a victim of social inequities and as a convict to the voluntary, altruistic suffering of the nuns. Their example foreshadows Valjean’s voluntary self-sacrifice. Through Cosette, he has learned of love; but his love remains selfish. It is indispensable for him. The narrator speculates that Jean Valjean
3 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
might have needed Cosette’s daughterly love to persevere in virtue. As mayor, he had learned much more than before about social injustice; he had been sent back to prison for doing good; he needed the support of Cosette’s dependency to keep him morally strong. She is schooled in the convent. To prevent her pursuing a false religious vocation, Valjean leaves after seven years, and they live in seclusion. Meanwhile, the The´nardiers as well have come to Paris to join the underworld. Becoming a beautiful young woman, Cosette attracts the attention of a poor young man, Marius. He has been estranged from his royalist grandfather because of his loyalty to his deceased father, a heroic colonel under Napoleon. By moving across Paris, Jean Valjean manages to elude Marius. As yet unrecognized by The´nardier, however, Jean Valjean nevertheless attracts his attention by generously giving alms. With the aid of the formidable Patron-Minette gang, The´nardier tries to kidnap Cosette to hold her for ransom. By coincidence, Marius lives next door to the The´nardiers. Learning of their plan to kidnap and torture Jean Valjean to force him to write a letter that will lure Cosette into their ambush, Marius denounces them to Javert. But then he learns that The´nardier is the man who had saved his father’s life at Waterloo (inadvertently reviving him by stealing the valuables from his unconscious body, left for dead). The dying wish of Marius’s father is that his son will find and repay The´nardier. Therefore Marius feels a sacred obligation to help him under any circumstances. The´nardier’s daughter E´ponine has fallen in love with Marius. She and her family had persecuted Cosette when she stayed with them as a paid boarder and, in effect, as a slave. Now, although Cosette never becomes aware that E´ponine has moved to Paris, the roles have been reversed. Devoted without hope of reward, and self-effacing, E´ponine helps Marius find Cosette again. Cosette and Marius fall helplessly in love and meet at night in Cosette’s garden for a chaste but passionate romance. When The´nardier’s gang stakes out Valjean’s isolated new residence—without realizing that it belongs to their former intended victim— E´ponine drives the gang away and anonymously warns Valjean to move. Valjean plans to flee to England. An accident prevents Cosette from telling Marius where she is going. In despair at not finding her at home, he plans to seek death on the barricades of the insurrection of 1832. As he joins his republican friends there, a sudden political
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
illumination makes his commitment to their cause authentic. Meanwhile Jean Valjean has discovered the imprint of Cosette’s desperate note to Marius on her blotter. He hates Marius for threatening to take away the only person he has ever loved; Valjean must now overcome the second trap of loving. When you love, you can feel a claim on those you love; you must renounce possessiveness and set them free. After an intense inner struggle, Valjean goes to the barricade to protect Marius. Realizing that Marius and she love each other, ‘‘he who had finally come to believe himself incapable of wishing anyone ill, there were times when he felt reopening and rising up against that young man those old depths of his soul where there had once been so much rage.’’ The loss of the person one loves, Hugo says later, is the cruelest, the only true ordeal. Having discovered that Cosette adores Marius in turn, Jean Valjean ‘‘felt right down to the roots of his hair the enormous reawakening of selfishness, and his ego howled within his spiritual abyss.’’ That man who had devoted so much effort to spiritual perfection looked within his soul and saw the specter of hatred there. Hugo does not reproduce the inner debate that leads Valjean at last to the barricade to watch over Marius and eventually to save his life—binding his wounds, carrying him to safety and to medical treatment, and in effect hiding him from prosecution or summary execution for treason. Conscience has its mysteries, Hugo implies. E´ponine simultaneously illustrates a poignant but limited version of sacrifice. Knowing Marius cares only for Cosette, in the name of his friends she summons him to the barricade where they will be fighting, hoping he will die there. But she wants to die first. Disguised as a young worker, she saves Marius by throwing herself in front of a bullet aimed at him. Meanwhile, behind the barricade, Javert has been unmasked as a police spy. Valjean asks permission to be the one to execute him but then secretly sets him free. When the barricade falls to the government troops and Marius collapses wounded and unconscious, Jean Valjean manages to escape through the sewers. He risks drowning or suffocation in the muck as he carries Marius for four miles on his shoulders. At the locked exit, Valjean meets The´nardier, who has taken refuge there from Javert. The´nardier does not recognize Valjean. He thinks that Valjean
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
has killed Marius for his money, and demands all Valjean’s cash in exchange for opening the sewer gate with his skeleton key so that Valjean can escape. The´nardier hopes to distract the waiting Javert by giving him a substitute fugitive. But Javert, who owes Valjean his life, feels morally obligated to let him go. Torn by his unresolvable conflict between religious and legal duty, Javert kills himself. Marius is nursed back to health by his grandfather, reconciles with him, and marries Cosette. Valjean has given them all his fortune. The moral climax of the novel is Jean Valjean’s inner struggle during the wedding night. Should he confess to Marius that he is an escaped convict and withdraw from Cosette’s life to spare the young couple the shame of his possible denunciation and arrest? ‘‘He had reached the ultimate crossroads of good and evil. That shadowy intersection lay before his eyes. Once again, as it had already happened to him at other painful and critical moments, two paths lay before him: one was tempting, the other fearsome. Which should he take? The fearsome path was advised by the mysterious finger that we all see every time we stare into the darkness. . . . We can never find an end to conscience. . . . It is bottomless, since it is God.’’ Hugo, like the romantic Lamartine in his epic poem Jocelyn, implies that human love tempts us to become isolated in the egotism of earthly happiness. It is sacrifice, not human love alone, that brings us closer to God. On the next day, Valjean confesses secretly to Marius that he is not Cosette’s father and that he is an escaped convict. Marius, believing that Valjean’s fortune was stolen, does not touch it. And believing that Valjean killed Javert at the barricade, Marius only reluctantly allows him to see Cosette in the anteroom to his grandfather’s house. Realizing he is unwelcome to Marius, Valjean stops coming, stops eating, and wastes away. Now The´nardier unwittingly serves as the instrument of Providence. He comes to Marius to extort money from him by revealing the ‘‘secret’’ that his father-in-law is an escaped convict who has recently killed a man (meaning Marius himself). Inadvertently he reveals that Valjean neither made his fortune illegally nor killed Javert: indeed, he is the one who saved Marius. The latter discharges his debt of honor to The´nardier, sending him to America, where he will become a slave owner. Marius and Cosette rush repentantly
V o l u m e
1
3 9 7
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
to Valjean’s bedside; they arrive too late to save him. But they beg his forgiveness and he dies happy in one of the most pathetic scenes in literature, which is also an optimistic rewriting of the ` Goriot (Old Goriot). death scene in Balzac’s Le Pere
excess of goodness is followed by his shocked awareness of the possible goodness of badness as he learns of Jean Valjean’s moral sublimity. He then intuits ‘‘some sort of justice according to God, working counter to justice according to human beings . . . the monstrous could be divine.’’
THE ARCHETYPE OF INVERSION
Near the end, having won his last spiritual battle by confessing his past to Marius, Jean Valjean speaks for the author as he explains that ‘‘to respect myself, I must be despised. Then I hold my head high. I am a convict who obeys his conscience. I know all too well that it’s not plausible. But what can I do? It’s so.’’ The word ‘‘ressemblant’’ echoes Hugo’s pirouette at the beginning of the novel as he concludes his idealized moral portrait of Bishop Myriel—‘‘We don’t claim that it’s plausible; we’ll say only that it’s a good resemblance.’’ This subtle, nearly subliminal association of the two men reminds us of Myriel’s enduring moral influence on Valjean. Switching from the author’s voice to the hero’s voice in the second of these scenes makes the novel’s moral import more immediate at the climax. Hugo had summed it up not many pages earlier: ‘‘For those of us who prefer martyrdom to success, John Brown is greater than George Washington.’’ His motto might be Rousseau’s: ‘‘Vitam Impendere Vero’’ [to sacrifice one’s life for the (cause of) truth]. This resolve is the essence of the moral sublime.
Throughout Les Mise´rables, Hugo frequently suggests the archetype of inversion: They who humble themselves shall be exalted. Jean Valjean socially humbles himself in others’ eyes by confessing his identity as an escaped convict. He physically lowers himself by descending into the sewers of Paris to carry the wounded, unconscious Marius away from the barricades. But this physical descent exalts him spiritually. As many commentators have remarked, his dark night of the soul will lead to his total regeneration as well as to reconciliation with his grieving, admiring son-inlaw and adopted daughter. The archetype of inversion shapes characters and destinies other than Jean Valjean’s in Les Mise´rables. In its negative form, inversion means that what had seemed good, proves bad. Hugo invokes this form of the archetype to characterize the police agent Javert when he learns that M. Madeleine, who earlier had humiliated him, is really the ex-convict Valjean. ‘‘A monstrous Saint Michael,’’ Javert is both imposing and hideous: ‘‘The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the middle of committing an atrocity preserves some kind of lugubriously venerable radiance. . . . Nothing was as poignant and as fearsome as that figure, where one could see what you might call all the evil of the good.’’ The sinister, deformed grandeur of The´nardier’s visionary painting of Napoleon may be another example of this phenomenon, of a spider’s ambition to rival the sun. It seems as if The´nardier, by capturing the emperor’s image, were trying to appropriate for himself the soul of Napoleon’s genius. In its positive form, inversion means that what seemed bad, proves good. The Beatitudes from Christ’s Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:2–12), and the Passion itself (Matt. 27–28; Mark 15–16; Luke 23–24; John 19–20), are outstanding examples. Appropriately for his tidy structural sense, Hugo frames his epic novel with nesting layers of inversions. At the beginning and the end, we learn that humility can lead to spiritual exaltedness (in Bishop Myriel, then in Jean Valjean). In fact, the novel is framed by two rejections of Jean Valjean as a convict (by society in general, and then by his son-in-law, Marius). In the middle, Javert’s bad
3 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
Unlike his contemporaries Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Verlaine, Hugo has received little credit for preparing the religious revival in French letters during the first half of the twentieth century. Like Claudel (who detested Hugo), Mauriac, or Bernanos 30 to 90 years after him during the Catholic Renaissance, Hugo in 1862 dramatizes his heroes’ relentless pursuit by conscience, meaning our instinctive awareness of God. ‘‘To write the poem of the human conscience, were it only the conscience of a single person . . . would be to blend all epics into a higher, definitive epic. . . . There you find, underneath an external silence, battles between giants as in Homer, struggles with dragons and hydras and clouds of phantoms as in Milton, visionary spirals as in Dante. What a shadowy thing is this infinity that every person bears within.’’ ARTISTIC SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS: THE ART OF HUGO’S DIGRESSIONS
The plot summary of Les Mise´rables suggests ` or Eugene ` a melodramatic thriller by Dumas pere Sue. Hugo adopts many conventions from that genre: the evil master of disguises, the mysterious
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
fugitive, daring escapes, self-sacrifice in the name of love. And for whatever reasons, critics seem inclined to condemn as symptoms of Hugo’s superficiality the same such motifs and devices that they accept without question and even admire when reading Balzac or Stendhal. But artistic self-consciousness in Hugo is no less intricate than in other great writers; his political experience often is broader than theirs; and his range of characterization (although his novels lack selfconfident, assertive women such as Stendhal’s Mathilde or Lamiel, Balzac’s Euge´nie Grandet, or the villainous Cousine Bette) is unquestionably richer. An overview of Hugo’s novelistic imagination provides a good starting point for an attempt to do him justice. He combines elements from other traditions into a structure more imposing than those traditions themselves: he possesses a preeminently synthesizing imagination. This gift shows in the generalizations and aphorisms one finds on nearly every page of Les Mise´rables. Consider the introductory story of the bishop of D———. Hugo observes in passing that ‘‘true or false, what is said of people often has as large a place in their lives and especially in their destinies as what they do.’’ And two pages later: ‘‘It seems a woman must be a mother to be venerable [instead of merely ‘respectable’].’’ Again, ‘‘there is always even more wretchedness at the bottom of society than fellow-feeling at the top.’’ Hugo’s generalizations, like La Rochefoucauld’s two centuries earlier, reflect the traditional belief in a ‘‘human nature’’ that remains invariable, and that implicitly makes the universe revolve around human beings. But Hugo always roots his aphorisms solidly in a social context. He sees people as a medley of potentialities; he emphasizes personal responsibility; yet he understands that the outcome of people’s lives often depends on chance, on Providence, or on how they are treated by others. The distinction between the two writers becomes clearer through a brief comparison. Consider La Rochefoucauld’s famous maxim: ‘‘L’hypocrisie est un hommage que le vice rend a` la vertu’’ [Hypocrisy is a form of respect that vice pays to virtue]. It describes an abstract, unvarying relationship among abstract nouns—hypocrisy, vice, virtue. As we see in the foregoing examples, Hugo, in contrast, describes relationships among real people (what is said or felt about them by others) and the contingencies of individual existences: social (one’s reputation), biological (e.g., being a mother), and financial (wealth or poverty). At the same time, in his political subtext,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
he implicitly urges the French bourgeoisie to stop supporting Napoleon III through their passive acquiescence to the empire, and to strive for the restoration of the republic. Hugo’s historical and cultural digressions set the stage for the characters, explain the limits of their possibilities, and often hint at, foreshadow, or symbolize what he sees as an overarching spiritual odyssey of Fall and Redemption. Unless we sin in thought or deed, as even Bishop Myriel (his ` name a near-anagram of lumiere—light or illumination) will do, we cannot benefit from grace and ascend nearer God. William Blake’s scandalous slogan ‘‘Damn braces; bless relaxes,’’ like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s concept of Faustian striving and erring as essential to spiritual progress, are earlier, condensed versions of Hugo’s theme. These writers do not rebel against God; they reject society’s image of a God who demands self-righteousness and conformity. The most important of Hugo’s excursuses within Les Mise´rables are 10 sections concerning (1) ‘‘L’Anne´e 1817’’ (The Year 1817); (2) ‘‘Histoire ` dans les verroteries noires’’ (‘‘The d’un progres History of an Improvement in the Manufacture of Small Glassware ’’); (3) ‘‘Waterloo’’ (2.1); (4) the Convent of the Perpetual Adoration; (5) the street urchin; (6) the underworld; (7) King LouisPhillipe; (8) slang; (9) the origins of the insurrection of 5–6 June 1832; and (10) and the sewers of Paris. These sections contrast social irresponsibility with social responsibility (1, 2), material pomp and spiritual grandeur (3, 4), the symptoms of social dysfunction in the child and in the adult (5, 6), the summit and the nadir of society (7, 8), and political and metaphorical analyses of social corruption (9, 10). Critics who erroneously believe that Hugo is always tugging at our sleeve and bellowing a moral message in our ear—that he can communicate only through bombast— should ponder the tacit social commentary conveyed by his careful structuring of these 10 digressions. Each of the first three sections of the novel contains two; the one exception— three digressions in part 4 and only one in part 5—can be explained by Hugo’s desire to prepare a climax with a story uninterrupted for the last 200 pages. ‘‘The Year 1817’’ characterizes the immoral frivolity of the early Restoration period. The remainder of the first part details the horrific consequences of such behavior for the single mother Fantine. The second digression, on the
V o l u m e
1
3 9 9
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
manufacture of glassware, explains how responsible, enlightened capitalism can enrich an entire society—although blind social prejudice against unwed mothers prevents Fantine from benefiting. Throughout, the contrast between reputation and reality underlines social injustice. Hugo shows as much as he tells his opposition to the sexual double standard, and to treating prostitutes as criminals while their clients go free. The wealthy young men of 1817 who abandon their mistresses are respected; their victims are not. Fantine as a streetwalker is despised; M. Batambois, who assaults her by shoving snow down her dress, seems exempt from the law: later, indeed, we find him serving on a jury. Jean Valjean, the escaped convict, is considered a menace to society: but disguised as M. Madeleine, only he can ensure the prosperity of an entire community. In part 2, Napoleon’s self-aggrandizement, disastrous for France, contrasts with the nuns’ total self-abnegation. Hugo implies that both attitudes are excessive; but from Jean Valjean’s viewpoint, the nuns provide a startling lesson in self-sacrifice beside which his sufferings as a convict appear relatively mild. Part 3 compares the present of abandoned children to their future: the generous-spirited street urchin Gavroche, not yet brutalized by hunger and cold, to the immoral, savage underworld that he eventually would have little choice but to join. Part 4 contrasts the summit of society, the king, whose conspicuous display creates an icon of social value, with the concealed base whose members are linked by their slang. In a particularly supple movement of thought, Hugo first seems to use a naive reductio ad absurdum to recommend slang as a legitimate object of study. All trades and professions, he says, have their own slang. But then, in a characteristic pirouette, he distinguishes argot from other jargons as the language of extreme poverty and a ‘‘langue de combat,’’ a means of aggression through language. Language is an aspect of culture, however, Hugo claims, and studying it serves civilization. Through a further distinction, he avoids limiting thieves’ cant to one dialect. Several interesting passages treat the differences between slang from different regions of Paris. The author, who claims to know them all, indirectly claims the gift of tongues that ensures universal communication. Nothing human, he implies, no language, high or low, is alien to him. His linguistic virtuosity recalls that of Bishop Myriel, who from the
4 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
beginning is admired and has access to all his flock because he knows the patois from the various regions of southern France. These gifts of tongues recall Pentecost; the apostolic mission that followed; and, by association, a spiritual meaning latent in the novel. The last pair of digressions depicts the insurrection of 1832 as resulting from social unrest caused by the unfair treatment of workers, and juxtaposes it with a discussion of the sewers, the physical underpinning of Paris and its culture. Hugo draws an implicit parallel. Unless the sewers are studied, rebuilt, and cleaned out, he argues, they will overflow into the streets above as they have done before. Unless we pay attention to the people, they will rise in rebellion. Flushing fecal matter into rivers poisons our environment and wastes a precious potential resource, Hugo claims; likewise, he implies, locking the poor in prisons poisons society and wastes great potential resources. The naı¨ vete´ of our wishing always to remain clean and decent by suppressing human waste products is exposed when they contaminate the remainder of society. Flushing away human wastes symbolizes attempting to conceal all social problems through incarceration—and creating the specious impression that society is making progress by merely changing the words used to refer to our instruments of control. Hugo skewers the euphemistic pseudo-progress that claims to be advancing toward humanitarianism while changing nothing but the words—or worse yet, the arrangement of the words—that describe social conditions: ‘‘Formerly those harsh places where prison discipline isolates an inmate were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a stone floor, a folding bed, a barred skylight, a door reinforced with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon came to be considered too horrible; now it’s made of an iron door, a barred skylight, a folding bed, a stone floor, a stone ceiling, and four stone walls, and it’s called a punitive detention cell .’’ SYLLEPSIS: A SIGNPOST TO MYSTERY
Hugo’s synthesizing imagination associates the material with the spiritual by using syllepsis as a signpost to mystery. This figure of speech uses the same word with two radically different meanings in different contexts; the archetype of Inversion, a more fully developed equivalent of syllepsis, suggests that apparently contrasting values are actually the same phenomenon viewed from opposite directions. Hugo prepares us to
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
understand his first prominent use of syllepsis in Les Mise´rables by introducing it with its expanded form, thematic inversion. Impoverished from having given alms, Bishop Myriel rides into the town of Senez on a donkey. He sees that the mayor is scandalized by his humble mount and hears several bourgeois laughing at him. ‘‘I see why you are scandalized,’’ Myriel retorts, ‘‘you think it’s quite prideful for a poor priest to ride a mount that was Christ’s [entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday]. I assure you that I did so from necessity, not vanity.’’ A page later, Myriel introduces syllepsis through a pun. Teasing his servant Madame Magloire for calling him ‘‘Votre Grandeur’’ [Your Greatness], he asks her to bring him a chair so that he can reach a book on a high shelf, because ‘‘my Greatness/height [ma grandeur] doesn’t reach to that board.’’ The same interplay of material and spiritual reappears in a double meaning when Jean Valjean, at Champmathieu’s trial at the time of the Restoration, notices a crucifix on the wall of the courtroom. There had been none when he was tried in 1796: ‘‘When he was sentenced, God [the physical representation of Christ; the spirit of God] had been absent.’’ Again, when Cosette and Marius are married on Mardi Gras, a carriage full of ribald maskers hired by the government watches their wedding procession go by, and one of them observes ‘‘a false noce [wedding procession]. We are the real noce [bawdy orgy].’’ The riffraff in the carriage consider their material celebration more authentic than a spiritual one. Still later, when Marius offers to use his grandfather’s influence to secure a pardon (‘‘grace’’) ˆ for Jean Valjean, the ex-convict answers, ‘‘I need only one kind of pardon/grace, that of my conscience.’’ Human and divine law contrast. The predominant syllepsis, of course, is that of the title: ‘‘mise´rable’’ means both ‘‘a member of the underclass’’ and a morally degenerate person. Poverty often brutalizes people, as Hugo is well aware, but he carefully distinguishes material from spiritual disgrace. Once a character identifies himself as a ‘‘mise´rable’’ (it is only men who do so in this novel), the term already reveals a selfawareness that anticipates regeneration. Once you acknowledge that you are a reprobate in Hugo’s world, you wish to start becoming something better. In the context of the novel, the title connotes both the spiritual hypocrisy of blindly condemning others and the enlightenment of morally condemning oneself, which is the starting
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
point on the road of redemptive contrition. Sinners all, we are invited to emulate Jean Valjean. Key words have exceptional importance in Hugo because of the organic worldview that he shares with many fellow romantics: like chromosomes in a living cell (a concept, of course, unknown at the time) each part of Creation reflects the whole, and all is evolving toward an ultimate atonement with God. By naming four of the five parts of the work after individuals—Fantine, Cosette, Marius, ‘‘L’Idylle rue Plumet et l’e´pope´e rue Saint-Denis’’ (The Love Story of Plumet Street and the Epic of Saint-Denis Street), and Jean Valjean—Hugo links social lovelessness (our lack of caritas or commiseration) to our individual, imperative need for love. In order, the four characters named are the working woman fallen to the status of a prostitute to be able to support her daughter; the daughter, rescued from the abusive The´nardiers by Jean Valjean; the young man who loves her, and who as an admirer of Napoleon has been rejected by his monarchist grandfather; and the redeemed ex-convict. The first and last of the four individual names refer to persons of the older generation (symbolizing the social past), who die because they have no one to love them; the middle two names designate people of the younger generation (symbolizing the social future), who survive because they are loved. The remaining section, on ‘‘ L’Idylle’’ (meaning, in French, ‘‘love story’’ or ‘‘love interest’’), deconstructs the simplistic dichotomy of past and present by contrasting self-absorbed young love with idealistic self-sacrifice in the interests of humanity. We need to be loved both as humans and as ourselves. HUGO AND THE IDEALISTIC NOVEL
A useful starting point for vindicating the aesthetic merits of Les Mise´rables is a provocative distinction made by Naomi Schor in her attempt to rehabilitate the novels of George Sand. Schor divides nineteenth-century French novels into two contrasting strains, the realistic and the idealistic. She claims that the idealistic tradition, familiar at the time and whose chief representative was Sand, has been largely forgotten. Sand’s originality, Schor claims, marginalized her. Valuable as Schor’s concept has been in reviving interest in Sand, it unfortunately tempts her readers to slip back into a gender-based essentialism: women can be altruistic, but men cannot. Schor wants to dramatize Sand’s achievement,
V o l u m e
1
4 0 1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
and to that extent her formulations are entirely legitimate; but her view is too limiting in the larger contexts both of romanticism and of the nineteenth century. Balzac, Senancour, Gautier, and even Zola wrote idealistic novels; Stendhal’s contain idealistic strands; Flaubert’s Trois Contes correspond to this genre, and there his ‘‘Un cœur simple’’ (A Simple Heart), a tale of obscure sainthood, was inspired by, and written for, George Sand. Enumerating examples and counter-examples, however, will not explain Hugo. More important is that Les Mise´rables deconstructs the opposition of real and ideal by synthesizing them. Hugo’s novel repeatedly refers to Providence, grace, prayer, redemption, and the afterlife. The immortality of the soul is suggested by scenes in which, shortly after they have died, both Fantine and E´ponine can understand comforting words said to them, or feel a chaste kiss, and thus can be at peace. Indeed, Les Mise´rables ends by explicitly affirming the afterlife, with this sentence referring to Jean Valjean: ‘‘No doubt, hidden in shadow, some great angel stood with wings unfurled, waiting for the soul.’’ Supererogation, the transference of merit beyond what is required for one’s own salvation (in French, re´versibilite´ , as in the title of Baudelaire’s poem in Les Fleurs du Mal), provides a guiding thread in Les Mise´rables. Supererogation is a dynamic mode of Inversion, a way of integrating belief in free will with a providentialist fatalism. The first example in the work occurs in the ‘‘Conventionnel’’ G——— (a representative of the assembly that dissolved the monarchy, and of which a majority excluding G——— condemned Louis XVI to death). He humbles Bishop Myriel, who recognizes the moral excellence of his devotion to humanity and kneels before him to ask his blessing. ‘‘Nobody could say that his encounter with that mind [le Conventionnel’s] did not play a role in [the Bishop’s] approach to perfection.’’ The blessing is later transferred—so to speak—from Myriel to Valjean, saving the ex-convict from further hatred and crime: ‘‘Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It’s your soul I am purchasing for you, I’m drawing it away from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I’m giving it to God.’’ Valjean symbolically transfers his own excess of merit to the dying Fantine, assuring her that since her motivation for prostituting herself was her pure wish to provide for her daughter, she remained innocent in the eyes of God. And in the final scene, the repentant
4 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
Marius, kneeling at the dying Valjean’s bedside to ask his blessing, recalls the initial scene between the Conventionnel and Myriel. Hugo broadly signals the presence of supererogatory merit in his characters. First he compares Bishop Myriel to Christ: ‘‘When examples were lacking he invented parables, going straight to the point with few words and many images, with the very eloquence of Jesus Christ, full of conviction and persuasive force.’’ Not long afterward, the as yet unredeemed Valjean is sleeping in the bishop’s house. When Valjean wakes in the middle of the night, Hugo explains that his unusual last name probably came from the colloquial contraction ‘‘v’la` Jean’’ [There’s John]. The phrase recalls Pilate’s ecce homo [There is the man], spoken when he has Christ wearing the crown of thorns brought out to the Jewish priests who have accused him (John 19:5): it suggests a person condemned according to one law, and destined for suffering, but who will be redeemed according to a higher law. At the moment, Valjean outwardly remains quite unregenerate, but the bishop’s kindness has already begun to work within his soul. Hugo picks up the comparison between Valjean and Christ during another night, years later, when the ex-convict struggles against the temptation to allow Champmathieu to be condemned in his place: ‘‘Thus this unfortunate soul struggled in anguish. Eighteen hundred years earlier, the mysterious being in whom all the holiness and all the suffering of humanity are summed up had, also, while the olive trees shivered in the fierce wind of the infinite, for a long time pushed aside the fearsome chalice that appeared to him trickling with shadows and overflowing with darkness in the starry depths.’’ Hugo reintroduces the image of the chalice in ` Gorge´e the title of book 7, part 5, ‘‘La Derniere du calice’’ (The Last Draught from the Chalice), and affirms Jean Valjean’s total transformation unequivocally from Marius’s point of view: the young man begins to recognize Valjean’s absolute, self-sacrificial goodness: ‘‘The convict was becoming transfigured as the Christ.’’ Hugo blurs the distinction between Providence and will (in a narratologist’s language, between ‘‘event’’ and ‘‘act’’) because he believes that these forces work together. As he describes it, the whole story hinges on the slightest circumstance: if Mme The´nardier had been standing instead of sitting when Fantine first saw her, Fantine would have
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
noticed the innkeeper’s colossal size, like that of a strong woman in a carnival, and hesitated to confide her daughter Cosette to her: ‘‘A person who is seated instead of standing, destinies hinge on such things.’’ The outcome of the Battle of Waterloo similarly depends on a combination of unpredictable circumstances. Again by chance, Jean Valjean takes refuge with Cosette in what proves to be a convent, where the gardener owes Valjean his life. And destiny brings Cosette and Marius together, Hugo says in so many words; once they are ready, they fall in love at a glance. Chance seems to reflect a hidden divine intentionality preserving the possibility of freedom, whereas necessity results from human evil and error. But we are mistaken if we hold God, rather than ourselves, responsible for political events. The cynic Grantaire whimsically complains: ‘‘Well now, so there’s going to be another revolution? I’m astonished that the good Lord should have such limited resources. At every moment, He has to set about greasing the tracks of events again. Something’s sticking, it’s not working. Quick, a revolution. The good Lord’s hands are always black with that nasty sort of grease.’’ But where society is concerned, Enjolras, the idealistic leader of the insurrection of 1832, adopts a more responsible, proactive view. ‘‘The law of progress is that monsters give way to angels, and that Fatality dissipates in the face of Fraternity.’’ Suffering, violence, and injustice will be eliminated by philia, by a community of active mutual concern. Hugo, nevertheless, offers a realistic image of political change: one finds only a few committed militants on either side; others are drawn in through love, affection, anxiety, greed, or hatred. Once he has been redeemed, Jean Valjean’s attitudes are shaped by his overarching faith in Providence, by an active passivity that blends act and event. His conviction that God is with him is explicit in the sewers, and the narrator endorses his view. ‘‘Sometimes happenstance compels us to assume duties,’’ he says during his confession to Marius as he tries to explain how a brutal convict could become a loving father to an orphan girl. The melodramatic convergence of the destinies of the orphan Pip and the escaped convict Magwitch in Dickens’s Great Expectations (1861; see chapters 54 and 56), comes to mind: there too, the orphan appreciates his benefactor’s devotion only as the latter dies. Hugo’s own faith in Providence appears in the parallels he implies. Devoting his life to Cosette
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
allows Jean Valjean to atone for his crime toward another child, the little chimney sweep. ‘‘M. Madeleine’’ cannot fully assuage his guilt by giving alms to chimney sweeps who pass through his town. The opportunity for a definitive expiation—first rescuing Cosette and later accepting her loss—is presented to him as if by accident. Marius is redeemed when he manages to arrive at his surrogate father-in-law’s bedside before Jean Valjean dies, whereas he did not arrive at his real father Pontmercy’s bedside on time, being too indifferent to check into the coach schedules. Such interconnected motifs contribute to the structural rhetoric of the implied author, whose plot seems to reflect a divine plan. Each structure in Les Mise´rables always contains a strand of actual or potential redemption. THE REALISM OF HUGO’S MORAL VISION
So far we have been characterizing Hugo’s idealism. In general, critics are aware of it, if not of its place in a broad tradition. But they have been less aware of his realism, and still less aware of how realism and idealism in Hugo are interconnected. He is not vapidly optimistic; his concept of Providence always preserves a dimension of human responsibility that can alter an outcome. The three ‘‘fatalities’’ he identifies in the preface to Les Travailleurs de la mer (that of nature in Les Travailleurs de la mer, that of religious dogma in Notre-Dame de Paris, that of social inequities in Les Mise´rables ) are expressions of unreasoning instinct (recall that for Hugo, nature is sentient). Humans must remain in an unenlightened state to be able to exercise free will and work out their redemption. Hugo’s moral complexity appears when he describes how Jean Valjean learns to read and write while in prison. Although Hugo associates education with the light that dispels darkness, he acknowledges that education can reinforce evil by empowering the evildoer: ‘‘He went to school at age forty, and learned to read, to write, to do arithmetic. He sensed that to strengthen his intellect was to strengthen his hatred. Sometimes, education and enlightenment can serve as an extension [like an extra leaf in a table] for evil.’’ On the contrary, even the archvillain of the novel, unlike the villain of melodrama, might not have become irremediably bad: The´nardier was one of those dual beings who sometimes pass among us unrecognized and disappear without having become known, because destiny has shown only one side of them. The fate of many people is to live half submerged in this way. In a calm, monotonous situation The´nardier had everything necessary
V o l u m e
1
4 0 3
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
to act like we won’t say, to be what society has generally agreed to call an honest business man, a solid middle class person. Simultaneously, given certain circumstances, certain shocks that could stir up his lower self, he possessed all the qualities needed to become a scoundrel. He was a shopkeeper with a monster inside.
Hugo depicts his characters’ moral progress realistically: revelation comes to them in stages, not total and instantaneous like the vision to Saul on the Damascus Road (Acts 9:1–20). Jean Valjean illustrates spiritual progress; Marius, political enlightenment. Raised an unreflective royalist (like Hugo himself, who lends some of his life story to this character), Marius discovers too late how much his father had loved him. He learns to admire Napoleon, the master whom his father served. ‘‘His ideas underwent an extraordinary change. The phases of this change were numerous and successive.’’ Many people in his generation, Hugo adds, underwent similar transformations in their political outlook. Marius now realizes that the republic restored their civil rights to the masses, and that the empire restored the rights of France in Europe. He could not but approve. What had seemed the fall of the monarchy now appeared to him the rise of France. What had seemed sunset proved to be the dawn. When Marius begins associating with the republican ‘‘Amis de l’ABC’’ (Friends of the Alphabet/of the ‘‘Abaisse´’’ [the oppressed masses; the pun implies that education fosters social progress]), he is startled by their lack of veneration for Napoleon. ‘‘Having abandoned his grandfather’s opinions to adopt those of his father, he had believed himself settled in his mind; now he suspected, uneasily and without daring to admit it to himself, that he was not. The angle from which he viewed everything was again beginning to shift.’’ At length he forces the issue, addressing his new friends with a lyrical encomium of the emperor: ‘‘To vanquish, dominate, strike like thunder, to be in Europe a kind of nation gilded by glory, to sound a titanic fanfare in history, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling others, that is sublime; and what could be grander?—To be free, said Combeferre.’’ Hearing this retort, Marius feels what the earth must feel when it is pierced by an iron rod so that the grain of wheat may be deposited in it, Hugo explains: only the wound. The quickening of the seed and the joy of bearing fruit come only later. The adversity of poverty will temper his soul.
4 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
The crucial moment of Marius’s political evolution arrives as he prepares to join his friends at the barricade. He mistakenly thinks Cosette has abandoned him; he wishes to die. But he feels shame when imagining how his father would feel: a hero, who had often risked his life for France, would abhor the son who contributed to plunging his country into civil war. Stimulated by imminent death, Marius has a sudden illumination. Because of the insurrection he will join, ‘‘France will bleed, but liberty will smile.’’ A war against injustice cannot be defined by national boundaries. ‘‘In short, to reestablish social truth [human equality], to restore the throne [of France] to freedom, to restore the people to the people, to restore sovereignty to humanity . . . what cause more just, and in consequence, what grander war?’’ When the novel ends, Marius has just learned to recognize the spiritual grandeur of Jean Valjean, but he has not yet learned to apply that lesson to society: ‘‘He found it self-evident that certain violations of written law should be followed by eternal punishment, and he accepted, as an instrument of civilization, social damnation. He was still at that point, except that his opinions would inevitably evolve later, since he was naturally good, and fundamentally composed entirely of latent progress.’’ After the death of Marius’s political companions on the barricade, he never mentions them again. Has he forgotten them and their cause? Hugo leaves Marius morally unfinished in the novel, as he leaves the work of revolution politically unfinished. By selecting the abortive uprising of 1832 as his subject, Hugo avoids a triumphalist perspective that would leave us satisfied that no further progress toward justice was necessary. Such open-endedness solicits our involvement in the society and politics of the future. Losing a battle—the situation in which the exiled Hugo finds himself—does not mean losing the war. Enjolras’s metaphor that a revolution is a toll implies not only that rebellion has its costs but also that when you have paid them, you have not yet crossed the bridge. HUGO’S POLITICAL VIEWS
Regarding social progress in general, Hugo is optimistic. He shows Jean Valjean, alias M. Madeleine, reading at every meal. Hugo himself once claimed that 20 years of good free mandatory education would be the last word and raise the dawn. Having become a utopian socialist like M. Madeleine, Hugo thinks that salaries will increase
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
naturally as do profits, and that the dynamism of capital expansion will naturally resolve the problems of workers’ conditions. To be fair to Hugo, one must realize that in 1862 an organized proletariat had not yet formed, although it was foreshadowed by a workers’ uprising in Lyons in 1832. Labor union movements as such had not yet developed. Hugo still thinks that guidance and enlightenment must descend on the people from ‘‘above,’’ from the intelligentsia. Hugo often plays with the reader, drawing us into making hasty, conventional judgments that seem to agree with his. He then withdraws from such positions with a pirouette, leaving us to confront our own superficiality. After admitting that the rabble (la canaille) sometimes fights blindly against the common good, he says that he uses words such as ‘‘rabble’’ only with pain and respect, ‘‘for when philosophy gets to the bottom of the facts to which such words correspond, it often finds greatness next to wretchedness there. . . . The rabble followed Jesus Christ.’’ Nor does he blindly espouse one political solution as definitive. Instead, his trenchant political analyses reveal the aporias, the unresolvable difficulties one encounters by adopting either of two opposed positions, which as it happens are those of liberal Democrats and conservative Republicans in the United States today: All the problems that the Socialists address can be reduced to two main problems. First prob lem: To produce wealth. Second problem: To distribute it. . . . England resolves the first of these two problems. She creates wealth admirably well; she distrib utes it badly . . . [She has] an ill composed gran deur made up of every material element but lacking any moral element. Communism and land reform believe they can solve the second problem. They are mistaken. Their [egalitarian] distribution kills [incentive for] production. Sharing equally eliminates the spirit of competition. And consequently, the desire to work. It’s a distribution accomplished by the butcher, who kills what he divides.
Hugo suggests a balance of these two extreme solutions, socialism and mercantilism. Thus he characteristically deconstructs naively categorical views that risk blocking compromise and solution. He contests the dichotomies of middle class and lower class, of police and criminals. He argues that the bourgeoisie is simply the materially satisfied portion of ‘‘the people,’’ and that on the other hand the mob can betray the best interests of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
‘‘the people’’ through unthinking violence. He explains that Javert’s unreasoning moral rigidity prevents him from realizing that the police are always infiltrated by criminal double agents such as Claquesous, who disappears from the police wagon while on the way to prison: ‘‘Did that sphinx-like man have his forepaws in crime and his hind paws in authority? Javert wouldn’t hear of such combinations, but there were other inspectors on his squad, perhaps more knowing than he although he outranked them, and Claquesous was such a villain that he could be a very fine agent.’’ Similarly, Hugo attacks the divine-right monarchists for criticizing the king because he is insufficiently royalist, and the pope because he is insufficiently papal. Such fanatical supporters undermine their cause. They prevent their leaders from making the adaptive compromises that would allow them and the institutions that they represent to survive. Insofar as he represents the working classes enslaved by the ancien re´gime, Jean Valjean had in Hugo’s eyes been too brutalized and debased to enter the current of historical progress through militant political action. But his destiny prefigures an eventual reconciliation of social classes foreseen by Hugo: the ex-convict presides over the marriage of Cosette—the proletarian daughter of a prostitute—and Marius, the aristocrat adopted by the bourgeois Gillenormand. Nevertheless, Cosette herself does not participate in, or even know about, the insurrection. Hugo implies that we must await Cosette and Marius’s children (foreshadowed by the courageous street urchin Gavroche killed fighting on the barricades) to find a full embodiment of the spirit of the new France. Why choose the obscure revolt of 1832 rather than the glorious revolution of 1830 as the historical crux of the novel? Hugo was struck by the historian Louis Blanc’s account of the 1832 uprising. He borrowed most of his facts from Blanc. Creating a practical manual for revolutionaries or celebrating a particular historical triumph interested Hugo less than providing a symbolic illustration of the French people struggling toward the light. From the viewpoint of eternity, as Hugo sees things, minor events (such as 1832) as well as major ones (such as 1830) may reveal the intentions of Providence. The self-sacrifice of Enjolras and his friends will serve to mobilize others. Like Berthold Brecht, Hugo does not want to serve up a cathartic,
V o l u m e
1
4 0 5
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
LIKE HIS JANSENIST PREDECESSOR, HUGO ACCORDS MORE IMPORTANCE TO THE EMOTIONS THAN TO REASON AS A MEANS OF ATTAINING FAITH.’’
triumphalist (as the French say) vision of history: he prefers to imply that much work remains to be done. Source: Laurence M. Porter, ‘‘The Masterpiece: Les Mis e´rables,’’ in Victor Hugo, Twayne, 1999, pp. 127 50.
Mary Anne O’Neil In the following essay, O’Neil makes a case that in writing Les Mise´rables, Hugo was influenced by the Pense´es of Pascal. Hugo only refers to Pascal by name in the opening chapters of Les Mise´rables, in the course of his description of Monseigneur Myriel, the Bishop of Digne. Here, Hugo ambivalently calls the seventeenth-century Jansenist both a genius and a madman, a thinker devoted entirely to contemplation of the absolute but so dazed by ‘‘la vision terrible de la montagne infinie’’ that his mind slipped into insanity. Many other paragraphs of Les Mise´rables, in which Hugo speaks of the distant heavens and the importance of prayer, suggest, however, that he felt an affinity and even an admiration for the author of the Pense´es. Even the title of his novel, especially the original title, Les Miseres, points the reader in the direction of Pascal’s thoughts. The resemblance between Hugo and Pascal is not a new idea to critical studies of Les Mise´rables, although most scholars see these resemblances as coincidences resulting from common religious preoccupations. Henri Peyre best explains these overlaps in ‘‘After 1850: God,’’ where he notes Hugo’s increasing obsession with God in the works composed during exile and the fact that ‘‘Hugo had personal experience of God, experience that he considered as irrecusable as the sign that Pascal, the Jansenist, believed that he had received from Jesus Christ.’’ In Victor Hugo and the Visionary Novel, Victor Brombert suggests a further reason for these similarities: ‘‘Les Mise´rables in Hugo’s mind, grew to be an increasingly
4 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
religious book. All of human destiny, as the narrator explains, is summed up in the dilemma: ‘‘loss or salvation’’—the same dilemma that inspired the Pense´es. Still other critics have proposed a deliberate connection between the two writers. Kathryn Grossman, in Figuring Transcendence inLes Mise´rables, cites a number of concepts, most specifically ‘‘the affinities between creatures and creation (or Creator), that is, between the infinitesimal and the boundless’’ that originated in the Pense´es. Bernard Leuilliot establishes that Hugo reread the Pense´es in Brussels in 1852 and found it ‘‘un vrai livre d’exil.’’ Finally, Jacques Neefs points out imagistic and stylistic similarities between the two works. In Les Mise´rables, Hugo weaves thousands of reflections on the human condition into the plot; he has a habit, like Pascal, of dramatizing philosophical debates through contrasts of light and dark, ascents and falls, vertigo. While all of these comments draw our attention to the curious way in which Hugo’s novel so often echoes Pascal’s obsessions, they fail to compare the texts of Les Mise´rables and the Pense´es in a coherent fashion. The author’s frequent allusions to such key Pascalian concepts as ‘‘les deux infinis’’ and ‘‘Dieu sensible au coeur’’ suggest that the Pense´es serves as a more prominent intertext in Les Mise´rables than critics have previously recognized. Moreover, a close examination of Hugo’s conception of the deity, the relationship between the human and the divine, and redemption reveals that he understands these issues in the same way, and often in the same terms, as his Jansenist predecessor. A comparison between Les Mise´rables and Pascal’s work allows us to approach the novel’s protagonist, Jean Valjean, as a character who embodies the efficacy of faith and moral commitment advocated in the Pense´es and to interpret the story of this hero’s progress from crime to sanctity as a nineteenth-century version of Pascal’s wager. Les Mise´rables, like the Pense´es, attempts to persuade its readers to wager in favor of God’s existence and the soul’s immortality. The 1861 revisions of the 1848 manuscript clearly orient the novel in the direction of theological argumentation. Albouy and Brombert have commented upon the most significant additions: the Bishop of Digne appears in the novel before Jean Valjean and engages in discussions with both believers and non-believers in which the defenders of God carry off victory; the curious
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
digression after the introduction of the Petit Picpus convent entitled ‘‘Parenthese’’ pleads for the necessity of religious faith; the long exposition of the Battle of Waterloo insists upon the deity’s supervision of history. We may add to this list of revisions, ‘‘Les Mines et les mineurs,’’ the chapter opening ‘‘Patron Minette,’’ where Hugo affirms that all philosophers who have bettered the human condition have kept their eyes on the heavens (1:856). An urgency to prove the value of religion suffuses the novel. As Albouy states the case: ‘‘Il s’agissait moins, en effet, de raconter ou de decrire, que de prouver. Les Mise´rables sont, aux yeux de Hugo, une gigantique preuve de Dieu et de lame.’’ As they argue in favor of religion, both writers criticize similar categories of secular thinkers. In the Pense´es, Pascal takes aim at the seventeenthcentury libertines, who place their faith in science, and the skeptics, or Pyrrhonians, whom he associates with Montaigne and who deny the mind’s ability to arrive at any precise notion of truth, goodness, or an afterlife. Writing over two hundred years later, Hugo obviously fears the influence of both contemporary philosophers and political thinkers who either eliminate the notion of a supreme being from metaphysics or whose enthusiasm for science results in unadulterated materialism. Albouy and Leuilliot have suggested that Hugo’s opponents probably include several atheistic schools that had developed in France at the beginning of the Second Empire such as the positivists and the Feuerbachian materialists. Brombert further points out that the author’s ‘‘private quarrel with his fellow ‘socialists’ at a time when French socialism, abandoning earlier utopian leanings, tended to link revolutionary values with impiety’’ certainly motivated the composition in 1860 of the ‘‘Philosophical Preface’’ Hugo intended as an introduction to his novel. While this preface does not appear in twentieth-century editions of Les Mise´rables, modern readers can find Hugo’s polemic against profane thinkers in the digression of Les Mise´rables most concerned with religion, ‘‘Parenthese.’’ Here, Hugo rejects all forms of atheism as intellectual blindness: ‘‘Il y a, nous le savons, une philosophie qui nie l’infini. Il y a aussi une philosophie, classee pathologiquement, qui nie le soleil; cette philosophie s’appelle cecite’’ (1:619). He goes so far as to prefer to atheism the fanaticism of cloistered nuns, since this fanaticism is motivated by true religious conviction.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Neither Pascal nor Hugo is an abstract philosopher. Both fall into the French moralist tradition which regards thought as a basis for action. Both counter atheism within this practical framework. Pascal especially fears those who deny the immortality of the soul—a tenet that determines our entire conduct: ‘‘Toutes nos actions et nos Pense´es doivent prendre des routes si differentes, selon qu’il y aura des biens eternels a eternels ou non, qu’il est impossible de faire une demarche avec sens et jugement, qu’en reglant la vue de ce point, qui doit etre notre dernier objet.’’ Hugo expresses much the same sentiment in his explanation of the value of religion in Les Mise´rables. In ‘‘Parenthese,’’ he condemns atheism for eliminating the possibility of an afterlife while interpreting progress exclusively in scientific or economic terms. Such a materialistic philosophy cannot offer individual citizens the necessary incentives to sacrifice present pleasures for the future happiness of mankind. Only the desire to know the absolute can motivate the unselfishness required to realize social progress. As for Pascal, for Hugo this absolute is God: Le progres est le but; l’ideal est le type. Qu’est ce que l’ideal? C’est Dieu. (1:621)
In the early pages of Les Mise´rables, the dying ‘‘ancien constitutionnel’’ foreshadows the abovementioned discussion of religion when he states: ‘‘Le bien ne peut pas avoir de serviteur impie. C’est un mauvis conducteur du genre humain que celui qui est athee.’’ (1:59). Hugo creates several atheistic characters whose actions prove harmful to society. The first, the hedonistic senator of the chapter ‘‘Philosophic apres boire,’’ denounces charity as foolishness based on the erroneous concept of an afterlife. Monseigneur Myriel explains that such an attitude, especially in a public servant, makes it all too easy to ignore the poor and oppressed. For the bishop, progress requires that ‘‘la croyance au bon Dieu soit la philosophie du peuple’’ (1:43). In later chapters, Hugo includes among ‘‘Les Amis de l’ABC’’ Grantaire, a youthful cynic indisposed to sacrifice his pleasure for the unprovable existence of God. Although a quasi-comic character—Grantaire passes out drunk at the start of the insurrection and revives only to die from a gunshot—Hugo includes him to underscore the uselessness of atheists in political revolutions. A more important character, Javert, has no notion of a transcendent ideal informing human justice. At the moment of crisis preceding the policeman’s suicide, the reader learns that ‘‘depuis qu’il [Javert] avait l’age d’homme et de fonctionnaire, il mettait dans la police
V o l u m e
1
4 0 7
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
toute sa religion . . . Il n’avait guerre songe jusqu’a ce jour a cet autre superieur, Dieu’’ (2:583). This de facto atheism plays a role in the perpetuation of prostitution, child neglect and the suppression of the lower classes. M. Gillenormand, Marius’s grandfather, also ‘‘croyait fort peu en Dieu’’ (1:721). His selfishness and libertinage cause him, first, to separate Marius from the Baron Pontmercy and, later, to impede Marius’s marriage. Finally, The´nardier, the novel’s true villain, is a materialist (1: 457). All of these characters point out Hugo’s conviction that atheism provides a shaky foundation for the amelioration of society and must be countered by strong arguments in favor of the soul’s immortality. How much does the divinity Hugo promotes in Les Mise´rables have in common with the ‘‘Dieu d’Abraham, Dieu d’Isaac, Dieu de Jacob’’ acknowledged by Pascal in his ‘‘Memorial’’ (4)? Hugo presents himself as separate from the Judeo-Christian tradition in ‘‘Parenthese’’ where he claims to stand ‘‘pour la religion contre les religions’’ (1:623). Nevertheless both the Pense´es and Les Mise´rables present the reader with a first cause who has ordered the cosmos into a series of parallel infinities, stretching from the infinitely large to the infinitely small, all interdependent and reflecting the infinity of their creator. Pascal’s celebrated text of ‘‘La Disproportion de l’homme’’ evokes the astonishment of an observer who confronts, from an intermediate position, first the heavens stretching limitlessly above and then the endless complexity of the animalcule (87–89). At certain points in his novel, Hugo copies Pascal’s imagery. The description of the Bishop of Digne’s garden, for example, shows the saintly cleric dividing his time between ‘‘Un petit jardin pour se promener, et l’immensite pour rever’’ (1:73). The child Cosette, during her night errand in the Montfermeil forest, is compared to a bit of matter lost in a universe: ‘‘D’un cote toute l’ombre; de l’autre un atome’’ (1:467). The introduction to ‘‘L’idylle Rue Plumet’’ affirms the unity of the natural world in almost the same terms used by Pascal to describe the interdependence of the microcosm and macrocosm. For Pascal, ‘‘L’un depend de l’autre et l’un conduit a l’autre. Ces extremites se touchent et se resument en Dieu, et en Dieu seulement’’ (89–90). For Hugo Ou finit le telescope, le microscope commence. Lequel des deux a la vue la plus grande? . . . Les elements et les principes se melent, se combinent, s’epousent, se multiplient les uns par les autres, au point de faire aboutir le monde materiel et le monde moral a la meme clarte . . . ramenant tout a l’ame atome, epanouissant tout en Dieu . . . (2:81)
4 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
The digression on ‘‘Les Mines et les mineurs’’ suggests that God has even ordered intellectual history in imitation of the cosmos. Concentric circles of thinkers, ‘‘qu’une divine chaine invisible lie entre eux a leur insu’’ (1:856) work for the moral progress of humanity. However clear the notion of infinity may be to our authors, neither believes that the mind can directly apprehend the creator. In Pascal’s view, original sin has cast a veil between the mortal soul and the immortal object of the soul’s desires: ‘‘ . . . les hommes sont dans les tenebres et dans l’eloignement de Dieu, . . . il s’est cache a leur connaissance . . . c’est meme le nom qu’il se donne dans les Ecritures, Deus absconditus’’ (123). For Hugo, the situation is both different and analogous. While he does not accept the permanent consequences of the Fall, he demonstrates in his novel that the distance between divine perfection and human imperfection is so great that it can never be fully surmounted in this life. For the Bishop of Digne, whose secure faith spares him the need for metaphysical speculation, this hidden God gives cause for wonder: ‘‘sans chercher a comprendre l’incomprehensible, il le regardait. Il n’etudiait pas Dieu. Il s’en eblouissait’’ (1: 73). However, the Deus absconditus is a source of anguish to the novel’s hero who desperately seeks moral guidance. Hugo’s portrayal of his protagonist’s spiritual misery most closely resembles Pascal’s description of ‘‘La Misere de l’homme sans Dieu’’ in the Petit-Gervais chapter, where the former prisoner wanders beyond Digne, trapped between the immensity of the night sky and the endless, empty plain. The Bishop’s charity shines as a light in this dark night of the soul, but only to impress upon Valjean his precarious spiritual situation between salvation and damnation, ‘‘ange’’ and ‘‘monstre’’ (1: 139). Pascal invokes much the same dilemma in his thoughts on ‘‘La Disproportion de l’homme.’’ His contemplator feels dizzy and lost, ‘‘se considerant soutenu dans la masse que la nature lui a donnee entre ces deux abimes de l’infini et du neant,’’ realizing that his gaze is limited to ‘‘[quelque] apparence du milieu des choses’’ (88). Throughout the moral struggles in the Champmathieu affair, the insurrection and the Paris gutters, Jean Valjean must resign himself to acting upon faith rather than revelation. Even in the novel’s conclusion, during the sleepless night preceding the confession of his true identity to Marius, the protagonist only perceives God as ‘‘Le On qui est dans les tenebres’’ (2:655) Like his Jansenist predecessor, Hugo accords more importance to the emotions than to reason
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
as a means of attaining faith. Neither writer disparages thought; indeed, for both the ability to think is at once the most fundamental and highest attribute of the human mind. Pascal’s ‘‘toute notre dignite consiste donc en la pensee’’ (163) finds an echo in Hugo’s ‘‘Penser, voila le triomphe vrai de l’ame’’ (1:620). By thought, each includes a variety of introspective activities that lead to a proper assessment of our human condition. For Pascal, thought is the opposite of the ‘‘divertissement’’ that numbs our awareness of our mortality. True thought begins with an appraisal of the self, then moves to meditation on God: ‘‘Or l’ordre de la pensee est de commencer par soi, et par son auteur et sa fin’’ (116). Hugo similarly signals thought as a function, like prayer, that directs the conscience toward eternity: ‘‘Certaines facultes de l’homme sont dirigees vers l’Inconnu: la pensee, la reverie, la priere’’ (1:618). Yet both authors remain skeptical about the application of mathematical or scientific reasoning to religious questions. Pascal admits that the human mind can gain some understanding of the deity through the mathematical concepts of unity and infinity, but such analogies do not lead far: ‘‘S’il y a un Dieu, il est infiniment incomprehensible, puisque n’ayant ni parties ni bornes, il n’a nul rapport a nous’’ (135). Hugo, for his part, points out the limits of science, which he calls ‘‘un cordial,’’ or stimulant to the mind contemplating ethical problems, whereas faith serves as the ‘‘elixir,’’ or medicine capable of curing the mind beset by metaphysical or moral dilemmas (1:620). In his thoughts on ‘‘Les Moyens de croire,’’ Pascal signals the advantage of the heart over reason as an avenue to faith: ‘‘C’est le coeur qui sent Dieu et non la raison. Voila ce que c’est que la foi: Dieu sensible au coeur et non a la raison’’ (147). The seat of both intuition and the emotions, the heart’s superiority lies in its ability to grasp first principles, for example the fact that the soul exists and yearns for God, without demonstration. The heart cuts through the myriad complications and doubts plaguing reason and responds quickly and accurately. Because ‘‘Le sentiment . . . agit en un instant, et toujours est pret a agir’’ (143), Pascal advises his readers to put their faith in their feelings—the best guide, except for direct revelation, in religious matters. In Les Mise´rables Jean Valjean proves the wisdom of Pascal’s advice, for, at every crucial step of his development, his heart serves as the compass to right behavior. In the Petit Gervais
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
episode, his realization of his spiritual misery occurs simultaneously with the stirring of emotion in his numbed heart: Je suis un miserable! Alors son coeur creva et il se mit a pleurer. C’e´tait la premiere fois qu’il pleur ait depuis dix neuf ans. (1: 138)
The description of the sleepless night of the Champmathieu affair underscores the inadequacy of reason in the resolution of moral dilemmas. After endless deliberations, Valjean remains incapable of determining the better of two equally desperate actions: to hide his name and thus condemn an innocent man to the galleys or to reveal his past and deprive Montfermeil of its leading citizen. Only after a nightmare causes him to relive the fear and loneliness he experienced as an outcast can he envision the path to justice (1:289–93). His final struggle between his own desires to remain close to Cosette and his conviction that he must confess his identity to Marius is facilitated by emotional release: ‘‘Ce fut un bonheur pour Jean Valjean d’avoir pu pleurer. Cela l’eclaira peut-etre’’ (2:653). Like Pascal, Hugo teaches the reader through his hero’s trials that the heart has its reasons that are unknown to reason (146), especially in those cloudy areas that oppose personal interest to the more general interest of society. When Jean Valjean performs extraordinarily good deeds, such as his rescue of Cosette from the The´nardiers or, later, from Javert and Marius, he does so intuitively as if responding to an inner voice whose call becomes ever more distinct in the course of the novel. Hugo names this inner voice the conscience and describes it as the human faculty most capable of establishing contact with the hidden God. In a pointed reference to Pascal, the final chapter of ‘‘Parenthese’’ reinterprets ‘‘les deux infinis’’ as God and the soul: En meme temps qu’il y a un infini hors de nous, n’y a t il pas un infini en nous? . . . Ce second infini est il intelligent aussi? Pense t il? Aime t il? Veut il? Si les deux infinis sont intelligents, chacun d’eux a un principe voulant, et il y a un moi dans l’infini d’en haut comme il y a un moi dans l’infini d’en bas. Ce moi d’en bas, c’est l’ame; ce moi d’en haut, c’est Dieu. (1:618)
Hugo may have rewritten Pascal’s thoughts in reaction to the intermediate position in the cosmic order the Jansenist assigns to humanity. In Hugo’s revision, God and the soul emerge as fundamentally similar beings, both immortal, endowed with understanding, volition and the ability to love. This definition of ‘‘les deux infinis’’ provides the basis for Les Mise´rables’ version of the doctrine
V o l u m e
1
4 0 9
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
of progress which proclaims individuals, such as the novel’s hero, capable of overcoming evil both in themselves and in society if they are willing to respond to the divinity within. This is not to say that Hugo presents an idealized view of humanity through his hero. As Albouy has noted, ‘‘[La] notion de l’homme grotesque et sublime, touchant a l’ange et tenant a la bete’’ is an integral element of Hugo’s conception of human nature as early as The Preface of Cromwell of 1827, and one which explains the imagery of extremes used to describe mankind in general and Jean Valjean in particular. The author assures the reader that nowhere can the mind encounter ‘‘plus d’eblouissements ni plus de tenebres que dans l’homme’’ (1:270). Jean Valjean is composed of ‘‘La Boue mais l’ame.’’ Albouy suggests that Hugo’s conception of homo duplex shares a certain resemblance with Pascal’s thought on our grandeur and misery: ‘‘L’homme n’est ni ange ni bete, et le malheur veut que celui qui veut faire l’ange fait la bete’’ (164). At the climax of the Petit Gervais episode, the protagonist’s moral awakening involves a realization of this dual nature: Une voix lui disait elle a l’oreille . . . que si desor mais il n’e´tait pas le meilleur des hommes il en serait le pire, qu’il fallait pour ainsi dire que main tenant il montat plus haut que l’eveque ou retombat plus bas que le galerien, que s’il voulait devenir bon il fallait qu’il devint ange; que s’il voulait rester mechant il fallait qu’il devint monstre? (1:139)
Once again, however, Hugo rewrites Pascal’s text to his own purpose. For Pascal, any extreme pursuit of virtue makes vice all the more attractive. Thus, ‘‘qui veut faire l’homme fait la bete’’ (164). Hugo considers this intermediate moral position the most pernicious, since, for him, good and evil coexist in equally strong measures, pulling the soul at once between hatred, ignorance and selfishness on the one hand and enlightenment and charity on the other. Jean Valjean’s struggles impress upon the reader the ease with which even the most conscientious individual can slip backwards into egotism. In Les Mise´rables, indeed, ‘‘qui ne veut pas faire l’ange fait la bete.’’ Jean Valjean’s transformation from a brutish criminal without a moral conscience into an honest father and citizen requires vigilance and commitment. A belief in God’s existence, an awareness of the limits of human knowledge, as well as the necessity of choosing religion over atheism, are matters that inspire Les Mise´rables as much as the Pense´es. In the most crucial stage of his argument, Pascal reminds his interlocutor that our inability to answer
4 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
the question of the soul’s immortality does not excuse us from taking a stance for or against eternity: Il se joue un jeu, a l’extremite de cette distance infinie, ou il arrivera croix ou pile. Que gagerez vous? Par raison, vous ne pouvez faire ni l’un ni l’autre; par raison, vous ne pouvez defendre nul des deux . . . Oui, mais il faut parier . . . vous etes embarque. Lequel prendrez vous donc? (135 216)
In Les Mise´rables, Jean Valjean finds himself embarked when the Bishop of Digne’s forgiveness of the theft of silver offers him an initial opportunity for redemption. The bishop’s words: ‘‘Jean Valjean, mon frere, vous n’appartenez plus au mal, mais au bien. C’est votre ame que je vous achete; je la retire aux Pense´es noires et a l’esprit de perdition; et je la donne a Dieu’’ (1:133) present the former criminal with two clear options: heads, to lift his soul into sainthood; tails, to fall into bestiality. The wager that the hero accepts at the conclusion of the Petit Gervais incident is only the first of a series of choices which consume his entire existence. Hugo insists upon the anguish suffered by his protagonist, who most often contemplates his alternatives alone in a darkness that suggests imagistically his doubts. Choice becomes more difficult rather than easier. During ‘‘Une Tempete sous un crane,’’ Jean Valjean realizes that all of his efforts to live as an honest bourgeois did nothing to prepare him for the sacrifice required to save Champmathieu: ‘‘tout ce qu’il avait fait jusqu’a ce jour n’e´tait autre chose qu’un trou qu’il creusait pour y enfouir son mom’’ (1: 274). In ‘‘La Nuit Blanche’’ the author asserts that, even after a lifetime of moral decisions, his hero finds this last step as arduous as the first: ‘‘ . . . cette fois encore, comme cela lui e´tait deja arrive dans d’autres peripeties douleureuses, deux routes s’ouvraient devant lui; l’une tentante, l’autre effrayante. Laquelle prendre’’ (2:651)? Conceived as a Pascalian character, Jean Valjean is deprived of certainty but required to choose and, moreover, to choose correctly. Recognizing that belief may not come easily to his interlocutor who has accepted the necessity of the wager, Pascal recommends prayer, the imitation of saintly people and the suppression of the passions as the most efficient spiritual exercises preparing the way to faith. Hugo speaks of these same three avenues to faith in Les Mise´rables. Both writers insist on the primacy of prayer, which, for Pascal, acknowledges our dependence upon the deity (138). Hugo, for his part, advocates prayer as a means of overcoming the separation between the human and the divine:
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
‘‘Mettre par la pensee, l’infini d’en bas en contact avec l’infini d’en haut, cela s’appelle prier’’ (1:619). He broadens his definition of prayer to include meditation and reverie: ‘‘Quant au mode de prier, tous sont bons, pourvu qu’ils soient sinceres’’ (1:619). When Hugo presents Jean Valjean absorbed in consideration of some moral dilemma, he wishes the reader to understand that his hero is praying. Valjean often appears, as well, in traditional postures of supplication. At the conclusion of the Petit Gervais episode, for example, a passerby notices ‘‘un homme dans l’attitude de la priere, a genoux sur le pave dans l’ombre, devant la porte de monseigneur Bienvenu’’ (1:195). Following Pascal’s advice: ‘‘ . . . apprenez de ceux qui ont ete lies comme vous, et qui parient maintenant tout leur bien’’ (1:137), Hugo’s hero remains attentive, until the moment of death, to the Bishop of Digne’s example and imitates his mentor’s charity and forgiveness. Valjean also comes to imitate more and more vigorously in the course of the novel the bishop’s renunciation of worldly pleasures. Hugo demands extreme asceticism of the novel’s hero, who must give up not only his desires for vengeance but also his paternal feelings, wealth and comfort. Like Pascal (138), Hugo seems to feel that passions are great obstacles to faith and that even the simplest satisfactions lead us too easily astray into egotism, the modern manifestation of Pascal’s deceptive ‘‘amour-propre.’’ Hugo signals this danger at several crucial points, most notably during the Champmathieu affair, when Jean Valjean recognizes that his seemingly worthwhile existence as Monsieur Madeleine has tainted ‘‘tant d’annees de repentir et d’abnegation’’ (1:272) and in ‘‘L’Idylle Rue Plumet,’’ where the discovery of Cosette’s romance with Marius turns the hero’s love into a revolt described as ‘‘l’immense reveil de l’egoisme’’ (2:390). The emphasis on sacrifice explains, further, the constant comparisons of Jean Valjean to Christ, which, as Brombert notes, abound in the later chapters of Les Mise´rables. The death scene enacts dramatically Pascal’s conviction that renunciation of the world opens the door to faith (137), for, as Jean Valjean leaves the world, a celestial light floods his eyes and an angel welcomes his soul into paradise. It is the notion of faith, a faith drawn from the depths of the heart, unfathomable by logic, yet capable of transforming our moral life, that most closely links Hugo to Pascal. Les Mise´rables demonstrates the author’s own faith in human perfectibility and the values of the French
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Revolution, and it does so at a point of consummate difficulty in his life, when his exile not only separated him from his compatriots but when the repressive atmosphere of the Second Empire would have made his message of social progress and liberty appear naive. Hugo was certainly aware that his audience, prepared by a quarter century of secular thought to dismiss religion, might prove skeptical toward his defense of God and the immortality of the soul. In some personal comments at the end of the ‘‘Parenthese,’’ Hugo seems to reassure his readers that his faith in the deity is not only sincere, but indeed the primary reason for the composition of his novel. Contrasting the nuns of the Petit Picpus Convent, who live even on earth in the divine presence, with French men and women of the late-nineteenth century, ‘‘cette heure ou tant d’hommes ont le front bas et l’ame plus haute’’ (1:629), Hugo places himself squarely in the nuns’ camp with the declaration ‘‘Quant a nous . . . [nous] vivons comme elles par la foi’’ (1:624). Indeed, like Pascal’s Pense´es, Les Mise´rables is a protest against a world over-confident yet unhappy in its materialism. A bold and courageous wager, Hugo’s novel invites us to look beyond the present to a more just future and, ultimately, to eternity. Source: Mary Anne O’Neil, ‘‘Pascalian Reflections in Les Mise´rables,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 78, No. 3, June 22, 1999, pp. 335 48.
Angelo Metzidakis In this essay, Metzidakis explores Hugo’s perspective on French history and the message it delivers to his readers. In Les Mise´rables, Hugo presents a very selective reading of nineteenth-century French history in order to convince the bourgeoisie of the Second Empire of the virtues of republicanism. Hugo’s historical commentary underscores the unwitting role that the bourgeois class had played in the development of republicanism in France as a means to persuade his readers that conscious opposition to the government of Napoleon III would serve their own interests as well as those of France as a whole. Hugo’s reading of French history contains an implicit critique of the Second Empire during the early 1860s. By praising various aspects of political life during the Restoration and the July Monarchy in his novel, Hugo makes oblique references to specific changes in contemporary political life which he deplores. In this way, he educates his
V o l u m e
1
4 1 1
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
the monarchy would preserve liberal policies that would assure national stability. HUGO’S SELECTIVE REREADING OF FRENCH HISTORY IN LES MISE´RABLES PRESENTS A MULTIFACETED ANALYSIS OF THE REPUBLICAN IDEAL THAT GOES FAR IN THE EDUCATION OF ITS BOURGEOIS READER.’’
readers with respect to their political opportunities in the hope that they will renounce their tacit collusion with the regime of Napoleon III by taking action through the political process. The bulk of Hugo’s commentary centers on two dates: 1814, the year of Napoleon’s first abdication and of the first Bourbon Restoration and, 1830, the year of the July Revolution and of the rise to power of Louis Philippe. Both of these dates represent stages of political transition during which the powers of the throne were diminished in favor of the bourgeoisie which, in each case, prolonged the monarchy for the sake of national stability. In a discussion on the result of the July Revolution, Hugo draws a parallel between the events of 1814 and 1830 in order to underscore the bourgeois role in them: Qui arreˆte les re´volutions a` mi coˆte? La bourgeoi sie. Pourquoi? Parce que la bourgeoisie est l’inte´reˆt arrive´ a` la satisfaction. Hier c’e´tait l’appe´tit, aujourd’hui c’est la ple´nitude, demain ce sera la ` de 1814 apres ` Napo satie´te´. Le meˆme phe´nomene ` Charles X. On a le´on se reproduisit en 1830 apres voulu, a` tort, faire de la bourgeoisie une classe. La bourgeoisie est tout simplement la portion con tente´e du peuple. Le bourgeois, c’est l’homme qui a maintenant le temps de s’asseoir. Une chaise n’est pas une caste. Mais, pour vouloir s’asseoir trop toˆt, on peut arreˆter la marche meˆme du genre humain. Cela a e´te´ souvent la faute de la bourgeoi sie. On n’est pas une classe parce qu’on fait une faute. L’e´goı¨ sme n’est pas une des divisions de l’ordre social.
Hugo describes 1814 and 1830 as ‘‘halts,’’ moments during which the bourgeoisie consolidated its gains and forces in view of further progress at some more auspicious moment in the future. At the time, republicanism was seen as a threat against which a weakened throne was a safeguard. It seemed that
4 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
Hugo’s commentary on 1814 and 1830 has negative implications for the political situation in which the original readers of Les Mise´rables found themselves. Although the aspirations of the bourgeoisie in the early 1860s had not changed, the government of Napoleon III was no longer the guarantor of liberalism and stability. As the Second Empire had already begun its gradual decline, government opposition grew on many fronts. For example, the industrialists were alienated by Napoleon III’s free trade agreements with Britain, and the Catholics were furious with his military involvement in Italian affairs which touched off the ‘‘Roman Question.’’ Faced with such growing opposition, Napoleon III changed his despotic policies for more liberal ones in order to gain support. Unfortunately, his politically motivated liberalism only gave more ground to the Opposition and fostered political activity among the French. Having intimated that support of Napoleon III is no longer in the interest of the bourgeoisie, Hugo shifts the focus of his historical criticism to the early years of the Second Empire. Two of Hugo’s remarks, one concerning the Bourbons, the other Louis Philippe, are of particular interest in this context since they amount to indirect accusations of Napoleon III’s rule during the authoritarian phase of the Second Empire which had entered into its so-called ‘‘liberal’’ phase only a few years prior to the publication of Les Mise´rables. Given this time frame, the reader cannot possibly ignore Hugo’s intent. In his first critical remark, Hugo favorably stresses the relative liberties that prevailed during the Restoration until the signing of the July Ordinances: [C]’est sous Louis XVIII et Charles X que vint le tour de parole de l’intelligence. Le vent cessa, le flambeau se ralluma. On vit frissonner sur les ` des esprits. Spec cimes sereines la pure lumiere tacle magnifique, utile et charmant. On vit travailler pendant quinze ans, en pleine paix, en pleine place publique, ces grands principes, si vieux pour le penseur, si nouveaux pour l’homme d’e´tat: l’e´galite´ devant la loi, la liberte´ de la conscience, la liberte´ de la parole, la lib erte´ de la presse, l’accessibilite´ de toutes les aptitudes a` toutes les fonctions. Cela alla ainsi jusqu’en 1830.
The ‘‘flambeau de l’intelligence’’ that shone on France from on high is Hugo’s main concern
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
here. He is referring to the ‘‘sacred’’ tribune of the Chamber of Deputies in which long parliamentary debates were fought between the Liberals and the Ultraroyalists during public sessions throughout the Restoration. Napoleon III suppressed such free debate during which the will of the people, as expressed by the Liberals, was heard and not without effect. Clearly, by extolling selected aspects of past political life, Hugo is emphasizing the fact that the first nine years of the Second Empire was a period of dictatorial rule during which the legislature was gagged and powerless. Furthermore, the history of the tribune from the French Revolution until its destruction by Louis Napoleon’s coup d’e´tat is detailed in the fifth book of Napole´on le Petit entitled ‘‘Parlementarisme ’’. One typically Hugolian sentence from the ninth chapter of this book, ‘‘La Tribune de´truite,’’ suffices to revive Hugo’s incisive criticism of Napoleon III which is shrouded under the veil of historical commentary in Les Mise´rables: Donc ‘le parlementarisme’, c’est a` dire la garan tie des citoyens, la liberte´ de discussion, la liberte´ de la presse, la liberte´ individuelle, le controˆle de l’impoˆt, la clarte´ dans les recettes et dans les de´penses, . . . la liberte´ de conscience, la liberte´ des cultes, le point d’appui de la proprie´te´, le recours contre les confiscations et les spolia tions, la se´curite´ de chacun, le contrepoids a` l’arbitraire, la dignite´ de la nation, . . . tout cela n’est plus.
It should be remembered, however, that the bourgeois reader of Les Mise´rables needed no such reminders since many of the practices of the despotic regime were still in recent memory: wide press censorship, unconstrained government spending, official lists of approved candidates for elections, and the arbitrary arrest and deportation of many persons suspected of antigovernment activity after Orsini’s attack on Napoleon III. A second indirect accusation of Napoleon III is found in Hugo’s appreciation of Louis Philippe’s apparent good faith in his ascendance to the throne: Louis Philippe e´tait entre´ dans l’autorite´ royale sans violence, sans action directe de sa part, par le fait d’un virement re´volutionnaire, . . . dans lequel lui, duc d’Orle´ans, n’avait aucune initia tive personnelle. Il e´tait ne´ prince et se croyait e´lu roi. Il ne s’e´tait point donne´ a` lui meˆme ce mandat; il ne l’avait point pris; on le lui avait offert et il l’avait accepte´; convaincu, a` tort certes, mais convaincu que l’offre e´tait selon le droit et que l’acceptation e´tait selon le devoir.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Hugo’s characterization of Louis Philippe dramatically underscores the extent of Louis Napoleon’s bad faith while preparing the rise of the Second Empire: once elected President of the Second Republic, on the strength of his Napoleonic ancestry, he intended to remain in power, no matter what the cost. He began by manipulating the ‘‘Parti de l’Ordre’’ in order to crush the democratic movement of the Republicans. After failing in his attempt to revise the Constitution so as to permit his reelection, his last recourse was the coup d’e´tat. After having exploited this chaotic situation by evoking the threat of the ‘‘spectre rouge,’’ Louis Napoleon polled the Frenchmen on an exacting plebiscite: ‘‘Le peuple franc¸ais veut le maintient de l’autorite´ de Louis` Napole´on Bonaparte et lui de´legue les pouvoirs ´ necessaires pour faire une constitution.’’ That is how Louis Napoleon legitimized his cause, procured his new mandate, and became Napoleon III on the first anniversary of the coup d’e´tat which conveniently coincided with the date of the great battle of Austerlitz. Hugo’s limited presentation of the Restoration and of the July Monarchy makes the bourgeois readers aware of their unwitting participation in France’s political transformations. Their political strength grew under the rule of the ‘‘legitimate’’ Bourbons and continued to do so under the ‘‘illegitimate’’ duc d’Orle´ans, ‘‘le roi citoyen,’’ the bourgeois king. One very real aspect of their power was the national guard which was organized in March 1831. It was a bourgeois army, a type of police force, whose function was to protect Louis Philippe’s regime from its adversaries. When its support of the July Monarchy ended in 1848, the regime collapsed. What followed was the troubled Second Republic during which the interests of the French people were split into two antagonistic groups: the bourgeois, along with the peasants, versus the workers, the truly afflicted class. The former group was horrified by the latter, while the latter hated the former. This marks the beginning of the counterproductive or, to use more lenient language, the ‘‘irresponsible’’ role of the bourgeois in French society. From this point on, Hugo’s moral instruction of the bourgeois, his plea for the spirit of revolution and Christianity in the service of the ideal—and therefore of the people—is applicable. In Les Mise´rables, Hugo’s interest in the Second Republic is limited to a discussion of the socialist insurrection of June 1848. The complexity of this situation, which required bourgeois
V o l u m e
1
4 1 3
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
participation, is clear in the following passage: ‘‘Juin 1848 fut . . . un fait a` part, et presque impossible a` classer dans la philosophie de l’histoire. . . . [C]ette e´meute extraordinaire ou` l’on sentit la sainte anxie´te´ du travail re´clamant ses droits. Il fallut la combattre, et c’e´tait le devoir, car elle attaquait la Re´publique. Mais, au fond, que fut juin 1848? Une re´volte du peuple contre luimeˆme.’’ Although the ‘‘duty’’ of the bourgeois was to save the Republic from mounting socialist protest and disorder, these stringent measures could have been avoided had the government had the will to initiate legislation that could have eased the poverty-stricken condition of the workers. The need for such legislation was chronic because the French economic crisis, which had begun during the July Monarchy, worsened during the Second Republic, especially after the February Revolution. Socialist agitation had brought commerce to a virtual standstill. In order to discredit the Socialists—and, in particular, Louis Blanc, theoretician of L’Organisation du travail—the provisional government intentionally founded a warped version of the ‘‘Ateliers nationaux.’’ When these workshops proved to be obvious failures, the government closed them, ordering indigent workers either to join the army, or to leave for work in the provinces. The barricades of the June Revolt, ‘‘l’acropole des va-nu-pieds,’’ arose from this tragic situation. The bourgeois and the peasants were ready for order, even if it meant Louis Napoleon’s order: the suppression of the Republic and of its ideals. They would be content if material order were restored, but would they remain content if moral order were not also restored in the long run? The question of moral grandeur, inspired by the contemplation of the ideal, is crucial to Hugo’s argument against the premises of the Second Empire. Hugo does not situate this grandeur with the bourgeois position, but rather with the socialist one. The Socialists were directly concerned with the social issues that the politically oriented bourgeoisie wanted to ignore. By analyzing the abortive revolt of 1832 and the temporarily successful one of 1848, Hugo presents his reader with the ideal side of the socialist position. He disengages its lofty goals from its violent acts by characterizing the insurrectionists as ‘‘essayeurs de l’avenir’’ whose aim was to build a truly equitable republic in which global growth would be uninhibited by artificial means. Hugo’s advocacy of the ideals of the revolution of 1848 constitutes a call for political action
4 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
that seems to have been heard by his readers of the Second Empire. The legislative elections of 1863, approximately one year after the publication of Les Mise´rables , established a sizeable anti-Empire group within the government thanks to the growing idea of an ‘‘union libe´rale.’’ This wide-ranging shift in public opinion, gradual though it was, raised the moral consciousness of the bourgeois who, during the regime of silence, had rather apathetically concerned themselves with material considerations. The reason for Hugo’s interest in the bourgeois reader, especially in the young generation that had matured during the Empire, is quite simple. This group, having been given a certain education and culture, was the most receptive to what he called the peaceful ‘‘philosophie de la re´volution’’ which is, in short, ideal republicanism. Up until Napoleon III’s rise to power, republican ideals were associated with the violent anarchy and militant socialism surrounding 1832 and 1848. During the period that preceded the Second Empire, the workers who revolted, ‘‘les barbares de la civilisation,’’ received ‘‘la souterraine e´ducation de l’e´meute’’ which was, judging from Enjolras’ speech to the insurgents of 1832, a course in the force of the ideal without any concern for its implementation through peaceful means. The bourgeois, among others, was to receive later a similar form of education beginning with the brief, but violent repression that followed the coup d’e´tat. The education of the bourgeois in the value of the ideal was to be much slower and, so to speak, more reasoned than had been the case for the insurgents of the Republic. The role of Les Mise´rables in the ‘‘subterranean’’ education of the bourgeois can be seen in Hugo’s evaluation of the political and social climate of France in the early 1830s. To a great extent, this historical description is applicable to the 1860s, with the difference that the bourgeois is called upon to act ‘‘appropriately’’ against the Empire: Entre l’attaque du passe´ et l’attaque de l’avenir, l’e´tablissement de juillet se de´battait. . . . Une har monie voulue a` contre sens est souvent plus one´reuse qu’une guerre. De ce lourd conflit, tou jours musele´, mais toujours grondant, naquit la paix arme´e, ce ruineux expe´dient de la civilisation suspecte a` elle meˆme. . . . Cependant, a` l’inte´r ieur, paupe´risme, prole´tariat, salaire, e´ducation, pe´nalite´, prostitution, sort de la femme, richesse, ` misere, production, consommation, re´partition, e´change, monnaie, cre´dit, droit du capital, droit du travail, toutes les questions se multipliaient
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
au dessus de la socie´te´; surplomb terrible. En dehors des partis proprement dits, un autre mouvement se manifestait.
Clearly, ‘‘la paix arme´e’’ is an indictment of Napoleon III’s ‘‘peaceful’’ Empire which began warring early on; for example, the Crimean War in 1854, the war in Italy in 1859, and the beginning of the ruinous Mexican Involvement in 1861–1862. Furthermore, the economic factors concerning monies, credits, capital investment, and the like, all point to Napoleon III’s financial ventures which, although having done much for the nation’s economy and prestige, did much less for the workers. This produced a cleavage between the bourgeois and the workers, the ‘‘mise´rables’’ of the Second Empire, that is referred to indirectly in the previous passage by the relative terms: ‘‘paupe´risme, . . . salaire, e´ducation, pe´nalite´, prostitution, sort de la ` femme, richesse, misere.’’ In the 1860s, all of these factors taken together produced a new movement in France, a movement that was to form a coalition that would cut across party lines, namely the Opposition. If Hugo addressed the bourgeois element of this growing opposition, he did so in the hope that its members would channel their efforts and influence towards the building of the Republic that they had once scorned, the same Republic that the majority of the Opposition was still against. Hugo’s selective rereading of French history in Les Mise´rables presents a multifaceted analysis of the republican ideal that goes far in the education of its bourgeois reader. While it is true that the social question posed by the ‘‘mise´rables’’ has a moral dimension that transcends the time frame of the novel, Hugo’s political intent—his credo— is very specific and posits the political inevitability of the Republic. In short, Hugo maintains that if bourgeois readers become politically active, they will thereby reconcile their power with their moral obligations, and thus join the revolutionary movement of which they are part with the truly Christian fervor (in Hugo’s sense) that blind ‘‘e´goı¨ sme’’ had previously dampened. Conversely, if they do not act, they will be an ‘‘obstacle’’ to be done away with when the Republic is at hand. This is Hugo’s message to his readers of the Second Empire, and this is precisely the wider, political point of view to which he alludes at the end of his preface to Les Mise´rables: ‘‘ . . . en d’autres termes, et a` un point de vue plus e´tendu encore, ` tant qu’il y aura sur la terre ignorance et misere, des livres de la nature de celui-ci pourront ne pas eˆtre inutiles.’’
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M i s e´ r a b l e s
Source: Angelo Metzidakis, ‘‘On Rereading French His tory in Hugo’s Les Mise´rables,’’ in French Review, Vol. 67, No. 2, December 1993, pp. 187 95.
T. W. M. In the following excerpt from a review of Part 1 of Les Mise´rables, this unidentified writer gives the story unqualified praise. [Les Mise´rables] is the greatest and most elaborate work of Victor Hugo’s fruitful genius. . . . A novel, in the ordinary acceptation of that term, [ Fantine] is not. The ordinary novel, according to Carlyle, is a ‘‘tale of adventures which did not occur in God’s creation, but only in the Waste Chambers, (to be let unfurnished,) of certain human heads, and which are part and parcel of the Sum of No-things; which, nevertheless, obtain some temporary remembrance, and lodge extensively, at this epoch of the world, in similar still more unfurnished chambers.’’ These productions have wonderful plots and still more wonderful machinery. Fantine has simply dramatic situations, and therefore Fantine is no novel. They are remarkable for many words and few ideas; every page of Fantine contains some beautiful thought, poetically expressed, or some brilliant passage upon Life, Law, Religion, or Philosophy; hence Fantine is not a novel. People with waste chambers, (to let unfurnished,) need not read it; it was never written for them. But to the thinker it will be a solace and delight, albeit its lessons may excite some saddened reflections in sympathetic minds. We have stated that Fantine had not the plot of the ordinary novel; but dramatic situations, instead. Let us add, that the work is composed of a series of brilliant pictures, boldly touched off by a master-hand, as in the case of the great works of Niccola Poussin and Claude Loraine. . . . There is not in the literature of fiction a finer portraiture than that given of [M. Charles Franc¸ois Bienvenu Myriel, Bishop of D—]. His every trait of character, objective and psychological, is elaborately depicted. It is, for several pages of the book, a lone sketch, nothing to heighten the interest thereof save two old virtuous ladies of his household; who are about as important to the theme, as the occasional and indifferent tree in some of Raphael’s paintings. It is quite as powerful and much more elaborate, yet not quite so fearful or mysterious, but far more genial and beautiful in type than, Byron’s grand portrait of Lara; and equally well sustained in power throughout. But the character of Lara is dark and gloomy; that of
V o l u m e
1
4 1 5
L e s
M i s e´ r a b l e s
M. Myriel radiant with spiritual beauty. We are permitted to look, not only upon the objective form and actions of the man, but as if his mind were spread open to view, we have a full revelation of his psychology—we gaze into the divine depths of his immortal soul. Indeed so beautiful is the moral portraiture of that simple but good man, that one of our contemporaries has pronounced such a being an impossibility! We cannot think so—and if mistaken, our historic lessons, standard of ideal virtue, and belief in the true, beautiful and good, must have rested upon shifting sands. . . . But conceding the supposed fact, that we err—surely it is highly creditable to the genius of M. Hugo, that out of the depths of his contemplation he could create an Ideal Character, so perfect as to be an impossibility in humanity; a concession which, however, must greatly reflect upon, and detract from, the boasted grandeur of the human soul. But, be this as it may, two personages of opposite opinions are brought in contact with the Bishop—one, a Senator, and the other, a Conventioner, persecuted by the ruling power which succeeded to the French Revolution. The former is a kind of little Atheist—a scoffer at the established forms of religion, after the manner of Voltaire. The latter is a bold intellectualist; a master of the syllogistic forms of logic; a dogmatic denunciator of legitimacy and royalty; and a mystic in Deism. In detailing the particulars of M. Myriel’s interviews with these men, Victor Hugo has carried to its highest point of delicacy, that civilization in Art, which pervades modern French authorship. The Atheist’s sneers against revealed religion, is treated with respectful silence, or returned only with Christian pity. The bold sallies and loud declamations of the old Conventioner, are met with pastoral humility until he is half subdued. And when death is about to close his eyes, the good Bishop is his only friend—the only witness of his spirit’s flight. It is as if the Lion had made of the Lamb its confidant and friend. This is the place to remark, however, that Senator and Conventioner, are simply machinery whereby lessons upon life, history, and morality are promulged; as with many of the seemingly nonessential characters in Goethe’s Faust. . . . [We] do not hesitate to pronounce [Les Mise´rables] the ablest novel—after Goethe’s Welhelm Meister—of this century. Certain supercilious young gentlemen, of most questionable principles, and certain publicists
4 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
of still more questionable morals, think it fashionable and brilliant to decry Les Mise´rables as an immoral book; simply because they have not the brains to understand it. To us, it is a Bible in the fictitious literature of the nineteenth century. To them, it is merely a translation of a French novel; and all France is but their second Sodom: we know that France is not morally worse than America. To them, it is a production by Victor Hugo; to us it is a protest of genius against universal crimes—the plea of one who advocates, in the face of obloquy and contumely, the cause of the Life-Wretched. To them, it is a proclamation of war against society; to us, it is a grand sermon in behalf of primitive Christianity—a splendid endeavour to have Christendom permeated by the rules and regulations of the ‘‘Church and House Book of the Early Christians,’’ and of the ‘‘Law-Book of the Ante-Nicene Church.’’ To them, it is massive, grand, unusual, and incomprehensible; to us, it is beautiful as the Iliad of Homer—real as a play by Shakespeare. Les Mise´rables is an event—it is a new jewel in the literary crown of our century. . . . [Les Mise´rables] should awaken the conscience of society from its dismal lethargy of evil. For it is profound, straight-forward, and marvelously eloquent. ‘‘But then, it is a French novel’’—say its critics. So much the better, is our response; because it is greater than all of the English novels, gathered together and massed into one, which have appeared during the past quarter of a century. ‘‘But,’’ repeat its critics, ‘‘it contains exaggerations.’’ No doubt of it; we admit the fact. But are there not exaggerations in all novels? Was there ever one printed that contained them not? Are there not . . . more absurdities and vulgar caricatures in [Dickens’s] Great Expectations, than there could be found in so many of such books as Les Mise´rables, as would sink the Great Eastern? A French novel! Is this phrase used as a term of reproach, applicable to the literature of the most civilized and cultivated empire upon the globe? If so, is the novel, or its ignorant assailant, to be blamed— and which? Why the latter. Who is the French Novelist, and what is the French Novel? The one, is a scholar of genius and refinement; the other, a reflex of life and society. What English writers—what American writers—can be compared with such authors, in points of power and art, as Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Alphonse Karr, Edmund About, Emile Souvestre, Octave Feuillet, Alexandre Dumas, Michelet and Sue? Here are no contortionists—
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
1
L e s
no forced humorists—no retailers of vulgar and far-fetched wit—no writers of dreary, idealess wilderness-pages; but gentlemen of power, large and well digested observation, polished wit, noble satire, keen irony, and great Philosophy. . . . [To] such as find fault with Hugo’s humble characters, we would say: first remove Reynold’s Dunghill, or clean out Dickens’s Augean stables. If they think that the Frenchman crushes society, why, let them the more enjoy Thackeray’s crunching and mastication of it. Or if they dislike Jean Valjean, because he was a reformed criminal, then let them revel in the irreclaimable hideousness of Bulwer’s Villains. For there are no graceless scamps or vagabonds in the chambers of M. Hugo’s mind. His most infamous creation has some principle of homogeneity left; but the vagabond of one English novel, like the sinner of Jonathan Edwards’ theology, is past redemption. In short, the French novel is civilization; the English novel affectation—semi-nude barbarism. It is not, however, much to the credit of our vaunted enlightenment, that the greatest of recent Fictions—this very Les Mise´rables—should have been but poorly received by the press. . . . [It] is safe to say, at the least, that another so grandly brilliant a book, of its class, will not appear in the lifetime of the youngest of this generation! Source: T. W. M., Review of ‘‘Les Mise´rables Fantine,’’ in Southern Literary Messenger, July 1863, pp. 434 46.
Josephson, Matthew, Victor Hugo: A Realistic Biography of the Great Romantic, Doubleday, 2006. Lyons, Martyn, Readers and Society in Nineteenth Century France: Workers, Women, Peasants, Palgrave, 2001, pp. 13 14. Richardson, Joanna, Victor Hugo, St. Martin’s Press, 1976.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Eichner, Carolyn J., Surmounting the Barricades: Women in the Paris Commune, Indiana University Press, 2004. Eichner describes the roles of radical women in France from the 1860s to the end of the nine teenth century. VanderWolk, William, Victor Hugo in Exile: From Histor ical Representations to Utopian Vistas, Bucknell University Press, 2006. ˆ VanderWolk focuses on Les Chatiments, Les Mise´rables, and Napole´on le petit and argues that Hugo was an important historian who made intriguing predictions about the future. Ward, Patricia, The Medievalism of Victor Hugo, Penn sylvania State University Press, 1975. Hugo was fascinated by the mysteries and secrets of medieval times. Although Les Mise´r ables cannot really be called a Gothic novel, some of its episodes, such as the escape through the sewers, belong to the genre.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS
SOURCES Brombert, Victor H., Victor Hugo and the Visionary Novel, Harvard University Press, 1984.
Les Mise´rables
Frey, John Andrew, A Victor Hugo Encyclopedia, Green wood Press, 1999, p. 172.
romanticism
Grossman, Kathryn M., ‘‘Les Mise´rables’’: Conversion, Revolution, Redemption, Twayne, 1996.
Les Mise´rables AND Jean Valjean
Hugo, Victor, Les Mise´rables, translated by Julie Rose, Random House, 2008.
E p i c s
f o r
M i s e´ r a b l e s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Victor Hugo
Les Miserable AND justice
Les Mise´rables AND Inspector Javert Les Mise´rables AND revolution of 1848
V o l u m e
1
4 1 7
Le Morte d’Arthur Although Thomas Malory is thought to have written Le Morte d’Arthur in 1469, the first known publication was in 1485 by William Caxton. In this first edition, the work was divided into twenty-one books and 506 chapters. In 1934, another manuscript version was discovered in the Fellows Library of Winchester College. This manuscript is more fully developed in sections than the earlier one and is divided into ten parts, forming five larger sections. First published in 1947, this later version is the one more commonly used. It is available in various editions, one of which is the 2010 Signet Classic edition, titled Le Morte D’Arthur: King Arthur and the Legends of the Round Table.
THOMAS MALORY 1485
In composing Le Morte d’Arthur, Malory took various legends, mostly French in origin, and adapted them to English life, with an English perspective. Malory used courtly romances about Lancelot, dating from 1225 to 1230. These stories purport to be historical accounts of King Arthur and his knights and of their quest for the Holy Grail. In addition to the French sources, Malory used material from a fourteenth-century English poem, the alliterative Morte Arthure. Although Arthur may have existed, little actual historical evidence survives for the stories, which are believed to derive from legend and folklore. Many scholars have attempted to prove that Malory’s work is based on fact, but its attraction has tended to be the text itself with its emphasis on courtly love, honor and virtue, and, magic and
4 1 9
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
miracles. Le Morte d’Arthur was immediately popular and has remained so over the centuries. It influenced subsequent works, including Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene and Alfred Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Le Morte d’Arthur: The Winchester Manuscript was published as a paperback in 2008 by Oxford University Press; it is also available in Kindle and audio book editions and a beautifully illustrated hardback edition.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The authorship of Le Morte d’Arthur has long been disputed, although for practical purposes, the actual identity and biography of Thomas Malory has come to be less important than the literary folklore that surrounds this individual. Traditionally, Le Morte d’Arthur has been attributed to Thomas Malory, a knight, who was born about 1405 in Warwickshire, England. As a young man, Malory is said to have served in Calais with the forces of the Earl of Warwick, and he succeeded to his father’s estate, Newbold Revel in Warwickshire, in 1433 or 1434, probably when he was in his twenties. Shortly after, Malory married, although there is little reliable information about his personal life with his wife, Elizabeth. There is evidence of one child, a son, Robert, although there may have been more offspring. There are, however, accounts of Malory’s imprisonment, which followed what appeared to be a fairly respectable life. After inheriting his father’s estate and a second estate a few years later, Malory led a quiet and, by most accounts, affluent life, and he served as a member of Parliament. But for some reason, perhaps political ones, in about 1450, Malory was arrested. He was charged with various violent crimes but never brought to trial. When Edward IV issued a pardon for prisoners, Malory was specifically excluded. Since it is unlikely that a knight with money and position would turn to criminal life, respected British historian Christina Hardyment proposes in her 2007 book Malory: The Knight Who Became King Arthur’s Chronicler that the charges against Malory were politically motivated, and his imprisonments resulted from a possible love affair gone wrong and loyalty to Henry VI. Such a view has been expressed by other critics as well. Malory died in 1471 and was buried in the cemetery at Christ Church Greyfriars, in Newgate Street, in the City of London.
4 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
Malory is credited with writing Le Morte d’Arthur during the last years of his imprisonment. Some scholars and historians who dispute Malory’s authorship, do so on the assumption that he was little more than a common thief and was, therefore, not capable of composing such an important work. There is no way to assert with complete accuracy if this Thomas Malory, or any other Thomas Malory, was actually the author of this work, but Malory’s criminal record is not an indicator of his literary capabilities. Le Morte d’Arthur is filled with battles and details about chivalry and themes of lust and jealousy. These are all subjects that Malory, the knight turned criminal, would know about. A statement at the end of the book indicates Le Morte d’Arthur was completed in ‘‘the ix yere of the reygne of kyng edward the fourth.’’ That date corresponds to the period between March 4, 1469, and March 3, 1470, near the end of Malory’s imprisonment and life. Le Morte d’Arthur was printed in 1485 by William Caxton. There is no evidence that Malory wrote any other texts.
PLOT SUMMARY I. The Tale of King Arthur The birth of Arthur results from King Uther’s deceptive bedding, which is really a rape, of Arthur’s mother, Igrayne. Merlin, who arranges with Uther for the satisfaction of his lust, is promised the child who results. After Arthur’s birth, Merlin sends the child to live with Sir Ector. Two years later, Uther dies, and Merlin secures the dying king’s promise that Arthur shall be king. With Uther’s death, the kingdom is in disarray with several of the barons struggling to gain control. Merlin and the archbishop arrange for a gathering of the lords. When the lords arrive, they find a sword buried in a stone. Upon the stone are the words, ‘‘whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is duly born king of all England.’’ None of the men present can budge the sword, but Arthur, who assumes the sword is one mislaid by Kay, easily pulls the sword free. However, the lords do not wish to be ruled by a boy and resist proclaiming Arthur king. Eventually, however, the lords agree, and as king, Arthur is successful, ruling equitably and cautiously. When Arthur has himself crowned king of Wales, the husbands of Uther’s three daughters,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The1953MGMfilmKnightsoftheRoundTable, starring Robert Taylor, Ava Gardner, and Mel Ferrer and directed by Richard Thorpe, was nominated for Academy Awards in Best Art Direction/SetDirectionandBestSound.
Originally a Broadway play, the 1967 Warner Brothers’ film Camelot, starring Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave and directed by Joshua Logan, received several Academy Awards and Golden Globe Awards.
The2001TurnerHomeEntertainmentmini-series The Mists of Avalon was based on the book by Marion Zimmer Bradley. The story focuses on thepowerfulandmysticalwomenofthelegendin the time just before Arthur becomes king.
The 2002 video recording Malory’s ‘‘Le Morte d’Arthur’’: Anatomy of a Legend, produced by Films for the Humanities and Sciences, presents three experts who analyze the epic in addition to reenactments, location footage, and related artwork.
The 2005 Acorn Media three-part series King Arthur’s Britain tours historical and archeological sites for clues about the state of Britain in the sixth century when Arthur was king.
The 2006 three-part video from Kultur Video Legend of King Arthur: Merlin, Camelot, and King Arthur delves into history to uncover facts about Camelot and the Holy Grail and discuss the latest theories. It also reviews images in great art and other graphics that illustrate and add their own interpretations of the legend.
The 2008 A&E Television Networks broadcast Quest for King Arthur explores the legend, the facts, and the state of Arthurian research. In the 2010 Image Entertainment series King Arthur & the Knights of Justice, Merlin goes into the future to seek replacement knights from a modern football team to defend Camelot from Morgana, Lord Viper, and the Warlords after they capture Arthur and the Round Table Knights.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
who are themselves kings, arrive for the coronation. However, instead of arriving to celebrate with Arthur, kings Lot, Nantres, and Uriens arrive to make war. Although Merlin tells the three kings of Arthur’s heritage and arranges a truce, Merlin returns to Arthur telling him to attack because destiny is with him. After his easy victory over his enemies, Arthur meets and falls in love with Guinevere. Arthur also creates a child, Mordred, with Lot’s wife, whom Arthur does not realize is his sister. Soon, Merlin appears disguised first to tell Arthur that he is Uther’s son, and later, to tell Arthur that he has lain with his sister and created a child who will destroy him. When Arthur loses his sword in battle against Sir Pellanor, Merlin leads Arthur to the Lady of the Lake, where Arthur promises a later gift in return for his sword, which will protect him as long as he wears it. In a final effort to secure his kingdom and himself, Arthur orders the deaths of all highborn children born on May Day, but the reason for this order, Mordred, survives. Instead, Arthur incurs the wrath of his lords. Merlin has had a part in every event that has shaped Arthur’s life, although Arthur does not yet know it. The story now shifts to an emphasis on revenge as a magical sword is used by a newly released prisoner, Sir Balyn, to slay the Lady of the Lake. When Sir Balyn attempts to win back Arthur’s favor, he accidentally kills Launceor of Ireland, one of Arthur’s men, and is responsible for the suicide of Launceor’s sister. Soon another battle with King Lot ensues, Pellanor kills the king, and Arthur manages a great victory over his enemies. Merlin warns Arthur that he must guard his scabbard and that the woman to whom he gives it will steal it. Arthur gives it to Morgan le Fay, his sister, who gives the scabbard to her lover. After many battles, Balyn dies in battle with his brother, the two having killed one another by mistake. Merlin fixes Balyn’s sword so that no man can use it except Lancelot or Galahad. Against Merlin’s advice, Arthur marries Guinevere. Her dowry is the Round Table, which seats 150, the seats of which Merlin fills with as many knights as he can find. One of the new knights is Lot’s son, Gawain. After some minor skirmishes, Arthur establishes the new code for the Knights of the Round Table. The new code demands that the knights be merciful, righteous in their battles, and honorable toward women.
V o l u m e
2
4 2 1
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
II. The Tale of Arthur and King Lucius
IV. The Tale of Sir Gareth
This book recounts the battles between Arthur and Lucius of Rome. Lucius has demanded tributes from Arthur, who refuses. Arthur promises war and is supported by his knights, who are eager for an honorable war. Although Lucius is warned of Arthur’s strength, he chooses to attack anyway. Parting from his grieving Guinevere, Arthur leaves England for Normandy. The battles begin earlier than planned, after Gawain and King Bors precipitate a clash with the Romans. In spite of their lack of preparedness, Arthur’s forces destroy the enemy with Gawain emerging as a heroic figure. Arthur next sends Lancelot and Cador to deliver the Roman prisoners to Paris, but Roman forces ambush them. Lancelot proves himself a hero, and the small force defeats the Romans. Lucius’s men beg Lucius to end the war, but the Romans choose to attack yet again. This time, Arthur vows to take no prisoners, killing every one of his enemies in the battle. Arthur is crowned king of Rome, where he apportions the city’s wealth. Soon Arthur and his men return to England and their wives.
Gareth is another of Lot’s sons and the brother of Gawain. He is the perfect knight, more humble and pure than all the other knights. When this book begins, he is working as a kitchen boy and has adopted the name, Beaumains. Sir Kay is angered that this kitchen boy, whom he has always distrusted, is made a knight and that he is given an adventure, which is to help the maiden Lynet. However, when Sir Kay follows him, Gareth seizes Kay’s spear and shield. After several adventures and the defeat of many criminal types, Gareth proves his worthiness to be a knight of the Round Table. Finally, after a tournament in which Gareth unknowingly fights his brother Gawain, Gareth is married to Lyonesse to whom he has been a devoted suitor.
III. The Tale of Sir Lancelot du Lake After his victory in Rome, Lancelot returns to England, an honored and heroic knight. This book relates Lancelot’s adventures, which embody the ideal heroic knight and the code of the Round Table. In the first of the episodes related here, Lancelot is asleep under a tree when Morgan le Fay and three other ladies find him. She uses magic to return him to her castle, where the women demand that he must choose one of them or he will die. Lancelot is saved when he promises to help Sir Bagdemagus in a tournament. On his way to the tournament, Lancelot fights and wounds another knight, who had attacked him as he rested. After he wins the tournament, Lancelot is guided to Tarquin, who had earlier captured Lancelot’s nephew. Lancelot kills Tarquin and has all of the prisoners released. He next kills a thief and rapist, before moving on to Tintagel Castle, where Arthur was conceived, and where Lancelot kills the giant that had been attacking women. As his adventures continue, Lancelot gives his armor to Sir Kay to protect him, and when a maiden seeks his help, Lancelot willingly risks his life to do so. He even agrees to help a lady who secretly attempts to have him killed. Soon, everyone knows of Lancelot’s many heroic deeds.
4 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
V. The Book of Sir Tristram de Lyones This book recounts the adventures of Sir Tristram, who at eighteen meets Isolde and falls in love with her. Unfortunately, he is bound to deliver Isolde to King Mark, whom Tristram serves. The love potion prepared for King Mark and Isolde is instead consumed by Tristram and Isolde, who consummate their relationship. Isolde marries King Mark, but she and Tristram remain lovers. King Mark eventually realizes what Tristram and Isolde are doing, and the two lovers flee the castle. Eventually, King Mark is able to capture Isolde, and a wounded Tristram leaves Cornwall. In Britain, Tristram meets and marries another woman, Isolde le Blaunche Maynes, but he will not consummate the union. Tristram hears that Lancelot has condemned Tristram’s betrayal of his lady. After he again returns to Cornwall, Tristram is exiled by King Mark. Soon, Tristram encounters Arthur’s knights, assists Lancelot when Morgan le Fay threatens his life, and enters a tournament. Fighting under another name, Tristram nearly wins the tournament (Lancelot wins but declares Tristram the rightful winner), but is wounded and flees to the forest. After a series of adventures, Tristram and Lancelot fight one another, although neither knows the other. Soon, the two men arrive in Camelot, where Tristram is made a knight of the Round Table. Because of Tristram’s success, King Mark is more jealous than ever. He plots to have Tristram killed, but even fails at this, and when his kingdom is at risk, King Mark is forced to ask Tristram for help. Once the kingdom has been saved, King Mark writes to Arthur accusing Guinevere of faithlessness. For the remainder of this book, Tristram, Lancelot, and various other
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
knights engage in tournaments and adventures designed to reveal their valor and strength.
VI. The Tale of the Holy Grail Previously, Lancelot had been tricked into an affair with Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles. The child of that affair is Galahad. At the beginning of this book, there is a report that a sword has been found in a floating stone. The sword is engraved with a legend that the sword belongs to the best knight in the world, but there is also a warning that any man who tries to pull it out and fails will suffer a serious wound from it later. Gawain tries after Arthur orders him to do so, and Percival also tries to share in Gawain’s curse. Galahad arrives and successfully pulls out the sword. Soon all of Arthur’s knights vow to go on the Grail Quest. Galahad soon wins a white shield marked with a red cross. The story behind the shield claims that it has healing powers. Galahad undergoes many tests on his journey, and by successfully passing these tests, he proves his virtue, humility, generosity, and worthiness. Galahad is the Christ-figure, who refuses to kill his enemies but is content to drive them off. Meanwhile, Lancelot is undergoing his own tests. As a result, he learns that he has been motivated in his successes, not by love of God, but by love of Guinevere. Lancelot regrets his sins and vows to become a better man. Percival, Lancelot, Gawain, and Bors continue their separate searches for the Grail Quest. Each man has visions while sleeping that reveal his sins. Like the other knights, these three knights are also having no luck in their search, since, as their dreams reveal, each one is too sinful to succeed. Each man understands that he is too filled with pride and lacks the humility and devotion to God that is required to succeed. Lancelot tries to enter the Grail chamber but is struck down just when he catches a glimpse of it. He lies in a coma for twenty-four days before recovering. Galahad, accompanied by Percival and Bors, finds the Grail. Galahad prays and is granted his wish of choosing his time of death. After this event, Galahad performs many miracles.
VII. The Book of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere After the Grail Quest, this book reverts to Lancelot’s more human qualities and to a life less perfect than Galahad’s. Lancelot has forgotten all the promises he made during the Grail Quest and quickly turns to his love for Guinevere. Lancelot must rescue Guinevere after Meliagrance captures
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table (Archive Photos / Getty)
her. Thereafter, Lancelot is less circumspect in his loyalty and love for the queen. Lancelot has been forced to choose between King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and he has chosen the queen.
VIII. The Death of King Arthur It is clear to everyone that the queen and Lancelot are involved in an adulterous love affair. Arthur, who has ignored this betrayal for some time, can no longer ignore what has become common knowledge, and he orders Guinevere’s death. As Guinevere is about to be burned, Lancelot arrives to rescue her, killing everyone who was ready to participate in her burning, including Gawain’s brothers. The pope intervenes, and Lancelot returns Guinevere to the king and is banished. Gawain insists that he and Arthur attack Lancelot. This attack occurs and Lancelot wins, but refuses to kill Gawain. While Arthur and Gawain have been pursuing Lancelot, Mordred, Arthur’s incestuous son, seizes the throne and the queen. Arthur and Gawain return to fight Mordred, and Gawain dies. While discussing a truce, an error is made, and the battle resumes. Arthur kills Mordred, but in doing so, receives a fatal wound. Arthur orders Excalibur thrown into a lake, and his body is placed on a barge. Guinevere and Lancelot each turn to God in their grief, and each soon dies. Sir Constantine becomes king and the Round Table knights disperse.
V o l u m e
2
4 2 3
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
stone, and it remains there until the greatest knight of the realm pulls it out.
CHARACTERS Agravaine Agravaine is a brother of Gawain and Gareth and is also a nephew of Arthur. Along with his brother, Gaheris, Agravaine participates in Mordred’s plots and in the murder of his mother.
Archbishop of Canterbury The Archbishop of Canterbury, acting in concert with Merlin, arranges for the gathering of the lords. This gathering results in Arthur’s successfully pulling Excalibur from the stone and the lords’ acceptance of him as their king.
Arthur Son of Igrayne and Uther, Arthur is promised to Merlin as payment for his father’s pact with the magician. After his birth, Arthur is placed in the care of Sir Ector and his son, Kay. When he is able to remove the sword from the stone, Arthur becomes king of Britain. He is wise and strong and is able to restore peace to the kingdom. However, not everyone approves of Arthur, and he must fight many battles. Finally, to secure his kingdom, Arthur orders the death of all highborn sons. This action costs Arthur much support but illustrates how far he is willing go to keep his kingdom intact. Arthur places great value on the friendship and loyalty of his men. He forms the Round Table, a forum for knightly loyalty and fealty to crown. He also establishes a code of behavior, demanding that the knights be merciful, righteous, and honorable. One of Arthur’s great strengths is the loyalty he generates in his men. Even when Arthur makes a mistake in battle, his men quickly muster the strength to save both Arthur and his kingdom. He loves his knights so much that he ignores the love between Guinevere and Lancelot, until forced to act. His love for Lancelot is greater than his love for his queen. When he is forced to acknowledge his queen’s love for Lancelot, he orders Guinevere burned and Lancelot banished and only undertakes to fight Lancelot because Gawain insists upon it. Arthur dies in battle with Mordred, but not until after he has killed the usurper. With Arthur’s death, the Round Table dissolves, and the knights scatter.
Balyn le Sauvage Balyn is a knight who is fated to kill his brother. In response, Merlin puts the magic sword into a
4 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
Bors de Ganis Bors is one of the knights who accompanies Galahad on the Grail Quest. Like Percival, Bors is one of the purest of the knights, filled with humility and valor. He is rewarded for his purity when he is permitted to join Galahad in locating the Grail. Bors witnesses Galahad’s death and ascension. He returns to the Round Table and describes his visions.
Sir Ector Sir Ector is given Arthur to raise. He is one of Arthur’s brave and honorable knights who willingly goes into battle for Arthur.
Elayne This Elayne is the daughter of King Pelles. Lancelot is tricked into an affair with this lady and they have a child, Galahad. She loves Lancelot, although he rejects her.
Elayne le Blanc Elayne le Blanc is the maid of Astolat who loves Lancelot and who dies when he does not return her love. After her death, her body is placed on a barge with a letter telling her story placed in her hand.
Evelake The ancient ruler, King Evelake has been promised that he will live long enough to see the virtuous knight who will complete the Grail Quest. He is four hundred years old when he dies after witnessing Galahad’s successful completion of the quest.
Gaheris Gaheris is a brother of Gawain and Gareth and is also a nephew of Arthur. Along with his brother, Agravaine, Gaheris participates in Mordred’s plots and in the murder of his mother. Gaheris is ordered by Arthur to participate in the execution of Guinevere, although he is opposed and attempts to escape this duty. Gaheris is murdered by Lancelot during his rescue of Guinevere.
Galahad The son of Lancelot, Galahad is the best of the knights, the only one capable of succeeding in the Grail Quest. He is virtuous and great enough to draw Balin’s sword from the floating stone. Galahad soon
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
wins a white shield, marked with a red cross. The shield gives him healing powers, which Galahad needs during the Grail Quest. Galahad represents a Christ-like figure. He has many adventures on his journey and encounters many enemies, but Galahad refuses to kill his enemies, content to drive them off. Galahad rejects pride and greed and refutes all seven deadly sins. Only Galahad is sinless, as is required of anyone who touches the magnificent sword and crown that he encounters on his journey. After he finds the Grail Quest, Galahad is able to perform many miracles, protected from all dangers by God and faith. Galahad is motivated only by his love of God. Eventually, Galahad sees a vision of Christ and asks to join Christ in heaven. He dies, and Percival and Bors see Galahad ascend into heaven.
Guinevere
Gareth
Igrayne
Gareth first enters in disguise, as a humble kitchen boy, Beaumains. But he is the brother of Gawain and proves himself a brave and virtuous knight. Gareth is a gentle and virtuous knight. He is also patient and strong, the ideal of the Round Table knights. Gareth has many adventures and consistently proves himself worthy of the Round Table. Unlike many of the other knights, Gareth rejects the idea of vengeance, the spilling of blood that all the other knights appear to embrace. Gareth is ordered by Arthur to participate in the execution of Guinevere, although he is opposed and attempts to escape this duty. Lancelot, who rescues Guinevere from a sentence of death, murders Gareth. Gareth’s death leads Gawain to seek revenge, which leads to his death as well.
Igrayne is the wife of the Duke of Cornwall and the mother of Arthur. She conceives Arthur after Uther comes to her bed, disguised as her husband. Igrayne has already been widowed when the disguised Uther impregnates her, and she later marries her husband’s murderer.
Gawain
Isolde la Blaunche Maynes
Gawain is Arthur’s nephew, the oldest child of King Lot. He is a virtuous, just knight. Gawain emerges as a hero after he helps Arthur defeat Lucius. He errs when he beheads a lady and when he murders the unarmed Lamorak. The heroic Gawain plays the role of the loyal sidekick, for he is loyal to Lancelot. He takes the heroic central figure, though, in Sir Gawain and the Green Knights. Ultimately, it is Gawain’s sin as murderer that prevents his complete success. When Lancelot murders Gawain’s brothers, Gawain vows revenge, and this action leads to Mordred’s seizing the kingdom and the queen while Arthur and Gawain are fighting Lancelot. Gawain dies in battle, but before he dies, he admits to Arthur that his desire for revenge has led to all this calamity.
This Isolde is Tristram’s wife, the Princess of Brittany. Tristram refuses to consummate the marriage and makes this Isolde unhappy.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Guinevere is the daughter of Leodegrance and the wife of Arthur. Her dowry is the Round Table, which is filled with knights loyal to Arthur. She also represents the idea of courtly love, providing a reason for many of Lancelot’s heroics. Thus, Guinevere’s role is central to Arthur’s success, but she is also largely responsible for his defeat. When Meliagrance kidnaps her, Lancelot appears to rescue her. Her obvious love for Lancelot leads Arthur to condemn Guinevere to death. Lancelot again rescues her as she is about to be burned. Later, with Arthur in pursuit of Lancelot, Mordred seizes Guinevere for his wife. After Arthur is killed, Guinevere enters a nunnery. After her death, she is buried next to Arthur.
Isolde The daughter of Angwyssh, Isolde heals Tristram when he is wounded. Tristram loves Isolde, but King Mark claims her as his bride. When Tristram assumes the role of delivering Isolde to King Mark, the two inadvertently drink the love potion intended for King Mark and Isolde, and fall in love. They consummate their love, and Isolde continues to love Tristram even after her marriage to King Mark.
Kay Kay is the son of Sir Ector and Arthur’s foster brother. When he loses his sword, Kay sends Arthur to find it, and Arthur mistakenly pulls the magic sword from the stone. Kay is loyal to Arthur and is wounded in the battle against Lucius. Arthur is equally loyal and tolerates Sir Kay’s disparaging treatment of Gareth, although Kay is clearly wrong about Gareth’s abilities.
Lady of the Lake The Lady of the Lake assists Merlin in his goals. She demands a promise of Arthur when she returns
V o l u m e
2
4 2 5
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
his sword to him. When she reappears to collect on his promise, it is to demand the head of Sir Balyn or of the maid who brought Balyn’s sword. Balyn recognizes the Lady of the Lake as the woman who murdered his mother and he decapitates her.
Lynet
Lamorak de Galis
Lot
Lamorak is a knight famous for his valor and his strength. Only Lancelot and Gawain are stronger. Gawain and his brother kill Lamorak because he has had an affair with their mother. Gawain cannot achieve greatness because of his role in Lamorak’s death.
Lot marries Uther’s daughter. Although King Lot is the leader of Arthur’s enemies, he is the most heroic of these men. He is both noble and brave and is a worthy opponent for Arthur. Two of his sons, Gareth and Gawain, become the most noble and virtuous of the Round Table knights. In order for Arthur’s kingdom to be secure, Lot must finally die. He is killed in battle by Sir Pellanor, who dies himself when Gawain avenges his father’s death.
Lancelot du Lake Lancelot is the greatest of Arthur’s knights, except for those who succeed in the Grail Quest. He gets his first real chance to distinguish himself in the battle against Lucius, when Lancelot steals Lucius’s banner. Lancelot returns to England a hero after the war in Rome. He has many adventures and proves that he is virtuous and heroic. The queen is particularly impressed with Lancelot’s heroic adventures. At this point, Lancelot represents the ideal in knightly behavior, except in one area. He is clearly working to serve the queen, rather than the king. Lancelot appears to forget that he is a member of Arthur’s Round Table, not Guinevere’s. Lancelot joins the Grail Quest, but he has too many sins to succeed. Lancelot’s knightly deeds have all been in honor of Guinevere, not God. When Lancelot finally sees the Grail, he is struck down and lies in a coma for twenty-four days and after he awakens, he returns to Camelot. Lancelot forgets that it was his love for Guinevere that prevented him from succeeding in the Grail Quest, and he quickly returns to his old ways with the queen. When Melliagaunce kidnaps Guinevere, Lancelot rescues her, and he rescues her again when she is about to be burned for adultery. His loyalty is to Guinevere and it is this misguided loyalty that helps lead Arthur to his death. After the death of Arthur, Lancelot enters the priesthood and soon dies.
Launceor of Ireland Launceor is one of Arthur’s knights. After he is humiliated by Balyn’s success, he rashly attempts to defeat Balyn and is killed. Launceor’s death results in severe punishment for Balyn, who dies killing his own brother.
4 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
Lynet is a damsel who seeks Arthur’s assistance. When the disguised Gareth is assigned to help her, she mocks him. However, it is this quest that proves Gareth’s worthiness to join the Round Table.
Lucius King Lucius demands tributes from Arthur, but a distracted Arthur refuses, which leads to a war. Lucius loses decisively, but he refuses to accept defeat and ignores advice to withdraw. Lucius is finally killed and the battle ends.
Mark Mark is the king of Cornwall who, in his jealousy of Tristram, insists upon marrying Isolde, the woman Tristram loves. King Mark plots to have Tristram murdered but needs him to save his kingdom. Arthur’s knights trick King Mark and generally make a fool of him, but he is really unable to do much to defend himself. An inept ruler, King Mark needs the man he hates the most—Tristram—to defend his kingdom. Mark is jealous of anyone who achieves success, even his own brother, whom he has murdered.
Melliagaunce Melliagaunce is the traitor who kidnaps Guinevere. When she does not yield to his demands, he accuses her of treason with Lancelot. In a fight with Lancelot, Melliagaunce is defeated and dies.
Merlin Merlin is a master manipulator who contrives Arthur’s conception and who, unseen, directs much of the action. As a great sorcerer, he is responsible for the creation of the Round Table. Both prophet and magician, Merlin is able to assume disguises and appears before Arthur disguised as both a young boy and an old man. Merlin is directly responsible for everything that
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
happens to Arthur. Although it initially appears that Merlin represents God, it soon becomes clear that he does not, and since he does not represent God, he must, according to the medieval world, represent the devil. Merlin meets his downfall when he falls in love with Nineve, who refuses to be bedded by Merlin but is willing to study his tricks. When she has learned his magic, Nineve has Merlin sealed alive in a cave where he must remain since only she can set him free.
Mordred Mordred is the son of Arthur’s incestuous relationship with his sister. He is an evil knight, who plots to seize the crown and Arthur’s queen. His actions result in a battle in which Arthur kills him. But Arthur is also killed, and the Round Table is dissolved.
Morgan le Fay Uther’s third daughter, Morgan enters school in a nunnery, becomes a necromancer, and later, marries King Uriens. Morgan le Fay attempts to steal Arthur’s sword and have him murdered. She is treacherous and evil, willing to murder anyone who blocks her ambition.
Nantres Nantres is a second king who marries one of Uther’s daughters. He joins with his other brothers-in-law to fight against Arthur and is defeated.
Nineve Nineve is the damsel of the lake and the maid Pellanor brings to court. Merlin falls in love with her and fails to see that she is using him to learn his secrets. Nineve uses magic to seal Merlin in a cave, where he must remain since no one but Nineve can free him. She uses her magic to save Arthur’s life and generally uses her magic for good.
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
Pelles King Pelles’s identity is unclear, although sometimes he is the Fisher King of the Grail legends. He arranges for Galahad to be conceived and is cured when Galahad achieves the Grail Quest.
Percival le Galois Percival is one of the more virtuous knights, who also accompanies Galahad on the Grail Quest. Percival is raised in the woods and is lacking in everything that would be expected of a knight. However, his desire for the Round Table is so great that he willingly sacrifices to be a knight. Percival’s desire to go on the Grail Quest means that he must repent of the pride that led him to the Round Table and of the desire to be better than Galahad. Percival has many adventures on his journey and several visions before he joins Galahad in discovering the Grail. After Galahad’s death, Percival becomes a religious hermit and does not return to the Round Table.
Tristram Tristram’s experience has many parallels to that of other characters. Like Arthur, Tristram is born after his father’s death and is raised by a foster parent. Like Lancelot, who loves Guinevere, Tristram loves the wife of his king. In spite of the poor treatment afforded Tristram by his king, he continues to be loyal to King Mark, returning to defend him and to save his kingdom. His love for Isolde is unabated, and even though he marries another woman of the same name, he refuses to betray the woman he loves and does not consummate the marriage. Tristram has many more adventures in which he successfully proves his strength and valor as a knight.
Palamides
Uther Pendragon
Palamides is Tristram’s enemy and Isolde’s admirer. Eventually, he is forced to admit that Tristram is a worthy knight, and Palamides becomes Tristram’s admirer as well.
Uther Pendragon is the king of primeval England. He lusts for Igrayne, who is the wife of the Duke of Cornwall. When he fails to bed Igrayne, Uther’s forces attack Cornwall’s, and the king then beds Igrayne while pretending to be her husband. With Igrayne’s husband dead, Uther is free to marry the widow. The next two years are filled with wars and dissention for Uther, who eventually falls sick. As Uther lies dying, Merlin succeeds in convincing him to declare his child Arthur king.
Pellanor Pellanor, the knight of the Questing Beast, kills Lot and is himself killed by Lot’s son, Gawain. This series of murders is only one of the many that occur in an epic that focuses largely on revenge.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
4 2 7
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
THEMES Courtly Love There are many examples of courtly love in Le Morte d’Arthur, including the story of Sir Gareth, his defeat of the Red Knight, and his winning of the Lady Lyonesse as his wife. Gareth represents the ideal love, one that ends in marriage and is, above all else, honorable. But the story of romantic love and chivalry that most often comes to mind is the story of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, a love that is clearly adulterous. Lancelot’s heroic actions are designed to please the queen. He is clearly her favorite, and justifiably so, since in all of his adventures, Lancelot is brave, honorable, and strong. Because Lancelot fights to please and honor Guinevere, and not God, he is excluded from the quest for the Holy Grail. This depiction of courtly love changes when Lancelot is called upon to fight to save Guinevere’s life. In the first instance, Guinevere is unjustly accused of murder, and a disguised Lancelot becomes her champion, overcoming Sir Mador and freeing the queen. According to romantic tradition, a knight entering a tournament might also wear a lady’s token to express his love. Sir Lancelot wears the token of Elayne le Blanc, but does so only to enhance his disguise. Later, he wears the queen’s token, thus making public his love for her. Another aspect of courtly love is the knight’s rescue of his lady. Lancelot has already rescued Guinevere once, but when she is kidnapped, he rescues her again from Melliagaunce, her kidnapper. Lancelot then fights and kills Guinevere’s oppressor. However, because of these events, Guinevere is judged guilty of adultery and treason and is sentenced to be burned. Again, Sir Lancelot rescues his lady, but as a result, he sets into motion events that lead to the destruction of Arthur and of the Round Table. Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere’s courtly love was far more than a harmless romantic interlude.
Honor When Arthur establishes the code for the knights of his Round Table, one important element is honor. Arthur’s knights owe him honor, but more importantly, they owe honor to God. Most of the knights waver on this last requirement. For nearly all of the knights, their adventures, battles, and tournaments are conducted in honor of their king, or more immediately, themselves. Gawain fights for personal and family honor, and Lancelot
4 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Religion plays an important role in Malory’s epic, often as allegory. Identify some Christian images, events, and characters in the poem and explore their influences on Arthur’s court and Round Table in a class discussion. Draw illustrations that you think represent these elements or find appropriate pictures online and create a collage of Christian elements found in Le Morte d’Arthur. Contrast the images of legitimate love between Gareth and his wife and the adulterous love between Lancelot and Guinevere. Write an essay in which you describe the two and explain what you think Malory is saying about the role of legitimate love in people’s lives.
As a classroom discussion, compile a list on the board of the elements of Arthur’s Round Table code to which his knights must adhere. Then make a list separating those knights that closely follow Arthur’s desires and those knights who deviate from these expectations. Defend your choices.
Research online to find a summary of the features of the epic genre, paying special attention to the features present in Malory’s poem. Create a PowerPoint presentation with a bullet list of standard epic features, those used by Malory and the innovative changes made by Malory.
Explore the theme of revenge in Malory’s text and how revenge ultimately leads to the destruction of Arthur’s Camelot. Divide into groups, each focusing on a different incident of revenge in the story, then suggest what might have happened if the characters had not sought some other outcome. Using clips from various movies set in medieval times, show how jousting and sword fighting tournaments are conducted. Discuss whether the Hollywood depiction fits your impression of these bouts from Le Morte d’Arthur.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
fights for the queen’s honor. Because of this lack, almost all of the knights fail in their quest for the Holy Grail. Only Galahad, Bors, and Percival place honor of God ahead of personal honor, vanity, and pride. Therefore, only these three knights are permitted to complete the quest for the Grail. Malory makes individual character an important element of his story, and how each character conducts himself, in an honorable fashion, is a factor in the text.
Fate and Destiny Thanks to Merlin’s prophecies and his magic, many times the readers are told of a prophecy that includes death and destruction. Characters are fated to meet one another on the battlefield or in tournaments and fated to succeed or fail based on an action that occurred much earlier and for which they may have no responsibility. For example, Balyn easily draws out the sword affixed to a scabbard worn by the damsel. By doing do, he is fated to kill his dearest friend, his brother. In another example, the burial spot of Launceor is fated to be the sight of the battle between Lancelot and Tristram, two knights who love one another and who would not willingly fight one another, but who are destined to do so. This fate or destiny is not attributed to God or other spiritual forces, but instead to characters present in the text. Both Merlin and the Lady of the Lake act as representatives of fate, manipulating the characters and their actions to create a fate they predict.
Obedience Obedience is part of the duty and responsibility that all knights owe to their king and God. Obedience to Arthur is part of every knight’s code, even when obedience results in certain death. There are several examples of obedience to Arthur’s commands, even when it will bring harm to the knight. One such example occurs at the beginning of the quest for the Holy Grail, when Arthur learns of the sword in the floating stone. Arthur learns that the legend promises that only the best knight in the world can claim the sword, and if any others try to pull out the sword, they will be cursed. Lancelot refuses Arthur’s order to try, but Gawain willingly obeys Arthur’s order because Arthur is his king and has commanded it. In another section, Arthur orders Guinevere to be put to death. In this instance, Gawain refuses to obey his king’s command, but his brothers, who also object, do
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Illustrations from a fifteenth-century manuscript representing the legend of King Arthur ( Archivo Iconografico, S. A. / Corbis)
obey. As a result, Gareth and Gaheris are murdered by Lancelot during his rescue of the queen.
Revenge Much of the action in this epic is fueled by the urge for revenge. The eye-for-an-eye ethic runs through the characters’ stories. For instance, Sir Pellanor kills King Lot, and Lot’s son Gawain, to avenge his father’s death, later kills Pellanor. In another example of revenge, Gawain and his brother Gaheris murder Lamerok, whom they accused of an adulterous relationship with their mother. This feud between Lamerok and the sons of King Lot motivates many of the sons’ actions before culminating in death. Finally, it is Gawain’s insistence that his brothers be avenged that leads to the destruction of the Round Table. Because Arthur and Gawain pursue Lancelot, they leave the throne and the queen unattended, and Mordred seizes both. Had Gawain been able to pass on the need for blood revenge, the battle in which he and Arthur are destroyed would not have happened. Ultimately, the theme of revenge, most particularly familial blood revenge, leads to the destruction of all that Arthur has created.
V o l u m e
2
4 2 9
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
Plot
STYLE Medieval Romance Medieval romance is a type of literary work that flourished from the twelfth through the fifteenth century. The Arthurian legends, which provide much of the material for Malory’s work, fall in the category of medieval romances about Britain. These romances are different from classical epics in that they focus less on heroic action and more on devotion to God and sexual love. The adventure plot concerns knights, kings, and ladies in distress, and an overriding focus is on certain courtly ideals, such as honor and valor. The medieval romance has a looser plot than the classical epic. The cycle of stories from which Malory draws in writing Le Morte d’Arthur consist of Old French stories. Malory took stories about Tristram and Lancelot and combined them with stories about Arthur to shape a romantic tale about a sixth-century English king.
Characters In some ways, the characters Malory used were determined by his sources. Most of his characters are members of royalty. These characters are invested with certain traits that explain their choices and the way they resolve conflict. The framework for these characters is medieval courtly activity and the gender roles are predetermined by the historical period and the narrow upper-class rank of these individuals. Malory also included individuals with magical or fanciful powers, such as Merlin and the Lady of the Lake. Not limited by verisimilitude, Malory laced the events together using the trickery of magicians and fantasy. Nonetheless, he linked the substance of a character to the character’s experience, as for example, Galahad’s luck in finding the Grail being due to his saintly nature.
Foreshadowing Foreshadowing is a literary device used to hint at the plot’s eventual outcome. Foreshadowing creates expectation and tension regarding upcoming events in the story. This device is one way to build anticipation and suspense regarding the characters’ future and final wellbeing. Foreshadowing in Malory’s epic mostly takes the form of prophesy, which often times predicts death and destruction.
4 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
Plot refers to the sequence of events. Typically, plots have a beginning, a middle, and a conclusion, and any given action tends to affect or cause the action that follows it. Plot may also consist of a series of episodes, loosely strung together without a causal relationship between events. In Le Morte d’Arthur, Malory expanded on his original sources in order to create a chronologically arranged plot that covers many years. The plot depicts the birth of Arthur, his succession to the crown, and the formation of the Round Table. The plot also depicts the many adventures of the knights, particularly the quest for the Holy Grail. The adventures may string together like unrelated episodes or digressions. Then the main plot about the Round Table resumes with the conflicts that result in the knights’ dispersing.
Setting The time, place, and culture in which the action of the story takes place is its setting. The elements of setting may include geographic location, physical or mental environments, prevailing cultural attitudes, or the historical time in which the action takes place. The location for Le Morte d’Arthur is mostly southwest England, and the time of the action is perhaps as early as the sixth century, during the Anglo-Saxon period.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT A Time of War Fifteenth-century England endured the turbulence and expense of sustained military conflict. The century began with Henry V (reigned 1413–1422) decidingtoinvadeFrance.Henryfoundwaystojustifyhis choice, claiming a hereditary entitlement to France and a desire to unite Europe under a Christian flag. These righteous claims allowed him to claim God endorsed this attack. As it turned out, Henry had need of God. Miserable weather and rampant dysentery hampered his invasion, but eventually Henry achieved great victories and succeeded in his quest to unite France and England. Henry emerged from these battles as a legend, having defeated the French at the Battle of Agincourt (1415) against almost impossible odds. The heavily armored French army, which was mired in the recently plowed field, quickly fell victim to the English archers who deftly
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1400s: In 1428, the University of Florence begins offering instruction in Greek and Latin literature, in part as a way to emphasize moral values. Greek and Roman works, such as the Odyssey and Aeneid, are taught, resulting in greater interest in classical epics and promoting many new ones. Today: Few modern authors aspire to writing epics. However, the epics of Malory and others continue to be studied. Malory’s epic provides source material for film dramatizations and for archeological research.
1400s: The Hundred Years War between England and France begins in the late 1330s and continues until England is defeated in the late 1450s. After the glorious victories of Henry V, there is little for the English to cheer about. In bringing the heroic Arthur to life, Malory offers the
attacked from a distance. As a result, the French sustained thousands of casualties and the English relatively few. Henry gave credit to God for having been party to the English victory. More important, Henry’s exploits assumed mythic proportions, perhaps reminding his people of King Arthur, whose exploits on the battlefield were legendary. To seal the comparison, Henry died soon after his victories, although not in battle as Arthur had, but of the dysentery that plagued his men during the campaign. During Malory’s lifetime, English life was marked by political dissension and war. The monarchy squandered the country’s wealth by waging wars when what England needed was economic recovery and stability. Except for the brief period of glory that the English enjoyed with Henry V, there had been little to cheer the people for a hundred years or more. The Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, which had been caused by the imposition of a poll tax, had offered no lasting lessons for the monarchy. The revolt was squashed in less than a
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
English a reason to remember their heroic past. Today: Great Britain is a leader in world affairs. The Allied victory in World War II affirms its important global role. It participates in NATO and is a member in the European Common Market and the United Nations (with a permanent seat on the Security Council). 1400s: The castle ruins at Tintagel on the north shore of Cornwall mark the site of a medieval stronghold, traditionally associated with the Arthurian legend, but now suffering from surf and weather erosion and general neglect. Today: Tintagel Castle, near the village of Tintagel, Cornwall, is a protected archeological site and tourist destination operated by the English Heritage.
month, a failed revolution, so the problems that had led to the revolt were ignored. The Peasants’ Revolt was about much more than the poll tax. There was a shortage of laborers and thus a shortage of food since the last serious outbreak of plague in the middle of the fourteenth century, which killed one-third of England’s population. Many people were starving, and the aristocracy’s solution was to raise taxes and fight among themselves for the Crown. In short, the medieval period was a time of social unrest and disorder. In spite of severe economic conditions, the Hundred Years War raged on, until finally the English were ousted from French territories. Back in England, the aristocracy was more involved with the getting and keeping of land and wealth than with responding to the needs that prompted social unrest.
Late Medieval Life Henry VI (reigned 1422–1461) established Eton College (1440) and King’s College, Cambridge (1441). These actions demonstrated the king’s
V o l u m e
2
4 3 1
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
interest in education. But education served the aristocracy and not the needs of ordinary people. Then, too, the king’s relatives had been engaged in almost constant feuds since the date of his birth, finally erupting into civil war in 1453 with the birth of Henry’s heir, an event that ignited the Thirty Years War. During this period, the Crown shifted several times between the House of York and the House of Lancaster. Each side had its dissenters and its supporters, but both of these groups were quick to shift allegiance with changing military tides. While the fighting persisted, the condition of English peasants remained unchanged. The feudal system offered little benefit to those below the rank of the aristocracy. Peasants owned neither themselves nor their property. Absolute control resided with the landowner, who simply increased demand of his workers when he needed additional capital. As the poor suffered, the wealthy became even richer. This condition culminated in another peasants’ revolt in 1450 and a peasants’ march on London. Although some small blood shed occurred, there was little practical change. The influence of the Hundred Years War and the English civil wars led to increased lawlessness. Stealing increased. Merchants were dishonest, selling shoddy goods and cheating their customers. The law was corrupt, with bribery the rule more than the exception. The seas were filled with pirates and the highways with robbers. Greed motivated much of what passed for English social activity. There was little to stop the common criminal. In the late medieval period, the Catholic Church was the center of community life. Its precepts guided many people’s actions, and its rules worked to curb antisocial behavior, despite the fact that Church services were conducted in Latin. An unchallenged authority, the Catholic Church maintained a strong hold on English life until the beginning of the sixteenth century. Then the first stirrings of the Reformation began in Europe, and the preeminence of the Catholic Church in England ended during the reign of Henry VIII (1509–1547). The end of the fifteenth century marked the end of the medieval period in England. The sixteenth century brought with it the first of the Tudor kings and a period of relative peace and reduced threat from the bubonic plague. In short, England at the beginning of a new century had become a more stable place. The first of the Tudor kings, Henry VII (reigned 1485–1509),
4 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
Fourteenth-century tapestry depicting King Arthur ( Francis G. Mayer / Corbis)
formed alliances with neighboring countries and trade flourished in London. The cloth for which English sheep were so famous became an important trade commodity in Europe. However, the coming of trade changed the face of England. Instead of a largely agrarian society, England shifted toward trade and urban development. Land for agricultural use was enclosed, and displaced rural families fled to the larger cities where crowding, unemployment, and communicable disease were problems. Literacy gradually increased, too, as moveable type made books and other printed material more affordable and as more people learned to read.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Malory’s epic Le Morte d’Arthur deviates from traditional epics in that it is written in prose instead of poetry. This choice may reflect Malory’s own
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
talents and preference. It may also suggest his limited knowledge of classical epics. Indeed, there is little reason to think that Malory had any access to the epics such as the Odyssey and the Aeneid. The Greek and Roman epics were rare until they were rediscovered during the Renaissance, when they were translated and more widely distributed. There is no evidence that Malory wrote any other works, but that does not diminish his accomplishment in producing Le Morte d’Arthur. With this work, Malory functioned as a compiler of the stories drawn from Arthurian legends. He assembled them in one book and imposed upon them a chronological arrangement. As Thomas Leitch noted in a comparison of the King Arthur and Robin Hood stories, Malory translated, combined, and reorganized several English and French romances. Leitch added that Malory cut long passages of theological rumination from the Vulgate cycle of Arthurian tales and disentangled the Arthur’s knights in order to spotlight each one’s exploits as a separate adventure. Thus Malory changed the form and effect of the stories to make them more appealing to a secular audience. Initially, many of Malory’s readers focused on proving or disproving the historical veracity of his work. After all, in the first printing, William Caxton devoted a considerable portion of his preface to arguing that Malory’s work proved that King Arthur had existed and that his exploits were historical events. However, scholarship soon showed the dearth of evidence supporting an historical Arthur; perhaps Caxton was serving more as salesman than historian. It made little difference anyway since the book helped to establish a national heritage, which had its own value. With its emphasis on values, Malory’s text implies that the English needed to read about the virtuous path emphasized by Le Morte d’Arthur. Arthur’s establishment of the Round Table suggests perhaps a current longing for equality in civic representation and government. While many modern readers would recognize that Malory is suggesting a moral code, not all of Malory’s early readers must have embraced this view. In The Scholemaster, for example, Roger Ascham condemns the morality of Arthur’s knights, saying that books of chivalry were written by Catholic monks who enjoyed violence and lewdness. In addition to the obvious attacks on the Catholic Church, which were common in many English texts printed after the Reformation,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
Ascham criticized the knights’ behavior. Interestingly, this is the same criticism Malory implies. Only the purest of the knights—Galahad, Bors, and Percival—succeed in the Grail Quest. The implication is clear: Those knights who engage in adulterous behavior or who use their strength or talent with a sword in an unjust manner, cannot receive God’s blessing. Although Malory’s epic was popular as entertainment, quasi-history, or even a model of morality, it was not regarded as serious literature for some time. Eventually, however, Le Morte d’Arthur took its place in the literary canon and was recognized as a major influence on many of the poets who followed Malory such as Spenser and Tennyson. According to Catherine Phillips in an article for Victorian Poetry, Tennyson knew all three of the English editions of Malory’s epic that had been published in the romantic period. Additional editions appeared as Tennyson worked on his own version of the Arthurian legends: Thomas Wright’s of 1858 and James Knowles’ in 1862, which because of its popular modern translation was reprinted seven times by 1892, the year of Tennyson’s death. Le Morte d’Arthur created a Victorian interest in the world of knights, jousts, and courtly love. In the twentieth century the Knights of the Round Table inspired several films and even a musical. In addition, comparisons during the presidency of John F. Kennedy to Arthur’s Camelot, recalled the vitality and ideals of Arthur’s rule, and after Kennedy’s presidency had ended so abruptly, the brevity of such a world.
CRITICISM Sheri Metzger Karmiol Karmiol holds a PhD in English and teaches literature and drama at the University of New Mexico, where she is a lecturer in the University Honors Program. In this essay, she discusses how Le Morte d’Arthur fulfills the requirements of the epic genre while incorporating aspects of a domestic drama. The epic genre derives from the classical Greek tradition and is the oldest form of Greek literature, existing before drama or history developed. As originally defined, the epic is an extended narrative poem that celebrates the achievements of one or more heroic individuals. Frequently, the
V o l u m e
2
4 3 3
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Tennyson’s The Idylls of the King (1833) is available in a 2003 Signet Classic edition, with an introduction by Glen Everett. Tennyson tells the story of Arthur, from his meeting with Guinevere to the time of his death.
The Sword in Anglo-Saxon England: Its Archaeology and Literature (1998) explores the significance of the sword as weapon and symbol, using both archaeological and literary evidence from the Anglo-Saxon period. This book includes many illustrations.
Magic in the Middle Ages (2000), by Richard Kieckhefer, is a relatively short yet comprehensive summary of the relationship of medieval magic to the diverse cultures, such as Germanic, Celtic, Jewish, and Muslim, from which it borrowed notions and techniques.
Nancy Springer’s I Am Mordred: A Tale from Camelot (2002) is a young-adult fantasy and adventure novel that explores the father-son relationship, drawing on Arthurian themes of love, loss, betrayal, and reconciliation.
James Pierson’s Camelot and the Cultural Revolution: How the Assassination of John F. Kennedy Shattered American Liberalism (2009) explores the unanswered questions about the Kennedy assassination, by in part contrasting the idyllic images of a Camelot White House with the complex issues surrounding the president’s murder.
Appropriate for readers between the ages of nine and twelve, Cheryl Capinello’s novel Guinevere: On the Eve of Legend (2009) tells the story of thirteen-year-old Guinevere on her birthday, facing giving up the pleasures of childhood as she becomes betrothed to the king.
hero or heroes are important persons in history or in national myth. Their exploits, as recounted in the epic, are useful in establishing a national identity. For example, Homer uses Odysseus’s journey and personal triumphs as a way to counter the
4 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
dismal picture of Greek life in his time. The Odyssey reminded Homer’s listeners of Greece’s former greatness, and his stories offered hope that Greece would rise once again as a mighty force. Similarly, Virgil used the Aeneid to provide Romans with a glorious national history—something they needed badly at that time. Thomas Malory does much the same work with his story of Arthur and the Round Table. In Le Morte d’Arthur, Malory provides a noble history of England’s past and thus secures the hope of greatness for its future. In this respect, then, it is less important to determine that Odysseus, Aeneas, or Arthur actually existed than it is to appreciate the national identity and the promise for the future that the epic instills. The epic constructs a national identity as it recounts the origins of a nation. Le Morte d’Arthur offers the vast setting that is required: the creation of a nation and an early history of England. The Knights of the Round Table enact heroic deeds or set out bravely on a divinely inspired quest. Malory includes supernatural forces as enacted by Merlin and the Lady of the Lake. The quest for the Holy Grail links the epic to the Christian world of miracles and Galahad to the perfection of Christ. In these ways, the classical epic is transformed to fit the Christian era. Malory’s most important deviation from the classical epic is his use of prose, instead of verse, to tell Arthur’s story. Greek and Roman epics use narrative verse, and both Edmund Spenser and John Milton would use narrative verse in their great epics, but Malory probably lacked the education and intimate knowledge of Greek epic that Spenser and Milton definitely had. Perhaps because he did not know the exact formula, Malory created a new style of epic, blending the classical epic to the French prose tradition, inflating the French courtly romances to the heroic proportions of the classical epic. What Malory created is a domestic epic or romance, one that recounts the creation of a great king, providing both the battles and the victories to dramatize Arthur’s greatness, but also including the romantic tragedy that leads to the destruction of both the heroic figure and all that he has created. There is yet one other way in which Malory modified the classical epic form. Instead of having one heroic figure, Malory created several. Gawain, Gareth, and Galahad are heroic in their separate ways, each one having a significant role in the epic and yet not the central one. The commanding heroic presence is, of course, King Arthur. But he
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
UNLIKE HOMER’S ODYSSEY OR VIRGIL’S AENEID, MALORY’S WORK PRESENTS AN AUTHENTIC FEMALE CHARACTER INSTEAD OF THE IMAGE OF AN EPIC GODDESS, A WOMAN OF COMPLEXITY WHO IS CAPABLE OF LEADING A MAN TO REDEMPTION.’’
is nearly upstaged by the heroic presence of Sir Lancelot. In his essay, ‘‘The English Prose ‘Morte,’,’’ C. S. Lewis noted that there are many elements of Le Morte d’Arthur that make it an epic. Although Lewis observed that Malory’s heroes commit many barbaric acts, they also have a morality that guides them. Lewis calls this ‘‘the civilization of the heart,’’ which provides ‘‘a fineness and sensitivity, a voluntary rejection of all the uglier and more vulgar impulses,’’ that create the heroic figure. If Arthur more closely fits the classical definition of the heroic protagonist, larger than life and of mythical tradition, then Lancelot is the human counterpart. With Galahad assuming the Christ role, Lancelot is left to be Adam, a flawed and certainly human creation. Lewis observed that even Lancelot claims to be no better than lesser men, capable of sinning, as he does with Guinevere. Lancelot and Arthur present two versions of epic heroes. Together, they have an imposing presence, saving damsels in distress, performing good deeds, and winning battles. But one mortal woman, whom they both love, undoes them: Guinevere. Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur offers something few other epics offer—an emphasis on women and the domestic sphere as a way to find salvation, as a way to complete a hero’s journey. However, some scholars would argue that it is this domestic sphere that hampers women in Malory’s text and prevents them from enjoying the hero’s success. In her study of patriarchal marriage and courtly love, MaryLynn Saul argues that women in Le Morte d’Arthur are portrayed as sexually insatiable, overly aggressive, needy, and more concerned with acquiring property than with male happiness. Arthur, by contrast, is portrayed as loyal to his men, rather than to any woman. But this is the way a classic epic hero typically behaves. Odysseus and Aeneas always put loyalty to their men and to the mission
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
before the needs of their women. In this respect, Arthur performs as he should. Saul also points out that when love affairs go badly, ‘‘the woman may find herself receiving all the blame.’’ As an example, Saul cites Lancelot’s many love affairs, which Saul says feed his ego. Saul declares that ‘‘the benefit of loving Lancelot goes not to the women but to Lancelot, who receives their praise and gains in reputation by the number of women who love him.’’ However, Lancelot’s ego is in keeping with what Lewis observes—Lancelot’s humanity; his propensity to sin is one of his defining characteristics. Although Saul is critical of the way Malory treats women, comparing his treatment to the patriarchal system in place during the medieval period, she concludes that medieval women, and probably medieval men, were products of the social structure that governed them. Thus, she excuses the very behavior she criticizes. Not all critical studies of Le Morte d’Arthur find the women characters at such a disadvantage. In his essay on Guinevere, Edward Donald Kennedy argues that Guinevere escapes the typical outcome of other feminine characters. Guinevere, says Kennedy, can give Lancelot something that no male character can: salvation. She sacrifices her happiness with Lancelot to prevent his sinning with her and thus to save his soul. Kennedy reminds his readers that Lancelot’s love for Guinevere keeps him from succeeding in the Grail Quest. Now in his love for the queen, he promises to devote his life to God, just as she has. Kennedy argues that Malory includes this final scene between the lovers as a way to provide Lancelot with a chance for salvation. After Guinevere is buried next to Arthur, Lancelot blames himself for their deaths. Like Aristotle’s tragic hero, Lancelot is to be pitied; in his grief over his mistakes, he is as human as any of Malory’s readers. As Kennedy says, ‘‘[Malory] would not have had to read Aristotle to know that good people often make terrible mistakes and to realize it only after it is too late to do anything about it.’’ The role of savior might have gone to Galahad, who, as the Christ figure, should have been able to save his father. Kennedy observes that ‘‘on the Grail Quest women had been depicted as a stumbling block on the road to salvation.’’ Lancelot fails to find salvation from the quest because of his love for Guinevere, but now in their final scene together, Guinevere provides what Lancelot could not otherwise achieve. Kennedy says that Guinevere emerges as a hero when she does what the male heroes cannot: She leads Lancelot to salvation.
V o l u m e
2
4 3 5
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
King Arthur being transported to Avalon after his death (Ó Bettmann / Corbis)
His choice to reject the secular life and marriage and, instead, embrace the Church is the clearest way to redemption in the medieval world. Guinevere succeeds where men fail, as a woman who persuades Arthur’s greatest knight to choose God. Unlike Homer’s Odyssey or Virgil’s Aeneid, Malory’s work presents an authentic female character instead of the image of an epic goddess, a woman of complexity who is capable of leading a man to redemption. Where Odysseus has Athena to assist him in his journey and Aeneas has Venus to lend help when needed, Lancelot has only the love of a mortal woman. In a way, this change toward the mortal reflects the Christianizing of the world. In the pre-Christian world, Odysseus and Aeneas travel toward their home or toward a new home. But in the Christian world, the journey is toward salvation. This is but one way that Malory adapted the epic tradition to fit his purposes and to fit the requirements of the Christian era.
4 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
Source: Sheri Metzger Karmiol, Critical Essay on Le Morte d’Arthur, in Epics For Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Kenneth Hodges In the following excerpt, Hodges discusses the role of wounds in the Le Morte d’Arthur as a device not to diminish the knights but rather to enhance them by displaying their commitment to a cause, their prestige, and their bonds to other knights. In gender studies, critics frequently postulate a masculine ideal of suave and potent invulnerability and then demonstrate how the male characters in question inevitably fall short of it. Bryce Traister has offered a thorough critique of this tendency in American studies, arguing that the focus on ‘‘transcendent’’ masculinity obscures study of ‘‘competent’’ masculinity—ideas of manliness as they are actually practiced. Unfortunately, the same tendency can be seen in medieval studies. While invulnerability and easy
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
power may be fantasies for individual men, these daydreams do not reflect the more realistic ideals of manhood expressed in a work such as Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. Even the best of Arthur’s knights are frequently injured in battle, needing time, help, and protection as they recuperate. Malory does not treat these wounds as failures to achieve a dream of inviolate masculinity; instead, injuries are integral to masculinity as it is practiced and celebrated. Wounds not only provide meaning to knightly combats but also educate young knights. They also provide part of the basis for community, as knights errant bond with their healers or return to their companions and courts for healing. Thus, although obviously not desirable in and of themselves, the wounds are necessary for the narrative and part of the chivalric ideal of manhood. To explain adequately the role that wounds play in constructing masculine identities and communities, we must abandon the idea that knighthood depends on ‘‘a construct of masculinity as whole and inviolate’’ (with the corollary that injuries feminize men). Instead, Andrew Lynch’s recognition that ‘‘wounds are noble’’ needs to be developed further. In particular, if masculinity is understood as intrinsically vulnerable, how is male vulnerability differentiated from female weakness? Why do women get treated as the vulnerable class, assigned special protections in the Round Table oath, when men are literally far more vulnerable? Wounds do not mark failures in the effort to be knightly. Although each wound might be said to result from a failure to ward a blow properly, the inevitability of this happening some times even to the best knights means knights had to deal with the fact that they would be hurt. Medieval sources testify to the thorough understanding that being injured was an essential part of knighthood, even for the best knights . . . . Malory’s Gawain unwisely makes a similar argument in the Grail quest: ‘‘I may do no penaunce for we knyghtes adventures many tymes suffir grete woo and payne.’’ Gawain is a formidable knight, and yet he automatically assumes that knights will be injured. Indeed, the only knight in Le Morte d’Arthur that seems to escape without serious injury is Galahad. These celebrations of knightly suffering as admirable penance mean that injury was not simply a messy historical fact edited out of the romanticized ideal of knighthood; instead, the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
WHILE MALORY REMINDS US THAT NO KNIGHT WANTS TO BE INJURED, HE DOES NOT PRESENT INVIOLATE MASCULINITY AS AN INTACT NARRATIVE GOAL; INSTEAD, THE KNIGHTLY IDEAL IS INTENSELY VULNERABLE.’’
ideal of masculinity that chivalric texts celebrate is one that includes being wounded regularly. This fits not only with the historical realities of knighthood but also with the needs of narrative. Elaine Scarry’s analysis of combat, . . . shows why injury is necessary to create meaningful battles. She describes war as a contest in which ‘‘each side works to bring the other side to its perceived level of intolerable injury faster than it is itself brought to its own level of intolerable injury.’’ Since each side decides for itself what level of injury is considered intolerable, the damage of the fight is an index to how committed the sides are to the issues being fought for: an issue one is willing to die for is judged far more important than a matter that one yields for fear of a bruise. The injuries sustained give weight and worth to the abstract issues being fought about: they visually announce that the issue was so important that it deserved this much suffering, memorializing the conflict in the lasting scars they leave behind. Injury is thus essential to create meaning out of conflict. If there is no injury, then the fight does not matter: neither side is forced to remember the conflict and neither side gives up anything for asserting its beliefs. Moreover, the winner’s wounds are necessary to create meaning. . . . If the winner does not suffer, it is not clear how much the issue that the winner fought for really matters: the victor could just be engaging in idle cruelty rather than sacrificing for a worthy cause. . . . A victorious knight, therefore, has certainly proven his own strength, but he proves his commitment to other causes—honor, justice, a claim to a given piece of land, an assertion that one woman is the most beautiful—not by injury to the loser but by injury on his side: to his own body or to those who matter to him. Even if the winner is not in fact hurt, his knowledge that he
V o l u m e
2
4 3 7
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
might be is critical. Real risk, understood in advance, can show a combatant’s commitment to a cause. On some occasions, the injury may be displaced onto another, as, for instance, when a knight fights an easy battle to save a woman from rape and it is the woman’s potential harm that establishes the importance of the fight. However the injury is represented, it is precisely the knowing vulnerability of a combatant or those dear to him that makes his battle meaningful. When a knight does not voluntarily accept risk but is wounded anyway, the injury is not honorable but unhappy, as when the maiden huntress accidentally shoots Launcelot before a tournament (3:1104–6; 18.21–22). In general, though, wounds increase masculine worth, and to claim that the masculine ideal is invulnerability is to disrupt the whole system of meaning that makes masculine combat significant. An example of how this narrative logic works is Arthur’s fight with Accolon (1:141–47; 4.8–11). Although Merlin has told Arthur that Excalibur’s scabbard is more valuable than the sword itself because it prevents the wearer from losing blood (1:54; 1.25), this information does not become an issue in any of Arthur’s fights until he meets Accolon, and then it is Accolon who is wearing the scabbard. What follows should be, according to some models of gender, the wreck of Arthur as a man: he is pierced and bleeding, on the verge of defeat, and all as the object of a woman’s gaze, since Nyneve is watching. The description of the fight emphasizes Arthur’s blood falling from him, weakening him, staining the ground. But Nyneve, instead of seeing him as feminized and diminished, judges him a good knight and a man of worship because of, not despite of, his suffering on the field (1:144; 4.10). Arthur’s ability to bleed, although a liability in strictly practical terms, highlights his bravery and commitment to his cause, in contrast to Accolon’s smug safety. Instead of proving him less of a man, Arthur’s wounds illustrate that he is full of pure knighthood; Accolon is winning only because of the sword and scabbard, something the narrator makes clear: But allwayes sir Arthure loste so muche bloode that hit was mervayle he stoode on his feete, but he was so full of knyghthode that he endured the payne. . . . But Accolon was so bolde because of Excalyber that he wexed passyng hardy. (1:143; 4 9)
When Nyneve allows Arthur to regain Excalibur, Accolon capitulates; it was his undeserved
4 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
protection, not his courage, that kept him in the fight. It is this system of meaning, in which knighthood is proven through the willingness to bear wounds while continuing to fight, that explains why, when Launcelot runs mad, those who find him treat him well: ‘‘Whan they sawe so many woundys upon hym, they demed that he had bene a man of worship’’ (2:822; 12.3). . . . Obviously, episodes like this do not fit with claims that it is only femininity that is associated with the wounded, the incomplete, the pierced, and the penetrated. If this were true, injuries, especially those that open the body, should feminize the male victim. But this does not in fact happen. . . . Usually, however, male status must be considered as a separate axis from masculinity: in terms of social hierarchy, the opposite of a highstatus man is not a woman but a low-status man. Losing masculinity often entails a loss of status, but not always, as when Launcelot dresses as a woman for a joke (2:669–70; 10.49) or when Percivale, renouncing sexuality, ‘‘rooff hymselff thorow the thygh, that the blood sterte aboute hym’’ (2:919; 14.10). Loss of status may feminize a knight but often not. Injury may prove a man vulnerable, it may keep him from fighting for a while, but it need not make him less of a man, and if he overcomes his wounds, he can be greater. Thus, in the fight between Gareth and the Red Knight, their bleeding wounds do not put an end to their prowess; instead, because the knights continue the fight with their injuries, the wounds enhance worship: And than thus they fought tyll hit was paste none, and never wolde stynte tyll at the laste they lacked wynde bothe, and than they stoode waggyng, stagerynge, pantynge, blowynge, and bledyng, that all that behelde them for the moste party wepte for pyte´. So whan they had rested them a whyle they yode to batayle agayne, trasyng, traversynge, foynynge, and rasynge as two borys. (1:323; 7.16)
By listing the ‘‘waggyng, stagerynge, pantynge, blowynge, and bledyng’’ before the ‘‘trasyng, traversynge, foynynge, and rasynge,’’ Malory establishes injuries and exhaustion not as forces that diminish manliness in combat but that enhance honor when knights choose to continue. Scarry’s analysis of why injury establishes meaning for combat, however, is not a complete account of how wounds work in Malory. Injuries educate young knights, and the opportunity for healing creates lasting social bonds. Thus
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
injuries are often a key part of becoming a mature knight and a member of a community. . . . Malory . . . often locates this kind of education in single combats. Sir Gareth as a promising young knight learns from his fierce adversary the tricks of serious fighting: ‘‘the Rede Knyghte was a wyly knight in fyghtyng, and that taught Bewmaynes to be wyse, but he abought hit full sore or he did asspye his fyghtynge’’ (1:323; 7.17). Later, Malory does not explicitly say that young knights learn from old ones but the implication is there. Alexander the Orphan must learn tactics from Malagryne, who has a defensive style emphasizing, apparently, the riposte and counter attack, strategies that are well suited to taking advantage of a young knight’s eagerness: But this sir Malagryne was an olde rooted knyght, and he was called one of the daungerous knyghtes of the worlde to do batayle on foote. . . . And ever this Malagryne awayted to sle sir Aly saundir, and so wounded hym wondirly sore that hit was mervayle that ever he myght stonde, for he had bled so much; for this sir Alysaundir fought ever wyldely and nat wyttyly, and that othir was a felonous knyght and awayted hym, and smote hym sore. (2:640 41; 10.36)
... That encounters between promising young knights and ‘‘wily’’ older knights are part of all these fair-unknown stories shows that, for Malory, combat is more than just the young knights proving themselves. The combat is itself an education, part of the process of creating (not just revealing) good knights. The young fighters have strength, eagerness, and courage; they must learn discipline, careful swordplay, and riding through painful experience. Gareth ‘‘buys’’ his experience with his wounds, and so wounding becomes part of the educational process that makes a man. ... Distinguishing between wounds that punish and wounds that also teach can be a little tricky, but even punitive injuries often prove educational. A number of the magical swords carry a penalty that those who handle them inappropriately shall be wounded by them. Percivale and Gawain attempt to draw Balin’s sword at the start of the quest, and each is cursed to be injured by it in consequence. When Galahad injures Percivale, the fight occurs in front of his aunt’s hermitage; in the aftermath she instructs her nephew about himself, his family, Galahad, and the Round Table (2:893, and 905–7; 13.17, and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
14.1–2). When Galahad injures Gawain, Gawain finally recognizes that the quest is not for him and gives up seeking the Grail (2:981–82; 17.1). The wounds, then, seem not to be simply punishment but moments of moral enlightenment. This pattern of wounds teaching knights lessons that cannot be learned in other ways highlights Gawain’s failure to learn in the final battle against Launcelot. During the siege of Benwick, Gawain keeps proffering single combat. After watching Gawain seriously injure three of his kinsmen, Launcelot finally agrees to fight, and he wounds Gawain in the head (3:1217; 20.21). Gawain persistently renews the challenge, and when they meet again Launcelot wounds him in the same place (3:1220; 20.22). Finally, when Arthur’s army returns to fight Mordred and forces a landing at Dover, Gawain is struck for a third time in the same place, and this time the renewed wound is mortal (3:1230; 21.2). The fact that the wound is in the same place each time marks more than just a weakness in Gawain’s high guard; it shows a fundamental failure to learn from his injuries the way knights should. Gawain’s mistake is not in his insistence that Launcelot has committed a crime: Launcelot’s killing of Gareth and Gaheris is too grave to be dismissed as an innocent mistake. Gawain, as he lies dying, does not declare Launcelot innocent. Instead, he says that his error was not to accord with Launcelot (3:1230; 21.2), presumably by accepting Launcelot’s extravagant and apparently sincere offer of penance (3:1199–1200; 20.16). He finally recognizes Launcelot’s long loyalty to Arthur and his general nobility apart from his lapse in killing Gareth and Gaheris. Interestingly, Gawain’s dying speech to Arthur reverses his understanding of his injuries, as he sees Launcelot no longer as a causer of injuries but as one who has acted against ‘‘cankyrde’’ enemies of the body politic, generally decreasing ‘‘disease’’: [M]y deth dayes be com! And all I may wyte myne owne hastynes and my wylfulnesse, for thorow my wylfulnes I was causer of myne owne dethe; for I was thys day hurte and smyt ten uppon myne olde wounde that sir Launcelot gaff me, and I fele myselff that I muste nedis be dede by the owre of noone. And thorow me and my pryde ye have all thys shame and disease, for had that noble knyght, sir Launcelot, ben with you, as he was and wolde have ben, thys unhappy warre had never ben begunne; for he, thorow his noble knyghthode and hys noble
V o l u m e
2
4 3 9
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
bloode, hylde all yourre cankyrde enemyes in subjeccion and daungere. (3:1230; 21.2)
Launcelot’s noble blood cleanses repressed cankers, never-healing sores; Gawain is the causer, not the victim, of his injuries. The detail that Gawain will die by noon is bitterly ironic, because (for the first time in a long time) Malory emphasized in the fights with Launcelot that Gawain’s strength normally increased until noon (3:1216–17, and 1220; 20.21, and 22). The contrast between Gawain’s ebbing strength and its previous rising points to what Gawain has finally recognized, that he was injuring the body politic when he thought he was helping it. Gawain’s linking of wounds to the community’s well-being is important in Le Morte d’Arthur. Lynch argues that wounds that heal become symbols of the cyclical partings and rejoinings of the Arthurian community, where a knight will leave on adventures, fight, rejoin the community to heal or to celebrate, and then depart again. But wounds do more than symbolize the community, they also help to create it. The need of injured knights to be healed invites them to accept hospitality and service from others, and this healing can become the basis for later political and social ties. The process can begin in combat. As Lynch points out, good knights respect the blood of their opponents. Simultaneously, injury leads to the fatigue that can cause fighting knights to begin talking together with increasing respect. The needs of healing after combat, though, create powerful bonds. . . . . . . The healing of Sir Urry not only brings all the Round Table knights together to attempt the cure, but it makes Urry a member of Launcelot’s affinity, and he participates on Launcelot’s side in the battles that bring down the kingdom (3:1170, 1193, 1203, and 1205; 20.5, 13, 17, and 18). In the eerie episode at the Chapel Perilous when Launcelot must brave Hallewes the Sorceress to heal Melyot, a series of suggestive tests decide whether Launcelot will be able to return to the Round Table and Guinevere (1:280–81; 6.15). The case of Sir Belleus (1:259–60; 6.5) provides another example of how wounds create bonds between knights, but it also sheds light on the relations between wounds and gender. Launcelot, tired, finds a pavilion with a bed and goes to sleep in it. Belleus, who was expecting to tryst with his lady there, climbs into the bed in the
4 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
dark and starts kissing Launcelot. The two knights, horrified, rush out of the pavilion and fight, and Launcelot severely injures Belleus, who yields. Launcelot then heals him and promises to promote him as a candidate for the Round Table. The start of the account obviously puts Launcelot in a feminine and sexually vulnerable position, especially since Launcelot had just been abducted by four queens who wished to rape him (1:256– 58; 6.3). As several critics have noted, the fight between Launcelot and Belleus is a violent assertion of Launcelot’s masculine prowess. But what does it do for Belleus, and how does it justify his promotion to the Round Table? . . . Dorsey Armstrong . . . reads the episode as protecting both knights’ masculine identities: ‘‘Within the ideology of chivalry, it is acceptable—even preferable—to be penetrated by the sword of another knight and die, masculine identity intact than the (literally) unspeakable alternative.’’ Belleus, of course, does not die from his wound. Rather, his behavior shows his worth. His willingness to fight reveals his courage. After he is wounded, he yields, but he is not craven, asserting his ownership of the pavilion and his expectation of meeting his lady (1:260; 6.5). Furthermore, when he understands Launcelot’s mistake, he does not hold a grudge, defending Launcelot to his understandably aggrieved lady: ‘‘Pease, my lady and my love,’’ seyde sir Belleus, ‘‘for this knyght is a good man and knyght of aventures.’’ And there he tolde hir all the case how he was wounded. ‘‘And whan that I yelded me unto hym he laffte me goodly, and hath staunched my bloode.’’ (1:260; 6.5)
Launcelot’s ability to heal his opponent thus prompts knightly gratitude from Belleus, and that knight expects news of it to soothe his lady-love. The lady, in turn, invokes the wounds in her request that Launcelot make Belleus a Round Table knight: But now wolde ye promyse me of youre curte sye, for the harmys that ye have done to me and to my lorde, sir Belleus, that whan ye com unto kyng Arthurs courte for to cause hym to be made knyght of the Rounde Table? For he is a passyng good man of armys and a myghty lorde of londys of many oute iles. (1:260; 6.5)
At stake is more than negotiating compensation for injury (although the sense of debt is there, since she invokes harm to herself as well as to Belleus). She bases her claim that Belleus should become a member of the Round Table on three things: the harms that Launcelot has done, Belleus’s prowess,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
and his political power. The brief fight was not enough to prove his strength (Launcelot’s answer is that if ‘‘he preve hym doughty of his hondis he shal have his desyre’’ [1:260; 6.5], suggesting that the issue has not been proven), but the wounds do prove his ability to risk and bear pain and exhibit courtesy in a difficult situation. The injuries also create a reciprocal masculine bond between Launcelot and Belleus that the lady exploits. ... The bond that healing produces can be distorted for personal or political ends. When Morgan le Fay heals Alexander the Orphan, she extracts a promise that, if she makes him whole, he will stay in her castle for a year and a day, time she plans to spend seducing him (2:643; 10.37–38). He is horrified when he learns of this, saying ‘‘I had levir kut away my hangers than I wolde do her any suche pleasure!’’ (2:643; 10.38). This bond is thus understood through the language of injury—healing creates a debt that can, perhaps, be undone only by another injury that sacrifices the promised wholeness. Once again, while it is possible to see Alexander as feminized in this exchange, despite the virility that makes him the object of desire of three women (Morgan, the niece of the Earl of Pace, and Alys le Beall Pylgryme) it is better to see him as trying to figure out how best to function in the masculine communities shaped by the reality of wounds. Furthermore, Morgan’s version of femininity is evoked in much more than a lack of male genitals: she is actively and threateningly desirous. Alexander’s thought of castrating himself is an attempt to escape from the gendered world where sex is made to stand in as a form of recompense for healing. In this instance self-mutilation would be one way toward freedom and self-determination it is not imagined as a fall from masculinity into effeminacy. Instead, it makes possible one form of self-reliant masculinity without the dangers of female seduction. In this respect, it is reminiscent of Percivale’s possible castration in the Grail quest (if wounding himself in the thighs is taken as euphemism), where his renunciation of male sexuality allows him to pursue the honorable path of selfcontrolled religious manhood. It is important that, in both cases, the castration is voluntary: wounds risked willingly generate very different meanings than those imposed on victims who never knowingly consented to the risk. While Morgan distorts the bond between healer and healed because of her malevolence, a
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
different kind of danger lies in the story of Launcelot and Elaine of Ascolat. When Elaine heals Launcelot, there is nothing inherently wrong with an attachment between them, but any attachment to Elaine and her family would pull Launcelot away from Guinevere. Since he will not consent to this, he must cruelly disappoint Elaine’s expectations. The story thus becomes one in which Launcelot is trapped between two possible communities. When Bors wounds Launcelot, Launcelot (to Arthur’s distress) flees the court to be healed instead by Elaine’s brother Lavayne and a hermit. Elaine goes to him and nurses him back to health (2:1081–82; 18.15); later, Bors joins them. Elaine hopes that the intimacy of healing will prompt Launcelot to marry her; Bors tactfully suggests to Launcelot that it would not be a bad thing if he did (2:1084; 18.16). Given the pattern through the book of healing creating social bonds, it is not an unreasonable thought. Launcelot, though, is no Trystram and will not love his healer. Even so, the small community that gathers around Launcelot is, for a while, a small haven away from the fatally divided factions of the court. The role of wounds to shape men is underscored because Launcelot and Bors are marked by their pasts. The hermit who heals Launcelot initially is unhappy that the wounded knight that he must treat has opposed Arthur, but then he recognizes Launcelot ‘‘by a wounde on hys chyeke’’ (2:1075; 18.13), and his welcome becomes warmer. As Launcelot heals, he asks Lavayne to look for Bors and tells him that Bors can be recognized ‘‘by a wounde in hys forehede’’ (2:1082: 18.15). In the context of an episode that is all about tokens and signs of identity, the fact that scars become markers of identification is important. Launcelot’s initial decision to absent himself from his king and his kinsmen has now permanently marked him; and, however much he rejects the bond with Elaine, he has become linked with her, something that provokes Guinevere’s jealousy and ultimately Elaine’s death. Because Launcelot has difficulty committing fully to either community, uneasy about Arthur’s court because of the specter of adultery and held back from Elaine by his old love, it is appropriate, if healing tends to join knights to communities, that his wound is slow to heal. He suffers a relapse when he tries to wield a spear too soon (2:1085; 18.17), and then, as he returns to the court, he is shot by the maiden huntress so that he fears he will not be able to
V o l u m e
2
4 4 1
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
participate in the great tournament. Launcelot is trapped between communities—uncomfortable religiously and politically with his affair with Guinevere but unwilling to break away from either the king or the queen to form a court of his own with a wife or mistress. Since healing wounds often create communities, his wounds at this point in the narrative do not heal quickly, leaving him caught between Elaine and Guinevere and the communities that both represent. However, despite the dangers of wounds creating the wrong communities, healing is generally positive. The need for healing creates opportunities for men to talk, to rely on each other, and to be at peace together. The experience of being injured and responding helps young, eager knights to become ‘‘wily men of warre’’ (1:466; 9.4). Furthermore, the fact that knights, knowing themselves to be vulnerable, choose to fight anyway shows their courage and their commitment to the causes that they choose to champion. While Malory reminds us that no knight wants to be injured, he does not present inviolate masculinity as an intact narrative goal; instead, the knightly ideal is intensely vulnerable. If the definition of heroic masculinity intrinsically includes vulnerability, then the role of women in Le Morte d’Arthur needs to be examined. Armstrong argues that women’s vulnerability is essential to male chivalric identity: Knights in Malory always read women as vulner able, helpless, and ever in need of the services of a knight in short, the object through and against which a knight affirms his masculine identity. . . . [I]n affirming his knightly identity and his right to belong to the heteronormative masculine com munity of the Arthurian court, a knight not only needs a vulnerable, helpless woman, but more specifically, he needs ‘‘woman’’ to signify as vul nerable and helpless. . . . [The Round Table] Oath constructs male and female in terms of a binary that opposes active, aggressive masculinity to passive, helpless femininity.
If male and female are opposites in terms of active versus passive, aggressive versus victimized, they are not opposites in terms of vulnerability—both men and women live in fragile bodies, and the men more regularly suffer bodily injury than women do. What separates the sexes is the way that their vulnerability is understood and practiced. The first crucial distinction is consent: heroic men agree to risk or to suffer bodily injury, thereby showing their commitment and bravery.
4 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
For women, often the risk of injury is not voluntarily chosen; it is imposed upon them. The exceptional women who do consent to injury or risk of injury, such as Percivale’s sister who agrees to give her blood for another woman, become vulnerable in the same way that the knights are vulnerable and thus become heroic. However, the archetypal crime against women in romance is rape, and rape almost by definition involves lack of consent. Because the woman rarely if ever knowingly risks rape in the pursuit of a good cause, the injuries she sustains do not testify to her bravery and commitment in the way that a knight’s wounds do. The exception is if she gains wounds fighting to free herself from rape or if she commits suicide after; these injuries are taken to testify to her commitment to chastity and may be honorable. The second difference between knightly injuries and rape in Arthurian literature is that male wounds can often be healed. Even if the wounds bring death, they at least can serve as a memorial to a knight’s honor. Rape, when it is understood not as a crime against a woman’s body but a crime against her sexual purity, leaves a wound that will not heal and will not mark an honorable memory: as Bors says on the Grail quest: ‘‘if I helpe nat the mayde she ys shamed, and shall lose hir virginite´ which she shall never gete agayne’’ (2:961; 16.9). Thus male vulnerability can bring honor, and it enables an opportunity for healing, which can restore community; female vulnerability is linked only to permanent and dishonorable injury. ... Women’s injuries are rarer in Le Morte d’Arthur and participate in a different logic: their injuries are often seen as permanent and as markers of shame and of social failure. Men’s injuries, when they are not mortal, allow for healing, learning, and new or strengthened social bonds. . . . Injury, however, is not the loss of masculine social capital. Wounds have their own social value. That the value of wounds has been overlooked is one consequence of the assumption that ideal masculinity avoids all weakness and injury. In such a model, wounds must be signs of flaws and failures, and all mortal men must fall well short of achieving masculinity. It is far more productive, however, to ask how knightly masculinity uses men’s essential vulnerability. In Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, good knights
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
transform injuries into evidence of courage and commitment, opportunities to learn, and occasions for fellowship. Women’s injuries resist these transformations. They are more often imagined as involuntary, thus offering no testimony of courage, and permanent, hindering the formation of social bonds. The contrast between masculine and feminine, therefore, is not between imperviousness and fragility but rather between different modes of vulnerability. Source: Kenneth Hodges, ‘‘Wounded Masculinity: Injury and Gender in Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 106, No. 1, Winter 2009, pp. 14 31.
Sarah Kay In this essay, Kay analyzes adultery in Le Morte d’Arthur as it relates to the taking of life, not property, and how its treatment affects the plot. Insofar as adultery is considered wrongful, in medieval texts, it is often because it is connected in some way with an offence against property. This is either because of the importance laid on legitimate inheritance (which in turn requires wives to be faithful to their husbands), or because of the tendency to see women as themselves a form of property. In La Mort le roi Artu (The Death of King Arthur), however, adultery is presented in relation not to property but to the taking of life. How and why this is so is what this chapter will explore. The Mort is the last work in the great early thirteenth-century compilation known as the Prose Lancelot, and describes the decline and fall of Arthur’s kingdom. The adultery between Arthur’s queen Guenevere and his greatest knight Lancelot plays a key role in this apocalyptic narrative, since it leads to the estrangement of Lancelot and Arthur. When Arthur pursues Lancelot abroad, he entrusts his kingdom to Mordred, who usurps it for himself; Arthur feels unable to call on Lancelot to assist him against Mordred, and so his army perishes along with Mordred’s. In the early part of the Mort, Arthur is induced by court spies to ask himself repeatedly whether Lancelot and Guenevere are guilty of adultery. But he is also called upon to approve legal challenges against both of them for wrongful killing. For both have caused death, in episodes which present striking parallels. The victims in both cases are knights who have similar names (Guenevere kills Gaheris, Lancelot kills Gaheriet),
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
THE EQUATION BETWEEN ADULTERY AND KILLING, WHICH SEEMS SO SINISTER AND GUILT RIDDEN, CONVEYS IN FACT A CURIOUS INNOCENCE WHICH MAKES IT DIFFICULT TO EVALUATE.’’
and both are commemorated by inscriptions put up by members of the court. The brother of each victim wants to avenge his death: Mador de la Porte obliges Arthur to put Guenevere on trial; Gawain’s love for Lancelot turns to implacable hostility as he pressures Arthur to go to war against Lancelot, and eventually challenges him to single combat. Then again, each of the killings could be described as accidental. Guenevere hands Gaheris a poisoned fruit which was prepared by someone else (Arvalan) and intended for Gawain; she was completely unaware that it was poisoned. Similarly Lancelot strikes down Gaheriet, who is his dear friend, without recognising him in the confusion of rescuing the queen. Finally, when each of the avenging brothers (Mador, Gawain) obtains a judicial duel (or approximation to one, in Gawain’s case), he is pitted against Lancelot who fights first on behalf of the queen and then on his own behalf, and on both occasions wins. Although much of the romance is about efforts to ascertain whether or not Lancelot and the queen are lovers, attempts to entrap them are not successful. Thus Lancelot and the queen are never required legally to defend themselves as adulterers, only as killers. The killings, it seems, function as a displacement of the crime of adultery, and also as a narrative metaphor for it. This metaphorical dimension is established textually by the close association that exists in each case between the question of adultery and the alleged wrongful killing. In the first case, that of Guenevere and the poisoned fruit, the link is established from the outset. Arthur has returned to court from the castle of his sister Morgan, who has shown him Lancelot’s paintings which reveal his love for Guenevere. And so for Arthur ‘there was never a time again when he was not more suspicious of the queen than he had been, because of what he had been told.’ Only two
V o l u m e
2
4 4 3
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
sentences later those suspicions find an object, as Arvalan hands the fruit to Guenevere and Gaheris dies. Meanwhile, Lancelot has been dismissed from the court by the queen as a result of a misunderstanding, a fact which causes Boors to curse the love between them. The interweaving of these episodes associates the themes of love and death. A similar convergence of these two themes occurs in the case of Lancelot’s accidental killing of Gaheriet. It is causally linked with the adultery plot, since it takes place while Lancelot is rescuing the queen from execution. When later Lancelot hands her back to Arthur, he seeks to justify himself with respect both to the queen, and to the death of Gawain’s brothers, so that the issues of adultery and the killing are linked again: ‘Sire, behold the queen, whom I return to you, who would earlier have been killed as a result of the disloyalty of members of your household, had I not taken the risk of rescuing her. [ . . . ] And it is better that they should perish in their treachery than that she should die.’ He goes on: ‘If I loved the queen with foolish passion, as you were given to understand, I would not give her back to you, not for months, and you would not win her back by force.’ But Gawain pulls the discussion back to Lancelot’s guilt for Gaheriet’s death: ‘You can be sure that you will not lack for war [ . . . ] for you will have it, and mightier than you ever did before, and it will last until my brother Gaheriet, whom you wrongfully killed, will be avenged on your own body; and I would rather see your head cut off than have the whole world.’ These links between adultery and killing shift the ground on which the adultery is considered. Most characters in the text want to know whether Lancelot and the Queen are committing adultery as a matter of fact, not how to judge them if they are. For Arthur, adultery calls for automatic condemnation. Gawain, Guerrehe´s and Gaheriet prefer that he should not know, rather than cause enmity in the court. We readers, however, know that the couple are lovers; our problem, rather, is what attitude to adopt to this. As the story goes on, an increasing number of characters know the truth about their relationship, and some (such as Lancelot’s kin) are clearly loyal to them. But no character, whether in the know or not, discusses the question which is uppermost in the reader’s mind, namely how we should view their adultery. On the contrary, there is a gap between
4 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
the discourse that maintains, of Lancelot, that he is the best knight in the world because of his love for the queen, and the discourse lamenting that, because of his love for the queen, a terrible cataclysm will engulf the Arthurian kingdom. If the text seeks to evaluate the fact of their relationship, it does so via the thunderous silence between these two positions. In the matter of the killings, however, the facts are agreed between readers and characters; it is their evaluation which is in question for all of us together. Both the judicial duels address the question of whether the killers are guilty of a disloyal and treacherous act. That is, they ask with respect to the killings what the reader might ask with respect to the adultery. In this way, the metaphorical importance of the killings becomes both more obvious, and more interesting. The Guenevere trial considers disloyalty and treachery from the point of view of intention. Before the combat, Mador makes his formal accusation to Lancelot: ‘Sir knight, I am ready to prove that she killed my brother disloyally and treacherously,’ a charge Lancelot rebuts with an important change of wording: ‘And I am ready [ . . . ] to defend her on the ground that she never intended disloyalty or treachery.’ Lancelot’s formulation is, for Gawain, an illumination of Guenevere’s innocence. Arthur agrees that this new perspective makes it likely Guenevere’s champion will win. And Guenevere herself repeats the winning formula: ‘I never intended disloyalty or treachery,’ she says. Win Lancelot duly does; the queen is exonerated. If, as I have argued, the trial is a metaphorical displacement of anxiety about adultery, can we infer from Guenevere’s acquittal that she is also to be exonerated sexually because she ‘never intended disloyalty or treachery’? Is the text driving a wedge between intention and result, and inclining us to base our moral judgements on the former not the latter? The fact of Gaheris’s death is undeniable, but Guenevere has been found innocent because she did not mean to cause it; likewise, although her adultery has dire political consequences, since she did not intend them, should she be acquitted of responsibility for them too? One could feel more confident about making this inference if the text were more committed to the concept of intention. When members of the court first find Gaheris’s body, the question of intent is raised, and Guenevere protests her ignorance that the fruit was poisoned, but
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
Arthur counters: ‘Whatever the circumstances in which you gave it to him, the outcome is evil and intolerable, and I greatly fear that you will suffer more for it than you imagine.’ No one believes Guenevere to be innocent or is prepared to dishonour himself defending her. The consensus view is unambiguously expressed by Gawain: ‘for we know very well that the queen killed the knight, as she stands accused; I saw it and so did many others.’ Even Lancelot who did not see it believes her to be guilty: ‘for I know truly, from what I have heard, that I shall be on the side of wrong and Mador on the side of right.’ He fights only because he loves the queen, and her reputation is hitherto unblemished. The outcome, not the intent, of her deed is what mesmerises everyone’s attention.
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
of insufficient capacity to accommodate more than one code at a time.’ In the Mort, they seem able to focus either on intent or on outcome but not on both at the same time, as they would need to do in order to evaluate the ethical significance of one vis-a`-vis the other. Guenevere’s trial may involve the question of intent, but it no more succeeds in making it a determinate issue than these other episodes do. We cannot infer from it that intent defines the moral horizon of action in the Mort. Does the text, then, have anything clearer to say on the question of justice?
So Lancelot’s all-important formulation at the trial, which wins support and eventual acquittal for the queen, is curiously inadvertent; while the switch of position by Gawain and Arthur is almost somnambulistic. In fact, the text seems more inclined to dull the distinctions between intent, outcome, and responsibility than to illumine them. This obfuscation reaches a peak when Arthur, shortly afterwards, reproaches Gawain for having withheld the truth of the queen’s adultery from him. Gawain’s reply, ‘Indeed, my treachery never did you any harm’, is simply mind-boggling. Has he forgotten what treachery is? His use of the term implies that he meant no ill, had no ill effect, and bears no responsibility: the word becomes empty of meaning.
When Mador enters the judicial duel, he does not know who his opponent is. Only when he has been defeated does Lancelot declare his identity. Mador then protests to the king: ‘Sire, you have deceived me, setting my lord Lancelot against me.’ In the Gawain-Lancelot encounter over the death of Gaheriet, the question is again raised whether the outcome of a trial depends less on what is being fought over than on who is fighting. Gawain sends a messenger to challenge Lancelot to single combat. The messenger thinks he must be mad to fight such a ‘good and seasoned knight’ and Arthur, repeating these same words, also fears that Gawain cannot win, but Gawain insists that justice will be done, for right makes a weak knight prevail, whereas wrong makes a strong one lose. In the course of the combat Gawain’s strength grows and ebbs, so that he seems first likely to win, then headed for defeat. Does he lose because his strength declines, or because he was wrong to fight in the first place?
Throughout the Mort, the capacity of the characters to form, or respond to, intention is extremely limited. The text contains several examples of unintended killing or wounding apart from the two cases I am concerned with. They include Lancelot being wounded twice (by Boors who failed to recognise him at the Winchester tournament, and a huntsman who missed his intended quarry in the forest); and Arthur killing his last-but-one survivor by hugging him too hard. On each occasion questions of intent and moral responsibility are dimly raised but they never get anywhere. Thus Boors tells Lancelot that he ought not to be blamed for wounding him since Lancelot was fighting incognito, and Lancelot agrees but nevertheless remains full of reproaches. Elizabeth Edwards has described the characters in medieval prose romance as resembling ‘a distinctive mark, or graving, on the surface of the text [ . . . which is]
The Gawain-Lancelot combat echoes the concerns of the Guenevere trial. Once again, the charge involves killing ‘treacherously and disloyally.’ Different opinions are expressed as to which of the two, Gawain and Lancelot, is on the side of right, and Lancelot himself, acting as his own champion, is as diffident about the justice of his cause as he was when fighting for Guenevere. He prepares himself for the duel by confession and vigil, ‘for he was very afraid lest ill befall him against lord Gawain, on account of the death of his brothers whom he had killed.’ But rather than foregrounding the status of intent in relation to the notion of right, what is at stake here is the status of right itself. What is it and how do you know when you have it? Many of the Mort’s critics seem persuaded either that Lancelot clearly has justice on his side, or that he clearly does not. R. H. Bloch, for example, writes: ‘Lancelot’s victorious support of a merely
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
4 4 5
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
adequate cause against Mador and a patently indefensible one against Gawain can only be interpreted as the triumph of might over right.’ Convinced that Lancelot’s causes are undeserving, Bloch is obliged to see the Mort as a world in which belief has been lost in the efficacy of an immanent God to achieve justice through human intermediaries. For other critics, however, Lancelot is just as obviously in the right, as borne out by his victories. Such critical responses, it seems to me, make too much sense of a text which (just as in the murky issues of intent and outcome) clouds and inhibits judgements; the critics are reliant on notions of right and justice being transparent whereas in the Mort they are at best dimly lit, at worst wholly opaque. For justice in the Mort is linked to an irresolvable problematic of how far the world is governed by providence and how far by chance or fortune; and how far we could possibly know which, or what that meant. This is a problem on which, as Karen Pratt has shown, the characters can shed no light. They are constantly ‘reasoning why’ hence the frequent references by them to God, For tune, Destiny, and their own guilt or sin. Yet they never reach a conclusion. This is because not only is it not man’s place to reason why, it is also a futile activity, since it is evident that the world of the flesh is subject to laws which are far less just and predictable than those that govern the salvation of an individual’s soul.
It is also a problem from which the text as a whole retreats into secular gloom, reflecting ‘the equivocal attitude of so many secular writers in the Middle Ages towards the problem of explaining history and the rise and fall of great civilizations.’ Thus while it is true that Lancelot emerges from his second duel having apparently demonstrated to Gawain’s satisfaction that he did not kill Gaheriet ‘treacherously and disloyally’, this duel does not clarify our ethical attitude towards Lancelot either as a killer, or as a lover. It merely leaves the whole field of ethical inquiry darker and more impenetrable. So far I have considered the trial scenes of Guenevere and Lancelot as metaphors—inconclusive ones—for how readers might attempt to put them on trial for adultery. I now want to examine the crime with which they are charged. Why are they represented as killers? What do adultery and killing have in common? The deaths for which Lancelot and Guenevere are tried (even if they are not found guilty)
4 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
are only two among the indefinitely many to which their adultery might be said to contribute. For the Mort portrays an increasingly violent world, its conflicts aggravated by the rift between Lancelot and Arthur. The text opens with a series of tournaments, but these soon give way to genuine warfare in the wake of the attempted entrapment of the lovers and Lancelot’s rescue of Guenevere. Arthur finds himself at war, successively, with Lancelot, the Romans, and Mordred. Armies are wiped out as civilisations crumble. Fighting dominates the text, and killing becomes necessary and unavoidable, simultaneously appalling and banal. (Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac, based on the Mort, excellently captures the frenzied meaninglessness of violence in this text.) In identifying the lovers as killers, then, the text both integrates their adultery to the Mort ’s cataclysmic canvas, and represents it as (literally) lethal. The sinister and guilt-laden implications of this contrast markedly with the role of the philtre in the Tristan story, guarantor of the lovers’ innocence. As the philtre marks equality between Tristan and Iseut, so the striking parallels between the deaths of Gaheris and Gaheriet signal the parity between Lancelot and Guenevere. But while the Tristan lovers drink the love-potion together, Guenevere, as if in reminiscence of Eve’s role in the Fall, offers a poisoned fruit to someone else. And while the Tristan potion is a presage of the lovers’ eventual death, in the Mort the lovers themselves are oddly immune to the fatality they are associated with. In fact, their killings are a curious reversal of the anticipated story-line, namely that they should be the ones to be killed. As in other Celtic-influenced texts, the penalty for adultery in the Mort is death, but Arthur is prevented from executing Guenevere. The couple might have shared the fate of other literary adulterers (such as Iseut) who die of their own accord, as though in acknowledgement of society’s condemnation of them, but they do not. Like all the major characters in the Mort, Lancelot and Guenevere are at times so overwhelmed by grief or anger that they are convinced they will die, but only the maid of Escalot, much earlier in the text, is as good as her word and actually dies from her grief whereas Lancelot and Guenevere don’t. Instead the plot effects a curious exchange between killing the lovers and having them kill others. Their enemies (except for Morgan) predecease them, dying violent deaths, whereas Guenevere does not die until very nearly the end and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
Lancelot outlives virtually everyone. In a text where death is so commonplace, the lovers are almost magically protected from it. Not only that; the lovers also avoid deliberate killing. Lancelot does not kill Mador; he deliberately saves Arthur’s life; and he refuses to kill Gawain (‘I could not do it [ . . . ] for my heart to which I belong could not agree to it on any account.’) Although the best knight in the world, he actually kills very few people. The crimes of which he and Guenevere are accused consist in killing outside socially prescribed norms; it is not the deaths but the aberrant circumstances of them that lead to their being perceived as ‘treacherous and disloyal’, and if Lancelot had lost his two fights he would have been made to die a socially sanctioned death. Killing, the text seems to suggest, is inevitable and universal, and yet society polices it in such a way that accidental killing calls for legal investigation whereas killing on purpose does not. Adultery, likewise, is love in the wrong place, and thus perhaps only an arbitrarily censured instance of universal and inevitable behaviour. The guilt involved is one of social convention, not absolute value. Indeed, the ‘guilt’ of the ‘adultery killings’ in the Mort begins to look quite innocent when one compares them with what could be called the ‘incest killings’, the reciprocal slaying of Mordred and Arthur. Mordred, the text reveals, is both son and nephew to Arthur, a child incestuously conceived with his sister. In Arthur’s absence Mordred usurps his throne and tries to marry his wife, thus compounding treachery with attempted bigamy and further incest. Despite repeated warnings that this war will bring his reign and his kingdom to an end, Arthur seeks out Mordred and each deals the other his death-blow. Here is a striking instance of how sexual crime and killing can be linked: this tight-knit family drama crystallises Freudian preoccupation by economically combining transgression of the two most sacred taboos: parricide and incest. By contrast, both Lancelot and Guenevere (their adultery apart) show exemplary love and respect for Arthur and his authority. By sparing Arthur’s life Lancelot avoids Mordred’s parricide and by handing Guenevere back voluntarily desists from sexual transgression. As Me´la says, because ‘[Lancelot] chooses to live henceforth in a state of unfulfilled desire out of respect for the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
Name of the Father [ . . . ] the essential achievement of La Mort Artu is to have integrated love for the king into Lancelot’s love for the queen.’ Compared with the meaningful deaths of Arthur and Mordred, the killings for which Lancelot and Guenevere are tried are impressively insignificant. Their victims are neither figures of oppression (such as a father) nor are they rivals. There is no psychodrama involved: on the contrary Gaheris, recipient of the poisoned apple, has no connection whatever with the adultery plot, while Gaheriet was doing his best to keep out of it. Gaheris is the medieval equivalent of today’s ‘innocent bystander’, unheard of until killed. Gaheriet is slightly more prominent, but still a relatively minor figure. Each is simply the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. The random character of these deaths in contrast with the Arthur-Mordred confrontation seems to indicate that anyone could die at any time. And the fact that they die by accident corresponds with the lovers’ lack of control over the rest of their lives. The lovers’ killings, in other words, can be read as a projection of their own mortality and frailty, a condition they share with the other characters in the text. Here at last the literal and the metaphorical converge: death is literally about human mortality and frailty, while adultery is their ethical expression. The poisoned fruit serves as a textual marker of this convergence, since the Genesis intertext links sexuality with human weakness and death. This essay has grappled with the lack of clear interpretation available to readers of the Mort. We are offered the trials as metaphors for our inquiry into adultery; and yet they don’t lead very far, and when one trial is over, we start again with the other and a further set of questions. The equation between adultery and killing, which seems so sinister and guilt-ridden, conveys in fact a curious innocence which makes it difficult to evaluate. I think, however, that the way that the point eludes the reader is the point, and that we are invited, in reading this text, to contemplate a depressing portrayal of human limitation. This is a penumbral text which, as it narrates the demise of civilisation, looks back (via the episode of the poisoned fruit) to the time before civilisation began. In the intervening shadows, lacking the light of Eden or of heaven, we are uncertain about the ethical significance of intention and responsibility, guilt
V o l u m e
2
4 4 7
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
and sin, justice and truth. Love and death are worked together in a pessimistic duo, ingrained in the shallow experience of humanity, arbitrarily treated by society, fraught with violence, subject to uncontrollable intent and unpredictable outcome, and resistant to moral judgement. Source: Sarah Kay, ‘‘Adultery and Killing in ‘Le Mort le Roi Artu,’’’ in Scarlet Letters: Fictions of Adultery from Antiquity to the 1990s, edited by Nicholas White and Naomi Segal, Macmillan, 1997, pp. 34 44.
ARTHUR IS UNWILLING OR UNABLE TO SEE THE SITUATION AS IT REALLY IS AND INVARIABLY CHOOSES THE WRONG COURSE OF ACTION. IT IS NOT FATE ACTING WILLFULLY AND ARBITRARILY, BUT ARTHUR HIMSELF, WHO IS ULTIMATELY RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS OWN DEMISE.’’
Donald C. MacRae In this essay, MacRae explains that while destiny is a major theme in the epic, the theme of free choice plays an equal if not more important role, and he describes how this idea drives many of Arthur’s actions and their consequences. In his Etude sur la Mort le Roi Artu, Jean ` Frappier has suggested that the ‘‘ . . . theme de ` Fortune—du Destin—est sans doute le theme majeur de La Mort Artu’’ (‘‘ . . . theme of Fortune—of Destiny—is undoubtedly the major theme of La Mort Artu’’). Elsewhere he restates this conviction when he refers to the ‘‘ . . . cercle de ` sur son [Arthur’s] royaume terfatalite´ qui pese restre’’ (‘‘circle of fatality that weighs heavily upon his [Arthur’s] terrestrial kingdom’’). Everything, he insists, gives the impression of tragic inevitability so that at times Fortune even seems to acquire a force all its own: ‘‘ . . . le destin est ` comme l’ame ˆ du roman; le theme en est traite´ avec assez de force et de profondeur pour que la Mort Artu . . . puisse faire penser par endroits aux tragiques grecs ou au drame e´lisabe´thain’’ (‘‘destiny is, as it were, the soul of the romance. The theme is treated with enough force and profundity that the Mort Artu reminds one in places of Greek tragedy or Elizabethan drama’’). There is no doubt about the importance of fate in the Mort Artu, but to suggest, as Frappier and others have done, that the role of this one motif is so striking that it dominates all others would seem to place too great an importance upon its function to the detriment of other important themes in the story. Indeed, consideration of the work essentially as a fate-tragedy is to ignore, or at least to play down, certain essential characteristics which contribute not only to the superb psychological portraits of which the mediaeval author has proved himself a master, but also to the very structure of the romance itself. Without denying the slow but inexorable rotation of the Wheel of Fortune in turning the
4 4 8
E p i c s
f o r
` Vinaver, howtide in the affairs of men, Eugene ever, argues convincingly for a much more complex and subtle pattern of cause and event leading to the final catastrophe. In his discussion on the poetry of interlace, he draws attention not just to ‘‘ . . . one major cause, but [to] . . . several concurrent causes,’’ citing in addition to this theme: the withdrawal of divine protection from both Arthur and Lancelot; conflicts arising out of the divided loyalties which Lancelot feels toward Guinevere on the one hand and Arthur and Gauvain on the other, as well as Mordred’s incestuous birth. These, he indicates, are a part of the intricate setting, the vast design, without which there can be neither plot nor characterization. This complex fabric provides a ‘‘ . . . continuous and constantly unfolding panorama stretching as far into the past as into the future—such are the things that hold the reader spell-bound as he progresses through these interwoven ‘branches’ and themes.’’ Destiny, he asserts, is inextricably linked with character, and destiny means ‘‘ . . . the convergence of simultaneously developed themes, now separated, now coming together, varied, yet synchronized, so that every movement of this carefully planned design remains charged with echoes of the past and premonitions of the future.’’ Vinaver’s arguments are eminently reasonable, accounting, as they do, for the complexity and apparent confusion of the many themes of the Mort Artu and lifting it above the state of a mere fate-tragedy to which the others would seem to relegate it. There is, however, one essential theme which Vinaver does not take into account and which plays a major role in the development of character and plot in the Mort Artu. I refer to a critical measure of free choice, granted to Arthur in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
particular, which permeates the story from beginning to end. It is this measure of free choice which lies behind all of Arthur’s decisions, influencing and directing his behaviour in the various situations in which he finds himself. If, to the thirteenth-century mind, his fall from grace is unavoidable ‘‘ . . . as a result of Arthur’s rise to excessive heights of success and fame’’ the introduction of this theme of free choice clearly provides a tangible and logical foundation for the inevitability of that process. In this fact lies ‘‘ . . . the convergence of simultaneously developed themes’’ to which Vinaver has referred. There is absolutely nothing inconsistent in that. However, the role of free choice is not a simple one in the Mort Artu. The King’s inability or, more frequently, his unwillingness to distinguish between the appearance and the reality of a given situation directly affects his subsequent course of action. Consequently, this clouds his vision and prevents him from choosing wisely and correctly. When one realizes that the decisions which Arthur must make are invariably imposed upon him during a time of crisis in the story, it is relatively easy to understand how the effect of these decisions gradually builds up to the tragic battle on the Salisbury Plain where not only King Arthur but also the entire Kingdom of Logres are destroyed. This, then, is the essential theme of the romance to which we have referred: confronted by a need to make a decision in a moment of crisis, Arthur is unwilling or unable to see the situation as it really is and invariably chooses the wrong course of action. It is not Fate acting willfully and arbitrarily, but Arthur himself, who is ultimately responsible for his own demise. In the opening pages of La Mort le Roi Artu, King Arthur is confronted by the insistence of his nephew, Agravain, that his Queen, Guinevere, is involved in an adulterous affair with Lancelot del Lac. Even though the situation is a recurrence of an earlier illicit relationship which Lancelot has vowed to terminate [Queste del Saint Graal], Arthur is outwardly struck by disbelief and, at least initially, refuses to pay heed to the accusations. In spite of the fact that Agravain’s suspicions are well-founded, the King’s angry rejections of this contention as totally without justification would seem to indicate the impossibility of such a relationship. Arthur seems certain that Lancelot could never betray their friendship in so base a way, and yet, in virtually the same breath, he belies this apparent conviction and vacillates: ‘‘ . . . et certes
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
se il onques le pensa, force d’amors li fist fere, encontre qui sens ne reson ne peut avoir duree’’ (‘‘and indeed if he ever did, he was compelled by the force of love, which neither common-sense nor reason can resist’’). Aware of the inherent dangers in Agravain’s accusation, Arthur vehemently denies the possibility of such behaviour on Lancelot’s part, but in spite of his protestations, he knows there may well be something in his nephew’s words. Thus, he immediately leaves himself this opening, but in so doing, he contradicts his own certainty in the matter. This is but the first hint of many such instances in which the King proves himself at best indecisive and hesitant, at worst weak and pitiful. He is ill at ease in this situation, and his anger that he must do something is clearly evident. Thus when Agravain pursues the matter further and suggests that Arthur have the two lovers closely watched in order to prove the validity of these accusations, Arthur finds himself in a dilemma from which there is no easy escape. Although he has the choice whether or not to act upon Agravain’s information, he closes his eyes to the truth of the matter because he is immediately and painfully aware of the consequences for the Kingdom should they prove to be true. Arthur does not want to know the truth and this is why he neither approves nor disapproves of Agravain’s plans, for any confrontation with Lancelot del Lac at this particular moment would hardly be in the best interests either of Arthur or of the Kingdom of Logres. The quest for the Holy Grail has just been brought to a conclusion, but only at the cost of the lives of many of Arthur’s knights. Indeed, aware of the crisis now facing them, and in a last desperate attempt to bolster the failing morale of a sadlydepleted Round Table, the King has just announced a tournament. Conflict with Lancelot at this time would surely spell disaster to his hopes for a rebirth of his Kingdom. It is abundantly clear to him that the well-being of the Round Table is directly dependent upon the choice he must now make. Consequently Arthur avoids taking the firm course of action necessary to discover the truth for himself, and at the risk of his honour, he is forced to close his eyes to the reality of Agravain’s accusations, all the while trying to convince himself that they are not true. That night there follows a period of deep soul-searching during which the King must wrestle with his problem. Ultimately, his predicament
V o l u m e
2
4 4 9
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
being what it is, he is able to persuade himself that there is no truth to Agravain’s contention and therefore no need for action on his part, and yet, in spite of this, his actions in leaving the Queen behind when he goes to the tournament, ‘‘ . . . por esprouver la menc¸onge Agravain’’ (‘‘to put Agravain’s accusation to the test’’), clearly show that he is deceiving himself in order to avoid coming to terms with reality. Although this psychological aspect of Arthur’s character is important in itself, it has further implications for the structure of the romance. His moments of weakness, his vacillations and selfdeception invariably occur in times of crisis during which the necessity for decisive action, the hallmark of the young King Arthur, is of the utmost importance. Here, as elsewhere, Arthur is faced by a freedom of choice between two distinct alternatives: the one centered in reality, the other in the illusion of reality. It is the latter, however, the deception of appearances, assuming the form of deliberate distortion or misinterpretation of the facts and half-truths, which invariably holds sway at these crucial moments in the story and ultimately brings about the final hours of the Round Table on the Salisbury Plain. If the hatred of Agravain for Lancelot has been the impetus for Arthur’s dilemma, his meeting with his sister, Morgan, further complicates the situation. Like Agravain, she, too, is motivated by hatred, but her means of revealing to Arthur the deceit of the two lovers whom she would destroy is even more carefully and deliberately planned. The proof with which she thus confronts him with all the supernatural powers at her disposal is, therefore, all the more difficult for him to ignore. Even the circumstances of the King’s arrival at Morgan’s castle would seem to suggest something more than mere chance; the subsequent systematic way in which she sets about to convince Arthur to take action against Lancelot and Guinevere would tend to reinforce this assertion. After his stay in Tauroc, Arthur enters the forest in which Morgan once imprisoned Lancelot del Lac. As he does so, he feels unwell and shortly thereafter he and his company have lost their way. The suspicion that the supernatural powers of Morgan are already at work is strengthened by the sound of the horn. Although it is later made clear that the King is tired after a long ride from Tauroc, the fact that no further issue is made of Arthur’s illness suggests that it was a transitory state, probably
4 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
induced by the supernatural powers of Morgan herself and followed up by the sound of the horn and the dazzling display in the castle itself. Clearly Morgan has laid the groundwork for her plan most carefully. At first she tells him no more than is necessary for her purposes until such time as she is prepared to reveal her identity to him and to allow him to discover the pictures on the wall of the room to which he has been brought. Having once examined these pictures and deciphered them, Arthur is forced to consider the truth of the message they convey. Significantly, he is not yet prepared to accept the reality of the evidence that they present, for once he has recovered from the initial shock of his discovery, he immediately questions their authenticity. The consequences of the situation and the need for a decision, however, are obvious to him; his own honour and the well-being of the Kingdom of Logres are at stake. And so, in the light of Morgan’s carefully prepared arguments which corroborate the message of the pictures on the wall, Arthur declares that he sees ‘‘toute aparissant’’ (‘‘clearly’’) and that he is more convinced than ever of the need to act. In spite of the overwhelming evidence before him and in spite of his apparent resolve to take the steps that the situation demands, Arthur still refuses to admit the truth to himself and continues to seek a way out of the unpleasant circumstances which a deliberate decision on his part would bring about. ‘‘Et se il est einsi . . . ’’ (53:59: the italics are my own; ‘‘If it is as . . . ’’[p. 73]). And again: ‘‘Je en ferai tant . . . que se li uns ainme l’autre de fole amor, si com vos me dites, que ge les ferai prendre ensemble ains que cis mois soit passez, se il avient que Lancelos viegne a court dedens celui terme.’’ (the italics are my own) (‘‘I shall make sure . . . that if one loves the other adulterously as you say, I shall have them caught together before the end of the month, if Lancelot should return to court by then.’’
Putting his crown on the line, he promises punishment to both, if they are guilty. It is obvious that Arthur has a choice how he will react: the tragic truth of the matter is that whichever way he moves, he stands to lose. Should he fail to take action to avenge his shame, his own position as King would be jeopardized, his authority a sham and his honour degraded. If, however, Arthur were to move against Lancelot he is certain that the reverberations of his actions would be sufficient to bring about the final
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
destruction of the Round Table as he knows it. This is for him the greatest fear of all. This latter consideration should not be underestimated. Subtle but repeated references to the glories of the past punctuate the entire text and make obvious the concern of an old man for a world—the only one he has ever lived for— which is slowly but surely crumbling about him. Nowhere is this more clearly stated than in the scene in which Gauvain and Arthur come upon the boat containing the corpse of the maid of Escalot. Gauvain remarks to the King: ‘‘Par foi . . . se ceste nacele est ausi bele dedenz com dehors, ce seroit merveilles; a poi que ge ne di que les aventures recommencent.’’ (‘‘In faith . . . if that boat is as beautiful inside as it is outside, it would be a marvel; it is almost as if adventures were beginning again.’’)
Both are aware that they are living in the twilight of the Round Table. When Arthur finally leaves Morgan and returns to Camelot, he is surprised to learn that Lancelot has spent but one day at court. As a result he becomes confused why this should be so if he loves the Queen adulterously. More than willing to accept the situation at face value, Arthur immediately finds in this just cause to doubt the words of both Agravain and Morgan: ‘‘ . . . et c’estoit une chose qui moult metoit le cuer le roi a aise et qui moult li fesoit mescroire les paroles que il ot oı¨ es. . . . ’’ (‘‘This was a thing which went a long way to set the king’s mind at rest and which led him to discount what he had heard . . . .’’)
His escape from reality is short-lived. If one were to apply Jean Rychner’s linguistic analysis of the Mort Artu to this situation in order to substantiate these arguments even further, the willingness of the King to close his eyes to the truth would become adequately clear. Rychner suggests: Entre le pn sj sans conjonction [sujet pronomi nal: i.e., le pronom personnel, il, ele, et le pronom de´monstratif cil, cele] et le pn sj avec conjonction on peut eˆtre sensible a` la meˆme diffe´rence qu’entre sj nm [sujet nominal] et ‘et’ þ sj nm: plus de calme et de ponderation d’un cote´, et de l’autre plus de familiarite´ et de vivacite´. (Between the pronominal subject without a con junction [i.e., the personal pronoun, il, ele, and the demonstrative pronoun cil, cele] and the prono minal subject with a conjunction, one can be aware of the same difference that exists between a nominal subject and ‘‘and’’ þ nominal subject:
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
more calm and equilibrium on the one hand, and on the other more intimacy and vivacity.
Elsewhere he refers to the ‘‘ . . . entre´e plus vive et plus dramatique . . . ’’ (‘‘more lively and dramatic opening’’) of such phrases, and ‘‘Le syntagme en ‘et il’ de meˆme sujet est habituellement prospectif et pourvu d’une suite’’ (‘‘The syntagma in ‘‘et il’’ of the same subject is usually prospective and provided with a continuation’’). The thrust of the story is, therefore, clearly in the direction of this clause rather than the preceding one and thus toward Arthur’s attempts to discredit what he has heard and seen. He continues to close his eyes to the truth in the hope that the threatened confrontation with Lancelot will somehow disappear. The presence of the ‘‘et’’ which introduces this section looks ahead to the continuing attempts of the King to avoid making an unwanted decision. The episode of the poisoned fruit follows and Lancelot is called upon to prove the innocence of the Queen in the death of Gaheris. Once he has done so, however, he falls more hopelessly in love with her: ‘‘Et se Lancelos avoit devant ce amee la reı¨ ne, il l’ama orendroit plus qu’il n’avoit onques mes fet a nul jor, et ele ausint lui . . . .’’ (‘‘And if Lancelot had loved the queen before, from now on he loved her more than he had ever done in the past, and so did she him’’). Unfortunately, their lack of discretion makes this illicit relationship obvious to almost everyone and ultimately leads to yet another crisis. To some extent this crisis provides an interesting contrast with the initial Arthur-Agravain episode, for this time, Agravain finds himself on somewhat firmer ground. By now, the gravity of the situation is clear and he deliberately allows Arthur to overhear the conversation between himself and his brothers. Once he has captured the King’s attention, he then allows both Gaheriet and Gauvain to parry Arthur’s questions in order to cover up the truth about Lancelot and Guinevere. In spite of the King’s anger, neither will yield to Arthur’s pressure and tell him what they have been discussing. Significantly, he reacts to their refusal in a totally irrational way, demanding to know their secret, first, on the oaths they have sworn to him, and then, threatening them on pain of death if they should fail to inform him. In spite of these angry words, neither Gaheriet nor Gauvain gives in and both leave the King’s presence; Arthur does nothing about it. Left in the room with the others, Arthur
V o l u m e
2
4 5 1
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
asks them, begs them and finally, beside himself with rage, stands ready to strike Agravain dead with a blow from his sword. No longer in control of himself, Arthur shows signs of cracking under the strain of his dilemma. However, as soon as Agravain has finally told him what he wants to know, Arthur recoils from the truth he fears; subconsciously, he does not really want to hear the truth: ‘‘Comment, fet li rois, me fet donc Lancelos honte? De quoi est ce donc? Dites le moi. . . . ’’ (‘‘What,’’ said the king, ‘‘is Lancelot dishonoring me? What are you talking about? Tell me. . . . ’’) One would almost think that he was hearing this news for the first time! When Agravain assures him of the facts, Arthur turns pale, and as earlier in the initial Agravain scene, as well as in the scene with Morgan, falls silent, lost in deep thought. He can no longer take refuge in appearances; the truth is out and the reality of the situation known: ‘‘ . . . car il set bien de voir que, se Lancelos est pris a cest afere et il en rec¸oit mort, onques si grant tormente n’avint en ce paı¨ s por la mort d’un seul chevalier’’ ‘‘He knew perfectly well that if Lancelot were caught in adultery and put to death, there would be such torment in the country as had never before been caused by the death of a single knight.’’ Once again in a position to make a choice (although admittedly the options open to him are not very attractive) Arthur is so emotionally involved because of the faithlessness of his wife, the deception of a friend, and the certain downfall of all his kingdom that he can hardly act with a clear and rational mind. Accepting the treacherous advice of Agravain, he rejects his loyal nephew, Gauvain, and from this point onward, acting out of ‘‘desmesure’’ (‘‘lack of moderation’’), he swears revenge upon Lancelot and the Queen. Unlike Morgan, who finds herself forced to remind Arthur constantly of the steps he must take, Agravain no longer needs to goad him into action. He merely capitalizes on a situation from which Arthur cannot escape. Once the oath has been sworn to him, there can be no turning back—the crisis which must inevitably lead to bloodshed has been reached. The death of Gaheriet, a direct result of Agravain’s hatred for Lancelot, is significant, falling as it does almost exactly in the middle of La Mort le Roi Artu. Once again, appearances play an essential role in the progress of the plot and lead to an irreversible turning point in it. Gaheriet’s death is a simple case of mistaken identity, for he is not who he seems to be or
4 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
Lancelot would never have slain him willingly. This single event, originating in appearances, irrevocably alienates Gauvain and sets him off on his senseless quest for revenge upon Lancelot. This, in turn, marks the beginning of the end and that which Arthur fears more than anything else: a confrontation between himself on the one hand, and Lancelot and Ban’s kin on the other. The King is quite aware of the inevitable consequences of such a conflict for the Kingdom of Logres. Lancelot’s love for the Queen, while obviously important in itself, finds its real significance, not in adultery, but in the fact that it threatens to bring about the confrontation which Arthur has sought to delay as long as possible. The King is prepared to close his eyes to the truth, to accept the appearances of the situation, as long as he can postpone the inevitable. The pity he betrays when he sentences Guinevere to death is indicative of the genuine love he still has for the Queen, while the anger he shows at Lancelot’s good fortune in the tournament at Karahe´s is a reflection of his frustration that the very knight he loves most should be the catalyst in his dilemma. Indeed, there are times, in particular when Lancelot’s actions seem to contradict the reality of the situation, when Arthur’s vacillations would seem to suggest that he could almost live with the shame of the Queen’s adultery if only he could somehow avoid the impending conflict with Lancelot. Let there be no mistake; it is not because Arthur fears Lancelot, but because he loves him and because he is quite aware of the consequences of his choice that he finds himself on the horns of a dilemma. From a structural point of view, it is important to note that the adulterous love affair plays a less significant role in the second half of the story than the first, although that aspect of it which would lead to confrontation is retained and developed, not in the love affair itself, but in Gauvain’s passionate hatred of Lancelot. The thread of unity in the work is thus maintained. As we have seen, the love affair aggravates the dilemma in which Arthur finds himself by slowly but surely forcing a confrontation between Arthur and Lancelot del Lac. The ‘‘desmesure’’ of Gauvain takes up where this adulterous relationship leaves off and continues inexorably to force Arthur into a conflict which he knows will ultimately destroy himself and, more significantly, the Round Table. Gauvain’s obsession for revenge plays an important role in the second
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
half of the Mort Artu not only as an end in itself, for that is certainly important, but also insofar as it contributes to the death of Arthur and with him, the downfall of the entire Kingdom of Logres. The death of Gaheriet is significant for our discussion of appearances and reality, for out of it arise the hatred and irrational behaviour of Gauvain, who, in a state of shock at the news of his brother’s death, is unable to see the situation as it really is. Blaming Lancelot for slaying Gaheriet willingly, he does not realize that it was a case of mistaken identity and that Lancelot would never have killed the man he loved so much. Gauvain should have known this, but his inability to recognize the truth of the matter leads him to an ‘‘ide´e fixe’’—a fatal aspect of ‘‘desmesure.’’ He derives his very ‘‘raison d’eˆtre’’ from the thought of revenge upon Lancelot, and this grows so out of proportion that he cannot see clearly nor make rational decisions. He neither can nor will recognize the truth. Motivated by blind passion which originates in mistaken observations, Gauvain’s subconscious quest for his own death which so dominates the second half of the romance begins, bringing with it the realization of Arthur’s fears of an end to the glorious days of the Round Table. Overwhelmed by grief, he mistakenly lays the blame for his brother’s death and his own sorrow on Fortune, for therein would seem to lie the source of the problem. But he fails to see that Agravain’s hatred—a hatred which he, himself, has already warned against—has contributed directly to Gaheriet’s death and that he is mistaken in his accusation of Lancelot. Gauvain, in emotional shock, is therefore deceived by the appearance of things. When Gauvain lays the blame for his tragic loss upon the whims of Fortune, he is making a serious error, for Fortune is only the apparent cause of his troubles. Indeed, she almost becomes the scapegoat for his own weaknesses, since the real source of his dilemma lies within himself, in his ‘‘fol apel,’’ his irrational behaviour, his inability to see things as they really are. But it is easier and perhaps more human for Gauvain to blame Fortune rather than himself. In this, the mediaeval author of the Mort Artu measurably broadens the scope of his characterization of Gauvain. Arthur’s reaction to Gaheriet’s death is also significant, for even though the King has retreated somewhat into the background in a scene devoted primarily to insight into Gauvain’s behaviour, the author has found it essential to re-emphasize those
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
elements that retain the thread of unity throughout the work. As one might expect, Arthur views the events of the past few hours less in terms of the death of Gaheriet, himself, than in terms of his own personal loss. Still preoccupied with himself and his own dilemma, he considers Gaheriet’s death an extension of his own problems. Since these problems, at least as far as he is concerned, find their origin in Lancelot, the King accuses him and holds him directly responsible. The inevitable confrontation has drawn closer; there can be no turning back once the oath of vengeance has been sworn from his followers. Thus, at this most critical of moments, both Gauvain and the King are confronted by a choice and both are incapable of acting rationally. The former, blinded by his emotional shock and his desire for revenge, and the latter, obsessed by his fears that the end of the Round Table is in sight, both fail to distinguish reality from appearances. If King Yon’s pleas for moderation are readily discounted, in particular at the urging of Mordred whose own motives are suspect, it is hardly likely that Lancelot’s offer of explanation and submission to the will of the court can be accepted either. Once again, men are deluded and deceived by the appearance of things and are therefore vulnerable to the baseness of such men as Mordred. Consequently, they reject truth and reason. Repeated warnings have no effect: ‘‘ . . . vos en seroiz destruiz er menez a mort, ou li sage home par maintes fois sont deceii’’ ‘‘You . . . will be destroyed and brought to death as a result of this war; you know that death often deceived wise men’’; and Gauvain is admonished for his foolishness. Although the main thrust of the story is now, at least temporarily, carried by Gauvain, whose actions at times overshadow those of Arthur, the author of the Mort Artu never really loses sight of the King as the central figure in the story. Arthur continues to display the weakness that characterized him in the first half of the romance, wavering back and forth between love and hatred, admiration and contempt for Lancelot. Whenever the latter makes a chivalric gesture (quite in contrast to Gauvain’s behaviour) by sparing Arthur’s life or by willingly returning his Queen, Arthur’s resolve begins to vacillate, much to the anger of his nephew. The King still hopes against hope that conflict can be avoided. Had he indeed the courage of his convictions, recognizing the senselessness of a war between his forces and Ban’s kin, he would then reject those unreasonable demands that Gauvain
V o l u m e
2
4 5 3
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
is making upon him, but instead, he allows himself to be swayed by the apparent truth of Gauvain’s arguments. ‘‘Puis que Gauvains le velt . . . il me plest bien’’ ‘‘Because that is what Gawain desires . . . it is what I want too.’’ Thus the human weakness inherent in his own character inevitably leads to the tragedy Arthur would avoid. Finding himself in a situation for which there is now no satisfactory solution, he is obviously aware of the consequences of continued confrontation with Lancelot, and yet, by refusing to draw the line, he brings about his own destruction and that of the Round Table with him. In this he parallels Gauvain who is also accused of pursuing his own death. By this time, Arthur’s passive acceptance of the inevitability of the conflict becomes clearer and he becomes an almost pitiful figure. He has had several opportunities to make a clear decision, but he has failed to avail himself of them. Now he almost seems to believe that only death can relieve him of his burden and so he is no longer willing to struggle against a situation he thinks he cannot control. Perhaps he is right. The events which have been set in motion could have been stopped only by a firm stand by the King himself and this is something beyond the capabilities of the older Arthur of La Mort le Roi Artu. In the scene involving Arthur and Gauvain and the old woman, the King and his nephew are both criticized for their foolishness. To the King she says: ‘‘Saches veraiement que c’est grant folie et que tu crois fol conseil. . . . ’’ ‘‘I can tell you truly that it is a great madness and that you are illadvised.’’ Gauvain, too, does not escape her remarks: ‘‘ . . . vous porchaciez si durement vostre damage que vous jamais ne reverre´s le roialme de Logres sains ne haitie´s’’ ‘‘You are so resolutely pursuing your own destruction that you will never again in good health see the kingdom of Logres.’’ Her warnings represent the reality, the truth, of the situation in which they find themselves, but Arthur’s weakness, indeed by now the loss of his desire to live, coupled with Gauvain’s stubbornness, close their ears to her words. Arthur is still unsure of himself and Gauvain continues to cling stubbornly to the apparent truth that Lancelot deliberately killed his brother. In his anger and grief, Gauvain is unable to distinguish between appearances and reality and pursues his foe to the end, dragging with him Arthur and the remnants of the Round Table to their destruction. Not even Lancelot’s magnanimous offer of penance
4 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
can dissuade him. Thus ‘‘desmesure,’’ ‘‘outrage,’’ and ‘‘desreson’’ (‘‘irrationality’’), the most serious sins a knight could commit, bring about his death. These are the root causes of the tragedy; man himself by his excesses, and not Fortune as an active force intervening in the affairs of men, is responsible. Although Gauvain blames his problems on Fortune, he does so mistakenly. It will be some time yet before he realizes that he does have a measure of control over his own destiny. But that moment will come and when it does, the moral lesson of the author will be clear: in spite of the seriousness of his sins, there is still hope for the true penitent which Gauvain ultimately becomes. Seeing the error of his ways, Gauvain recognizes his own guilt—not Fortune’s—in this tragic situation. Rising above self-indulgence and ego, he soon attains the Kingdom of Heaven. When his quarrel with Lancelot is over, resulting as it does in the subsequent death of Gauvain, a man the King held most dear, there remains virtually nothing more for Arthur in this life. His loved ones and his Kingdom are gone. The fight with Mordred which must now follow serves only to wipe away the final remnants of a once glorious society. It is significant at this point in the story that Arthur has not yet reached the level of awareness and understanding which Gauvain finally attains and still cannot recognize that the source of his problems lies within himself and his inability to see the reality of things. As Gauvain did before him, therefore, he, too, mistakenly shifts the blame for his own shortcomings upon the vicissitudes of Fortune: He´! Fortune, chose contrere et diverse, la plus desloial chose qui soit el monde, por quoi me fus tu onques si debonere ne si amiable por vendre le moi si chierement au derrien? Tu me fus jadis mere, or m’ies tu devenue marrastre, et por fere moi de duel morir as apelee avec toi la Mort, si que tu en deus manieres m’as honni, de mes amis et de ma terre. He´! Mort vileinne, tu ne deu¨sses mie avoir assailli tel home comme mes nie´s estoit qui de bonte´ passoit tout le monde. (‘‘Ah! Fortune, contrary and changeable, the most faithless thing in the world, why were you ever so courteous or so kind to me if you were to make me pay so dearly for it in the end? You used to be my mother; now you have become my stepmother, and to make me die of grief you have brought Death with you, in order to dis honour me in two ways at once, through my friends and through my land. Ah! base Death,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
L e
you should not have attacked a man such as my nephew, who surpassed the whole world in goodness.’’)
Arthur, to whom the weight of the plot now shifts, still must learn that Fortune, whom he blames for his predicament, is only the manifestation, the apparent cause of his troubles. In a sense, Fortune functions as a kind of symbol here. This becomes adequately clear in the scene in which she takes Arthur up on her wheel and tells him the real reason for his impending downfall. Arthur has just been admonished in another dream by the crowd following Gauvain. They tell the King that his nephew, as a true penitent, has indeed attained the Kingdom of Heaven: ‘‘ . . . et fei aussi comme il a fet . . . ’’ ‘‘follow his example.’’ In other words, overcome foolish earthly pride, and salvation will be guaranteed. But Arthur does not. Instead, he commits himself even more completely to the inevitable battle on Salisbury Plain. Lifting him up on her wheel, Fortune warns him of the consequences of his actions, the direct result of his own unwillingness to see the truth: ‘‘Mes tel sont li orgueil terrien qu’il n’i a nul si haut assiz qu’il ne le coviegne cheoir de la poeste´ del monde’’ ‘‘But such is earthly pride that no one is seated so high that he can avoid having to fall from power in the world.’’ The baseness of human actions, then, which overwhelms knightly virtue, and not the whimsical intervention of blind fate, leads to the rude awakening that Arthur experiences in his dream. There is no suggestion that the King could not have retained his lofty position even longer if he had acted in accordance with the chivalric code of behaviour. Arthur’s worst fears, the final destruction of his Round Table, are about to be realized; the climax has been reached. He knows this but he also believes that he has come too far to turn back. Like Gauvain immediately before his fateful battle with Lancelot, he continues to deceive himself by trying to convince himself that victory is possible and that there is an apparent hope for him. The Battle of Salisbury Plain puts an end to these illusions. From the initial scenes of the Mort Artu, the main thread of this story has dealt with the downfall of Arthur and with him the destruction of the Round Table. The events which began with Merlin, his prophecies and his relationship to Arthur at the beginning of the Vulgate Cycle (Sommer: Vol. II) have now come full circle. But it is important to stress that the prophecies that Merlin makes there are inevitable only insofar as Arthur’s own behaviour makes them so.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
These events are destined to occur because they must, for after all, they are a part of the traditional story which the mediaeval author has inherited from his predecessors; but with a remarkable degree of sophistication, that same author has introduced a tangible motivation beyond that of Fate or Fortune to justify their occurrence. Arthur’s own weakness and unwillingness to see the truth provide the story with another dimension—another of the ‘‘branches’’ to which Vinaver refers. When he finally does realize that the tragic end is near, he cannot go back. It is too late. Source: Donald C. MacRae, ‘‘Appearances and Reality in La Mort le Roi Artu,’’ in King Arthur: A Casebook, edited by Edward Donald Kennedy, Garland, 1996, pp. 105 19. Reprinted in Epics for Students, Vol. 2.
SOURCES Ascham, Roger, The Scholemaster, Bibliolife, 2008. Caxton, William, ‘‘Caxton’s Preface,’’ in The Works of Thomas Malory, Vol. 1, edited by Eugene Vinaver, Clar endon Press, 1947. Hardyment, Christina, Malory: The Knight Who Became King Arthur’s Chronicler, HarperCollins, 2005. Kennedy, Edward Donald, ‘‘Malory’s Guinevere: ‘A Woman Who Had Grown a Soul,’’’ in Arthuriana, Vol. 9, No. 2, Spring 1999, pp. 37 45. Leitch, Thomas, ‘‘Adaptations without Sources: The Adventures of Robin Hood,’’ in Literature Film Quarterly, Vol. 36, No. 1, 2008, p. 27. Lewis, C. S., ‘‘The English Prose ‘Morte,’’’ in Essays on Malory, edited by Walter Oakeshott et al., Clarendon Press, 1963, pp. 7 28. Malory, Thomas, Morte d’Arthur: King Arthur and the Legends of the Round Table, Signet Classic, 2010. Phillips, Catherine, ‘‘Charades from the Middle Ages: Tennyson’s Idylls of the King and the Chivalric Code,’’ in Victorian Poetry, Vol. 40, No. 3, 2002, p. 241. Saul, MaryLynn, ‘‘Courtly Love and the Patriarchal Marriage Practice in Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur,’’ in Fifteenth Century Studies, Vol. 24, September 1998, pp. 50 62.
FURTHER READING Fenster, Thelma S., ed., Arthurian Women: A Casebook, Garland, 1996. This book presents essays that focuses on the women in Malory’s text.
V o l u m e
2
4 5 5
L e
M o r t e
d ’ A r t h u r
Field, P. J. C., The Life and Times of Sir Thomas Malory, D. S. Brewer, 1999. Field’s book explores the evidence about Malory and attempts to establish the real iden tity of the author of this epic. Hodges, Kenneth, Forging Chivalric Communities in Malory’s ‘‘Le Morte D’Arthur,’’ Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. This book examines how Malory presents chivalry as a form of English nationalism, as a code created by large and small commun ities for their own purposes, and as a dynamic, continually developing ideal that, in turn, shaped the people who followed the code. Hodges includes a discussion of women’s role in chivalry. Shepherd, Stephen H. A., ed., Le Morte d’Arthur, Norton Critical Edition, Norton, 2003.
4 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
The Norton Critical Edition is a handy all in one edition, with introduction, annotations to the text, and criticism designed to facilitate comprehension and appreciation of the epic.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Le Morte d’Arthur King Arthur Thomas Malory Lancelot Queen Guinevere Knights of the Round Table medieval romance
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Nibelungenlied The Nibelungenlied is a German epic poem that was written sometime around 1200, probably in what is modern-day Austria. The title means ‘‘Song of the Nibelungs.’’ Nibelungen is the plural of Nibelung, which refers to the dynasty that is conquered by the hero or protagonist of the epic, the dragon-slayer Siegfried. The word lied means lay, which is a Germanic word for a song, poem or lyric. The poem exists in thirty-five manuscripts, but three main versions represent the story as modern readers know it. Many modern editions are in prose rather than poetry.
ANONYMOUS C. 1200
The Nibelungenlied has enjoyed wide readership for so many centuries because much is known about the historical context of the poem and its literary sources in mythology and legend. With its story of heroes, romance, courtly manners, deception, and revenge, the work has been enjoyed for its adventurous plot, its literary qualities, and its array of complex characters. The legend of the Nibelungs arose from the historical destruction in about year 437 of the Burgundian kingdom on the Rhine River by Etzel’s army of Huns (later identified in legend with the army of Attila the Hun). Many characters in the Nibelungenlied have some historical basis, too. Gunther was king of Burgundy, and Dietrich is thought to be based on Theodoric the Ostrogoth, who was king of Italy in 493. The events in the poem, however, were altered and combined with legends when the story was first
4 5 7
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
written down for a medieval audience, likely around 1200. A version of the Nibelungenlied was first translated into modern German in 1757 and titled Kriemhild’s Revenge. Many more modern German translations and prose versions followed, but no English translation appeared until 1814. The first complete English prose version appeared in 1848, and many more followed. The Nibelungenlied celebrates the achievements, adventures, and battles of several heroic figures. It contains elements of romance as well, such as tales of knights, courtly behavior, and chivalry. The Nibelungenlied does not have a specific moral message. However, it raises important questions about the nature of loyalty, honor, and what constitutes tragedy. Its structure, character development, and use of foreshadowing have drawn critical attention. In 2009, the three main manuscripts were inscribed in UNESCO’s Memory of the World Register in recognition of their historical significance. Paperback editions are abundantly available, including ones from Yale University Press (2008) and Oxford University Press (2010).
Kriemhild delivers Gunther’s head to the imprisoned Hagen in an 1805 illustration.
PLOT SUMMARY Chapter 1 AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The author of the Nibelungenlied is unknown. He is thought to have been an Austrian from the Danube region, either a minstrel poet (a traveling poet or one associated with a court), a knight, or a clergyman associated with court life. Some critics doubt the author was a knight because the epic does not contain much detail about military skill and technique, despite the numerous battle scenes. Critics believe that the so-called final version of the poem was written by only one person because of its consistent tone, language, and action. Considering these last two points, the arguments of Berta Lo¨sel-WielandEngelmann in a 1980 article for a German journal on language and literature is all the more convincing, that a nun in a convent of PassauNiedenburg wrote the epic. After all, female poets were not unknown in Norse and Germanic cultures of that time. It was also conventional not to sign literary works, so many written works that survive from the Middle Ages (the years 500 through 1500, approximately) are unsigned.
4 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
The Nibelungenlied opens with an exhortation to the reader to expect a tale of brave knights and furious battles. The main site of the action is the land of the Burgundians, which is ruled by the three brothers: Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher. They have a beautiful sister, Kriemhild, and live in the city of Worms (pronounced VORMS) on the Rhine River. Their mother’s name is Uote, and the name of their deceased father is Dancrat. Kriemhild dreams that a falcon she has raised is attacked and torn to pieces by two eagles. Her mother Uote suggests that the falcon in the dream is a noble man that Kriemhild loves who will be torn away from her. Kriemhild says that rather than risk such a loss, she will never marry. The narrator ends the chapter by warning that the dream foretells a great tragedy that will befall the Burgundians.
Chapter 2 In Xanten, a city in the Netherlands, lives the royal family of King Siegmund, including his wife Sieglind, and their son Siegfried. Handsome,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
German composer Richard Wagner turned the story of the Nibelungs into the four operas of Der Ring des Nibelungen (The Ring of the Nibelungs). Between 1848 and 1874, Wagner wrote the four operas: Das Rheingold (The Rhinegold), Die Walkure (The Valkyries), Siegfried, and Gotterdamerung (The Twilight of the Gods). He drew from both the Nibelungenlied and the Norse Edda to compose his plots. Many versions of the operas are available on CD, video, and laser disk. The 1926 masterpiece of German silent cinema, director Fritz Lang’s Die Nibelungen was released on DVD by Kino Video in 2002.
A 2004 miniseries using the name of Wagner’s opera The Ring of the Nibelungs is based on the epic Nibelungenlied, but covers only the first half of the epic and is more like other Norse legends of Siegfried and Brunhild. Die Nibelungen was made into a two-part silent, black and white movie in 1924. It was produced in Germany, and directed by Fritz Lang. As of 2010, it was available on laser disc as well as on 16-millimeter film. The two parts are Siegfried’s Death and Kriemhild’s Revenge. The movie elaborates on the tales of Siegfried’s youth and is quite faithful to the story of the Nibelungenlied.
brave, honorable Siegfried is an expert knight. Siegmund holds a lavish feast and festival honoring the knighting of his son and a host of other young warriors. The festival and Siegmund’s generous gifts of money, jewels, and clothing are described in detailed.
Chapter 3 Siegfried hears of the beautiful Burgundian princess Kriemhild and decides to win her hand in marriage. His father and mother are not happy to hear this at first, for Kriemhild’s brothers are reputed to be fearsome warriors. Siegmund does
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
not relish the possibility of war with the Burgundians if they oppose the suit of the Xanten prince, but Siegfried will not be deterred. Siegfried and his knights travel to Worms. The Burgundian knight Hagen recognizes Siegfried and relates what he knows about the reputation of the Xanten prince: Siegfried is known to have slain the two Nibelung princes (Nibelung is the name of a dynasty or powerful, long-established family) and to have won their great treasure, including a magic cloak that makes the wearer invisible. Siegfried also once killed a dragon and bathed in its blood. As a result, he cannot be harmed by weapons. Therefore, says Hagen, Siegfried must be welcomed as a special guest. Siegfried is greeted hospitably and offers kind words to Gunther and his men. However, his words contain a veiled threat: He wishes to possess all that the Burgundians possess! Siegfried challenges Gunther, proposing that the loser gives up his kingdom to the winner. Gernot and Hagen object that Siegfried has challenged Gunther without provocation. Gernot convinces the two that little honor is to be gained from such an endeavor. A war is barely averted. Gernot now officially welcomes Siegfried with true courtesy and offers him the full hospitality of Worms, provided he behave honorably. Siegfried and his men are given the best accommodations and proceed to take part in many social events, including physical recreation, war games, and hunting. Siegfried outshines all the participants in each activity. Siegfried does not see Kriemhild, but he dreams of her. He does not know that she is watching from her window as he competes against the knights of her own kingdom and is falling in love with him. Siegfried lives with the Burgundians for a year without ever seeing her.
Chapter 4 Gunther and the Burgundians receive more surprise visitors: envoys from King Liudegast of Denmark and his brother King Liudeger of Saxony. The Burgundians are informed that the kings intend to invade Burgundy in twelve weeks. Siegfried pledges his aid, and Gunther accepts the offer. The envoys are informed that forces have been gathered and the Burgundians are ready to receive the invaders. When the envoys arrive home and tell King Liudegast the news that Siegfried of the Netherlands has allied with the Burgundians, he and King
V o l u m e
2
4 5 9
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Liudeger summon over 40,000 troops. Meanwhile, Gunther gathers his own forces. Siegfried asks Gunther to remain behind at Worms so that he might fight the battle. The Burgundians, led by Siegfried, ride through Hesse toward Saxony, destroying enemy towns along the way. When the main forces meet in battle, Siegfried captures both King Liudegast and King Liudeger. The Burgundians also take many other Saxon prisoners and bring the wounded back to Worms. Most of the Danes return to Denmark, defeated. Gunther rides out to meet the returning army and learns of the Burgundian victory. Everyone is welcomed; even the prisoners are received like honored guests. King Liudeger promises to remain with his captured troops until they are given leave to return home. Gunther dismisses the troops of warrior-vassals who had gathered to fight for Burgundy along with Siegfried, asking them to return in six weeks for a great feast. Gunther asks Siegfried to remain in Worms, and Siegfried agrees because of his secret love for Kriemhild.
Chapter 5 The promised festivities are underway. The narrator reports that Gunther has noticed Siegfried’s secret devotion to Kriemhild and arranged for Kriemhild and their mother Uote to join the celebration. Gunther introduces Kriemhild and Siegfried, and the narrator describes their immediate attraction to one another. The Danes return home after asking for a pledge of peace between themselves and the Burgundians. Gunther agrees. Siegfried again plans to leave, but young Giselher asks him to remain at Worms. Again, Siegfried does so in hopes of winning Kriemhild’s hand. Kriemhild’s ‘‘transcendent beauty’’ compels Siegfried to remain.
Chapter 6 Gunther, having heard of many beautiful maidens in other lands, decides to win one to become his wife. One particular queen, Brunhild of Iceland, is very famous for her great physical strength and beauty. Her suitors are expected to engage in three sporting events to win her hand. Those who do not outmatch her lose their heads. Gunther is determined to win Brunhild, and Siegfried agrees to help him in his quest if in exchange he is permitted to marry Kriemhild. Gunther agrees.
4 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Chapter 7 The Burgundians arrive at Brunhild’s kingdom. Siegfried pretends to be Gunther’s vassal (liegeman, a servant or subordinate to a noble person) and speaks on his behalf, praising his lord and explaining that they have come so that Gunther might win Brunhild as his wife. Brunhild explains the tests that he must undergo to win her: Gunther must ‘‘cast the weight’’ (a heavy boulder which twelve men can barely lift); perform a leap (a type of long-jump); and throw a javelin (a long spear). Gunther accepts the challenge. As Gunther takes part in each event, Siegfried secretly helps him while wearing his magic cloak of invisibility. Together they defeat Brunhild, who grudgingly accepts Gunther as her husband and king and joins her kingdom to his. A feast and games follow, and Siegfried leaves to visit the land of the Nibelungs, which he earlier conquered.
Chapter 8 When Siegfried arrives at the land of the Nibelungs, of whose great treasure and lands he is lord, he is challenged by the gatekeeper and a fight ensues. Siegfried wins and binds his attacker; news of the event spreads quickly. Alberich, the dwarf from whom Siegfried had taken the magic cloak, arrives and attacks Siegfried, whom he has not recognized. Siegfried wins again and ties up Alberich. Realizing who his captor is, Alberich is relieved and welcomes him. When the Nibelungs arrive at Iceland, Brunhild is surprised, but welcomes them. The Burgundians prepare to return to Worms with Brunhild as queen.
Chapter 9 On their journey home, Siegfried is asked to travel ahead to tell of the good news so that all might be ready to welcome Gunther’s new bride. Gifts are prepared for Brunhild, and when Gunther and his company arrive, an entourage is ready to welcome them.
Chapter 10 Kriemhild, Uote, and all the king’s vassals are standing by to greet the arrivals. Brunhild is welcomed by Kriemhild with special attention. A wedding party is held with games and a feast. Siegfried reminds Gunther of his oath to allow him to marry Kriemhild, and Gunther happily complies. Gunther tells Kriemhild of his wish,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
she gladly accepts, and the two are married at once. Brunhild is surprised that Gunther intends to let his sister marry Siegfried, since she believes what he told her in her own country, that Siegfried is only a vassal of the prince and, therefore, not really the equal of a princess. When Gunther and Brunhild retire for their wedding night, Gunther learns that Brunhild intends to remain a virgin. When he attempts to embrace her, she becomes enraged. She uses her great physical strength to tie him up and hang him from a hook on the wall, where she leaves him until morning, taking him down just before attendants enter the room the next morning, in order to spare him the embarrassment of the whole court finding out that he was overpowered by his new wife. The next morning Gunther tells Siegfried of the humiliation he suffered. Siegfried, whose own wedding night had been quite enjoyable, offers to use his magic cloak again to help Gunther consummate his marriage, promising that he will not take advantage of the situation for his own sexual pleasure. That night, when Brunhild again resists Gunther’s advances, the invisible Siegfried intervenes. He violently fights with and subdues Brunhild, holding her helpless on the bed for Gunther. Siegfried takes a girdle (belt) of silk and a golden ring from Brunhild before he returns to his own chamber, where Kriemhild waits. She is suspicious about where he has been, but he avoids her questions. He gives her the silken belt and the ring, but does not tell her where he got them. Meanwhile, Brunhild realizes that she has lost not only her virginity but her great physical strength as well. According to the mores of the era in which the Nibelungenlied was written, it was considered seriously wrong—perverse and unwomanly—of Brunhild to refuse to consummate her marriage with Gunther. As disturbing as his action may be to a modern sensibility, Gunther had the right to assert himself sexually over his wife.
Chapter 11 Siegfried and Kriemhild prepare to return to the Netherlands, but not before Gunther, Giselher, and Gernot arrange to grant them the lands that are part of Kriemhild’s inheritance. (Brunhild is not present at this exchange, and scholars have suggested that is perhaps because she would then have realized that Siegfried is certainly not Gunther’s vassal.) They are welcomed with open
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
arms at Siegfried’s home, and King Siegmund crowns Siegfried as king on the spot. The narrator skims quickly over the next several months, reporting only that Siegfried and Kriemhild have a son whom they name Gunther after his uncle. In the meantime, Brunhild gives birth to a son as well, whom she and Gunther name Siegfried.
Chapter 12 Brunhild has been wondering why so much time has passed since Siegfried rendered his lord Gunther any tribute (money paid regularly by a vassal to a lord, usually in exchange for the use of land and military protection). She keeps her thoughts to herself, however, and asks Gunther to invite Siegfried and Kriemhild for a visit. Gunther initially objects, claiming it is too far for them to travel. Brunhild reminds Gunther of Siegfried’s obligations as a royal vassal, and Gunther does not contradict her. She says that she wishes to see Kriemhild again. When the invitation reaches them, Kriemhild is eager to visit her country again, and Siegfried accepts the invitation, but brings along his father and many warriors.
Chapters 13 and 14 Siegfried and Kriemhild arrive in Burgundy. A great feast is held, and war games are played. Tension develops between Brunhild and Kriemhild. Each boasts of the bravery and honor of her husband, but Brunhild objects to Kriemhild’s boast. Kriemhild does not at first understand Brunhild’s objection because she does not realize that Brunhild still believes that Siegfried is Gunther’s vassal. When Brunhild explains herself, Kriemhild denies it, revealing the true nature of Siegfried and Gunther’s relationship as one of equals. The argument becomes quite heated as both claim higher status than the other. When Brunhild tries to prevent Kriemhild from entering a cathedral ahead of her, saying that her own higher status means that she should enter first, Brunhild angrily tells her that Siegfried and not her own husband was the first to be intimate with her. (The narrative never indicates either that Siegfried had sexual contact with Brunhild or that either Siegfried or Gunther ever told Kriemhild how Siegfried used his magic cloak to help Gunther subdue Brunhild.) Kriemhild does produce, as proof, the golden ring that Siegfried took from Brunhild. Brunhild demands to know the truth from Gunther. Siegfried denies having compromised Brunhild’s honor and even publicly criticizes
V o l u m e
2
4 6 1
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Kriemhild for making such claims. Gunther accepts Siegfried’s word and is prepared to forget the matter. Hagen, however, promises Brunhild that he will punish Siegfried for her humiliation (although nothing has been proven), and he and his knights plot Siegfried’s death. Gunther tries to prevent the plot, but finally agrees to take part in Hagen’s plan. The narrator concludes Chapter 14 by deploring the fact that events have started that will end in the deaths of many men because of ‘‘the wrangling of two women.’’
Chapter 15 Kriemhild asks Hagen to protect her husband, not knowing that it is he who has sworn to avenge his lady’s honor by causing Siegfried’s death. Hagen asks Kriemhild how he should protect him, that is, where Siegfried’s weak spot is. She tells him that Siegfried has one tender part on his body, between his shoulder blades. As the narrator reports, she thinks she is saving her husband’s life, but in fact she is inadvertently giving Hagen the means to kills him.
Chapter 16 The knights prepare to go hunting. Kriemhild is disturbed, apparently by her indiscretion to Hagen. She describes to Siegfried a dream she had the night before, wherein two boars chased her husband through a field with blood-colored flowers. She speaks by way of warning, but Siegfried promises he will return. Kriemhild describes a second dream she had, in which two mountains fall upon him and hide him from her. He does not take her concerns seriously. The narrator describes the hunt in great detail. Siegfried kills many beasts in a great show of bravery and skill. Then Siegfried and a few of the company, including Hagen and Gunther, stop to rest. As Siegfried drinks from a stream, Hagen throws Siegfried’s own spear at him, aiming for the cross on the back of his hunting clothes. The weapon passes through Siegfried’s body. Still alive and maddened with rage and pain, Siegfried reaches for his weapons, but Hagen has removed them from where they lay. Able to lay hands only on his shield, he uses the last of his strength to strike one mighty blow against Hagen that shatters the shield. Siegfried collapses in a bed of flowers (reminiscent of Kriemhild’s dream) and speaks, deriding Hagen and his company for their dishonor. At his words, Gunther regrets his action. The chapter closes on the image of blood-drenched flowers.
4 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
Chapter 17 The hunting party returns, and in a deed of ‘‘pride and grisly vengeance,’’ Hagen has Siegfried’s corpse placed outside Kriemhild’s door so that she finds him on her way to matins (morning church services). A servant finds the body the next morning but cannot recognize it. Only Kriemhild sees who it is and collapses with grief. Her grief is compounded by her guilt for having told Hagen how to ‘‘protect’’ Siegfried. Suspecting that Brunhild and Hagen are responsible, she swears vengeance. Word spreads of Siegfried’s death, and Siegmund is especially grief-stricken. He goes immediately to Kriemhild and they both mourn. The Nibelung warriors arm themselves and, now with Siegmund, are determined to seek out Siegfried’s killer. Kriemhild convinces them all to wait until there is proof. At the funeral, Gunther and Hagen join the mourners. Kriemhild challenges them both to approach Siegfried’s body. There is a belief at this time that the wounds on the corpse of a murder victim will bleed in the presence of the killer, and this happens when Hagen approaches Siegfried’s body. Gunther and Hagen both protest Hagen’s innocence, but Kriemhild does not believe them.
Chapter 18 Kriemhild decides to remain at Worms with her brothers as Siegmund returns to the Netherlands. Kriemhild confers the raising of her son to his grandparents at Xanten. Kriemhild, although she remains with her own people, does not retain her position as queen. She and Brunhild remain unreconciled.
Chapter 19 Kriemhild remains at Worms for three and a half years without ever speaking to Gunther or Hagen. She is still convinced of Hagen’s guilt, primarily because she told him of Siegfried’s weak spot. Hagen, meanwhile, plots to bring the treasure of the Nibelungs, now belonging to Kriemhild, to Worms. Gunther sends his brothers to speak to her and beg her to see Gunther. She finally agrees, and once they are reconciled, she agrees to send for the treasure. Eight thousand men are sent to fetch it. Against the wishes of the kings, however, Hagen has the treasure secretly submerged in the Rhine river so that few know its whereabouts.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Chapter 20
Chapter 23
Meanwhile, in Hungary, Helche, the wife of King Etzel of the Huns, has died, and Etzel wishes to take another bride. He has heard of Kriemhild’s beauty and sends his trusted vassal, Rudiger of Pochlarn, to win her hand on his behalf. Rudiger arrives at Worms with five hundred warriors and secures an audience with the kings. Rudiger tells Gunther the purpose of his visit and is promised an answer within three days. Gunther is willing to let Kriemhild decide whether to marry Etzel, but Hagen discourages him, fearing that Kriemhild will use Etzel’s forces to exact vengeance on the Burgundians for Siegfried’s death.
In her seventh year of marriage to Etzel, Kriemhild has a son whom she names Ortlieb. She is by now loved, respected, and even feared by the Hungarian people. She still plots revenge against Hagen. One night she has a dream of walking with her brother Giselher, and the narrator implies that everyone at Giselher’s court would soon know much suffering. Kriemhild asks Etzel to invite her countrymen to visit them. He dispatches two minstrels, Swemmel and Werbel, to invite them to the summer festival. Kriemhild speaks to the envoys separately and asks them to pretend that she sorrows no longer for Siegfried and bears no ill feeling for his loss. Thus, she wishes to see all of her brothers, and Hagen as well. The messengers do not know of Hagen’s role in Siegfried’s death and are oblivious to her alternate motives for luring Hagen to Hungary.
Kriemhild is determined not to accept Etzel’s offer until Rudiger swears an oath promising to avenge any wrongs she suffers. She decides to accept Etzel’s offer.
Chapter 24
Chapter 21 Kriemhild and her company travel through Bavaria to Passau, where she encounters Bishop Pilgrim, her uncle. They pass on to Rudiger’s lands where they remain for a short time. There Kriemhild meets Rudiger’s wife Gotelind and her daughter. Then they travel through Austria, and the narrator comments that in this land Christians and pagans live side by side (Etzel is a pagan). The company stays at the fortress of Traisenmauer for four days and then journeys to Etzel’s court.
Chapter 22 On their way through Austria, Kriemhild sees many strange customs and meets many knights and kings of the various principalities of the land. They all owed loyalty to King Etzel and are eager to meet their new queen. When she meets Etzel she is greeted courteously. Jousts and festivities follow. Etzel and Kriemhild, along with a great company, then ride on to Vienna where more festivities occur in honor of Kriemhild’s arrival. They are married in Vienna, and festivities continue for seventeen days. Kriemhild, however, continues to grieve for Siegfried. Then they leave Vienna for Hungary, where Kriemhild is welcomed at the court by royal princesses, especially Herrat, the niece of the former Queen Helche, who is betrothed to a lord named Dietrich.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Werbel and Swemmel stop in Pochlarn on their way to Worms and visit Rudiger and Gotelind, who send their own greetings to the court in Worms. They are welcomed with open arms after Hagen recognizes them. They deliver the invitation and are promised an answer within the week. Meanwhile, Gunther deliberates whether to visit Hungary. Hagen is vehemently opposed to the journey and openly cites his having murdered Siegfried as the reason that they will be in danger if they visit her. Gunther, however, assumes that Kriemhild’s anger has passed. Gunther suggests to Hagen that, since he is conscious of his guilt, he should remain behind— implying that Hagen is not brave enough to face Kriemhild and her new vassals. (Gunther says nothing about his own passive role in Siegfried’s death). Hagen accepts the challenge and decides to go along but insists that they go armed.
Chapter 25 As the Burgundians prepare to travel to Hungary, Uote has a dream that all the birds in Burgundy have died. She takes this to be a prophecy of doom and warns her sons not to go, but they disregard her. The Burgundians travel toward Hungary and, on the twelfth day, reach the Danube River. Hagen encounters water sprites or faeries bathing in the river and steals their clothes, returning them in exchange for their word that the trip will be undertaken safely. However, after Hagen returns their clothes, they tell him that, in fact, great danger
V o l u m e
2
4 6 3
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
awaits them in Hungary and that they are all doomed to die. Then, Hagen fights and kills a boatman who refuses to ferry the men across the river. Once everyone has safely crossed the Danube, Hagen destroys the ferry, claiming that it is to prevent any cowards in the group from returning home.
do. However, the knights then back away from their promise, afraid of Hagen and Volker. Gunther and his brothers and men then enter the court of Etzel and are welcomed by the king, who is ignorant of the threat the man poses.
Chapter 30 Chapter 26 When they arrive on the other side of the river, Hagen tells the others of the prophecy he received from the faeries. He also admits to having killed the ferryman, warning that the ferryman’s lord, Gelphrat, will probably have heard of the death of the ferryman and seek revenge. Shortly, the Burgundians are approached by Gelphrat and his brother Else and their men. Gelphrat is slain by Dancwart and the rest of his men flee. The Burgundians continue on. They reach Rudiger’s residence where they can rest.
Chapter 27 Rudiger welcomes his guests with great honor, especially Hagen, whom he had met before. His wife, Lady Gotelind, and their daughter also offer welcome. The unnamed daughter becomes the object of much admiration, and before the Burgundians leave, she is betrothed to Giselher. Several days later the Burgundians set out for Etzel’s court, laden with gifts from Rudiger, who accompanies them on the last part of their journey.
Chapter 28 The Burgundians arrive in Hungary and are greeted by Hildebrand and Wolfhart, two brave knights of Amelungland and vassals of Dietrich, Lord of Verona. They warn the Burgundians that Kriemhild still mourns the death of Siegfried. Undaunted, the Burgundians ride on to the court. Kriemhild welcomes the visitors but does not withhold her anger from Hagen and immediately asks where he has hidden her treasure, that of the Nibelungs to which she is entitled following Siegfried’s death. Hagen claims that her brothers ordered it submerged in the Rhine River.
At the end of the evening, Gunther and his men ask leave to retire, but as they leave the hall, they are surrounded by a jostling crowd. This infuriates Volker, and tensions run high between the two groups of knights. The Burgundians are shown to a large hall where beds are set up. Hagen and Volker stand guard outside the room as the others sleep.
Chapter 31 After morning mass, festivities commence, with games and mock battles. One of these is the bohort, a pageantry sport played on horseback with shields and lances. Rudiger, noticing the angry mood of many of Gunther’s men, recommends that the bohort be canceled, but it continues anyway. Volker enters the game. When he charges, his lance kills one of the Huns, ostensibly by accident. Everyone jumps for their swords, but Etzel arrives to settle the matter. He rules that the death was an accident. Kriemhild, meanwhile, again asks her vassals for help in avenging Siegfried. Despite being angered by the recent death, they are wary of attacking the Burgundians. So she begs Lord Bloedelin to help her, but he, too, is unwilling until Kriemhild promises him much wealth and land, as well as the young woman Herrat, already promised to Dietrich as bride. Then he agrees.
Chapter 32 Bloedelin attacks the Burgundians. Entering the hall where the Dancwart and his men are eating, he challenges him. Dancwart immediately cuts off Bloedelin’s head and a mighty battle ensues. The Burgundians drive the Huns from the building, but only after many losses on both sides. Dancwart endeavors to fight his way out to tell his brother Hagen of the attempted massacre.
Chapter 29 Kriemhild weeps and is asked by Etzel’s warriors why she is upset. She explains that she wants Siegfried’s death avenged and will pay dearly for it. Sixty men swear to kill Hagen, but she insists that they gather more forces and so they
4 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
Chapter 33 Dancwart enters the hall where Hagen is dining with Etzel and Kriemhild. Dancwart calls on his brother for assistance, saying that Lord Bloedelin and his men have massacred many of the Burgundians.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Between them,they prevent the pursuing Huns from entering and barricade the room, then stand guard at the stairs. Then Hagen steps forth and decapitates Ortlieb, thesonofKriemhildandEtzel;hisheadfalls into Kriemhild’s lap. A battle erupts, Huns against Burgundians. Kriemhild begs Dietrich to help her and Etzel escape, and he does so. Rudiger of Pochlarn is also permitted to leave with his men, for the Burgundians’ fight is not with them.
Chapter 34 The Burgundians kill or seriously wound all of the Huns in the hall. They clear the hall by throwing the dead and dying alike down a flight of stairs, and many more of the wounded die because of this rough handling. Hagen and Volker address King Etzel, who is standing with a crowd outside. They taunt and insult him and his queen Kriemhild. She is incensed and calls on her men to kill Hagen, promising great wealth in return.
Chapter 35 Iring of Denmark now calls for his weapons, determined to fulfill his queen’s wishes. He engages the Burgundians in battle. Giselher strikes him down, but he is only stunned. They think him dead, however, so when he leaps to his feet it surprises them. He runs toward Hagen and manages to wound him and then retreat back to the crowd gathered outside. Kriemhild is delighted when she hears of the events. Iring is now determined to try again and reenters the hall. Hagen is enraged and wounds Iring on the spot, with a spear shaft through his head.
wealth. The narrator says twelve hundred men attacked, but all were killed.
Chapter 37 Rudiger is now called upon to lend a hand to the Huns, but is reluctant since he has pledged friendship and betrothed his daughter to the Burgundians. He struggles with the decision to engage his new friends in battle, but is chastised by Etzel for his disloyalty on the other side. Etzel and Kriemhild are both upset by his decision not to fight. Kriemhild reminds him of his oath of allegiance to her. But he is tormented by his role in bringing the Burgundians to Etzel’s court, only to see them attacked, and cannot decide what to put first—feudal obligation or a vow of friendship and kinship. Both Kriemhild and Etzel kneel before Rudiger, who is tormented by the decision he must make: There is essentially no right choice for him. Whatever his decision, he will be betraying one of his oaths. He even offers to exile himself to avoid making the decision. But Etzel’s entreaties convince him, unwillingly, to engage the Burgundians in battle. When Giselher and the others see Rudiger and his men approach, they think help is on the way, but soon realize that their friend is here to fight them. The Burgundian kings try to dissuade him from his intention. Rudiger even gives Hagen his shield, as Hagen’s was destroyed. Emotions run high, and the knights weep at the evil turn of events that pits friends against friends. They engage in battle, and Rudiger and Gernot kill each other. All of Rudiger’s men are slain.
Chapter 36 Kriemhild and Etzel send twenty thousand men into battle, but the Huns are again unsuccessful. Etzel is by now unwilling to let any of the Burgundians live. Things have gone too far. Giselher addresses his sister, asking for mercy, but she refuses. Her heart is devoid of mercy. She says, however, that if they will hand over Hagen as prisoner, she will consider letting her brothers live, but Gernot and the others refuse to break faith with their friend. Kriemhild then orders the Huns to set fire to the hall. As the heat rises, those trapped inside even drink the blood of the slain to quench their thirst. They decide to enter the gathering hall of the palace and remain silent so that the Huns will think they have perished. But the Huns attack at daybreak, spurred on by loyalty for their king, and Kriemhild’s promise of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Chapter 38 An emissary is sent by Dietrich of Verona to the Huns to inquire as to the state of affairs. Dietrich next sends Hildebrand, his master-at-arms, to the Burgundians for more information. When Volker sees Hildebrand and his knights approaching he assumes they will attack, but they are addressed by Hildebrand instead. Hildebrand asks whether it is true that they have slain Rudiger, in which case Dietrich will never be able to forgive them. Hagen confirms the report. Hildebrand asks for Rudiger’s body, but is told that they must fight for it. Hildebrand and his men engage them, contrary to Dietrich’s orders. Wolfhart goads the Burgundians into battle and many of Hildebrand’s men die. Hildebrand kills Volker after the latter kills Dietrich’s
V o l u m e
2
4 6 5
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
claims that to surrender would mean disgrace. Hagen insults Hildebrand for having fled the battle earlier, which provokes Dietrich. Dietrich and Hagen fight and Dietrich captures and binds Hagen, bringing him to Queen Kriemhild. Kriemhild has Hagen locked in the dungeon. Dietrich returns to fight Gunther, whom he defeats and brings, bound, to Kriemhild. Kriemhild imprisons her brother as well, and keeps the two prisoners separate. She has Gunther killed and brings his head to Hagen. She then kills Hagen with the sword of her first husband Siegfried in the presence of Etzel, Dietrich, and Hildebrand. Hildebrand, however, will not allow her to go unpunished for killing such a great warrior. Despite the harm that Hagen has inflicted, Hildebrand swears to avenge his death and kills Kriemhild. Even Etzel mourns the death of Hagen. ‘‘The King’s high festival had ended in sorrow, as joy must ever turn to sorrow in the end.’’
CHARACTERS Alberich Siegfried and the dragon, from an 1841 illustration
The dwarf Alberich is the Lord Treasurer of the Nibelung dynasty. When Siegfried conquers the Nibelung brothers, he takes Alberich’s magic cloak of invisibility and makes Alberich Lord Treasurer of the Nibelung treasure.
nephew Sigestap. Hagen is devastated by Volker’s death. Dancwart is killed by Helpfrich, a vassal of Dietrich. Wolfhart, nephew of Hildebrand, and Giselher slay each other. Finally, all of Dietrich’s men are killed except Hildebrand. He and Hagen fight and Hildebrand flees from the hall, wounded. Only Hagen and Gunther are left alive. Dietrich is angry with Hildebrand for engaging in battle with the Burgundians, since he had only been sent to talk to them. Dietrich, saddened by the confirmation of Rudiger’s death, is determined to fight the Burgundians himself, but is shocked to hear that he has no warriors left. Without his men, he has no way to serve Etzel as vassal or to protect himself.
Aldrian
Chapter 39 Dietrich and Hildebrand return to the hall where Hagen and Gunther wait. Dietrich offers to protect the Burgundians if they surrender themselves to him, but his offer is refused. Hagen
4 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
Aldrian is Hagen and Dancwart’s father.
Amelung Amelung is the name of Dietrich’s dynasty. It applies to his vassals as well.
Attila the Hun See Etzel
Bloedelin Bloedelin is the brother of Etzel and is killed in battle by Dancwart.
Brunhild Runhild, queen of Iceland, is a beautiful maiden of almost superhuman strength. Gunther, king of the Burgundians, travels to Iceland to win her hand in marriage. He must perform certain acts of strength and skill in order to marry the queen. His friend Siegfried helps him perform these tasks while wearing the magic cloak of invisibility, so it
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
appears as if Gunther is acting alone. Siegfried also help Gunther subdue Brunhild and possess her sexually after they are married, again hidden in the magic cloak, which bring about the loss of her strength. Brunhild is not aware of Siegfried’s role until she is taunted about it by Kriemhild. The argument that follows between the two women results in Siegfried’s death and in the downfall of the Burgundians.
Gelphrat Military governor of Bavaria and brother of Else, Gelpfrat attacks Hagen and his men after Hagen kills his ferryman. Gelpfrat is in turn killed by Dancwart.
Gere
Dancrat
A military governor and kinsman of the Burgundian kings, after the marriage of Siegfried and Kriemhild, Gere travels back to the Netherlands to invite them to visit the Burgundians.
Dancrat is the deceased father of Gunther, Giselher, and Gernot, kings of the Burgundians, and the husband of Uote.
Gernot
Dancwart Dancwart is Hagen’s younger brother and also a vassal of the Burgundian kings. He kills Gelphrat and often aids his brother. Dancwart is killed by Helpfrich, Dietrich’s vassal.
Dietrich Lord of the Amelung dynasty, Dietrich is engaged to Herrat and lives in exile at Etzel’s court. When the Burgundians come to visit Kriemhild, he tells the kings that she still mourns her dead husband Siegfried and warns them that their visit may not be a pleasant one. He is also an old acquaintance of Hagen and greatly respected by all the Huns. He helps Kriemhild and Etzel escape when fighting breaks out between the Huns and Burgundians and is finally responsible for the capture of Hagen and Gunther.
Eckewart A military governor for the Burgundians, Eckewart brings Kriemhild to Hungary to marry Eztel. In Chapter 26 he is discovered on Rudiger’s frontier. The narrator does not reveal how he came to be separated from Kriemhild’s household. His character may have been conflated with another historical figure.
Giselher The youngest brother of Gunther, Gernot, and Kriemhild, Giselher is betrothed to Rudiger’s daughter but is killed by Wolfhart.
Gotelind Wife of Rudiger, military governor, and Etzel’s vassal, Gotelind is the mother of the young woman who is betrothed to Giselher.
Gunther Gunther is the eldest king of Burgundy; brother of Gernot, Giselher and Kriemhild; son of Dancrat and Uote. He wins the hand of Brunhild in marriage with the help of Siegfried. He is then complicit in Siegfried’s death, and dies by order of Kriemhild in Hungary. Before he dies, he and Hagen defend themselves in Etzel’s hall and are responsible for killing many Huns.
Gunther Son of Siegfried and Kriemhild, Gunther is born and grows up in the Netherlands, Siegfried’s kingdom.
Hagen
Else Brother of Gelpfrat and Lord of the Marches on the Bavarian bank of the Danube River, Else flees Hagen’s men in Chapter 26 after Dancwart kills his brother.
Etzel King of the Huns in Hungary, Etzel marries Kriemhild after his wife Helche dies.
E p i c s
Brother of Gunther, Giselher, and Kriemhild, Gernot is killed by Rudiger.
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Also called the Lord of Troneck, Hagen is the brother of Dancwart, eldest son of Aldrian, and chief vassal of the Burgundian kings. He was once a hostage at Etzel’s court. He is responsible for Siegfried’s death and is the object of Kriemhild’s revenge plot. He discourages the Burgundian kings from traveling to Hungary upon Kriemhild’s invitation but is not heeded. Kriemhild kills him with Siegfried’s sword in Hungary.
V o l u m e
2
4 6 7
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Hawart
Nantwin
Hawart is a Danish prince who lives in exile at Etzel’s court and is overlord of Iring. He is killed by Hagen in Hungary.
Nantwin is the father of Herrat, who is betrothed to Dietrich. He is also a vassal of Etzel.
Ortlieb Helpfrich Helpfrich is one of Dietrich’s vassals. He kills Dancwart, Hagen’s brother.
Herrat Niece of Helche, Etzel’s first wife, Herrat is betrothed to Dietrich. Her father is Nantwin.
Hildebrand Vassal and master-at-arms of Dietrich of the Amelungs, Hildebrand is also Wolfhart’s uncle. He and Dietrich are the last to fight with Hagen and Gunther before the Burgundians are captured. He executes Kriemhild in the last Chapter.
Iring Vassal of Hawart, a Danish prince living in exile at Etzel’s court, Iring is killed by Hagen when he tries to fulfill Queen Kriemhild’s wishes.
Irnfried Also referred to as the Landgrave of Thuringia, Irnfried lives at Etzel’s court, in exile. He is killed by Volker.
Kriemhild Princess of Burgundy, sister of Gunther, Giselher, and Gernot, and daughter of Uote and Dancrat, Kriemhild is sought in marriage by the renowned warrior Siegfried, who remains in the Burgundian court for a year in the hope of meeting her. Kriemhild and Siegfried marry after Siegfried helps her brother Gunther to win the hand of the Icelandic queen Brunhild. She kills Hagen with Siegfried’s sword and is subsequently killed by Hildebrand.
Liudegast King of Denmark, brother of Liudeger, Liudegast declares war on Burgundy and is captured by Siegfried.
Ortlieb is Kriemhild’s son by Etzel. He is around six years old when he is killed by Hagen.
Ortwin Ortwin is Hagen’s nephew, Lord High Stewart of Burgundy and Lord of Metz.
Bishop Pilgrim Bishop of Passau and Uote’s brother, Bishop Pilgrim is the uncle of Kriemhild, Gunther, Giselher, and Gernot, all of whom stop to visit him on their separate journeys to Hungary.
Rudiger Rudiger is a vassal of Etzel and husband to Gotelind. He travels to Burgundy to ask for Kriemhild’s hand in marriage on behalf of Etzel of Hungary. He betroths his daughter to Giselher but is slain by Gernot, whom he kills at the same time. He is a heroic figure who must in the end decide whether to acknowledge his feudal oath of loyalty to Kriemhild or his oath of friendship and kinship to the Burgundians.
Rumold Rumold is the vassal of the Burgundians and Lord of the Kitchen in Burgundy. Gunther appoints him regent to look after the kingdom when the kings leave for Hungary.
Schilbung Schilbung is one of the lords of Nibelungland. He is killed by Siegfried, who takes over his lands and treasure.
Siegfried Son of Siegmund and Sieglind, and lord of the Netherlands, Norway, and Niebelungland, Siegfried marries Kriemhild, princess of Burgundy, and helps King Gunther to win Queen Brunhild’s hand in marriage. He is later killed by Hagen. Kriemhild’s avenging of his death forms the largest part of the story. The name Siegfried is also given to King Gunther’s son by Queen Brunhild.
Liudeger King of Saxony and brother of Liudegast, Liudeger is captured with his brother while at war with the Burgundians.
4 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
Siegmund King of the Netherlands and father of Siegfried, Siegmund visits the Burgundian kingdom with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
his son and Queen Kriemhild after they are married and then returns to the Netherlands after Siegfried is killed.
Swemmel Swemmel is Etzel’s minstrel. He travels to Burgundy with Werbel to invite Kriemhild’s kinsmen to visit for the summer festival.
Theodoric the Great See Dietrich
Uote Widowed queen of Burgundy, mother of Gunther, Giselher, Gernot, and Kriemhild, Uote is sister to Bishop Pilgrim of Passau. She is the one who interprets Kriemhild’s dream at the beginning of the story and tries to warn her sons not to travel to Hungary after she has a dream that predicts the journey will end in tragedy.
Volker A vassal of the Burgundians, Lord of Alzei, Volker is Hagen’s chosen comrade in arms and stands guard with Hagen to protect the Burgundian warriors at Etzel’s court. He is also referred to as the ‘‘Minstrel’’ or the ‘‘Fiddler’’ for his musical ability. He is killed by Hildebrand.
Werbel Etzel’s minstrel, Werbel travels with Swemmel to Burgundy to invite Kriemhild’s kinsmen to Hungary for the summer festival.
Wolfhart Nephew of Hildebrand and Dietrich’s vassal, Wolfhart goads Hagen and the Burgundians into a fight, in which he and Giselher kill each other.
The values involved in chivalry encouraged knights to act courageously, honorably, and in service to their lord or kinsmen. Part of this code prescribed respectful treatment of women, who had few legal rights in the Middle Ages. For instance, in the Nibelungenlied, Siegfried’s respectful treatment of Kriemhild and their closely regulated courtship follow the code of chivalry. Chivalry is also associated with class, noble rank, and social standing as well as expertise on the battlefield. For instance, when the kings Liudeger and Liudegast surrender in battle, they and their men are brought back to Worms. There, they are not treated like prisoners of war, but as guests. The wounded knights receive care and medical treatment, and the others are housed and fed. This treatment adheres to the chivalric code.
Courtly Love Courtly love is as much a literary convention as it was a medieval code of behavior. Courtly love represented the relationship between a suitor and his lady and, sometimes, between a courtier or liegeman and the wife, sister, or daughter of the lord whom he served. Not acted out sexually, courtly love relationships were confined to the suitor’s pledges of devotion and service. Sometimes such relationships between relative social equals would develop and lead to marriage. Other times, the suitor would plead for his lady’s love in vain. This behavior was conventional. The suitor always treated his lady with respect and admiration, sometimes even adoration. Examples of courtly love in the Nibelungenlied include Siegfried’s unspoken devotion to Kriemhild and then his respectful wooing of her through Gunther over more than a year. Similarly, the vassals and knights of Etzel’s army pledge themselves to avenge Kriemhild’s honor because she is married to their lord.
Deception THEMES Chivalry Chivalry was a code of behavior that evolved in the Middle Ages. It is associated with the tradition of mounted knights in armor, lords and ladies, feasts, jousts, and war games. In fact, knights arose from the development of new military techniques. The behavior of a knight both on the battlefield and in everyday life was expected to follow a certain set of rules—a moral, social, and religious code of conduct.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Nibelungenlied is as much a story of political and social disintegration as it is about heroes and revenge. By the end of the story, the Burgundian rulers are all dead, and many of Etzel’s own vassals have been killed as well. Essentially, two kingdoms have been destroyed. The causes for this disintegration are a series of deceptions in which many characters participate. The theme of deception is problematic, since some of the instances of deception can also be seen as examples of courage, bravery, or skill. When Siegfried helps Gunther win Brunhild by taking part in the
V o l u m e
2
4 6 9
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Working in pairs or small groups, research the type of warfare that was practiced in the Middle Ages and that of another time period of your choosing. Compare and contrast one of the following: weapons, armor, means of transportation, or tactics. Make a PowerPoint or poster presentation with illustrations of your findings.
Explore online and in the library the development of knighthood and the code of chivalry, including the growth of jousts and tournaments, new developments in armor, and the traditions of courtly love. In a bulleted report, note the main points and give an example of how the poet of Nibelungenlied presents these issues, if applicable.
Write an introductory paragraph on the importance of feudalism as a socio-political structure in the Middle Ages then go to the text to find examples of how feudalism is manifested in the Nibelungenlied and record these examples in your introduction.
Identify the personal, social, cultural, and political roles that women play in the milieu of the Nibelungenlied. In an essay, compare and contrast their roles with women’s roles today.
As a class, compare and contrast the characters of Brunhild and Kriemhild and
sporting events under the cover of his magic cloak, he is contributing to a marriage based on a false premise—Gunther’s superior strength and skill. Then, when Siegfried subdues Brunhild after the wedding, he essentially tames her for Gunther. Hagen, too, is deceitful. He engages in the deception of Siegfried’s death, and Gunther himself is complicit in the deed. Many scholars justify Hagen’s actions by maintaining that he acts according to his feudal obligations. His queen, Brunhild, is insulted and publicly humiliated, and it is his duty to avenge the wrongs done to her.
4 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
discuss in what ways they are alike and in what ways they are different. The narrator of the epic states explicitly several times (for example, at the close of Chapter 14) that the bloodshed in the second part of the Nibelungenlied is the result of pettiness on the part of the two queens. Divide into groups to compare and contrast the reasons for strife between the Burgundians and Huns in the Nibelungenlied with the strife between some other pair of warring forces. Choose from the following: between the Greeks and Trojans in the Iliad; between the kingdoms of Malinke and Sossa in Sundiata, or between any two other factions whose war has been featured in a work of literature. Report your conclusions to the class regarding whether the cause of war in the Nibelungenlied was any more or less justifiable than in your other example. As a class, discuss the causes for war and if they are ever justified. Write your own definition of a hero, then compare your assessment to the concept of hero in the Nibelungenlied. Do Hagen and Rudiger meet your definition of a hero? Use evidence from the text to strengthen your evaluation as you complete your essay. An alternate topic is to define a good leader, including an evaluation of Gunther and Etzel.
Nevertheless, the planning that goes into Siegfried’s death, including determining his point of vulnerability, involves deceit.
Dreams and Prophecies Dreams and prophecies occur at various points in the epic. These are instances of foreshadowing, which if understood properly foretell the outcome of the plot. Subsequent events of the story then echo or imitate the events of the dreams, either directly or indirectly. At the very beginning of the Nibelungenlied, Kriemhild has a dream that
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
portends her marriage to Siegfried and his death. Other dreams occur at important transition points. For example, Kriemhild has two dreams before Siegfried’s hunting trip that seem to foretell his death. Later, Kriemhild dreams of her brother Giselher before she invites her kinsmen to visit her in Hungary. Shortly thereafter, her mother, Uote, dreams that all the birds in Burgundy are dead, and she takes it to mean that her sons should not journey to Hungary. Her dream is fulfilled when they all perish there. The Nibelungenlied poet uses prophecy in other ways. Hagen is warned by the Danube water fairies that the Burgundians’ trip to Hungary will end in destruction. Such foretelling and the way that dreams are then mirrored in subsequent events suggest that in the world of the epic human affairs are predetermined and the outcome of events is inevitable.
the upper classes were expected to marry and bear children; their marriages were arranged by their families for economic or political reasons. Entering a convent was the other option available to women of the upper classes, in which cases women were provided for and in some cases have access to education. Women in the middle and lower classes worked hard along with the men in their families. Most were not educated beyond practical training in spinning, weaving, and cooking; noble women were taught to read and write, to play musical instruments, and to dance. In Nibelungenlied, the two female protagonists are bound by their marital status; their alliance in marriage determines the type and extent of the power they can exert. Their physical attractiveness seems to be a factor in their marketability, but given the story about Brunhild, the suggestion seems to be that part of a noble woman’s power is linked to her virginity.
Feudalism
Heroism Characterizes Men
Feudalism was the social order in the Middle Ages. This social and economic system prevailed in Europe from about the ninth century into the thirteenth century. It was structured by the interdependent relationship between the lord (landed aristocracy) and the vassal (a landless manservant), and it operated according to an oath of loyalty. A lord (for instance, Gunther or Etzel) owned the land in his kingdom, but he permitted workers to live and farm the land, to hunt and fish, and engage in trade and conduct other forms of business. Vassals might be high-ranking and influential men. In exchange for military and political protection for his family and property, a vassal paid his lord tithes, or yearly sums of money, and was pledged to military service when needed. The relationship of lord and vassal causes much of the tragedy in the Nibelungenlied. It is the false report that Siegfried is a vassal that instigates various misunderstandings and insults. The suggestion seems to be that misrepresenting one’s class or rank can lead to serious trouble.
The Status of Women During the Middle Ages, women did not enjoy great freedom, security, or legal protection. They could not inherit land, and husbands controlled household wealth. The code of chivalry encouraged the respectful treatment of a small number of women in the aristocratic and noble classes, but did nothing to grant them autonomy or personal power. Even Kriemhild, the wife of a king, has difficulty persuading the vassals who owe her husband allegiance to fight for her honor. Women of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
In the medieval epic, heroism is dramatized by brave or exemplary actions, male conduct that aligns with the courtly code of honor. The degree to which a man achieved heroic action was also defined by how he faced his fate or destiny. Sometimes the hero is confronted with difficult choices, and what and how he chooses determines his heroic stature. For instance, Hagen is sometimes considered a moral villain, but must also be recognized as a hero like Siegfried, despite the differences in their characters. A hero was recognized as such not by the individual himself, but by others in his society. Heroism is also associated with wealth and class. Heroism in the Nibelungenlied encompasses not only bravery in combat, but other feats such as skill in tournament games and in hunting. Siegfried is heroic, given his almost supernatural strength in combat and for the manner in which he carries out his courtship of Kriemhild. Rudiger is a different type of hero. He is distinguished from the others by his deeply moral character, his gentility, and his tragic inner struggle at the end when he must decide between his feudal oath to Etzel and his vow of friendship and kinship to the Burgundians.
Hospitality and Gift-giving Among noble and aristocratic classes, hospitality rituals were well developed in the Middle Ages and are illustrated in this epic. Guests arrived with gifts and received them from their hosts. The granting of hospitality was integral to establishing bonds of loyalty and trust among equals.
V o l u m e
2
4 7 1
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
work celebrates the adventures and achievements of several noble characters. It draws on history, mythology, and legend, and the story is largely advanced through action. In sum, the work creates a national identity and suggests the political history of its people. It also conveys some of the cultural features of those people. These are epic features, which tend to emphasize the political and military over the sexual. However, the Nibelungenlied also has elements drawn from literary romance: the quests of knights, the code of chivalry, and complicated love relationships dramatized over time. The romance genre is largely driven by plot or character, as are the romantic sections of the Nibelungenlied. In fact, this work is often regarded as one of the first examples of a new, hybrid form of literature because it weaves together elements of both genres. Indeed, regarding its romance elements, the Nibelungenlied illustrates a subcategory, called bridal-quest. This particular form typically includes the report of a distant and eligible princess; a man moved to woo and win her in marriage; her initial resistance to him; commonly, a series of tasks each suitor must undertake; and finally, a triumphant bridal journey ending in a wedding. These events, which were popularized in many nineteenth-century folk and fairy tales, are played out in the relationships between Siegfried and Kriemhild and Gunther and Brunhild.
Kriemhild slays Hagen and falls onto Hildebrand’s sword.
In an age in which visitors to one’s kingdom might be friends or enemies, it was important to ensure that one’s identity, reputation, and intention were clearly announced and appropriately anticipated. Thus by the time Siegfried arrives at Worms, word of his exploits has preceded him; when he challenges Gunther for his kingdom to show his strength and noble heritage, there are a few tense moments before a bond of friendship is established. This friendship is based on a mutual agreement to peace, loyalty, and honor. Gunther extends hospitality to his guest to show him honor. To give gifts represents the bestowing of honor and is also part of the bond of friendship.
STYLE
Foreshadowing Events that are to come later in the narrative are foreshadowed or hinted at in advance. These early hints are recognized by the audience or reader because the story in the epic is already wellknown. Foreshadowing occurs in the Nibelungenlied, for example, through the interpretations that Uote offers of her own dream and that of her daughter, the prophecy of the water faeries to Hagen, and the narrator’s frequent interpolations that doom is about to befall certain characters or that terrible things will result from whatever has just happened. Foreshadowing is a reminder of the inevitability of tragic outcomes to human events. It is as though the heroic action is fixed in some way that overrides human choice. Indeed, choice, which seems to be freely executed, often plays a part in accomplishing the tragic outcome. In this way, epic has a feature that dominates classical tragedy.
Epic and Romance Traditions
Structure
The Nibelungenlied draws on two literary traditions: the epic and the romance. As an epic, the
The Nibelungenlied has a twofold structure. The story is divided into two sections: the first having
4 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
to do with Kriemhild’s marriage to Siegfried and the manner of his death (chapters 1–19); and the second covering Kriemhild’s marriage to Etzel and her quest to revenge Siegfried’s murder (chapters 20–39). The second part builds upon and fulfills the events of the first. There is also an internal symmetry corresponding to these two parts. For instance, both parts begin with a bride-quest and a marriage and end with death. In keeping with the literary technique of building on and expanding on events, the first part ends with the death of a single individual, while the second part concludes with the massive loss of life on both sides of a great battle. Gift-giving, invitations to visit, arrivals, leave-taking, and battles are represented in both parts as well. In another example of building on what has come before in the narrative, the battles depicted in part one are largely the staged fights of pageants and war games, while the fighting that concludes the epic is literal and deadly.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Socio-historical Context While the version of the Nibelungenlied known in modern times was written around 1200, it deals loosely with historical and legendary events that occurred or were first recounted several hundred years before. Elke Weik, writing in 2002 for a journal on international studies, reports that research has shown that epics seem to develop from times of dramatic social and political disruption, illustrated in this case by the overthrow of the Burgundians. The Huns (Etzel’s people in the Nibelungenlied) were originally a nomadic tribe from Asia. They invaded Europe around 360 and eventually settled most of their kingdom in what later became modern Hungary. Attila (Etzel in the Nibelungenlied) became king of the Huns in 433. In Latin legends he was given the nickname ‘‘Scourge of the Gods’’ for his cruelty, and this is the image that has survived most widely regarding Attila. However, in the Germanic legends, he is portrayed as hospitable and fair. The kingdom at Worms is believed to have been founded in the year 406 by the Burgundians, a Germanic people. They were conquered by the Huns under Attila in a battle in which the entire Burgundian royal family was killed. After this defeat, the remaining Burgundians settled in
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
the area of France known in modern times as Burgundy. It was after this move that the names of Gunther, Giselher, and Gernot appear in their records. The character of Dietrich of Verona is based on the historical figure of Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths from around the year 475. As ruler of Italy from 493, he implemented legal, social, and economic reforms. He appears in the Nibelungenlied as Dietrich of Verona because of his historical connection to Italy. Legends about the mythical dragon-slayer Siegfried somehow came to be associated with the tale of the overthrow of the Burgundian kingdom by the Huns. Similar stories about a dragonkilling knight or warrior named Siegfried appear in the Icelandic epic tales (called Eddas). These northern versions of the story differ somewhat from the Germanic ones, although they are thought to have common sources. The source stories were popular throughout the regions that are now Iceland, Denmark, Norway, and England. Characters in Nibelungenlied are motivated by bonds of feudalism, family, and friendship. In the Germanic culture of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, these values were important. The loyalty bond of a vassal to a lord, the bonds of blood kinship and of friendship, and the bond between husband and wife were all crucial; many conflicts in the text arise when a character is torn between conflicting demands of these varied obligations. For instance, Hagen feels honor-bound as a vassal of Brunhild’s husband Gunther to defend Brunhild’s honor by killing Siegfried, but since Siegfried is Kriemhild’s husband and Kriemhild is Gunther’s sister, he is also violating an implied bond not to hurt her. Kriemhild, in turn, betrays her husband Etzel by using him as a pawn to draw the Burgundians to their slaughter in Hungary. Rudiger is torn between his sworn loyalty to his lord, Etzel, and his bond of friendship and kinship with the Burgundians. Such brutal behavior occurs within a Christianized society. Christianity reached Europe in the early Middle Ages. The historical figure of Dietrich (Theodoric) was a Christian; he belonged to an alternative, heretical sect known as Arianism. Attila remained a non-Christian, but how soon the Burgundian tribes were converted is unclear. The presence of a Christian society in the Nibelungenlied was probably the invention of the anonymous author, who was writing in the twelfth or thirteenth century, when western Europe had
V o l u m e
2
4 7 3
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Middle Ages: Criminal law varies from one European country to another, sometimes even from city to city. The type of justice and the punishments inflicted often fit the crime in literal ways and are delivered without benefit of trial. Feudal lords serve as judges, and there is no system of appeal. Today: Modern legal systems in democratic nations eschew eye-for-an eye retributive justice. Instead, an extensive court system functions with judges who are sometimes elected and sometimes appointed and who are required to follow guidelines provided by law as to the type and length of punishment. Some trials involve a jury of peers, and there is an extensive appeals system. Middle Ages: Vengeance (revenge for a wrong) is seen as not only an equitable form of justice but also required by honor. Seeking revenge is understood as the right response to wrongdoing. Today: Vengeance is not equated with justice, which is commonly interpreted as punishment for the guilty and vindication of the innocent. Although vengeance is still a
become almost entirely Christianized. These two worlds—non-Christian and Christian—collide in the Nibelungenlied when Kriemhild, a Christian, marries Etzel, a pagan. Christian beliefs in the story are, however, given only scant expression. There is less tension between pagan and Christian beliefs than there is within the Christian culture of the Burgundians regarding the conflicting demands of feudal obligations and self-interest.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Nibelungenlied was one of the most popular poems of its age and is probably the best-known
4 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
matter of honor in some cultures and among gang members, vengeance is not seen as a justification under the law of civilized nations.
Middle Ages: Rulers have practically unlimited power over their subjects. Ordinary people do not have civil rights. Today: Most monarchs are primarily figureheads who are not directly involved in governance. They are governed by the same laws as all citizens and the civil rights of individuals are protected by legislation and the court system.
Middle Ages: Although chivalry demands a chaste and deferential courtship, women and girls generally have their husbands chosen for them by a father or other male family member as part of a political and financial deal or exchange. Today: Although arranged marriages and dowries are still part of some cultures, in western countries women freely choose their own marriage partners and have rights to their own property.
Germanic poem from the Middle Ages. Most literary analysis of the poem began after 1800, and inevitably Germany embraced the poem as a work of nationalism, often comparing it with Homer’s Iliad. Essentially, commentary on the Nibelungenlied falls into three categories: the study of source texts, socio-historical studies, and literary interpretations. Much of the critical work on the Nibelungenlied since the early nineteenth century has been done in German, but English scholarship has appeared as well. Some twentieth-century scholars have analyzed the sources of the poem, concentrating on the author’s blend of historical fact, myth, and legend. Other scholars have done literary analyses, concentrating on characterization,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
regard for the overall plan of the poem and without necessarily imputing a consistent meaning to the whole.
Andersson also argues that the first half of the Nibelungenlied was modeled after the second part, and not vice versa.
An 1883 depiction of Siegfried slaying the dragon
theme, and structure. According to Theodore Murdock Andersson’s A Preface to the ‘‘Nibelungenlied,’’ critical work in Germany on the Nibelungenlied from about 1902 to 1941 focused on the context of the earlier legends, focusing primarily on comparisons between the known version and earlier versions. This critical approach is in keeping with the German effort to establish the historical significance of the Nibelungenlied as a national epic. After World War II, the focus shifted to a more global European context, including studies of French historical works and courtly literature. This emphasis explored possible influences on the Nibelungenlied of works such as the Song of Roland (written around 1150) and other heroic tales. The history of medieval Germany was explored to widen this context. Discussions of the courtly and chivalric elements in the work also began to appear. After about 1950, literary approaches dealing with the structure of the poem itself became popular. Such studies, Andersson states, assume that the structure is coherent and meaningful, thus departing from an earlier view that the poet recast an inherited story, making piecemeal modifications without strict
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Some critical commentary has addressed other aspects of the poem, such as its characterization and coherence of plot. Scholarly discussions include the development of Kriemhild’s character (from innocent bride to avenging queen), Gunther’s perceived weaknesses as a king and suitor, and Hagen’s guilt or innocence regarding his role as vassal for Gunther and Brunhild. Francis G. Gentry’s article in Monatshefte defends Hagen’s actions in killing Siegfried, claiming that as Gunther’s chief vassal, Hagen’s ‘‘one concern is to uphold and preserve the honor and integrity of his lord, regardless of the consequences.’’ Not all readers agree. Rudiger’s quandary about fighting the Burgundians is also defended by Gentry, who suggests that ‘‘by entering the battle he is only doing that which is required of him under law, the defense of his lord.’’ However, Gentry also acknowledges the difficulty of Rudiger’s decision and the impossibility of making it with a clear conscience. Rudiger ultimately chooses his feudal obligation over his moral obligation. As Rudiger says in Chapter 37 of the Nibelungenlied, ‘‘Whichever course I leave in order to follow the other, I shall have acted basely and infamously.’’ Nevertheless, the choice must be made. Gunther’s character is problematic as well and has variously been described as strong and weak. His acquiescence to Siegfried’s superior abilities in winning Brunhild is, according to many scholars, a mark against him. Lynn Thelen’s article in Monatshefte suggests that Gunther is ‘‘a weak and impotent ruler who must rely on the strength of others and stoop to deceit in order to preserve his realm and to realize his desires.’’ Scholarship on the Nibelungenlied has attempted to reconcile various motives, intentions, and reactions of the characters and tried to account for the many unresolved elements in the text. For instance, after Siegfried’s death, Brunhild almost disappears from the story. Kriemhild’s actions after her husband’s death (choosing to remain in the court that harbors her husband’s killers; agreeing to marry Etzel without being sure that this will help her accomplish revenge against Siegfried’s murderers) are
V o l u m e
2
4 7 5
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
also puzzling to many readers. Hagen’s role (with respect to leadership, authority, and power) comes to supersede that of Gunther in the second part of the story. These issues have been and will probably continue to be extensively debated by critics and others who study Nibelungenlied. Some criticism is helpful in giving an overview. For example, the 2007 review by Daniel Johnson of the Raffel translation of the epic gives a concise but comprehensive description of the background, reception, and influence of the epic.
CRITICISM
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Dean A. Miller’s The Epic Hero (2000) describes the epic tradition in various cultures, including Greek, Roman, Celtic, Nordic, Persian, and Indian, and from the perspective of various disciplines such as anthropology, psychology, and literary studies.
In 2001, Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney published a bestselling, easy-to-read modern English translation of the tenth-century epic Beowulf. An illustrated edition of this book appeared in 2007.
In 2004, Conor Kostick published the young-adult fantasy Epic, which depicts New Earth, a place where violence is banned and conflicts are settled through the computer game.
J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is a modern fantasy tale published in 1954 and 1955. Tolkien’s sources for his story include the Poetic Edda and the legend of Siegfried the dragon-slayer. Among the many available editions of Tolkien’s epic is the 2005 fiftieth-anniversary one-volume edition from Mariner Books.
Laurelle LeVert LeVert holds a PhD in medieval studies from the University of Toronto, where she specialized in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century devotional literature. In the following essay, LeVert surveys both critical and popular reception of the German national epic and addresses questions of genre. The Nibelungenlied is a work that has elicited both critical acclaim and literary frustration. W. A. Mueller in The ‘‘Nibelungenlied’’ Today suggests that the Nibelungenlied ‘‘reflected the Germanic concepts of strife, misfortune, death as fate . . . which [Siegfried] must meet with courage and defiance to triumph over them.’’ These issues do pervade the story, as does the characters’ abilities to deal effectively with them. Many heroic deeds are performed in the name of honor. Friends even kill friends in the name of honor. But is the Nibelungenlied a story that celebrates honor and heroic deeds? As an epic, yes, it is. But the question deserves a more complex answer. As an epic that contains clear romance elements, the Nibelungenlied has sometimes been accused of trying to be neither and yet both. However, several factors must be taken into account before readers can make such a judgment. First, the elements in both epic and romance are similar. Both genres deal with the adventures of knights and include their ladies; they describe battles, and they illustrate a code of honorable conduct that shapes everyone’s life. The difference between epic and romance is in how the author treats these elements. The combination of these two forms obfuscates the message readers get from Nibelungenlied. The epic genre is more concerned with the deeds of knights and noblemen, with heroic issues of
4 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
In 2006, Stephen Mitchell published a modern English version of the Epic of Gilgamesh, a creation epic written about 2000 BCE . The Poetic Edda is a collection of mythological and heroic stories from Iceland, recorded between 800 and 1100. The first complete translation in fifty years was published by Oxford University Press in 2009 and includes scholarly notes and other supportive information designed to facilitate comprehension.
nobility of spirit, fortitude of character, and physical displays of masculine strength. These are all described in a grandiose or elevated style. The deeds are performed in battle, on perilous journeys, while fighting dragons and monsters, and typically with extensive commentary
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
READERS SHOULD TRY TO RECONCILE THE MERGING OF TWO LITERARY GENRES, ROMANCE AND EPIC, AND TRY TO DETERMINE HOW AND WHY THEY WORK TOGETHER IN THIS TRAGIC STORY.’’
and long speeches by the characters or narrator. In addition, Nibelungenlied contains a bridal quest and devotes considerable attention to developing central female characters and the domestic plots that concern them. In these ways, the work encompasses both genres. In addition to the Nibelungenlied merging of the literary genres of both epic and romance, the tale develops its characters within a tragic plot trajectory, which complements both genres. A tragic figure is one whose misfortunes arise not out of an evil personality and not necessarily out of a character flaw. Rather, tragedy often strikes good characters who commit some error in judgment. With this definition, then, the question becomes what error in judgment instigates the final tragedy of the Nibelungenlied. Many scholars suggest that Kriemhild sets the tragic consequences in motion. Kriemhild’s character is certainly the force that wreaks havoc at the end of the story and, indeed, throughout. Perhaps she contains the tragic flaw. She certainly changes from innocent child-bride to avenging queen, an instance of how epic and romance elements merge as well as conflict in this work. Kriemhild’s motives are perhaps in keeping with an epic character. She does, after all, seek vengeance for her murdered husband. Nonetheless, Kriemhild’s just vengeance is not an ideology that all the characters accept. Here there are inconsistencies in the text itself. For instance, when Siegfried’s corpse begins to bleed at Hagen’s approach, why do Siegfried’s Nibelungs not immediately seek the justice that Kriemhild had promised earlier would be theirs? Why does Kriemhild not give the order herself to attack? The answer is that the story would have to stop right there and then, instead of continuing Kriemhild’s development. Does Kriemhild sacrifice her feminine, romantic image? It would seem so. Indeed, Kriemhild
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
may be seen as developing from a romantic to an epic character. This evolution is seen throughout the Nibelungenlied. Even the narrator’s objective tone cannot omit the foreshadowing that follows Kriemhild. She never stops mourning Siegfried’s death, and her grief grows into bitterness, vengeance, and a truly epic bloodlust. Mueller suggests that the author of this story subscribes to a ‘‘tragic view of life.’’ This perspective causes the characters to initiate their ‘‘own sorrows in spite of the potentials of greatness, happiness, and innocence.’’ This description certainly fits Kriemhild’s results. Whatever Kriemhild’s persona represents, it seems clear that the event of Siegfried’s death is the catalyst that spurs subsequent action. Thus several questions arise. First, what led to Siegfried’s death? The reader must ask what event triggered the murder. Was it Siegfried’s initial decision to help Gunther win Brunhild? Was it his pride and arrogance in taking the girdle and ring from Brunhild or his foolishness in giving them to Kriemhild, who used them to goad Brunhild? Moreover, what role does Brunhild really play in the Nibelungenlied? Is she simply the catalyst for further action? The question can be raised, but perhaps not answered completely. What is clear, however, is that Kriemhild’s development is a unifying factor in the story. Another question is: What led to the downfall of the Burgundian dynasty? Before attempting to formulate an answer, it must be remembered that, by killing Siegfried, Hagen is technically only fulfilling his feudal oath of loyalty to Brunhild. He cannot have known the tragedy that would ensue. Or could he? In any event, his actions amount to an international incident. But is Hagen responsible in the modern sense? Moreover, what role does Etzel ultimately play in the tragedy that ensues? Is he used as a pawn as well? To answer these questions, the reader has to consider the events that follow Siegfried’s death. Occurrences at Siegfried’s funeral are sufficient to plant the seeds of vengeance in Kriemhild, seeds that grow into a plan of all-encompassing revenge. However, several questions arise with regards to the unfolding story. First, why does Gunther not acknowledge the portent of Siegfried’s bleeding corpse? It is perhaps because he himself was complicit in the death of Siegfried, the very man who won Brunhild for the king. If Gunther at this point were to agree with Kriemhild that Hagen was the murderer, would he not open himself to similar charges for his own involvement? Hagen is an
V o l u m e
2
4 7 7
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
In this 1923 drawing by Josef Hegenbarth, Kriemhild mourns over Siegfried’s body.
enigma. He does not at first admit the deed, nor does he deny it. In fact, he is silent on the matter. It is Gunther who speaks in Hagen’s defense. But is Gunther’s authority so absolute that his word goes unquestioned? It has not seemed so, thus far. These are all loose ends, questions, and puzzles that scholars have tried to reconcile for centuries. Perhaps the tragic events merely provide a forum in which the author can explore the issue of heroism. Mueller believes that although some of the heroes in the story epitomize ‘‘the concept of heroic death as glory and fulfillment, the poet does not dwell upon the triumph which they voice; instead, we are reminded of the tragic aspects of their death and of the sorrow of their surviving friends and king.’’ It is true that death and destruction are paramount in the story. Indeed, it might be argued that there are no heroes in Nibelungenlied. A character like Hagen may represent the ideals of chivalry, integrity, and loyalty, but these ideals are reduced to barbarous cruelty. The same might be said for Kriemhild, Hagen’s only equal in
4 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
the story. Fidelity in Hagen breeds barbarity rather than valor. Gunther himself has come under much critical fire. Thalen suggests that Siegfried’s wooing of Kriemhild serves as a foil for Gunther’s wooing of Brunhild. She suggests that by ‘‘juxtaposing Siegfried’s valorous feats with Gunther’s anxious inactivity, the author effects a devastating portrayal of the Burgundian king.’’ This is indeed a scathing commentary on Gunther, but not an uncommon one. The reader might find it disturbing that the king and leader of a conquering dynasty should be portrayed as weak and ineffectual; unless, of course, the author’s purpose is to highlight the deeds and personalities of Siegfried and Hagen, which he does. Thus the issue of heroism arises again. Thelen criticizes Gunther for his weak nature in those scenes in which he welcomes guests: ‘‘Gunther is challenged and each time he responds in awed silence, necessitating the quick wits of others to preserve his honor.’’ These are not the actions of a hero, nor a leader in either the medieval or the modern sense.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Also, what about Rudiger’s moral struggle at the end? How does one reconcile the two conflicting worlds he has found himself between? Rudiger in many senses represents the best of both worlds. He is an exemplary feudal vassal and a loyal and trustworthy friend. These two ideals should not conflict, and yet they do. Is the reader left with only a mixed bag of history, legend, and myth with only tragic threads to connect it all? What is the message of the Nibelungenlied, or does it have one? In reading a text that admits so many contradictions and causes such critical disagreement, readers are left to decide for themselves. Perhaps the merging of two genres, epic and romance, raises and attempts to answer all of the questions. It should not be necessary for the author to choose between one genre and another one. Nor should it be necessary for Rudiger to choose between feudal bonds and friendship. With this in mind, readers should try to reconcile the merging of two literary genres, romance and epic, and try to determine how and why they work together in this tragic story. Source: Laurelle LeVert, Critical Essay on Nibelungenlied, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
D. G. Mowatt In the following essay, Mowatt discusses the literary merits of Nibelungenlied and its role as the German national epic. The Nibelungenlied has on occasion been compared to the Iliad. The fact that Germans have been impelled to make, and foreigners disposed to deride, such a comparison, is revealing in itself, for it shows the veneration both works have suffered. Assessment of their literary merit has been geographically conditioned, with Homer belonging to western civilization as a whole, and the Nibelungenlied for the most part only to Germany. But in both cases scholars have painstakingly erected a barrier between heritage and inheritors. The occasional whiff of vanished glory that came over has been made to serve the literary and political establishment. The interesting circumstance that both works deal with events and customs that must have appeared exotic, if not bizarre, to their authors, is not emphasized. The suggestion that the virtues of our Achaean or Germanic ancestors could have been held up to bardic ridicule is discouraged. And yet they obviously are. Agamemnon, as Robert Graves points out in the introduction
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
RU¨DEGER . . . IS PATHETICALLY CAUGHT IN A DILEMMA OF HIS OWN MAKING. HIS HOSPITALITY AND HIS READINESS TO OBLIGE A LADY, BOTH EXCELLENT SOCIAL QUALITIES, HAVE TIED HIM EQUALLY TO THE BURGUNDIANS AND TO KRIEMHILDE. OBSESSIVE GENEROSITY, DESIGNED TO WIN LIFELONG FRIENDS, PROVIDES THE INSTRUMENT OF HIS DEATH.’’
to his recent translation, The Anger of Achilles (1959), is completely out of his depth throughout most of the Iliad. What poet, after all, would wish to identify himself with a bloodthirsty, conceited and obstinate king, who is not successful even by his own standards, and eventually comes to a sticky end? And the career of King Gunther in the Nibelungenlied is no more exemplary. Like Agamemnon, he is killed in ignominious circumstances, by a woman. Admittedly she is only his sister. But his wife shows little respect for his kingly person either: she removes him from their conjugal bed on the first night, and hangs him on a convenient nail till morning. It seems that the whole concept of royal infallibility was at least questionable in the eyes of these two poets. The Nibelungenlied goes further in this direction than Homer, and the efforts of its scholarly guardians not to notice the fact have been correspondingly stronger. Unfortunately, the increase in narrative detachment seems to have involved a deterioration in traditional cliche´s, so that the recitals of bloody deeds and barbaric splendours are even more perfunctory in the Nibelungenlied than in the Iliad. Stripped of its irony, the Nibelungenlied is tedious in the extreme, and can only be taken seriously by someone in desperate need of a heroic past. The blond Germanic beast marching bravely towards his fate is not to everyone’s taste. Nor, for that matter, is the hidebound medieval court, obsessed with power and protocol. As long as these two elements were kept isolated, and regarded with bovine earnestness, the
V o l u m e
2
4 7 9
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Nibelungenlied was guaranteed a cool reception by most people, and in most ages. It was offered, and rejected, as a work extolling two self-contradictory orthodoxies, neither of which is very interesting in itself. Luckily, however, orthodoxies are seldom sacred in literature and the Nibelungenlied is no exception to this rule. Positions are certainly taken up in the work, but they clash, sometimes comically, sometimes tragically, and very little is left of any of them at the end. The particular pretensions chosen for undermining were historically conditioned. Instead of Trafalgar, the sanctity of the home and the royal family, for instance, they had their heroic past, the sanctity of woman and an ideal of courtly behaviour. Instead of the hydrogen bomb, or sex, they had mythical figures like Sifrid and Bru¨nnhilde on which to focus their hopes and fears. Much work has been devoted to finding out something about the author, and the literary tradition in which he worked. . . . . The yield is meagre: he was an unknown poet, probably of knightly (i.e. unexceptionable) status, writing at the turn of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. He was probably Austrian, and may have worked for a certain Bishop of Passau. He must have known earlier versions of parts (perhaps the whole) of the material he was using, because variations on the same characters and situations are found scattered throughout Scandinavian and German literature. Any attempt to achieve greater precision on this score must be speculative. All the Scandinavian sources are later than the Nibelungenlied, although parts of them must be based on much earlier material . . . . In Germany there is the Hildebrandslied (written down at Fulda in the ninth century), which treats the story of Dietrich, Hildebrand and his son in archaic and highly idiosyncratic language. It is possible that the Nibelungenlied poet was familiar with a version of this poem, but if so he made no use of it. The Walther story referred to by Hildebrand in stanza 2344 is similarly unexploited, apart from this one mention. The truth is there are no immediate sources; and those who need something to compare with the finished product have been reduced to reconstructing earlier versions for themselves. The process is circular, and the result unverifiable . . . . It seems reasonably certain that there were in existence a number of short episodic lays clustering round such figures as Sifrid, Bru¨nnhilde, Dietrich, Hagen and Kriemhilde; and perhaps an extended
4 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
narrative treating the downfall of the Burgundians. Nothing is established for these works beyond the bare probability of their existence. The ultimate sources of the Nibelungenlied are much easier to discern. They are: legend (from a heroic past in the fourth to sixth centuries), chivalry (an orthodoxy from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries) and myth. The wars and great migrations following the advent of the Huns in eastern Europe threw up legendary heroes like Theoderic (Dietrich) of Verona, Hildebrand, Hagen and Gundaharius (Gunther), King of the Burgundians. Some of these men actually existed, as Theodoric, who ruled over Italy from 493 to 526, and Gundaharius, whose kingdom by the Rhine was in fact destroyed by the Huns (though not under Attila) in 435. Others, like Hildebrand, are just prototypes of the Germanic fighting hero. These figures carry their legendary past with them, and their social unit is the family or tribe, As might be expected from their origins, there is often something of the landless knight or exile about them, especially when heroic exploits are involved. But the details of their dress, speech, eating and courting habits, public rituals and, in the case of Ru¨deger at least, of their moral preoccupations, are taken from medieval courtly society. These details constitute the second, or chivalric, element. The third, or mythological, element is embodied in figures like Sifrid, Bru¨nnhilde and Alberich the dwarf, who stand out as belonging to no society at all, as being in some way subhuman or superhuman. So much for the ingredients. The mixture seems to have gone down well, to judge from the number of manuscripts which have survived, and it is not difficult to see why. Past greatness, present pretensions and the possibility of rejuvenation (or destruction) from outside—this is a combination which must exercise a perpetual fascination for all self-conscious societies. It is true that an expansive community may believe for short periods that sophistication is an irreversible process; but recent history has shown how easily the most complex network of relationships can be reduced to primitive posturing, given the right circumstances. And this is exactly what happens in the Nibelungenlied, where a highly developed society reverts under strain. We are shown, first of all, the court at Worms. It is presided over by the brothers Gunther, Gernot and Giselher, and actually run by Hagen. Everyone
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
knows his place, and there are set procedures for every situation. They are, on the whole, a tedious and complacent company. Their sister Kriemhilde is outwardly an exemplary Burgundian lady, but she shows signs of being self-willed about her emotional life (stanza 17), and has an ominous future foretold for her (stanza 14). The court at Santen is much the same. As at Worms, the homogeneity extends to the names Sigebert and Sigelinde, but their son Sifrid is even more of a misfit than Gunther’s sister. Not only is his name wrong (just as Kriemhilde refuses to alliterate with her brothers), but he has a rather unorthodox past. As we later learn from Hagen, he is invulnerable, has slain a dragon and owns a magic treasure. The court at Isenstein, by contrast, is dominated by a single remarkable woman, determined to rely on her own strength until the right man arrives. Her demands are quite simple: he must be the best (i.e. the strongest and bravest) man available. This is not perhaps so very different from the standard applied at Worms, where the king is by definition endowed with both these qualities. But the really anti-social thing about Bru¨nnhilde is that she insists on putting royal pretensions to the test, and killing all the mighty monarchs who fail. She is a challenge to people like Gunther to justify their title. Of course Gunther himself is no fool, and would never dream of exposing himself to such a blast of reality; but the arrival of Sifrid opens up new possibilities. Here, suddenly, is a man who equates kingship with conquest (stanzas 108 ff.), just like Bru¨nnhilde, and who is eminently capable of meeting the challenge. Moreover he wants to marry Gunther’s sister, and is prepared to go to any lengths to do so. Presented with this happy circumstance, it is an easy matter for the practised diplomat to manipulate Sifrid into satisfying all Bru¨nnhilde’s demands incognito, leaving all the credit, and the tangible prize, to Gunther. There is the rather intimate question of the bed, but after that has been solved and hushed up the glory of Burgundy seems assured. The thing which destroys the foundations, if not at first the complacency of Worms, is the tension between inflated appearance and mean reality. The qualities in Sifrid and Bru¨nnhilde that eventually uncover this tension are precisely those which the Burgundians have tried to use for their own aggrandizement. Bru¨nnhilde is too honest and uncompromising to accept the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
official version of Sifrid’s status, and once again she insists on putting appearances to the test. The quarrel between the two queens and the ritual murder of Sifrid are the result. Sifrid’s own crime is simply to behave in character. He is quite willing to let the Burgundians use his strength, but he makes no attempt to disguise his superiority. He is quite blandly indifferent to all the jealousies, rules and compromises which hold the society together. He is not interested in money (stanzas 558, 694–5), status (stanza 386), face-saving ceremony (stanzas 748–9) or political etiquette (stanzas 314–15). And, worst of all, he seems to have forgotten all about the sanctity of women as soon as he married Kriemhilde (stanzas 858, 894). Such innocence is in itself provocative. His one vulnerable spot is known only to Kriemhilde, and she, like a good Burgundian, betrays it to Hagen. With Sifrid dead, and his treasure hastily dumped in the Rhine, it is left to Kriemhilde and Hagen to fight it out. In the process, the whole way of life at Burgundy is inexorably deflated and destroyed. The last magnificent tournament ends in a brutal killing; the elaborate political speeches are reduced to childish defiance; the subtly interlocking loyalties and prohibitions to blind tribal solidarity; the splendid feasting and drinking to the final macabre meal of blood, with corpses for benches. The mighty king is trussed up, and slaughtered by his sister. The crown of courtly womanhood is carved up by Dietrich’s retainer. Loyalty and good faith, made for security, are turned to destruction, so that allegiance to either side is the equivalent of a death sentence. Neutrality, on the other hand, is impossible, as even Dietrich discovers. He does, it is true, survive, but stripped of all the relationships which he and Hildebrand had built up round themselves (stanza 2319). Ru¨deger, a much weaker and more dependent character, is pathetically caught in a dilemma of his own making. His hospitality and his readiness to oblige a lady, both excellent social qualities, have tied him equally to the Burgundians and to Kriemhilde. Obsessive generosity, designed to win lifelong friends, provides the instrument of his death. The bonds that once held society together now destroy it. At Etzel’s court everyone is an exile. Source: D. G. Mowatt, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Nibelun genlied, translated by D. G. Mowatt, Dent, 1962, pp. v x.
V o l u m e
2
4 8 1
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
Arthur E. Huston and Patricia McCoy In the following excerpt, Huston and McCoy explore possible source material for the Nibelungenlied. They commend this epic’s blending of historical fact with mythic elements, and they speculate that the work was written by a single author. The Nibelungenlied, like the Beowulf, is a poem embodying materials drawn from Germanic history, mythology, and legend, a story of ‘‘old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago.’’ . . . It contains the story of Siegfried, dragon-slayer and winner of the treasure of the Nibelungs; his courtship of Kriemhild, sister of Gunther, King of the Burgundians, and their marriage; his winning of Brunhild, by a trick, for Gunther; the feud between Brunhild and Kriemhild; the murder of Siegfried by Gunther’s vassal, Hagen; the marriage of Kriemhild to Etzel, King of the Huns, and Etzel’s invitation to the Burgundians; the death of Gunther and Hagen in Etzel’s hall; and finally, the death of Kriemhild. We recognize parts of this story from our knowledge of its most recent version, that found in Wagner’s operas called the Ring of the Nibelungs. We notice, also, that Wagner’s version is in many respects quite different from that of the Nibelungenlied. Wagner saw the story as one in which the most important personages were Siegfried and Brunhild, and, like many Germans of his time, he thought of them as figures drawn from the Germanic pantheon: a culture-hero, almost a demi-god, and a Valkyr, a battlemaiden, the chooser of the slain destined for Valhalla. In order to attain his artistic objective, he wrote two operas, Das Rheingold and Die Walku¨re, which tell of the events preceding the story of Siegfried and the rival queens found in the Nibelungenlied. In the central opera, Siegfried, he tells the story of the dragon-slaying and the winning of the hoard, and includes an event scarcely glanced at in the Nibelungenlied, the betrothal of Siegfried and Brunhild. And in the final opera of the cycle Die Go¨tterda¨mmerung (The Twilight of the Gods), he tells of the murder of Siegfried and the self-immolation of Brunhild on his funeral pyre, this last incident also not found in the Nibelungenlied. Wagner’s version, also, makes much more use of Germanic mythology than does the Nibelungenlied. The Middle High German poem, written in a thoroughly Christian atmosphere, could not well bring in Wotan, the principal deity of the Germanic pantheon; but Wagner’s presentation
4 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
THE ADAPTATION OF HISTORY TO LEGEND IS THE PREROGATIVE OF THE EPIC POET, WHO NEED HAVE NO CONCERN WITH FACT AS SUCH.’’
of the story demanded the presence of these gods. For such materials he went to the versions of the story current in medieval Scandinavia, preserved in the Eddas, and, most completely, in the thirteenth-century Icelandic Volsungasaga. The Volsungasaga tells a story very like that found in the Nibelungenlied, but it contains also other elements not found in the Germanic poem, especially the story of the birth of Siegfried (called Sigurd in the Norse), and the events which took place after the death of Gunther (Gunnar) and Hagen (Hogni). Although it was written down some two hundred years after the Nibelungenlied, it was not in the least influenced by that poem; rather, it is another version of the same story, drawn from the same source. And here we must repeat what we said earlier, that the Nibelungenlied is a poem embodying elements drawn from Germanic mythology, legend, and history. In the Nibelungenlied, it is true, the mythological elements are of the slightest, if indeed, strictly speaking, they exist at all. Folklore material is there in plenty: the slaying of the dragon, for instance, and the Tarnkappe, the hood of invisibility, are matters met with in many fairy tales. Basically, however, the story is legend founded on history. The historical fact underlying the legends, found widely throughout the Germanic-speaking areas, is the destruction of the Burgundian capital at Worms, in 437, by the Huns, whose king was Attila. We recognize that this must be the same name as Etzel, found in the Nibelungenlied, and Atli, in the Volsungasaga. The Burgundian princes, was we know from an early document called the ‘‘Law of the Burgundians,’’ were named Gibica, Gundahari, and Gislahari: and these must be the same names as Gibich, father of Gunther, Gernot and Giselher. The treacherous invitation of Etzel at his wife’s prompting, and his killing of Gunther and Hagen, must be a legendary reflection of the defeat of the Burgundians, for people do not celebrate their defeats in their stories;
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
rather, they adapt history to legend in order to explain their defeats. Modern examples of this phenomenon are not lacking. The adaptation of history to legend is the prerogative of the epic poet, who need have no concern with fact as such. Theodoric of Verona, or Dietrich von Bern, another famous German legendary and historical figure, died in 526; yet the Nibelungenlied-poet has him present at the death of Kriemhild, which must have been nearly a century earlier. Probably the poet was not in the least aware that he was mixing up his centuries, for he was a poet, not a historian, and, just as Wagner was to do many centuries later, he used whatever material he had as his artistic necessities demanded. The Germanic values of the Nibelungenlied still prevail, beneath the courtly fac¸ade. Gunther is a medieval prince, adept in political intrigue; but it is not difficult to see in him, as in King Siegfried, the earlier ‘‘bestower-of-rings’’ and ‘‘shield-of-knights.’’ This courtliness, however, owes something to the expanding influences of French models. None of the earlier Germanic stories takes any great interest in romantic love; and love between man and woman is one of the primary forces of the Nibelungenlied. In this the epic is the product of its time, the late Middle Ages; for romantic love was not earlier a source of the question of loyalties. The Nibelungenlied-poet could have found easy scope for lyricism in the magical background of the poem. The ring and girdle of Brunhild, the winning of the Hoard, the awakening of Brunhild within the circle of fire—these episodes, and many more, could have carried him from his artistic purpose. Fortunately, these temptations were not victorious; perhaps, if they had prevailed, the Nibelungenlied would be only another interesting lay of medieval Germany. As in other poetry of epic stature, however, the mythological tradition behind the creation of the work is either told in episodic, narrative fashion, or implied. In the Nibelungenlied, most of this material is implied. It is very difficult to trace the mechanical techniques by which the effect is accomplished. Why does Brunhild tower over Kriemhild, in spite of their mutual ownership of the magical objects of power, and the greater number of lines which are given to Kriemhild and her revenge? Why, without a single explicit line of proof, does Hagen tower above Gunther, worthy to be the nemesis of Siegfried and the last of the men of Nibelung to die in battle? Even without any
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
knowledge of the Eddas or the Volsungasaga, any perceptive reader can feel their stature. Keeping the mystic elements in the background, the poet of the Nibelungenlied saves his lyric power for more human and personal topics, as does Dante in the episode of Paolo and Francesca in the Divine Comedy. The German poet’s description of Siegfried’s first meeting with Kriemhild is scarcely to be rivaled: Even as the full moon stands before the stars, so pure in her radiance that all clouds must run away before her, so did she stand in beauty among her ladies.
For Dante’s Francesca, ‘‘the greatest pain of all is remembrance of past happiness in present woe’’; for Kriemhild, ‘‘all pleasure, no matter how sweet, must at last turn to pain.’’ But, whether the emphasis be upon fate or upon the Christian eternity, the sweetest passages in both epics are those of human love. Scholarly search for the author of the Nibelungenlied has, to date, been inconclusive. A bishop of the late tenth century—Pilgrim of Passau—had created most of the main incidents of the story, as his own version of popular legend; he is accepted as a main source for the poem. A Minnesinger known as ‘‘Der Kurenberger’’ is known to have written at least fifteen detached stanzas in the same metre. Yet, although the ‘‘folk-epic’’ theory of the nineteenth century has long been in disrepute, no valid scholarship has established the identity of the poet. The uniformity of style, as well as the method of incorporating myth, points to a single author. Karl Lachmann, the Germanic scholar, has found at least twenty lays of ancient origin which seem to form a part of the poem; his research, although of the ‘‘folk-epic’’ school, has indicated to many modern critics the probability of individual authorship; it is unlikely, they argue, that these vastly rich background sources could have been coordinated in such a manner by a ‘‘folkauthor.’’ Furthermore, his nineteen ‘‘twelfthcentury additions’’ would appear to indicate a uniformity too great for a ‘‘folk epic.’’ It is, in fact, unlikely that any poem of epic stature could have been other than individual in authorship. An epic cannot have ‘‘the quality of growth, rather than of authorship,’’ although centuries of growth may lie behind it. Some critics believe that the Nibelungenlied was, in its earliest form, meant to be sung rather than read. Its verse-form, a four-line strophe, instead of the couplet-form of the later romantic
V o l u m e
2
4 8 3
N i b e l u n g e n l i e d
epics, seems to corroborate this theory. There can be little doubt that the early lays of which it is formed were sung in courtly circles. But the music of the German epic is not the music of the Minnesinger; there is now little question that it was meant to be read. There were, as we have seen, many versions of the story available, but this does not mean that it grew by itself from the songs of minstrels. The story of the fall of the Burgundian kingdom must have inspired many poets, even as the absorption of the Geats led to the creation of the semi-mythological Beowulf. But, as the Beowulf is now accepted as the creation of an individual, so must the Nibelungenlied have been a unification of many poetic tales by one author. Its simplicity and uniformity of diction, its classical richness, so well disciplined, seem ample testimony, combined with the usual linguistic and literary tests, of its single authorship. But it is very pleasant to think of the poem as recited to the sound of harps. Its meter, with the marked caesura, the measured half-line of three feet, with the last half-line of each strophe extended to four feet, seems admirably suited to such presentation. However, the careful artistic variation of accent indicates that it was meant to be read. Source: Arthur E. Hustson and Patricia McCoy, ‘‘Nibelun genlied,’’ in Epics of the Western World, J. B. Lippincott, 1954, pp. 297 336.
SOURCES Andersson, Theodore Murdock, A Preface to the ‘‘Nibe lungenlied,’’ Stanford University Press, 1987.
FURTHER READING Boggs, Roy A., ‘‘The Popular Image of Brunhild,’’ in The Roles and Images of Women in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, edited by Douglas Radcliff Umstead, Uni versity of Pittsburgh Press, 1975. Boggs discusses the various interpretations of Brunhild’s role in the Nibelungenlied and in other works. Guerber, H. A., Legends of the Middle Ages, Narrated with Special Reference to Literature and Art, Archibald Press, 2009. This book is a reprint of the famous 1896 general survey of romance literature that covers stories from Norse, Scandinavian, German, British, French, and Spanish cultures, including the heroes Beowulf, Charlemagne, King Arthur, El Cid, and Bordeaux. Haymes, Edward R., The ‘‘Nibelungenlied’’: History and Interpretation, University of Illinois Press, 1986. This work discusses the relevance of medieval literature to a modern audience and the genesis of oral and written culture in the Middle Ages. Haymes deals with the structural and thematic issues presented in the Nibelungenlied. Haymes, Edward R., and Susann T. Samples, Heroic Legends of the North: An Introduction to the Nibelung and Dietrich Cycles, Garland, 1996. Haymes and Samples explore the sources for the Nibelungenlied. They discuss the history and development of heroic poetry and epic and the legends of the Germanic peoples. This book also deals with the evolution of heroic legends from oral transmission to written literature. McConnell, Winder, et al., eds., The Nibelungen Tradition: An Encyclopedia, Garland, 2001. This indispensable reference guide brings together literary and secondary sources relevant to the Nibelungenlied.
Gentry, Francis, ‘‘Hagen and the Problem of Individu ality in the Nibelungenlied,’’ in Monatshefte, Vol. 68, 1976, pp. 5 12. Johnson, Daniel, ‘‘Gesamtkunstwerk,’’ in New Criterion, Vol. 24, No. 6, 2007, p. 66. Lo¨sel Wieland Engelmann, Berta, ‘‘Feminist Repercus sions of a Literary Research Project,’’ in Atlantis, Vol. 6, No. 1, Fall 1980, pp. 84 90. Mueller, Werner A., The ‘‘Nibelungenlied’’ Today: Its Substance, Essence, and Significance, AMS Press, 1966. Thelen, Lynn D., ‘‘The Internal Source and Function of King Gunther’s Bridal Quest,’’ in Monatshefte, Vol. 76, 1984, pp. 143 55. Weik, Elke, ‘‘Myths in Transformation Processes,’’ in International Studies of Management & Organization, Vol. 31, No. 2, 2001, p. 9.
4 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Nibelungenlied epic literature Nibelungenlied AND Siegfried Nibelungenlied AND Kriemhild Nibelungenlied AND chivalry Nibelungenlied AND feudalism
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Odyssey Homer’s Odyssey is generally considered to be the sequel to the Iliad. Unlike many sequels in the modern era, however, the Odyssey actually seems to be an improvement, in some respects, on the original and is quite capable of standing as an independent work.
HOMER C. 700 BCE
Odysseia, which has been this poem’s name in Greek since Herodotus called it that in the fifth century BCE , means simply ‘‘the story of Odysseus.’’ That story refers to the ten-year-long return trip of Odysseus from Troy to his island home of Ithaca, off the west coast of Greece. Because the epic pertains to this long journey, the term odyssey has since come to mean any significant and difficult journey. For more than fifteen hundred years, the Iliad and the Odyssey set the western standard by which epic poetry was judged. The epic form in poetry seemed to die out with Milton’s Paradise Lost, but the story of Odysseus has remained a perennial favorite. Robert Fagles’s translation of the Odyssey, a Penguin Classics edition, appeared in 2006.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Everything known about Homer is either traditional, mythical, or some kind of an educated guess. Traditionally, probably following the Odyssey and one of the so-called Homeric hymns from the middle of the seventh century BCE ,
4 8 5
O d y s s e y
scholars to assign Homer to the middle or late part of the eighth century BCE Accurate dating of Homer’s poems is impossible, but it is generally thought that the Iliad is the older of the two, as the Odyssey displays certain advanced stylistic features. Both poems were completed before the Peisistratid dynasty came to power in Athens in the sixth century BCE , as a member of that family commissioned a standard edition of the poems and ordered that both the Iliad and the Odyssey be recited in full at the Great Panathenaia, a religious festival in honor of Athena, which was observed in Athens every four years. There have been various controversies about Homer since his time, beginning with the contention over just exactly where and when he was born, lived, and died. Some scholars have questioned whether Homer existed at all, whether he actually wrote the poems attributed to him or compiled them from popular folklore, and whether the same person is responsible for both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Many scholars likely would agree that there was an epic poet called Homer and that this poet was instrumental in producing the Iliad and Odyssey in their known forms.
Homer (Hulton Archive / Getty Images)
Homer, like his own character Demodocus, was believed to be a blind bard or singer of tales. At least seven different places have claimed that Homer was born on their soil in the ancient world. The two with the strongest claims are the island of Chios and the city of Smyrna (modern Izmir, in Turkey). Because he records many details of Ionian geography and seems to know less about other areas (like western Greece, where part of the Odyssey is set), and because the most common dialect in Homer’s Greek is Ionic, many scholars believe that Homer probably lived and worked in Ionia, the region along the west coast of what is now Turkey. When Homer lived and wrote is open for debate. Some ancient writers believed that Homer lived relatively close to the time of the events he described. The fifth-century historian Herodotus in his Histories said that Homer could not possibly have lived more than four hundred years before the fifth century. Nonetheless, the rediscovery of writing by the Greeks around 750 BCE and the development, at about the same time, of some of the fighting techniques described in the Iliad have led
4 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
PLOT SUMMARY The Background to the Story After ten years, the Trojan War is over and the Achaeans head for home, with varying results. Some, like Nestor, come home quickly to find things pretty much as they left them. Others, like Agamemnon, make it home quickly but find things considerably changed. Still others, like Menelaus, wander for a time but eventually return home safely and little the worse for wear. Odysseus, by contrast, has no end of trouble getting home. As the story opens, it is the tenth year since the end of the war, a full twenty years since Odysseus sailed off for Troy with the rest of the Achaean forces.
Book 1: Athena Inspires Telemachus In a council of the gods, Athena asks her father why Odysseus is still stuck on Calypso’s island, ten years after the end of the war. Zeus responds that Poseidon is angry at Odysseus for having blinded his son, Polyphemus. But since Poseidon
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
In 1641, Claudio Monteverdi composed the opera Il Ritorno d’Ulisse in Patria (The Return of Ulysses), treating Odysseus’s return to Ithaca after his journey.
In 1928, Richard Strauss composed the opera Die a¨gyptische Helena, based on the account of Helen’s visit to Egypt in Book 4 of the Odyssey.
In 1954, Dino De Laurentiis produced the film Ulisse (released in English as Ulysses in the same year), directed by Mario Camerini and starring Kirk Douglas as Ulysses and Anthony Quinn as Antinoos. This film was re-released as a DVD in 2009.
In 1963, Pietro Francisci directed the film Ercole sfida Sansone, released in 1965 in the United States as Hercules, Samson, and Ulysses. The 1967 British film Ulysses, based on the 1922 James Joyce novel by the same title, starred Martin Dempsey and Barbara Jefford.
In 1967, the British rock band Cream, made up of Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, and Ginger Baker, recorded the song ‘‘Tales of Brave Ulysses’’ on their second album, Disraeli Gears. The song includes characters, themes, and motifs from the epic.
There is at least a symbolic link between Homer’s poem and the classic 1968 MGM
is temporarily out of the country, so to speak, Zeus gives her permission to begin arrangements for Odysseus’s return. Athena goes to Ithaca in disguise and inspires Odysseus’s son Telemachus to go in search of news of his father. Heartened by her words, Telemachus announces his intention to sail to the mainland.
Book 2: Telemachus Sails to Pylos Telemachus calls an assembly and asks for assistance in getting to the mainland. His independent attitude does not sit well with his mother’s suitors,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
production 2001: A Space Odyssey, directed by Stanley Kubrick and starring Keir Dullea.
In 1969, Radiotelevisione Italiana (RAI) produced a television version of the epic, directed by Mario Bara and Franco Rossi. In May 1997, NBC television produced a two-part miniseries of the Odyssey, starring Armand Assante, Isabella Rossellini, Vanessa Williams, and Irene Pappas. This production was re-released on DVD by Lionsgate Studios in 2001. The 1996 Penguin Highbridge Audio cassette of the Odyssey uses the Robert Fagles translation and is narrated by Sir Ian McKellen.
The 2000 Universal Pictures film O Brother, Where Art Thou? is a comical remake of the Odyssey set in the 1930s South with bluegrass music.
Noted storyteller Sebastian Lockwood produced a one-man video of his performance of the Odyssey in 2006. The Perseus Project at Tufts University, which was available as of 2010 on CD-ROM from Yale University Press, offers both the original Greek text and the Loeb Classical Library translation in English, together with background information on many of the characters and places in the poem.
who oppose him in the assembly so that he does not receive the aid he seeks. After making secret preparations, Telemachus and the disguised Athena depart for Pylos that same evening.
Book 3: Nestor Tells What He Knows Telemachus and Athena arrive in Pylos to find Nestor and his family offering sacrifice to Poseidon. After joining in the ritual, Telemachus introduces himself to Nestor and explains his purpose in coming. Nestor has heard news of the return of both Menelaus and Agamemnon, which he relates
V o l u m e
2
4 8 7
O d y s s e y
to Telemachus, but has had no news of Odysseus since sailing home from Troy ten years previously. Nestor sends Telemachus, accompanied by one of his sons, Pisistratus, to visit Menelaus in Sparta.
Demodocus’s skill and offers him a prime cut of his own portion. When Demodocus sings the story of the Trojan Horse, Odysseus begins crying again, and Alcinous asks Odysseus who he is and why stories about Troy make him cry.
Book 4: In the Home of Menelaus and Helen Telemachus and Pisistratus arrive at Menelaus’s home as he is celebrating a wedding and are warmly entertained by Menelaus and Helen. Menelaus tells a long story of his adventures on the way home from Troy, including news that he got from Proteus in Egypt that Odysseus was alive on Calypso’s island. Meanwhile, back in Ithaca, the suitors learn of Telemachus’s secret departure and are not pleased. They plot to ambush and kill him on his way home. Penelope also learns of her son’s departure.
Book 5: Odysseus Sets Sail for Home and Gets Shipwrecked At another council of the gods, Zeus orders Hermes to go to Calypso and tell her that she is to let Odysseus leave for Ithaca. Calypso is unhappy, but obeys the order. She offers Odysseus a chance to become immortal and to live with her forever, an offer which he tactfully declines. Odysseus builds a raft with tools and materials she provides and sails toward home until Poseidon comes back from feasting with the Ethiopians and wrecks the raft in a storm. Odysseus, with the help of a sea goddess, is washed safely ashore in the land of the Phaeacians.
Book 6: Nausicaa Encounters a Stranger Inspired in a dream by Athena, the Princess Nausicaa goes with several of her maids to do the royal laundry. The washing place is near where Odysseus has fallen asleep, hidden in a bush. Odysseus asks Nausicaa for help; she gives him some clothing to wear and sends him into town to find the palace of her father, Alcinous.
Book 7: Odysseus and the King of Phaeacia Odysseus arrives safely at the palace and begs the assistance of King Alcinous and Queen Arete. He gives an edited version of his adventures to date but does not disclose his identity. He deftly turns aside Alcinous’s suggestion that he should remain in Phaeacia and marry Nausicaa.
Book 8: The Phaeacians Entertain Odysseus The Phaeacians treat Odysseus to a day of feasting, song, and athletic events. When Odysseus begins weeping during Demodocus’s tale of the Trojan War, Alcinous cuts the banquet short. At dinner that evening, Odysseus speaks highly of
4 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
Book 9: Odysseus Tells His Story Polyphemus and the Cyclopes Odysseus reveals his identity and tells his story, beginning with his departure from Troy with twelve ships. He sacks Ismarus in Thrace, is blown off course to the land of the Lotus-Eaters, and eventually reaches the island of the Cyclopes, one-eyed giants who live in rustic anarchy. Odysseus and the crew of his ship go to investigate this island and end up in Polyphemus’s cave. The giant rolls a stone across the cave’s entrance, and, finding strangers inside, promptly turns a couple of Odysseus’s men into his dinner. After a similar breakfast, he goes out with his flocks, leaving Odysseus and his men penned in the cave. Upon Polyphemus’s return, they manage to get the giant drunk, blind him, and then sneak out of the cave under the bellies of his sheep and goats. As they make their escape, Odysseus unwisely reveals his true name, and Polyphemus asks his father Poseidon to avenge his injury.
Book 10: Odysseus Tells His Story At the Islands of Aeolus and Circe Odysseus and his surviving crewmen now sail to the island of Aeolus, king of the winds. Aeolus gives Odysseus a bag containing all the winds that would prevent his reaching home. They sail away and come close enough to Ithaca to see the watch-fires, when Odysseus falls asleep at the helm and his crew, thinking the bag contains a hoard of gold, untie it and release the captive winds, which blow them right back to Aeolus’s island. Aeolus refuses to have anything more to do with them. Odysseus and his crew set sail once more and eventually reach the land of the Laestrygonians, who destroy all but one of his ships. The survivors sail to Circe’s island, where most of them are promptly turned into pigs. Odysseus, forewarned by Hermes, avoids the sorceress’s trap and frees his men. They remain with Circe for a year before Odysseus’s men ask to leave. Circe tells Odysseus that he must first visit the underworld and consult with the shade of the prophet Tiresias on how best to get home.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
Book 11: Odysseus Tells His Story the House of the Dead
In
Obeying Circe’s instructions, Odysseus and his men sail to the underworld where they make sacrifices to Hades and Persephone and consult Tiresias. When Tiresias retires, the shades of Odysseus’s mother and several of his comrades at Troy appear, including those of Achilles and Agamemnon. Odysseus also witnesses the punishment of several notorious offenders against the gods.
Book 12: Odysseus Tells His Story Sun-God’s Cattle
The
Upon his return from the underworld, Odysseus receives sailing instructions from Circe on how to avoid the lure of the Sirens and how to get past the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis. Above all, Circe warns Odysseus not to harm the cattle of the sun-god on the island of Thrinacia. Cast upon Thrinacia by a fierce storm and out of provisions, Odysseus’s men disobey him and slaughter some of the cattle. The sun-god complains to Zeus, who destroys the ship with a thunderbolt. Only Odysseus survives, and he drifts to Calypso’s island by hanging on to the ship’s mast. This ends Odysseus’s story as told to the Phaeacians.
Book 13: Return to Ithaca and the Stone Ship The Phaeacians land Odysseus and all his treasures on Ithaca while he himself is deep asleep. Athena, in disguise, meets Odysseus, and he tries to trick her, without success, with a false story about himself. She reveals her identity and tells him how much she cares for him, and they plot a stratagem for dealing with Penelope’s suitors. After stowing Odysseus’s treasure safely in a cave, Athena disguises Odysseus as an ancient beggar and sends him on his way. Poseidon, angry that the Phaeacians have helped Odysseus get back to Ithaca, turns their ship into a huge stone, visible to onlookers on shore and rooted to the sea-bottom, as it sails into harbor on its return voyage.
Book 14: The Loyal Swineherd Odysseus makes his way to the dwelling of Eumaeus, a swineherd who has remained loyal to his long-absent employer. Odysseus, still in disguise, entertains Eumaeus with some ‘‘lying tales’’ about himself.
Book 15: Telemachus Heads for Home Telemachus takes his leave of Helen and Menelaus and tactfully evades Nestor’s further hospitality.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Telemachus offers passage to the seer Theoclymenus, who is fleeing vengeance for a kinsman’s death. Back in Ithaca, Eumaeus tells Odysseus the story of his life. Telemachus evades the suitors’ ambush and sends Theoclymenus home with a friend, as he intends to visit Eumaeus in the country before returning to the palace and the suitors.
Book 16: Father and Son Reunited Telemachus goes to Eumaeus’s hut, where Odysseus reveals himself to his son and impresses on him the need for secrecy and deception if they are to overcome the suitors. Meanwhile, the ship the suitors had sent out to ambush Telemachus returns, and the suitors try without success to come up with an alternative plan to get rid of him.
Book 17: A Beggar at the Gate Telemachus returns to the palace and speaks with his mother. Eumaeus brings Odysseus to the palace. On the way they encounter the goatherd Melanthius, an ally of the suitors, who insults Odysseus. As Odysseus enters the palace, an old hunting dog recognizes him and dies on the spot. Most of the suitors treat Odysseus with at least grudging respect, but Antinous throws a footstool at him. Penelope asks Eumaeus to arrange a meeting with the new visitor.
Book 18: The Two Beggar-Kings Odysseus is insulted by Irus, a professional beggar whom the suitors favor. The two men fight, much to the amusement of the suitors, and Odysseus quickly subdues Irus. Penelope comes to the hall to extract presents from the suitors and to announce her intention of remarrying. Odysseus is insulted by the maid Melantho and Eurymachus, one of the leading suitors, who throws another footstool at him.
Book 19: Penelope Interrogates Her Guest Odysseus and his son take all the weapons from the great hall, assisted by Athena. Melantho again insults Odysseus. Penelope speaks to the beggar, who claims to know Odysseus and tells her that he is nearby and will be home quickly. She does not believe him but orders his old nurse, Eurycleia, to wash him. The nurse recognizes Odysseus by a scar he received as a young man and is sworn to secrecy. Penelope details the trial of the bow by which she will choose her new husband on the following day.
V o l u m e
2
4 8 9
O d y s s e y
Book 20: Things Begin to Look Bad for the Suitors
CHARACTERS
Odysseus lays awake plotting revenge until Athena puts him to sleep. On the next day, the loyal oxherd Philoetius arrives at the palace, where Odysseus is again insulted by one of the suitors, Ctesippus, who throws an ox-foot at him. The suitors all laugh at this, which Theoclymenus interprets as a sign that they are all marked for death.
Achilles
Book 21: The Great Bow of Odysseus
Achilleus
Penelope fetches Odysseus’s hunting bow and announces the test: She will marry the man who can string the bow and shoot an arrow through the rings on twelve axe-heads set in a line in the ground. Odysseus reveals himself to his two loyal servants and enlists their help in getting revenge on the suitors. None of the suitors is able to string the bow; Telemachus is on the point of succeeding when Odysseus stops him. Telemachus, by prearrangement with his father, sends his mother from the hall and gives the bow to Odysseus, who strings it and shoots an arrow through the axes.
See Achilles
Book 22: The Death of the Suitors With his next arrow, Odysseus shoots Antinous and announces his true identity to the rest of the suitors. Odysseus, Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, assisted by the disguised Athena, kill the suitors. When all the suitors are dead, the disloyal maids are hanged, and Melanthius is punished. The loyal servants begin to clean the palace after the slaughter.
Book 23: The Reunion Old Eurycleia wakes Penelope with the news that her husband has returned and destroyed the suitors. Penelope refuses to believe it. When Odysseus answers her trick question about their marriage bed, she accepts him as her husband, and they retire to bed after making plans to deal with the relatives of the suitors whom Odysseus has just killed. Before they sleep, Odysseus tells his wife his true story.
Son of the mortal Peleus and the sea goddess Thetis, Achilles was the best warrior at the siege of Troy. Odysseus encounters his shade (spirit) in the underworld in Book 11 while waiting for the seer Tiresias to tell him how he is to return home after being delayed for ten years.
Aeacides See Achilles
Aeolus The son of Hippotas, Aeolus is beloved of the gods and Zeus put him in charge of the winds. He and his family (six sons married to six daughters) live on Aeolia, a floating island. After listening to Odysseus’s tales of Troy, he agrees to help and makes Odysseus a present of a bag containing all the adverse winds that could blow him off his proper course home. Unfortunately, Odysseus’s men untie the knot, thinking they will find gold in the bag, and the winds blow them back to Aeolia. Aeolus casts them out, saying he has no desire to help anyone who is so obviously cursed by the gods.
Agamemnon Son of Atreus, brother of Menelaus, and king of Mycenae, Agamemnon was the commander of the Achaean forces at Troy. Odysseus encounters his shade in the underworld while waiting for the seer Tiresias to tell him how to get home after ten years of wandering.
Aias See Ajax
Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser) Book 24: Peace at Last The suitors’ shades arrive in Hades and tell Agamemnon and Achilles of Odysseus’s triumphant revenge on them for their destruction of his estate. Odysseus goes to meet his aged father Laertes in the country and, after telling him another ‘‘lying tale,’’ reveals himself to his father. The suitors’ relatives arrive at that point, seeking vengeance for the death of their kinsmen. Athena and Zeus intervene in the fighting that ensues and, after a few of the suitors’ relatives are killed, Athena makes peace.
4 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
Son of Oileus and leader of the Locrians at Troy, Ajax is shipwrecked on his way home after the war. He boasts of having escaped the sea in spite of the gods—and is subsequently drowned by Poseidon. Odysseus encounters his shade in the underworld in Book 11.
Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater Son of Telamon and grandson of Aeacus (who was also grandfather of Achilles), Ajax was one of the bravest and strongest fighters at Troy.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
Odysseus encounters the shade of Ajax in the underworld and apologizes for the outcome of their contest at Achilles’s funeral games, but Ajax, angry with Odysseus even after death, refuses to speak to the man he believes had unfairly beaten him in life.
Arete Niece and wife of Alcinous and mother of Nausicaa, Arete is queen of the Phaeacians. Her name means virtue or excellence in Greek.
Artemis Daughter of Zeus and Leto, twin sister of Apollo, Artemis is a virgin goddess of the hunt, the moon, and, in some traditions, of childbirth and the young. As is frequently seen in the Odyssey, plagues and other diseases, and sometimes a peaceful death in old age, are often explained as being the result of ‘‘gentle arrows’’ shot by Artemis (for women) or by her brother Apollo (for men).
Ajax the Greater See Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater)
Ajax the Lesser See Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser)
Akhilleus
Athena
See Achilles
Alcinous Son of Nausithous, husband of Arete, and father of Nausicaa and Laodamas, Alcinous, whose name means sharp-witted or brave-witted, is king of Phaeacia and a grandson of Poseidon. Homer depicts him as a kind, generous, and noble man, eager to help the stranger and put him at ease. He suggests that Odysseus should stay in Phaeacia and marry his daughter.
Athena is the daughter of Zeus and Metis, who Zeus (following in the tradition of his own father, Cronus) swallowed when it was revealed that she would someday bear a son who would be lord of heaven (and thus usurp Zeus’s place). She was born, fully grown and in armor, from the head of Zeus after Hephaestus (or, in some traditions, Prometheus) split it open with an axe.
Athene See Athena
Atreides
Antinoos
See Agamemnon
See Antinous
Atrides Antinous
See Agamemnon
Son of Eupithes, Antinous (whose name literally means anti-mind and could be translated as mindless) is a bold, ambitious, and obnoxious suitor for Penelope’s hand.
Aphrodite Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love. According to Homer, she is the daughter of Zeus and Dione. She is married, though not faithful, to Hephaestus, god of fire and smithcraft.
Apollo The son of Zeus and Leto, and twin brother of Artemis, Apollo is the god of archery, prophecy, music, medicine, light, and youth. As is frequently seen in the Odyssey, plagues and other diseases, and sometimes a peaceful death in old age are often explained as being the result of ‘‘gentle arrows’’ shot by Apollo (for men) or by his sister Artemis (for women).
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Briseis Briseis is the war prize given to Achilles after his attack on Lyrnessus during the Trojan War. When Agamemnon has to give up Chryseis, he takes Briseis as compensation, and this action instigates the quarrel between him and Achilles.
Calypso Daughter of Atlas, who holds the world upon his shoulders, Calypso (whose name is related to the Greek verb to hide and which might therefore be translated as concealer) is a goddess who lives on the island of Ogygia. She has fallen in love with Odysseus during the seven years he has lived on her island and proposes to make him immortal, not a gift given lightly.
Circe Daughter of Helios (the sun-god) and Perse, and sister of Aeetes, the king of Colchis who so plagued
V o l u m e
2
4 9 1
O d y s s e y
Jason and the Argonauts, Circe is a minor goddess who ‘‘speaks with the speech of mortals.’’ She is also a powerful enchantress. Her specialty lies in turning men into pigs. Yet once she recognizes Odysseus and swears an oath not to harm him, she becomes the most charming of hostesses, so much so that Odysseus and his men remain with her an entire year.
go back. Eurylochus eventually turns on Odysseus and refuses to obey him on Thrinacia, instead urging the rest of the men to slaughter the sun-god’s cattle.
Eurylokhos See Eurylochus
Ctesippus
Eurymachos
Ctesippus is one of the suitors for Penelope. His name literally means horse-getter, so he may literally be a horse-thief.
See Eurymachus
Demodocus The blind bard, or poet, of the Phaeacian court, traditionally, Demodocus has been taken as representing Homer, but not all scholars accept this idea.
Demodokos See Demodocus
Eumaeus Son of Ctesius, who was king of two cities on the island of Syria (not to be confused with the Middle Eastern country of the same name), Eumaeus was kidnapped at a young age by one of his father’s serving women and taken by Phoenician traders, who sold him to Laertes, Odysseus’s father. Odysseus’s mother, Anticleia, raised him together with her own daughter, and then sent him to the country when the daughter was married. His name might mean something like one who seeks the good.
Eumaios See Eumaeus
Eurycleia Eurycleia is the long-time servant of Odysseus’s family. Odysseus’s father Laertes bought her in her youth for twenty oxen, a significant price. She was Odysseus’s nurse and later the nurse of Telemachus. In her old age, she attends Penelope.
Eurymachus Son of Polybus, Eurymachus is described as the ‘‘leading candidate’’ for Penelope’s hand. His name means wide-fighting. Eurymachus is arrogant, disrespectful, hypocritical, cowardly, and abusive. He is the second of the suitors to die by Odysseus’s hand. Odysseus’s words to him, after Eurymachus offers to make good on the damages the suitors have done to his household in his absence, are virtually the same as Achilles’s words in response to Agamemnon’s offer of a ransom for Briseis in Book 9 of the Iliad.
Eurymakhos See Eurymachus
Helen The wife of Menelaus, Helen went, apparently willingly, with Paris to Troy. The resulting war formed the background for Homer’s other epic poem, the Iliad. One might have expected Menelaus to be angry with Helen for running off to Troy, and she with him for having dragged her back. Instead, Homer describes in them a couple enjoying marital bliss: Helen and Menelaus are to all appearances deeply in love with one another and quite happy to be back in Sparta among their people and their possessions.
Eurylochos Kalypso
See Eurylochus
See Calypso
Eurylochus A companion of Odysseus, Eurylochus is the one who ties Odysseus to the mast to keep him from responding—fatally—to the song of the Sirens, and it is he who leads the first group of men to Circe’s palace, then has to report that they have not come back out and begs Odysseus not to make him
4 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
Kirke See Circe
Ktesippos See Ctesippus
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
Laertes Son of Arcesius (and thus a grandson of Zeus), husband of Anticleia, and father of Odysseus, Laertes was one of those (along with Menoetius, father of Patroclus; Peleus, father of Achilles; and Telamon, father of Ajax the Greater) who sailed with Jason on the Argo in the quest for the Golden Fleece, according to pseudo-Apollodorus. By the time the Odyssey begins, however, Laertes is old and worn by care and grief. His wife has died, his son has been absent for twenty years, first at the Trojan War and then on his wanderings home from it. Laertes has retired to a country estate, where he lives more like one of the servants than the owner.
regal, Nausicaa seems to think that he would make a suitable husband, a sentiment her father echoes. Her name, as with many of the Phaeacian characters, is related to the Greek word for ship, naus.
Nausikaa See Nausicaa
Nestor The only surviving son of Neleus, Nestor is the elderly king of Pylos, where it is said that he has reigned for three generations. Nestor’s role is that of the elder statesman and advisor.
Odysseus
Melanthios See Melanthius
Melanthius Son of Dolius, Melanthius is Odysseus’s goatherd. During his master’s long absence, Melanthius has become friendly with the suitors of Odysseus’s wife Penelope. He insults Odysseus as Eumaeus is bringing him into town and again on the morning of the day that Odysseus kills the suitors. He attempts to bring armor from the storeroom for the suitors once Odysseus has revealed himself but is caught in the act by Eumaeus and imprisoned there until the end of the fighting. He is severely mutilated (and presumably dies of his wounds) by Telemachus, Eumaeus, and Philoetius.
Melantho Melantho is the disloyal servant in the royal house at Ithaca. She is verbally abusive to Odysseus when he is disguised as a beggar, and she becomes the lover of one of the suitors.
Odysseus is the son of Laertes and Anticleia, husband of Penelope, father of Telemachus, and absent king of Ithaca. This epic chronicles his ten-year journey home to Ithaca from Troy. Odysseus is a loyal husband, loving father, and a true hero who wants nothing more than to return to his home and his loved ones. To achieve this goal, he even turns down an easy chance at immortality.
Oilean See Ajax (Oilean, the Lesser)
Pelides See Achilles
Penelope
Son of Atreus and brother of Agamemnon, Menelaus is king of Sparta and the husband of Helen. In the Odyssey, he shines as an example of the happy husband and father, the good ruler, and the perfect host.
Penelope is the daughter of Icarius, wife of Odysseus, and mother of Telemachus. Fidelity to her husband, devotion to her son, care for the household, and resourcefulness on a par with Odysseus’s own, these are the characteristics of Homer’s Penelope. She is a realist; she knows there is almost no hope that Odysseus will come back after an absence of twenty years, but she will not deny that last bit of hope its chance, which sets her apart from the suitors and the faithless servants. Her test of Odysseus’s identity by mentioning their marriage bed proves that she is the equal of the master of schemes himself.
Nausicaa
Philoetius
Daughter of Alcinous and Arete, Nausicaa is a Phaeacian princess. The night before Odysseus is discovered in the bushes, she dreams of her marriage. After Athena makes Odysseus look more
A longtime servant of Odysseus, Philoetius manages the herds for the household. He remains loyal to his absent master; he hopes Odysseus will return but thinks it unlikely.
Menelaos See Menelaus
Menelaus
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
4 9 3
O d y s s e y
Philoitios
Zeus
See Philoetius
Son of Cronus and Rhea, brother and husband of Hera, brother of Poseidon and Hades, Zeus is god of the sky and clouds, of storms and thunder, and the ruler of the other gods.
Polyphemos See Polyphemus
Polyphemus A son of Poseidon and one of the Cyclopes, a race of one-eyed giants living on an island which is usually thought to be Sicily, Polyphemus is presented as a member of a lawless race that does not acknowledge the gods, but who also lives in an area that provides for all their needs without effort on their part.
Poseidon Son of Cronus and Rhea, and brother of Zeus and Hades, Poseidon is the god of the seas, earthquakes, and horses. Poseidon is stubborn and prone to holding a grudge, but not entirely unreasonable.
Teiresias Telamonian See Ajax (Telamonian, the Greater)
Telemachos See Telemachus
Telemachus Son of Odysseus and Penelope, Telemachus is still a baby when Odysseus leaves for Troy. He is now grown to manhood, and his home island is beset by civil disorder and his family household besieged by men who do not want him to assume the throne. Telemachus is rather shy and diffident. He has no memories of his resourceful father to use as a model and no strong male figure to look up to or to show him the ways of a ruler.
Tiresias Tiresias is a famous prophet from the Greek city of Thebes, the son of Everes and the nymph Chariclo. Tiresias is the only person in the underworld who has any current knowledge about the world above: Everyone else knows only what has happened up to the time of his death, unless news can be obtained from a new arrival.
Tritogeneia See Athena
E p i c s
Creative and Self-protective Deception It could be said that creativity or imagination is Odysseus’s strongest trait. He is not mentioned by name for the first twenty lines of the poem, but a description appears at the end of the very first line of the poem in the word polutropon, which literally means of many twists. In modern usage, this word might be interpreted as shifty, except that Homer does not appear to mean anything negative by the word, merely descriptive—Odysseus is rather devious, but he has to be in order to survive. It should be no surprise, then, to discover that Odysseus is beloved of Athena, who is the goddess of creativity and imagination. She and Odysseus have much in common, as she remarks in Book 13 (XIII.296-99), including a joy in ‘‘weaving schemes’’ (XIII.386).
See Tiresias
4 9 4
THEMES
f o r
A large part of Odysseus’s creative energy is channeled into the weaving of deceptions for the people around him. In fact, Athena gives Odysseus what is either a left-handed compliment or a mild reproach in Book 13 when she says: ‘‘Wily-minded wretch, never weary of tricks, you wouldn’t even dream, not even in your own native land, of giving up your wily ways, or the telling of the clever tales that are dear to you from the very root of your being’’ (XIII.293-95). Yet it is important to remember that Odysseus only tells such clever or thieving (the word can have both meanings) tales because he must; he waits until he is certain of their motives to tell the Phaeacians his true identity, but he does so when pressed. Only when he must remain anonymous to stay alive or to further some ultimate purpose does he continue a deception beyond the first moment when it could be dropped.
Heroism Odysseus is a legitimate hero. His reputation from the Iliad, as recounted in the Odyssey, would be enough to establish that quite apart from the close relationship he has with Athena and, to a lesser degree, with Hermes. The gods only help those who are worthy; after all, none of the gods lifts a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
In a speech to his wife in Book 19, Odysseus as the beggar tells Penelope that ‘‘Odysseus would have been home long ago, but he felt in his spirit that it would be better to go all about the world collecting possessions’’ (282–84). The Greek word chr emata in line 284 can be translated as possessions or it can mean money or other valuables, but its literal meaning is things that are useful or needful. What sorts of useful or needful things does Odysseus collect on his wanderings? Assign pairs of students to sections of the poem to examine the text for things Odysseus collected. Make a list on the board. Consider carefully Odysseus’s character as portrayed by Homer. Do you think he was motivated by greed, necessity, or opportunity? Search online for a definition of hero. Match a definition to a story about hero in sports, in the military, in the role of first responder, or as an ordinary citizen responding in an unusual or dangerous incident. Prepare a written report with the definition, the story (with picture if available), and a paragraph of comparison to the values of Odysseus. What sorts of differences do you find, and
finger to help the suitors who are only getting what they deserve. There is a contrast between Odysseus and the heroes in the Iliad, none of whom would likely have endured the kind of insults and abuses that Odysseus takes without a whimper from the suitors, nor would they have considered concealing their identity, even to further a noble goal such as the destruction of the suitors. However, the heroes of the Iliad were locked into an almost ritual pattern of behavior that is suited only to war and the battlefield. Odysseus has his place in that heroic environment as well, but in the Odyssey, Homer depicts what it means to be a hero off the battlefield as well as on it. Odysseus faces circumstances that are enormously different from those he has to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
which set of values fits your personal definition of a hero? Include your answers in your essay.
What role do the gods play in the Odyssey? Compare and contrast this role with the role of the divine in a contemporary religious tradition (your own religion or another that interests you). Share your insights in a class discussion or in an essay.
Do an online search on the term cultural hospitality and compare in a written report the concept of hospitality of one or two other cultures to that of the Greeks in this epic.
Put together a PowerPoint presentation in which you explain to your classmates the circuitous homeward route taken by Odysseus. Use art images and current and ancient maps to help your classmates visualize the journey. You might consider including information about how this trip might be taken in modern times, for example, by airplane or ship, and show current images of ports and airports in the identifiable places Odysseus reaches.
contend with during the war, and he responds to them in an appropriately heroic fashion. Homer broadens the definition of a hero in these ways.
Human Condition The question of what it means to be a human is an important theme in the Odyssey. The poem provides various examples of human beings: good, bad, young, old, acting along and acting in groups, living on earth and as spirits in the underworld. Each of these types is an integral part of the story of Odysseus and his effort to discover the essence of the human condition. There are two incidents in the epic that highlight the importance of this theme for Homer. They are Odysseus’s refusal of Calypso’s offer to
V o l u m e
2
4 9 5
O d y s s e y
According to Greek mythology, Odysseus encountered the Laestrygonians during his wanderings. This wall painting, dating to the first century BCE , shows the Laestrygonians throwing boulders and destroying the ships of Odysseus. ( Lebrecht Music and Arts Photo Library / Alamy)
make him immortal (V.215-24), and Achilles’s reply to Odysseus’s attempt at consolation in the underworld when Achilles says that he would rather be a poor servant in life than to have rank among the dead. To be human and to be alive, Homer implies, is to matter, to be important. The dead in the underworld, like the gods on Olympus, may have a kind of existence, but it is ultimately an empty one.
Love and Loyalty Love and loyalty are two important aspects of the human condition and also make an important theme in the Odyssey. The loyalty of Eumaeus, Eurycleia, and Philoetius, for example, stands in direct contrast to the behavior of Melantho, Melanthius, and the suitors, for which they are eventually punished. Helen and Menelaus are clearly in love, and there can be little doubt that
4 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
Odysseus and Penelope feel much the same way, despite Odysseus’s philandering on his way home and Penelope’s testing of her husband when he finally reveals his true identity. Love in the Odyssey is neither a tempestuous passion (as it sometimes seems to be in the Iliad, at least where Helen and Paris are concerned) nor a deathless romance as it would become in the lays of the Middle Ages. Love in the Odyssey is quieter and deeper. Odysseus and Penelope may not have a grand passion any longer, but the love they do have proves their relationship is secure; it is what pulls Odysseus home and what keeps Penelope hoping for his return.
Order and Disorder From the very beginning of the poem, there are indications that there is supposed to be an order to life and those who ignore or threaten that
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
order will be punished for it. The main component of that ordered system is xenia, the laws of hospitality. In a world without regular places for travelers to lodge and where neither police nor other international law-enforcement bodies exist, refusing shelter to a traveler or taking advantage of a guest under one’s roof (or, as with the suitors, taking advantage of one’s host) constitutes a serious breakdown in moral and civic order. Hence the laws of hospitality are raised to the level of a religious duty and to violate those laws merits the ultimate punishment. But there are other indications of disorder in the poem as well. At the beginning of Book 2, for example, the assembly on Ithaca has not met since Odysseus left for Troy. This breakdown in civil order may have contributed to the suitors’ ability to flout the laws of xenia for almost four years. Surely, if there had been any kind of regular functioning government in Odysseus’s absence, it would have put an end to their degradations, and Odysseus would not have had to slaughter more than a hundred people on his return home. The implication seems clear that rules of social conduct matter in the Homeric world and that even small violations of those rules can have disastrous consequences.
involves patterns of long and short syllables where, as a general rule, two short syllables equal one long syllable. Greek poetry does not rhyme either, although it does make use of alliteration and assonance (repeated use of the same or similar consonant patterns and vowel patterns, respectively) in order to string words together. The Odyssey is written in dactylic hexameters, which set the standard form for epic poetry; in fact, this particular meter is sometimes referred to as epic meter or epic hexameter. Hexameter means that per line there are six feet (a unit like a measure in a line of music); dactylic refers to the particular metrical pattern of each foot—in this case, the basic pattern is one long syllable followed by two shorts, although variations on that basic pattern are allowed. (Dactylic compares to waltz time in music.) The final foot in each line, for example, is almost always a spondee (two long syllables, instead of one long and two shorts). The meter is sometimes varied to suit the action being described, using more dactyls when describing subjects that move quickly (horses galloping, for example), and more spondees when describing subjects the move slowly or are sad.
Similes STYLE Structure In general, the Odyssey is more technically advanced than the Iliad. The flashbacks that seemed so awkward in the earlier poem are handled much more subtly; for example, the action jumps seamlessly from one place to another even in the middle of a book and is itself much more lively than the formalized battle scenes in the Iliad. The epic focuses on the return trip, so the use of flashbacks seems to underscore the role of memory in the characters’ present experience. Those returning from war remember the battle scenes; those left behind remember the moments of departure; those waiting remember how long it has been since they were reunited with loved ones. Narrative in this epic is pegged, in this way, to the function of memory, to the way the narrator can recall and relive past experience in the act of relating it in the present.
Meter English meter involves patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables. Greek meter, by contrast,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The epic similes so common in the Iliad are used much more sparingly in the Odyssey, which makes them all the more striking when they do appear. The simile is a comparison of an unfamiliar subject and a familiar one. The unfamiliar subject is the called the tenor and the subject to which it is compared is the vehicle. The comparison is made explicit by the use of like or as. The epic simile then uses so to return to the tenor of the comparison. The simile is a literary device that slows the action and emphasizes a particular moment or feeling. At the beginning of Book 20, the following two similes are used to describe Odysseus as he plots the downfall of the scheming maids and the suitors, respectively: The heart inside him growled low with rage, as a bitch mounting over her weak, defenseless puppies growls, facing a stranger, bristling for a show down so he growled from his depths, hackles rising at their outrage. (XX.13 16, Fagles) But he himself kept tossing, turning, intent as a cook before some white hot blazing fire who rolls his sizzling sausage back and forth, packed with fat and blood keen to broil it quickly, tossing, turning it, this way, that way so he cast about. (XX.24 26, Fagles)
V o l u m e
2
4 9 7
O d y s s e y
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Late Bronze Age: Piracy is well-established, and ship-building evolves as a means of transporting soldiers who intend to rob distant coastal communities.
professional class of scribes, bureaucrats, or diplomats. Iron Age: Literacy in the Greek-speaking world begins to be rediscovered using a different alphabet, in which each letter represents a particular sound and not an entire syllable. Literacy is restricted to the upper classes and some professionals, such as rhapsodes (those who recite poetry) and some artists.
Iron Age: Naval forces are an important part of conducting warfare; however, the Phoenicians increasingly control trade in the Mediterranean Sea. Today: According to the International Maritime Bureau, incidents of piracy worldwide in 2009 surpass four hundred. Late Bronze Age: Mycenean pottery is refined and ornate. It depicts figures in local dress and soldiers armed for battle. Iron Age: Geometric design in pottery glaze work develops, some of which shows abstract human figures involved in mourning the dead. Today: Geometric-style vases from the eighth century BCE are displayed in many museums around the world, one of which is the National Archeological Museum in Athens.
Late Bronze Age: Writing is known, although mainly in cumbersome, syllabic forms such as Egyptian hieroglyphics, the Mycenaean Linear A and B scripts, or the Hittite/Akkadian cuneiform. Literacy is probably restricted to the highest levels of the aristocracy and a
These similes convey a sense of Odysseus’s feeling at this moment. The first compares the hero’s unknown feeling to the well-known growl of a female dog over her puppies; the second compares the way Odysseus refines his plan of attack to the well-known image of a cook moving sausage back and forth over a flame with his fork, preparing it for dinner. The hero’s emotional state and the way his plan develops in his mind are conveyed through the known subjects to which they are compared.
4 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
Today: The vast majority of people, approximately 82 percent, are at least able to read and write well enough to conduct their own business affairs. In developed countries, the literacy rate is as high as 98 percent; however, in some underdeveloped countries only 25 percent of the people can read and write.
Late Bronze Age: Sacked cities are pillaged and destroyed, often burned to the ground, the victors assuming the city is erased from human history. Iron Age: Many cities are built on the ruins of earlier communities because their location is valuable for various reasons. Today: Archeological research finds evidence in layers as certain sites are unearthed. Archeologists have determined that between 3000 BCE and 500 CE , at least nine separate cities existed on the site of Troy.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Bronze Age The Trojan War and its aftermath took place around 1250 BCE , the date of the wealthy burials found by Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890) in Grave Circle A at Mycenae in 1873. For this reason, the period is sometimes also called the Mycenaean era. This was a time of relative stability, though not, of course, without its conflicts, wars, and raids. The dominant powers in the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
Ruins of the ancient city of Troy, outside Canakkale, Turkey (Image copyright turkishblue, 2010. Used under license from Shutterstock.com)
eastern Mediterranean were the Hittites in the central part of what is now Turkey, the Egyptians in what is now called the Middle East, and the Mycenaean kings in Greece and the surrounding islands.
such as oil, grain, or perfume, is found all over the Mediterranean basin in large quantities throughout this period. Modern archeologists have determined that the ancient city of Ilium (later called Troy) was sacked repeatedly. It was a rich, fortressed community, powerful because its location allowed it to control the southern approach to the Hellespont (Dardanelles). Neighboring and distant kingdoms envied its dominance and wanted to steal its riches. Thus, repeatedly, the ancient city was attacked, sacked, and burned. These conflicts continued for many years, and robbery, rather than reclaiming the abducted Helen was the motive.
The Bronze Age is so named because sometime between about 3000 and 1200 BCE and at different times during this period in different locations, human cultures began combining copper with tin and arsenic to form the alloy bronze, a metal that was stronger than pure copper and reasonably easy to smelt and use to create tools, weapons, and other articles. Initially, copper was probably found on the surface in nuggets, but gradually people discovered that where many of these nuggets were found there was more of the material buried, and in this way, mining evolved.
The Iron Age
Trade flourished, quite surprisingly given the uncertainties of shipping and other means of transportation, together with a relatively low level of technological advancement (at least when considered by modern standards). Distinctive Mycenaean pottery, whether as art pieces intended for display and ceremonial use or for transporting trade goods
Beginning around the eleventh century BCE , the Greeks began to use iron in place of bronze, to cremate their dead as opposed to burying them intact, and to establish colonies along the west coast of what is now Turkey. By Homer’s day, roughly the middle of the eighth century BCE , these trends were well-established.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
4 9 9
O d y s s e y
Writing was rediscovered using a new alphabet borrowed from the Phoenicians, and foreign trade improved, helped in no small part by the colonies along the Ionian coast which, while typically independent of their mother cities, nevertheless tended to remain on friendly terms with them. The population was again on the rise, which spurred another wave of colonization, this time chiefly toward the west, to Sicily, parts of Italy, and the south of France. At least on the Greek mainland, the era of kings rapidly drew to a close. By the beginning of the eighth century, the nobles had taken the reins of power from the kings almost everywhere and were ruling over family groups or tribes in what would come to be called the polis, or city-state. Largely because of the decorations found on pottery from the period, this era has come to be known as the Geometric period, but increasing regularity was a feature of more than just the decorative arts. In this period the beginnings of a Greek national identity emerge, prompting and/ or prompted by the founding of the Olympic games and the dissemination of Homer’s works, among other factors. There is also evidence that more coordinated military tactics were beginning to be used. Religious practices, if not beliefs, also seem to have begun a process of standardization. While the Homeric heroes sometimes go to specific places for religious observances, the majority seem to be family- or group-centered rituals that take place wherever the family or group may happen to be at the moment of the ritual, and archaeological evidence from the Bronze Age tends to confirm this view. Formal altars, like the one at the fountain described in Book 17, are known from the Bronze Age, but temples, buildings specifically set aside for formal public worship, have not been identified in the archaeological record much before the ninth century BCE and become much more frequent thereafter. After Homer’s day, while the population, wealth, commerce, and industry of Greece were generally on the rise, the political pendulum swung back and forth from more aristocratic and democratic models to varying forms of oneman rule until just before the dawn of the Golden Age in the fifth century BCE .
5 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The critical reputation of the Odyssey is perhaps best demonstrated by noting that it is generally regarded as one of the first works of true literature in Western culture. This is significant not only because the poem stands near the head of the list, as it were, but also because it had to beat out a fair amount of competition to achieve that status. By the middle of the sixth century BCE , around the same time as the Peisistratids in Athens ordered the first standard edition of Homer’s works to be made, there were at least six other epic poems treating various parts of the Trojan War story. Most of these were fairly short, but the Cypria, which covered everything from the decision of the gods to cause the war through Agamemnon’s quarrel with Achilles that begins Homer’s work, was at least half as long as the Iliad. Unlike the Iliad and the Odyssey, however, none of the other poems in this epic cycle has survived except in fragmentary quotations in the works of later authors. Certainly by the beginning of the sixth century, and possibly late in the seventh, there was already a group of poet/performers calling themselves the Homeridae (meaning Sons of Homer). This group may have been the forerunner of the rhapsodes, trained singers who, while they did apparently compose and improvise works of their own, were best known for reciting Homer’s poetry. At least on Plato’s authority, the rhapsodes seem to have begun taking liberties with the poems, which may have led the Peisistratids to have the official text written down for the judges at the Great Panathenaia (a religious festival in honor of Athena held every four years) that included a contest for the rhapsodes that required them, presumably in shifts and over several days, to recite the whole of the Iliad and the Odyssey. For most people, those public performances were probably their major form of exposure to Homer’s work. For the educated class, however, knowing one’s Homer quickly became the sign of culture and refinement. Homer is mentioned by name at least six hundred times in surviving Greek literature, in works of history, philosophy, religion, and law. In his Poetics, Aristotle holds Homer up as the ‘‘supreme poet in the serious style’’ and the forerunner of both tragedy and comedy. Herodotus, in his Histories, even credits Homer, along with his near contemporary Hesiod, with being the one who gave Greek religion
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
its standard forms: the names, spheres and functions, and descriptions and descent of the gods. The one dissenting voice in the ancient world seems to have been that of Plato. Although he quotes Homer on more than one occasion, and even lampoons the rhapsodes and their beautification or embellishment of the standard text in his dialogue Ion, in the Republic, his lengthy discussion of the ideal state and the education of its leaders, Plato dismisses Homer as a mere imitator and excludes him (and poets generally) from his educational program. Homer was frequently imitated in the classical world, whether by the authors of the other poems in the epic cycle or lampooned as he was by Aristophanes in several of his plays (especially The Birds and The Clouds), yet his work was never equaled. Roman literature in particular owes a great deal to Homer, and to the Odyssey in particular: Later authors dated the beginnings of their national literature to a translation of the Odyssey into Latin made by the slave Livius Andronicus around 220 BCE ), and the great Roman national epic the Aeneid not only uses Homer’s epic hexameter line, it consciously imitates themes and events from both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Interest in Homer continued well into the Christian era, as seen by Macrobius’s Saturnalia (dated to the early part of the fifth century CE ), when educated Romans still knew their Greek and spent an evening discussing the relative merits of Homer’s treatment of the Troy story in comparison to Virgil’s. With the fall of Rome in 455 CE ), however, Homer and his works fell into obscurity for roughly one thousand years, until Renaissance scholars rediscovered classical texts and learned to read Greek. According to Philip Ford in his article ‘‘Homer in the French Renaissance,’’ although the name Homer was associated with the ideal of an inspired poet, it was not until Petrarch requested a translation and read Homer’s two epics that interest was renewed in the works. The story of Odysseus received somewhat less attention than did the story of the Trojan War, but it never entirely died out. The French moralist Franc¸ois de Fe´nelon turned the story of Telemachus into a Christian fable with his 1699 publication of Les Aventures de Te´le´maque, and the Spanish poet Pedro Caldero´n did the same with the story of Odysseus and Circe. Interest in Homer and his works was revived in the eighteenth century when F. A. Wolf first proposed the Homeric question, regarding who
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
wrote what and when. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe started, but did not finish, a romantic tragedy about Odysseus and Nausicaa. It is thought that Milton was influenced by Homer in composing Paradise Lost, and Homer certainly inspired later poets such as Byron and Tennyson, though their works are narrower in scope. The plethora of resources on Homer in libraries and on the Internet confirms that his works are ever growing in their appeal. In fact, a 2007 collection of essays gathered by Barbara Graziosi and Emily Greenwood emphasizes the impact of Homer in the twentieth century, moving from an already revered position as the starting point of all great Western literature to that of a classic of all world literature. Obviously, the Odyssey continues to enjoy the critical acclaim and popular interest that have been associated with it throughout most of the two and a half millennia since it was first written.
CRITICISM Michael J. Spires Spires holds an MA in classics from the University of Colorado at Boulder and one in modern European history from Northern Illinois University. In the following essay, he focuses on the human element and scale of the Odyssey as an important reason for its continued popularity. As Peter Jones remarks in his 1991 introduction to E. V. Rieu’s translation of the poem, ‘‘The Odyssey—the return of Odysseus from Troy to reclaim his threatened home on Ithaca—is a superb story, rich in character, adventure and incident . . . and making the household, rather than the battlefield, the centre of its world.’’ This observation goes a long way toward explaining the epic’s perennial appeal, even nearly three thousand years after it was written. That is not to say that the Iliad, Homer’s other epic poem, is not also a superb story—just a different kind of story. If Homer’s works were operas, the Iliad would be something out of Wagner: rather heavy, highly formalized, and full of deep meaning—along with some really great singing and special effects. The Odyssey, by contrast, would be something like Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro: It has a definite moral message, but that message is conveyed through humorous means, on a human scale, with plenty of mistaken identities and other plot twists—and again, some
V o l u m e
2
5 0 1
O d y s s e y
JUSTICE AND ORDER PREVAIL IN THE END: ODYSSEUS IS SAFELY RESTORED TO HOME, KINGDOM, AND FAMILY, AND ALONG THE WAY READERS ARE TREATED TO SOME FANTASTIC STORIES.’’
really great singing and special effects. To put it in somewhat more modern terms, the Iliad is more like Cecil B. DeMille’s treatment of The Ten Commandments, while the Odyssey has a bit more in common with George Lucas’s Star Wars films. Jones also suggests that Homer has adapted Odysseus’s adventures in Books 9 through 12 from the myths surrounding Jason and the voyage of the Argo, but it seems that adapted is perhaps too strong a word, and it must be emphasized that Homer would have had excellent reasons for including such material in the first place, if that is what he did. To begin with, heroism is usually set against the background of a great war or major battle. Having already used that setting in the Iliad, Homer must next turn to the other traditional setting for heroes and heroism, the long and difficult journey; there was simply no other vocabulary for heroic behavior available for him to use. Related to that problem is one of what might be called credentials. Tradition has it that Odysseus’s father was one of those who sailed with Jason on the Argo, which is enough to establish Odysseus as a potential hero, but not to prove him a hero in his own right. (The same sort of thing happens to Telemachus in the Odyssey: Merely being the son of his father is enough to put him in line to inherit Odysseus’s estates and authority, but if he is going to hold on to that inheritance, he must earn the respect of others and demonstrate his ability and fitness to succeed his illustrious father.) Given that Odysseus was much more skilled at stratagems, ambushes, and tactics than at simple hack-and-bash fighting (at least given the way Homer depicted him in the Iliad), the best way to establish Odysseus’s credentials as a hero would be for him to do the same sorts of things his father
5 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
Laertes had done in his younger days, since those are the sorts of things that heroes do when they are not lucky enough to have a war in which to prove their merits. Unlike the Iliad, the Odyssey is concerned more with the individual than the group, and with individuals who are much more down-toearth than those found in the earlier poem. Most people will never be a Hector, keeping an invading force at bay all by himself or an Achilles, singlehandedly responsible for the continued success of his comrades-in-arms. However, the average person might measure up to a Penelope, a Telemachus, or even an Odysseus, at least in spirit and understanding. There may not have been enchantresses, magic potions, and interfering gods to contend with, but there are still new places and new people to discover and to explore, much as Odysseus did on his wanderings. As scientists, astronomers, and astronauts probe the reaches of outer space, the spirit of Odysseus is no less comfortable in that little known region than it was here on Earth; it is fitting that the command module of the ill-fated Apollo XIII mission was christened the Odyssey. As Jasper Griffin points out in his discussion of the afterlife of the Odyssey, the popularity of the Homeric poems is something of an anomaly: many epic works are popular for a time, then fade into obscurity, to be read only by scholars and specialists. What makes the Odyssey so enjoyable to read is that it is full of people to whom modern readers can relate. Odysseus, Penelope, Telemachus, Eumaeus, and even some of the suitors seem authentic and drawn from real life. While the epic has obvious connections with the Iliad and was almost certainly written or composed after that poem, it is important to look at the Odyssey as a work in its own right. It is incorrect to call it an epilogue to the Iliad, as if it were an afterthought, something to tie up a few of the loose ends Homer leaves hanging in the earlier tale. It is also important to look at the Odyssey as a work of its time. There is much in the poem that is relevant to modern readers, but some parts do not sit well with many of them. Slavery, for example, is something that everyone in the poem (and in Homer’s own time) took for granted, and as practiced in Homer’s time was a different institution than it was in the pre-Civil War United States. Slaves in the Odyssey, especially Eumaeus and Eurycleia, are well-fed, prosperous (Eumaeus even has a slave of his own), and treated more like
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Thucydides wrote the history, The Peloponnesian War, which describes the twenty-sevenyear war between Athens and Sparta (c. 431– 404 BCE ) that eventually caused the fall of Athens. An acclaimed translation by Martin Hammond was published by Oxford University Press in 2009.
Historian John Claughton, in his Herodotus and the Persian Wars (2008), contextualizes the writings of Herodotus on the expansion of the Persian Empire in the sixth and fifth centuries BCE Herodotus mentions Homer. The Iliad is the other epic poem written by Homer, and it tells some of the events of the Trojan War that take place before the opening of the Odyssey. Among the best of several modern translations is the Penguin Classic edition by Robert Fagles (2006).
Waiting for Odysseus (2004), by Clemence McLaren, is a teen novel that retells the story of Homer’s Odyssey from the point of view of Penelope, Circe, Athena, and Eurycleia. In Homeric Moments: Clues to Delight in Reading the ‘‘Odyssey’’ and the ‘‘Iliad’’ (2002),
members of the household than servants in it. Laertes is said to have honored Eurycleia no less than his own wife, and Anticleia raises Eumaeus with her own daughter and, when the daughter is married off, she gives him gifts and sends him to a country estate. There is also the question of the suitors’ destruction. The wholesale slaughter of 108 men simply because they thought to pay court to an available woman, even given that they were rude and disrespectful, may seem a bit much to modern sensibilities. No one in Homer’s audience would have given this a second thought. As Homer is careful to point out from the very beginning of the poem, the suitors bring their destruction down on themselves and could easily have avoided it if they had paid attention to the warnings they were given.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a guide for secondary and college students, classicist Eva Brann, an experienced teacher, explains the characters, story, and language of Homer’s epics, seeking to show how the poet achieves delight and how that delight makes these poems come alive for modern readers.
Perhaps the best-known adaptation in English is James Joyce’s 1922 novel Ulysses, in which a twenty-four-hour day in the Dublin life of Leopold Bloom is related to scenes in Homer’s poem, although if there were not guides to explain the correlations, probably most readers would miss them.
Tennyson’s dramatic monologue, ‘‘Ulysses,’’ presents an older Odysseus who arrives at Ithaca only to realize he cannot retire from adventure and be content to live out the rest of his days by a domestic fire with his now twenty-years-older wife. The poem first appeared in the 1844 collection titled Morte D’Arthur, and Other Idyls, and it reflects the Victorian commitment to exploration and empire building.
To understand that attitude, it is important to remember, first of all, that the obligations between hosts and guests were considered sacred duties, enforced by Zeus in his aspect as god of strangers. Ancient mythology is full of illustrations of what becomes those who break the hospitality codes, from the story of Baucis and Philemon in Ovid’s Metamorphoses right back to the destruction of the Cities of the Plain in the Hebrew Scriptures. Second, in Homer’s time, the ability of a family or a household to survive was directly linked to its being able to feed itself. By consuming the resources of the household, the suitors threaten nothing less than the survival of Odysseus’s family. On top of the disruption of the social order, the suitors also plot to kill both Telemachus and Odysseus, if they can manage it. Lacking police forces and law
V o l u m e
2
5 0 3
O d y s s e y
courts, in Homer’s day personal vengeance and family retribution were the accepted means for redressing wrongs. Eventually the Greeks would come to see that this system had its own limitations, and they would lay the groundwork for the modern western legal system, but that day was several centuries after Homer’s time. The Odyssey is the product of a fine, erudite mind. Its intricacy of plot, masterful choice of both setting and the point of dramatic time at which Homer begins the story, the way he manipulates the structure so the major characters can tell their stories about what has taken place during the twenty years of Odysseus’s absence without being dull or anticlimactic, and the extensive use of foreshadowing and symbolism, all betray a fine creative intelligence at work. Achilles and Hector are tragic figures in the Iliad, but it is in the Odyssey that features of tragedy, as Aristotle later described them in his Poetics, can also be seen. Here is a noble man, temporarily brought low by misfortune and, at least to some degree, by his own character, together with some rather ignoble types who enjoy early prosperity but eventually reap their just rewards. There is even a double change of circumstances: from good to bad for the suitors, from bad to good for Odysseus. Justice and order prevail in the end: Odysseus is safely restored to home, kingdom, and family, and along the way readers are treated to some fantastic stories and comic episodes that Aristophanes in all his glory would have been happy to use. It is remarkable that the Odyssey was written so early and so well; it is all the more remarkable that it lives still, able to connect to readers in a world, Homer could never have imagined, as inventive as he was. Source: Michael J. Spires, Critical Essay on Odyssey, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Scott A. Belsky In the following essay, Belsky discusses how Homer’s Odyssey influenced Western thought. For roughly 2,500 years people have studied, debated, heralded, and denounced the poet known as Homer and the works Western civilization attributes to him. Through academia’s ever-evolving manifestations Homer stands as the center of authority and stability for any student of literature. It is no wonder then that Homer survives and indeed flourishes in the current post-structural, postmodern, ideological-ridden world of the academy. Therefore the true testament does not reside in the particular
5 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
WHAT APPEARS TO BE PERFECTLY NATURAL WHEN COMMITTED ELSEWHERE AND AGAINST AN ENEMY TURNS OUT TO BE GROTESQUE AND SHAMEFUL WHEN PERFORMED AT HOME.’’
dogmatic light that one shines upon ‘‘Homer’’ and other such works, but the ability of these works to absorb and refract so many lights from so many regions of the scholarly world. Nevertheless, there are those who fear that Ancient Greece and particularly Homer are losing their influence on contemporary cultural thought due to the increased push for diversity in literary studies. Such fears seem premature because even the opponents of the canon still return to Homer for parting shots. Regardless of the attacks from various camps, Homer pervades culture both within and outside of the university; and despite the dirges for the old bard, his clarion song continues to resonate and reverberate at the center of the Western world. In their article entitled ‘‘Who Killed Homer?’’ professors John Heath and Victor Davis Hanson paint a bleak and unflattering picture of Homer’s place in our contemporary society. The two men lament, ‘‘the Greeks who started it all are so little known in modern America’’ (Heath and Hanson 1998). The ‘‘it’’ refers to everything from government to philosophy to science. Heath and Hanson place blame for this condition squarely on the shoulders of the classicists. ‘‘Our present generation of classicists helped to destroy classical education . . . our generation of classicists, faced with the rise of Western culture beyond the borders of the West, was challenged to explain the importance of Greek thought and values in an age of electronic information, mass entertainment and crass materialism. Here they failed utterly.’’ In response most classicists would argue quite the contrary, claiming they have reinvented themselves and their departments as a way of staying current while still providing the essential exposure to ‘‘Greek thought and values.’’ In fact, by broadening their horizons many classics departments, both in North America and in Britain, are seeing increases in enrollment according to the Council
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
of University Classical Department of Great Britain. Furthermore, the American Philological Association’s own survey results reveal that the job market for classicists is stronger than it was a decade ago and has seen a general trend of increases in open positions in recent years. If these organizations’ findings are any indication, the Greeks are still very much alive and in demand at the academy. However, what really seems to aggrieve Heath and Hanson is not so much that the classics are supposedly disappearing from Western education, but the way in which classicists approach these revered volumes. ‘‘Classicists now, along with the best social constructionists, moral relativists and literary theorists in the social sciences and comparative literature departments, ‘privilege’ ‘uncover’ ‘construct,’ ‘cruise’ ‘queer,’ ‘subvert’ and ‘deconstruct’ the ‘text’’’ (Heath and Hanson 1998). This criticism seems shortsighted especially if these expanded scopes make the study of classics relevant to the current student population. Perhaps one can argue that such scrutiny further demonstrates Homer’s versatility—in other words, what makes him so modern for every age. Therefore what Matthew Arnold sees in Homer and Michel Foucault sees may vary greatly, but Homer can absorb both the praise and criticism. It is believed that every generation gets the Homer it deserves. It seems one can also say that every generation gets the criticism of Homer it deserves, and the one constant remains—Homer survives and only deepens his pervasiveness within the psyche of Western civilization. Michael Clark, professor of classics at the University of Cincinnati, demonstrates this point precisely in his paper ‘‘Adorno, Derrida, and the Odyssey: A Critique of Center and Periphery.’’ He does not look to the shining testimonies of democracy and other enlightened ideals that bear the influence of Ancient Greece in our society to prove its influence. On the contrary, he sees naked capitalism and colonialism as the more telling evidence of Homer’s long-stretching shadow. Clark’s work draws on the critical philosophies of Freud and Marx along with arguments of other prominent cultural theorists to make the point that the fundamental Odyssean man, ‘‘whose realization as subject is inversely related to the diminution of subjects elsewhere and whose mode of subjectivity is a . . . prototype of bourgeois imperialism’’ (1989, 110), stands as the blueprint for the Western man. Using Clark’s definition of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
the Odyssean man to examine Odysseus himself, one begins to see less and less of the noble stalwart of the greater good and more of the capitalist. Odysseus’s shrewd machinations to preserve and promote the self often come at the expense of those around him. One example of such behavior in particular concerns Odysseus’s encounter with Polyphemus. Firstly, Odysseus is not content with simply pillaging cheeses and lambs from the Cyclops’ homestead as his crewmen urge. Rather, he waits in the cave in order to meet its inhabitant, fully expecting that he will be treated as a guest in accordance with the Greek concept of xenia. A close study of Polyphemus’s initial shock upon discovering the men reveals just how misguided Odysseus is about his plan. The giant blurts, ‘‘‘Strangers! . . . now who are you? / where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes? / Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates?’’’ (9. 284–86). Clark cites this passage as evidence that the Cyclops sees Odysseus for what he truly is; and in retaliation, Odysseus must blind the creature (1989, 125). Though, examination of Odysseus’s response suggests that he perpetuates his own blindness to the severe reality of the situation. Had Polyphemus practiced the values of xenia, as evidenced earlier in Telemachus’ treatment of the stranger at his doorsill and Menelaus’s hospitality toward Telemachus and Pisistratus on their unannounced visit to the Spartan king, he would not have been so forward as to ask these probing questions before making his ‘‘guests’’ welcome. Since Odysseus works on an egotistical and faulty belief that the greater world works in alignment with his own worldview, he expects the sort of treatment he would afford his own guests. The error, though, is that such a conviction leaves the members of his crew with no option but to remain in the cave with Odysseus and face the horrid fate of the Cyclops. The men whom Polyphemus selects to eat never have an opportunity to realize the self or to act in any independent manner the way Odysseus can. They are not even given names, let alone free will. In fact, they simply exist in this episode as the victims of Odysseus’s wrong-headedness and arrogance. In addition, the dilemma of the Cyclops offers Odysseus alone a chance for self-actualization since so often he exists as an individual only when he is in a state of conflict. This episode provides its audience only one ‘‘man’’ on whom to focus. One might argue, since Odysseus has labeled himself ‘‘Nobody’’
V o l u m e
2
5 0 5
O d y s s e y
he is committing an act of self-abnegation; however, the reverse seems to hold more truth. Since he names himself, he must have a concept of himself and his place in the world. Although this name may suggest a lowering of the self in some capacity, it actually helps to affirm the existence of the individual in the greater world through announcement. Odysseus, who knows himself to be part of an aristocracy, readily plays the roles of lesser men and even beggars when the situation calls for it in order to accomplish his goal of escape. Therefore, the taking on of a new identity through the renaming process demonstrates his ‘‘cunningly wise’’ attempts at self-preservation. Yet, the true example of his subjugation of others through the realization of the self comes as a result of his choosing to taunt the Cyclops. When he is just barely out of rock-tossing distance, Odysseus calls out, ‘‘Cyclops—/ if any man on the face of the earth should ask you / who blinded you, shamed you so—say Odysseus, / raider of cities, he gouged out your eye, / Laertes’s son who makes his home in Ithaca!’’ (9.558–62). This occurs despite his crew’s attempts to prevent just such an outburst. Of course, Odysseus’s actions incur Poseidon’s wrath with the end result spelling the doom of the crew. Once again, his crew is given no opportunity for salvation. They simply must abide by the whims of their leader, which often cause greater hardship for them. Clark’s argument notes a similar behavior in Odysseus’s insistence on hearing the Sirens’ song. Once again, Odysseus puts himself in a position of diminished authority by allowing himself to be ‘‘lashed by ropes to the mast’’ (12.195)—just as when he uses the name ‘‘Nobody’’ in the episode concerning the Cyclops—in order to gain some sort of ultimate upper hand toward fulfilling his end desire. He also plugs the oarsmen’s ears with beeswax to prevent them from hearing the Siren’s alluring but fatal song, allowing them to row past the island unscathed. Clark concludes that even though the Sirens exist beyond Odysseus’s domain, as does the land of the mighty Cyclops, he ‘‘is still driven [to hear their song] by his colonizing impulse, and . . . devises a mechanism to symbolically master the Sirens’’ (1989, 120). Odysseus’s use of his crewmen, the beeswax, and the rope further exemplifies the rational man’s use of manpower and technology to secure his own well being in the face of some opponent equipped only with its natural and inherent abilities. Clark likens this to ‘‘the entrepreneur who ‘organizes’ labor and who dines on caviar as a
5 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
happy result’’ (120). A not dissimilar analogy can be found in an imperialist Europe that sought territories in far-flung reaches of the globe during the nineteenth century and earlier. Such colonists often ventured in preparation for hostile encounters and made ready with weaponry far superior to that of the indigenous people they encountered, be it in North America, Africa, or other regions. As with any colonizing peoples, the aggressors often come with an eye toward self-aggrandizement and Odysseus seems no different in this case. Granted, he does not seek to acquire anything materially from the Sirens, but in his very hearing their song and living to tell about it, he has obtained mastery over them. Yet again, Odysseus’s special privilege of listening to this song comes at a price to the others around him. In this case the Sirens are stripped of their innate, though deadly, quality for the sheer pleasure of Western man. To continue, once a reader uses the dissenting methods of Clark and other contemporary critics, the Iliad and Odyssey also reveal a double standard for those who are of the aristocratic ruling class and those who are not. In the few opportunities that lesser characters are given an independent voice, they are always presented in an unfavorable light, seemly reinforcing the promotion of opportunism but only for the elite, a theory not unlike certain political agendas of the contemporary Western world, and the topic of argument for nearly all Marxist criticism. Let us examine the few times that lesser, nonaristocratic characters are given an independent voice in the Odyssey. In Book 10, Odysseus tells Alcinous, king of the Phaeacians, ‘‘we were so close [to Ithaca] we could see men tending fires’’ (10.34). While Odysseus sleeps, however, his crew grows curious about the sack given to him by Aeolus, god of the winds. One crewman says, ‘‘Heaps of lovely plunder he hauls home from Troy, / while we who went through slogging just as hard, / we go home empty-handed’’ (10.45–47). The men proceed to open the sack—that in actual fact holds the wayward winds, not the coveted plunder the crew expects—and their ship is blown clear away from their homeland. It seems apparent that Homer intends audiences to see this insurrection as a most detestable breech of social order. Not only does this act violate the alliance of crew to captain, it desecrates the hierarchy of king to subject, a divine arrangement lorded over by Zeus himself.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
In a second example, when the crew is stranded on Helios’s Island and Odysseus instructs them not to harm the Sungod’s cattle, the men ignore his urgings and slaughter some to stave off starvation. Helios’s retribution comes when he pleads his case to Zeus who, in turn, strikes Odysseus’s remaining ship with a thunderbolt. In both cases the men who attempt to realize a sense of self and promote their own agenda receive punishment and scorn when that agenda conflicts with the designs of the ruling class. Still, a third example of self-identity in the Odyssey comes in the form of the disloyal serving maid Melantho. She not only verbally abuses Odysseus when he is disguised as a beggar; she also has the audacity to become the lover of one of the suitors. Both actions suggest independence and declaration of the self. However, the sexual relationship seems to be the more heinous act against Odysseus because it is a strike at his position as an aristocrat. William Thalmann points out, ‘‘for suitors to sleep with [serving maids] is a blow at Odysseus’s property, an implicit claim of rival ownership’’ (1998, 72). It is a violation more in line with the greedy crewmen who mistakenly let loose the winds, rather than the act of self-sustenance those same crewmen commit in slaughtering the cattle. In this sense, the Odyssey tends to establish a view that any offence against the holdings of the divinely appointed ruling class cannot go unpunished. Although, in all three examples mentioned here, the characters that attempt to advance a self-interest counter to Odysseus’s interest create a rift in hierarchical structure. Consequently, one could conclude that such treatment of minor characters not of the ruling class promotes a tone of imperialism that permeates Homer’s texts and as a result endorses the status quo. Yet, it is worth noting that in the Iliad Achilles also threatens the hierarchical fabric through his public feud with Agamemnon. In fact, the poem opens, ‘‘Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’s son Achilles, / murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses’’ (I.1–2). In no uncertain terms, Homer blames Achilles for the carnage suffered by the Argive forces as a result of his attempt at independence, but unlike the other characters whose promotion of the self left them unredeemable, Achilles remains a focal and even at times sympathetic character in the Iliad. Granted, this independence leads him to bow out of the fight, but as Lowell Edmunds notes, Achilles’s ‘‘loyalty to Agamemnon and to his fellows is based on the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
principles of philia, a kind of friendship. This philia is pre-political or apolitical’’ (2004, 42). Therefore, Achilles has no hierarchical tie to Agamemnon the way a subject might and has no absolute duty to follow him. Furthermore, both men are of the aristocratic class and as a result their declarations of self appear acceptable, welcome, encouraged or at the very least expected. On the other hand, when Thersites expresses a similar sentiment as Achilles, he is roared down and beaten by Odysseus, much to the delight of the other non-ruling class soldiers who remain nameless and loyal. Contemporary scholars tend to read this episode in varying ways. Some see Thersites as evidence that Homer may not have supported the rule of a small, dominant class, and therefore advocates some form of democratic voice; while others, such as Thalmann, see the dissention as revealing an actual tension among classes that ultimately reinforces the ideology of the ruling class. Firstly, let us examine the build up to this episode. Agamemnon issues a test to the Achaean forces by ordering a return home. Much to his surprise, the men ‘‘cried in alarm and charged toward the ships’’ (II.174). It takes Odysseus to reinstate the fighting spirit in the soldiers, both the aristocratic leaders and the common ranks. Homer appears to display a particularly favorable view of aristocracy as seen through the way Odysseus goes about bolstering each class of fighters. ‘‘Whenever Odysseus met some man of rank, a king, / he’d halt and hold him back with winning words’’ (II.218–19). Compare this with his treatment of the men from the lower orders: ‘‘When he caught some common soldier shouting out, / he’d beat him with the scepter, dress him down’’ (II.229–30). Such obvious contrasts in behavior and manner might suggest a biased view of class, yet Odysseus could also be politically motivated in his words toward fellow aristocrats. If he speaks his disgust at their self-actualizing desires to flee the war at Troy and return to the business of their own autonomies and disregard the ideology of a unified ruling class, he risks embarrassing them and disrupting the social order of aristocracy, a fault already committed by Achilles through his condemnation of Agamemnon. Nevertheless, a beating of the lower classes with a scepter, of all objects, does appear to be a strong symbolic avowal of the ruling class’s dominance.
V o l u m e
2
5 0 7
O d y s s e y
Kurt A. Raaflaub in his essay ‘‘Homer and the Beginning of Political Thought in Greece’’ offers a similar view: The poet tries hard to discredit [Thersites] from the beginning, and when Thersites at the end gets his deserved beating the crowd is ecstatic: the greatest deed Odysseus has ever done. Hav ing thus made clear that this man counts for nothing, the poet can let him say what actually is to be taken very seriously. For what Thersites says not only is explicitly described as venting the anger of the masses but corresponds closely with Achilles’ criticism [of Agamemnon]. (Raa flaub 2004, 29)
For Raaflaub, such an act reveals a poet who has an awareness of the power the masses can wield if properly united the way the ruling class seems to be. This potential could eventually sow the seed of change if not for the blunt violence of aristocracy in the form of Odysseus. By putting this legitimate criticism of the ruling class in the mouth of a dissenter, Homer can address the very real dangers of an unchecked oligarchy while still maintaining the expected adherence to social order. William Thalmann, on the other hand, contends that Thersites’s outburst, while voicing an ostensibly actual aspect of the delicate balance among classes, in the end does more to reinforce the class divide than attend to any possible critique of the power structure. For Thalmann, Thersites exemplifies the chaos that exists in the interplay between ruling and dominated classes. Because of his vulgar and brazen speech, this soldier is described as ‘‘the ugliest man who ever came to Troy’’ (II.250). To further accentuate the point that he is not to be taken seriously as a member of the social order nor as a soldier, he is discredited as ‘‘bandy-legged’’ and as one who always seeks to ‘‘provoke some laughter from the troops’’ (II.249). Essentially, Thersites fulfills the role of comic relief. Thalmann calls him the ‘‘alazon or imposter’’ because he dares to assert himself in the face of a member of the ruling class (1988, 16). Yet, it is Agamemnon’s own actions and the actions of Achilles, of course both aristocrats that give Thersites the ‘‘courage’’ or possibly ‘‘impudence’’ to act. Ironically, Thersites’s name can mean both ‘‘courage’’ and ‘‘impudence.’’ Since he was witness to both Agamemnon’s self-serving, haughty demands and Achilles’s rant against such behavior, Thersites perhaps feels emboldened to vent his own displeasure.
5 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
As stated above, Thersites’s words express a legitimate grievance; one Achilles himself poses earlier. He says of Agamemnon: How shameful of you, the high and mighty commander, To lead the sons of Achaea into bloody slaughter! Sons? No, my soft friends, wretched excuses Women, not men of Achaea! Home we go in ships! Abandon him here in Troy to wallow in all his prizes. (Iliad II.272 76)
Compare this with Achilles’s first words upon hearing Agamemnon’s desire for Chryseis, the captive Trojan woman originally won by Achilles: ‘‘Shameless—/ armored in shamelessness— always shrewd with greed!’’ (I.174–75). Although both point out the dishonorable act of lusting over women and plunder, only Thersites earns a beating from Odysseus for his indignation. Therefore Odysseus’s actions have more to do with maintaining social order than with any personal aversion to the sentiment. Thalmann points out, ‘‘Like many comic characters, [Thersites] is on the margins of society and blurs class distinctions. His detached, ironic perspective also allows a peculiar clarity of vision, bringing into focus tensions and contradictions in society that otherwise would remain half concealed, tolerated by the commoners with inarticulate resentment at most’’ (1988, 17). In this sense Thalmann agrees with Raaflaub’s contention that the sentiment of Thersites’ vitriol concerns an issue of import, worth acknowledging not only in terms of the story but in the greater society as well. Both also acknowledge that since Thersites speaks in the language of the ruling class, he proves a legitimate threat to the order necessary to maintain the class system. Such a hazard further prompts Odysseus to beat him, and by doing so Odysseus once again commits an act of self-preservation, not unlike those mentioned earlier. Only here the ‘‘self’’ Odysseus strives to maintain is really the body of the dominant class and not simply the individual. Thus, it can be concluded that Odysseus, who is heralded for his cunning and power with words, actually resorts to the barbarism of brute force and physical violence in an attempt to protect an ideology that favors him over the ‘‘others.’’ In this moment the whole class structure can collapse under the weight of mass revolt, but rather ‘‘Thersites, through his defiance and the reaction it provokes, involuntarily performs a healing function for his society’’ (Thalmann 1988, 17). This ‘‘healing’’ occurs when the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
soldiers who witness his beating begin to laugh and mock Thersites themselves. In fact, by the end of the episode, the nameless soldiers recondition themselves in the language and value system of the ruling class’s ideology by jeering, ‘‘Never again, I’d say, will our gallant comrade/ risk his skin to attack the kings with insults’’ (II.323–24). Therefore, the catalyst for a possible recognition of the social ills committed by the unconstrained ruling class is lost through the unconscious affirmation of that very ruling class by those it subjugates. Aside from allowing only those members of the ruling nobility to appear in a positive light when they express a concept of the self, Homer also holds a double standard when it comes to the types of behaviors deemed acceptable at home and abroad. It is on this issue that Michael Clark makes his most damning but also his most poignant criticism of Homer and subsequently Homer’s influence on Western thought. For Clark, ‘‘the whole of the Homeric oeuvre ostensibly endorses plunder as a primal act of survival and supremacy’’ (1989, 115). In fact, a great deal of the battlefield banter in the Iliad concerns the ritual of stripping armor from a defeated warrior. For example, after Hector slays Patroclus, Menelaus confronts the Trojan prince and taunts him with claims that he can ease Patroclus’s parents’ grief ‘‘if only [he] brought [Hector’s] head and bloody armor home/ and laid them in Panthous’ loving arms’’ (XVII.44–45). Later when Hector challenges Achilles, he promises, ‘‘once I’ve stripped your glorious armor, Achilles, / I will give your body back to your loyal comrades’’ (XXII.305– 06). In both instances, the right to the armor by the victor demonstrates the clear symbolic subjugation of the defeated warrior. That is why, as a matter of personal and ethnic pride, Menelaus along with the other Achaeans fights stalwartly to try and prevent Hector’s stripping of Patroclus’s corpse. Without these tokens of achievement Hector’s victory would ring hollow. The Odyssey too promotes this view regarding plunder. Shortly after leaving Troy, Odysseus and his crew ‘‘sacked the [Cicones’] city, / killed the men, but as for the wives and plunder, / that rich haul [they] dragged away from the place’’ (9.45–47). Although these acts may be thought of as the spoils of war committed against an ally of the enemy, a later incident suggests this type of behavior to be reflective of a pervasive opportunistic mindset that values the ill-gotten gain
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
over all other kinds. As Clark asserts, Odysseus’s own words to Athena upon his return to Ithaca imply that any reward given to one as a gift ‘‘is less worthy of respect than that which has been taken via brute force—a model vaguely reminiscent of the bull-headed capitalist who respects only what is ‘earned the hard way’’’ (1989, 115). In this particular episode, Athena, disguised as a shepherd boy, comes upon Odysseus, who has just returned to his homeland bearing the gifts given to him by the Phaeacians. Unaware of the goddess in disguise, Odysseus launches out on an elaborate fabrication outlining how he acquired the loot at the battles of Troy and how he killed the man intent on robbing him of it. All of these examples appear to indicate that the imposition of one’s will upon another individual or group commands the greater sense of manhood and essentially self-hood. Yet, it cannot be overlooked that these instances of buccaneering, or supposed buccaneering, all take place away from Ithaca. So where does that leave those characters who commit plunder within Ithaca? Firstly, they perpetrate a crime against their fellow citizens and divine law by violating the concept of xenia, which governs the behaviors of guests as well as hosts. Secondly, they demonstrate a faulty view of the Odyssean ethic because they choose to execute their acts of plundering within the boundaries of their own society. Therefore, they are rightly deemed reprehensible and deserving of punishment. The incriminating acts the suitors perform against Odysseus’s household are not much different than what Odysseus and his crewmen have committed elsewhere, but the intent cannot be justified due to the suitors’ relationship to the oikos, or ruling household, of Odysseus. Since many of the suitors are actually citizens of Ithaca, their shameful deeds strike at the heart of the social hierarchy. Granted, even though the men are nobility themselves, this distinction does not lessen the severity of the threat. Once again, in slaughtering the suitors, Odysseus executes an act of self-preservation and self-actualization. His revenge restores the social order just as we have seen him do earlier in the incident at Troy. Clark affirms, ‘‘the modern parallel is not difficult to conceive, the one in which imperialistic activity is not only condemned, but unheard of, at home— be it within the United States, Europe, or the industrialized ‘West’ in general—and yet is all too commonplace, even ordinary, away from the
V o l u m e
2
5 0 9
O d y s s e y
center’’ (1989, 116). Such a striking parallel may prove it evident, though not very flattering, that Homer continues to be alive and well in our own culture. Thus, the suitors’ actions demonstrate the Odyssean colonial influence in all its ‘‘ruthlessness and ambiguity’’ (117). Furthermore, they express just how pervasive this behavior can become. What appears to be perfectly natural when committed elsewhere and against an enemy turns out to be grotesque and shameful when performed at home. So it seems appropriate to return to the question posed at the onset by Heath and Hanson, ‘‘Who killed Homer?’’ The answer, aptly enough, seems to be ‘‘Nobody.’’ He lives in our society as naturally and ubiquitously as the air we breathe. We may not notice his influence because all we do and are maintain his indelible mark. As Clark notes in his argument, some time ago William Bennett called for higher education to return to a core of great texts that expressed the best Western civilization had to offer on the human experience (1989, 111). It might sound like a noble endorsement and unquestionably Homer’s works deserve to be at the center of such a notion, but to blindly accept wholesale what these texts offer is to fall victim to a grievous error. Thus, the current trend in cultural criticism of dissenting readership, or what one may call reading ‘‘against the grain,’’ seems profoundly appropriate for examining Homer and all ‘‘great’’ works. As Thalmann states at the close of his book, The Swineherd and the Bow: If it is true that ideology can only be fully recognized as such in a culture and among people removed from oneself, then uncovering how ideologies work in a culture so distant as that of eighth century and Archaic Greece can help us look afresh at the discourses that today variously justify and disguise huge and ever growing economic, social, and racial inequal ities. . . . A text, furthermore, that has enjoyed the rather ambivalent honor of being made a ‘‘classic’’ requires this special effort of ‘‘reading against the grain’’ if it is not to be taken for granted and reduced to banality. . . . And so an alternative to taking the narrative’s alleged val ues as self evident is to interrogate it for the ways in which it represents political experience, as opposed to reproducing it, and to ask the reasons for the particular ways in which it does so. (Thalmann 1998, 305)
In a current political climate that tends to see the world in terms of us (good) and them (bad), no greater evidence can we have of Ancient Greece’s
5 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
inspiration on contemporary thought. For every ‘‘Axis of Evil’’ we can turn to Homer and find a parallel in the Trojan allies, such as the Cicones, who are reduced to nothing more than targets for plunder. With each passing day that we see the attempt to spread Western influence across the globe, we can look to Polyphemus’s cave, or the shores of the lotus-eaters and the Laestrygonians and see the ignorant attempts to make a wider world fit into a more familiar, narrower point of view. Yet, generosity and camaraderie also exist in our Western world, along with cunning and innovation. These too are the stalwarts of our ancestors. Therefore, the West cannot but be colored with Homer’s brush. His critics and champions alike only help to amplify his permanence within our culture, and every new addition to the canon wears the beggar’s rags that conceal the Odyssean ethic underneath. While some may be direct reshapings of the myth, as has been recently undertaken by many writers including Margaret Atwood and Elizabeth Cook along with film director Wolfgang Peterson, others are an indirect homage as delivered in the Coen brothers’ film O Brother, Where Art Thou? So indeed the bard still lives in all we do and say, both the good and the bad. Nevertheless, naysayers and detractors will continue to bewail his demise regardless of how plainly he sings through our every deed and exploit. Source: Scott A. Belsky, ‘‘The Poet Who Sings Through Us: Homer’s Influence in Contemporary Western Cul ture,’’ in College Literature, Vol. 34, No. 2, Spring 2007, pp. 216 28.
Peter V. Jones In the following excerpt, Jones offers a general overview of the Odyssey, encouraging the reader to explore this work to discover its ‘‘enduring hold on our imagination.’’ The Odyssey is the second work of Western literature (the Iliad is the first). The ancient world agreed almost unanimously that both epics were the work of Homer. The Odyssey—the return of Odysseus from Troy to reclaim his threatened home on Ithaca—is a superb story, rich in character, adventure and incident, reconciling reality with fantasy, the heroic with the humble, the intimate with the divine, and making the household, rather than the battlefield, the centre of its world. . . .
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
What stands out . . . is the brilliant ingenuity with which Homer has engineered situations in which accounts of Odysseus’ adventures and of developments on Ithaca in his absence can be plausibly given—not merely the great flashback of [Books] 9–12, but a host of smaller, highly significant, moments. And the more one thinks about it, the more difficult it becomes to envisage an Odyssey which did follow a purely temporal sequence. . . . Consider an Odyssey which started in [Book] 1 with Odysseus leaving Troy. First, the adventures which the poet has put into Odysseus’ mouth as a flashback in [Books] 9–12 would have to be narrated as a third-person narrative. (‘First Odysseus went to X and then he went to Y,’ etc.) Consequently they would lose much of their excitement as a personal reminiscence, and of their significance as an extended exercise in heroic self-revelation. Second, once the hero had returned, it would be impossible to give the intensive treatment to Penelope, Telemachus, the suitors and the effect of Odysseus’ prolonged absence on the household that the poet achieves in his chosen version. One would not know what the hero was returning to, and why his return was so urgently needed. We would lose the rich and subtle characterization of, and interaction between, the people in Ithaca to which he returns. . . . Seen in this light, Homer’s decision to target the epic on the moment of Odysseus’ return master-stroke. Far from losing perspective on the previous twenty years, the reader is endowed with a far sharper and more telling focus on it, because the events of the intervening years are selected by, and told through the mouths of, the characters themselves. What those twenty years mean to them is of far greater significance to the plot than simply ‘what happened during Odysseus’ absence.’ This rich interaction of past and present is one of the great glories of the Odyssey, and is an important component of the narrative’s power and pathos. . . . The past [gives] the key to the present, as it does so often in the Odyssey. In an epic of return and recognition, how could it not? When Argus recognizes Odysseus, we go back to Odysseus’ hunting days (17.291–317); when Eurycleia does, we go back to his naming ceremony (19.392– 466); when Laertes does, we go back to the young Odysseus in his father’s garden (24.336–44). . . . There was no law that forced the poet to stick to material within the traditional story. It is, for example, clear that the poet has introduced all
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
sorts of non-Odyssean material into the Odyssey. The Ares-Aphrodite story . . . is obviously one. Calypso is probably an invention to allow time for Telemachus to grow up. . . . Sometimes the joins in such material show. For example, the tales which Odysseus tells in [Books] 9–12 were almost certainly adapted from the Jason/Argonaut saga (Circe, the Wandering Rocks, the Sirens and Scylla and Charybdis were all probably Argonautic adventures before they became Odyssean ones too; cf. 12.70). The result is that in an epic where Poseidon is the main antagonist, Odysseus’ men are finally destroyed by the sun-god. Again, consider the effect of the bow-contest upon the narrative. Athene is Odysseus’ great patron, but the bow is Apollo’s instrument: consequently, it is not until Odysseus has used up the arrows (22.116–25) that Athene enters the fray (22.205–6). . . . In the Iliad, divine intervention is commonplace. Gods appear either as themselves or in disguise (usually the former) and are ever-present, helping their favourites and hindering their enemies. In the Odyssey, their presence is far less noticeable, and with the possible exception of 15.1–9, they appear only in disguise. Zeus himself remains on the whole apart from the action, and when he does intervene, he is a quite unIliadic god of human justice. Observe how Homer sets out the ethical programme of the Odyssey in the opening book: Odysseus’ men brought their own death upon themselves by eating the cattle of the sungod (1.7–9), and Aegisthus did likewise by ignoring divine warnings, killing Agamemnon and marrying Clytaemnestra (1.32–43). In other words, the gods are concerned about the justice of human behaviour in a way in which they are not in the Iliad. What, therefore, will be the consequences for the suitors of their behaviour in Odysseus’ household? The moral lesson is firmly drawn at their slaughter (22.35–41, 23.63–7). But there is one god with a high profile in the Odyssey—Odysseus’ patron, Athene. She stands by her favourite and guides his steps almost continually, and the teasing encounter they enjoy at 13.221 ff. is unique in Homer for the closeness of the relationship it depicts between god and mortal. It is tempting to say that Athene’s continuing presence diminishes the stature of Odysseus. But it is important to emphasize that in Homer the gods help only those who are worthy of it. Athene’s patronage does not diminish but enhances Odysseus’ status as a hero. Her willingness to help his son Telemachus is a similar index of his value. . . .
V o l u m e
2
5 1 1
O d y s s e y
This hero [Odysseus] needs more than martial skills if he is to survive, return home and restore his house to what it used to be. His cunning is evinced in many different episodes. . . . Restraint and endurance, deception and disguise: these Odyssean characteristics are shared, of course, by Athene, and willingly embraced by Telemachus when he is reunited with his father in [Book] 16. In the prevailing atmosphere of ignorance of the true nature of things in which characters wallow from the very beginning of the Odyssey . . . such characteristics help to generate a text dominated by irony, pathos, despair and joyously happy surprise (especially in the recognition scenes). Odysseus, down the ages, has been a man of many parts. But the text of our Odyssey invites us to admire its multifariousness: it is the secret of its enduring hold on our imagination. Howard Clarke summarizes those qualities which make our Odyssey what it is: The Odyssey is broad and inclusive: it is an epic poem, not in the Iliad’s way, with men and nations massed in the first conflict of East and West, but epic in its comprehension of all con ditions of men good and bad, young and old, dead and alive and all qualities of life subhuman, human and superhuman, perilous and prosperous, familiar and fabulous. The Greek critic Longinus described it as an ‘ethical’ poem, a word that Cicero later explained (Ora tor 37, 128) by a definition that could well be applied to the Odyssey ‘adapted to men’s natures, their habits and every fashion of their life.’ Source: Peter V. Jones, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Odyssey, by Homer, translated by E. V. Rieu, Penguin Classics, 1991, pp. xi xii.
5 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O d y s s e y
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
5 1 3
O d y s s e y
FURTHER READING Bloom, Harold, ed., Homer’s The ‘‘Odyssey,’’ Chelsea House, 2007. This book is an updated collection of ten essays with diverse critical approaches to the Odyssey. Nagy, Gregory, Homer the Classic (Hellenic Studies), Center for Hellenic Studies, 2010. This study traces the reception of Homer’s poetry from the fifth through the first century BCE Nagy explains Homer’s literary influence on the centuries that immediately followed him and also how his epics were used by individuals and states to promote certain cultural and polit ical agenda. Nagy’s purpose is to show how Homer’s poems became classics during the years of when Athens flourished. Paipetis, S. A., The Unknown Technology in Homer (History of Mechanism and Machine Science), Springer, 2010. This English translation of a book originally written in Greek is a study of the scientific and technological knowledge contained in Homer’s epics, which indicates a highly advanced civiliza tion in the Mycenaean era. Stark, Freya, Ionia: A Quest, Tauris Parke, 2010. Modern day Ionia, including inland from the western shore, in the area in which Homer is purported to have lived, is the focus of this new book. Wachsmann, Shelley, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age Levant, Texas A&M University Press, 2008. This book offers a comprehensive study of how early eastern Mediterranean cultures took to the sea. Included are Aegeans, Minoans, Myce naeans, among others. Wachsmann describes ship construction, piracy, laws pertaining to the sea, and Bronze Age shipwrecks.
SOURCES Biers, William R., The Archaeology of Greece: An Intro duction, Cornell University Press, 1996. Butler, Samuel, Authoress of the ‘‘Odyssey,’’ 1897, reprint, Forgotten Books, 2008. Fagles, Robert, trans., Odyssey (Penguin Classics), by Homer, edited with introduction by Bernard Knox, Pen guin Classics, 2006.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Odyssey
Ford, Philip, ‘‘Homer in the French Renaissance,’’ in Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 59, No. 1, 2006.
Homer
Graziosi, Barbara, and Emily Greenwood, eds., Homer in the Twentieth Century: Between World Literature and the Western Canon, Oxford University Press, 2007.
Homer AND poet
Griffin, Jasper, Homer: The ‘‘Odyssey’’: A Student Guide, 2nd ed., Cambridge University Press, 2004.
Odysseus AND Calypso
Jones, Peter V., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Odyssey, translated by E. V. Rieu, 1946, reprint, Penguin Classics, 1991, p. xi.
Odysseus
Levi, Peter, The Pelican History of Greek Literature, Penguin, 1985.
5 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
Homer AND epic
Odysseus AND Penelope
Greek epic
Odysseus AND Cyclops Odysseus AND Ithaca
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Omeros Publication of Omeros in 1990 signaled a milestone in the already remarkable career of Derek Walcott. This is not only because the author, who was born on the small Caribbean island of St. Lucia, went on to win the 1992 Nobel Prize for literature, but because his poem subtly undermines the very genre out of which it emerges.
DEREK WALCOTT 1990
Since Walcott himself voices reservations about the so-called heroic dimensions of Omeros, it is understandable that critics who are guided by textbook definitions have been reluctant to grant epic status to the poem. Walcott’s characters are unassuming peasants who fight no monumental battles; his persona/narrator is allowed no Olympic trappings; and the requisite narrative flow is occasionally disrupted by the poem’s lyrical exuberance. Nevertheless, Omeros is not a literary parody. The title itself pays homage to Greek origins, deriving from the pronunciation of Homer’s name. Walcott’s poem has the length, the geographic scope, and enough recognizable variations on traditional epic ingredients to ensure comparison with the standard masterpieces. Indeed, the essence of Walcott’s contribution to the epic genre resides in the insights afforded by that comparison. Walcott revisits the canonical works of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton, Walt Whitman, James Joyce, and Hart Crane because they epitomize the ideals of Western civilization. Much as Walcott admires these predecessors, he also notes that the first four
5 1 5
O m e r o s
heritage: the rich Creole culture of his transplanted countrymen, the unfulfilled legacy of his father who died prematurely, and the all-embracing sea. Derek and his twin brother Roderick were born to Warwick (a civil servant) and Alix Walcott (headmistress of a Methodist school) in the capital city of Castries on January 23, 1930. When the twins were about a year old, their artistically gifted father died suddenly, willing them his desire to capture the beauty of the island in the few poems and watercolors he left. Derek showed an early interest in both media. He took painting lessons from his father’s friend Harold Simmons, and with a loan from his mother, privately published his first collection of verse, 25 Poems, which he sold on the streets of Castries.
Derek Walcott (AP Images)
reflect a world of hegemonic domination or colonialism, dividing humanity into conqueror and conquered, or marginalized other. Walcott’s perspective is that of an artist who grew up in a neglected colony; he therefore asserts that the disenfranchised citizens of the world deserve their own validation. Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, Joyce’s Ulysses, and Hart Crane’s The Bridge initiate the movement toward recognition of the common man. Omeros does nothing less than offer an alternative to the terms of classical heroism. Omeros was published by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux in 1992.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY From his earliest verse written at the age of eighteen, Walcott has drawn material from his own experience. The autobiographical aspect of Omeros becomes unavoidable, given the frequency with which he explicitly interjects his own persona, a character with many autobiographical traits and bearing the poet’s name. Furthermore, the primary subject of this poem is his native St. Lucian
5 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
After completing his secondary schooling at St. Mary’s College under English and Irish Catholic teachers, Walcott accepted a colonial development scholarship to earn his baccalaureate degree from the University of the West Indies in Jamaica, which was awarded in 1953. He taught briefly in Grenada and Jamaica before winning a Rockefeller fellowship to study theater in New York under Jose Quintero and Stuart Vaughan in 1958. The months he spent in New York were beneficial in two ways. First, they introduced him, through the examples of Bertolt Brecht’s epic theater and the films of Akira Kurosawa, to the stylized technique of classical oriental drama. Second, the experience convinced him that New York in the 1950s was unreceptive to black actors and unsuitable for the kind of West Indian theater he was determined to create. Disenchanted with prospects in the United States and armed with a new determination to succeed in the Caribbean, Walcott cut short his Rockefeller grant and settled in Port of Spain, Trinidad, in 1959. There he began writing an arts review column for the Trinidad Guardian while he gathered around him a group of amateur actors, dancers, musicians and stage technicians. From this highly experimental, modest beginning in the basement of a local hotel, eventually emerged the Trinidad Theatre Workshop, an institution viewed by many as the first truly professional West Indian theatrical company. The workshop gained regional and international acclaim over the years, even winning an Obie award for Walcott’s Dream on Monkey Mountain in 1970. After he spent seventeen years of mutually rewarding collaboration, personal and artistic differences led Walcott to resign from the workshop in 1976.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
After a few unsettled years of writing and mounting occasional productions as he traveled among the islands of the West Indies, Walcott accepted a series of lectureships and visiting professorships in the United States. He taught at New York University, Columbia, Harvard, Rutgers, Yale, and finally Boston University, where he remained from 1981 until well beyond his being awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1992; he retired from Boston University in 2007. During these years, he founded the Boston Playwrights’ Theatre. Throughout this period, Walcott divided his residence between the United States and various Caribbean locations. But in 1993, he decided to build a home at Cap Estate on the northern tip of St. Lucia. After that he traveled widely, but the island was his home. In the fall 2009, Walcott accepted a position as distinguished scholar in residence at the University of Alberta, in Canada. Then in 2010, he accepted a position as professor of poetry at the University of Essex, in Colchester, England, where he had received an honorary degree in 2008. From the 1940s into the early 2000s, Walcott was prolific, publishing several collections of poetry each decade and over twenty plays. Among the works of poetry that appeared after Omeros are Tiepolo’s Hand (2000); The Prodigal (2004); and Selected Poems (2007). Among the dramatic works following Omeros are 1993’s Odyssey: A Stage Version; The Capeman (1997); and Walker and the Ghost Dance (2002). Derek Walcott married three times, each union ending in divorce, and he fathered five children.
PLOT SUMMARY Overview One of the initial challenges in reading Omeros is the complexity of its multi-layered plot. The meaning of the epic builds on events that are straightforward within themselves. Simple fishermen Achille (pronounced A-sheel) and Hector fight over Helen, a woman they both desire. Walcott expands these basic parts so that Helen comes to personify an island nation historically coveted by European powers. While his narrative does move toward an end, Walcott is essentially interested in the journey itself. Indeed, the nearer he comes to the final resolution, the more he focuses on the act of writing. Given his conscious emphasis on the text of the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Excerpts from Walcott’s Omeros, the Odyssey, and Collected Poems are read by the author on a Caedmon audiotape, recorded November 18, 1993, and available from HarperCollins Publishers. Walcott reads excerpts from Omeros and discusses the epic in a 1991 taped interview with Rebekah Presson, released as ‘‘Derek Walcott’’ in the New Letters on the Air: Contemporary Writers on Radio series, available from the University of Missouri in Kansas City. Derek Walcott reads his poems ‘‘Blues’’ and ‘‘Sea Canes’’ in an Audio Workshop London recording made by Richard Carrington on June 5, 2007. The recording can be heard online.
Derek Walcott was recorded reading his poems at Calabash ’08, the international literary festival at Treasure Beach, Jamaica, on May 24, 2008. The recording is available online.
poem as one of his subjects, his epic becomes selfreflexive. Omeros is a story of homecoming comprised of seven books recounting a circular journey that ends where it begins. Books one and two introduce St. Lucia and key sets of characters and initiate the basic conflicts. Books three, four, and five retrace the triangular trade route that once linked Europe, Africa, and the Americas. Books six and seven return to St. Lucia where the wandering author and his uprooted countrymen are eventually reconciled to their Creole identity.
Book One The primary focus of the first book is a group of indigenous fishermen and their friends in Gros Ilet village. Philoctete entertains a group of tourists willing to pay to hear local lore and to photograph the gruesome scar on his shin. Philoctete’s tale, like that of his Greek namesake Philoctetes, goes back
V o l u m e
2
5 1 7
O m e r o s
to the cause of his old wound and his quest for a cure. Two of Philoctete’s companions, Achille and Hector, have ended their friendship fighting over Helen, while Helen herself has broken with Achille, the man she loves and, out of spite, has moved in with Hector. Pregnant by one of these rivals and out of work, she is, like her counterpart Helen of Troy, caught between two jealous contenders. Rounding out the central cast of peasants are the old blind sailor, Omeros, also known as ‘‘Seven Seas,’’ and Ma Kilman, proprietress of the No Pain Cafe. Omeros in different manifestations serves as a wise seer, an interested commentator on the fate of others, and ultimately as the incarnation of the Greek epic poet Homer himself. Ma Kilman serves as a medicine woman, interested in a folk cure for Philoctete’s suffering. Another equally important set of characters includes the persona of the author himself, whose fictionalized character moves in and out of the story to recount his autobiographical journey toward self-realization. On a social level comparable with the author’s persona is the white, expatriate couple Major Dennis Plunkett and his wife Maud Plunkett. As Walcott’s persona puts it in one of his earliest incursions into the plot, each of his characters is wounded in one way or another because ‘‘affliction is one theme of this work,’’ and he goes on to admit candidly that ‘‘every ‘I,’;’’ including the narrator’s own, ‘‘is a fiction.’’ Achille, Hector, Walcott, and Plunkett all seek to possess Helen. Walcott makes her, as the personification of St. Lucia, the object of his epic. Alienated as Dennis and Maud are on their adopted island, their deepest regret is that they have no heir. To occupy his mind, it occurs to the major that Helen and her neglected people deserve to have their story recorded. To Plunkett’s allusive imagination, correspondences between the Trojan war and the protracted Anglo-French battle to dominate St. Lucia, the Helen of the West Indies, are too close to be merely coincidental. As persona Walcott and Plunkett undertake their writing projects, Achille agonizes over Helen’s defection to Hector, while Hector suspects that Helen still loves Achille. Book one concludes with an episode that may be seen as a reversal of Major Plunkett’s longing for a son. Walcott, the poet, regretted not having a father. In the final scene, the ghost of Warwick Walcott materializes to encourage his son to complete his unfinished work. He urges his son to honor their nameless ancestors, all the overlooked
5 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
Helens, the female colliers who marched like black ants down to visiting steamers—‘‘to give those feet a voice.’’
Book Two The second book centers on two major events, each affecting one of the groups of characters already introduced. The first event involves the historical 1782 sea battle that ensured British sovereignty over St. Lucia. Leading up to his retelling of the Battle of the Saints, Walcott takes readers back to meet a young midshipman on a spy mission for British Admiral George Brydges Rodney in a distant Dutch port two hundred years earlier. Next he shifts across the Atlantic to witness Rodney’s simultaneous preparations for the defense of St. Lucia. Rodney singles out for recognition one of the slaves struggling to transport a cannon up the coastal bluffs. These two new figures fill ancestral blanks for Major Plunkett and Achille: The ill-fated young midshipman entrusted with the Dutch mission is named Plunkett. When Dennis discovers his surname among dusty island archives, he claims the son he has always wanted. The slave, Afolabe, whom Rodney distinguished with the Greek name Achilles, is an ancestor of Achille. These preliminaries out of the way, a flashback describes the Battle of the Saints and Midshipman Plunkett’s untimely death. At the moment that the French ship Ville de Paris broadsides Plunkett’s vessel Marlborough, the midshipman accidentally falls on his own unsheathed sword. The second of the pivotal episodes of this book involves a political campaign sweeping the newly independent island. Philoctete and Hector join Maljo’s fledgling United Love Party. Maljo points to lame Philoctete as a symbol of the infirm status of the nation. Hector, who has given up the sea to convey passengers around the island in his van, the Comet, provides transportation. Maljo’s get-out-the-vote extravaganza is rained out, and after defeat, the candidate retreats to Florida to work the citrus harvest. The point of this interlude is to note that the transition from imperial rule to self-government has not improved the life of the average citizen. As Major Plunkett observes, local politicians have not helped Philoctete and have not affected the price Ma Kilman pays for fuel. Hector’s remaking himself into a taxi driver has been equally ineffectual. Closing book two, Achille puts out to sea, where the sun induces hallucinatory visions. As Achille’s fantasy begins, he sees past generations of drowned men rising to the surface. These remnants of the Middle Passage
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
conjure vestiges of his enslaved forefathers. As his fishing boat, the pirogue named In God We Troust heads toward his lost African home, Achille considers for the first time the question of his identity.
Book Three The actual time span covered in book three is approximately twenty-four hours, but in his trance, Achille retraces the Middle Passage back across centuries and vast distances to his ancestral African village. There he encounters his grandsire Afolabe, who instructs him in his forgotten tribal identity. In the local dances, rituals, tools, and musical instruments, Achille recognizes the origins of St. Lucian customs and devices. Together Afolabe and the village griot, or storyteller, rectify the historic amnesia of the African diaspora. Dream turns to nightmare, however, as Achille is forced to stand by helplessly as tribal enemies raid his village for slaves. Meanwhile, In God We Troust does not return at dusk with the rest of the pirogues. Philoctete and Helen wait anxiously until the next day for Achille. Back in St. Lucia, he acquires a new interest in the fates of dispossessed Native Americans and Africans in the New World. Bob Marley’s song ‘‘Buffalo Soldier,’’ heard on the radio, subtly broadens Achille’s perspective and, at the same time, offers a foretaste of the setting for the fourth book.
Book Four Time and space are once again divided in the fourth book. It includes scenes set in present-day New England, where Walcott suffers over the failure of his marriage and a visit to the Dakota Indian territories in the 1890s. There, the Oglala Lakota Sioux are reacting to the genocidal policies of white men by joining the Ghost Dance, a millenarian religious movement of Plains tribes. Participation in the Ghost Dance alarmed officials monitoring activities on the reservations and led to the massacre of more than three hundred families camped along Wounded Knee Creek on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota on December 29, 1890. The dominant point of view for this sequence of events is that of the historical figure Catherine Weldon. Weldon, a wealthy white woman from New York, resembles the Plunketts of the main narrative in that she is both emblematic of her race and at the same time has voluntarily broken with her own race and class in order to identify with people who have been deprived of their place in history. In a scene mirroring the aftermath of the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
slave raid in Afolabe’s village, Weldon stands, helpless as Achille had been, listening to the shaman Seven Seas recite the litany of an Indian village wiped out by cavalrymen. Inevitably, Walcott identifies with Weldon. As she watches the blanketing snow eradicate traces of disappearing Native Americans, he watches the snow wipe out familiar landmarks around his Boston townhouse. While he contemplates the breach of man-made treaties— government documents to wedding vows—the ghost of Warwick Walcott reappears to instruct him that his odyssey, like all journeys, is circular. Before Walcott can go back to his tropical island, however, his father urges him to experience the metropolitan capitals of the Old World that have influenced and shaped his colonial culture.
Book Five Europe has always been more than just the seat of imperial domination to Walcott: The poet’s ancestry and that of his persona in the epic include a mixture of Dutch and English forebears in his grandparents’ generation. When the poet’s persona Walcott crosses the Atlantic this time, he selects four destinations that hold special significance. First is Lisbon, Portugal, early patron of the African slave trade, and once so powerful that (in 1493) Pope Alexander VI allotted it half the unexplored world. Second is London, England, the colonial administrator and source of the language Walcott, the poet, has treasured since birth. Third is Dublin, Ireland, the island immortalized by his childhood idol, James Joyce, and Maud Plunkett’s native country. The fourth destination is the Aegean islands, the birthplace of Western culture. From his examination of the grand monuments of the past, Walcott concludes that he prefers ‘‘not statues, but the bird in the statue’s hair.’’ In other words, although he continues to be influenced by the established literary canon, he wishes to draw material from the life around him, just as Homer and Joyce did.
Book Six By the sixth book, Walcott has made his return to St. Lucia and it remains for him to gather the strands of his converging plots. After depicting the wreck of the Comet in which Hector is killed, Walcott is guided to the site by a talkative taxi driver. Next, Ma Kilman follows a trail of ants into the mountains and retrieves the homeopathic
V o l u m e
2
5 1 9
O m e r o s
African herb that finally cures Philoctete’s open wound. As Philoctete is cleansed, Walcott catalogs the terms of his healing. His flesh and spirit are restored as his racial shame is washed away and he reclaims his lost name. Similarly, Walcott exorcizes the flaw in his love of St. Lucia. His artistic preservation of local color does no justice to the integrity of living people. Soon afterward, Major Plunkett achieves a similar change of heart. His epiphany dawns shortly after his wife Maud dies from cancer. Walcott sums up their mutual conversion when he denounces the grandiose classical trappings in their homage to Helen: ‘‘Why not see Helen as the sun saw her, with no Homeric shadow?’’ Nearing the end of Omeros the announced theme of affliction gradually yields to the theme of reconciliation. Not only is every I a fictional construct, but each is easily interchangeable. Walcott invests his father in Plunkett, his mother in Maud, and he sees himself as a Telemachus launching his own odyssey in search of his missing Odysseus. The father/son variations proliferate. History may have shaped the present, but nothing prevents the individual from adjusting the perception of present and future options. At Maud’s funeral, Helen informs Achille that she is coming home. As this sixth book concludes, Achille helps Helen understand the insights of his African dream: The costumes, dances, and rituals celebrating Boxing Day (the day following Christmas) have roots that descend through Western customs into African origins. In their Creole practice, they now inform St. Lucian identity.
Book Seven The Protean Omeros materializes as an animated statue in the seventh book to assure Walcott that a real ‘‘girl smells better than the world’s libraries’’; therefore, he should concentrate on what he sees around him. Walcott resolves to emulate the sea that absorbs history and to appreciate the privilege of knowing ‘‘a fresh people.’’ Helen is no longer the object of an agenda for Walcott or Major Plunkett. The major accepts Maud’s death and learns to work among rather than to oversee his employees. Achille, who will never read anything Walcott writes, is depicted returning from a day of fishing, and the final line of the epic notes that ‘‘the sea was still going on.’’
5 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
CHARACTERS Achille The primary protagonist among the villagers of Gros Ilet in St. Lucia, Achille (pronounced Asheel) is a fisherman deeply in love with Helen, the local beauty. Because he and his friend Hector both love Helen, they become arch-rivals, as did their Homeric namesakes three thousand years earlier. Afflicted with the rootlessness that often results from living under colonialism, Achille not only needs to win Helen, he also must discover his personal and racial roots in order to confirm his rightful place in St. Lucia. The event that gives his life ultimate meaning is a sunstroke-induced trance that transports him through time and space to his ancestral river village in Africa.
Achilles See Achille
Afolabe In the dream that takes Achille centuries back to his African origins, Afolabe appears as his distant grandsire. Afolabe challenges Achille to reclaim his African name, believing that the person who forgets who he is lacks the substance to cast his own shadow. Under Afolabe’s instruction, the amnesia caused by the Middle Passage and generations of slavery is eliminated. Achille is surprised to see familiar traces of St. Lucian rituals in Afolabe’s tribal customs.
Antigone The Greek sculptress who instructs Walcott in the proper pronunciation of Omeros (Homer’s name) is given the pseudonym Antigone. She appears briefly as Walcott’s lover in her Boston studio in book one. She disappears almost at once because she has grown tired of the United States and wants to return to her native islands.
Christine Christine is Ma Kilman’s niece, a country girl who comes to work in the No Pain Cafe at the end of Omeros. For her, Gros Ilet is an amazing city and she is said to be like a new Helen.
Chrysostom Chrysostom is one of the fishermen who gather with Achille and others on the shore before beginning work each day.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
up the image of Joyce (with his notoriously poor eyesight) as a ‘‘one-eyed Ulysses’’ gazing seaward after a departing ship.
Circe See Helen
F. Didier Convinced that there is no significant difference between the two major parties that are polarizing the island in attempting to win the general elections, Maljo creates his alternative United Love party. Maljo runs an ineffective, American-style, grass-roots campaign, driving along the streets, shouting through an unreliable megaphone about Greek and Trojan parties fighting over Helen. When Maljo is defeated, he leaves for Florida to work the citrus harvests.
Hector Achille’s friend turned rival, Hector manages to take Helen home with him early in Omeros, but he suffers from knowing that he has not won her heart. Hector’s downfall is the result of his turning away from the calling of the sea to become a taxi driver. His van named the Comet, decorated with flames on the outside and leopard-skin upholstery within, symbolizes the island’s cultural ambiguity. The leopard motif harks back to an Africa that no longer exists, while the blazing comet suggests an alluring future driven by tourism and corporate exploitation far beyond local control. Once he abandons the sea, Hector is never at peace, and he can find no security in Helen. In the sixth book, reckless driving takes him over a cliff to his death. Despite Hector’s treachery in life, Achille mourns for an irreplaceable friend. Walcott shows Hector last shouldering an oar as a road-warrior in the inferno section of the seventh book, a soul in the purgatory of his own choosing.
Helen Helen is the cause of the conflict between Achille and Hector. Walcott, as a participating narrator, is inspired to immortalize her in Omeros. In spite of all the Homeric paraphernalia surrounding her, Walcott insists on her existence as a real person. As he explained to J. P. White, Helen is based on a woman he saw in a transport van he described in the poem ‘‘The Light of the World.’’
James Joyce When Walcott stops in Dublin on his tour of Europe, he pays homage to James Joyce. As he stands on the embankment of the Liffey River one evening, he imagines Joyce’s Anna Livia (from Finnegans Wake) scurrying by. Then he conjures
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Ma Kilman Ma Kilman is the repository of African animism that has been adopted into St. Lucia’s Catholicism through generations of obeah-women (practitioners of sorcery and magic with roots in African traditions). She has lost the memory of herbs, potions, and spells, but when she sheds the uncomfortable garments of civilization, she reestablishes contact with the homeopathic fruit of the earth. Ma Kilman serves as an earth-mother figure, healing men and linking them with the natural environment.
Lawrence The waiter having difficulty making his way among customers on the beach when both Walcott and the Plunketts observe Helen’s first appearance in Omeros is sarcastically called ‘‘Lawrence of St. Lucia.’’ He is no Lawrence of Arabia. Near the end of the epic Walcott mentions his name once again as an example of the ‘‘wounded race’’ who laugh uncomprehendingly when an exasperated Achille curses a group of intrusive tourists.
Maljo See F. Didier
St. Omere See Omeros
Omeros The title character is an ageless blind man who has settled in St. Lucia after sailing the oceans of the world. Omeros, like both the island’s sightless patron St. Lucia and the Greek Homer, possesses the gift of inner vision.
Pancreas Pancreas is one of the fishermen who gather with Achille and others on the shore before beginning work each day.
Penelope See Helen
Philo See Philoctete
V o l u m e
2
5 2 1
O m e r o s
Philoctete Philoctete serves as an integral mediator. He tries to convince Achille and Hector that they are brothers in the bond of the sea and should not be estranged from each other. When budding political parties in his newly independent nation threaten to divide the population against itself, he regrets the fact that people do not love St. Lucia as a whole.
Philosophe See Philoctete
of the Saints. His second, more important, role is to lie dormant for two hundred years before his name is rediscovered, allowing him to become the surrogate son Major Dennis Plunkett thought he would never have. The major uses the midshipman imaginatively to link his ancestry with his adopted home of St. Lucia. It does not matter that the young man died centuries before Dennis was born; the event allows the major to take pride in the actions of a namesake who died honorably in defense of the Helen of the West Indies.
Admiral Rodney
Placide Placide is one of the fishermen who gather with Achille and others on the shore before beginning work each day.
Major Dennis Plunkett Expatriate Dennis Plunkett, a retired British major, settled in St. Lucia with his wife Maud shortly after World War II. He sustained a head wound in the war, and Maud nursed him back to health. As Walcott informs the reader in one of his earliest authorial intrusions, the major’s injury is in keeping with the epic’s central theme of affliction. At first glance, this white, landowning couple seems out of place among the predominantly black islanders. Their presence, however, may be justified on at least two counts. First, they represent the centuries-old European entanglements in St. Lucian affairs. Second, Walcott’s identification of the Plunketts with his parents recognizes the European blood in his own veins. The deepest regret in Dennis Plunkett’s life is that he and his wife never had a son.
Commander of the British fleet stationed in Gros Ilet Bay in the eighteenth century, the historical Admiral George Brydges Rodney defeated the French fleet under the Count de Grasse on April 12, 1782. The Battle of the Saints, named for the small group of Les Saintes islands, is famous in naval history because Rodney’s bold breakingof-the-line maneuver established precedent for future naval engagements, and his victory solidified the British position in peace negotiations with France. In book two of Omeros, Admiral Rodney dispatches Midshipman Plunkett to spy on the Dutch. He is also responsible for changing the African name of Achille’s ancestor Afolabe to Achilles.
La Sorciere See Ma Kilman
Seven Seas See Omeros
Maud Plunkett
Professor Static
Maud Plunkett, the wife of Dennis Plunkett, longs for the music and the seasonal changes of her native Ireland. Much as she would like to see her homeland once again, her husband will not spare the money for passage. Maud is a static character, the steady anchor to her husband’s often quixotic energy. Dennis refers to her as his ‘‘crown,’’ his ‘‘queen.’’
See F. Didier
Statics See F. Didier
Theophile Theophile is one of the fishermen who gather with Achille and others on the shore before beginning work each day.
Midshipman Plunkett Midshipman Plunkett serves two primary functions in Omeros. In an historical flashback, Midshipman Plunkett is entrusted by Admiral Rodney with a spy mission to Dutch ports to gather information on the enemies of England. Unfortunately, he dies later by accidentally falling on his own sword after his ship is breached in the Battle
5 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
Alix Walcott Alix Walcott, the aged mother of Derek Walcott, appears only once in Omeros, but Walcott makes the comment that she is incorporated into his portrayal of Maud Plunkett. Derek Walcott, the poet’s persona, visits her at a nursing home where she resides.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
The domestic scene in which Walcott meets Alix is a respite from the constantly shifting narrative. Walcott must prompt his mother, who struggles to remember the names of her loved ones. She finally recalls ‘‘Derek, Roddy, and Pam,’’ the children she bore Warwick. The scene reconfirms Walcott’s roots in the island before he must be off again, pursuing a calling that takes him away from the source of his inspiration.
Derek Walcott Derek Walcott, the persona of the poet, functions in Omeros on two primary levels. He expresses fascination with Helen, enters into dialogue, and is often a participant among groups of characters. In addition, he candidly discusses autobiographical details and discloses the underlying structure of Omeros as he is engaged in the writing process. Despite the apparent transparency of motive, however, it would be a grave error to conclude that the Walcott who appears in Omeros is identical to the Walcott who is the author of the text. The persona is a fictional construct, an element in the epic that serves the poet’s artistic purposes; thus, the persona is distinct from the poet who wrote the epic.
Warwick Walcott Warwick Walcott, the actual father of the poet Derek Walcott, was an influence on his son’s artistic ambitions, despite having died when his son was only a little child. This fact accounts for the two pivotal appearances of the persona of Warwick’s ghost in Omeros, and it also serves the father/son relationships that proliferate in the epic. Warwick appears first at the end of book one to focus Derek’s attention on events of the past and present in the city of his birth. The ghost of Warwick materializes a second time at the conclusion of the fourth book, catching his son in a period of depression over his broken marriage and life in Boston. At this juncture, Warwick advises his son to follow the example of the sea-swift and complete his odyssey by circling back home.
Catherine Weldon The historical Catherine Weldon was a widow from New York whose commitment to the cause of Native Americans led her to the Indian territories of the Dakotas in the 1890s. Walcott’s treatment of her as a fictional persona seems to be faithful to historical and biographical accounts. Weldon became private secretary to Sitting Bull
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
during the time that the Ghost Dance movement was making its way through the plains tribes, creating uneasiness among white settlers and frontier military units. The Ghost Dance offered the Sioux the false promise that the vanishing buffalo herds and past generations of Native American warriors would return. The Sioux also believed that the magic shirts worn during the dance rituals would render their wearers invulnerable to bullets. White frontiersmen feared the unifying, rallying force of the movement and used the unrest it caused among Anglo Americans as an excuse for the Wounded Knee Creek massacre of 1890.
THEMES Hegemony and Identity On several levels, Omeros presents the strategies by which human beings survive and assert their integrity despite overwhelming hegemonic forces. Walcott’s peasant fishermen of Gros Ilet suffer neglect and shame because imperial power has deprived them of their ancestral culture. Expatriate residents of St. Lucia Dennis Plunkett and Maud Plunkett must adapt in order to exist in a marginalized colony. In a reversal of the standard paternalistic relationship between metropolis and colony, Walcott introduces several father-son combinations that are liberating and mutually beneficial. Last, the author uses vestiges of the epic literary tradition to assert a basis for self-esteem, even heroism, among dispossessed people, while he simultaneously challenges the very artistic form through which he makes his assertion.
Affliction, Deprivation, and Self-Esteem Walcott mentions early in Omeros that ‘‘affliction is one theme of this work.’’ Philoctete already has a seemingly incurable wound on his shin, and Major Dennis Plunkett has sustained a head injury. Walcott makes it clear, however, that this theme operates on a figurative level as well. Philoctete, for example, traces the persistence of his open sore to the chains that shackled his enslaved grandfathers. The major is tormented by his feelings that, like the history and people of his adopted colonial home, unfairly pushed to the margins of history, his own name and fame will die with him because he has no heir. Achille’s afflictions include both the pain in his heart over his loss of Helen and the amnesia he suffers in having been cut off from his cultural roots. Given the dimensions of such wounds, it
V o l u m e
2
5 2 3
O m e r o s
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Dennis Plunkett, a British expatriate, feels a greater sense of belonging to his adopted community of St. Lucia after he discovers that a possible ancestor of his died in its defense. Identify and write about an actual historical case of a member of another race or culture dying or risking death in the defense of a land, people, or cause not his or her own.
As political leaders discovered in the years following the American Revolution of 1776, the requirements for achieving independence extend far beyond a declaration, a war, and the formation of a national government. There are challenges of cultural, economic, psychological, and social independence as well. Conduct research into the post-revolutionary period of the United States. Compare the obstacles that had to be overcome with those faced in modern times by a nation such as St. Lucia, newly emerged from colonialism since World War II. In a PowerPoint presentation, explore the similarities and differences between the nature of independence seeking in U.S. history and that of a country seeking independence in the early 2000s. Although sophisticated forms of art may seem to be detached from the real world, Walcott recognizes that art can serve as a valuable
follows that the cures must necessarily be complex. Philoctete is restored to health when Ma Kilman rediscovers an herb and the homeopathic remedies of her ancient African grandmothers. In order to regain his soul, Achille must be transported in a dream back to the African village from which his ancestors were kidnapped into slavery hundreds of years earlier. Later, when Achille accepts his identity as a transplanted man of the New World, Helen returns, and he can begin to help her to understand the African roots that now draw nourishment from St. Lucian soil. The major gradually learns to feel whole and to make a place for himself. Helen figures prominently in his
5 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
means of human expression. Investigate some of the folk arts, crafts, dance, music, or rituals of Africans or Native Americans. Determine ways that these media help people to identify and define themselves as a culture. Create a poster on which you display scanned images you found in the library or online, showing these media and how they convey identity.
Do online research on the art, literature, film, or music that has been produced by colonized people in a country occupied by military forces from another country. Make a presentation to your class that explains the concept of hegemony and incorporates examples of the creative work of an oppressed people and discuss how the art conveys the feelings of those who are oppressed. Research a current and ongoing instance of an outside power that is exploiting natural resources in a foreign country for economic reasons. Write a research paper in which you explain how multinational companies or foreign governments are able to take over and profit from the natural resources that exist in other countries. Or write a biographical portrait of a person who has devoted his or her life to defending native rights and resisting outside powerful interests.
quest in the role he has imposed on her as the personification of the island of St. Lucia. Dennis Plunkett decides to rectify history’s negligence toward Helen and her people by dedicating himself to writing her history. His subsequent research into the Battle of the Saints fortuitously provides the name of Midshipman Plunkett as his putative son. The young man may have died in the conflict, but the crucial value of the major’s discovery is that it gives him a blood tie to St. Lucia. Later, after his wife dies, his attachment to the local people is confirmed as Ma Kilman helps him to feel even closer to Maud than he did when she was alive.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
Colonialism and Independence One of the many unfortunate legacies of colonial domination is that subject peoples are likely to learn to value themselves and their colony according to the standards of their subjugators. In Omeros, Walcott registers this fact in terms of psychological, sociological, political, and cultural effects, which explains why he begins his epic with deliberate classical allusions and launches his odyssey to North America and Europe in books four and five. The gesture, however, leaves the poet open to charges of imitation. This unavoidable influence is also what prompts Major Plunkett to champion Helen’s cause by attempting to match Eurocentric history. Achille’s journey to Africa gives him back his name and depicts his justified pride in his origins, but his most valuable insight is that Africa is not his home. His ancestors ‘‘crossed, they survived. There is the epical splendour . . . the grace born from subtraction.’’ Philoctete’s involvement in Maljo’s abortive political campaign underscore’s the internecine strife that threatens a newly independent nation experimenting with democracy. However, self-determination all too obviously does not guarantee cultural independence. One of the most insidious vestiges of neo-colonialism is tourism. Beautiful tropical havens attract so many leisure transients that national economies become vulnerable to foreign priorities. Reacting to the changes being wrought in St. Lucia by modernizing entrepreneurs, Walcott’s persona begins to suspect his own relationship with the island. Near the end of the poem, the influx of tourists and corporate interests drives Achille and Philoctete to undertake a voyage in search of an unspoiled island where they can begin anew. Eventually they recognize that they must return, proclaim their integrity, and defend their native home despite its remaining under duress.
Art and Reality One of the pervasive themes that begins early and grows to paramount importance in the last two books concerns Walcott’s self-reflexive point of view in Omeros. Walcott names his poem after Homer, the wandering poet who is credited with writing down the oral versions of the Greek epics and thus establishing an epic tradition, and Walcott incorporates elements of the epic genre in order to sustain parallels and create contrasts. Since his intention is to validate a corner of the world that past individuals considered unimportant,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
he must ultimately negate expected terms of heroism and advance a new perspective. He creates room to maneuver when he first insists that every I is a fiction. Doing so allows him to invest some aspect of himself in one after another of his characters. Such candor also disrupts the artifice of his text and thins the separation between art and its creator. It allows readers to have the sense that they can be privy to the poet’s intentions. Walcott’s persona and Major Plunkett start out together in asserting their West Indian Helen’s right to capitalize on certain coincidental Greek and Trojan parallels. But both of them come to understand that by molding Helen into the object of their imaginative designs, they do an injustice to the actual woman, who has a right to be no more nor less than just herself. In keeping with every imperial conqueror before them, they were exploiting a resource for their own gain. Gradually Omeros begins to dismantle the artistic structure in order to unmask the reality that is its inspiration. After having been impressed by the monuments dedicated to European conquistadors in the fifth book, Walcott expresses a preference not for the statues, ‘‘but for the bird in the statue’s hair,’’ meaning not the art object but the life that surrounds it. He advances another step when in the next book he comes to realize that as an artist he is guilty of wanting to preserve in his imagery the quaint world of the poor. He concludes that ‘‘Art is History’s nostalgia,’’ sacrificing the real for the ideal. Yet he chooses to write about Achille, who would never care to read his own story. Walcott’s answer, typically metaphorical, is twofold. First, the illiterate sea, which never reads the epics of mankind is still its own ‘‘epic where every line was erased / yet freshly written in sheets of exploding surf.’’ Second, Achille’s race, like living coral that builds on itself, ‘‘a quiet culture / is branching from the white ribs of each ancestor.’’ Finally he speaks through Major Plunkett when he decides to let Helen be herself, the reality on which the sun shines naturally, for ‘‘she was not a cause or a cloud, only a name / for a local wonder.’’ Form serves function in Omeros as forces of hegemonic power, deprivation, colonial neglect, and paternalistic literary influences come under the scrutiny of an artist from the third world, who records his people’s struggle to establish their identity and reclaim their self-esteem and independence even while he questions his own artistic processes.
V o l u m e
2
5 2 5
O m e r o s
St. Lucia in the Caribbean is the setting for Walcott’s Omeros. The Pitons, two volcanic plugs pictured here, figure in Walcott’s epic. (Image copyright Kurt Harfmann, 2010. Used under license from Shutterstock.com)
STYLE Epic Features Although Omeros resembles canonical epics in many ways, Walcott purposely deviates from the genre in order to broaden the scope of this traditionally heroic form. The lengthy though not consistently elevated poetic language is often more lyrical than narrative. There is no attempt to appear objective and the protagonists range from a persona of the poet himself to simple peasants who are the opposite of the Greek demigods whom Homer depicted. There is an effort to establish identity and a greater sense of nationhood, along with a validation of personal and national history apart from or despite colonization. Similarly, Walcott depends on frequent allusions to and parallels with Homer, Virgil, Dante, and others in order to place his work within and oppose his work to canonical epics. But in the end,
5 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
his goal is to validate simple men and women whose very survival requires heroic action, and not to claim for them any connection to supernatural forces or spiritual realms.
Point of View Because Walcott makes one of his protagonists a persona very much based on his own personality and history, his perspective is always at hand within the epic he creates. Under other circumstances his insinuating his own views through a mouthpiece might undermine the individuality of other characters; however, in this case, Walcott uses a self-reflexive technique, candidly insisting that each narrative voice, or I, is a fiction, including his own. This is a crucial point, considering that one of his purposes is to dramatize the fact that all accounts of events, whether in an epic poem or a so-called factual history, are selective narratives or constructs. The controlling voice
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
determines what is central and what is relegated to the margins. In this sense, then, Walcott shifts the subject and range of focus from the center (heroic) to the margin (common), thus privileging what would in a traditional epic be treated as minor and demoting what in a traditional epic would be center. Given this shift, then, through his persona he is able to create a new version of epic, one that celebrates the individual and deconstructs the concept of conquest. Too, he is able to comment on roles played within the text he writes.
Setting The main action takes place in postcolonial St. Lucia, in the United States, and in certain major European capitals. Historically, the West Indies have been shaped by the influx of alien races and cultures; therefore, the epic plot telescopes backward in time to resurrect and interpret anew certain past events that affected the present. In a vision, Achille is transported three hundred years into the past to recover forgotten African rituals and witness tribesmenbeingcapturedbymembersoftheirownracefor sale into slavery. Other episodes include the Battle of the Saints from 1782 and incidents from the 1890s in the American frontier. The story follows Walcott, a persona of the poet, as he travels from St. Lucia to Boston, to Europe, and back to the Caribbean. Since all the events have psychological repercussions for various characters, much of the action is internal, as each resolves personal problems.
in their patois, and her surf writes and erases her message all along the shoreline of their island. Birds proliferate on Maud Plunkett’s tapestry and the sea-swift becomes a focal point for several characters, both literally and figuratively. Philoctete’s existence is virtually defined by his painful wound. Helen’s beauty, her proud bearing, and her signature yellow dress turn heads where ever she appears. Aside from these standard appeals to the senses, Walcott’s text draws attention to itself or is self-reflexive. He mentions his thought of a Crow horseman taking shape as he inscribes it in book four then in the fifth book falling snow and the whiteness of the physical page are conflated with ‘‘the obliteration / of nouns fading into echoes, the alphabet / of scribbling branches.’’
Symbolism
From the very beginning, Omeros depends on readers recognizing and seeing the present significance in numerous allusions to certain canonical epics. The title refers to Homer and is a version of his name, and many of the characters’ names echo leading figures from the Iliad and Odyssey. In addition, in his historical research, Major Plunkett finds parallels between the Trojan War and the Battle of the Saints. Aside from the classical and historical allusions, Walcott also makes reference to certain subsequent authors, painters, and sculptors as he explores the manner by which he and other artists translate their reality into art.
The sea surrounds the island, connects this place with distant continents, and serves as the source of the fishermen’s sustenance. It also symbolizes the historical amnesia afflicting St. Lucia’s native population. Generations of African emigrants have forgotten their roots, just as each wave line left on the shore is erased by its successor. Time and again these ancestors are seen, for example, as a line of worker ants, toiling under the weight of their burdens. The sea-swift in flight makes the sign of the cross against the sky; it leads Achille’s pirogue on his African odyssey. The ghost of Warwick Walcott cites the swift’s habitual flight pattern, seaward and back, as the model his son must follow in order to trace his way back to St. Lucia. Wounds within each character symbolize the afflictions attendant upon slavery, colonialism, and metropolitan subjugation. Ma Kilman’s homeopathic cure of Philoctete serves as baptism into a new life, freeing him to remember the past without any longer being its victim. The journey motifs—whether in dreams of Africa or of Soufriere’s Malebolge; whether they are the poet’s personal sojourns to the United States and Europe; whether to connect the present with Greece, the Battle of the Saints, or the American Dakotas—all are diverse paths leading to wholeness for Walcott’s protagonists.
Imagery
Prosody
Walcott makes extensive use of sensory perception throughout Omeros. The pronunciation of Omeros’ name is replicated in the ‘‘O’’ sound of the blown conch shell. The blind Omeros perceives his environment by ear. Walcott and his fellow fishermen relate to the sea as mother, mer
The basic poetic structure of Omeros is occasionally off-rhymed terza rima stanzas. The rhyme scheme often interlocks, as is expected of terza rima, but Walcott ranges from exact to many forms of off-rhyme. On rare occasions, there are couplets and tetrameter passages. Walcott described
Allusions
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
5 2 7
O m e r o s
his meter as ‘‘roughly hexametrical’’; the ‘‘roughly’’ needs emphasis. The numbers of loose iambic feet vary to the extent that the stanzas often approximates free verse.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Helen of the West Indies The setting of Omeros ranges from the past to the late 1990s in the Caribbean, Africa, North America, and Europe, but the constant center is Walcott’s native island of St. Lucia. St. Lucia is the second largest of the Windward group of the Lesser Antilles. Small and insignificant as it may appear among so many islands, it has a remarkably colorful history. The population in 1990 was 151,000, comprised of 90.3 percent African descent, mixed (5.5%), East Indian (3.2%), and European (0.8%). Early attempts at European settlement were undertaken in the sixteenth century. Largely because of its strategic location and its fine harbors, St. Lucia rapidly became a pawn in Europe’s imperial expansion. The island was passed between England and France fourteen times before it was finally ceded to England by the Treaty of Paris in 1814. As a result of the protracted martial and legal contention, St. Lucia has been called the Gibraltar of the Caribbean and the Helen of the West Indies. Agricultural products have been the main source of revenue—first sugar and then bananas. Until the advent of petroleum-fueled ships in the late 1920s locally mined coal was important in the economy. Despite the fact that the official language has been English since 1842, a majority of the population continues to speak a French patois, and 90 percent are Roman Catholic. This is the milieu in which Derek Walcott, an educated, middle-class, artistically gifted member of a Methodist family, grew to adulthood. Walcott contended with white grandfathers and black grandmothers on both sides of his family and the untimely death of his father. Walcott struggled to find himself with few established guidelines. As he expressed it in his 1972 autobiographical poem Another Life, ‘‘The dream / of reason had produced its monster; / a prodigy of the wrong age and colour.’’ As a student, he was impressed with the poetry of Guadeloupe-born Saint-John Perse (pseudonym of Alexis Saint-Leger Leger), but his own early verse and dramatic work reflect the British colonial
5 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
educational influences of the metaphysical poets and of Milton, John Millington Synge, T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, and Dylan Thomas. Later he added traces of Kipling, Conrad, and Hemingway, then writers who became personal friends, including Robert Lowell, Joseph Brodsky, and Seamus Heaney. Regardless of the number of Western masters he may have assimilated, Walcott remained constant in his determination to draw from the most immediate subject matter of his life, the confluence of disparate cultures in the West Indies.
The Middle Passage The Middle Passage refers to the forcible removal of Africans from their native homes and their inhumane transport across the Atlantic Ocean in slave ships to live out their lives as slaves on plantations in the New World. Because Caribbean islands were populated by slaves and because part of Walcott’s own heritage is African, the Middle Passage is of central importance. For these reasons, the poet decided to send Achille back three hundred years, across the Middle Passage on a dream quest to eliminate the amnesia and the shame inflicted by the history of Western subjugation. Treated as merchandise and dispersed without regard to family ties or place of origin, forced to give up their language, religion, customs, and true names, slaves were able to retain and pass down only fragments of their African identity. Walcott treats Achille’s indoctrination as instinctive or racial memory. In the primitive dress, instruments, and rituals, he detects traces of ancient African practices he only partially understands given his St. Lucian socialization. When he has Achille observe one African tribe abduct members of another to be sold into slavery, Walcott dramatizes the fact that man’s inhumanity to man knows no racial boundaries. Walcott is careful not to imply that Achille’s knowledge of tribal life makes him somehow become African. It is important to him that Achille reclaim this part of his past and incorporate it into his authentic identity as a West Indian, an integral member of a Creole culture. Toward the end of Omeros, he is thus able to teach Helen the deeper meaning of Boxing Day masquerades, which predate their Christmas associations.
The Battle of the Saints Another line of Walcott’s ancestral inheritance is through his European ancestors. This aspect of Caribbean history is largely enacted by Major Plunkett and his discovery of Midshipman
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1800s: Millions of Africans and their descendants outnumber Anglo Europeans and their descendants in many areas of the New World. Plantation economy is based on slave labor. The American Civil War occurs between 1861 and 1865, taking the lives of 600,000 Americans and freeing an estimated four million slaves living in the United States. Today: Legislations passed in the mid-twentieth century in the United States attempts to establish civil rights for all citizens, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. Racial inequality persists into the early 2000s. 1500s–1600s: Spain, Portugal, France, and England all colonize the West Indies and the Americas, bringing European diseases that decimate indigenous peoples. 1800s: Great Britain, France, and Belgium explore, map, and colonize the African continent, displacing and subjugating indigenous people and taking natural resources and exporting them. Anglo Americans move into the Texas area, establishing settlements and subjugating many local Hispanic peoples. Others move West, displacing Native Americans. Today: The 1960s Star Trek series anticipates real-life exploration of outer space by space probes and cameras. Space stations provide experimentation bases for astronauts who live in space as long as six months or more.
European diseases in the New World are fatal to indigenous people.
1500s–1600s: With the discovery of the West Indies, African slave trade begins along the Middle Passage bringing untold millions of Africans to the West Indies and the Americas.
1500s–1600s: Arawaks have been supplanted by Caribs in the West Indies, but Caribs experience persistent decline in numbers with the advent of explorers and planters from Europe. As these Anglo Europeans settle in North and South America, indigenous people react in various ways, including expressions of welcome and resistance, and throughout the Americas, their populations drop because
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
1800s: In 1830, the U.S. Congress passes the Indian Removal Act, which grants the president the power to order the resettlement of eastern tribes to areas west of the Mississippi River. In 1886, as the Statue of Liberty is erected in New York harbor, Geronimo surrenders. In 1890, the massacre at Wounded Knee in South Dakota occurs. Today: Caribbean countries gain independence in the late twentieth century, and in the early 2000s, residents enjoy a parliamentary democracy and widespread literacy. However, unemployment is about 15 percent and poverty widespread. The United States recognizes American Indian tribes as autonomous nations with their own jurisdictions.
1500s–1600s: An agrarian lifestyle characterizes much of the known world; however, some tribes in the Americas are nomadic, following the flux of the seasons and migratory animals. As the use of slave labor increases in the New World, plantation economy develops. The economic and social differences between the small landed elite and the large labor force are dramatic. 1800s: Many sugar plantations in the West Indies use a large labor force. While slavery continues, the plantation economy thrives there and in the Americas, but inventions and resulting industrialization cause a proliferation of mills and factories, a rising middle class, and a cash-based economy in which increasingly people forego home production and purchase commodities from shops in town. Today: Underdeveloped, so-called third world countries continue agrarian economies. Subsistence living among rural and urban populations makesextreme povertycommon. Industrialized countries have diverse market economies and information technology grows at exponential rates.
V o l u m e
2
5 2 9
O m e r o s
Plunkett: men from separate centuries whose lives intersect after some two hundred years over a famous maritime battle between England and France. Walcott’s treatment of the Battle of the Saints does not emphasize European glory. Dennis Plunkett is interested in this momentous battle for more domestic reasons. He and the poet see it as evidence of St. Lucia’s intrinsic value, not as a European prize, but for its claim on them as individuals.
Independence For modern emancipated citizens of St. Lucia, such as Philoctete, Hector, and Maljo, the current battle to possess Helen centers on their social and political custodianship. Walcott witnessed the abortive experiment of the West Indian Federation from 1956 until its collapse in 1962. The failure of the Federation disappointed Walcott because he saw it as an opportunity to integrate the smaller islands into a more effective, stronger unit. In the aftermath of the Federation, St. Lucia became an independent state within the British Commonwealth on February 22, 1979. Although the federation does not figure directly in Omeros, the shortsightedness and political infighting that destroyed the Federation are embodied in the epic’s national election scene. It is tempting to see in the acronyms of the two parties Maljo wishes to oppose the Progressive Labor Party (LP) and the United Workers’ Party (UWP). The parallel is especially interesting since Walcott mentions a candidate named Compton and the Honorable John Compton of the United Workers’ Party actually won the bitterly contested election of May 1982.
North and South The shadow of North America looms large over the Caribbean basin and Walcott’s professional life and is included in his West Indian epic. Walcott’s participation in the poem as a persona, his insistence that he is a citizen of the Americas, and his sojourn to the United States, all make the States is as much a part of his extended landscape as Africa. Once again he telescopes history, this time to dramatize the irony of a postcolonial United States that nearly wiped out one race and enslaved another. Rather than focus on the genocidal policies that threaten to annihilate the Crow and Sioux, Walcott concentrates on the historical figure of Catherine Weldon, who lost a son and suffered the ostracism of her own race in order to support the Native
5 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
American cause. Walcott gives a human face to sympathetic members of the white oppressor race, such as Weldon and the Plunketts, and in alluding to the many Western authors and artists in the Euro-American section of his epic, but he is not attempting to mitigate the evil of imperial domination and slavery; rather, he is attempting to come to grips with both the black and white polarities of his personal lineage and existence. The essential thrust of Omeros is reconciliation, redemption, and the empowerment of Creole West Indian consciousness.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Prolific in his poetry and drama publications, with major contributions every decade from the 1940s into the early 2000s and with affiliations at prestigious universities in North America and Great Britain, Walcott is a critical success by any measure. The publication of Omeros in 1990 followed two years later by Walcott’s receiving the Nobel Prize for literature confirmed what was already widely recognized: Walcott had proved himself to be a major twentieth-century poet. Moreover, his work came to prominence apace with and suited for the multicultural curricula popularized in the United States and critical interest in colonialism, post-colonialism, and the nature of the Other in art and literature. Plus, his handling of the epic literary canon in Omeros invited discussion of the (re)reading of major Western texts from the perspective of marginalized and dispossessed populations. By 2010, Walcott and his work were the subject of critical essays, book-length explications, and sophisticated biographical studies. Regarding Omeros itself, many commentators first paid attention to Walcott’s appropriation of classical epics. John Lucas, in a 1990 review for the New Statesman and Society, argued that Walcott’s exploitation of the masters presents no constriction. Lucas went on to say that ‘‘the glory of Omeros is in the manner of its telling, in Walcott’s masterly twining of the narrative threads, and also in the poem’s seemingly inexhaustible linguistic riches.’’ Rei Terada’s 1992 book Derek Walcott’s Poetry: American Mimicry stressed the complexity and sophistication of Walcott’s manipulation of Homeric and other Western paradigms. Her chapter on Omeros developed the idea that Walcott disguises the representational nature of his own fictional characters by comparing them to their
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
classical Greek archetypes. As a result, his ‘‘realistic’’ characters are more immediately vivified by being contrasted with the ‘‘art’’ they imitate. Regarding the scope of Omeros, the verdict was divided. Quite a few reviewers suggested that Walcott was too ambitious and that he overwrote or spread this West Indian poem too thin in attempting to incorporate North America and Europe. But with reservations, Brad Leithauser, in the New Yorker, agreed with Lucas in praising Walcott’s linguistic virtuosity. Adding to the discussion, St. Lucia-born scholar Pat Ismond, in her Caribbean Contact review, asserted that Walcott’s poem is ‘‘informed by a lyric’’ rather than an epic muse. Furthermore, writing from her perspective within the Caribbean culture, Ismond disagreed with the metropolitan critics who found Walcott’s excursions beyond the West Indies to be problematic. She praised the work’s larger New World nexus of colonial reality. In confronting North America’s unconscionable treatment of Native Americans, Ismond argued that Walcott ‘‘makes a truly revolutionary gesture,’’ positing the heart of the United States in the Dakota plains rather than embracing the stereotypical image of Pilgrims in New England. Equally sensitive to the impetus behind Walcott’s looking beyond the Caribbean, Geert Lernout argued in Kunapipi that it is the poet’s dual vision that makes Omeros a ‘‘powerful achievement’’: ‘‘Walcott presents the two sides, the benevolent colonialism of the minor officials of the empire on the one hand and the descendants of slaves on the other.’’ The polarities noted by Lernout are also the sources of Walcott’s personal and cultural heritage. The African episode in Omeros fits so seamlessly as to go unremarked by many critics. Creole by birth as well as by experience and education, Walcott knew his roots were nurtured by European as well as African sources. Lernout mentioned in passing that Walcott and James Joyce accomplish similarly patriotic objectives for their respective island nations. Writing for the Southern Review, Sidney Burris agreed. Burris insisted that in rhetoric, humor, structure and style, Joyce’s Ulysses is likely to be the most important precursor to Omeros. In addition to Homer and Joyce, critics found a growing number of telling parallels with other Western models. Several seized upon Helen as the thematic center of Omeros, making the case for Walcott’s contribution to and extension of time-honored prototypes. According to Charlotte
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
McClure in Studies in the Literary Imagination, Walcott’s female protagonist assumes an identity of her own after 2,500 years of varied treatment. Comparing the Helens of Hart Crane and Hilda Doolittle with Walcott’s creation, McClure concluded that without the benefit of female support within her patriarchal society, the Caribbean Helen achieves autonomy, ultimately breaking free of Homeric and Sophoclean associations. In World Literature Today, Julia Minkler drew upon Shakespeare’s Tempest to discuss Helen among her St. Lucian Calibans, Prospero, Miranda Ariel, and Sycorax. Then, contributing to a collection entitled Robinson Crusoe: Myths and Metamorphoses, Paula Burnett located Walcott’s new Helen within the rich Crusoe-Friday myth that itself grows out of the Ulysses legend. Due to their healing power, ‘‘moral courage, endurance, compassion, and knowledge of the human condition,’’ Helen and Ma Kilman are primary forces in Walcott’s narrative of the ‘‘handover of white power to black, in the name of a multiracial and multicultural future in which the wounds of history stay healed,’’ Burnett wrote. Even before Walcott’s receipt of the Nobel Prize in 1992, Omeros began attracting serious scholarly attention. After that award, several more books on Walcott and his poem appeared, including Robert Hamner’s An Epic of the Dispossessed: Derek Walcott’s Omeros (1997); Patricia Ismond’s Abandoning Dead Metaphors: The Caribbean Phase of Derek Walcott’s Poetry (2002); and Lance Callahan’s In the Shadows of Divine Perfection: Derek Walcott’s ‘‘Omeros’’ (2003). At over 700 pages, Bruce King’s Derek Walcott: A Caribbean Life, which was published by Oxford University Press in 2000, presents Walcott’s biography in minute detail. From these critical responses, it is apparent that Walcott’s Omeros was expected to sustain a weighty philosophical and aesthetic burden for years to come.
CRITICISM Robert D. Hamner Hamner is professor emeritus at Hardin-Simmons University. In the following essay, he explains how Walcott’s work both adheres to and diverges from classic epic traditions. Reviewers and scholars recognize the obvious epic dimensions of Omeros, and many wisely proceed to Walcott’s deviations from the traditional formula.
V o l u m e
2
5 3 1
O m e r o s
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
TITLE IN HAND, WITH ALL ITS CONNOTATIONS, WALCOTT UNDERTAKES THE CONVERSION OF AEGEAN RUDIMENTS INTO A CARIBBEAN NARRATIVE.’’
George Lamming’s novel In the Castle of My Skin (1954) recounts an aspiring artist’s experiences of village life in Barbados, similar in many ways to Walcott’s Gros Ilet village in St. Lucia.
Austin Clarke’s Growing Up Stupid under the Union Jack (1980) is a humorous account of a youngster’s attempts to cope with the contradictions of colonial society in Barbados. Rex Alan Smith’s Moon of Popping Trees (1981) is the book alluded to but not named in Omeros, from which Walcott read about Catherine Weldon and the Sioux Ghost Dance.
Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney’s play The Cure at Troy: A Version of Sophocles’ ‘‘Philoctetes,’’ (1991) focuses on the Greek character Philoctetes (who appears as Philoctete in Omeros). Heaney and Walcott were friends who drew from the same classical sources in these works.
Walcott’s play Odyssey: A Stage Version (1993) is a somewhat more straightforward West Indian adaptation of Homer’s epic account of Odysseus’s difficult journey back to Ithaca after the victory at Troy.
Loung Ung tells her own story of oppression in 2001’s First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers. Ung describes life during the Pol Pot regime in Cambodia and how her family copes with being fugitives of war, without even their birth names to connect them to their past.
William Least Heat-Moon’s 2003 study for young adults Columbus in the Americas presents the truth behind the myth of the explorer who accidentally found North and South America and whose impact continues to affect those continents. Mat de la Pena’s award-winning 2008 novel Mexican WhiteBoy tells the story of a boy who is half white and half Mexican during a summer of firsts when he and his family are in San Diego, California.
5 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
At this point some conventional approaches begin to note perceived weaknesses. One common objection, voiced by David Mason in the Hudson Review and Sean O’Brien in the Times Literary Supplement, is that Walcott errs in attempting to include Euro-American material in what is ostensibly a West Indian epic. Another complaint, offered by Christopher Bakken in the Georgia Review, is that rhetoric occasionally threatens to overwhelm the narrative impetus. One answer to both these concerns is that Omeros is to a significant extent the offspring of chance, fortune, the coincidental roll of dice, Walcott’s aleatory muse (meaning one dependent on chance). At least this is a stratagem, an authorial ploy that allows Walcott to exploit the ambient space between the vital people who are his immediate subject and the aesthetic distance required to depict their lives artistically. Chance and coincidence are sufficiently important to Walcott that he makes them explicit in minor details and within the thinking processes of major characters. For example, in the chapter on Omeros in her book Derek Walcott’s Poetry: American Mimicry, Rei Terada comments on 1) Walcott’s paying attention to spelling errors; 2) both Walcott’s and English expatriate Major Plunkett’s fascination with one-to-one correspondences between Aegean and Caribbean events; and 3) coincidental details mentioned by Warwick Walcott that link him with Shakespeare and Hamlet. Certainly, Achille accidentally gets ‘‘trust’’ wrong in naming his canoe In God We Troust; he spells the word as he would pronounce it. Too, Major Plunkett misspells the Arawak word Iounalo, and a sign is misprinted ‘‘HEWANNORRA.’’ Clearly, Walcott in his own persona and Major Plunkett expend much of their energy in the poem pursuing a well-intentioned, nonetheless misguided, quest to immortalize their West Indian Helen in emulation of Homer’s white
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
paradigm. This eclectic blend of misprision and fancied correspondence in Omeros, however, goes much deeper than these overt manifestations. Indeed, it pervades the subtext and Walcott’s aesthetic technique. Since Walcott makes himself a participant within Omeros, the circumstances of his birth serve as one antecedent accident. As he describes his predicament in Another Life, ‘‘reason had produced its monster: / a prodigy of the wrong age and color.’’ Even his obscure island happened to be so desirable to France and England that he grew up being taught St. Lucia was the ‘‘Helen of the West Indies.’’ An impressionable Walcott absorbed such incidental correspondences until he eventually realized their potential not only as subject for analogy, but also for the recognition latent within any accident or mistake. Shortly before undertaking the writing of Omeros, Walcott explained at a literary conference the lesson he learned when he mistyped the word ‘‘love’’ in his manuscript where he intended to say ‘‘life.’’ It immediately occurred to him that this slip of the finger registered a truth he had not previously conceptualized. He records his conclusion later (in his opening address at the Eighth Conference on West Indian Literature in 1988, which he titled ‘‘Caligula’s Horse’’) for Kunapipi: ‘‘That is one part of the poetic process, accident as illumination, error as truth, typographical mistakes as revelation.’’ As a matter of fact, early in the second book of Omeros, Walcott candidly informs readers that his very title grows out of a simple mistake. When he speaks of Homer to his lover, a Greek sculptress, she informs him that the authentic pronunciation of the name is ‘‘Omeros.’’ Title in hand, with all its connotations, Walcott undertakes the conversion of Aegean rudiments into a Caribbean narrative. This epic of the dispossessed centers on a Creole island that has dropped between the lines of history. Since St. Lucia and her people have been lost or marginalized in the record of European conquest, Walcott may be said to have found them and himself as subject matter. Already at hand are black countrymen named after figures from classical myth and legend, educated under a system of hierarchical Western values. The precursor of Helen, he explains in a Green Mountains Review interview with J. P. White, is the woman he happened to encounter on a local transport bus. Portraying this incident in ‘‘The Light of the World’’ from The Arkansas Testament, Walcott introduces this remarkable ebony rival to Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, a van like Hector’s Comet, the Halcyon Hotel where Helen
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
will be employed at the close of Omeros, and he registers his desire to give something to these people he has abandoned in pursuit of art. Thus, it would be appropriate to categorize the contents of Omeros as found art. At least that is the impression Walcott cultivates in having Helen first appear as a mirage before his persona. When his eye happens upon this feline beauty in madras head-tie and yellow dress, the narrator can only pronounce, ‘‘And all the rest followed.’’ From one unexpected vision, all the other characters, themes, and plot lines cohere in Helen both as a person and as the embodiment of St. Lucia. Initially, she may serve as a cause just as her Greek namesake does in the Iliad; however, in the modern setting no demigods are found working their will on a grand scale. Instead, Walcott consistently presents a sequence of events wherein ordinary humans must feel their way tentatively, reacting to shifts in fortune, whose most wellintentioned plans may turn out to be misguided. Of the four major questing figures, only Achille and Ma Kilman achieve untainted goals. In each case, they succeed not through personal assertion but by allowing an external power to reveal missing knowledge. The overriding difference is that Ma Kilman responds to instinct and follows a trail of ants in locating the African herb that cures Philoctete’s physical and spiritual affliction. Achille, in turn, succumbs to a sunstroke-induced trance to regain the African heritage that had been wrested from his people by the Middle Passage. For Dennis Plunkett, ‘‘all the rest’’ begins with his commitment to giving Helen the history she has been denied, making her the object of the Battle of the Saints. Apparently, even Helen’s possession of the butterfly-colored frock that serves as the standard for that famous battle comes into her possession due to misunderstanding. Whether she imagined Maud Plunkett intended it for her or she stole it, there is the accomplished fact. Equally determined to exonerate Helen, Walcott undertakes her artistic representation through the Westernized paraphernalia of Omeros. Before these men realize the colonial paternalism inherent in their agendas for Helen, the stations of their quests afford fruitful insights. Pursuing his research, the major happens upon a surrogate for the son he and Maud were unable to conceive. Although young Midshipman Plunkett died over two hundred years earlier, by accidentally falling on his own sword during the Battle of the Saints, the major’s discovery of his name in
V o l u m e
2
5 3 3
O m e r o s
the annals of the military engagement is sufficient to confirm his blood-ties to his adopted country. His luck in finding the name unexpectedly and his obsession with fortunate parallels, however, only affirms the European framework of his historical account. After his wife’s untimely death, he becomes more thoroughly integrated into authentic island society when he calls on Ma Kilman’s powers as an obeah-woman to establish communication with Maud in the afterlife. Humbled by personal loss and realizing that he had been inadvertently imposing his will on Helen’s story, he at last concedes that she is ‘‘not a cause . . . only a name / for a local wonder.’’ Walcott’s sojourn carries him away from the island to North America and Europe in books four and five—the portions of the epic that some critics see as the least artistically defensible. The fact that Walcott’s own professional life necessitated foreign residence is insufficient alone to justify the material of these two books. An equally autobiographical yet more compelling motive may be found in the so-called accident of his being born of mixed blood. Not only has he sung this theme since adolescence, but it is as integral a component of his existence, as it is of all Creoles, regardless of whether they wish to acknowledge the disparate sides of their ancestry. Walcott’s ‘‘all the rest’’ encompasses this broader context. When he needs an alter ego to share the pain of a broken marriage and growing disenchantment with the American dream, an unlikely figure jumps from the pages of a book he is reading, Rex Smith’s Moon of Popping Trees. As Walcott explains, ‘‘Catherine Weldon arose in high relief / . . . making a fiction of my own loss.’’ Prompted by the ghost of his father, he traces the roots of colonialism to the decadent seats of European empire. In the Old World, he learns to prefer the birds perched on the commemorative statues to the monuments themselves. That lesson is reiterated when he returns to St. Lucia and the image of Homer himself counsels that ‘‘A girl smells better than the world’s libraries.’’ In addition, this talking statue of authority argues that as powerful as love for a woman may be, ‘‘the love of your own people is / greater.’’ Acting in Virgil’s capacity as guide to Dante in the Inferno, the statue removes Walcott’s remaining illusions by taking him through St. Lucia’s inferno near Soufriere. After this corrective experience, Walcott reaches an epiphany similar to that of Dennis Plunkett: ‘‘The sea was my privilege. / And a fresh people.’’
5 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
Although Walcott draws many literary figures into Omeros, it is imperative to note one other crucial influence on the epic. Walcott, who is a painter as well as a poet and playwright, sketched scenes for his poetry and drama. This is important because he planned to publish in a separate book the ink and watercolor illustrations he prepared for Omeros and also for his technical affinities with two out of the many graphic artists he cites directly. The lucky coincidence of Winslow Homer’s surname, in itself, merely fits into the litany of correspondences. However, when Walcott chances upon Homer’s The Gulf Stream, he is forced into a singular recognition. Homer’s realistic depiction of a lone Negro sailor adrift in a dismasted skiff between voracious sharks and an oblivious sailboat on the horizon leads to his exclamation, ‘‘Achille! My main man, my nigger! / . . . forever, between our island / and the coast of Guinea.’’ Combined in that electric moment are two painters, two Homers, and two representatives of a race suspended precariously between the Old and New Worlds. The second painter deserving special notice is equally instructive, but for an entirely different reason. Walcott’s allusion to Marcel Duchamp’s Large Glass should elicit the heart of Dadaist aleatory, chance, or found-art theory. It is this anti-art technique that underlies Walcott’s non-linear plotting of Omeros. Whereas Duchamp declares a ‘‘ready-made’’ urinal to be an art object, Walcott proclaims the artistic validity of St. Lucia’s readily available but disregarded population. Furthermore, when Walcott mentions the accidental cracks in Duchamp’s Large Glass, he draws from this artist’s celebration of the creative value of mishaps. Speaking to Katherine Kuh in The Artist’s Voice, Duchamp explains his random dropping of three lengths of thread onto painted strips of canvas to form his iconoclastic 3 Standard Stoppages: ‘‘The idea of letting a piece of thread fall on a canvas was accidental, but from this accident came a carefully planned work. Most important was the accepting and recognizing of this accidental stimulation.’’ Neither Duchamp’s nor Walcott’s manipulation of chance and ready-made objects can be taken as purely haphazard. Their material is carefully selected, yet each choice is cast as random enough to maximize a sense of spontaneity— creativity arising from the mundane. Walcott’s characters may seem diminished when compared with the glorious warriors of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, but as he demonstrates, they possess a dimension of heroism all their own.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
As a New World poet of mixed blood, Walcott asserts proprietary rights over his multivalent legacy. WHAT WALCOTT CONTRIBUTES TO THE ORIGINAL QUEST FOR HOME IS THE KIND OF INSIGHT GAINED FROM COLONIAL EXPERIENCE.’’
Omeros has room for good-hearted Dennis Plunkett whose putative son inadvertently anchors the major’s life in St. Lucia by his accidental death. It is also about Walcott, Achille, and the other descendants of Afolabe and the female colliers whose menial labor fueled the economy of an empire. Walcott’s contribution is to demonstrate that, although they did not set out to conquer anyone, were not able to return to their native land, and did not found a marbled Rome, ‘‘they crossed, they survived. There is the epical splendour.’’ Source: Robert D. Hamner, Critical Essay on Omeros, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Robert D. Hamner In the following essay, Hamner discusses how Walcott creolizes the Odyssey and updates the story. Derek Walcott, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1992, has regularly undertaken the reenvisioning of other writers’ works throughout his career. Notable examples include The Sea at Dauphin (1954), based on Synge’s Riders to the Sea; The Joker of Seville (1974), after Tirso de Molina’s El Burlador de Sevilla; and his epic Omeros (1990), drawn from Homeric epic tradition. Whatever vestiges of original sources may be retained through Walcott’s process of adaptation, each original is strategically altered by his West Indian Creole aesthetic. In his 1974 essay ‘‘The Muse of History,’’ Walcott separates himself from AfricanCaribbean nationalists whose sympathetic anger regarding their degraded ancestors forces them to reject the language and art of imperialist slave masters. Walcott complains: They cannot separate the rage of Caliban from the beauty of his speech when the speeches of Caliban are equal in their elemental power to those of his tutor. The language of the torturer mastered by the victim. This is viewed as servi tude, not as victory. (4)
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
One rich vein of Western literature fascinates Walcott particularly because he perceives cogent similarities between the geography of the Aegean, ‘‘That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne’’ (Keats 44), and his own Caribbean sea. Given the classically based British curriculum in which students were educated throughout the West Indies, Walcott had a rich storehouse from which to draw. His native St. Lucia earned the sobriquet ‘‘Helen of the West’’ due to its natural beauty and because European powers fought so many years over possession of the island. By 1970, he can be found arguing ‘‘that an archipelago, whether Greek or West Indian, is bound to be a fertile area, particularly if it is a bridge between continents, and a variety of people settle there’’ (‘‘Meanings’’ 49). In the decade of the 1990s alone, Walcott has revisited the Odyssey twice: first to launch his version of a West Indian epic in Omeros, then to reconfigure Homer’s epic for the stage in The Odyssey (1993). The Homeric correspondences are obvious and have been addressed at length, numerous times in the case of Omeros (Burian, ‘‘All That’’; Hamner Epic; Hofmeister; and Terada) and The Odyssey (Burian, ‘‘You Can Build’’; Davis; Hamner, ‘‘Odyssey’’). That subject having been covered, the focus of my present comparative analysis is Walcott’s creolization process: specific alterations that give Caribbean meaning to The Odyssey on stage. Lawrence Carrington’s St. Lucian Creole is a valuable handbook for anyone interested in the phonetic and morphological structure of Creole speech. For purposes of the present study, John Figueroa offers a few more immediately cogent observations regarding the potential of vernacular in poetry for a writer with Walcott’s colonial background. He argues against the use of nonstandard dialogue for the sake of local color or to make the social point that provincials can have literary status. Then he sets out to demonstrate that ‘‘the use of non-standard varieties as a part of texture, and structuring, rather than simply as a slice of life, can be significant and uniquely communicating.’’ Physical restraints of stage production limit the narrative range that would be available within a purely verbal medium such as the epic. Nevertheless, preserving elements that can be represented by word and action, Walcott retains truncated versions of both the Telemachus and the Odysseus plots. Respecting the oral tradition behind the tales eventually drawn together by the
V o l u m e
2
5 3 5
O m e r o s
Homeric scribe around 800 BC, Walcott introduces the singer Billy Blue to act as a ‘‘chorus’’ for editorializing and providing transitions. Billy Blue’s idiom and rhythm—his is the first voice heard in the play—provide the initial Caribbean inflection of the work: Gone sing ’bout that man because his stories please us, Who saw trials and tempests for ten years after Troy. I’m Blind Billy Blue, my main man’s sea smart Odysseus, Who the God of the Sea drove crazy and tried to destroy.
He begins with dialectic elisions for ‘‘I’m going to’’ (‘‘Gone’’) and ‘‘about’’ (‘‘’bout’’). His introduction of the hero then combines the epic epithet (‘‘sea-smart’’ Odysseus) with the African-American influenced colloquialism ‘‘my main man.’’ Walcott’s primary signification of geographic displacement is underscored macaronically, however, in the fifth line’s transliterated Greek: ‘‘Andra moi ennepe mousa polutropon hos mala polla . . . ’’ (1). In addition to Romanizing the Greek alphabet in this line, Billy Blue, against Greek poetic practice, is given to singing rhymed couplets, with Caribbean accentuation. This latter point emerges within the text as Billy Blue (doubling as Homer’s Demodocus) is questioned by Odysseus: ODYSSEUS That’s a strange dialect. What island are you from? DEMODOCUS [Billy Blue] A far archipelago. Blue seas. Just like yours. ODYSSEUS So you pick up various stories and you stitch them? DEMODOCUS [Billy Blue] The sea speaks the same language around the world’s shores.
Despite the assertion of common experience and narrative impulse in this exchange, Walcott’s language tends to be more playful than the original. His text is marked with low puns, innuendo, and witticisms more in keeping with calypsonian picong (from French piquant or pique: insulting, often risque´ repartee with a social or personal thrust) and Shakespearean legerdemain than Homer’s kind of word play. The tenor of the language is in keeping, of course, with Walcott’s speakers. In addition to the modern Caribbean every-poet Billy Blue, who plays the part of both Homer’s poets Demodocus and Phemius, various minor characters and Odysseus himself occasionally speak in patois and allude to sources that are conspicuously non-Greek. In this regard, treatment of the
5 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
faithful old nurse Eurycleia is especially pertinent. Classicist Peter Burian reminds us of Homer’s interest in ancient Egyptian wisdom as well as parallels with Walcott’s Ma Kilman, the obeah woman from Omeros Eurycleia’s AfricanCaribbean vernacular echoes the typical nursemammy while both she and Ma Kilman hark back to African tribal lore for wisdom and healing (‘‘You Can Build’’ 72). Walcott’s Eurycleia serves the same functions as Homer’s, but Walcott makes of her birthplace in Egypt (9) an essential African component of his revision. As an intimate of Ithaca’s royal family for two generations, Eurycleia has used the nursery to shape the developing minds of Odysseus and his son Telemachus. Her influence on Telemachus is explicit in the scene where she expresses doubts about his having received assurance from a swallow that his father is alive and will be returning. Her creole frame of reference involves her conflation of African and Greek myth as well as the decidedly West Indian patois of her speech. Although she had taught both her young pupils that Athena comes from Egypt, the cradle of Greece, and that this goddess is capable of assuming various forms, she doubts Telemachus when he insists he has heard a swallow speak. EURYCLEIA Nancy stories me tell you and Hodysseus. TELEMACHUS I believe them now. My faith has caught a fever. EURYCLEIA Launching your lickle cradles into dreaming seas. TELEMACHUS What were those stories? An old slave’s superstition? EURYCLEIA People don’t credit them now. Them too civilize. (8)
Eurycleia’s attaching an H to Odysseus’s name may be her personal quirk, but her truncation of Anansi to ‘‘Nancy,’’ sounding k for the tt in little, using the objective ‘‘them’’ instead of the required subjective case, and dropping the linking verb altogether before leaving off the tense marker in ‘‘civilize[d],’’ are all common to West Indian vernacular. Menelaus informs Telemachus in scene 4 that he must be eternally indebted to his old nurse’s tales because they opened his ‘‘gates of imagination’’ (35). Walcott’s having Menelaus make this specific point initiates an incremental motif in his play and taps the same popular West Indian lore that has inspired writers from Louise
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
Bennett of Jamaica to Edward Kamau Brathwaite of Barbados. Leonard Barrett’s research finds Anansi, a trickster of African origins, to be a central figure in ‘‘tales told by West Indian Nanas and Dadas to their children born in exile’’ (33). According to Barrett, he symbolizes the possibility of the underdog emerging triumphantly in a world which pits the weak against the strong. His chicanery, there fore, had special significance to the slave who, in identifying with the Spiderman hero [Anansi], could turn the tables, so to speak, on the White oppressor. (34)
It has taken imagination for Eurycleia, a bond slave, to survive her transplantation to Ithaca, to assimilate the diverse cultures of her existence, and just as in the Caribbean, to instill the virtuosity of an Anansi figure in the minds of Telemachus and Odysseus. With his alternating poetic identities. Billy Blue is another of Walcott’s purveyors of creative imagination. Despite his physical blindness, the Homeric poet sees with the mind’s eye and immortalizes himself along with the heroes in his tale; to this, Walcott’s play adds occasional allusions to Blue’s function as a poet. When Alcinous and his courtiers encourage Odysseus to recount his adventures for Phemius/Blue to formulate into song (54), they anticipate his tale’s longevity and influence: it ‘‘will ride time to unknown archipelagos’’ (59). Again, 100 pages later, when Odysseus exhibits madness after the slaughter of all his wife’s suitors, he threatens to execute Billy Blue. Only Eumaeus’s timely protest forestalls his death: ‘‘He’s a homeless, wandering voice, Odysseus. . . . Kill him and you stain the fountain of poetry’’ (151–52). Here lies motive for preservation of Homer’s voice and material, stained with slightly less blood and altered befitting Walcott’s dual heritage. Largely due to his multiple masks and his itinerant status, Billy Blue provides the narrative with an African-Caribbean voice more frequently than the domestic servant Eurycleia. Leading up to Circe’s seductive overtures to Odysseus, it is Billy Blue who supplies a prologue in West Indian dialect. Whereas Homer’s Athena slips Odysseus the potent Moly flower to counteract Circe’s love potion, Billy Blue inventories a witch’s brew spiced with thyme, coriander, basil, rosewater, and lavender, but he also lists ingredients familiar to the West Indian palate: ‘‘Man-you-must’’ and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
gooseberry wine. Circe, who is ‘‘sweeter than guava jam’’ (79–80), seduces Odysseus, but the classical Moly flower averts the fate that has befallen her other lovers: transformation into swine. As Walcott has it, Billy Blue is just one element in a four-scene creolization of the entire Circe episode (act 1, scenes 10–13). Beginning with the stage set for scene 10, Walcott’s Caribbeanized island of Aeaea is distinguished by its thick growth of wild plantain. By the time Circe puts in her appearance, the sailors are already reveling in a kaiso (calypso-styled chorus: The island of Calypso Aeaea Ai ee o Bacchanal And carnival Is the place to go O Lord have mercy Before I dead Let me lie down with Miss Circe Stroking me head Stroking me bald head That have only one eye When she stops See me Cyclops Falling down dead O Lord have mercy ... But when Circe spell fell on me I turn beast too. (75)
In conjunction with bacchanalian carnival and the spirited patois double entendre, associations with the sorceress Circe and the nymph Calypso in these lines evoke Trinidad more than any of the Odyssey’s legendary islands. Walcott’s cultural me´lange continues in 1.13 as he invents a voodoo ceremony through which to transport Odysseus from Circe’s Aeaea into his version of the underworld. Circe introduces Odysseus among celebrants of Shango, the Yoruba god of thunder and lightning. As is typical of Haitian and other New World religious practices, these Shango priests and their devotees call upon a pantheon of gods regardless of cultural boundaries. According to Eugene Genovese, African practices did not reappear in the New World in their traditional forms. Many of them, including the cult of the dead, the wor ship of certain gods, and the use of particular charms and potions, fused somewhat incoher ently into new and much less structured pat terns of belief and ritual. (172)
Consequently, summoned along with Shango and Erzulie (insatiable goddess of love) are Zeus
V o l u m e
2
5 3 7
O m e r o s
and Athena (to the latter, Circe and the celebrants apply the Creole epithet ‘‘Maman d’l’Eau / River Daughter’’ (84, 87). Ritually empowered and assured by Circe that his crewmen are returned to their human form, Odysseus is prepared for the next stage of his journey, descent into the underworld. Walcott’s descent to Hades entails shifts in time and geography as well as a change from earthly existence to the realm of death. It is as though Odysseus anticipates the third leg of the Atlantic slave-trade route. On one shore of this vast Acheron, he leaves the voodoo rites of the New World to arrive in London’s Underground. There he encounters an ‘‘alphabet of souls, Ajax to Zeus’’ (92) that resembles Walcott’s earlier catalogue of heroes, also beginning with Ajax, in Another Life (16–22). Taking a cue from Dante, as he does for the inferno scene in Omeros (289– 94), here Walcott has his ghostly figures assigned their individual stations along the underground’s endless tracks. From Billy Blue, his mother Anticlea, and the prophet Tiresias, Odysseus learns his future. As in Homer, after further tribulation, he will eventually reach Ithaca, kill Penelope’s suitors, and live with wife and son until a peaceful death in old age. Walcott makes as much as Homer does of Odysseus’s definitive dexterity. In having Billy Blue introduce the play by quoting Homer’s opening line in Greek, he invites consideration of his hero’s epithet ‘‘polutropon,’’ and his Odysseus exemplifies the word’s many meanings in his adventures. The prefix polu (poly-) basically means many, much or varied. Tropon, on the other hand, embodies a range of meanings: literally—devices, ways, means, or skills; but metaphorically—versatile, changeable, or fickle, as of the mind; and in its passive form—being acted upon, moved, or tossed about as by accident, fortune, or the gods (Liddell 1444–45). In his struggle to return home, Odysseus is capable of acting decisively and violently, but when occasion demands, this favorite of Athena is equally adept at lying, assuming a pseudonym or disguise, and patiently biding his time. What Walcott contributes to the original quest for home is the kind of insight gained from colonial experience. As the mixed descendant of white masters and black slaves, Walcott appreciates the complexity of establishing rather
5 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
than returning ‘‘home.’’ Menelaus’s first lesson for Telemachus is to correct his assumption that home is a gift of God: ‘‘No. God’s trial. We earn home, like everything else’’ (29). Thus, Walcott’s creolization of Odysseus’s homeward journey subtly alters the epic goal of reclaiming a kingdom. The cyclops Walcott’s Odysseus encounters becomes the embodiment of monolithic government a ‘‘thousand years’’ after Odysseus’s time (60). The giant’s eye is now identified with the singular pronoun I, a prominent trope in West Indian parlance. Although this cyclops I represents all the political and social depravity of ‘‘Babylon’’ rejected by Jamaica’s nonconformist Rastafarians, Walcott plays on the complexity of their use of I. Rastafarian sociologist Jah Bones refers to the I as ‘‘the premier letter and sound as well as word.’’ Moreover, he explains, for Rastafarian brethren the first-person singular pronoun or ‘‘I-man’’ also includes second-person ‘‘you-man’’ in so far as every person (playing on the sound) is simultaneously ‘‘hu-man’’ (46, 47). According to Ennis Edmonds, I (or plural I-an-I in the vernacular) represents ‘‘the divine principle that is in all humanity,’’ as well as ‘‘rejection of subservience in Babylon culture and an affirmation of self as an active agent in the creation of one’s own reality and identity’’ (33). Walcott’s appreciation of such verbal implications is evident from his dramatization of the Rastafarian community in O Babylon! (1976). In The Odyssey, the eye/I conjunction underscores both Polyphemos’s monomaniacal power and Odysseus’s individual resistance—the assumption of solipsistic godhead on one hand, and the inner voice of reason, God, or social consciousness on the other. A martial chorus prepares for the cynicism exploited in scenes 8 and 9 of the first act: To die for the eye is best, it’s the greatest glory: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. There is no I after the eye, no more history, Except his own, Odysseus. (60)
When Walcott leaps a ‘‘thousand years,’’ his reference to the ‘‘grey colonels’’ (62) makes explicit his focus on the years 1967–74, during which Greece suffered the brutal tyranny of Colonels George Papadopoulos, Nicholas Makarezos, and other right-wing officers (Clogg 186–99).The colonels’ authoritarian grip on all areas of life is represented in the play through Polyphemos and his uniformed thugs. Under their rule history is forgotten, thought is forbidden, and in the cradle of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
democracy ‘‘There is no art, no theatre, no circuses’’ (61–63). Leading up to Odysseus’s Nobody-is-my-name gambit, Walcott has his protagonist declare, despite his fame, ‘‘none of my virtues is nobler than all men’s’’ (61). Then, when this ‘‘everyman’’ claiming to be nobody from nowhere in particular sees his life on the line, his Anansi training manifests itself in humorous black dialect. Odysseus dances before Polyphemos, teasing him about his looks, ‘‘Man, you so ugly nobody would believe it’’ (65). In scene 9, their difference in appearance suggests a comparison between monocular and binary vision. The scene is set in a modern Greece oppressed by monolithic autocracy. Polyphemos’s monocular vision—and his cannibalism—suggest the oppression of individual humanity. Odysseus speaks on behalf of any group so oppressed: prisoners, slaves, minorities, colonials. He contends that mortals need two eyes ‘‘For balance. Proportion. Contrast. . . . Left, right. Good, bad. Heaven, hell’’ (68). Binocular vision affords depth perception, multiple dimensions, and the ability to appreciate opposites simultaneously. According to Lorna Hardwick, the polarities structuring this cyclops episode are crucial to defining Walcott’s postmodern perspective. It can be argued that Homer’s emphasis on the cyclopes’ incivility and their primitive lack of farming and shipbuilding makes them convenient representatives of the Other for the Greeks. The Greek-versus-barbarian social code valuing house over cave, cooked rather than raw food, citizen over alien, establishes a hierarchy that privileges Odysseus’s rational sophistication. It is Hardwick’s contention that Walcott dramatically undermines this hierarchy: Walcott’s redrawing of the Otherness of the Cyclops in terms of political tyranny and lack of human feeling both dissolves the distance between Homer and the twentieth century and denies that it is ‘‘natural’’ to exploit ethnic differ ence as a criterion for ‘‘otherness.’’ His incorpo ration of diaspora voices in the play emphasises a poetics of cultural fluidities and interaction rather than difference. . . . Walcott’s concern is not with pluralism but rather with the forging of commonalities. (6 7)
Hardwick argues further that Walcott’s notion of simultaneity and the associated dra matic techniques recognise ‘‘difference’’ in gen der, ethnicity, class, language and moral feeling but include these in an exploration of inter
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
relationships, an exploration which crosses time, space and culture. (9)
The ‘‘associated dramatic techniques’’ that Hardwick has in mind are the casting of the same actor as Polyphemos and the petty tyrant Arnaeus and the ruthless violence that connects the giant’s bloody hands with Odysseus’s ruthless dispatch of his wife’s suitors. Polyphemos has no monopoly on despotism. In fact no people has a monopoly on vice or virtue. This is the point Walcott makes in a 1990 interview regarding an often disregarded aspect of slavery: ‘‘Black people capturing black people and selling them to the white man. That is the real beginning; . . . We have to face that reality. . . . That is the history of the world’’ (qtd. in Brown 212–13). Seller, sold, and buyer are inevitably linked in a complicated brotherhood. Therein lies Hardwick’s ‘‘commonality.’’ C. B. Davis is also impressed by the fact that Walcott later transforms Polyphemos into Arnaeus, ‘‘a huge swineherd with an eye patch, in a filthy sheepskin’’ (Odyssey 126). Davis interprets the overt linkage to mean that this cantankerous, lower-class, native Greek citizen is equally susceptible to the same monocular vision as the cyclops (albeit on a limited scale because of his subordinate status). The point is well taken, and it may be that Odysseus the dispossessed Ithacan king is himself guilty to some extent of an imperialist mind-set: Walcott’s Odysseus is both colonizer and dis placed native islander, and his Cyclops, while a ‘‘native’’ ruler, is also a totalitarian oppressor. Thus, as poles, Walcott’s Odysseus and Cyclops are not pure opposites; . . . Rather than casting either the colonizer or the colonized native as racial or cultural ‘‘Other,’’ Walcott . . . has made his Cyclops an ‘‘Other’’ which can exist within a single, ‘‘intact’’ cultural milieu, or as an aspect of an individual personality. (36)
In singling out the same alienation factor within as well as between societies, Davis, Hardwick, and Peter Burian (‘‘You Can Build’’ 80) all conclude that Walcott advocates interrelatedness and commonalities rather than difference in his creolized Odyssey. If Odysseus’s curiosity lured him into the barbarian’s cave and his battle of wit and will symbolizes the contention between democracy and despotism, the dramatization of individual survival continues on the literal plane as well.
V o l u m e
2
5 3 9
O m e r o s
Without the help of Homer’s ram (although Polyphemos has a manservant with the East Indian name of Ram in Walcott’s play), Odysseus escapes as in the original, blinding his adversary and benefiting from the trick of calling himself Nobody: Polyphemos cries ‘‘NOBODY HAS ESCAPED, NOBODY BLINDED ME!’’ (71). One last tenuous reference to Walcott’s West Indian origins in this scene involves the oil barrel Polyphemos hurls after his tormentor, evoking the steel drums utilized by musicians in Trinidad carnival competitions. Superficial as it may appear at first, the connection between African and Asian drums and self-taught West Indian percussionists involves virtues of perseverance and individual creativity that are worthy of Odysseus. Unable to afford traditional instruments, the disenfranchised had to manufacture their own means of expression with whatever materials came to hand. Racial and social divisions led colonial officials to impose rigid bans against black and East Indian drummers as far back as the 1880s. As Errol Hill points out in his study of the Trinidad Carnival, The persistent playing of the drum for religious or secular entertainment, both before and after emancipation, was clearly a source of constant irritation and perhaps apprehension to the privileged classes. Most of them could find nothing pleasing or edifying in its use. (44)
By the turn of the century, miscellaneous metal objects had joined the traditional skin and bamboo percussion instruments. Then in the 1930s, in petroleum-rich Trinidad, abandoned oil barrels were being shaped, tempered, and hammered into tune (Hill 47, 48). However we understand the barrel, Walcott goes beyond Homer’s text with the challenge that elicits Polyphemos’s violent reaction. Walcott’s Odysseus wants to do more than proclaim his true name: MY NAME IS NOT NOBODY! IT’S ODYSSEUS! AND LEARN, YOU BLOODY TYRANTS, THAT MEN CAN STILL THINK! (72)
This episode, beginning and ending with a barrel, leads to Odysseus’s assertion of identity and resistance to repression. By emphasizing this resistance and the equivocal devices of Homer’s archetypal wanderer, Walcott is delineating latent virtues in predecessors of his Creole protagonist. These include Ti-Jean from Ti-Jean and His Brothers (1958),
5 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
Makak from Dream on Monkey Mountain (1967), Jackson Phillip from Pantomime (1978), Shabine from ‘‘The Schooner Flight’’ (in The StarApple Kingdom [1979]), and Achille from Omeros. Ti-Jean and Phillip share a natural cunning and irreverence toward authority; Makak and Achille have their ahistoric visions and the ability to adapt through experience; Shabine, in addition to the native wit and hard-earned insight of these others, has the wanderlust as well as the linguistic skill of Homer’s Odysseus. In his essay ‘‘The Figure of Crusoe’’ (1965), Walcott redefines one other artistically inclined prototype, which he considers to be a truly New World Robinson Crusoe. He argues that this deracinated Crusoe’s survival is not purely physical, not a question of the desolation of his environment, but a triumph of will. He is for us, today, the twentieth century symbol of artistic isolation and breakdown, of withdrawal, of the hermetic exer cise that poetry has become, even in the New World, he is the embodiment of the schizo phrenic Muse whose children are of all races. (40)
Walcott’s comments on this prototype also illuminate his creolization of Odysseus. From his native St. Lucia, Walcott recalls ‘‘the cunning of certain types, representative of the slave outwitting his master, like Br’er Rabbit or Tar Baby, done in West Indian dialect.’’ Yet, one figure was missing: My Makak comes from my own childhood. But there was no king, no tribal chief, no warrior for a model in those stories. So the person I saw was this degraded, humble, lonely, isolated figure of the wood cutter. I can see him for what he is now, a brawling, ruddy drunk who would come down the street on a Saturday when he got paid and let out an immense roar that would terrify all the children. . . . He is still alive, and there is no terror anymore except in the back of my mind. This was a degraded man, but he had some elemental force in him that is still terrify ing; in another society he would have been a warrior. (‘‘Meanings’’ 50)
Walcott’s Odyssean protagonist is the shipwrecked, vagabond Crusoe/Makak, who shares with Homer’s displaced royalty; Odysseus and Eumaeus, remarkable survival instincts, not just associations with distant thrones. Were it not for the assistance of Athena, Odysseus might well have suffered the fate of the faithful Eumaeus. Although Eumaeus is the son of a king and quite capable as a warrior, he now functions as a swineherd, a station from which he manifests no desire to rise. It is only by the materialistic suitors’
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
estimation that his status might seem inferior. Before the returned Odysseus reveals his identity to him, Eumaeus remembers fondly his days of hunting wild boar and boasts of his herd and the revenge that he and his master will exact on the men besieging Penelope. Walcott also introduces a slight modification in Odysseus’s offenses against the gods. The Greek version has Tiresias specify two primary offenses. First, Odysseus blinds Polyphemos, and his father, Poseidon, vows unrelenting vengeance, even though Odysseus acted in defense of his men and himself. Second, Odysseus’s starving men kill and eat cattle sacred to Helios on the island of Thrinacia, so they must die and he is condemned to reach Ithaca late, as a lone passenger in an alien vessel. Walcott keeps these original offenses, but from them he derives a third. Athena appears in a dream shortly after Odysseus finally reaches Ithaca: ‘‘You mocked the immortal ones’’ and were ‘‘The first to discount each omen!’’ (119). Through having Athena see human acts of self-preservation as offensive to the gods, Walcott creates an opening in the narrative to interrogate the supernatural machinery. In the passage that finally deposits the sleeping Odysseus on his native shore, the exhausted adventurer experiences a surreal flashback that includes mermaids, phantoms of his drowned companions, and a childhood dream. The episode gives Odysseus reason to distrust the boundaries between imagination and reality. While he suspects he is suffering from hallucinations about the Sirens and Scylla and Charybdis, his spectral crewmen insist that his exploits ‘‘aren’t just sailors’ stories that swirl round shipwrecks’’ (105). Their insistence on the tale’s foundation in truth, however, is complicated immediately with the appearance of his old nurse Eurycleia alternating with Billy Blue in a nursery lullaby: EURYCLEIA (Sings) So, cradled in him comfort, a child see what grows From his shadow to shapes on a nursery wall. (ODYSSEUS cowers, whining.) BILLY BLUE (Sings) Doubt foams into dark forms feeding on phosphorus, The waves sound like jaws chewing the night. Sometimes friendly faces turn to fiendish horrors. Scylla soared on one side, Charybdis on his right. . . . EURYCLEIA (Sings) Are all of these monsters a child’s imagination? . . . BILLY BLUE (Sings) Or the madness of a mariner too long alone? (106)
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
These kinds of reservations, spurred by unsettling dreams, underlie Athena’s later charge that Odysseus is guilty of mockery in questioning the gods and their omens. Walcott’s creolized protagonist doubts authority whether it be theological, governmental, or literary. In keeping with this iconoclastic tendency, his narrative continually reflects on itself. Devices such as shadow play (22), mime (28, 36), and characters taking dual roles function as Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt does to highlight the intertextuality of theatrical art. Rather than have Odysseus outline once again some of his key adventures for Penelope and Laertes as Homer does, Walcott relies on a comic sequence of doubled characters: mermaids who teased Odysseus on his raft before he washed ashore in Phaeacia become flirtatious kitchen servants in Ithaca; Nausicaa reappears as Penelope’s insolent maid Melantho; Polyphemos turns up again as the troublesome swineherd Arnaeus, to whom Odysseus gives the one-fingered ‘‘Cyclops salute.’’ In Walcott’s hands, Penelope’s independence is also enhanced. She still craftily unravels her tapestry night after night to forestall obstreperous suitors, but she also holds her own against threats brought by the suitor Antinous, asserting her power of independent choice: ‘‘My patience wasn’t slavery, it was pure trust’’ (20). In other words, her protracted refusal of other lovers comes from her heart, unfettered by domestic obligation, convention, or tradition. She has waited faithfully the full 20 years for her husband’s return; nevertheless, in addition to the bed test by which she forces Odysseus to prove his identity, she is not afraid to assert her disapproval when his bloody vengeance turns her house into a slaughterhouse. She demands an accounting: ‘‘IT’S FOR THIS I KEPT MY THIGHS CROSSED FOR TWENTY YEARS? . . . To make this a second Troy! When will men learn?’’ (153, 154). In a departure from Homer, her intervention also saves the life of Melantho. Then, only after she rejects several proffered tokens of Odysseus’s identity, does she give him the chance to prove that he knows the secret of their immovable bed. With The Odyssey, as with his Omeros, Walcott exploits a classical model not to romanticize some ideal but rather to dramatize the extensive ordinariness of heroism. His Homer is the itinerant bard who entertained the Greeks of his day before he and they were idealized by historical
V o l u m e
2
5 4 1
O m e r o s
and artistic canonization. Comparing his New World archipelago with an Aegean counterpart, Walcott insists that the ancient Greeks were the niggers of the Mediterranean. If we looked at them now, we would say that the Greeks had Puerto Rican tastes. . . . Because the stones were painted brightly. They were not these bleached stones. . . . People who praised classical Greece, if they were there then, would consider the Greeks’ tastes vulgar, lurid. (qtd. in Brown 216 17)
He detects in the Makaks of the West Indies marginalized men living their essence, not reduced to artistic metaphors or icons. ‘‘It is a fantastic privilege,’’ he tells D. J. R. Bruckner, ‘‘to be in a place in which limbs, features, smells, the lineaments and presence of the people are so powerful;’’ however, he feels ‘‘it is wrong to try to ennoble people . . . And just to write history is wrong. History makes similes of people, but these people are their own nouns.’’ In the end, creolization of The Odyssey presents the audience with mixed voices and a world of hybridized culture—African, British, Caribbean, and Greek. Characters are out of place— dislocated geographically, displaced socially, shifted chronologically. Walcott’s Creole drama is an assemblage of fragments, a collage that calls into question the ostensible purity of linguistic and racial roots. In this it is one of the most telling expressions of New World experience. Source: Robert D. Hamner, ‘‘Creolizing Homer for the Stage: Walcott’s The Odyssey,’’ in Twentieth Century Literature, Vol. 47, No. 3, Fall 2001, pp. 374 90.
Julia A. Minkler In the following essay, Minkler proposes that in many ways, Walcott’s Omeros retells Homer’s version of the story of Helen of Troy, but with Helen a victorious rather than victimized figure. Minkler also offers comparisons with The Tempest, by William Shakespeare, a play that similarly features an island setting and a much-desired central female character. But she’d last forever, Helen. In book 1 of The Histories Herodotus implies that Helen of Sparta (alias Helen of Troy) was lewd and unchaste (an opinion shared by other fifth-century men of letters as well), ‘‘for,’’ he says, ‘‘it is obvious that no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be.’’ Herodotus also mentions another version of the
5 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
HELEN’S STORY IS NO LONGER THE ACCOUNT OF HER ABDUCTION BY PARIS AND HER EXILE IN TROY BUT RATHER THAT OF HER GROWTH AS A WOMAN AFTER THE WAR.’’
abduction story (a version, however, of which he himself seems quite skeptical), according to which Helen did not really go to Troy but ended up in Egypt, where she spent some time at the court of King Proteus. Finally, according to Euripides in Helen, Hera, ‘‘angry that she was not given the prize,’’ gave Priam’s son ‘‘a breathing image out of the sky’s air’’ so that Paris would hold a ‘‘vanity’’ (i.e., a shadow) instead of the real woman. Certainly, Helen’s legend has endured numerous interpretations from many cultures, from classical mythology to the present, or, as Derek Walcott says in Omeros, his most extensive poetic work, ‘‘Smoke wrote the same story / since the dawn of time’’ (2.23.2). Caribbean culture is no exception. Resonant of the Homeric story yet at the same time successfully adapted to the specificity of the region’s tempora and mores, the Helen theme is multifariously present in Caribbean literature and folklore. From the popular Jamaican song ‘‘Helena,’’ to Stanley French’s play The Rape of Fair Helen, to Walcott’s Omeros and his recent stage adaptation of the Odyssey, Helen’s myth and ‘‘nature’’ are now seen under a new, inter/metacultural perspective. Specifically in Omeros the St. Lucian poet, critic, and playwright Walcott treats Helen in an idiosyncratic narrative of Caribbean aspiration and inspiration. His version of Helen deviates considerably from the original matrix. For him, Helen’s story is no longer the account of her abduction by Paris and her exile in Troy but rather that of her growth as a woman after the war. What is more, Paris himself is no longer accounted for in the text except through a pun implied by the name of the sunken battleship Ville de Paris (‘‘City of Paris,’’ ‘‘Vile Paris’’). This new Antillean Helen should not be seen as a victim but rather as the axis about which the entire ‘‘horned island’’ (1.7.2) and its elemental
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
men rotate: Achille, a dignified version of Menelaus; Hector, Paris’s counterpart and, like Paris, a man of duplicitous nature; Philoctete, a lowkey character suffering from an incurable leg wound; the Vagrant Poet, a version of divine Homer himself; and Dennis Plunkett, the softhearted colonizer of a town ‘‘he had come to love’’ (2.22.3). In brief, Walcott changes the original story, in which the male captor victimizes his female captive, into a story of seduction—this time, however, it is a seduction of the male by the female. Finally, and above all, Walcott turns the original story into an account of textual rebirth for both male and female. This new story, ‘‘Not his, but her story,’’ takes over immediately after the war, ‘‘Not theirs, but Helen’s war’’ (1.5.3). Unlike the white Helen, who has died long ago ‘‘In that pause / that divides the smoke with a sword’’ (1.6.2), this Helen of the West Indies (7.62.1) seems happily settled down in a revived postwar Troy, which she now tenderly but possessively calls her village (1.5.3); for, in her new Antillean transformation, as one sees it unfold in and out of Omeros, Helen symbolizes as well as personifies the island itself, which is likewise called Helen (2.19.1, 2.19.3). In addition to being resonant of the Homeric story, however, Walcott’s Omeros is also reminiscent of yet another work, Shakespeare’s Tempest. Not only does it share with the latter such characteristics as an island setting and a storm as catalyst, but it also relates to The Tempest on the basis of the psychological and/or symbolic proximities of its main characters, save one. In particular, both Achille and Hector, the local fishermen antiheroes of the poem, partly identify with Caliban, the ‘‘abhorred slave,’’ the ‘‘savage,’’ and the ‘‘thing most brutish’’ of Shakespeare’s play. At times Philoctete, who ‘‘anoint[s] the mouth of his sore’’ (1.3.2), thus ‘‘feeding’’ his wound, also identifies with Caliban, who, in The Tempest, is bound by Prospero to ‘‘feed’’ the island’s gaping ‘‘wound,’’ its furnace. Omeros, the omniscient, omnipresent, yet invisible Poet, and his local visible reduction, Seven Seas, the island’s blind griot and seer (3.28.1), resemble Prospero, the island’s master poet, sage, and magus. The Vagrant Poet-Narrator (and at times Walcott himself) often evokes an echo of Ariel, Prospero’s bewildered captive. Eager to disentangle himself from Homer’s intellectual web (thus opting for a Caribbean identity that is
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
no longer uncritically dependent on a cultural subordination to the West and its tradition), he gradually succeeds in freeing himself and his island from the poet’s enchanted but fatal grasp. Ma Kil[l]man, the owner of the No Pain Cafe´, an Obeah figure who ultimately cures Philoctete’s gangrenous wound, represents the domesticated version of Sycorax, Caliban’s absent mother. Last but not least, Maud Plunkett, obsessed with her never-ending (and Penelope-like) quilt-making, stitching birds ‘‘into her green silk / with sibylline steadiness’’ (7.62.2), becomes a more mature, toned-down Miranda. Helen, on the other hand, who in the poem personifies the concretized version of a longawaited Caribbean identity, resists comparison and belongs to no one. Throughout the narrative she functions independently of the other characters’ fates, as she alone stands and acts outside that narrative. At the same time, and of all the other characters in Omeros, she is the one to determine the narrative’s progressions and its crucial outcome as well. Already divergent from her Greek counterpart, Walcott’s Helen does not on first impression seem to parallel any of the characters from The Tempest, yet in a unique way she does. In ‘‘Beyond Miranda’s Meanings: Un/silencing the ‘Demonic Ground’ of ‘Caliban’s Woman’’’ Sylvia Wynter analyzes the adverse relation of ‘‘sameness’’ and ‘‘difference’’ that unifies yet differentiates Caribbean womanists from white feminists. Wynter brilliantly suggests that we see the silenced Caribbean and black American woman as the long-anticipated mate of Caliban, so pronouncedly absent from The Tempest. Addressing previously posed questions on the absence of Caliban’s legitimate father and the ‘‘silent presence of a mother not yet fully understood,’’ Wynter now poses the significant question on the absence of Caliban’s Woman, i.e. ‘‘of Caliban’s physiognomically complementary mate’’ (SW, 360). Characteristically, Wynter says: Nowhere in Shakespeare’s play . . . does Cali ban’s mate appear as an alternative sexual erotic model of desire . . . . Rather there, on the New World island, as the only woman, Miranda . . . is canonized as the ‘‘rational’’ object of desire; as the potential genitrix of a superior mode of human ‘‘life,’’ that of ‘‘good natures.’’ (SW, 360)
According to Wynter (as well as to Maryse Conde´, whom Wynter quotes), Caliban is reduced to a labor machine. His nondesire for his own mate, a woman like him, as well as his nonneed for the
V o l u m e
2
5 4 3
O m e r o s
procreation of his own ‘‘kind,’’ constitutes the founding function of the social pyramid of a global order, ‘‘put in place following upon the 1492 arrival of Columbus in the Caribbean’’ (SW, 360). The absence of Caliban’s endogenous desire for his kind of woman and instead the soldering of his nevertheless-existing sexual desires onto Miranda (SW, 361), the woman he absolutely cannot have, polarize Caliban’s unconscious. Thus he is now displaced from the state of a ‘‘brutish slave’’ to that of a frustrated and almost schizophrenic being. In Wynter’s view, Caliban’s Woman, seen as the harbinger of a new era of consciousness in the Caribbean, would/could have helped (if allowed into existence) to reinstate Caliban’s human status, otherwise subhuman. At this point, further elaboration on the concept of Caliban’s Woman is necessary. In her essay Wynter seems primarily concerned with the political rather than literary dimensions of this concept. For her, the Caribbean womanist—whether a member of the intelligentsia, a middle-class housewife, or a member of the working class—is at last becoming an indispensable factor of Caribbean sociopolitical and cultural reality; and although Wynter too reckons Caliban as a symbol of the Caribbean people in general, from the beginning of their enslavement to their present status of economic subordination to the West, she seems particularly disturbed not so much by the fact of his misrepresentation (Caliban now personifying Caribbean males) as by the total lack of representation of Caliban’s Woman, because of racial and patriarchal domination. In other words, Wynter’s concerns as a womanist pertain to the fact that women’s marginalization in the Caribbean is colonization twice removed: first by colonial Prosperos and second by colonized Calibans and their repressed desires and needs. Still, one should keep in mind that Wynter’s essay is after all the concluding statement of a selection of essays written by women who write, or write about, literature and who address not only political but literary questions as well. What is more, the fact that in this same essay Wynter calls Caliban’s Woman ‘‘demonic’’ (SW, 364)—a notion that in my view is diametrically opposed to Walcott’s ‘‘Adamic’’ notion—brings to the surface literary connotations equally implied by this very concept. Walcott states in ‘‘The Muse of History,’’ an essay written in the early seventies, that although amnesia—and especially amnesia of the literary
5 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
European past—is the ‘‘true history’’ of the Caribbean, ‘‘The great poets of the New World, from Whitman to Neruda, reject this sense of history. Their vision of man in the New World is Adamic.’’ By mentioning Whitman and Neruda, and also Borges, Ce´saire, Saint-John Perse, and other New World (American, Latin American, or Caribbean) poets, vis-a`-vis the Adamic element, Walcott unquestionably relates this image not to political or politicized issues but directly to literature and literary concerns. In addition, Walcott also looks at Caliban from a purely literary angle, openly distancing himself from those New World, militant poets who see Caliban’s mastery of the master’s language not as victory but as self-deceit (3–4), thus reducing it to a language that, as Shakespeare put it, taught Caliban only how to curse. Referring to the Adamic man of letters (who is newly ‘‘made’’ but not ignorant of the world) and his second Eden, Walcott says: The great poetry of the New World does not pretend to such innocence [i.e., molded after the myth of the noble savage], its vision is not naı¨ ve. Rather, like its fruits, its savor is a mixture of the acid and the sweet, the apples of its second Eden have the tartness of experience. (5)
As a matter of fact, Walcott’s Adamic concept obviates female intervention. Like the biblical Adam, this New World Adam is ‘‘made’’ directly by his ‘‘god,’’ without female interference or any other connection, for that matter. As described in Omeros, in the New World ‘‘each man was a nation / in himself, without mother, father, brother’’ (3.28.1). In this ‘‘second Eden with its golden apple’’ (2.18.2), all ‘‘men are born makers, with the original simplicity / in every maker since Adam. This is prehistory’’ (3.28.2). Going back at this point to Wynter’s demonic image, I suggest we see the term demonic as the antonym of Adamic. I likewise suggest we see the term as far removed from the current Christian connotation as possible. Demonic derives from the Greek word daimon, meaning god- or goddesslike, a link between gods and humans, and good or bad spirit. In this particular context (i.e., as a good spirit) a demon, especially a female demon, can virtually relate to the spirit (or force) of inspiration, creativity, or to a faculty pertaining to the mind or soul of the individual involved, very much in the sense of the Socratic daimon—namely, his conscience. (It is worth mentioning that, in Greek,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
words such as inspiration, creativity, and conscience are all feminine.) In this sense, Wynter’s ‘‘demonic Woman’’ could represent the second stage of growth for Caliban’s Woman, a stage of cultural (since pertaining to creativity) rather than solely political self-consciousness and maturation. Thus, in her demonic stage, Caliban’s Woman is no longer looked at as just a Muse—i.e., the inspirational force behind male creativity (a stereotypical male contrivance)—but rather creativity herself, especially creativity of the mind, for her and for women to follow. As such, Caliban’s Woman is viewed as the female creative force that propagates, procreates, and builds upon her own mental capabilities, without man’s or ‘‘god’s’’ intervention.
his former friend and companion, ‘‘for a tin and Helen’’ (6.46.1), later to lose his life unfairly and ingloriously. And Major Dennis Plunkett, the colonizer with the heart of gold—himself a Caliban—is ‘‘fixed by her glance’’ (2.18.1), fatally lost in her ‘‘seduction of quicksand’’ (6.53.1). Even Philoctete, who is beyond caring about women, has suddenly become her ‘‘footman’’ (2.20.2). Knowing ‘‘It was her burden [the woman’s and the island’s] he bore,’’ he now wonders:
her beauty is what no man can claim any more than this bay. Her beauty stands apart in a golden dress, its beaches wreathed with her name. (7.57.3)
From now on, Helen has become an aphorism: Helen, the woman, is no man’s prey, no warrior’s spoil; Helen, the island, is no man’s land. Finally, as the personification of the demonic woman mustering creativity and wisdom, Helen has bewildered two more of the island’s Calibans, the last ones to fall into her nets: Omeros, the divine poet himself; and the Vagrant Poet, the most complex of the poem’s Caliban-like characters.
In my view, Walcott’s Helen in Omeros is the well-balanced conflation of Wynter’s demonic model and Caliban’s Woman. She is not only Caliban’s physiognomically complementary mate but the pivotal force of creation and procreation as well. As the personification of Caliban’s Woman, this new and promising Helen is now pregnant, ‘‘carrying Hector’s child’’ (6.49.3). In her saffron dress, stolen from Maud, Helen meanders enigmatically from man to man ‘‘with the leisure of a panther’’ (7.64.2), yet her eyes ‘‘never betrayed horned Menelaus / or netted Agamemnon in their irises’’ (7.64.2). She, ‘‘Black maid or black mail,’’ is everywhere, yet her presence is ‘‘oblique but magnetic’’ (2.18.2). She could be everybody’s, yet, in her remote stillness (7.64.2) and Sphinx-like evasiveness, she belongs to nobody. In her case even the term ‘‘Caliban’s Woman’’ becomes a misstatement, since it no longer describes Walcott’s Helen accurately, a woman with a glossy but nevertheless substantial personality. It is a fact that in Omeros Caliban has at last been blessed with a woman of his ‘‘kind,’’ but it is also a fact that he has not, under any circumstances, been able to claim this woman as his own. Rather, it is Helen who owns him and men like him. In an unexpected turn of events, the island’s men have become Helen’s men instead—Helen’s Calibans, so to speak. Her radiance and exuberance push them to extremes. Achille feels ‘‘like a dog that is left / to nose the scraps of her footsteps’’ (1.7.1). Hector, un homme fou (1.3.1), is determined to fight an enraged Achille (7.59.3),
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Why couldn’t they love the place, same way, together, the way he always loved her, even with his sore? Love Helen like a wife in good and bad weather, in sickness and health, its beauty in being poor? The way the leaves loved her, not like a pink leaflet printed with slogans of black people fighting war? (2.20.2)
According to the Vagrant Poet, Omeros, who is both his nigger and his captain (3.30.2)—in a word, his exorcism (7.59.1)—personifies creativity, knowledge, and enchantment. Introduced to him by a Greek girl exiled in America, Omeros also personifies the experience of a past trying to grow roots anew inside the New World poet, a past that does ‘‘what the past always does: suffer and stare’’ (1.2.3). What is more, for the Vagrant Poet, Omeros is a vision, the sibylline voice of divine wisdom, and the ever-living discourse with that past. He says ‘‘Omeros,’’ and O was the conch shell’s invocation, mer was both mother and sea in our Antillean patois, os, a grey bone, and the white surf as it crashes and spreads its sibilant collar on a lace shore. (1.2.3)
As the source of knowledge (a Prospero figure in the Shakespearean sense as well), Omeros is also portrayed as a snake, thus evoking Eden’s serpent. I saw white eyed Omeros motionless. He must be deaf too, I thought, as well as blind, since his head never turned, and then he lifted the dry rattle in one hand, and it was the same sound I had heard in Cody’s circus, the snake hiss before battle. (5.43.2)
Both a serpent and a godlike figure (a trickster/seer), this Caribbean-construed Omeros
V o l u m e
2
5 4 5
O m e r o s
feels no anger for having shown Woman how to partake of God’s knowledge. On the contrary, himself a symbol of wisdom, he allows Helen to savor the fruit of that wisdom unconditionally, in an act of divine communion. In addition to the yellow dress, Helen also steals a bracelet from Maud (the bracelet of knowledge) but is caught in the act by Dennis Plunkett, who, bewitched by her spell, lets her take it. . . . he was fixed by her glance in the armoire’s full length mirror, where, one long arm, its fist closed like a snake’s head, slipped through a bracelet from Maud’s jewel box, and, with eyes calm as Circe, simply continued, and her smile said, ‘‘You will let me try this,’’ which he did. He stood at the mercy of that beaked, black arm, which with serpentine leisure replaced the bangle. . . . The bracelet coiled like a snake. He heard it hissing: Her housebound slavery could be your salvation. (2.18.1 2)
Viewed as the poet’s embrace with her in disguise, this serpentine bracelet underlines Helen’s spiritual communion with the absolute ideal of knowledge. Last of all, the Vagrant Poet—Walcott’s Adamic man par excellence—entrusts Helen with the secrets of his mystical, metaphysical, and poetic experience, an experience that derives not only from Homer and the classical tradition but also from Shakespeare and the perpetuation of that tradition. During a metaphorical descent into the depths of his soul in pursuit of knowledge and spiritual fertility, the New World poet of Omeros visits with the phantom of his Father/father, who in turn unveils to his initiate son the secrets of their patrilineal heritage. He says to him: ‘‘I was raised in this obscure Caribbean port, / where my bastard father christened me for his shire: / Warwick. The Bard’s county. But never felt part // of the foreign machinery known as Literature. / I preferred verse to fame, but I wrote with the heart / of an amateur. It’s that Will you inherit’’ (1.12.1). Later on in the poem the Vagrant Poet also meets with the phantom of his mother, who too feels compelled to emphasize her son’s origins: ‘‘‘You are my son.’ / ‘Warwick’s son,’ she said. / ‘Nature’s gentleman’’’ (3.32.1). Once the spiritual journey to his personal past is completed, the Vagrant Poet undertakes a series of journeys to a communal past via Africa, Europe, and North America over a considerably long but discontinuous span of time. It
5 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
is during these voyages that he begins to have particular doubts about the nature of his Adamic identity and decides to set sail for maternal roots. And, although he will later admit ‘‘I had nowhere to go but home. Yet I was lost’’ (4.33.2), he finally, deliberately and unconditionally, surrenders to Helen: the mother figure of Africa, the earth goddess of Greece, the Nereid of the ‘‘other’’ archipelago. He ponders: ‘‘If this place is hers, did that empty horizon once flash its broadsides with their inaudible rays in her honour? Was that immense enterprise on the baize tables of empires for one who carries cheap sandals on a hooked finger with the Pitons for breasts? Were both hemispheres the split breadfruit of her African ass, her sea the fluted chitons of a Greek frieze?’’ (7.62.2)
And in response to his own psychological qualms, he adds: ‘‘You were never in Troy, and, between two Helens, yours is here and alive; . . . . . . These Helens are different creatures, one marble, one ebony . . . . but each draws an elbow slowly over her face and offers the gift of her sculptured nakedness, parting her mouth.’’
Still later he exclaims, ‘‘What a fine local woman!’’ (7.64.2). The Vagrant Poet is home at last! ‘‘I sang our wide country, the Caribbean Sea,’’ he says. Let ‘‘the deep hymn / of the Caribbean continue my epilogue’’ (7.64.2). As for Helen, her cycle come to a closure, she now passes the torch of her ‘‘demonic’’ nature to a new Helen (7.63.1), Christine, Ma Kilman’s niece. Thus the Helenic— and no longer Hellenic—character of Walcott’s story has created a literary intercultural continuum, which, like the sea, will be going on forever (7.64.3). Almost two decades ago, in ‘‘The Muse of History,’’ emphasizing the New World poet’s Adamic idiosyncrasy, Walcott wrote: ‘‘I needed to become omnivorous about the art and literature of Europe to understand my own world. I write ‘my own world’ because I had no doubt that it was mine, that it was given to me, by god, not by history, with my gift.’’ Contrasting his ideology to the militant beliefs of the ‘‘new prophets of bitterness’’ in the Caribbean, he also wrote: ‘‘I say to the ancestor who sold me, and to the ancestor who bought me, I have no father, I want no such father, although I can understand you, black ghost, white ghost.’’ In Omeros, through the persona of the Vagrant Poet (often seen as Walcott’s own alter
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O m e r o s
ego), Walcott’s Adamic theory seems revised. The poet no longer considers his mythopoeic gift divinely sent but rather realized and propagated through a female demon: the demon of imagination—or, as Walcott calls it in ‘‘The Muse of History,’’ the ‘‘memory of imagination in literature’’ (25). In Omeros, however, this spirit is no longer an abstraction. On the contrary, it is conveyed by the intellectual, spiritual, and physical powers of a ‘‘real’’ woman, Helen, who also identifies with that New World woman Wynter calls ‘‘demonic’’ and constitutes the companion of the New World man. This new woman (of whatever class, status, or occupation) has taught her ‘‘Caliban’’ the way of belonging anew. She has taught him the way of belonging not to a person but to a present that draws its energy from the past, a past that, although no longer Adamic (i.e., god-sent and male-propagated), nevertheless musters the divine and, at the same time, fe/male characteristics of life. Source: Julia A. Minkler, ‘‘Helen’s Calibans: A Study of Gender Hierarchy in Derek Walcott’s Omeros,’’ in World Literature Today, Vol. 67, No. 2, Spring 1993, 272 76.
SOURCES Bakken, Christopher, Review of Omeros, in Georgia Review, Vol. 45, No. 2, Summer 1991, pp. 403 406. Bensen, Robert, ‘‘Catherine Weldon in Omeros and ‘The Ghost Dance,’’’ in Verse, Vol. 22, No. 2, Summer 1994, pp. 119 25. Brown, Robert, and Cheryl Johnson, ‘‘An Interview with Derek Walcott,’’ in Cream City Review, Vol. 14, No. 2, Winter 1990, pp. 209 23. Bruckner, D. J. R., ‘‘A Poem in Homage to an Unwanted Man,’’ in New York Times, October 9, 1990, pp. 13, 17. Burnett, Paula, ‘‘The Ulyssean Crusoe and the Quest for Redemption in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe and Derek Walcott’s Omeros,’’ in Robinson Crusoe: Myth and Metamorphoses, edited by Lieve Spaas and Brian Stimpson, St. Martin’s Press, 1996, pp. 239 55. Ismond, Patricia, ‘‘Walcott’s Omeros: A Complex, Ambi tious Work,’’ in Caribbean Contact, Vol. 18, No. 5, March April 1991, pp. 10 11. Kuh, Katherine, ‘‘Marcel Duchamp,’’ in The Artist’s Voice: Talks with Seventeen Modern Artists, Da Capo Press, 2000, pp. 81 93. Lernout, Geert, ‘‘Derek Walcott’s Omeros: The Isle Is Full of Voices,’’ in Kunapipi, Vol. 14, No. 2, 1992, pp. 90 104. Lucas, John, ‘‘The Sea, The Sea,’’ in New Statesman and Society, Vol. 3, October 5, 1990, p. 36.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Mason, David, Review of Omeros, in Hudson Review, Vol. 44, No. 3, Fall 1991, pp. 513 15. McClure, Charlotte S., ‘‘Helen of the ‘West Indies’: His tory or Poetry of a Caribbean Realm,’’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination, Vol. 26, No. 2, Fall 1993, pp. 7 20. O’Brien, Sean, ‘‘In Terms of the Ocean,’’ in Times Literary Supplement, Vol. 4563, September 14 22, 1990, pp. 977 78. Terada, Rei, ‘‘Omeros,’’ in Derek Walcott’s Poetry: American Mimicry, Northeastern University Press, 1992, pp. 183 227. Walcott, Derek, Omeros, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1992. White, J. P., ‘‘An Interview with Derek Walcott,’’ in Green Mountains Review, New Series, Vol. 4, No. 1, Spring Summer 1990, pp. 14 37.
FURTHER READING Callahan, Lance, In the Shadows of Divine Perfection: Derek Walcott’s ‘‘Omeros,’’ Studies in Major Literary Authors, Routledge, 2003. Callahan presents the first close reading of Wal cott’s epic, explaining the poem’s Caribbean ideology with reference to Greek literature and culture and also criticizing postcolonial theory. Hamner, Robert D., Derek Walcott, Twayne, 1993. In this work designed for students, Hamner examines Walcott’s career up to his receipt of the Nobel Prize in 1992. Hamner, Robert D., Epic of the Dispossessed: Derek Walcott’s ‘‘Omeros,’’ University of Missouri Press, 1997. Hamner analyzes Walcott’s epic both within the literary genre of which it is a part and as a distinct contradiction to the assumptions of works in that genre. He uses the term ‘‘dis possessed’’ because each of Walcott’s characters are castaways and because the poet’s voice comes from a marginalized, colonized site. Hamner, Robert D., ‘‘Omeros,’’ in The Cambridge Com panion to the Epic, edited by Catherine Bates, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This essay examines Walcott’s Omeros in terms of its adherence to and deviation from the epic genre. Whereas epics traditionally depend upon a cohesive national, racial, or spiritual frame work, Walcott assembles his narrative against the New World’s background of imperial exploi tation and colonial neglect. King, Bruce, Derek Walcott: A Caribbean Life, Oxford University Press, 2000. This first rate biography benefits from its author’s friendship with the poet and access to a prose autobiography that remained unpub lished as of 2000. King’s massive study presents the social landscape and cultural background as
V o l u m e
2
5 4 7
O m e r o s
a context for an intimate and respectful portrait of a complex man.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS
Kuh, Katherine, The Artist’s Voice: Talks with Seventeen Modern Artists, Da Capo Press, 2000. One chapter of Kuh’s book is devoted to Marcel Duchamp, whose experimental work, relying at times on accident, influenced Wal cott in his conceptualizing a new way to write epic.
commonwealth literature
Walcott, Derek, Another Life: Fully Annotated, Lynne Rienner, 2004. The Lynne Rienner edition of Walcott’s book length autobiographical poem, Another Life, provides the annotations readers need to appre ciate both the work and the poet’s life.
modern epic
5 4 8
E p i c s
f o r
Derek Walcott Derek Walcott AND colonialism Derek Walcott AND Omeros Greek epic
Omeros Omeros AND Odyssey West Indian literature
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
On the Nature of Things The epic philosophical work, originally titled De Rerum Natura and translated as On the Nature of Things, by the Roman philosopher and poet Lucretius (94 BCE –55 BCE ), is considered a masterpiece of Epicurean philosophy. Epicurus taught that the world could be understood by reason and that religion only arouses unnecessary fear. Lucretius denounced popular beliefs in deities and supernatural creatures. He viewed humans as ignorant creatures who fabricated the powers of the gods, only to live in fear of them. In his work, Lucretius appeals to reason in order to enlighten his readers and persuade them to accept his belief system. Because of its atheistic ideals, On the Nature of Things almost faded into obscurity as Christianity gained followers. During the Renaissance, however, Lucretius’s epic was rediscovered, and it continued to be translated and studied into modern times. Indeed, in their 2007 study ‘‘Lucretius and the History of Science,’’ Monte Johnson and Catherine Wilson show Lucretius to have been an inspiration to scientists from the seventeenth to the twentieth century in terms of atomic theory. Lucretius’s description of evolution anticipated Darwin’s theory of evolution; his idea of the swerve of atoms accurately foreshadowed Einstein’s physics and the discovery of Brownian motion. Moreover, the poem shows remarkable insight into the water cycle in nature and human hearing and sensation.
(TITUS) LUCRETIUS (CARUS) C. 58 BCE
5 4 9
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Titus Lucretius Carus, known as Lucretius, was born in Rome, or in Transpadane, north of Rome, about 94 BCE Little is known about his life apart from the beliefs and values he describes in his epic scientific poem, De Rerum Natura, or On the Nature of Things. Unfortunately, nothing is known about Lucretius’s schooling, family, or literary development. There is confusion regarding his social standing, as the name ‘‘Carus’’ suggests servitude, while ‘‘Lucretius’’ indicates aristocracy. Scholars believe that his six-book masterpiece, On the Nature of Things, is unfinished. In this epic, he repeatedly discourages the reader from fearing death, advice Lucretius apparently embraced when he committed suicide in about 55 BCE . According to a long-standing (although debated) theory reported by the historian Jerome, Lucretius was driven insane by a love potion given to him by his wife.
Epicurus (The Library of Congress)
As a poem, On the Nature of Things is remarkable. First, it is a lyrical presentation of what would otherwise have been a philosophical exposition. Second, it is the earliest known work of Latin hexameter verse, meaning each line of poetry contains six feet, or units of rhythm. The fact that it is such a lengthy example alone secures its distinction as an important work. Although a rumor persists that Cicero edited the epic, historians tend more to support the theory that Cicero’s brother Quintus directed its publication. On the Nature of Things is praised for its depiction of nature as a source of life, death, joy, peace, and terror. It is not a poem strictly about the physical world, however, as Epicureanism also offers guidelines for human conduct and relationships. Lucretius’s philosophy of how human beings should live dictates pursuing friendship and avoiding war. In the introduction to his translation of De Rerum Natura, Anthony M. Esolen comments that Lucretius ‘‘really believes that in Epicureanism lies our best hope for happiness, and he very much wants to let us in on the secret, so that we may be as happy as is possible in a world imperfectly suited for our existence.’’
5 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
Throughout his life, Lucretius was surrounded by political upheaval and war. He saw firsthand the cruelty and domination of dictators, along with the instability of such rule. He saw the decline of Rome’s republican government and died before stability was restored. He felt deep compassion for the human race, which he perceived as living in fear and ignorance. He criticized religious leaders who instilled terror in order to bring about moral living. Lucretius was a follower of Epicurus and his scientific, rational way of understanding the world. In turn, Lucretius became a major influence on later writers such as Virgil and Ovid.
PLOT SUMMARY Book One Lucretius begins by invoking the name of Venus as a creative force, appealing to Memmius (to whom the work is addressed) and then praising his master Epicurus. (Scholars have noted the seeming inconsistency in Lucretius’s invoking Venus at the beginning of a work that disclaims the gods’ involvement with human life. The solution most commonly offered is that such an invocation was standard in the literature of the time and that by keeping to the standard Lucretius hoped to win the trust and continued attention of readers.) Lucretius states that religion teaches fear, while science teaches fact. He recounts
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
On the Nature of Things, a free recording of all six books, translated by John Selby Watson, was recorded on January 11, 2010 at http://wwww.librivox.org.
the story of Agamemnon, who was willing to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia for the good will of the gods. This is not piety, Lucretius says, but rather wickedness demanded by religion. Next, Lucretius sets about describing atoms as the building blocks of every object and living thing in the world. Nothing comes from nothing, and no object can ever be reduced to nothing. Although atoms cannot be seen, their presence can be felt in the wind, perceived in evaporation and humidity, and felt in other kinds of sensory experience. The entire world is composed of atoms and space, or void. Void is what allows motion because atoms can move through space without interference. Lucretius asserts that atoms are indivisible, solid, and indestructible, as each one moves from thing to thing. In anticipation of protests, Lucretius disclaims the theories of the philosophers Heraclitus, Empedocles, Anaxagoras, and the Stoic objectors. Next, Lucretius explains that the universe is infinite. He illustrates this point by asking what would happen if a man went to the edge of the earth and threw a spear. The spear would, of course, go somewhere. Consequently, he reasons, atoms and void are infinite.
Book Two Lucretius explains that the differing properties of things are accounted for by the different properties of atoms. For example, substances with a bitter or harsh taste have sharper atoms than substances that have pleasant tastes. The same is true for aromas. A disagreeable scent irritates the nose as its atoms pass through, while pleasant scents are composed of smooth atoms. There are a fixed number of atomic shapes even though
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
there are infinite atoms. Atoms are also colorless. He stresses that atoms are indestructible, but their compulsion to move on to other things creates instability in the world. He describes atomic motion as swerving. If atoms simply moved straight down, he explains, they would never collide and hence would never create anything at all. All things must die, despite the fact that the atoms that make up a person came from another source and will become something else when the person dies. Earth provides everything humans need to live, but not forever. Lucretius concludes with the idea that there are other worlds like this one, subject to the same laws of atoms.
Book Three The atomic theories are applied to humankind as Lucretius considers the nature of the soul, which he equates with the mind. He argues that even the soul is subject to death because it is composed of atoms, which are only present temporarily. Lucretius sets out four elements of the soul’s atomic composition—air, breath, warmth, and an unnamed fourth element. He claims that the soul resides in a person’s chest and is really a body part, except that the soul cannot exist without the body and vice-versa. Lucretius likens the body to a jar holding the soul; if the jar is dropped and shatters, the soul leaks out. Lucretius ends the book by reproaching those who fear death. After all, there is nothing after death, so why live in fear of nothingness? Death brings about the end of desire and is not to be mourned. Lucretius adds that all the great men who have gone before have died, so it is approaching arrogance to feel uncomfortable about following in their paths. Living one’s entire life in fear of death serves only to ruin what chance of happiness and peace there may be.
Book Four Sense perception and visions are accounted for in Book Four. Lucretius explains that objects constantly give off atoms that can be perceived by the senses. These are called ‘‘films’’ or ‘‘peels.’’ He adds that the senses are completely reliable, although interpretations of what is sensed are not always accurate. As an example, he writes that there are no such things as centaurs, yet people have seen them because they perceive a film of a man and a film of a horse stuck together and interpret this as a single creature. Because people can be fooled by films that produce what seem to be images of
V o l u m e
2
5 5 1
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
centaurs and other non-existent creatures, they feel compelled to create mythologies about them. This is how woodland gods, specters, and dreams come into being in the mind. As Lucretius approaches the end of this book, he begins a fiery section about love and lust. He describes romantic love as an emotional state to be avoided, as it is destructive and causes men and women to make poor decisions and leads them into ruin. Oddly, he includes a discussion of infertility and explains why it happens and how it can be corrected. He concludes with a brief description of true love. ‘‘Habit is the recipe for love,’’ he says, suggesting that true love is not found in sudden passion but, instead, develops over time.
Book Five In Book Five, the longest of the six books, Lucretius offers an account of how the world began and how civilization developed. He again emphasizes the futility of fearing gods or death, and he praises the virtues of friendship and peace. First, Lucretius establishes that his telling of the creation of the world is not blasphemous because the gods are remote and unconcerned with human dealings. Besides, the gods have nothing to do with the creation of the world; nature is solely responsible. Explaining the wonders of celestial bodies, he returns to the assertion that everything is mortal and is subject to decay. The sun and moon are about the same size as they appear to the eyes, and celestial bodies move because of gusts of heavenly winds. He describes the destructive nature of the elements and how they often battle each other. Next, Lucretius describes life for early people as difficult and dangerous, but free of war between tribes. Early in human history, there were freakish beings that failed to continue in existence because they were unable to survive into adulthood, find food, or procreate. He explains that whenever a new idea came about, it was shared so that the other people could benefit by it. Humankind came to discover fire, create language and music, develop medicine, establish law, and, upon discovering metal, made progress in farming. Warfare is also raised to new heights with the creation of metal weapons.
Book Six Lucretius opens Book Six with an extended speech about Epicurus, which many scholars view as a eulogy. In the final book of his epic, Lucretius intends to cast away any doubt in his reader’s
5 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
mind that there exist deities that meddle in human affairs. Natural occurrences such as high winds, volcanic eruptions, lightning, and earthquakes have nothing to do with divine activity. Only nature has the power to make these things happen, and to assume that the gods create them is ridiculous. Further, worshipping the gods does not prevent catastrophe. By discussing each type of natural disaster (and phenomena such as magnetism and rainbows), Lucretius hopes to reveal the folly of superstition so prevalent in his society. Lucretius tells of the Athenian plague of 430 BCE , during which there was no comfort for the afflicted or for the survivors. Lucretius supposes that the Athenians failed to realize that there are limits to both pleasure and pain; otherwise, they would know that nature does not give death without also giving life. This story brings the epic to a fitting close, as Lucretius began with the figure of Venus as a creative and life-giving force. Throughout the poem, Lucretius emphasizes the fleeting quality of life, and he supports his argument by constructing his poem in such a way that it begins with life and ends with death.
CHARACTERS Epicurus Epicurus is the father of the philosophy embraced in On the Nature of Things. Throughout the work, Lucretius praises Epicurus as ‘‘the founder of that way of life called ‘wisdom’,’’ ‘‘glory of Greece,’’ ‘‘founder of truth,’’ and ‘‘the first to stand firm in defiance’’ of popular religion.
(Gaius) Memmius On the Nature of Things is addressed to Memmius. Lucretius writes to him as to a student, a convention that allows Lucretius to speak authoritatively as an instructor to all his readers. Memmius was a contemporary of Lucretius who wrote erotic verse. He became involved in questionable political activities and was eventually exiled. Many historians believe that Lucretius received financial help from Memmius.
THEMES War and Friendship As an Epicurean, Lucretius opposes war and values friendship and cooperation. He carries
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Conduct general research on what modernday physicists know about atoms (size, properties, visibility, etc.). Compare your findings to Lucretius’s version of atomic theory. In what ways was he correct? In what ways was he mistaken? What can you conclude about Lucretius’s ability as a scientist and observer of the world? Present your findings to a group, using PowerPoint slides and illustrations.
the philosophies of Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Could you say that Lucretius was a romantic or a transcendentalist? Why or why not? Is his recommended lifestyle in tune with environmentalist ideas of reducing consumption? Answer these questions in an essay and give examples to support your conclusions.
Take into account Lucretius’s views on death and write an Epicurean eulogy for him.
Sometimes creative writers like Lucretius have inspired scientists in their search for knowledge. Science fiction writer, Isaac Asimov, wrote the equivalent of a modern scientific epic, The Foundation Trilogy, based on Asimov’s study of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Give an overview of Asimov’s fictional world and his fictional science, called psycho-history. Explain in a presentation how psycho-history has inspired or is related to later scientific theories such as complexity theory and generational theory, which try to predict history on the basis of mathematics. Show film clips of the space epic (when available) for illustration or use an overhead projector to show passages of the books and the scientific theories.
In Book Five, Lucretius states, ‘‘But if true reason governs how one lives, / To have great wealth means to live sparingly, / With a clear heart: small wants are always met.’’ Consider
Discuss in a group how science can shape a whole worldview, contrasting the view of Lucretius on nature and the gods, a Native American view of nature and the gods, and modern science’s view of nature and the gods.
out these twin themes in On the Nature of Things, depicting gruesome pictures of war and pleasant pictures of people enjoying each other’s company and supporting each other. Lucretius frequently uses war imagery to illustrate scientific points about atoms and nature. Describing the occurrence of accidents, he introduces the story of Helen of Troy and the Trojan War, which
resulted from her abduction. In Book Three, Lucretius explains that there is no reason to fear death, using an illustration from the Peloponnesian Wars to make his point. He writes that during these wars, everyone lived in fear of which side would triumph and who would subsequently dominate. According to Lucretius, this is how most people view death. Letting go
Choose a partner. Think about a subject about which you are knowledgeable. Teach your partner about this topic using three analogies, just as Lucretius uses analogies to clarify his points to his readers. Then trade roles, with your partner acting as teacher and you acting as student. Have groups of partners present their analogies to a larger class as a basis for a discussion on what makes a successful analogy. Review the passage in Book Five that begins at line 852. What parallels can you draw between Lucretius’s statements and evolutionary theory? Also, Lucretius writes, ‘‘And many have been entrusted to our care, / Commended by their usefulness to us.’’ Is there anything in this passage that reminds you of the creation narrative in Genesis? Respond in a critical paper that cites lines from the poem as examples.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
5 5 3
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
of one’s fear of death, however, means releasing the anxiety regarding which side (life or death) will win. Complementing Lucretius’s view of war is the Epicurean view of friendship. The Epicureans regarded friendship as one of the most important aspects of human experience. This idea is not, however, carried over into the realm of romantic love. Lucretius denounces surrendering to this kind of love, because he believes it only leads people to make unwise decisions and squander their fortunes, and it leaves them vulnerable to jealousy and rejection.
Religion and Science The Epicurean rejection of religion in favor of reason and science permeates On the Nature of Things. Lucretius explains that people have been too quick to believe that the movements and events of nature are dictated by the gods. On the contrary, Lucretius depicts the gods as remote beings living in total peace and tranquility. They have no reason to be interested in human affairs, so it is no use to worship them or make sacrifices to them. Citing the story of Agamemnon and his willing sacrifice of his own daughter to win the favor of the gods, Lucretius argues that what humans understand to be piety is actually senseless cruelty. Science, by contrast, is the path to truth. Lucretius maintains that the senses are unfailing, and in combination with experience, they have the power to teach people how the world actually operates. He appeals to reason, arguing against existing belief systems about natural occurrences and seeking to replace them with reasonable explanations. For Lucretius, the only worthy religion is reverence toward nature. In Book Two, he goes so far as to assert that Earth is the only true creative divinity: ‘‘So Earth alone is called ‘Great Mother of Gods’ / And ‘Mother of Beasts’ and ‘She Who Formed Our Flesh.’’’
Nature’s Cyclical Rhythms Throughout the poem, Lucretius affirms that nature functions in ongoing, predictable cycles. There is no death without birth, and every atom moves through a series of cycles as it converges with other atoms to create different things. In Book One, Lucretius writes, ‘‘Nothing returns to nothing; when things shatter / They all return to their constituent atoms. . . . / Nature restores / One thing from the stuff of another, nor does she allow / A birth, without a corresponding death.’’ In Book Two, he comments, ‘‘So the / Whole is ever /
5 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
The poem begins and ends with an invocation to Venus, the Roman goddess of love, depicted here in the famous statue Venus de Milo. (AP Images) Renewed, while mortal things exchange their lives.’’ The cycles of nature are also apparent in the movements of the sun, moon, and stars.
Fear and Ignorance Perhaps Lucretius’s chief purpose in writing On the Nature of Things was to bring readers out of a state of superstition and needless fear into a state of rationality and understanding. He renounces fear in all six books, viewing it as a limitation of human life. In Book Three, he blames fear for urging men to betray their countrymen and their own families, for generating envy, and for ruining friendships. Because life is relatively short and there is nothing afterwards, Lucretius sees no reason to spend one’s life in constant fear of the wrath of the gods or of death. Ultimately, he contends, whatever happens cannot be averted or in any way controlled by a person, so it is best to pursue simple pleasures and a carefree lifestyle. The harshest realization, according to Lucretius, is that most fear is human-made. Unable to explain the world around them and aware of the presence of the gods (Lucretius says these people could see the gods), early people devised stories about divine intervention. This belief provided an explanation of the workings of nature and their own fates. Unfortunately, the result was that people learned to live in fear of seemingly allpowerful and fickle gods. From fear comes
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
misery, as well as barbaric practices such as sacrifice and senseless practices such as kneeling and burning incense. In Book One, Lucretius writes that ‘‘before our eyes man’s life lay groveling, prostrate, / Crushed to the dust under the burden of Religion.’’ Lucretius hoped that by explaining how nature really works, he would be able to lift the veil of ignorance and fear so that people could live full, happy, and educated lives. Praising Epicurus in Book One, he proclaimed, ‘‘Religion now lies trampled beneath our feet, / And we are made gods by the victory.’’
STYLE Epic Features On the Nature of Things is an unusual example of an epic. It lacks many of the epic’s typical features, including a narrative, a central heroic figure, and praise for the gods. Many epics tell the story of a people’s origins, conveying some mythic or semihistorical conception of a national past. In some epics a worldview is preserved, one that conveys a people’s beliefs about themselves and about their destiny. What Lucretius accomplishes is to project a new picture of the world as he believed it is, against the worldview of his own people, the Romans. He offered another way of looking at the world, one based on his understanding of the material world instead of on religious belief. Like other epics, his work is long and complicated, written in lofty lyrical language. It presents a philosophy or an argument of being, but unlike other epics that conceptualize the existing belief system, such as Milton’s Paradise Lost, On the Nature of Things presents a contrary vision. Lucretius used analogies and metaphors to argue his position, reasoning with the reader to see the world in a new way. While he frequently alludes to the works of other philosophers, he generally does so to refute their positions rather than to align his work with theirs.
Audience Lucretius claims that his audience is Memmius, the person to whom the epic is dedicated and addressed. In reality, however, he intends to convince those who believe in divine intervention and fear death to accept his argument. In short, he addresses his contemporaries and other misguided individuals who come after him. His intention was to enlighten his readers in order to free them from a life of needless and unfounded fear.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
Didactic Approach In presenting his scientific ideas, Lucretius adopts a fitting writing to style. Assuming the role of teacher, he explains the laws of physics in a methodical, organized manner, delivering a straightforward lesson. He proves one point and then builds on that point in a later discussion. The poem is didactic—intended to teach, not to inspire emotions. Throughout the work, he declares statements as absolute truth as one who speaks with authority. In Book Two, for example, he proclaims, ‘‘Apply your mind now, hear the truth of reason!’’ To further establish himself as an expert, he repeatedly denounces those who would disagree with him. In Book Four, he writes, ‘‘Lend me your subtle attention and keen mind, / And don’t shout ‘That can’t be!’ at what I say.’’ Typical of his response to opposing theories, he writes in Book Five, ‘‘This farfetched nonsense reason must reject.’’
Analogies In order to make his scientific explanations accessible to a wide range of readers, Lucretius relies on analogies. He likens his scientific verse to honey-rimmed glasses of foul-tasting wormwood given to children by doctors. As he discusses the lightness of the soul’s atoms in Book Three, he tells the reader that the fact that the soul cannot be felt by touch does not deny its existence. To illustrate this idea, he reminds the reader that chalk settling on the skin cannot be felt, fog cannot be felt, and a cobweb drifting onto one’s head cannot be felt, yet all of these things exist.
Repetition Just as Lucretius employs analogies to make certain his reader understands his ideas, he uses repetition to ensure that they do not forget what he has taught them. Numerous times and in various ways, for example, Lucretius emphasizes that nature operates in cycles that cannot be altered. It is essential that his audience understands this point, so he inserts it in various forms throughout the text. The same is true for his views on fear. At every opportunity, he reiterates the wastefulness of living in fear.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Political Turmoil During Lucretius’s life (94 BCE –55 BCE ), Rome experienced considerable political upheaval in a struggle for power. In 88 BCE , civil war erupted
V o l u m e
2
5 5 5
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
COMPARE & CONTRAST
First century BCE : Lucretius’s On the Nature of Things describes atoms as the invisible, solid, indivisible building blocks of all matter. Today: The atom can be seen through an electron microscope and is not indivisible. The atom can be split and subatomic particles identified. First century BCE : Most Romans and people in the West believe that gods and goddesses govern natural occurrences and manipulate human affairs. Lucretius asserts the gods do not produce natural phenomena and are not interested in human events. Religion produces fear and should be abolished as a way of finding truth.
between the aristocrat Lucius Cornelius Sulla and the populist Gaius Marius. When Marius marched against Rome, he sought vengeance on the aristocracy with indiscriminate killing sprees. When Lucretius was a teenager, Sulla returned to Rome to be its dictator, seeking retaliation against those who had opposed him in the earlier conflict. Lucretius also saw the decline of the republican government that had been in place for much of his life. Although unstable, at least the republican government was familiar to the people, and they did not have to live in constant fear, wondering what kind of oppressive military regime would rule next. A consequence of the fall of the republic was a shift in loyalty from the government to individual military and political figures. The decline of the republican spirit among the people also weakened the traditional Roman commitment to the family and state. In addition, many Romans began to doubt state religion. All of these factors fueled uncertainty and a cultural transformation. The struggle for power among Pompey, Crassus, and Julius Caesar was underway throughout much of Lucretius’s youth. Although the three formed a triumvirate (a political coalition intended to help each get what he wanted), power was abused
5 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
Today: Science finds natural causes for phenomena, and this view prevails, although many adhere to religious teachings and adhere to them as a source of truth.
First century BCE : Lucretius advises against romantic love as destructive and contrary to reason and the pursuit of knowledge. Today: Romantic love is sought after with the belief that it completes and complements other aspects of human life. However, many marriages continue to be dissolved. The U.S. Census Bureau cites an estimated rate of divorce of about 50 percent as of 20002.
and internal conflict eventually destroyed the compact. Shortly after Lucretius’s death, Crassus died, which brought Pompey and Caesar into conflict with each other. In 52 BCE the Senate made Crassus sole consul in an effort to defeat Caesar. Caesar returned to Rome in 49 BCE and was soon ruling all of Italy. Lucretius’s death came before Caesar brought the hope of stability to Rome. Many scholars contend that the extreme political conditions in which Lucretius lived account for his adherence to Epicureanism. Faced with ongoing war and internal political strife, he found Epicureanism to offer a peaceful, pleasurable, moral way to live his life. His depictions of war throughout On the Nature of Things can certainly be attributed to the political environment of his time. In addition, Lucretius admired the Epicurean pursuit of friendship. Having witnessed the massacres and bloodshed caused by power struggles, it is little wonder he would so fervently believe that people should seek to befriend and help one another.
Religious and Philosophical Crossroads During Lucretius’s time, educated Romans were beginning to question their religion. They began to doubt that gods and goddesses were really so
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
active in human affairs that they would involve themselves in everything from love to mildew. The absence of a clear relationship between natural occurrences (e.g., volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, rain) and deity worship contributed to doubt and disbelief. Still, Romans continued to run colleges offering religious training, to worship the deities, and to dedicate sports events to the gods. The growing unwillingness to believe in the complicated system of Roman gods may explain why, a century later, Romans began deifying their emperors. This practice not only personified Roman gods, but also discouraged the cults that were gaining popularity. As an Epicurean, Lucretius was a philosophical outsider. Aristotle and Plato, though offering different views of the world and the universe, were the respected philosophers of the time. However, they disagreed about certain key philosophical questions, such as how the universe originated. Plato claimed that the universe was intentionally created by a divine being he named the ‘‘Craftsman.’’ Aristotle, by contrast, asserted that there was no beginning to the universe because it had always been in existence. Despite their divergent philosophies, Plato and Aristotle both asserted that the world is unique in the cosmos (i.e., there are no other worlds like Earth) and that humans live in an intentional and ordered world. Lucretius believed that there were more worlds like Earth, and he states throughout On the Nature of Things that the world was created neither by gods nor for humans. In Book Five, he writes, ‘‘I’d dare assert / And prove that not for us and not by gods / Was this world made. / There’s too much wrong with it!’’ This assertion directly opposes the notion of an ordered world created by a deity according to a design. The teachings of Plato and Aristotle became popular among the educated citizens of Greece, after which the view of an ordered world was adopted by the Stoics in Rome. This philosophical influence occurred around the time that Lucretius was writing On the Nature of Things. The teachings of the Stoics were the dominant philosophy in Rome at the time, which positioned Lucretius in opposition to the accepted cosmological view. John Godwin in Lucretius (Ancients in Action) (2004) describes the Roman context of Lucretius’s life, thought and accomplishment, explaining the historical nuances of On the Nature of Things.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
CRITICAL OVERVIEW As the oldest known example of Latin hexameter poetry, Lucretius’s On the Nature of Things continues to be the subject of much scholarly debate. Entire journal articles focus on the translation of a single excerpt, and as of 2010, one translation among the many has not yet received widespread approval as definitive. The challenge lies in the double task of translating while preserving the original rhythms and imagery in a way that is meaningful to contemporary readers and maintains the integrity of the text. To cite one example, the English version by Ronald Melville (1997) translates metaphors literally in order to show the scientific or philosophical point of view of the text. Scholars and students of classicism admire the text for its lyrical presentation of scientific models. It is also an important text because it is the best single presentation of Epicurean ideals and classical atomic theory that survives to modern times. One of Lucretius’s major themes in On the Nature of Things concerns death. The ending of the poem, with its extended description of a plague that terrorized Athens, strikes many readers as abrupt and dark. The ending has, therefore, been fertile ground for critical debate. For a time, many scholars maintained that the sudden ending was evidence that the epic was incomplete. They argued that Lucretius intended to return to his masterpiece and finish it. In various places in the poem, Lucretius alludes to a later discussion of the gods and their living conditions, yet by the close of the work, he has not addressed this subject. Timothy Stover, however, gives a convincing argument for the poem as a finished piece in an article for Latomus. Although the ending seems abrupt, critics have devised various arguments to explain why Lucretius wanted his epic to end as it does. To some, the ending presents a sort of test for the reader. Having read Lucretius’s account of death and the cyclical nature of the world, the reader has a choice. The reader either can be horrified by the scope of this historical event of human suffering or can take comfort in the knowledge that death comes with life and the afflicted have nothing to fear because there is nothing beyond death—no judgment, no hell, and no desire. J. L. Penwill, in an article for Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature, applies Lucretius’s worldview to contemporary situations: ‘‘The victims of the plague are . . . innocent. And in the pain of an
V o l u m e
2
5 5 7
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
individual death from cancer or AIDS, or in the face of natural disasters such as fire, flood, and earthquake, or even of ones that can be ascribed to human causes such as ethnic cleansing in Bosnia or genocide in Rwanda, the undeserved suffering again and again forces the anguished cry, ‘Why does God let this happen?’ The answer is simple. God has no interest in the matter. That is the way things are.’’ Granted, this is a harsh view that clashes with popular religious belief systems, but later in the same article, Penwill offers an insight that reveals Lucretius’s tenderness toward people: ‘‘Unlike the gods, human beings possess the quality of compassion.’’ Also related to Lucretius’s handling of death is a seeming contradiction in the text. His Epicurean ideals dictate that there is nothing beyond death, and so people should neither fear it nor seek immortality. He states that the pursuit of immortality leads men into ruin as they become creatures of envy, cruelty, and selfishness. Still, Lucretius claims that he will secure poetic immortality through his great work. In Book One, for example, he states, ‘‘Let the fame be mine, for I teach great things, stride forth / To free the soul from the stranglehold of religion; / Also, I sing dark matters into the light, / Spicing all with the grace of poetry.’’ One school of thought argues that there is a difference between subjective and objective views of survival. The poet is the objective component that will eventually die. This is what Lucretius teaches should not be feared. Poetry and philosophy, however, have the subjective ability to survive the writer and continue to exist without their creators. In an article for Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Charles Segal expressed his doubt that this resolution is realistic. Believing that Lucretius did not differentiate between two types of immortality, he wrote, ‘‘Perhaps, then, to be a great poet means, ultimately, to be less of an Epicurean. Perhaps for all his philosophical acceptance of the power of death, something in Lucretius the poet has not given up ‘hoping’ what every poet since Homer had seen as his goal and his right.’’ Lucretius also addresses love in his epic. He opens by invoking Venus as his creative muse, but later delivers an impassioned section denouncing love as a wasteful and destructive distraction in people’s lives. Although questionable, the claim that Lucretius’s wife gave him a love potion that eventually drove him mad has led some scholars to suggest that his wife’s conniving is what brought
5 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
about his anti-love lecture. Still others, including William Fitzgerald in an article for The Classical World, contend that for Lucretius love and death are the ‘‘enemies of mental health: both the fear of death and the torments of love derive from a mind fettered to its own or another’s unique individuality.’’ Both the attraction of love and the fear of death force otherwise rational people to behave in ways that create confusion and pain for themselves. As an Epicurean, Lucretius valued pleasure and freedom, but in romantic love, these two seem to be mutually exclusive. In terms of science, Lucretius on Creation and Evolution: A Commentary on ‘‘De Rerum Natura,’’ Book Five, Lines 772-1104, by Gordon Lindsay Campbell, is considered an important study. It looks at the poem as a forerunner of Darwin’s theory of evolution. Finally, two tools have added immensely to the study of Lucretius from different thematic and scholarly angles. The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, by Stuart Gillespie and Philip Hardie, contains short articles on the history of science, philosophy, poetics, history, religion, and reception relevant to the epic. The Oxford Readings in Lucretius, edited by Monica Gale, collects the most important scholarly articles on Lucretius between 1935 and 2005.
CRITICISM Jennifer Bussey Bussey holds a BA in English literature and an MA in interdisciplinary studies and is an independent writer specializing in literature. In the following essay, Bussey defines Epicureanism and discusses how Lucretius upholds its basic tenets. Lucretius’s masterpiece On the Nature of Things is acknowledged as the preeminent explanation of Epicurean philosophy. How Lucretius came to learn about Epicureanism is uncertain, and there is no evidence of a specific teacher who guided Lucretius’s philosophical development. Greek scholars lectured on the teachings of Epicurus in Rome at the time, however, and it is clear that Lucretius was well instructed. Epicureanism is based on four central ideas: the gods are not frightening, there is nothing to fear in death, good is accessible, and bad is bearable. Epicurus and his followers formed small communities of likeminded friends who gathered to study and discuss philosophical ideas. Historians note that these communities were especially noteworthy for their
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
EPICUREANISM IS BASED ON FOUR CENTRAL IDEAS: THE GODS ARE NOT FRIGHTENING, THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR IN DEATH, GOOD IS ACCESSIBLE, AND BAD IS BEARABLE.’’
Iliad (c. 700 BCE ) is one of Homer’s great epics. In the spirit and form of a classic epic, it is a story of adventure, the Trojan War, the gods, and great heroes. Aristophanes’s The Complete Plays (c. 300 BCE ) presents the humorous plays of the ancient Greek playwright Aristophanes. Full of satire and humor these works delighted playgoers in ancient Greece. Dante’s Divine Comedy (1321) offers a detailed and dramatic view at the afterlife as it was envisioned in the fourteenth century. Guided first by Virgil and then by Beatrice, Dante travels through hell, purgatory, and heaven, witnessing the consequences and rewards of decisions made by people during their lives.
Mike Corbishley’s What Do We Know about the Romans? (1992) gives students a cultural and social context for studying Roman arts and literature.
The Penguin Historical Atlas of Ancient Rome (1995), by Chris Scarre, shows the growth of the Roman Empire through excerpts from historians matched to graphics and explanatory text. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (1599) is the story of the rise and fall of Julius Caesar in Roman politics.
James MacLachlan’s Galileo Galilei: First Physicist is a Young Adult biography from Oxford University Press (1997) that tells the story of the great scientist who had to battle the ignorance of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century as Lucretius did during his life in ancient Rome. George Beshore’s Science in Ancient China is a Young Adult book (Children’s Press, 1998), presenting scientific innovations in China from around 1500 BCE to the mid-sixteenth century, including medicine, astronomy, and cosmology, and describes such inventions as rockets, the compass, water wheels, and movable type.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
inclusion of women and slaves. Studying science and the physical world, Epicurus found support for his ideas in nature. In his epic poem, Lucretius brings together Democritus’s and Leucippus’s theories of ‘‘atomism’’ (which guided Epicurus’s philosophies regarding the physical world) and Epicurus’s teachings on atomic properties and moral living. Lucretius’s achievement is in bringing these ideas together into a coherent philosophy of rationalism and a virtuous lifestyle. Central to Epicurean thought is atomic theory. Epicurus learned much from the early scientific theorists Democritus and Leucippus after realizing that their physics supported his beliefs about the absence of divine intervention. This, in turn, shaped his beliefs regarding morality. The atomists also taught that reality is accessible to anyone through sense perception; the world can be understood without resorting to divine explanations for natural occurrences. The Epicureans’ major contribution to atomic theory was the notion of an imperceptible movement called ‘‘swerve.’’ Lucretius explains in On the Nature of Things that atoms do not fall straight down to the earth but fall in a swerving path. This movement allows them to collide and combine with each other, resulting in the creation of objects and beings. In Book Two, Lucretius explains, ‘‘When the atoms are carried straight down through the void by their own weight . . . they swerve a little. . . . For if atoms did not tend to lean, they would / Plummet like raindrops through the depths of space, / No first collisions born, no blows created, So / Nature never could have made a thing.’’ Unfortunately, there is no explanation of why or how atoms swerve. From Epicurus’s cosmology come his views on morality and ethical living. In order to live fully, he claimed, it was necessary to observe and study one’s natural surroundings. Epicurus designated three types of desire, the first and most
V o l u m e
2
5 5 9
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
important of which is natural and essential desire. This is desire for necessities, such as food, shelter, and clothing. Necessary desires are generally the easiest desires to fulfill. The second type is natural and unnecessary desire, such as sexual desire. The third type is unnatural desire, which includes luxury, power, wealth, and popularity. People who pursue these desires are often miserable because they fail to understand that what they desire is unnecessary. At the end of Book Three, Lucretius writes: ‘‘What vicious yearning for life, then, makes us hurry / In such a panic, attacked by doubts and dangers? . . . / Whatever we lack, we want, we think it excels / All else, but when we’ve grabbed it something new / We thirst for, always panting after life.’’ Epicureans pursued pleasure in life, although not to excess. In the opening of Book Two, Lucretius proclaims: ‘‘Our nature yelps after this alone: that the body / Be free of pain, the mind enjoy the sense / Of pleasure, far removed from care or fear!’’ Avoiding the excess of passions allows a person to remain in calm control and avoid the torments of being overly emotional. The Epicureans believed that pleasure was the natural standard that enables people to assess what is good and what is bad. From infancy, people recognize pleasure, but what must be learned is how to find pleasure in the right things. In other words, Epicurus taught that it is not adequate to seek immediate pleasure at every passing moment of life, but rather to strive to maximize pleasure over the long term. Along the same lines, Epicureans understood that they must sometimes endure pain and discomfort in order to enjoy pleasure later. Friendship is important in the Epicurean way of life because it provides pleasure, facilitates philosophical pursuits, and helps to avoid pain by creating a supportive community of allies. By extension, it is no surprise that the Epicureans, and Lucretius in particular, despised war. The Epicurean fascination with atomic theory comes from the need to explain natural wonders in order to refute existing beliefs about the activities of the gods and goddesses. The result is important to Epicurean doctrine—the removal of fear of the deities. In essence, the Epicureans apply philosophy as a remedy for fear and worry. Lucretius’s presentation of religion in On the Nature of Things almost resulted in the epic’s permanent rejection. As Christianity spread, Epicurean assertions about mortal souls and a god absent from the world were almost forgotten. Further, Lucretius’s depiction of religion as a great monster, choking humankind and inciting it to cruelty, was unacceptable among
5 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Christians. In fact, were it not for the beauty of the verse and the poetic art of the work, the epic might have been lost. Scholars, however, began to revisit the epic, appreciating its style and rediscovering the ways in which Lucretius anticipated modern thought. The Epicureans were not atheists, despite the fact that many of their beliefs are shared by atheists. While Epicureans claimed that the gods had no part in human life or in the creation or maintenance of the world, they never denied their existence. Nature alone is responsible for life. Consequently, the gods are only to be admired, but not worshipped. Many scholars have noted that Lucretius’s description of the gods’ world very much resembles Epicurus’s philosophical community of friends. According to the Epicureans, the gods lived together in complete peace and happiness. They are remote from human activity and have no reason to become the least bit involved in human affairs. To do so would only disrupt their perfect world and bring unnecessary turmoil upon them. In Book One, Lucretius describes the gods: ‘‘For by necessity the gods above / Enjoy eternity in highest peace, / Withdrawn and far removed from our affairs. / Free of all sorrow, free of peril, the gods / Thrive in their own works needing nothing from us, / Not won with virtuous deeds nor touched by rage.’’ Later in the same book he addresses the human tendency to fear the gods out of ignorance and writes, ‘‘Fear grips all mortal men precisely because / They see so many events on the earth, in the sky, / Whose rational causes they cannot discern—/ So they suppose it’s all the will of the gods.’’ Epicureanism attributes most human fear and anxiety to the basic fear of death. Lucretius blames on the fear of death for the human vices of greed, cruelty, and selfishness. Understanding and accepting death is pivotal in Epicurean thought. Once liberated from the fear of dying, people can live in ataraxia, a state of serenity and lucidity. Although people live their lives terrified of dying and of what happens beyond the grave, the Epicureans taught that there is, in fact, nothing beyond death. This conclusion is drawn from atomic theory, which asserts that only what can be sensed is real. Interestingly, Lucretius offers an explanation that the soul is composed of atoms and is, therefore, mortal. He argues that the body and soul cannot exist without each other, and because the soul is a collection of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
atoms, it dies with the body. Of course, for Epicureans, dying means that the body and soul cease to be in a particular state and so move on to another form. The atoms are immortal although the form they take is not. The idea that there is nothing beyond death is not necessarily comforting, so the Epicureans offer another way of considering death. Before people are born, they feel nothing, and thinking about non-existence prior to birth does not seem to upset people. Therefore, the Epicureans reason, there is no need to worry about non-existence after life. Lucretius expresses the Epicurean idea that if a person lived a happy life, then when it is time to die, he or she should simply go like a guest leaving the dinner table. If, however, life was unpleasant, the person should consider that there is little to be lost in death. Although Lucretius was an Epicurean, he was also an independent thinker. He possessed qualities that did not align with Epicureanism, the most notable of which was his desire for poetic glory. Epicurus himself advised against writing poetry, yet Lucretius was compelled to write his epic poem focused on Epicurean philosophy. Lucretius writes with emotional force (such as in his passage on the pitfalls of love), even though the Epicurean way is one of serenity. Despite his few Epicurean shortcomings, Lucretius remains known as the great epic poet who preserved Epicureanism for centuries of students, scholars, historians, and scientists. Source: Jennifer Bussey, Critical Essay on On the Nature of Things, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Annette Lucia Giesecke In the following essay, Giesecke compares On the Nature of Things to Virgil’s Eclogues. The Utopian impulse, the tendency to dream of the amelioration of one’s circumstances, has been described as characteristic of the human condition. As such, this dream appears to be universal, possessing no boundaries in space and time. The claim has also been made, however, that the utopian impulse was not pronounced, even suppressed, in ancient Rome. The reason given is that ‘‘in their imperial triumph many Romans were too complacent and too self-satisfied to dream of ideal polities; for them, Rome itself was utopia’’ (Manuel and Manuel 21). It is my belief that it is indeed characteristic of humankind to ‘‘yearn for a better life and a better world’’ (Finley 3);
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
LUCRETIUS ARGUED THERE THAT ONE NEEDS VERY LITTLE, NEITHER OPULENT EVENING FEASTS NOR LUXURIOUS BEDDING, TO ACHIEVE THE PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELL BEING WHICH THE EPICUREANS DEFINED AS ATARAXIA, FREEDOM FROM DISTURBANCE OF ANY KIND.’’
it is also my belief that utopianism was alive and well in ancient Rome, particularly in times of great social and political upheaval. It is crisis, not contentment, which breeds utopias. The last century of the Roman Republic was a period of acute social and political struggle, and it was this century which produced Virgil, Rome’s most celebrated poet and one of her most ardent utopians. The seeds, of the protracted period of revolution which resulted in the collapse of the Republic can be traced to what was militarily the Republic’s finest hour, the destruction in 146 BCE of Carthage, Rome’s greatest rival, and of Corinth. These victories established Rome as the dominant force in the Mediterranean, but Rome’s augmented external power brought with it severe internal problems. Military triumph was attended by the growing availability of slaves, and this relatively cheap labor dispossessed many native Romans and Italians who lost their livelihood. Capitalist farming was now increasingly replacing peasant husbandry; small farmers, once the mainstay of the Roman economy, were forced out of competition by the multiplication of latifundia, large farm estates. Thus the city filled with idle hands. Those who profited most from Rome’s burgeoning capitalism were the equites, the growing and increasingly wealthy equestrian class who resented more and more the monopoly of political power by the Senatorial order, still dominated by the patricians. This volatile state of affairs was aggravated by the influx of the wealth of Carthage and the East into Rome, for it served to widen the gaps between the debauched patricians and nobles, who together comprised the Senate, the greedy equites, and the vast multitude of Rome’s oppressed citizenry. A further pressure upon Rome was the demand of her Italian allies for citizenship. The end result was civil war, and its final phase
V o l u m e
2
5 6 1
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
played itself out in the struggle between the republican party, backed by Octavian, Caesar’s heir, and Mark Antony, who had been Caesar’s ally and his colleague as consul. This phase ultimately came to an end after Octavian and Antony joined forces with Lepidus to form the Second Triumvirate. Conflict arose between the triumvirs and Caesar’s assassins, Brutus and Cassius. Upon the death of the latter in 42 BCE at Philippi, Octavian and Antony turned on each other once more. This rivalry ended with the defeat of Antony at Actium in 31 and his subsequent death in Alexandria. Octavian was left as master of the Roman world, and peace was at long last restored. Returning to Virgil himself, every stage of the poet’s work, the earliest and the latest alike, reflects the agonies and hopes characterizing his historical milieu. Of these works, it is generally the earliest of his creative efforts, the book of ten pastoral poems known as the Eclogues, which is included in catalogues of Classical utopianism, and in such catalogues it is the fourth or Messianic Eclogue which receives the greatest emphasis. This poem takes the form of an epithalamium (‘‘marriage hymn’’) composed in the wake of the political settlement between Antony and Octavian, the so-called Pact of Brundisium concluded in 40 BCE , and it evinces Virgil’s hope for an end to the seemingly endless cycle of violence, an end to limitless ambition and greed. In this poem Virgil combined Hesiod’s notion of a golden race with Aratus’s Age of the Maiden, Justice, who in the distant past lived on earth and mingled freely with the men of the golden race. He foretold the renewal of a reign of peace to be inaugurated by the birth of a son to Antony and Octavia, through whose marriage the pact was sealed. At the birth of the child, the earth would teem with flora, and goats would return home unprodded with udders full of milk. The threat of savage beasts, of lions and deadly serpents—also the threat of poisonous plants— would disappear. After the child matured and the world convulsed once more with the clash of arms, seafaring and conflict of all kinds would cease. The earth, free from human intervention, would pour forth her bounty. This son was never born; a daughter was born in his place. Still, this poem, which is undoubtedly utopian in spirit, continued to offer hope, for it was later read from a Christian viewpoint as heralding the coming of Christ and the peaceable kingdom. While the utopian vision of the fourth Eclogue has been amply documented, it has escaped notice
5 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
that this poem is not a utopian anomaly amid a collection of purely entertaining pastoral reveries. The fourth Eclogue is in fact but a small component of the subtler social theorizing which emerges from the Eclogues as a whole when they are read against the scenic and textual backdrop of Lucretius’s Epicurean didactic poem, the De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things). Oddly enough, modern scholarship continues to overlook the importance of Lucretius as an influence upon the Eclogues. So, for example, Richard Jenkyns has stated in his very recent book on Virgil that ‘‘Lucretius was known to Virgil when he wrote the Eclogues, but does not yet seem to affect him in more than a superficial way’’ (Jenkyns 211). This is one error which I will attempt to correct; another is the regular omission of Lucretius, Virgil’s mysterious, older contemporary, from the ranks of Classical utopographers. That Epicureanism should have enjoyed the popularity it did in the late Republic comes as no surprise, for it offered a seductive escape from the horrors of internal politics. Epicurus’s philosophy had itself been developed in direct response to the political instability and private disillusionment attending the demise of the city-state as the guarantor of political and personal identity in the wake of Alexander’s conquests. His was a philosophy which focused directly on the alleviation of human misery, and as such Epicurus addressed ‘‘issues of daily and urgent human significance, the fear of death, love and sexuality, anger and aggression’’ (Nussbaum 3). Far from being merely academic students of his philosophy, Epicurus’s most committed followers were men and women dedicated to a specific style of life. Theirs was an austere yet fulfilled life, a life lived in accordance with the dictates of Nature. For his disciples Epicurus forged a community, the Garden, which was an alternative community of friends ‘‘living in accordance with common principles in retreat from civic life’’ (Long 15). What made this distinctly utopian community unique was its inclusion of persons of every social standing, women and slaves included. As regards the specifics of Epicurus’s philosophy, little of his prolific writing has survived, and it is Lucretius’s poem to which we turn for the fullest explication of Epicureanism. This poem is ‘‘the longest sustained, nonhostile exposition of Epicurean philosophy to survive the collapse of pagan culture’’ (Segal 1990, ix), and composed as it was in the last flickering of the Republic, it, like
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
Virgil’s Eclogues, is a true reflection of and response to prevailing political circumstances. Lucretius’s purpose in composing this spectacular poem was, as he reminds his reader/audience repeatedly, to help humanity by revealing the path to total peace of mind. From his master Epicurus, Lucretius ‘‘drew the optimistic belief that philosophy could revolutionize our lives and bring us to almost godlike happiness’’ (Segal 1990, 10). This beatific state is ataraxia, freedom from the anxieties resulting from the unfounded fear of death, the tyranny of an unchecked libido, and the empty yearnings for fame and fortune. The state of ataraxy can be achieved through a contemplative and physical integration with nature, by realizing that humankind is quite literally one with its natural environment. Where this state can best be achieved is amid the simple amenities which nature has to offer, on a shady river bank when the sun blazes at its fiercest; it is a locus amoenus which is not specifically located (and thus it may be described as ou-topos), but it is clearly a good place, eutopos. On the assumption that Lucretius’s great didactic poem is utopian in spirit, it remains to pursue the possibility of the emergence of a consistent strain of social theorizing in the disparate poems comprising the book of Eclogues, theorizing which is Lucretian and Epicurean in inspiration and which expresses a form of ideal existence. The impulse for reading Virgil’s early works, the Eclogues and even the Georgics, from an Epicurean viewpoint came from Catalepton 5 and 8. These poems are of dubious authenticity, but they may nevertheless warrant credence with respect to certain insights into Virgil’s life. Here it is written that in his early 20’s (between 49 and 45 BCE ) Virgil abandoned his incipient political career and retired to Naples to study philosophy under the Epicurean Siro. If Virgil was in fact a resident of Naples from 45 BCE and inherited Siro’s villa around 41 BCE , then some of his Eclogues, the earliest of which we take to be dated to 42 BCE , may have been written while he was a resident of Siro’s hortulus, or school of philosophy. Virgil’s Epicurean affiliations are also attested by what appears to be his name on several papyrus fragments of Philodemos of Gadara, the Syrian Epicurean who was by all appearances housed in the villa of his influential patron L. Calpurnius Piso at Herculaneum. External evidence, then, justifies the search for Epicurea in the Eclogues, and one very
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
promising source for Epicurean intimations would appear to be the many echoes of the De Rerum Natura in these poems. Virgil’s debut to Lucretius is perhaps most evident in the sixth Eclogue, specifically in the cosmogonic opening of Silenus’s song (31–40). The aged satyr, taken captive while in a drunken stupor by two youthful shepherds, was promised his freedom for the price of a melody. He elected to sing, and his song began with an account of the formation of the world: ... He sang how, through the great void, were forced together the seeds of earth and air and sea together with liquid fire; how from these first elements all else, yes all, and the tender globe of the universe congealed; then the land began to harden and shut off Nereus in the deep and little by little assume the shapes of things; and now the lands marveled at the sun’s first dawn and rains fell from clouds moved higher overhead, when forests first began to rise and when a few creatures began to wander over unfamiliar hills.
The existence of Lucretian overtones in this passage, particularly on the level of diction, will be immediately evident to anyone familiar with the De Rerum Natura. Word order, tense and construction of verbs, and the articulation of the passage are, it is true, derived from Orpheus’s cosmogonic song in the first book of Apollonius Rhodius’s Argonautica (496–594), but the language here is derived from Lucretius. Here we find signature Lucretian phrases such as ‘‘through the great void’’ (‘‘magnum per inane’’; 31) and Lucretius’s favorite term for ‘‘atoms,’’ semina, in the phrase ‘‘seeds of earth, air, sea, and liquid fire’’ (32–33). Virgil’s philosophy is not, however, purely Lucretian and owes something to Empedocles as well. In fact, Lucretian language has been employed not to promulgate Epicurean natural philosophy but to create a passage of a distinctly scientific and didactic nature. What Virgil has done, with Silenus as his mouthpiece, is demonstrate his virtuosity and adaptability as a pastoral poet. While remaining true to the pastoral mode as he had promised at the opening of the poem, he was able to diversify his medium with a wide range of themes normally associated with other genres of poetry, epyllia (‘‘short epics’’) of mythological content and lyric poetry included. So much for the first bit of Lucretian Epicurea.
V o l u m e
2
5 6 3
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
I will not attempt to go through all of the many remaining allusions to Lucretius in the Eclogues, but rather will focus on the most sustained and important, those which have to do with the production of music/poetry. According to Lucretius (and here I refer to the extended passage describing the development of human civilization in De Rerum Natura 5. 780–1457), the invention of music and song belonged to the primeval age of relative innocence, the time before ambition, greed, and superstition grew rampant. Humans were still willing to be taught by nature then. Nature inspired them to imitate the singing of birds and to imitate also the melodious whistling of the wind through the reeds. Thus it came to be that the first pipe was fashioned (1379–411), and the tunes produced at Nature’s urging provided a welcome comfort: ... These tunes soothed their minds and gave them pleasure when they had had their fill of eating; for then all things are pleasant. And so, often reclining together in soft grass by the water of a stream beneath the branches of a lofty tree, they enjoyed themselves without great expense, especially when the weather smiled upon them and the season painted the green grass with flowers. (DRN 5.1390 96)
The present generation, Lucretius remarks in his fourth book, is so far removed from the primeval age of true enlightenment that Pan, a fictional mythological creature, is credited with having invented the flute (570–94). In his account of the origins of music, the setting Lucretius provides is essentially the same pastoral locus amoenus, pleasant place, which he described in the opening of the second book, the description of the ideal Epicurean vision of life. Lucretius argued there that one needs very little, neither opulent evening feasts nor luxurious bedding, to achieve the physical and mental well-being which the Epicureans defined as ataraxia, freedom from disturbance of any kind. This optimum state and utopian vision can be attained amid the amenities which nature has to offer, soft grass to recline on and the refreshment provided by shade and the cool water of a running stream: ... Therefore we see that few things are necessary at all for the body, namely those things which assuage suffering and can provide for our use many delights;
5 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
Nor, meanwhile, does nature herself require anything more pleasing, if there are not golden statues of youths placed throughout the house holding flaming torches in their right hands so that they may provide illumination for nocturnal banquets; nor if the house does not gleam with silver and glisten with gold, or if the gilded, paneled ceiling does not echo with the music of the cithara, when, nevertheless, stretched out together in soft grass by the water of a stream beneath the branches of a lofty tree, they enjoy themselves without great expense, especially when the weather smiled upon them and the season painted the green grass with flowers. (DRN 2.20 33)
Here the tranquility of the pastoral scene has come to symbolize peace of mind, freedom from superstition, the fear of death, and all the other useless cares of mortals resulting from an incomplete understanding of the workings of the natural world. I suggest that by including the locus amoenus in both of these passages, namely the description of the origin of civilization and the description of the ultimate Epicurean lifestyle, Lucretius is providing his audience/readers with a means, on a metaphysical or spiritual level, of returning to the blessed springtime of human existence and its primal harmony with nature. It is with the guidance of Epicurus and the attending withdrawal from the misconceived modern-day, urbane value system that this beatific condition, freedom from distress and anxiety, can be recreated. Virgil repeatedly alluded to this nexus of musical and bucolic passages from the De Rerum Natura in the Eclogues. In Eclogue 2 (31–35), for instance, Virgil’s shepherd Corydon sings to his beloved absent Alexis: ... Together with me in the woods you shall mimic Pan in song (Pan it was who first taught us to fasten together several reeds with wax, Pan it is who watches over sheep and shepherds), nor will you regret having chafed your lip on the reed; to learn this very art, what did Amyntas not do?
Lucretius had asserted quite the opposite; men had fashioned the flute in imitation of a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
natural phenomenon, and the very existence of Pan as an agent in the human world was denied in the fourth book. Here he reports what country folk mistakenly assume when they hear echoes of music in their surroundings: ... [It is said that] the farmers far and wide listen, while Pan shaking the pine covering his half bestial head, often runs over the open reeds with curved lip so that the pipe may never cease to pour forth its woodland song. And they tell of other prodigies and marvels of this sort, lest, perchance, they be thought, abandoned even by the gods, to inhabit solitary places. (DRN 4. 586 92)
Despite the rejection in this passage of the kind of pastoral world Virgil has created in his Eclogues, a world in which men and gods—or rather demi gods—mingle freely, allusion to Lucretius in the second Eclogue is undeniable, particularly with regard to the detail of running the lips over the reeds to produce a piping sound. What is demonstrated in this instance is imitation which involves a reversal of the meaning or application of the model passage, imitatio cum oppositione. There are also resonances of Lucretius’s musical passage in the most famous lines in the whole of the Eclogues, the opening of the first: ... Tityrus, you, reclining under the cover of spreading beech, rehearse the woodland Muse on a slender oaten pipe; (Ecl. 1. 1 2)
The most immediate point of contact here with Lucretius is the phrase ‘‘woodland muse,’’ (‘‘silvestram Musam’’). This phrase evokes Lucretius’s description of the farmers captivated by what they believe to be the music of Pan, who ‘‘often runs over the open reeds with curved lip so that the pipe may never cease to pour forth their woodland song’’ (‘‘silvestrem ne cesset fundere musam’’; DRN 4. 588–89). An additional indication on that Virgil intended his reader to recall this Lucretian passage is a subtle allusion to the latter in the fourth and fifth lines of the same poem: ... you Tityrus, at your ease in the shade, are teaching the woods to echo lovely Amaryllis.
The specific point of contact with the Lucretian passage is the phrase ‘‘teaching the woods to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
echo’’ (‘‘resonare doces silvas’’), at the appearance of which we, the readers, are meant to recall the phrase ‘‘taught to return’’ (‘‘docta referri’’; DRN 4.579), in the description of ‘‘echoes’’ which just precedes, and indeed prompts, Lucretius’s reflections on Pan (577–79): ... even six or seven cries have I seen places give back, when it was one you uttered; thus did the hills themselves, dashing them back from hill to hill, repeat the words trained to return.
It is true that the phrases differ slightly in wording and significantly in their application; Lucretius’s ‘‘words’’ are trained to come back or are reverberated not by people but by Nature. Still, the resonance of Lucretius in Virgil’s poem is unmistakable and of particular significance because, appearing as it does in the first strophe of the first poem in the collection, it must possess some degree of programmatic content. The line again is: ‘‘you, Tityrus, at your ease in the shade, are teaching the woods to echo lovely Amaryllis.’’ By introducing a Theocritean name, Amaryllis, into this Lucretian framework, Virgil has in essence specified that his poetry will be indebted both to Lucretius and to Theocritus. He is indebted to the latter for content, or rather genre, for it is to Theocritus that the origin of pastoral as a genre is attributed; to the former, Lucretius, he is indebted for a means of expression. The concept of Tityrus’s teaching the woods to echo the name of his beloved is important for another reason as well. It is the first intimation of a concept which prevails throughout the Eclogues, the idea that the processes of nature and the creatures of the wild can be controlled or affected by humans. This form of unity with nature differs radically from that which is envisioned by Lucretius, a contemplative integration. The highest form of accord with nature which an Epicurean could achieve was arrived at by gaining an understanding of the workings of the natural world. As a result of this, one would come to realize that one is governed by these same forces and allow oneself to become one with them. It is for this reason that Lucretius devoted so much of his poem to explicating the atomic theory, for him the keystone of existence. The question now is whether Virgil, who imitates Lucretius with some frequency and often seemingly in an ‘‘adversarial’’ way, at any point actually concurs with the sentiments of the latter. Let us consider some further potential points of contact between Lucretius and Virgil beginning
V o l u m e
2
5 6 5
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
with the concept of otium, which may be translated as ‘‘leisure,’’ ‘‘ease,’’ ‘‘repose,’’ and ‘‘peace.’’ It may also be interpreted as a Latin translation of the Epicurean concept of ataraxia. Returning once more to the first Eclogue, Tityrus describes his good fortune, the repossession of his lands and the attendant freedom of poetic/musical creativity, as otium: ... O Meliboeus, a god bestowed this repose on me. For to me he will always be a god, and his altar often will be stained with a tender lamb from my folds. It was he who made it possible for my cattle to roam, as you see, and for me myself to play what I wish on my rustic pipe.
That is, a life undisturbed by the horrors attendant upon the civil wars, the land redistributions in particular, a life in which one may live in harmony with nature, is a life of otium. In fact, the situation of Tityrus is very like that happy state ascribed by Lucretius to early humanity at the time when music and poetry were born (DRN 5. 1386–96). As in the case of Lucretius’s primitive humans, Tityrus’s otium is guaranteed by the presence of sufficiently abundant foodstuff; he tells the dispossessed Meliboeus that he can offer him ripe fruit and mealy chestnuts and an abundance of milk cheese (80–1). Otium in both cases also depends on the possibility of relaxation and shelter from the intense Mediterranean heat in the shade of trees; it depends on the possibility of immersing oneself in the delights of the locus amoenus. As remarked above, the picture of primitive humanity which Lucretius offers in this particular portion of his history of civilization is very like the description of Epicurean ataraxia, of withdrawal into and harmony with the natural world, which appears in the opening of the second book of the De Rerum Natura. It seems, then, that there is much to recommend the possibility of interpreting Virgil’s otium as ataraxia, the Epicurean utopian ideal. Are there other things which Lucretius and Virgil agree upon? Both poets display ardent pacifism in their works. Virgil’s strongest condemnation of war and its legacy is to be found in the pathetic picture of Moeris, dispossessed of his lands and his ability to sing, making his way to the city in Eclogue 9: ... O Lycidas, we have lived to see the day when a stranger (a thing we never feared could happen), now in possession of
5 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
our little farm, could say: ‘‘This is mine; off with you, former tenant farmers.’’ Now beaten and dejected, since fortune has overturned everything, we send him these kids and let things not go well with him. This you had heard, and so the story went. But the force of our songs, Lycidas, amid the weapons of war, is but as great as that told of Chaonian doves when the eagle comes to prey. (2 6, 11 13)
The sad portrait of Moeris, which is a lament for the rape of the Italian countryside and the ruin of the small farmer generally, is different from but not less powerful than Lucretius’s impassioned prayer to Venus that she seduce Mars away from his warlike pursuits: ... Bring it to pass, meanwhile, that the savage deeds of war, on the sea and all the earth, fall into a peaceful slumber. For you alone are empowered to give aid with tran quil peace to mortals, since it is Mars who presides over the fierce work of war, he, powerful in arms, who often against your bosom falls back overcome by the wound of love, and looking up with his shapely neck thrown back, feeds his covetous eyes with love, all agape at you, and his breath, as he reclines, hangs from your lips. As he reclines, goddess, upon your sacred body, may you, bending over him, from your lips sweet words pour forth, seeking tranquil peace, o glorious one, for your Romans. (DRN 1. 29 40)
Furthermore, both Virgil and Lucretius are as opposed to internal disturbances as they are to external ones. Specifically, both point out the dangers of passion, that is, of sexual attraction. Lucretius’s so-called diatribe against love in the fourth book of his poem is one of the best known passages in the De Rerum Natura (4. 1037–287). Here he describes the folly of the exclusus amator, ‘‘spurned lover,’’ in his desperate attempts to lay hands on the ultimately unworthy object of such intense and physically debilitating infatuation. What is called for in place of such obsession is a love based on compatibility and the practical need for a spouse and a family. As for Virgil, love was part and parcel of the pastoral existence, a force that certainly ‘‘animates all of nature, (but
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
is a thing which) must be freely given and taken, never indulged or exploited’’ (Lee 68). Otherwise, love may become a source of unspeakable distress and even destruction. Both poets, accordingly, express a need for boundaries in this realm of the human experience. Most importantly, Virgil found in Lucretius not just a fellow Epicurean but also a truly kindred spirit, a man who was a master poet, a keen and passionate observer of humankind and of his natural environment, a man able to combine political assertiveness with political quietism, and a man who found a way of combining affection for the past with a sense of progress. The De Rerum Natura had revolutionized the language of Latin poetry, for its creator, faced with and daunted by the dearth of his native tongue in comparison with Greek (DRN 1. 136–40), forged a new form of expression which was suited both to the lofty meter and tone of didactic epic and to artfully conveying images, sounds, tastes, and emotions in words. In what remains one of the most insightful discussions of Lucretius and his poem, it is stated that: Lucretius had an extraordinary sharpness of vis ual perception; one thinks of the iridescence of the pigeon’s feathers, the scarlet arbutus, the blue zone of the olive plantation, the coloured awn ings in the theatre, the glitter of armed men at manoeuvres, the white patch of grazing sheep on a green hill side. He is perhaps the only Latin poet who could use a visual metaphor to describe a sound. He had the artist’s eye for what was rich and strange and colourful. (Wormell 58)
With Lucretius as a guide, Virgil created the tenuous pastoral world, or worlds, of the Eclogues. The geography of the poems has been described as ‘‘unstable,’’ for it is inconsistent and varied from poem to poem (Jenkyns 155). The setting is neither Arcadia, nor Mantua, nor Cremona, nor Hyblaea; it is all and none of these. The ideal life imagined in this ‘‘setting’’ is a simple life, a life in tune with nature; this, Virgil tells us, is what is required for the possibility of creativity. This is a life which is not independent of or antithetical to the city; it is the city, Rome, and her first citizen, Octavian, who can and hopefully will guarantee that this life is preserved. Virgil’s vision is nostalgic but also progressive and political. It is political because behind Virgil’s eutopia looms dystopia. Nature herself threatens with wind, rain, and cold, deadening shadows. Rome too threatens, for it is the greed and ambition of the city which has dispossessed
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
poor Meliboeus and Moeris and threatens to do so to many more. So too in Lucretius’s great poem dystopia shadows eutopia, for the poem ends not on a note of unattenuated joy and hope but on a note of despair with the description of the plague which decimated Athens (DRN 6. 1033–286). It had been Lucretius’s purpose to demonstrate that all things, including the earth itself and its human population, have an inevitable beginning and end. All must pass away, and nothing is forever. Still, to end the poem on such a note must have had a deeper purpose. That purpose was, I suggest, to demonstrate how Athens, the pinnacle of human achievement, was destroyed by a disease more psychological and moral than physical. Eutopia is graphically demonstrated as unstable and as having decayed into dystopia, primarily due to the vices of humankind. It is true that there is much in the Eclogues which contradicts Lucretius. We have seen that passages which imitate Lucretius on the dictional level may at the same time run contrary to Lucretius’s purpose on the level of meaning. What is un-Epicurean in Virgil is the fact that his pastoral landscape is peopled with gods and nymphs who mingle freely with the shepherds. Un-Epicurean too is the notion that humanity can exercise some control over nature rather than be controlled by it. Still, like More’s Utopian philosophy, there is a strong Epicurean flavor to Virgil’s outlook in the Eclogues, and that Epicurean strain depends to a large part on the model of the De Rerum Natura. Virgil has appropriated Lucretius in order to help him suggest how humankind can achieve happiness which, in their eyes, is the goal of our existence. Lucretius’s poem, like Virgil’s Eclogues, are pointed at a Roman situation, but they are also universal in application. They are works which vividly promulgate the Epicurean view that the road to Utopia is paved by modesty and restraint in all things. Source: Annette Lucia Giesecke, ‘‘Lucretius and Virgil’s Pastoral Dream,’’ in Utopian Studies, Vol. 10, No. 2, Spring 1999, pp. 1 15.
J. L. Penwill In the following essay, Penwill explains how the ending of Book 6 represents the ending process of life. That Lucretius should choose to end his Epicurean representation of the world with a long and harrowing account of the plague that struck
V o l u m e
2
5 6 7
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
ends in the way it does. The challenge is to work out what the poet means by ending this way, not to rewrite the poem. FOR ONE OF THE BASIC MESSAGES . . . IS SURELY THAT WE, THE HUMAN RACE, ARE PART OF NATURE. . . . ATTEMPTS TO TRANSCEND THIS LIMITATION ARE FUTILE, AND LEAD INEVITABLY TO FRUSTRATION AND DESPAIR: TO LOOK FOR A BETTER EXISTENCE FOR THE SOUL AFTER DEATH IS TO INVENT THE WORRY OF A WORSE ONE.’’
Athens in 430 BCE is certainly one of the more remarkable facts in classical Roman poetry. More remarkable still is the suddenness of the ending. The poem simply breaks off as one critic says ‘almost in mid-sentence’; and even if we follow this same critic in tidying up the end by transferring 6.1247–51 to follow 1286 we are still left very much in mediis rebus, with the plague at its height and death and misery all around. Our initial response is one of surprise and puzzlement as we feel cheated of a sense of an ending; this in turn leads to questions about overall design and authorial intent. Why does the poem end this way? Indeed, has it ended at all? This was for a long time the accepted answer; there is no ending, because the poem is unfinished. The supposedly unfulfilled promise to write at greater length about the abodes of the gods at 5.155 was cited in support of this view, together with the sensationalist tradition that Lucretius was driven mad by a love-potion and that the (by implication unfinished) poem was published posthumously. But even if Lucretius died before the poem was completed and so was unable to tie up or remove the loose ends, it does not follow that the present ending is not the one he planned for it; the Aeneid too was published posthumously and it too has a problematic ending, but surely noone these days tries to argue that had Virgil lived he would have added a further section to move the spotlight away from Aeneas’ signal failure to live up to Anchises’ ideal. Both the DRN and the Aeneid have endings which are deliberately provocative; they require the reader to make sense of the work which s/he has just read as a work which
5 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
Modern criticism has by and large accepted this challenge. Minadeo has offered a systematic study of the cycle of creation and destruction that pervades the poem; and while some of his formulations have a Procrustean air, there can be no doubt that in the case of the poem as a whole and of the major sections of it he is right. The poem itself reflects the cycle it describes; every atomic construct goes through the process of coming to be and passing away, and so does the poem: the invocation to Venus genetrix in the proem to Book 1, replete with images of fertility, joy, and the exuberance of new life, is neatly answered by the epilogue to Book 6, with its emphasis on sickness, despair, and the awfulness of death. Indeed, Bright’s transposition of 6.1247–1251 to the end of the poem makes the antithesis particularly neat: ...
The despondency of the mourners who have disposed of their dead in whatever way they could stands in stark contrast to the laughter and joy which permeates the first 20 lines of Book 1 as the world bursts into life at the advent of Venus; and the sequence ‘disease, death, grief’ baldly listed in the final couplet (if such it be) together with the image of the mourners taking to their beds to grieve in silence and solitude is the complete reverse of the expansive and syntactically complex description of the energy, vitality and joie de vivre of the creatures inspired by Venus to lovemaking and the creation of new life. While this is an attractive and persuasive account of the overall design of the poem, it does not in my view constitute a sufficient explanation for the way in which the poem ends. Certainly there is balance, which functions as both demonstration and fulfilment of the Epicurean doctrine of isonomia; but this does not of itself account for the fact that Lucretius has chosen to end his poem with 130 lines of unrelieved horror in which he has taken care to edit out whatever vestiges of hope there are in Thucydides’ bleak narrative of the same event. This, what is more, in a poem which has the stated purpose of removing those fears which perturb the mind of human beings, one of which is the fear of death. Can we still face death with equanimity after reading the end of Book 6?
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
With this closure ringing in our ears, can we still be convinced by what had heretofore seemed so compelling but now so theoretical a series of arguments against the fear of death in Book 3? And how does this final passage accord with the author’s earlier defence of the (un-Epicurean) use of poetry? ... For this too seems not to be without purpose; but as doctors, when they are trying to give bitter wormwood to children, first coat the rim around the cup with the sweet yellow liquid of honey, so that in their youthful thoughtless ness they will be fooled as they taste it, drink down the bitter juice of the wormwood and be deceived, not cheated, since in this way they will be restored to health. . . .
Honey may certainly be a suitable image for the invocation to Venus in Book 1; but the description of the plague is unadulterated wormwood. The comparison of the unenlightened to children, familiar also from the ‘for just as children tremble and fear everything’ formula, is grimly recalled in the picture of children’s corpses: ... Sometimes you could see the lifeless bodies of parents lying on their lifeless children, and again children giving up their lives on their mothers and fathers.
Medicine for these children is an irrelevance; indeed, medicine has been reduced to silence (mussabat tacito medicina timore , ‘medicine muttered in silent terror’, 6.1179). Again we ask, why end on this note? Some critics draw attention to what they see as an ethical dimension to this ending. Throughout the poem, Lucretius has been drawing attention to the difference between the Epicurean and non-Epicurean world-views, depicting the latter as productive of anxiety and unhappiness. The earlier part of Book 6 has been particularly strong on this, dealing with meteorological and terrestrial phenomena that the unenlightened ascribe to the intervention of the gods; but as the syllabus to this book makes clear, that attitude is fraught with danger: ... If you do not spit these ideas out of your mind and put far away from you thoughts unworthy of the gods and inconsistent with their tranquil ity, the holy godhead you have diminished will often come against you.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
The threat is not that god will hurl a thunderbolt at you if you do not worship him in the right way or if you deviate from religious orthodoxy, but rather that false belief will set up motions in your soul which will prevent you from receiving and correctly interpreting the simulacra (‘images’) that emanate from the gods. The state of the unenlightened is thus one of self-inflicted psychological sickness. Noting that one of the ways in which Lucretius has modified Thucydides is to increase the emphasis on the psychological malaise experienced by the sufferers of the plague, Commager suggests that the whole episode is in a sense symbolic: the sufferings of the Athenians in 430 BCE are generalised and rendered emblematic of the spiritual state of the unenlightened. Smith in his revision of the Loeb Lucretius adopts the same position. The verbal parallelisms between the poem, with its emphasis on moral sickness and health, and the final passage confirm that Lucretius views the Athenian plague as a physical disaster that involved moral disaster as well, and as symbol ising the moral condition of unenlightened mankind. . . . The truth is that the prospect of salvation and of a heaven on earth which Lucre tius offers in the DRN shines with a brighter and stronger light on account of this dark and hellish picture of what life is like without the guidance of Epicurus.
Now it is true that the unenlightened are termed aegri, ‘sick’, in the opening line of Book 6; it is also true that Athens is hailed in the proem to this same book as the home of Epicurus and the source of his diuina reperta (‘divine discoveries’, 6.7), and this framing of the book could lend some support to the idea that a contrast is being set up between the pre- and post-Epicurean city. But if this is what Lucretius is trying to do, he has been singularly and unusually reluctant to inform the reader of the fact. Lucretius’ normal practice is to make his moves abundantly clear, as in the image of the man gazing out to sea in the proem to Book 2 (to which I shall return) or in the case of the sacrifice of Iphigenia at 1.80–101. And while both Commager and Bright are right in drawing attention to Lucretius’ interest in the psychological impact of the plague, the emphasis has not in any way been removed from the physical. The context in which the modifications towards the psychological should be viewed is not so much that of the proem’s outline of the spiritual malaise of the unenlightened but rather that of the arguments for the mortality of the soul in Book 3. One thinks
V o l u m e
2
5 6 9
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
particularly of 3.429–525, where the fact that mental derangement often accompanies physical illness—indeed is itself part of that physical illness, in that it too is a consequence of the behaviour of the material particles of which the human organism is composed—is cited as evidence that the mind is subject to disease as much as the body and is therefore just as mortal. The sickness of soul experienced by the victims of the plague is thus not due to their unenlightened state but to the nature of the disease, which attacks all parts of the organism. Moreover, one of the effects of the plague is to break down religious observance: ... Now neither religion nor the gods were regarded as of any importance; the present anguish over whelmed them.
It is as if the plague has effected what Lucretius’ entire argument—and particularly the argument in Book 6—has been directed towards: a realisation that the gods have no interest in human affairs. On the one hand this is hardly an image of unenlightenment; on the other, we have to ask whether an Epicurean would be any better off than a nonEpicurean in coping with a disease that affects the mind to the extent that this one does. Above all we need to remember that we are dealing here not with a generalised image but with a historical event. This is not an imagined scene of a man driving his chariot to the country and then coming home again, nor of a cow searching for her lost calf, but a record of an actual occurrence; and the poet has made this clear to the educated readership for which he is writing by the conspicuous use of Thucydides to which I have already alluded. Elsewhere when he alludes to or describes particular events, Lucretius explicitly draws the moral, as with the already mentioned sacrifice of Iphigenia in Book 1 or the death of major historical figures at 3.1025–44. But nothing of the kind is found here; the description is introduced as a particular example (haec ratio quondam morborum, ‘this cause of diseases on one occasion,’ 6.1138) to illustrate the nature of disease and runs to its end without comment. Indeed, if we compare Lucretius with Thucydides, we might conclude that it is the historian who is making the moral point in juxtaposing the account of the plague to Pericles’ Funeral Speech, and so contrasting the ideal of the civilised city with the sordid reality of human nature reduced to its basics. Lucretius
5 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
offers no such correlative; true, there is the reference to Athens as the home of Epicurus at the beginning of the book, but after line 5 the focus switches from city to philosopher, the verbs become third person singular instead of third person plural, and Athens, named but once (line 2), is quickly forgotten. The notion that the plague is somehow symbolising the state of unenlightened, pre-Epicurean humankind is, in my view, untenable. The answer does not lie here. Another view, put forward most forcefully by Clay, is that the description of the plague is presented as a kind of test: So Lucretius’ reader arrives at the end of De Rerum Natura to face a spectacle of disease and disturbance and also to face the final test of his mastery of the poem. He is left to contemplate the ugliest face of an indifferent nature that destroyed, even as it created, the highest form of human civilisation.
The correct response on the part of the reader who has achieved the required grade of philosophical wisdom would presumably then be that of the watcher on the seashore: ... Sweet it is, when the winds are creating great rollers on the sea, to view from land the great toil of another; not because there is any pleas ure in the fact that someone is in trouble, but because to look upon evils from which you yourself are free is sweet.
The poet goes on to make clear that by this image he is bringing to our minds the enlightened individual who has detached himself from the mad pursuit of wealth and power which is responsible for so much human unhappiness. He is in the fortunate position of being able to stand back and watch, and to experience the pleasure of knowing that he is no longer enmeshed in the toils of the rat-race. But this is merely to congratulate oneself on avoiding humanity’s self-inflicted wounds and to engage in little more than poetic/ philosophical/satiric commonplace. Reason can tell us that the desire for wealth and power, auri sacra fames, is a destructive force, that allowing oneself to succumb to sexual passion will ultimately bring more pain than joy (we’ve all seen some version of Phaedra or read the neoterics), that the doctrines of conventional religion, with their emphasis on interventionist gods and the bogey of eternal punishment for those who step out of line, are not worthy of belief; these are the ‘storms’ from which the philosophic mind can
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
free itself in the quest for ataraxia. But are we as readers of the DRN being invited to adopt a similar attitude when it comes to the plague? Are we the watchers on the seashore experiencing the suauitas of not being embroiled in these horrors? Is Lucretius expending the full force of his poetic talent to create a picture of devastation and misery in order to give us pleasure? Is that the challenge of this final scene? If we view the plague as a test of Epicurean correctness as Clay would have us do, then that is the only conclusion we can come to. After all, the gods who constitute the ataraxic ideal do not care; and as for us, we are as remote from these events as we are from those of the Second Punic War, of which, as the poet triumphantly tells us (3.832ff.), we felt nothing. The problem with this is that the gods neither perceive what takes place on earth nor read poetry; we are human beings and do both. Further, the idea that we are supposed to respond to the account of the plague with indifference would set up an impossible tension between invited and expected response, with the poetic voice immersing us in horror and the didactic voice counselling calm detachment. Poetry works through engaging the emotions, and Lucretius does this throughout, the fascination of this text lies in the fact that from first to last it demands involvement, drawing the reader in to experience the intensity of its representation of and response to natura. We may be able to congratulate ourselves on escaping from error; from natura there can be no escape. So pedagogically attractive as it may be, the model of the De Rerum Natura as a course of instruction culminating in a final examination paper does not altogether appeal. The description of the plague is not an appendix or epilogue, any more than Virgil’s account of the final confrontation between Aeneas and Turnus is to the Aeneid; rather it is central to the poem’s thematic design, as Minadeo’s analysis makes clear. We are not being asked to use the whole poem in order to ‘master’ one of its parts; rather we are being challenged to integrate this, the most problematic of its parts, into the overall structure of the work. This is what I shall be attempting to do in the remainder of this essay. Let us consider the plague in its more immediate context, Books 5–6. The basic argument of these books is that everything is explicable in material terms, and so by applying the principle
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
of Occam’s razor we can exclude the hypothesis that the gods have any role to play. It is no accident therefore that Book 5 opens with that remarkable proem in which Epicurus is virtually deified: ... For if we may speak as the perceived greatness of the matter itself demands, he was a god, a god, noble Memmius, who first discovered that rationale of life which is now called wisdom.
The sentiment is repeated at 5.19–21; we also hear echoes of it in the divinity ascribed to Epicurus’ doctrines in the proem to Book 6: ... Even though he is now dead, his fame, spread abroad of old, is now carded to the skies on account of his divine discoveries.
The only ‘god with us’ in this system is the philosopher; it is he who brings us the means to achieve happiness, and it is he who is the only true culture-hero. The world in which we live and of which we are a part is neither divine nor sentient; the notion of Mother Earth, presented particularly forcefully at 5.795ff., arises from our perception of the earth’s fertility now and what ratio tells us about the origin of living things. But we must not allow ourselves to be carried away by this image to the extent of actually regarding the earth as a mother goddess; that would be both false and dangerous. The argument in Book 6, with its concentration on meteorological and terrestrial phenomena which have traditionally been ascribed to divine agency (thunder, lightning, thunderbolts, earthquakes, volcanoes and the like), not only stresses that all such occurrences may be explained in material terms (even though we may not be able to pinpoint precisely what that explanation is) but also, by the very explanations it offers, draws attention to the fact that earth is an unstable atomic construct, which will itself one day fall apart. Lucretius explicitly draws the conclusion: ... And they fear to believe that the nature of the great world is awaiting a certain time of destruction and a disaster, although they see the great mass of lands leaning down. But if the winds did not pause for breath, no force would rein things in nor be able to hold them back from destruction in their onward rush.
Not only is the world not divine but it is subject to the same process as all other compounds, passing through the stages of birth,
V o l u m e
2
5 7 1
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
growth, maturity, decline and death. The individual human being is also subject to this process; and the essential similarity between earth and individual, macrocosm and microcosm, is shown by the recycling of the language of 3.806–18 (proof that the soul is mortal because it is a compound) to prove that the earth itself is mortal at 5.351–63. One of the functions of the section on disease with which Book 6 concludes is to underscore this relationship between microcosm and macrocosm. In a passage just after the one to which I have just referred, Lucretius makes the point that compounds are subject to dissolution as a result of bombardment by particles from without: ... Nor are bodies lacking that can by chance come together out of the infinite and over whelm this sum of things in violent storm, or bring in some other destructive calamity.
Particles from without are likewise the cause of disease, both generally (6.1090ff.—note particularly the recurrence of the phrase forte coorta at 1096) and in the particular case of the plague at Athens, where Lucretius follows Thucydides in saying that the infection came from Egypt (6.1141). The graphic details in the description of the plague are a telling illustration of the effect of noxious particles, which the principle of isonomia shows must be as numerous as beneficent ones (see esp. 6.1093ff.). The emphasis in the account of physical symptoms is on the internal organs; see especially 6.1163ff., where the poet states that the burning sensation could not be perceived by touching the skin: it affected only the intima pars (‘innermost part’, 1168), and the enormity of the suffering caused could only be judged by observation of behaviour. These are corpora caeca at work; and as death is the end result for the individual in the grip of plague, so will it be for the world as a whole as its moenia (‘defences’) are finally beaten down (expugnata, 2.1145) by the destructive particles that continually bombard them. By concluding with the plague, Lucretius is also providing evidence for another argument introduced earlier in Book 5, namely that the world could not possibly have been made for mankind by the gods because there is too much wrong with it—or rather, so much of it is unsuitable or downright dangerous for human habitation.
5 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
Disease is in fact adduced as one of the aspects of this unsuitability (cur anni tempora morbos/adportant?, ‘why do the seasons of the year bring forth diseases?’, 5.220f.). The general section on disease in Book 6 shows that many regions of the world are hotbeds of infection; as inhabitants of this world, we are subject to those infections just as birds are to the particles that emanate from the Avernian regions. We cannot escape the limitations of our human existence; for us too there is that alte terminus haerens (‘deep-set boundary stone’) which marks off what can be and what cannot within the whole of nature. A salutary reminder of this fact constitutes a suitable ending for the poem as a whole, as well as a fitting climax to the arguments presented in the final two books. For one of the basic messages of the DRN is surely that we, the human race, are part of nature. Like everything else, we are compounded of primary particles, and are ourselves subject to the same eternal process of coming-to-be and passing-away. Attempts to transcend this limitation are futile, and lead inevitably to frustration and despair: to look for a better existence for the soul after death is to invent the worry of a worse one; to try to establish a link with some transcendent deity is to subject ourselves to the tyranny of a Big Brother who is always watching; to pretend that we are somehow different, that we are apart from rather than part of the natural world, is to create a poisoned physical and psychological environment. The ‘progress’ of civilisation outlined in the latter stages of Book 5 shows a progressive alienation from nature, nowhere more tellingly illustrated perhaps than in the account of the use of animals in warfare at 5.1297–1349. The poetic power of Lucretius’ description of the world around us, which the philosophic voice describes as the honey round the cup, drags us back to the natural world and forces us to recognise that that is where we belong. We are part of a world, a scheme of things, which has both a creative and destructive aspect, a fact that we must comprehend and learn to live with. It is one thing to produce a string of arguments against the fear of death as a concept; it is quite another to face the reality of the deathprocess in all its grim, sordid, squalid detail. The ulcerated corpses at the end of the work are the ultimate condition of all of us, the end towards which our lives proceed as each of us lives through the cycle that all things must follow; and the nature of this end is in the vast majority
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
of cases something over which we have no control. The poet of nature confronts the reader with the most uncomforting reality of all not as a test but as a statement; to write De Rerum Natura entails a duty to tell it how it is. Like Tannha¨user, we must quit the seductive delights of the Venusberg and face the truth. We have come some way I think in accounting for this poem’s ending. It is the final response to the dilemma faced by all at some stage in their experience of the world: how to cope with the fact of natural catastrophe and undeserved suffering. The world is a violent place: it may not be Jupiter who wields the thunderbolt, but thunderbolts still exist; indeed, it is the very fact that they strike down the innocent as well as the guilty that proves there is no divine hand guiding them: ... Why rather is someone who is conscious that he is guilty of no wrongdoing engulfed in flames, an innocent victim wrapped around by a tor nado from heaven and seized by sudden fire?
The victims of the plague are similarly innocent. And in the pain of an individual death from cancer or AIDS, or in the face of natural disasters such as fire, flood and earthquake, or even of ones that can be ascribed to human causes such as ethnic cleansing in Bosnia or genocide in Rwanda, the undeserved suffering again and again forces the anguished cry, ‘Why does God let this happen?’ The answer is simple. God has no interest in the matter. That is the way things are. Such is the place of the plague in the poem as statement of the Epicurean position. It has in addition another function, related to that aspect of the poem on which Minadeo concentrates: its patterning around the creation/destruction cycle to which I referred earlier. In his analysis of individual books, Minadeo correctly observes that what he calls the leitmotif of the poem, the commencement of each book on a note of creation and its conclusion on a note of destruction, is broken in the proem to Book 2 and in the conclusion of Book 5; he errs in my view in trying to impose it on the sections of the work to which these passages are juxtaposed, namely the conclusion of Book 1 and the proem to Book 6. Certainly Book 1 ends on a seemingly destructive note as Lucretius demonstrates the absurdity of the centripetal theory of matter adopted by the Stoics, showing that on this view the world would simply fall apart. But unlike the conclusion to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
Book 2, where the eventual destruction of the world is argued for in terms of Epicurean theory, this is based on a false premise; and in fact Book 1 concludes not with a vision of the world’s end but with a celebration of the transition from error to enlightenment: ... For one thing will grow clear out of another, and blind night will not snatch from you the path so as to prevent you seeing the ultimate realities of nature: thus truths will kindle torches for truths.
In fact the tone of the book is wholly creative: it opens with the wonderful image of Venus genetrix, a Venus who overcomes Mars the god of war, and proceeds to establish the basic postulates, to declare the poet’s mission and to expose the deficiencies of rival theories. It is in fact the triumphal procession following the victory of the Graius homo celebrated at 1.62ff., parading both the spoils of the campaign (knowledge of the true nature of things) and the defeated prisoners (discredited alternative views). The sixth book, on the other hand, presents a mounting crescendo of destruction. True, there is that celebration of Epicurus and his diuina reperta in the proem (for which compare the openings of Books 3 and 5), but the content is unusually dark. It is here that we get the image of the corruption in the jar (against which we may contrast the honey round the cup of the poet’s mission statement), recalling the negative observations on human life in the prologue to Book 2 which led Minadeo to exclude it from his general schema. Also in the prologue to Book 6 we are given the information that part of the Master’s teaching has to do with coping with natural disaster: ... [He taught] what evil there was everywhere in human affairs, which comes about and flies around in different ways by natural force or chance, because nature has so provided, and from what gates one should sally forth to meet each one.
And the subject-matter of the book, while ostensibly supporting the thesis that the gods need not be feared because they have no part to play in the operation of the world, concentrates on those aspects of the earth and its surrounds which are indexes of its fragility and thus keeps before our minds the inevitability of its eventual collapse. Everything is hollow, everything is in motion, the force of moving matter tears objects apart.
V o l u m e
2
5 7 3
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
This accounts for one of the more curious passages of this final book. Immediately prior to the section on disease, Lucretius devotes 184 lines to a discussion of the magnet, a seemingly innocuous phenomenon. As far as the syllabus of the book is concerned, it is presumably there because of its connection with the first philosopher, Thales, and his proposition that all things are full of gods; another example of the human tendency towards erroneous hypothesising of divine causation. But again it is the explanation which is thematically significant and makes the positioning of this section appropriate. In the middle of his account of the magnet, Lucretius places a long digression, in which two principles are stressed: first that there is a constant efflux of particles from all physical objects and secondly that everything is porous. Both these principles are invoked to explain the action of the magnet; and both are intimately linked to the theme of destruction. For (a) it is when more particles are given off than taken in that decline sets in and (b) the fact that ‘there is nothing that presents itself to us except body mixed with void’ (nil esse in promptu nisi mixtum corpus inani, 6.941; cf. 936f. and 958, where the fifth foot raro corpore takes on a distinctly formulaic ring) is a clear indication of the instability of the world around us. Contemplation of the magnet is thus not as it was for Thales a reminder of the fact that all things are full of gods; rather it is a memento mori. Stone and iron are two of the most solid and stable substances that we know of; but the capacity of this ‘stone’ (lapis, 907) to interact with iron shows how deceptive this seeming solidity is. And the very diversity that Lucretius so often celebrates as part of the richness and beauty of the phenomenal world is likewise drawn on in the context of this argument as index of its impermanence and instability: efflux of particles 959–78; porosity 979–97. The creatures and landscapes of Venus’ processional are already pregnant with the seeds of their own destruction. So in its movement from Venus to the plague, from coming-together to falling-apart, the De Rerum Natura itself constitutes an image of the world it describes. This aspect of the work has long been recognised; and it is its fusion of form and content, medium and message, that marks this poem as one of the great artistic achievements in the western cultural tradition.
5 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
The very words on the page image the atomic process at work: ... Indeed, in these very verses of mine it matters with which and in what order each [letter] is placed; for the same [letters] signify sky, sea, earth, rivers, sun, and the same crops, trees, living things. Even if not all [these letters] are alike, yet by far the greatest part of them are; it is by their position that things sound different. So too in the case of actual objects, when the com ing together, the motion, the order, the position, the shape of matter are changed, the objects too must change.
Words are the microcosm to the poem’s macrocosm; words represent things and things in a process of change (cf. in particular the lignum/ ignis illustration at 1.912–14), while the poem represents the world as a whole as it traverses through the cycle of generation and destruction. Beginning, middle, end: truly an Aristotelian mimesis. And a mimesis that evokes the very emotions which Aristotle identified as aroused by the tragic experience: fear and pity. Let us accept that the gods have no role to play in meteorological upheavals or natural disasters; but this does not mean that such disasters are any the less fearful in themselves. Earthquakes: ... And so they panic through the cities in twofold terror: they fear the roofs above, and they dread the caverns below lest the nature of the earth should suddenly break up, or be drawn asunder and widely spread her gaping jaws, which she may seek to fill with her own ruins.
Volcanoes, too: ... [Etna] drew towards itself the faces of neigh bouring tribes, when perceiving smoke and sparks in all the regions of the sky they filled their breasts with terror and anxiety as to what kind of cataclysm nature was working towards.
In a universe in which the forces of creation and destruction are evenly balanced and a world in which nothing is inherently stable, we are at the mercy of thunderbolts, earthquakes, volcanoes, fire, flood—and those unseen particles that bring disease. To fear these is a natural human reaction; to avoid their depredations by moving from the vicinity of Etna, not going outside in a thunderstorm or boosting our immune system is regarded as perfectly reasonable behaviour. But
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
there is no escape: death is the inevitable and necessary consequence of birth, and the chance of dying being a pleasant process is slim indeed. To pity those in the final stages of this process is also a natural human reaction: ... One thing in particular that was most pitiful and distressing in these circumstances. . . .
The horrific description of the suffering of these innocent victims, whose only hamartia was a combination of having been born and being in the wrong place at the wrong time, brings us to the true heart of darkness—the ‘supreme moment of complete knowledge’ to which the only appropriate response is Kurtz’s final cry, ‘The horror! The horror!’ Can we still claim that ‘death is nothing to us’ after reading the last 150 lines of Book 6? Is it nothing to you, all ye who pass by? We have a sense of an ending, here, and the ending is a tragic one. Classical tragedy tended to portray the downfall of an individual who sought to transcend the limits of human existence, to make him-/herself as god, an arrogance which the Greeks termed hubris. Such was the case with Oedipus, whose attempt to avoid the necessary consequences of his birth achieved no more than the fulfilment of those consequences. Such too was the case of Athens in Thucydides’ history, to which Lucretius’ ending so clearly alludes. For Lucretius, the tragedy is that of the common man, the person most truly ‘undeserving’ and ‘like ourselves’—because s/he is ourselves. We may follow our Greek hero beyond the flammantia moenia mundi (‘flaming ramparts of the world’, 1.74) and defiantly thumb our noses at religio by committing the ultimate act of hubris in declaring ourselves the equal of god; we may feel that we have triumphed over death as a concept, and we may congratulate ourselves for doing so; we may even delude ourselves that our superior knowledge somehow gives us the power to overcome natura; but natura will have the last word. And here the ‘last word’ is not the satire with which she berates those who object to having to die in Book 3 but the awfulness of the death agony itself. It is noteworthy that Lucretius does not choose to refer to the thoroughly ‘philosophical’ way in which Epicurus dealt with his own painful death as Diogenes Laertius does; he deliberately eschews anything that might enable us to feel that this is something we can face with equanimity. For the victims of this disaster, philosophy is to be no consolation, nor to us, who can
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
only respond to their plight in human terms. Unlike the gods, human beings possess the quality of compassion. In the course of his laudatory account of Epicurus, Diogenes Laertius writes of his ‘goodwill to all’ (10.9) and ‘benevolence/feeling of friendship towards all’ (10.10). This reflects the fact that . . . ‘ friendship’ . . . is for Epicurus one of the great human virtues: ... The same understanding both makes us confi dent about nothing terrible being everlasting or of long duration and perceives that even in this limited state the most complete security is that of friendship.
But this reliance on the security . . . that friendship brings comes at a price; if we have friends, if we emulate the Master . . . then to share the pain of our fellow human beings is a necessary consequence: ... For we both rejoice at the joy of our friends as much as at our own, and are equally pained by their sorrows.
The irony, and it would not be inappropriate to call it tragic irony, is that that very bonding we feel towards our fellow mortales aegri, our main means of defence against the harshness of our existence in the world, renders indifference to their suffering impossible. The godlike detachment envisaged in the prologue to Book 2 is revealed as essentially unattainable. Philosophy can enable us to understand the physical processes involved in natural disasters, and to accept that these disasters are not to be seen as an act of divine vengeance. But it cannot destroy our feeling of compassion for our fellow human beings; and so, despite confident assertions such as 1.78f. and 3.319-22, it does not, cannot, make us equals of the gods. The insight is as old as Homer: ... For so did the gods spin fate for wretched mortals, that they should live unhappy; they themselves are free from pain.
So too for Lucretius: between us and the gods there is a great gulf fixed (diuom natura . . . semota a nostris rebus seiunctacque longe, 1.46 ¼ 2.648), and their peace of mind is contingent on the fact that they are ‘free from all pain and free from dangers’ (priuata dolore omni, priuata periclis, 1.47 ¼ 2.649); ‘the heartache and the thousand natural shocks/that flesh is heir to’ are the lot of human beings. The only difference now is that it is not the gods who are responsible for this but
V o l u m e
2
5 7 5
O n
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
natura. The tragic consequences remain: we are on this treadmill; the gods are not. Thus the De Rerum Natura, as Book 6 moves through its account of meteorological and terrestrial phenomena to its grim conclusion, enables us to perceive, as tragedy does, what is truly pitiable and fearful in the human condition. Like the fate of Oedipus, the plague serves as a reminder that our claims to possess the mental capacity to solve all problems are essentially hubristic; we may have minds that can soar above and beyond the flammantic moenia mundi, but as organisms compounded of atoms we are subject to the same process of creation and destruction as the most insignificant life-form. And while the Epicurean argument shows that (unlike Oedipus) we have nothing to fear from the gods in elevating ourselves to their level, their lack of concern puts us completely at the mercy of natura. The plague is final and conclusive evidence that we do not live in a world ruled by any kind of moral principle; the conquest of our Greek hero has left us on our own in an unfeeling and indifferent universe. All we can do is bury our dead and learn how to draw on our own resources for the ‘enduring spirit’ that we need to retain our sanity. That is all that philosophy can offer. It is not a comfortable or comforting ending; there are no last words of hope, no Letter to Idomeneus for the disciples to treasure. Lucretius is not making a work of art out of the life of Epicurus, but out of the life of the world and the individuals within it. And it is this, I think, that enables us to understand not only the content but also the suddenness of the closure. In the title of this essay I make allusion to Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending, which deals (among other things) with the ways in which the closed system of a work of fiction relates to the open system of the world:
together to procreate, to the corpses that choke the sanctuaries of plague-stricken Athens, the poem images not only the cycle of the world but also—and more importantly—that of the individual human being. Macrocosm becomes the symbol of microcosm. It is we who make the journey from joyful childhood to painful death; and in this journey the tools we have for making sense of the world in which we find ourselves are our sense-perceptions, the motions within the soul to which these gives rise, and our feelings of pleasure and pain in response to them. Death is the ending of sense as it is of the poem. The plague represents the process of dying: infection (the invasion of noxious particles), multiplication of symptoms, physical pain, increasing mental derangement (be it delirium or senility), increasing solitude as one loses contact with those around, and finally the moment of death itself, which ends it all. The abrupt ending of the poem captures the ending of life precisely. After death there is no more sensation, no more feeling, no more words. The rest is silence. Source: J. L. Penwill, ‘‘The Ending of Sense: Death as Closure in Lucretius Book 6,’’ in Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature, Vol. 25, No. 2, 1996, pp. 146 65.
SOURCES Campbell, Gordon Lindsay, Lucretius on Creation and Evolution: A Commentary on ‘‘De Rerum Natura,’’ Book Five, Lines 772 1104, Oxford University Press, 2004. Esolen, Anthony M., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in De Rerum Natura, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995. Fitzgerald, William, ‘‘Lucretius’s Cure for Love in the De Rerum Natura,’’ The Classical World, Vol. 78, No. 2, 1984, pp. 73 86.
Men, like poets, rush . . . in medias res when they are born; they also die in mediis rebus, and to make sense of their span they need fictive concords with origins and ends, such as give meaning to lives and to poems.
Gale, Monica, ed., Oxford Readings in Lucretius, Oxford University Press, 2007.
The De Rerum Natura—whose ultimate fiction is that it is a philosophical text masquerading as a work of art rather than a work of art representing the world as experienced—is such an attempt to establish ‘fictive concord’. For in its progress from birth to death, from the mother-figure of Venus (Aeneadum genetrix, 1.1), whose function is to bring male and female
Godwin, John, Ancients in Action: Lucretius, Duck worth, 2004.
5 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
Gillespie, Stuart, and Philip Hardie, The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Johnson, Monte, and Catherine Wilson, ‘‘Lucretius and the History of Science,’’ in The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, edited by Stuart Gillespie and Philip Hardie, Cambridge University Press, 2007, pp. 131 48. Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, translated by Ronald Mel ville, Oxford University Press, 2009.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
O n
Penwill, J. L., ‘‘The Ending of Sense: Death as Closure in Lucretius Book Six,’’ in Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature, Vol. 25, No. 2, 1996, pp. 146 65. Segal, Charles, ‘‘Poetic Immortality and the Fear of Death: The Second Proem of the De Rerum Natura,’’ in Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Vol. 92, 1989, pp. 193 212. Stover, Timothy, ‘‘Placata posse omnia mente tueri: ‘Demythologizing’ the Plague in Lucretius,’’ in Latomus, Vol. 58, No. 1, 1999, pp. 70 76.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Belliotti, Raymond Angelo, Roman Philosophy and the Good Life, Lexington Books, 2009. Belliotti’s study is an accessible introduction to the major philosophies of ancient Rome, which illustrates the relevance to modern readers of some of the issues that faced the Romans. Konstan, David, A Life Worthy of the Gods: The Materi alist Psychology of Epicurus, Parmenides, 2008. Konstan explains the philosophy of Epicurus and his disciple Lucretius. Emphasizing the psychological impact of this philosophy, Kon stan shows the connection between under standing the nature of the material world and becoming free of the fear of death. Konstan traces the ancient rise of certain irrational fears and explains how they persist in modern times, and he offers a perspective that he believes can help modern people live happier lives.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
t h e
N a t u r e
o f
T h i n g s
Warren, James, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Epi cureanism, Cambridge University Press, 2009. This fine resource for studies in classicism describes the ancient school of Epicureanism, explains the school’s history from early Hellen istic times to the Roman Empire and much more. This book contains scholarly essays on Epicurean thought, which taken together pro vide the reader with considerable research mate rial in one thorough and handy publication. Wilson, Catherine, Epicureanism at the Origins of Mod ernity, Oxford University Press, 2008. This study traces the rediscovery of the atom istic writings of Epicurus and Lucretius in the seventeenth century and their impact on that century’s philosophical systems. Wilson also explores how these ancient works influenced the development of natural science and moral and political thought in the centuries that fol lowed. Wilson uses the work of Lucretius as a kind of frame for her analysis of modern philosophy.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Lucretius De Rerum Natura Roman philosophy Roman poetry epic poetry Lucretius AND Epicurus Lucretius AND atomic theory Lucretius AND religion
V o l u m e
2
5 7 7
Paradise Lost JOHN MILTON 1667
Paradise Lost, one of the greatest poems in the English language, was first published in 1667. John Milton had long cherished the ambition to write the consummate English epic, to do for the English language what Homer and Virgil had done for Greek and Latin, and what Dante had done for Italian. Milton had originally planned to base his epic on the Arthurian legends, the foundational myths for English nationalism, but later turned his attention to more universal questions. He decided to focus on the foundational myth of humanity itself, the Genesis account of creation and the Fall of Man. It was an ambitious project, for Milton was determined to attempt ‘‘things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,’’ and his success is indicated by the esteem in which the poem continues to be held. Milton’s epic poem received mixed reactions in the seventeenth century, and, over the years, has continued to arouse both praise and criticism. Yet, its admirers have always been more numerous that its detractors. The poem has influenced many authors and artists from John Dryden to William Blake, Mary Shelley to Philip K. Dick, C. S. Lewis to Gene Roddenberry. Aside from the sheer beauty of its language and the power of its characterization, the subject matter of the poem has continued to absorb readers of every generation. Milton does not hesitate to ask the most difficult of questions: If the world was created by a good, just, and loving God, why is there little evidence of goodness and justice in the world?
5 7 8
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
not to have been very popular with his fellow students or his professors, and on one occasion he was expelled for a fight with a tutor, but was allowed to return. Milton seems to have spent the years between 1632, when he completed his master’s degree, and 1637 in private study at his father’s country home near Windsor. Following this period, he traveled in France and Italy (1638– 1639), and many of the descriptions in Paradise Lost (such as the description of Hell) reflect scenes he saw on these travels. Poems from this period include ‘‘Prolusions,’’ ‘‘On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity’’ (1629), ‘‘Comus’’ (1634), and ‘‘Lycidas,’’ (1639), a pastoral poem of mourning in response to the death of a fellow student, Edward King.
John Milton (The Library of Congress)
What does it mean for humankind to be created in the image of that God, and how does humanity endure in a fallen world? The way the poem formulates universal questions of origin, design, and purpose, and attempts to conceptualize answers to them continues to enthrall readers as they turn for answers to Milton’s exploration of a story basic to Western culture. The 2004 Norton Critical Edition edited by Gordon Teskey includes a biography, introductions to each book, explanatory notes, criticism, and modernized language, all designed to facilitate ease in reading and increased comprehension.
The second stage of Milton’s career began in 1640 when he returned to England to teach his nephews. This period was marked by controversy and civil unrest. In 1642, civil war broke out between the Puritan Roundheads and the Royalist supporters of Charles I (1600–1649), who reigned from 1625 until he was executed. Milton was involved in many of the religious and political controversies of his day, and many of his prose works (both in English and Latin) date from the years between 1641 and 1660. His devotion to the principles of Commonwealth headed by Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658), as well as many of the themes and motifs that would later dominate Paradise Lost, are evident in several pamphlets he penned during this period. In 1642, Milton married Mary Powell, but the marriage was a failure, and she seems to have left him within months of the wedding, not to return until 1645. His two daughters, Anne and Mary, were born after Milton and his wife were reconciled.
John Milton was born in London on December 9, 1608, the son of a prosperous Puritan family. His father, a musician, provided him with an excellent education, hiring private tutors and enrolling him in St. Paul’s School (c. 1620).
In 1649, Charles I was executed and Cromwell’s Commonwealth seemed secure. In March of that year, Milton was appointed Secretary in Foreign Tongues to the Council of State (a kind of foreign-affairs minister). The execution of Charles I was highly controversial both in England and Europe, and in October Milton published Eikonoklastes in which he defended Cromwell’s actions. In 1651, responding to further European criticism of Cromwell’s regime, Milton published his first Defensio pro populo Anglicano (The Defence of the People of England). In 1651, Milton’s only son, John, was born.
The first stage of Milton’s literary career began in 1625 when he entered Christ’s College, Cambridge, where he studied until 1632. He seems
The following year was one of tragedy for Milton. Within days of the birth of his third daughter, Deborah, his wife died, and a month later his
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
5 7 9
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
son John also died. To compound the tragedy, the poet’s eyesight, weak since 1644, failed completely, and he became totally blind. In 1656, Milton married again. However, his second wife, Katherine Woodcock, died less than two years later. Over the next few years, Milton published a number of tracts that reflect his deep concern for church government and the abuses therein. Following the Restoration (the return of the monarchy) in 1660 (when Charles II ascended the throne), Milton was placed for a time under house arrest, but he was released within six months. This time marks the third and final stage of Milton’s literary career. Retired from public life, in 1663 he married his third wife, Elizabeth Minshul, and in 1667, he published the first edition of Paradise Lost in ten books. Although much of the material subsequent to the Fall is missing from this edition, the concern to ‘‘justify the ways of God to man’’ is evident, as is Milton’s conviction that, despite the end of the Commonwealth and the Restoration of the monarchy, political justice can be achieved in this world. Between 1670 and 1673, he published several of his greatest works, including Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes. Only months before his death, he published Paradise Lost, A Poem in Twelve Books, the complete edition of his epic. Milton died November 8, 1674, and was buried in St. Giles, Cripplegate, London.
PLOT SUMMARY Book I Book I introduces the main subject matter of the poem: the Creation, Fall, and redemption of the world and humankind. Milton invokes the aid of the muse and the Holy Spirit as he sets out to perform ‘‘Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme,’’ and, through the medium of the epic, to ‘‘justify the ways of God to men.’’ In true epic style, Milton begins his story in mid-action (in medias res), after the great battle in Heaven and the fall of the rebel angels. The poem thus introduces its readers first to Satan, the cause of the Fall of Man, at the moment following his own first fall into Hell. Satan and his angels are described lying on a lake of fire in a place where flames cast no light, but only ‘‘darkness [is] visible.’’ Satan is the first to rise, and, using his great spear as a walking stick, he limps to the shore. He then awakens his
5 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Paradise Lost: The Life and Times of John Milton is a 2005 DVD from Arts Magic studio that covers the life of the poet in the context of the history of his times, including the bubonic plague and the Great Fire of London. The film also investigates the epic’s structure and meaning. In 2006, Blackstone Audio made its ten-hour audio book version of Paradise Lost available as a download.
Produced by Egress Films in 2008, John Milton’s ‘‘Paradise Lost’’ Performed by John Basinger is a four-disc recording of Basinger’s dramatic recitation of the epic.
In 2008, Eagle Rock Productions released a 48-minute video that examines the features of Paradise Lost.
legions, addressing them in a stirring speech and rousing them to action. He informs them of his hope of regaining Heaven and of the rumor of a new world to be created that they might yet make their own, if heaven be closed to them. He determines to call a full council and sets his host to work to build a suitable palace from which to rule Hell. The result of their efforts is Pandemonium, the palace of Satan, and there the fallen angels of Hell enter to begin their council.
Book II Book II recounts the council of the demons and their deliberations concerning whether to attempt further battle in order to regain Heaven. Satan invites his minions to speak freely, and Moloch opens the debate, urging open war. Belial, who represents sloth, responds by arguingthat battle against a foe that has so decisively defeated them is futile and proposing that the demons take their ease in Hell and make the best of it. Mammon follows, counseling that they build a new kingdom in Hell and there rule supreme. Beelzebub, Satan’s right-hand man, concludes,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
returning to the suggestion made by Satan in Book I, that they seek out the truth of a rumor about a new world and another creature to be created by God. If the rumor is true, he submits, they should then attempt to seduce God’s new creature, Man, and rule on earth if they cannot regain Heaven. The demons applaud this suggestion and Satan undertakes the dangerous task of searching out this new world. While the rest of the devils (in true epic style) play epic games to vent their grief and occupy themselves in the absence of their leader, Satan sets out alone. He travels to the gates of Hell, which he finds closed and guarded by Sin (his daughter) and Death (the son of their incestuous union). Satan persuades them to open the gates by offering the world to Sin to rule with him, and humankind to Death. He then makes the arduous journey through Chaos to the new world, which he seeks.
L o s t
described as he sits in the shape of a cormorant on the Tree of Life (the highest tree in the Garden) and looks around him. Overhearing a conversation between Adam and Eve, Satan learns that they are forbidden to eat fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, on pain of death. This information provides Satan with a plan for their destruction. Meanwhile Uriel, observing Satan’s earlier struggle with himself, has seen through his disguise. He warns Gabriel, the guardian of the Gate of Paradise, that trouble is afoot, and Gabriel promises to find Satan by morning. Evening descends, and Adam and Eve retire to their rest after performing their evening worship. Gabriel appoints two angels to watch over Adam’s bower, where they discover Satan (in the form of a toad) whispering into Eve’s ear and tempting her in a dream. They bring him to Gabriel, who questions him. Satan answers scornfully and seems ready to resist, but at a sign from Heaven he decides to flee instead.
Book III Book III moves the action to Heaven, where God, sitting on his throne, sees Satan flying towards the world. God tells his Son of Satan’s diabolical plan to seduce humankind, foretelling Satan’s success and simultaneously clearing himself of blame. He contends that humankind was created free and able to withstand temptation, yet outlines his purpose of allowing humankind grace, since humans will fall, not out of malice, as Satan did, but deceived. This grace, however, cannot be achieved unless divine justice is satisfied, and the Son freely offers himself as a ransom for this purpose. God then ordains the Incarnation, and all the hosts of heavenly angels praise and adore the Son. Meanwhile, Satan has reached the world’s outermost sphere, where he finds a place called the Limbo of Vanity. He moves up to the Gate of Heaven and passes from there to the Orb of the Sun, where he encounters Uriel, the regent of that orb. He changes himself into the shape of a lesser angel and approaches Uriel, professing a great desire to behold the new creation and the human creature placed therein. Uriel, deceived by his disguise, directs him to the newly created world.
Book IV Book IV returns to the quest of Satan who, as he approaches the Paradise of Eden, is beset by doubt, fear, envy, and despair. His confidence soon returns, however, and, confirmed in his evil purpose, he journeys on to Paradise. The reader’s first view of Paradise is thus through Satan’s eyes. The Garden and Satan’s first sight of its inhabitants are
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Book V Morning arrives and Eve tells Adam of her troublesome dream. Disturbed, he comforts her, and they proceed to their morning worship. In order to deprive them of any excuse for transgression, God sends Raphael to remind Adam of his freedom and the necessity for obedience, and to warn him of Satan’s plan. As Adam and Raphael enjoy a meal of choice fruits prepared by Eve, Raphael tells Adam of Satan’s rebellion and how he incited all the angel Legions of the North to join him, with the sole exception of Abdiel, a seraph who had tried to dissuade him and, failing, had forsaken him.
Book VI In Book VI Raphael continues the story of Satan’s revolt in Heaven, which was prompted by his envy of the Son. Raphael relates how Michael and Gabriel fought against Satan for two days. On the first day, Satan was routed, but under the cover of night convened a council and invented some ‘‘devilish Engines,’’ including gunpowder, which his armies introduce on the second day. These weapons cause considerable disorder among Michael and his angels, but they manage to overwhelm the forces of Satan by pulling up mountains. The battle was not yet won, however, and on the third day God sent his Son (the Messiah) into the fray. The Son drove into the midst of the enemy force with his chariot and thunder, pursuing them to the wall of Heaven, through which they leaped down with horror and confusion into the Deep
V o l u m e
2
5 8 1
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
(a place which has been prepared for their punishment). The Messiah then returned in triumph to his Father.
Book VII At Adam’s request, Raphael continues his tale with the story of the creation of the world. He explains that, after the expulsion of Satan and his angels from Heaven, God wished to repopulate Heaven. Rather than create more angels, God decided to create another world and other creatures to dwell in it. He therefore sent his Son with attendant angels to perform the work of Creation, which the Son accomplished in six days. The angels celebrated creation with hymns and returned with the Son to Heaven.
Book VIII Raphael’s tale being ended, Adam seeks to satisfy his thirst for knowledge and inquires about the movements of the heavenly bodies. Raphael, while conceding that Heaven is a veritable book in which Adam can read the wondrous works of God, admonishes Adam concerning the limitations of knowledge and advises him to seek out knowledge that is more worthwhile. Adam agrees, and, in his turn, tells Raphael all that he can remember since his own creation: his being placed in Paradise, his talk with God, his first meeting and marriage with Eve. After a discussion of Adam’s relationship with Eve, Raphael departs with a final warning.
Book IX Satan returns to Eden by night as a mist and enters into the sleeping serpent. In the morning Adam and Eve go out to their labor in the garden. Eve suggests that they would work more efficiently apart, but Adam expresses concern that the enemy of which they have been warned might harm her if he finds her alone. Eve does not wish to be thought weak and insists on working apart, so Adam gives in to her. The serpent, finding her alone, is momentarily struck dumb by her beauty. He proceeds to flatter her, praising her beauty and charm. Eve wonders at his ability to speak, and he explains that he attained both speech and reason by eating the fruit of a certain tree. Eve asks to be shown the tree, but when she finds that it is the Tree of Knowledge she asserts that eating of its fruit is forbidden. The serpent, after many arguments, persuades her to eat. Pleased with the taste, she debates whether to take the fruit to Adam, but eventually
5 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
decides to do so and repeats the arguments by which she was persuaded to eat. Adam is not deceived, but seeing that she is lost, resolves to perish with her because he loves her too much to live without her. He eats the fruit, and the consequences are dire. Their first response is lust, followed by shame. After covering themselves, they begin to argue and accuse each other. Nature changes too; with the commission of sin, Nature groans, the night grows chill and uncomfortable, and the ground damp.
Book X The angels who are guarding Paradise return to Heaven, to be absolved by God of any responsibility for the Fall of Adam and Eve, which they could not have prevented. God then sends the Son to judge Adam and Eve. Sin and Death, who have been waiting by the Gates of Hell, are aware of Satan’s success and decide to follow Satan up to the world. In order to make the journey easier, they pave a bridge over Chaos, from Hell to the world. Satan, meanwhile, returns to Hell and boasts of his success to the assembly of his angels in Pandemonium. Instead of applause, however, his tale is received with a ‘‘universal hiss,’’ as he and his angels are transformed into serpents, according to the judgment pronounced upon him in Paradise by the Son. Deluded by a mirage of the forbidden tree, they devour the fruit, only to find themselves chewing on dust and ashes. Sin and Death having arrived in the world, God foretells their final defeat at the hands of the Son, but in the meantime commands certain alterations to take place in the heavens. Adam and Eve lament their fallen condition and Eve tries to comfort Adam. He at first refuses her consolation, but eventually he is appeased, and they reconcile. She suggests several violent ways of evading the curses pronounced upon them and their offspring, but he resists and counsels hope, reminding her of the promise that revenge against the serpent would be given through her offspring. They seek peace with God through repentance and supplication.
Book XI Hearing the prayers of Adam and Eve, the Son intercedes with God on their behalf. God accepts their prayers but decrees that they can no longer live in Paradise and sends Michael with a band of cherubim to cast them out. Adam sees Michael coming and goes out to greet him. Upon hearing that they must leave, Eve laments and Adam pleads, but eventually they submit. Before removing
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
them from Eden, however, Michael takes Adam up to a high hill and reveals to him in a vision all that will happen until the age of Noah’s Flood.
Book XII Michael continues his story of things to come, moving from the Flood to Abraham and then to Christ. He explains that Christ will be the Seed of the Woman who was promised to Adam and Eve at their fall and that his incarnation, death, resurrection, and ascension will inaugurate the salvation of humankind. Michael then describes the Age of the Church until the Second Coming of Christ. Adam is comforted by these revelations and returns to Eve, who has been sleeping. She wakes from gentle dreams, refreshed and composed. Michael takes them by the hand and leads them out of Paradise, setting a fiery sword and cherubim to guard the gates. Adam and Eve pause for a moment, looking back and shedding some ‘‘natural tears’’ at the loss of Paradise. The reader’s last view of Adam and Eve is, however, a hopeful one as they dry their tears and walk away, hand in hand, the whole world before them and Providence as their guide.
CHARACTERS Abdiel Abdiel is a seraph who, though originally one of Lucifer’s legions in Heaven, remains faithful to God. He attempts to persuade Satan and his rebel angels to abandon their revolt and, failing, abandons them. He symbolizes true fidelity.
The reader is not left to assume, however, that Adam and Eve are equal. In fact, Milton hastens to explain that they are ‘‘Not equal, as their sex not equal seem’d’’ (IV.296). Adam is formed for contemplation and valor; Eve for softness and grace. It is Adam who is truly the image of God; Eve is the image of Adam, from whose side she is created. They are created, ‘‘He for God only, she for God in him’’ (IV.299), and it is this distinction that is both their strength and their downfall. Adam is characterized by reason and free will, created for absolute rule and authority; he must not only obey God, but must inspire obedience in Eve. If Eve’s fall results from a failure to obey God’s commandment, it is equally a failure to heed Adam. Adam’s fault lies in the failure to use his superior reason to convince Eve to stay by his side and in his failure to exercise his inborn authority, to enforce obedience when she does not offer it freely. If Adam’s fall is in large part due to a failure in reason and authority, however, it is also due to an excess of another characteristic to which the reader is introduced early: love. Adam and Eve are presented as a happy pair, living in perfect conjugal bliss. Their mutual love and respect are obvious and fan Satan’s already active jealousy. Once again, their strength becomes their downfall. Adam, being superior in reason and wisdom, is not deceived by the serpent, as Eve is. However, he eats of the fruit because he loves Eve and would rather die with her than live without her. While commendable in itself, his action indicates a further failure of authority: Eve falls because Adam has failed to rule her; Adam falls because he fails to rule himself.
The Arch-Enemy See Satan
Adam Adam is the first created human being and the true hero of Paradise Lost. The reader’s first view of Adam is, significantly, through the eyes of Satan as he perches like a cormorant on the Tree of Life (ironically planning Adam’s death). The distinction between Adam and Eve, the only humans in the Garden, and the other living creatures, the animals, heightens the reader’s perception of their uniqueness as beings created in the image of God. They are ‘‘of far nobler shape erect and tall, / Godlike erect, with native Honor clad’’ and ‘‘In naked Majesty seem’d Lords of all’’ (IV.287290). The image of God in humankind is associated with wisdom, truth, holiness, freedom, and authority. These traits characterize both Adam and Eve in their unfallen state.
E p i c s
L o s t
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Beelzebub Beelzebub is the chief of the devils, Satan’s ‘‘second-in-command.’’ He is the first devil to awaken from his stupor on the fiery lake and is thus the audience for Satan’s opening speech. Beelzebub, like Satan/Lucifer, is associated with light—or rather, lost light, for Satan’s address to Beelzebub is the first indication of how far indeed they have fallen and how much they have changed. It is thus appropriate that Beelzebub, the first to join in Satan’s plans for rebellion in Heaven, is the first to respond to his exhortations in Hell. Beelzebub’s name in Hebrew, means lord of the flies, and he is an appropriate commander of the demons who, like flies, swarm into Pandemonium for the council.
V o l u m e
2
5 8 3
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
At the council of devils (Book II), Beelzebub, like Satan, is content to wait until the others have had their say. As the final (and strongest) speaker, when he does speak, his grave manner, majestic face, and stately words present an effective contrast to Moloch’s reckless despair, Belial’s hollow and slothful vice, and Mammon’s greed. A true statesman and loyal second-in-command, he presents not his own strategy, but Satan’s, promoting the subtle plan of taking revenge against God by seducing or destroying humankind.
Belial Belial is the fallen angel who speaks second at the council of devils in Book II. In keeping with his faint-hearted counsel of ‘‘ignoble ease and peaceful sloth’’ (II.226), he is the last to rise from the burning lake. Because Belial is not the name of a pagan god, but an abstract noun meaning wickedness, he represents vice in general and is associated with atheism. In Book II, he is described as outwardly dignified, but false and hollow, speaking persuasive words that disguise his inner weakness and vice. He argues that it is useless to pursue a war they cannot win and admonishes that Hell is not the worst fate that could befall them. In essence, his is a counsel of craven fear; he wishes to avoid war in order to avoid worse punishment, and he clings to the hope that if they do not give God further cause for alarm, in time God’s anger may abate and the fires of Hell will lessen.
Death Death, Satan’s son, is literally conceived in Sin, as he is born of Satan’s incestuous union with his daughter, Sin. True to his parentage, Death becomes the father of all sins, as he rapes his mother, Sin, almost at the moment of his birth. Guilty of rape and incest, he would also be guilty of matricide, but for the fact that Sin’s demise would also be his own. As it is, he and Sin continue in an uneasy coexistence, characterized by hatred and pain. Death is described as a crowned but shapeless terror before whom even Hell trembles and who dares to threaten even Satan with his fatal dart.
Eve Eve, the mother of humankind, is presented as an ambiguous character. On the one hand, she is, like Adam, created in the image of God, noble, virtuous, and above all, beautiful. On the other hand, she is the first to fall because from the beginning it is obvious that she is not equal to Adam. Outwardly, she is less obviously the image
5 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
of God; even her beauty is ‘‘dishevelled’’ and ‘‘wanton,’’ indicating the natural wildness that she will be unable to tame. In character, too, she is inferior, weaker in reason and authority, uninterested in Adam and Raphael’s intellectual conversation. Eve is characterized by the sensual, by willfulness, and by appetite. Being weaker in reason, Eve is easier prey for Satan. Satan uses Eve’s innate characteristics, playing upon her desire while appealing to her pride, which has been wounded by Adam’s suggestion that alone she will be unable to resist their adversary. Determined not to seem weaker, Eve leaves herself open to Satan, who preys upon her weaknesses. He flatters her, suggesting that she is the true ruler; not only ‘‘Queen’’ of all, but a ‘‘goddess among gods.’’ He arouses her curiosity (not a desire for knowledge, which she does not have) by extolling the virtues of the fruit that has given him the power of speech and finally convinces her by the use of persuasive arguments that seem reasonable to her inferior reason. Deceived, she eats and falls. In many ways, though she is presented in a condescending manner before the fall, Eve’s true strength is seen only after the Fall. Unlike Adam, she sins because she is deceived, and once she faces the truth of her folly she is able to move on. Adam, fully aware of both the nature and the consequences of his action, sins for love and repudiates that love immediately. Their conjugal bliss deteriorates first into lustful sexuality and then into vicious recrimination. If Eve initiates the Fall, however, she also initiates redemption. The first to sin, she is also the first to attempt reconciliation, going to Adam with soft words in an effort to mend their quarrel. While her first suggestion (self-destruction) is neither rational nor practical, she does rouse Adam out of his bitterness and inspires him to formulate the more appropriate plan of prayer and repentance and to take that crucial first step towards reconciliation with God through reconciliation with Eve. Fittingly, the final speech in the poem is spoken by Eve and is a message of consolation and hope. As the temptation that led to her fall was begun in an evil dream whispered in her ear by Satan, the hope for the redemption of humankind comes to her in a dream. Knowing that she will bear the Promised Seed who will restore humankind, she is willing to leave Eden and take her place in the world at Adam’s side. The love that prompted Adam to prefer death with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
Eve to life without her now becomes the source of Eve’s strength, as Adam becomes her paradise on earth: ‘‘In me is no delay; with thee to go, / Is to stay here; without thee here to stay / Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me / Art all things under Heav’n, all places thou.’’ (XII.615-168).
Gabriel Gabriel is the angel who is second in rank only to Michael, and who, with Michael, leads the faithful angels in their first two days of battle against Satan and his rebels. After the creation of the world, Gabriel is given the task of guarding the Gate of Paradise. It is Gabriel whom Uriel warns of the danger that threatens Adam and Eve, Gabriel who sets two angels to watch over Adam and Eve as they sleep, and Gabriel to whom those angels bring Satan when they discover him at Eve’s ear, tempting her in a dream.
God God is the Creator and Ruler of all, including Heaven, Hell, the angels (fallen and unfallen), earth, and humankind. He is all-knowing and all-powerful, and nothing occurs without his foreknowledge and consent. Although he is the causal force behind the poem and the events described in it, he takes remarkably little action in the poem, relegating most action either to the Son or to his angels. His primary functions are to create and to explain his purposes to the Son, who then acts on them. Opposite to Satan in every way, he is good, true, and, above all, just. However, neither God nor His Son are as compelling as the character of Satan as presented by Milton, appearing bland by comparison.
The Infernal Serpent See Satan
Lucifer See Satan
Mammon Mammon is the third devil to speak at the council in Book II. In Book I, Mammon is described as the least of the fallen angels. Like Belial, he is not a god, but the personification of an abstract concept, covetous wealth or greed. His mind is always on gold and riches: It is he who leads the ransacking of Hell for material to gild Pandemonium, and it is he who inspires men to ‘‘rifle the bowels of their mother earth / For treasures better hid’’ (I.687-88). True to his name and character, he
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
suggests that they seek out the hidden gems and gold that lurk beneath the desert soil of Hell and build a new realm there. He, too, argues against war on the grounds that unless they overpower God altogether (which he concedes is impossible), they will simply return to servitude in Heaven, an eternity spent in worshipping one whom they hate (which he argues is unacceptable). Rather, he suggests that they prefer the ‘‘hard liberty’’ of Hell to the ‘‘easy yoke of servile pomp’’ that would be their lot in Heaven and make the most of what Hell can offer.
Messiah See The Son
Michael Michael is the chief of the angels in Heaven and leads the army of loyal angels against Satan and his minions in the War in Heaven. Michael wields a mighty sword, with which he strikes Lucifer, shearing his right side and causing him to feel pain for the first time. It is Michael who is sent to cast Adam and Eve out of Paradise and seal the Gates with a fiery sword after the Fall, but in spite of his seeming austerity, he is also kind as he fulfills his commission to reveal the future of humankind to Adam, thus offering hope and consolation.
Moloch Moloch, the fallen angel who speaks first at the council of devils in Book II, is also the fallen angel described first in the list of Satan’s legions in Book I, as they rise from the burning lake and stand before their leader and his second-in-command, Beelzebub. Milton identifies the fallen angels with the idols and pagan deities of the ancient world and thus gives them the ‘‘new names’’ by which they are known to the ‘‘sons of Eve,’’ whom they corrupt. Described in Book I as ‘‘Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood / Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears’’ (1.391-2), Moloch is a sun god to whom children were offered as burnt sacrifices. It is fitting, then, that as ‘‘the strongest and fiercest spirit / That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair’’ (II.44-45), Moloch fears neither God nor Hell and counsels open war. He argues that nothing could be worse than the ‘‘pain of unextinguishable fire’’ (II.88) to which they have been condemned. Being, therefore, without hope, they have nothing to lose. If they cannot attain victory, he implies, at least they can have revenge.
V o l u m e
2
5 8 5
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
Mulciber Mulciber is the fallen angel who designs Pandemonium, Satan’s palace and the setting for the council of devils. Milton relates in Book I that Mulciber also designed many of the beautiful palaces in Heaven, merging him with the mythical figure Vulcan, who, according to Homer, is tossed out of heaven by Jove amid much laughter (Iliad I). Milton supposedly corrects Homer’s error, giving the true story of the Fall of the angels.
Raphael Raphael is the angel who acts as God’s messenger to Adam, warning him of the danger that threatens him and reminding him of his duty of obedience. Raphael also fills in the gaps created by the epic style, which begins the poem in medias res, or in the middle of the action. He tells Adam of the revolt of Satan and the War in Heaven and of the Creation of the world. In turn, he is the audience for Adam’s recounting of his memories since his first awakening and of the creation of Eve. Raphael ends his long discussion with Adam by reminding Adam that he was created with both the freedom to choose and the ability to choose wisely and by repeating his warning about the danger presented by Satan.
Satan Satan, whose name means enemy or adversary in Hebrew, is the first character to whom the reader is introduced and the most complex. The leader of the fallen angels, Satan was known as Lucifer (a Latin word, meaning lightbearer) before he initiated a rebellion against God and was cast out of Heaven. It has been suggested that Satan is the true epic hero of the work, largely because of his epic language and heroic energy. However, as Robert M. Adams and George M. Logan point out in their introduction to the poem in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, it is ‘‘energy in a bad cause,’’ even if it is heroically exercised. Satan is characterized in Book I by pride, by the refusal to accept defeat, and by the conviction that it is ‘‘Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n’’ (I.263). Even here, of course, the careful reader will discern his envy, his false ambition, and his self-deception, as he characterizes God as a tyrant and plots his revenge. Yet his speech is stirring, and the reader can see the valiant leader who was able to draw one-third of the angels with him in rebellion as he rouses his troops to action and embraces his new home, declaring that ‘‘the mind is its own place, and in itself I can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven’’ (I.254-5).
5 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
Milton’s portrayal of Satan is honest and reflects an important truth: Evil is powerful because it is attractive, and its appeal is part of its danger. It is this attraction that ultimately causes the downfall of Eve, as well as of Satan and his minions. This surface attraction, however, hides a deeper weakness, based on flawed character and self-deception. Satan maintains that, as an angel, however fallen, he cannot change or fail, yet from the beginning of the poem, it is obvious that he has changed and, ultimately, he will fail. As the poem progresses, Satan appears less compelling, shifting from the heroic warrior to a vulture, a cormorant, a toad, and finally a snake. As his form shifts, so too does his character, and the reader sees his ambition tainted by envy and hatred. His speech to Eve is characterized by sibilant ‘‘s’’ sounds, simulating the hissing of the serpent into whose form he has voluntarily entered and into which he will be involuntarily transformed in Book X as, returning in ‘‘triumph’’ to Hell, he is defeated by the curse pronounced upon him as judgment for his sins.
Sin Sin is Satan’s daughter who, along with Death (the product of her incestuous union with Satan), guards the Gates of Hell. Satan, Sin, and Death together thus form an unholy parody of the Trinity. In a curious combination of Edmund Spenser’s Duessa (from The Faerie Queene) and the Questing Beast (from Arthurian myth), Sin is described as a woman to the waist and a serpent from the waist down, with hellhounds about her middle who bark and howl from within her womb. (These hellhounds represent her other children sins that are conceived when her son, Death, rapes her.) Like Athena, who sprang full grown from the head of Zeus, Sin literally springs from Satan’s head when he first conceives the idea of rebellion against God and thus is the realization or personification of his original sin. Like Duessa (and like Satan), she combines beauty with grotesque ugliness, illustrating both the attraction and the repulsiveness of sin and evil. Satan is attracted to her in a parody of Adam’s love for Eve, becoming enamored with his supposedly perfect image that he perceives in her. Ironically, however, when he encounters her at the Gates of Hell, he recognizes neither her nor the son he has never seen (but whom he should know), indicating how far they both have fallen.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
The Son The Son of God is the character closest to God, in whom God confides. It is the Son’s exaltation as king of the angels that arouses Lucifer’s envy and provokes his revolt. The Son leads the final battle in which the rebellion is ended, and, as a result of which, the rebel angels are cast out of Heaven. He volunteers to die for the sin of Adam and Eve (Book III) and intercedes with God on their behalf, before being sent to pronounce God’s final judgment upon them (Book X). He is not yet named Jesus, which is the name he takes during his earthly existence when he sets out to fulfill the vow taken in Heaven to repair the harm done in Eden by Satan and to redeem Adam, Eve, and their descendants.
Uriel The faithful and radiant archangel of the sun, Uriel is one of the seven spirits who stand in the sight of God’s throne. Deceived by Satan, who disguises himself as a young cherub, Uriel directs him to Paradise, thus both enabling and foreshadowing the deception of Eve, though on a higher plane. Unlike Eve, however, Uriel’s deception is not associated with either disobedience or the Fall, and Milton makes it clear that Uriel’s failure to discern Satan’s hypocrisy is not only sanctioned but willed by God. Later, Uriel recognizes Satan as the latter debates with himself on the borders of Paradise. Uriel immediately glides to Gabriel on a sunbeam and warns him of the danger that threatens God’s newest creatures.
Vulcan See Mulciber
THEMES Justice Milton’s stated purpose is ‘‘to justify the ways of God to man,’’ and he does so by placing responsibility for the Fall squarely on the shoulders of the first human pair. They are cast out of Eden because their banishment is necessary to fulfill the demands of divine justice. Their punishment is just because God placed only one condition upon them and they failed to fulfill it, in spite of the fact that God gave them the means to do so. As Adam warns Eve, God’s ‘‘creating hand / Nothing imperfect or deficient left / Of all that he Created, much less Man.’’ (IX.344-346). By providing them with
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
reason and free will, God gives humankind both the choice to obey or disobey and the means by which to exercise that choice wisely, for ‘‘within himself / The danger lies, yet lies within his power: / Against his will he can receive no harm’’ (IX.347-348). Having created man free to fall, yet able to resist, God goes one step further. He sends Raphael to warn Adam of the danger that threatens him and to remind him of his duty of obedience. Adam is thus completely without excuse, and God himself reinforces Adam and Eve’s responsibility for their own fall: ‘‘whose fault? / Whose but his own? . . . I made him just and right, / Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall’’ (III.95-98). Once the Fall has occurred, the consequences are fixed. God set the rules when he pronounced his one prohibition: Adam and Eve are not to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, or they will die. Having made the rules, God is now bound by them, and once Adam has eaten, he must die: ‘‘Die he or Justice must; unless for him / Some other able, and as willing, pay / The rigid satisfaction, death for death’’ (III.210-212). The Son’s death, then, is freely offered out of mercy, to satisfy the demands of justice and offer grace. In the Incarnate Son, Jesus, ‘‘Man, as is most just, /Shall satisfy for Man’’ (III.295-6).
Freedom It is important that, while God made Adam and Eve ‘‘sufficient to have stood,’’ he also created them ‘‘free to fall.’’ This freedom is rooted in their very nature, for God ‘‘formed them free, and free they must remain’’ (III.124). For Milton, humankind’s obedience is proof of their love and service to God, and obedience therefore must be free, for obedience that is not free is not obedience but slavery. It is for this reason that Adam is free to fall, and for this reason that he must leave Eve free to make her own choices, even if that choice be to leave him and work alone and vulnerable, ‘‘for thy stay, not free, absents thee more’’ (IX.372). But in this very freedom lies the possibility of disobedience, for in the freedom of will lies the possibility of choice.
Choice and Consequences The freedom of the will is associated with freedom of choice; yet freedom implies responsibility, and the freedom to choose brings with it the responsibility to choose correctly. It is reason that gives humans the ability to choose between
V o l u m e
2
5 8 7
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
There are many illustrations for Paradise Lost that can be found on the Internet and in various editions of the book. Try to find an illustration for each of the twelve books and make a poster with them, labeling each illustration in regards to what it depicts, including the name of the artist, if known.
Milton presents the political consequences of the Fall in Michael’s preview of human history (Book XII). In a class discussion or individual essay, compare and contrast this information with what happened in the Restoration of the monarchy in England in 1660 and the political debate concerning the merits of monarchy versus republic.
Explain how Raphael’s admonition to Adam concerning the limitations of human knowledge and his discouragement of Adam’s inquiries into the movements of the heavenly spheres (Book VIII) is related to the conflict over Galileo’s theories about the solar system. Research Galileo’s censure for comparison points to Raphael’s warning and present
obedience and disobedience and, after the fall, between good and evil. Thus, ‘‘Against his will he can receive no harm. But God left free the Will, for what obeys / Reason is free’’ (IX.350-352). The Fall, then, is the consequence of failing to choose wisely. The events that follow are the logical consequences of the choice that Adam and Eve make when they choose knowledge over obedience. The full consequences of the Fall are made clear in the final vision of the future that Michael shows to Adam: the political upheaval, strife, toil, and anguish that result from being cast out of Eden but also the redemption of humankind, which only the Fall makes possible.
Obedience The only condition placed on Adam and Eve is a simple prohibition: not to eat the fruit of the
5 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
your findings to class, perhaps in a PowerPoint format. In a small group, find definitions for rationalism, reason, and obedience. Then discuss whether you agree with Milton’s view of the Fall as a failure of reason and obedience rather than as an acquisition of forbidden knowledge. Share your conclusions with the class. Book I, in part, describes the building of Pandemonium. Book IX describes the tending of the Garden of Eden and the consequences of the Fall for nature. Both descriptions associate sin and the Fall with a disrupted natural affinity for the earth and the introduction of an indifference to the planet that results in its wounding. Discuss these consequences in light of present-day arguments for the responsibility people have toward environmental preservation. Name other literary works, possibly from science fiction, that warn of the destruction of the earth by sin, evil, or negligence. As a class, make a list of such works and make a hall display of these titles and their warnings for Earth Day.
Tree of the Knowledge of good and evil. It is important, however, to recognize that it is not knowledge that causes the Fall, it is disobedience. The commandment is not meant to prevent knowledge, but to provide the opportunity for obedience. As Adam reminds Eve, God ‘‘requires / From us no other service than to keep / This one, this easy charge, . . . The only sign of our obedience’’(IV.419-421, 428). Ironically, this ‘‘one easy prohibition’’ is both so easily kept and so easily broken, and man will ‘‘easily transgress the sole Command, sole pledge of his obedience’’ (III.94-95). That the Fall must be understood as a failure of obedience, not the acquisition of forbidden knowledge, is made clear in the first lines of the poem where Milton states his theme as being ‘‘Of Man’s First Disobedience’’ (I.1).
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
tree and its fruit. Adam clearly knows of evil prior the Fall and is well aware of the dangers of evil. The knowledge of good and evil that comes with the Fall, then, is not simply a new knowledge of evil, where before there was only the knowledge of good. What is gained is rather the ‘‘Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill’’ (IV.220), or ‘‘knowledge of good lost, evil got.’’ The consequence of eating the fruit is that the knowledge of good and of evil have become inseparable, and humankind can now know good only by knowing evil as well. This is consistent with Milton’s conviction, expressed elsewhere, that all knowledge is valuable, and even necessary. After the Fall, the free choice with which humankind is endowed is exercised in the choice between good and evil and that choice can only be established and maintained through the knowledge of both.
The Human Condition In this engraving by Gustave Dore´ for the 1866 edition of Paradise Lost, Satan is portrayed after he is wounded by Saint Michael. ( Classic Image / Alamy)
Obedience is also an integral part of the maintenance of the natural hierarchy, which depends on the proper exercise of authority: God rules over Adam, and Adam must rule over both Eve and himself. The theme of obedience is thus tied to the question of authority, which is exercised through reason.
Knowledge and Ignorance The Fall, then, is not the acquisition of knowledge, but the failure of obedience, which is caused by the failure to exercise reason. The belief that it is knowledge itself that is forbidden is a misunderstanding of both the nature and purpose of the prohibition, and Milton emphasizes this fact by putting all his statements about forbidden knowledge into the mouth of Satan before the Fall, and into the mouths of Adam and Eve only after the Fall. In fact, it is knowledge that should prevent the Fall and knowledge that Raphael imparts in his warning to Adam. Satan’s deception lies not in his claims that knowledge is a good thing and, therefore, to be desired, but in the idea that the knowledge of good and evil is enclosed within the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The human condition is thus the condition of fallen humanity, knowing not just ‘‘good and evil,’’ but the inseparable nature of the two in a fallen world. Yet, humankind was created in the image of God and still retains this innate characteristic. It is reason that is most fully the image of God in humankind, reason that enables humankind to choose between good and evil, reason that both establishes and preserves free will. Fallen humanity is thus characterized still by reason, but it is an impaired reason, for although God created humankind perfect, people are not immutable, and the most obvious consequence of the fall is indeed change. Even reason impaired, however, is still reason that need not fail, and Milton’s final word is one of hope. Michael’s revelation of God’s redemptive purpose brings Adam to a new understanding of the proper role of obedience and virtue in a fallen world, reconciling him to his expulsion from Paradise and enabling him to possess ‘‘a paradise within, . . . happier far’’ (XII.587).
STYLE Epic Subject Matter The standard definition of an epic, or heroic poem, according to Arthur Hutson and Patricia McCoy, authors of a book on epics, is that it is a ‘‘noble story told in noble verse,’’ a continuous narrative concerning a heroic person from history or tradition. The epic uses historical and mythological
V o l u m e
2
5 8 9
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
material to exemplify a truth that is greater than both. The subject of an epic poem is to be a story that both delights and instructs, embodying the cultural and moral ideals of its time but with universal implications. Milton chose an unusual subject for his great epic poem, ostensibly shunning ‘‘Wars, hitherto the only Argument / Heroic deem’d,’’ (IX.28-9) in favor of the sad task of relating an ‘‘argument / Not less but more Heroic than the wrath / Of Stern Achilles on his Foe pursu’d / Thrice Fugitive about Troy Wall’’ (IX. 13-15). The higher argument that Milton chose is the story of the Creation, Fall, and redemption of humankind, combining the epic conventions of high moral purpose with the conviction that in presenting a Biblical theme, he is also representing a higher truth. The fate of humankind thus becomes the unifying force of the poem, as Milton presents the ideals of private virtue and public rectitude by exploring both the nobility and weakness of fallen humanity.
Poetic Style and Techniques Milton’s dramatic and magnificent manipulation of language in Paradise Lost has aroused the admiration of generations of readers. His choice of blank verse goes against the spirit of the times, which saw rhyme as the highest evidence of disciplined mastery of language, as well as a means of restraining an overactive fancy. (Blank verse is unrhymed iambic pentameter.) This choice is typical of Milton’s use of the classical poetic techniques associated with the epic form. The poem contains many formal parallels with classical forms: the beginning of the poem in medias res; the repetition of the formula ‘‘what cause?’’; the epic games pursued by the rebel angels; the alternation of setting between earth and Heaven or Hell; lists of armies and the description of councils (both heavenly and demonic); wars and their descriptions; and the alternation of dialogue with description and narration. Yet, Milton consistently adapts these classical forms to his own purposes and style. For example, in his statement of theme and purpose, he follows the pattern of Homer and Virgil. However, he replaces the assertion of Fate with an assertion of Providence, and though he begins his poem with the standard invocation to the Muse, he alters that invocation. He appeals, not to Calliope, the traditional muse of the epic poet, but to Urania, the muse of astrology and the heavens, who, he asserts,
5 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
inspired Moses. However, above Urania, he invokes the Holy Spirit (associated with heavenly light) as the true inspiration for his Christian epic.
Character The problem of the epic hero has plagued the analysis of Paradise Lost. The epic hero is generally defined as a hero of extraordinary magnitude who is identified with a national or cult hero and exemplifies heroic and moral values. But there is no such hero of this world in Milton’s poem. This difference has led to a debate as to who the hero of the poem really is. On the surface, it is humankind, represented by Adam and Eve. Yet Satan is the one who displays the typical qualities of the classical hero, while Adam never really attains epic stature. To assume, however, that Satan is the hero is to misread Milton’s assessment of both humanity and evil. Satan’s character exposes the true danger of evil, which lies in the very fact that it is attractive. David Daiches states in his book on Milton that, through Satan, Milton exposes the false view of heroism as ‘‘egotistical magnificence’’ and the equally false idea that heroic energy is admirable, even when exercised in a bad cause. Adam and Eve, by contrast, reveal the central paradoxes of the human condition: capable of standing, yet free to fall. The human being is a moral being and is both noble and weak. Yet, this tragic ambiguity is balanced by the conclusion of the poem, which reveals humanity’s capacity to derive hope from an exile that includes companionship and purpose. The story of fallen humankind may be a lament for a lost Eden, but it is also a challenge to triumph over despair and to explore an infinitely engaging new world.
Setting Like the classical epic, Paradise Lost alternates its setting between the world of men and the worlds of God and the angels (fallen and unfallen). The activities of God and the angels, both fallen and unfallen, project both the ideals and the realities of human behavior. The council of devils, for example, parallels the abuses of public reason and civil responsibility in the royalist parliament, as well as the secrecy and other sinister features that Milton attributes to the papacy. Eden is a real world, yet it is described using classical imagery. It is the setting for the highest human ideals, such as perfect conjugal bliss, as well as petty human weakness, such as recrimination and malice. Both heaven and earth are battlegrounds where virtue and vice, good and evil, fight for dominance.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
Epic Motifs As well as the typical epic forms described above, a number of epic motifs are incorporated by Milton into the poem. For example, he incorporates mythology, though it is Biblical, not classical, myth that dominates Paradise Lost. Although he claims that war, the traditional subject matter of the epic, is not to be his theme, he does incorporate the motif of battle into the poem. The war in Heaven and Satan’s subsequent fall and exile both prefigure and precipitate the central conflict of the poem, which takes place on earth. The conflict between Satan and God is continued in Eden and projected into conflict between human desire and God’s command, between desire and reason, between Adam and Eve. Finally, after the Fall, the entire earth becomes the battleground for the ongoing conflict between good and evil. The epic motif of the journey as a symbol of life is also present. Again, the journey of Satan from Hell to earth both prefigures and contrasts humanity’s journey out of Eden and the progression of history presented to Adam by Michael as a panoramic journey through time.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The English Civil Wars, Interregnum, and Restoration The civil wars of the 1640s in England were rooted in the conflicts between Charles I and his Parliament in the 1620s and the policies that were instituted in the 1630s, when Charles ruled without Parliament. His religious policies were resented: the apparently weakened stance regarding Catholics incensed the Puritans, as did the emphasis on the prayer book and its procedures, which curtailed the development of new religious practices and observances. From 1640 to 1642, a new Parliament was called that attempted religious and political reform, ultimately resulting in the first Civil War (1642–1646), which pitted king against parliament. The war was disorganized, and its outcome was determined not primarily by military factors, but by economic, religious, and political factors. The heavy taxation, extreme religious reform, and wide powers granted to parliamentary agents led to the second Civil War (1647–1649), which was primarily a revolt of the provinces against centralization and military rule, and which culminated in the beheading of Charles I in 1649.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
From 1649 to 1660, the period known as the Interregnum, England was a republic (though not a democracy). Oliver Cromwell governed from 1653 to 1658 as lord protector and head of state. He saw the English as God’s chosen people, working towards a promised land where church and state would be as one. His religious radicalism led to what was seen as undue control of individual behavior and arbitrary government. Cromwell’s son had neither the strength nor the character to follow in his father’s footsteps, and with Cromwell’s death in 1658, the republic collapsed. Eighteen months later free elections were held, and in 1660, Charles II was recalled unconditionally. The Restoration refers to the restoration of the monarchy with Charles II. Milton’s own disillusionment with the attempt to combine politics and religion and the collapse of the government that he served so loyally can be seen in Paradise Lost as Milton outlines the political consequences of the fall in Michael’s revelation to Adam in Book XII. Yet, the poem also conveys his conviction that political justice can be achieved in this world. The Puritan stress on overcoming temptation is also a theme that recurs in his work and is especially dominant in Paradise Lost. Yet Milton’s Puritanism is not as strict of many in his day; for example, Milton loves beauty and stresses both the beauty of Eden and the beauty and sexual bliss of Adam and Eve.
Religious Thought The civil wars produced a chaotic variety of sects that were never entirely rooted out. Although Charles II attempted to introduce the religious tolerance that was lacking in both his father’s reign and the Interregnum, he was not successful, and the entire period is characterized by religious intolerance and conflict. Yet there are some general trends that can be traced through the seventeenth century. In the early part of the century, scientific, philosophical, and political writings are infused with hope as scholarship, scientific inquiry, and Christian faith are combined. The Protestant commitment to the authority of scripture is combined with a philosophical search for truth and perceived anomalies among science, philosophy, and religion are resolved in various ways. For example, some thinkers propose the existence of various orders of truth, separating reason and faith (which is informed by scripture and therefore above reason),
V o l u m e
2
5 9 1
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1600s: The English civil wars (1642–1649) result in an Interregnum during which England is a republic, although not a democracy, ruled by Parliament alone. In 1660, the republic collapses, and the monarchy is restored.
Today: England is governed by a bicameral Parliament, the House of Lords in which membership is determined by appointment or bishop rank in the Anglican Church; and the House of Commons, in which membership is determined by political election. Although the monarchy survives, the Queen, as head of state and church, has little political power. 1600s: Scientific advances include William Harvey’s discovery of the circulation of the blood and Isaac Newton’s theory of gravity. Science is beginning to be seen as a discipline separate from theology and philosophy and based on empirical observation and experimentation rather than metaphysical speculation. Today: The value of scientific and technological research is taken for granted. The philosophical study of issues surrounding science is called ethics. Remarkable advances
while others argue that the Bible is to be read allegorically, since it conveys truth figuratively, rather than literally. Revelation, however, is not confined to scripture. God’s laws are revealed externally in the laws of nature and internally through reason or the moral law within. Milton shares these views, emphasizing moral guidance and free will. Scripture, passed down by human intermediaries, is less reliable than reason inspired by the Holy Spirit, which is the final authority. There is also a stress on the combination of religious and political spheres, on God’s activities within human history. It is this ideal that Cromwell attempted to realize in the Interregnum. After the Interregnum, however, the concept of the Kingdom of God was internalized and the limitations of church and state acknowledged.
5 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
occur in all fields, producing results that are celebrated by some people and that raise ethical concerns for others.
1600s: Controversy rages over the heliocentric theory of Copernicus and Galileo, which conflicts with the geocentric theory of Ptolemy. Today: Human understanding of the solar system and beyond increases with space satellites, telescopes, and probes. Experimentation conducted in space stations is an international endeavor.
1600s: Bitterly disillusioned with his own failed marriage, Milton publishes On the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce (1643), arguing in favor of divorce. His arguments have little effect in an age when the Church forbids divorce. Today: Divorce, while not welcomed, is publicly accepted. Between 40 percent and 50 percent of all first marriages end in divorce in the United States; the rate is higher in some other countries. Even members of the British royal family experience divorce.
The search for peace and salvation became a personal, rather than collective, quest, and politics, science, and philosophy became increasingly secularized.
Science The seventeenth century was characterized by a new emphasis on empirical truth rather than metaphysical reality. For example, Francis Bacon stressed the importance of observation and experimental science. These principles allowed many advances in the study of plant and animal life, and the study of physiology and anatomy progressed following William Harvey’s discovery of the circulation of the blood. The seventeenth century also saw advances in physics (Isaac Newton), chemistry (Robert Boyle), and geology (Robert
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
Title page of the second edition of Paradise Lost
Hooke). Galileo transformed human knowledge of the heavens, showing change and mutability in heavenly bodies, arguing that perfection could no longer be identified with the incorruptible or the unalterable. Milton was ultimately uninterested in scientific truth and was indifferent to the ultimate success of either the old Ptolemaic model of the universe or the new Copernican model, yet he was fascinated by Da Vinci and his optic glass (I.288) and the implications of his discoveries. He incorporated the separation between perfection and immutability in his portrait of unfallen humankind, created perfect but mutable and, therefore, free to fall.
Philosophy Copernicus had shown that things are not necessarily what they seem or what they have been said to be, and scientific advances suggested that many things that had previously been attributed
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
to God had new, natural explanations. Yet much remained unknown, and philosophy in the seventeenth century focused on the questions of epistemology, of what can truly be known about reality. Rene´ Descartes suggested that God and the soul were the first certainties. Yet both were ultimately reduced in Cartesian thought to intellectual abstractions: God no longer had any relationship to religious experience, and the I whose existence was proven by conscious thought (Descartes’s famous line, ‘‘I think; therefore, I am’’) was only the thinking part of oneself. Thus, there was no certainty concerning either the properties or attributes of either God or the soul. Yet Descartes’s break with the past is important, embodying a new appeal to the internal authority of reason rather than the external authority of religion. Shaking off the influence of the past also enabled the growth of the idea of progress (both scientific and philosophical) that was rooted in Renaissance humanism and its celebration of human potential. The world was no longer constructed from historical realities, but rather from inner certainties, endorsed by reason. Thomas Hobbes went a step further, identifying the real with the material, reflecting the increasing secularization of politics and science. Hobbes replaced the divine justification of political authority with de facto power, and the sovereign’s ability to protect his/her subjects. Religion was relegated to the realm of superstition, but religious beliefs were nonetheless valuable in forming attitudes and actions, in teaching humankind how to behave as subjects and citizens. The sovereign was thus viewed as God’s earthly lieutenant; the laws of God were paralleled with the laws of nature and principles of morality; scripture was granted a limited authority. With John Locke, a new emphasis on individualism and religious tolerance became the groundwork for what would become modern liberal democracy.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Milton’s poem has produced mixed reactions in the three centuries since its first publication. Much of the controversy surrounding the poem centers on two main issues: its religious subject matter and political overtones. Yet, it must be remembered, in the epic form, subject and tone are closely related, and it is thus impossible to separate the two issues entirely.
V o l u m e
2
5 9 3
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
One early reaction to the poem questioned Milton’s use of blank verse in an epic poem, when the prevailing current tastes favored rhymed poetry; in fact, the second and third issues of the first edition contained a note from ‘‘The Printer to the Reader’’ on this subject, as well as Milton’s own justification of ‘‘The Verse.’’ However, a more intense reaction to the poem in its early days focused on its content. Nicholas von Maltzahn in a 1667 critique of the epic summarizes the politics surrounding three early responses that typify its first reception. The Anglican licenser, Thomas Tomkins, was at first inclined to suppress the poem, finding evidence in it of the antiroyalist sentiments for which Milton was notorious after the publication of his tracts supporting the regicide of Charles I. After the Restoration, such opinions were, naturally, cause for profound concern. Tomkins disapproved of the emphasis on astrological omens, such as eclipses, which reflected a Puritan tendency to overemphasize natural events and which Tomkins feared would fuel dissent in the wake of numerous disasters the English had suffered in the previous couple years (such as the Black Death and then Great Fire of London, both explained by some in terms of astrology). Tomkins was also suspicious of Milton’s elevation of private illumination or inspiration. However, other preoccupations also engaged Tomkins, and in a time of national crisis, Milton’s emphasis on reason, first principles, and common notions, and the poem’s engaging development of sacred history were seen as contributing to, rather than detracting from, the stability and national unity that Tomkins sought to endorse. He therefore licensed the work, in spite of his misgivings. The initial success of the poem, von Maltzahn reports, is seen in the reactions of Sir John Hobart, who saw the Christian epic as a welcomed balance to the decadent culture of the court. While joining in the almost universal condemnation of the politics represented in Milton’s prose, Hobart praised Milton’s humanism, as well as his style, which he stated was ‘‘not only above alle moderne attempts in verse, but equall to any of the Antient Poets.’’ Von Maltzahn reports that John Beale, however, had a more mixed reaction. Beale responded hopefully to Milton’s claims to individual inspiration and his elevation of the claims of conscience. Yet he was wary of the politics of Paradise Lost, which he saw as openly republican, as well as its demonology, which was too Calvinist for his Anglican tastes.
5 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
Criticism of Milton’s epic continued to be divided. Early poets and critics who praised Milton’s style and content include John Dryden, who in 1688 placed Milton on a level with Homer and Virgil; Patrick Hume, who published an early annotated text of the poem in 1695; and Joseph Addison, who published a laudatory series of essays in 1712. Samuel Johnson, however, was less complimentary but with a glint of typical humor: ‘‘Paradise Lost is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure.’’ The greatness of Milton’s verse was generally acknowledged in the nineteenth century, and his influence on poets such as William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Percy Bysshe Shelley, John Keats, Lord Tennyson, and Matthew Arnold is clear, although all of these poets developed in their own distinctive ways. Subsequent use of blank verse for serious poetry is one clear Miltonic influence in the nineteenth century, for example. Yet the twentieth century saw a continuation of the division that characterized early criticism. The attack on Milton was mounted by T. S. Eliot, who argued that Milton could only be a bad influence on later poets; that his visual imagination was flawed; and that he was not a great poet, but merely a great eccentric. Eliot’s arguments, inconclusive in themselves, were taken up by F. R. Leavis, who argued that Milton made a victim of the English language itself and that his style is routine, monotonous, and heavy. The case in Milton’s defense was taken up by critics such as Basil Willey and C. S. Lewis, who argued that Milton’s latinate vocabulary and syntax are highly appropriate to his subject matter and praise the broad sweep of the poem as well as its grand style. Later critics, such as Christopher Ricks and Frank Kermode, defended Milton’s style in detail and with force, and the attacks of Eliot and Leavis were generally dismissed by the end of the century. One final issue that cannot be ignored is the split that many critics have seen in the poem. The ostensible purpose of the poem is to expose Satan and ‘‘justify’’ God. However, it has been argued that Milton did precisely the opposite. In the romantic period, criticism focused on the presentation of Satan, for which Milton has received both praise and blame. Romantic poets, following Dryden, saw Satan as the true hero of Paradise Lost. William Blake promoted the idea that
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
Milton was ‘‘of the Devil’s party without knowing it.’’ In this view, Milton projected his own revolutionary ideals onto Satan, presenting God (albeit unwittingly) in the image of the Stuart kings, whom he so abhorred. This argument was picked up by twentieth-century critics such as A. J. A. Waldock and John Peter, but its greatest champion is William Empson, who saw Milton’s epic as a heroic struggle with the inner contradictions of the Christian faith itself, exposing God, in the end, as a tyrant. There have been numerous responses to this view, but the most effective perhaps was presented by Stanley Fish. Fish argued that Milton’s presentations of God and Satan are deliberate and that the ambiguity of the poem represents the ambiguity of the human condition in its fallen state. Following Fish’s lead, Peter C. Herman published a book in 2008 that discussed the issues of stability and certainty in Paradise Lost. Herman agreed that Milton was not writing from absolute certainty about God but was reflecting the failure of the Cromwell era by creating a poem that shows the instability and ambiguity of the human condition. The attraction of Satan and the remoteness of God thus reflects, not the true character of either, but the exile of fallen humankind, for whom Satan is a formidable enemy because of his compelling qualities and God is alien because the fallen world can only perceive its Creator through a dark glass, if at all.
CRITICISM Catherine Innes-Parker Innes-Parker specializes in medieval literature and is a professor of English at the University of Prince Edward Island. In the following essay, she explores Milton’s struggle to reconcile the sinful nature of humankind with the inherent value of knowledge, assessing Adam and Eve’s sin, which results from eating from the Tree of Knowledge. Paradise Lost has been hailed as one of the greatest poems in the English language. While this acclaim is due in a large part to Milton’s command of language and poetic style, much of the attraction of the poem lies in its content. The poem’s depiction of temptation and the Fall is linked to universal questions concerning the nature of good and evil, the apparent injustice of a world where the wicked prosper and the good suffer, the nature and value of knowledge, and the nature of the human condition.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
THE FACT THAT THE COMMANDMENT IS A PLEDGE OF OBEDIENCE HAS ENORMOUS IMPLICATIONS FOR THE NATURE OF THE FALL. IT IS NOT THE EATING OF THE FRUIT PER SE THAT IS WRONG: IT IS THE DISOBEDIENCE THAT EATING EXHIBITS.’’
Milton’s struggle to reconcile the Genesis account of the Fall with his own deepest convictions and concerns are often attributed to a failure to come to terms with the particular demands of the epic form. However, in light of his prose treatments of similar themes, it becomes clear that the conflicts in Paradise Lost reflect a conflict between his understanding of the authority of scripture and his conviction that reason is the surest guide to truth. If reason represents the image of God in humankind, how can the Fall be attributed to knowledge, and, more important, how can knowledge be forbidden? Milton’s struggle to reconcile his intellectual convictions with the text of Genesis reflects a conflict that remains to this day. The Genesis account of the Creation and Fall remains one of the foundational myths of Western culture; yet, in the modern secular world, the intrinsic power of myth often collides with the demands of reason. Milton’s treatment of the Fall is, in fact, remarkably consistent with his understanding of the nature of humankind as created in the image of God and with his treatments of the nature and value of knowledge. The first question that must be asked, then, is what is the true nature of humankind? Or, what does it mean to be created in the image of God? In the first view of humankind (seen through Satan’s eyes, but not described from his point of view) the omniscient narrator describes: Two of far nobler shape erect and tall, Godlike erect, with native Honor clad In naked majesty seem’d Lords of all, And worthy seem’d, for in their looks Divine The image of their glorious maker shone, Truth, Wisdom, Sanctitude severe and pure, Severe, but in true filial freedom plac’t; Whence true authority in men. (IV.287 294).
V o l u m e
2
5 9 5
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Bitterly disappointed in his own marriage, Milton argued in The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce (1643) that divorce ought to be an option when marriages do not work. This essay provides an interesting contrast to the view of Adam and Eve’s conjugal bliss in Paradise Lost.
which he conquers despair and triumphs over his foes.
Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, or Modern Prometheus (1818) explores the themes of forbidden knowledge and the proper relationship between creator and creature. The Oxford University Press published a new edition, edited by Marilyn Butler, in 2009.
The History of the Epic (2006), by Adeline Johns-Putra, describes the historical and cultural development of the epic across the ages and around the world into the twenty-first century. This book traces a series of themes, the changing meaning of an epic, and the role of the epic film to the genre.
Samson Agonistes (1671) is a verse drama in which Milton tells the story of Samson and Delilah in true tragic style. As depicted here, Samson is engaged in a heroic conflict in
Leonard F. Wheat’s 2008 book Philip Pullman’s ‘‘His Dark Materials’’: A Multiple Allegory Attacking Religious Superstition in ‘‘The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe’’ and ‘‘Paradise Lost’’ is a fascinating analysis of Pullman’s anti-Christian fantasy novel. Wheat’s book explains how Pullman’s novel incorporates the stories written by C. S. Lewis and Milton’s epic.
Adam and Eve’s outward appearance is characterized by nobility and rectitude, reflecting the inward attributes of the image of God: truth, wisdom, sanctity, purity, and freedom. These attributes, or more accurately, the image of God that they represent, are the source of both human dignity and authority, leading to the conclusion that they are rightly ‘‘Lords of all.’’
Again, what distinguishes humans from the creatures that they will rule is their erect stature. This is specifically associated with that faculty that, above all others, Milton associates with the divine image: reason. But reason is associated with self-knowledge, and it is in Adam’s ability to know himself (or failure to do so) that the success or failure of reason ultimately lies.
Similar motifs emerge in Raphael’s description of the creation of humankind:
Adam gives evidence of self-knowledge throughout Paradise Lost. He is aware of both his strengths and his weaknesses, as well as of his duties and obligations. This self-knowledge must be acquired by Adam through a process of growth, prompted by the reason that is innate to him. Adam describes the learning process to
Areopagitica (1644) is a treatise calling for freedom of the press and the removal of censorship. Here Milton develops many of the ideas concerning reason and knowledge developed in Paradise Lost, particularly the interdependence between the knowledge of good and evil and the folly of considering any knowledge ‘‘forbidden.’’ In Paradise Regained (1671), the sequel to Paradise Lost, Milton describes the temptation of Christ in the wilderness in order to show how redemption is achieved through the reversal of Adam’s disobedience, that is, by Christ’s obedience.
. . . a Creature who not prone And Brute as other Creatures, but endu’d With Sanctity of Reason, might erect His Stature, and upright with front serene Govern the rest, self knowing. (VII.506 510).
5 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
Raphael in Book VIII as he describes his memories of his first awakening after his creation.
Dismiss not her, when most thou need’s her nigh. (VIII.560 563).
In addition to self-knowledge, Adam must acquire knowledge of the God whose image he bears. Adam intuitively deduces the existence of a creator from the fact of his own existence and seeks knowledge of the creator from the created world. In Of Christian Doctrine, Milton associates this intuitive knowledge of the existence of God with the possession of ‘‘right reason’’ or conscience, the moral sense that enables humankind to distinguish between right and wrong. In Of Education, therefore, Milton asserts that the purpose of education is to regain that knowledge possessed by Adam and lost in the Fall, ‘‘to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him.’’
Adam must heed his own advice to Eve: the danger lies within himself, yet within his power, depending upon his ability to rule passion with reason.
Humankind’s knowledge of self, of creation, and of God is associated with rule or authority, not only over creation, but over the self. Self-rule, like self-knowledge, is based on reason, the chief faculty of the soul. Reason must rule over the lesser faculties and, particularly, over the passions. As long as the natural order is maintained, the passions are kept under control and happiness prevails. For example, properly ruled, the attraction between Adam and Eve is expressed in love and mutual affection, governed by reason: . . . for smiles from Reason flow . . . and are of Love the food, Love not the lowest end of human life. For not to irksome toil, but to delight He made us, and delight to Reason joined. (IX.239f).
Implicit in this, however, is also a warning. Reason is vulnerable to passion, and the disruption of the natural order is inherent in Adam’s very nature if he fails to know and rule his own passion. The potential for disaster is evident in Adam’s words to Raphael as he describes Eve: All higher knowledge in her presence falls Degraded, Wisdom in discourse with her Loses Discount’nanc’t, and like folly shows: Authority and Reason on her wait. (VIII.551f).
Adam blames the failure of his reason and authority in Eve’s presence on his own nature and his love for Eve, foreshadowing his eventual fall. However, Raphael warns him: Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part; Do thou but thine, and be not diffident Of Wisdom, she deserts thee not, if thou
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Humans can overcome the danger inherent within their own natures through the reason implanted in them by God. Reason, however, is vulnerable to deception: . . . Reason he made right, But bid her well beware, and still erect, Lest by some fair appearing good surpris’d She dictates false, and misinform the Will To do what God expressly hath forbid. . . . Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve Since Reason not impossible may meet, And fall into deception unaware. (IX.350 354, 359 362).
This aspect of reason’s vulnerability is represented by Eve, who succumbs to Satan’s ‘‘persuasive words, impregn’d / With Reason, to her seeming, and with Truth’’ (IX.735-736). Reason properly exercised, however, gives human beings the ability to choose between good and evil. Because humans is created in the image of God, their natural disposition is toward what is right, good, and holy. Even after the Fall, this innate ability is retained, for the divine image is impaired, not destroyed. But the moral choice that reason enables is, necessarily, a free choice. In a 2007 article on reason, faith, and freedom in Paradise Lost, William Walker makes a similar point: God is not asking humans to set aside reason and make some leap of faith; rather, freedom means choosing either to be governed by reason or to be governed by appetite. Freedom is a natural consequence of reason and is rooted in the very nature of humankind, as God himself makes clear: ‘‘I formed them free, and free they must remain, / Till they enthral themselves: I else must change / Their nature’’ (III.124f.). The Fall, however, is rooted in free choice, and human beings are created with the ability to choose correctly: ‘‘Against his will he can receive no harm / But God left free the Will, for what obeys / Reason, is free, and Reason he made right’’ (IX.349f). The choice that is faced by Adam and Eve in Eden is, quite simply, a question of obedience. Their obedience to God is proof of their love and service and, therefore, like the will, must be left free. The single commandment that God has
V o l u m e
2
5 9 7
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
given does not impair this freedom; rather it reflects it. Adam tells Eve that God ‘‘requires / From us no other service than to keep / This one, this easy charge’’ (IV.419f), and he asserts that ‘‘the rest, we live / Law to ourselves, our Reason is our Law’’ (IX.653-654). It is ironic that this ‘‘one easy prohibition’’ is both so easily kept and so easily broken. The fact that the commandment is a pledge of obedience has enormous implications for the nature of the Fall. It is not the eating of the fruit per se that is wrong: it is the disobedience that eating exhibits. As Milton states in On Christian Doctrine, ‘‘It was necessary that something should be forbidden or commanded as a test of fidelity, and that an act in its own nature indifferent, in order that man’s obedience might thereby be manifested.’’ The eating of the fruit is ‘‘an act in its own nature indifferent’’: The tree, in and of itself, is neither good nor evil, it is simply there. The eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is not forbidden because it is dangerous or wrong; it is wrong because it is forbidden. The Fall must, therefore, be understood as disobedience, not the acquisition of knowledge. It is not knowledge that is forbidden, but a particular action. The Tree of Knowledge is thus a symbol of the act of disobedience, the main subject of Paradise Lost. Milton states his theme as ‘‘Of Man’s First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste, Brought Death into the World, and all our woe’’ (I.1-3). The ‘‘woe’’ that is brought into the world is not the knowledge of good and evil, but the fact of death. This truth has important implications for the understanding of the knowledge allegedly imparted by the tree. Since the Fall cannot be attributed to the acquisition of knowledge, either the tree did not impart any knowledge, or the knowledge that it did impart was not such as to lead to a Fall. In Paradise Lost, Milton suggests that the knowledge of good and evil is not simply a new knowledge of evil where before existed only knowledge of good. Adam clearly knew of evil prior to his Fall. Raphael informs him of the Fall of the angels and of the existence of his archenemy Satan. Adam shows himself to be well aware of the dangers of temptation in his exhortation to Eve as well as in his earlier reaction to Eve’s dream, which he immediately identifies as having sprung from evil. Rather, what has occurred in the eating of the fruit is that the knowledge of good and of evil has become so
5 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
intertwined as to become inseparable: Humankind can now know good only by knowing evil. This understanding of the Tree of Knowledge is dictated by Milton’s convictions concerning knowledge and its value. Milton saw learning as the service of God and truth. But, in order to attain true virtue, one must know not only good but also evil, for ‘‘good and evil we know in the field of this world grow up together almost inseparably; and the knowledge of good is so involved and interwoven with the knowledge of evil’’ (Areopagitica). Milton thus argued that all opinions, even those that reflect error, eventually lead to the attainment of truth if the mind is correctly governed. Liberty of thought and speech are thus essential in the formation of virtue. Virtue, like obedience, is rooted in freedom of choice. Yet, in order to choose, one must have alternative from which to choose, for ‘‘what wisdom can there be to choose, what contingence to forbear without the knowledge of evil? . . . I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue’’ (Areopagitica). Choice becomes meaningless without the freedom to choose either good or evil and that freedom to choose can only be established and maintained through the knowledge of both. It follows, then, that the idea of forbidden knowledge is, for Milton, an absurdity. In fact, the quest for knowledge is closely tied to the quest for virtue and thus with the highest achievements of humankind. Far from causing the Fall, the acquisition of knowledge is the only way of repairing the divine image that is impaired in the Fall, as reason is obscured. Milton asserts that ‘‘the end . . . of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him’’ (Of Education). The only limits to this quest are the limits of humanity’s own capacity for knowledge. Source: Catherine Innes Parker, Critical Essay on Para dise Lost, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
J. Martin Evans In the following essay, Evans examines Paradise Lost for references to and contemporary opinions about the colonization of North America. In his comprehensive study of the North Atlantic world, K. G. Davies remarks that ‘‘no major English literary work of the seventeenth century comes to mind that breathes an Atlantic air or takes the American empire for its theme.’’
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
MILTON’S EPIC . . . EXPRESSES IN ALL THEIR BEWILDERING COMPLEXITY THE RADICALLY DIVIDED ATTITUDES TOWARDS THE AMERICAN EMPIRE WHICH EXISTED IN SEVENTEENTH CENTURY ENGLISH PROTESTANT CULTURE.’’
The purpose of this essay is to suggest that Paradise Lost constitutes at least a partial exception to Davies’s generalization. Milton’s epic, I believe, interacts continuously with the deeply ambivalent feelings which the conquest of the New World generated in seventeenth-century English culture. Like its closest classical model, the Aeneid, Paradise Lost seems to me to be, among other things, a poem about empire. Certainly, there were many reasons for pondering the colonization of America as Milton turned his attention back to his long-delayed plans for an epic poem in the mid-1650s. The Commonwealth’s war with Spain had rekindled anti-Spanish sentiment, and writers in tune with the mood of the times were busy turning out works based on the so-called ‘‘black legend’’ of Spanish brutality in South America—Milton’s nephew John Phillips, for instance, translated Las Casas’ Brevissima relacion de la destruycion de las Indias into English in 1656, and in 1658 Sir William Davenant, the erstwhile governordesignate of Maryland, catered to prevailing English taste with his sensational play on the same subject, The Cruelty of the Spaniards. Still more to the point, Cromwell’s ‘‘Western Design’’ and the conflict with Spain it precipitated served as a vivid reminder that England, too, was a major colonial power. Indeed, the crucial first phase of English empire-building in the New World coincided more or less exactly with Milton’s lifetime. The year before he was born the first English settlers dispatched by the Virginia Company of London arrived in Chesapeake Bay. The establishment of the Plymouth colony took place when he was eleven, the widely publicized Virginia massacre when he was thirteen, and the great Puritan migration to Massachusetts Bay while he was in his twenties. He was thirty-five when the second Virginia massacre occurred, forty-six when Cromwell acquired Jamaica. By the time he had reached his
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
fifties, England was the dominant colonial power in North America with between twenty-five and thirty thousand settlers in New England and thirty-six thousand or so in Virginia. What is more, by the time he began to work on Paradise Lost Milton had come into contact with numerous men who had promoted or emigrated to the colonies. Ralph Hamor, the author of A True Discourse of the Present State of Virginia, grew up in the house next to the Milton family home on Bread Street. Several of his Cambridge contemporaries emigrated to New England, and his longtime friend Samuel Hartlib produced a treatise on the Virginian silk-worm. Sir Henry Vane, to whom Milton addressed an admiring sonnet in 1652, was a former governor of Massachusetts. And Roger Williams, the notorious champion of religious liberty and Indian property rights, gave him conversation lessons in Dutch in the early 1650s. It is hardly surprising, then, that Milton’s writings are liberally sprinkled with references to the colonization of the New World. Not that Milton needed large numbers of close friends and acquaintances actively involved in the settlement of America in order to be vividly aware of its progress. For ‘‘this glorious business,’’ as William Crashaw called it, was deeply imprinted in the national consciousness of seventeenth-century England, inscribed there by dozens of promotional pamphlets, controversial tracts, personal histories, and economic analyses. From 1609 to 1624 the London bookstalls were inundated with sermons and treatises either prophesying or proclaiming the success of the English plantation in Virginia. Beginning with the publication of Mourt’s Relation in 1622, there followed a steady stream of works recording the early history of New England, detailing the political and religious controversies going on there, and asserting the progress of the gospel among the Indians. Then in the mid-1650s came a spate of tracts reporting on the power struggle between the Catholic proprietor Lord Baltimore and his Puritan adversaries in Maryland. Whether or not he had a personal stake in the success of the American colonies, Milton could hardly avoid being aware of events taking place on the other side of the Atlantic. With the exception of a handful of works by New England dissidents like Samuel Gorton and John Child, most of the literature I have just mentioned took a wholeheartedly positive view of England’s transatlantic activities. Yet just beneath the surface of even the most optimistic
V o l u m e
2
5 9 9
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
evaluations of England’s settlements in the New World there runs a powerful undercurrent of barely repressed anxiety concerning the entire colonial enterprise. For over and over again the promoters complain that Virginia and New England have been unjustly slandered by various unnamed detractors. Few, if any, of these reported slanders were ever printed—like the heresies of the early Christian church they owe their preservation to the writers who endeavored to refute them—but they clearly constituted a powerful critique of England’s activities across the Atlantic. As a result, whether they are excusing the failure of the New World to live up to expectations in some regard, or defending Virginia and New England against some allegedly unjustified criticism from their detractors, seventeenth-century English descriptions of America are relentlessly defensive. From Daniel Price’s Saul’s Prohibition Staide . . . with a reproofe of those that traduce the Honourable Plantation of Virginia (London, 1609) to John Hammond’s Leah and Rachel . . . With a Removall of such Imputations as are scandalously cast on those Countries (London, 1656) justification is the keynote. Nor it is difficult to understand why a seventeenth-century English Protestant might have harbored deeply ambivalent feelings about his country’s American colonies. To begin with, their history had hardly been a happy one. After a disastrous beginning, which cost many of the adventurers their investments and hundreds of planters their lives, Virginia had sided with the king during the civil war and only with the very greatest reluctance had accepted the authority of the Commonwealth commissioners dispatched by Cromwell. As John Hammond put it, England’s first plantation was ‘‘whol for monarchy, and the last Country belonging to England that submitted to obedience of the Common-wealth of England.’’ Maryland, despite several attempts to reverse Lord Baltimore’s policy of religious toleration, was still a haven for English Catholics, ‘‘a receptacle for Papists, and Priests, and Jesuites’’ as one writer called it. New England, riven by internal disputes in the 1630s and 1640s, was regarded in many quarters as ‘‘a Nursery of Schismatickes,’’ and had in any case lost a great deal of its ideological raison d’eˆtre now that the reform of the church had been accomplished in England. And finally, as the century wore on, English Protestants were becoming increasingly concerned
6 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
about the question of native American property rights and the failure of the English missionaries to convert the Indians to the reformed religion. For all these reasons, then, the colonization of America stirred deeply ambivalent feelings in the collective consciousness of seventeenth-century England. Paradise Lost, I now want to suggest, not only registers many of these ambivalences, but plays them out in mythic form by reenacting on the cosmic stage many of the central events in the conquest of the New World. The argument is a complex one to which I am in the course of devoting an entire book, but in this brief ‘‘prospectus’’ I may be able to illustrate my general thesis by discussing the way in which Milton treats the central figure in the colonial drama, the colonist himself. He appears in Paradise Lost in various guises: most obviously as Satan, the diabolic deceiver who enslaves the inhabitants of the New World by cheating them out of their territory and replacing them with his own destructive plenipotentiaries; but also as Raphael, the divine missionary who brings to Adam and Eve the authentic word of God and instructs them in the history of the ancient rivalry of which their world is the focal point; then as Adam, the indentured servant placed in the paradisal garden by ‘‘the sovran Planter’’ (4.691) and destined for release from his labors after a fixed period of obedient toil; and finally as Michael, the representative of imperial authority who drives the rebellious natives out of their original home into the alien wilderness. To begin with Satan, during the course of his triumphant speech in book 10 announcing the conquest of Eden, the devil sounds at times very much like Amerigo Vespucci reporting back to Lorenzo Pietro di Medici on his latest voyage to the New World. The echoes are probably accidental, but the general resemblance is not, for of the various roles that Satan plays in Paradise Lost none is more richly elaborated than his impersonation of a Renaissance explorer. It has often been noticed, for example, that Milton arranges the early part of the story so that we experience it as a diabolic voyage of discovery. Just as Columbus and his contemporaries heard rumors of the New World long before its existence had been confirmed, so we learn from Satan in book 1 that ‘‘a fame in Heav’n’’ has spread stories of ‘‘new Worlds’’ (650–51) elsewhere in the universe. In books 2 and 3 we then accompany him on the perilous ‘‘voyage’’ (2. 426, 919) across the ‘‘gulf’’ (2. 441) of chaos to ‘‘the coast of Earth’’ (3. 739).
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
And at the beginning of book 4 we finally see the terrestrial paradise at least partially through the Devil’s consciousness. The motives which impel Satan on his voyage replicate, in turn, virtually all the social and political arguments advanced in favor of England’s colonial expansion in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The first of them emerges in Beelzebub’s speech at the end of the infernal debate in book 2. After mentioning the rumors circulating in Heaven about the creation of the world, he proposes that even though Heav’n be shut, . . . this place may lie expos’d The utmost border of his Kingdom, left To their defense who hold it: here perhaps Some advantageous act may be achiev’d By sudden onset. . . . (2. 358 64, Hughes edition)
This bears a startling resemblance to the political rationale for Elizabethan attacks on Spanish possessions in the New World a century before. Indeed, Beelzebub’s proposal momentarily transforms Satan into a demonic Sir Francis Drake setting off to singe God’s beard. On one level, at least, the assault on Eden will be a daring naval raid by an infernal buccaneer. The second motive for undertaking the journey across chaos is disclosed by Satan himself in his parting speech to his followers in Pandemonium, Oppressed by God’s vengeance, he tells them, ‘‘I abroad / Through all the Coasts of dark destruction seek / Deliverance for us all’’ (2.464–65). In a diabolic parody of the pilgrims on the Mayflower he presents himself as the ultimate separatist, a victim of religious persecution in search of a new home where he and his fellow dissidents can practice their infernal rites in peace—in heaven, we have already been told by Mammon, the angels were constrained by ‘‘Strict Laws impos’d’’ to celebrate God’s throne with Laudian ceremoniousness, worshipping their ‘‘envied Sovran’’ with ‘‘warbl’d Hymns’’ and ‘‘Forc’d Halleluiahs’’ (2.242–44). Like the faithful and freeborn Englishmen who, in Milton’s words in Of Reformation ‘‘have bin constrained to forsake their dearest home, their friends and kindred, whom nothing but the wide Ocean, and the savage deserts of America could hide and shelter from the fury of the Bishops,’’ the Devil claims to be seeking refuge from the oppression of a tyrannical power. As Satan approaches the garden of Eden, however, a third motive makes its appearance.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
His underlying purpose, he now confesses, is territorial expansion. By raiding this vulnerable outpost of the heavenly kingdom he hopes to share at least ‘‘Divided Empire with Heav’ns King’’ (4.111). Hence the extraordinary scene in book 10 when Sin greets her triumphant parent at the foot of the ‘‘wondrous Pontifice’’ (348) which she and her son have constructed across chaos ‘‘by wondrous Art / Pontifical’’ (312–13). Henceforth, she declares, let the Creator ‘‘Monarchy with thee divide / Of all things, parted by th’Empyreal bounds’’ (379–80). Cued by Milton’s anti-papal puns, we seem to be witnessing a grotesque reenactment of Alexander VI’s division of the western world between the Spanish and the Portuguese, a cosmic inter caetera. During the course of the poem, then, Satan rehearses virtually all the major roles in the repertoire of English colonial discourse. By turns buccaneer, pilgrim, and empire-builder, he embodies not only the destructive potential of imperial conquest but its glamour and energy as well. It may well be no accident that the critical glorification of Milton’s devil took place during the heyday of England’s imperial power while his descent from hero to fool coincided with its decline. Satan is not the only figure in the poem that embodies the colonial quest, however. God’s emissaries, too, function as agents of imperial authority. Indeed, Raphael has in some ways even more in common with the explorers than his diabolical antagonist. For the extraordinary scene in which the archangel is greeted by two naked human beings as a ‘‘Native of Heaven’’ (5.361) reenacts an encounter which had been described in countless Renaissance descriptions of the discoverers’ arrival in the New World. Like the ideally submissive and subservient Indians of those early narratives, Adam welcomes his ‘‘god-like’’ (351) visitor ‘‘with submiss approach and reverence meek’’ (359). Unquestioningly he agrees that he possesses the garden of Eden ‘‘by sovran gift’’ (366) from Raphael’s divine master. Then he and Eve proceed to entertain the ‘‘Heav’nly stranger’’ (316, 397) in their ‘‘Silvan Lodge’’ (377) with all the bounty their world has to offer. Unlike Columbus and his successors, of course, Adam’s visitor really has come from heaven. As the ‘‘Empyreal Minister’’ (5.460) of the Almighty, his function is to instruct Adam and Eve in the indispensable colonial virtues of loyalty and obedience, to give them a brief lesson in the recent political history of the cosmos, and most
V o l u m e
2
6 0 1
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
important of all to alert them to the existence of an unfriendly rival power at large in the universe (5.233–41). In place of the Indians’ tragic misconception of their future oppressors, the poem thus offers us an authentic encounter between man and angel, an encounter in which the problematic territorial and political claims of Spain and England have given way to the Creator’s legitimate authority over his creation. In Paradise Lost the anxiety attaching to the discoveries has been relieved by the simple device of re-writing the scene as if the Indians and the Spanish had both been right. This visitor really does come from heaven, as the Indians believed, and the sovereign he represents really does own the land, as the Spanish, and later the English, insisted. Thanks to Milton’s revision of the primal imperial encounter, Adam and Eve are consequently spared the violent aftermath of Columbus’s arrival in the New World. Unlike the Indians, they do not experience the horrors of Renaissance warfare at first hand; they learn about such murderous inventions as gunpowder only at second hand from their heavenly instructor. The appalling butchery and violence which characterized the Spanish conquest of America is thus projected onto Satan’s campaign against his Maker. When the natives do eventually rebel against their master, they receive a second visitor from heaven, with orders to drive them forth ‘‘without remorse’’ (11.105) from their terrestrial paradise into the wilderness beyond it. Michael’s mission in books 11–12 thus recapitulates in mythic form not only Spain’s campaigns in Mexico and Peru—Adam is shown the seats of Montezuma and Atabalipa (11.407–9)—but England’s more recent dispossession of the Indians in New England and Virginia. The image of the colonist as a ruthless invader is too powerful to exclude entirely, and although Milton insists that the garden will remain empty once Adam and Eve have vacated it (11.101–3;123–25), their expulsion by a force of ‘‘flaming Warriors’’ (11.101) could hardly have failed to summon up in the minds of Milton’s readers disquieting memories of the final act of the colonial drama. The colonial figures we have considered so far were all, for one reason or another, eager to cross the Atlantic. A significant portion of the early emigrants to England’s colonies, however, had to be actively recruited as indentured servants. Essentially indentured service was a mechanism which permitted potential emigrants to be shipped to
6 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
America at the expense of a colonial landowner to whom they were subsequently bound as servants for a fixed term of years, usually four or five. In return for their transportation across the Atlantic and their food, lodging, and clothing in the colony, they worked on their master’s property without wages until their term of service expired, at which time they received enough cash, provisions, and land to set up as independent smallholders themselves. Seen in this general context, Adam’s situation in Paradise Lost resembles nothing so much as an idealized form of indentured servitude. Placed in an earthly paradise by the ‘‘sovran Planter’’ (4.691), he is destined to serve out a fixed term of ‘‘pleasant labor’’ (4.625) at the end of which, ‘‘by long obedience tri’d’’ (7.159), he may be given the status of an angel and allowed to dwell permanently in the terrestrial or the celestial paradise (5.500). His biblical counterpart, of course, had long been regarded as a paradigm of the colonial settler. In 1612 Robert Johnson, for example, commended ‘‘that most wholesome, profitable and pleasant work of planting in which it pleased God himself to set the first man and most excellent creature Adam in his innocencie.’’ But in Paradise Lost the current of correspondence between the two figures is reversed: the colonist doesn’t resemble Adam so much as Adam resembles the colonist. The result is a vision of prelapsarian man unlike any other in the history of the Genesis myth. To take just one example, the concept of indentured labor may well be responsible for the quite unprecedented significance which Milton gives to Adam’s daily toil in Paradise Lost. As I have shown elsewhere, in no other version of the biblical story is the necessity of cultivating the garden so emphatically asserted. When Adam and Eve eventually break the terms of their contract, moreover, they behave at first like run-away servants—they hide from their master and blame him for their disobedience. Adam, in particular, makes it sound as if he had been kidnapped by a ‘‘spirit,’’ as the agents of the colonial landowners were called, and forced to work against his will on God’s plantation: . . . did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me, or here place In this delicious Garden? (10.744 46)
In spite of the care with which the system of indentured labor has been purged of its most flagrant abuses—in Milton’s definition of the human situation the master is benevolent and just, the servants are well fed and well lodged,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
the labor is strenuous but not backbreaking—a residue of uneasiness is still detectable in Adam’s protest. He may admit that ‘‘then should have been refus’d / Those terms whatever, when they were propos’d’’ (10.756–57), but the lawyerly debating point cannot entirely dispose of the underlying objection. For when Adam was presented with the conditions of his contract, his existence was already a fait accompli. Like the convicted criminals who were beginning to be shipped to the New World in ever greater numbers as the seventeenth century wore on, Eden’s original colonist had only two choices: indenture or death. As these examples may suggest, Milton not only divides the role of colonist among the various characters in his poem. He associates the characters in his poem with different colonial roles at different points of the narrative. In some episodes, we have seen, Adam resembles the English settlers laboring in indentured servitude on a royal plantation; in others, he has more in common with the Indians welcoming Columbus to their American paradise. Clearly these contradictions and disjunctions do not permit a naive, uniplanar interpretation of the poem—we cannot simply equate God with James I, Eden with Virginia, and then read the poem as a straightforward political allegory about the conquest of America. My point is both simpler and more complicated. Milton’s epic, I believe, not only breathes an Atlantic air but expresses in all their bewildering complexity the radically divided attitudes towards the American empire which existed in seventeenth-century English Protestant culture. Source: J. Martin Evans, ‘‘Milton’s Imperial Epic,’’ in Of Poetry and Politics: New Essays on Milton and His World, edited by P. G. Stanwood, Medieval & Renaissance Texts and Studies, Vol. 126, 1995, pp. 229 38.
Lee M. Johnson In the following essay, Johnson explains how Milton evokes innocence and the loss of innocence by his use of symbolism, irony, ambiguity, and puns. We cannot enter the Garden of Eden in Book 4 of Paradise Lost and look upon the ‘‘mysterious parts’’ of the innocent Adam and Eve or upon Eve’s ‘‘wanton ringlets’’ in a spirit of complete simplicity and purity: not only do we observe with the fallen Satan as our companion, but our perceptions, including those of the poet himself, are subject to the complex connotations and associations which characterize our use of language.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
MILTON ATTEMPTS A FICTION WHICH MAY SEEM EVEN MORE DARING: A SENSE THAT HIS INNOCENT EDEN IS NO MERE MEMORY BUT A PERCEPTION OF PERFECTION ON WHICH MEMORIES WILL BE BASED.’’
To some, ‘‘words alone are certain good’’ but not to the epic’s narrator, who, as if acknowledging the hopelessness of painting a credible verbal picture of innocent life, continually calls attention to the ‘‘guilty shame’’ and ‘‘dishonest shame’’ that evoke innocence only by contrast and by a sense of absence (4.313). As the unhappy turns in the careers of Satan, Adam, and Eve demonstrate, linguistic self-subversion, irony, and ambiguity, including, at its lowest, downright bad puns, inhere in the expression of fallen natures. Such a language drifts ineluctably into waywardness and perverse complexity and is, by definition, inadequate to the task of depicting innocent perfection on its own terms. But a poet need not be limited to the depiction of innocence solely by its absence: the illusion of its presence is within the domain of artistic symbolism. It would appear that, for the purpose of dramatizing the state of innocence, Milton’s poetic style displays a remarkable bond between his language and the use of uncomplicated symbolic formal patterns. In exploring the nature of those patterns, we find that they are restricted to Books 4, 5, and 8 of Paradise Lost: precisely those portions of the epic in which Adam and Eve are described or act in their unfallen condition. We shall not come upon anything similar to Milton’s art of innocence elsewhere in Paradise Lost or throughout Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes: all such passages and works chiefly concern fallen experience and conditions and thus have their own appropriate modes of presentation. The symbolic patterns associated with the style and language of innocence lend a sense of authenticity to the early speeches of the innocent Adam and Eve. Among those early speeches, the one which displays the most concentrated example of the patterns we shall now consider is Eve’s love-lyric ‘‘Sweet is the breath of morn’’:
V o l u m e
2
6 0 3
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun When first on this delightful Land he spreads His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow’r, Glist’ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful Ev’ning mild, then silent Night With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon, And these the Gems of Heav’n, her starry train: But neither breath of Morn when she ascends With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flow’r, Glist’ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful Ev’ning mild, nor silent Night With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon, Or glittering Star light without thee is sweet. (4.641 56)
The principal effect of the passage is one of enclosure and depends on the careful placement of key words. The lyric’s opening line, ‘‘Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,’’ illustrates the effect in miniature by using the same word in its first and tenth syllables. The effect continues throughout the series of clauses that completes the initial part of the passage: ‘‘pleasant the Sun,’’ ‘‘fragrant the fertile earth,’’ and, finally, ‘‘sweet the coming on / Of grateful Ev’ning mild.’’ What is being enclosed, of course, is the scale of creation from ‘‘morn’’ to ‘‘Ev’ning mild,’’ settings for the sun and moon whose importance and interdependence are emphasized by their use as endwords in their respective lines. The same phrases and images reappear in the second part of the lyric: the sun and moon again serve as end-words for their lines, but Eve’s sense of the harmonious interrelationships among things would not be ‘‘sweet’’ without Adam as her companion. Eve’s lyric on the mutual support and pairing of all things ends as it begins: the word ‘‘sweet’’ encloses the cycles and images of day and night in a circle, which, as a symbol of fullness and perfection, is appropriate to Eve’s innocent state of being. The sixteen lines of Eve’s lyric, which has been described mistakenly as a sonnet, are actually much more interesting and strictly unified in their use of key words to establish patterns of enclosure and circularity of evident symbolic value. By touching on the fullness of the scale of creation, such patterns of enclosure are notable, not for their exclusion or limitation of possibilities, but for their participation in a graceful range of complexity. In the verse paragraphs which immediately precede and follow Eve’s love-lyric, Adam anticipates and echoes the imagery and form of Eve’s speech. The phrase ‘‘Night bids us
6 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
rest’’ concludes Adam’s speech before Eve’s lyric begins, and the words ‘‘night’’ and ‘‘rest’’ appear in the opening lines of Adam’s verse paragraph as well, thereby encircling his thoughts on the mutually supportive cycles of their days and nights (4.610–33). As in Eve’s lyric, so here the cyclical imagery and diction are at one with the formal design of the speech. After her lyric has ended and in response to her question about the role of starlight during their sleep, Adam considers the physical and spiritual natures of light and sound in relation to earth and earth’s inhabitants. The speech is thirty lines long (4.659–88) and divides neatly into two fifteen-line halves (659–73; 674– 88). In the first half, Adam notes the relationship of the stars to the sun: both sources of light, in a downward movement, irradiate the ‘‘earth,’’ the word which appears prominently near the beginning (661) and end (672) of this portion of his speech. In the second half, he calls attention to the relationship of ‘‘Millions of spiritual Creatures,’’ including perhaps angels, to their creator as the music of their praise rises from earth to ‘‘heaven,’’ the word which surrounds this portion of the speech (676, 688). Thus, ‘‘Earth’’ and ‘‘Heaven’’ delimit their respective halves of the verse paragraph and, serving as end-words at the beginning (661) and conclusion (688) of the entire speech, circumscribe the mirror-effect of downward and upward motions of first physical and then spiritual forms of energy that ultimately ‘‘lift our thoughts to Heaven.’’ Eve’s love-lyric and the two surrounding speeches by Adam indicate that, to Milton, the presentation of the state of innocence is no mere study in reductive simplicity. Instead, the interaction of linguistic and formal symbols in these passages is sufficiently complex to create a coherent sense of an innocent reality that is complete in itself and that gives the impression of not needing to be encumbered with help from an additional and fallen level of discourse. Opposed to the circles of perfection that befit the innocence of Adam and Eve is the surrounding presence of Satan, whose speeches and activities initiate and conclude Book 4. Enclosing the perfection of Eden and its inhabitants is not enough, however: he needs to break through, as his attempt at the ear of Eve demonstrates. The measure of his success is suggested at the beginning of Book 5 when Eve recounts her troubled dream, which begins with images similar to those of her love-lyric in Book 4. The morning sun and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
evening moon with their attendant birds have been replaced by ‘‘the night-warbling Bird, that now awake / Tunes sweetest his love-labor’d song’’ and by a moon that shines ‘‘with more pleasing light’’ (5.40–42). In her dream, Eve says, ‘‘I rose as at thy call, but found thee not’’ (5.48). The theme of loving interdependence among all things has been replaced by Satan’s theme of selfsufficiency. Adam’s explanation of the dream as a product of wayward faculties seems to satisfy Eve, but their restoration to untroubled innocence is completed by their morning-hymn which ensues shortly thereafter (5.153–208). Standing as the summation of Milton’s art of innocence, the hymn, given its importance and complexity, is best seen whole with line-numbers and divisions noted in the margin: These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sit’st above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of Light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoicing, yee in Heav’n; On Earth join all ye Creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphere While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soul, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st And when high Noon hast gain’d, and when thou fall’st. Moon, that now meet’st the orient Sun, now fli’st With the fixt Stars, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wand’ring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call’d up Light. Air, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Nature’s Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, dusky or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecy skirts with Gold, In honor to the World’s great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds th’ uncolor’d sky, Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices all ye living Souls; ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Even, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good; and if the night Have gather’d aught of evil or conceal’d, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. (5.153 208)
Here patterns of enclosure and circles which symbolize innocent perfection receive their most highly developed expression in the entire epic. Direct addresses to the creator frame the hymn which in its body consists of direct addresses to different aspects of the creation. After the opening seven lines of praise to God and before the final four lines on the need for God’s protective bounty, the hymn displays forty-five lines on the celestial and terrestrial elements of creation (160–204). These forty-five lines are symmetrically balanced: the first twenty address the celestial universe, then comes a middle section of five lines on the physical elements of the creation, and finally twenty more lines on the praise that comes from the earth. At the exact midpoint of these forty-five lines is the phrase ‘‘Perpetual Circle,’’ which describes how the elements intermix to form all things. Images and metaphors of circles dominate the hymn as well. The ‘‘Sons of Light’’ addressed at the beginning of the first twenty-line section ‘‘Circle’’ God’s throne, the ‘‘Fairest of Stars’’ provides a ‘‘bright Circlet’’ to crown the morning, the fixed stars are whirled about in the moving ‘‘Orb,’’ and the entire passage is encircled by the word ‘‘Light’’ which serves as the end-word for lines one and twenty. The counterbalancing twenty-line section on the terrestrial scale of creation uses the word ‘‘praise’’ to end its major clauses, a praise that, according to other important words at the ends of lines, must ‘‘rise’’ and ‘‘ascend’’ as the passage touches on various aspects of earthly life associated with the springing forth of the morning light. The symmetrical patterns of symbolic order just described would appear to counter the epic narrator’s claim which immediately precedes
V o l u m e
2
6 0 5
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
the morning-hymn: namely, that such utterances from the innocent Adam and Eve are ‘‘Unmeditated’’ and spontaneous, occurring ‘‘in Prose or numerous Verse’’ (5.149,150). The ‘‘various style’’ (146) to which the narrator calls attention leads Joseph Summers to note the variety of strophic and syntactical lengths in the morninghymn and to suggest that such variety is intrinsic to Milton’s idea of perfection. Now, it is demonstrably the case that the internal structure of the hymn is irregular and, by avoiding predictable lengths in its sections, fosters a sense of freedom; at the same time, it is equally demonstrable that the hymn fulfills strict patterns of symbolic order through its images, the placement of key words, and its overall design. Milton’s articulation of the artistic principle in question also characterizes, of course, the ‘‘Mystical dance’’ of the angels and planets, whose motions are ‘‘regular / Then most, when most irregular they seem’’ (5.620–24). The striking conjunction of freedom and strict form in the morning-hymn, then, is no coincidence, as if we had simply caught Adam and Eve on a good day, but is one of Milton’s most telling demonstrations of what characterizes the state of innocence: spontaneous perfection. At the conclusion of Adam and Eve’s morning-hymn, the epic’s narrator observes, ‘‘So pray’d they innocent, and to thir thoughts / Firm peace recover’d soon and wonted calm’’ (5.209–10). Looking back, we have no difficulty in seeing how the morning-hymn accomplishes such a firm support to the theme of innocence. Its patterns of circular imagery and symmetry recall Eve’s love-lyric in Book 4 but on a larger scale and in a much more elaborate way, thereby reasserting the perfection of being assigned to Adam and Eve at the outset. The morninghymn also recalls the scale of creation which here receives one of the most detailed and extensive treatments to be found in the epic. By this means, the theme of interdependence among all things is unequivocally restated and removes any traces of self-sufficiency as suggested by Satan to Eve in her dream. Looking ahead, we can anticipate Raphael’s visit to Eden: in particular, his presentation of the scale of creation as a great tree of life (5.469–505). After listening to Raphael’s speech, Adam provides a key to the symbolism with which we have been dealing: he is pleased with how the angel has
6 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
the scale of Nature set From centre to circumference, whereon In contemplation of created things By steps we may ascend to God. (5.509 12)
Of course, the orderliness of the spheres and circles of existence is a measure of the primal condition of perfection. ‘‘So pray’d they innocent,’’ but to read innocently is another matter. Even in the morninghymn, the magnificent purity and control of style and expression cannot eliminate opportunities for verbal dissonance. When Adam and Eve call upon the ‘‘Fairest of Stars’’ to praise God with the planet’s ‘‘bright Circlet’’ and ‘‘Sphere,’’ it is difficult not to think of Venus as Lucifer, the morning star. Were Adam and Eve to know of Satan as the false Lucifer, as they will after the departure from Eden brings a tragic depth to their experience, they could not pray so confidently and avoid wrestling with language. For the reader, the problem is similar to that raised by Eve’s ‘‘wanton ringlets’’ in Book 4. The morninghymn’s ‘‘Mists and Exhalations’’ that nourish ‘‘the thirsty Earth with falling showers’’ and usher in the terrestrial praise of the creator present a related problem, given that in Book 9 Satan enters Eden ‘‘involv’d in rising Mist’’ and moves about like ‘‘a black mist low creeping’’ (9.75,180). In the overall context of the poem, Milton’s imagery seems designed to complicate and compromise depictions of innocence, leading to further considerations of what has been lost along with the simplicity of language. Within passages designed to express innocence, however, the function of circular patterns of enclosure is to temper linguistic complexity by supplying images of pure form that resist misinterpretation and by exemplifying those images through the symmetrical positioning of key words or other elements of poetic structure. The resulting language is purified, as it were, by the formal ritual of symbolic patterns, which are evident once more in our final example of dramatized innocence: Adam’s account of his initial consciousness as a living being (8.249–91). The remarkable internal structure of the opening forty-three lines of Adam’s long verse paragraph reveals a deft use of enclosure. The opening eight lines (249–56) and concluding nine lines (283–91) frame the central portion of twenty-six lines, which present Adam’s first sensations and thoughts and which divide exactly in half. The key word in the framing lines
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
around the central portion is ‘‘sleep,’’ displayed prominently as the end-word of lines 253 and 287. Adam’s account of his life’s beginnings, which are thus literally and symbolically rounded with the word ‘‘sleep,’’ then ensues (257–82), with each thirteen-line section being virtually the mirror-image of the other. In the first thirteen-line section, Adam’s enchantment with the heavens prompts him to stand erect and then peruse the pastoral images around him before attending to his own physical abilities. What he has done is to go symbolically from the ethereal source of his being to an intuition of a scale of creation around him that ascends from ‘‘Hill, Dale, and shady Woods’’ to ‘‘Creatures that liv’d and mov’d’’ and, finally, to himself. In the second thirteen-line section, he is able to speak and name all that he perceives, repeat almost verbatim the images he has noted, and he concludes by inferring the existence of ‘‘some great Maker’’ to account for the existence and design of the world. The entire twenty-six lines thus end almost where they began. A sense of heavenly origins encircles Adam’s creation, but the end has the additional creative glory of a self-reflexive and ordered language that enables him to express an exact sense of being happier than he knows. His first perceptions, first words, and first encircling sense of perfection all harmonize precisely to give the illusion of primordial innocence. In the fallen world, however, great poets have repeatedly lamented the indeterminacy of language and have accordingly explored the greater precision which may be forged through symbolic form. Now, Milton is not unusual in employing symbolic form to control the waywardness of language when it relies on verbal meanings alone. Other instances pervade the history of poetry, and a few words should be added to distinguish between the tempering effect of symbolic form on language for general purposes in contrast to the depiction of innocence as a particular problem. Since we have been concerned with circles and spheres especially, let us use these figures to illustrate a few distinctions. Sometimes circles and spheres appear as basically uncomplicated descriptive images without having to perform larger tasks associated with symbolic form: such is their function, for example, in depicting elements of creation in Book 7 of Paradise Lost. More often, though, their symbolic possibilities prove irresistible. To Ben Jonson, Donne, Herbert, Marvell, Dryden,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L o s t
and others in Milton’s century, to name a few, circles and spheres have symbolic value that focuses the themes of major poems. To T. S. Eliot in our century, the Four Quartets employ circles and patterns of enclosure to break away from the linear tyranny of time and the instability of words, which in ‘‘Burnt Norton’’ are said to strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.
As a result, the Four Quartets attempt to set their images on a higher plane of symbolism in which beginnings and ends circle towards one another because Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. (‘‘Burnt Norton,’’ 5.140 43)
Thus, the word ‘‘stillness’’ is carefully positioned to enclose the simile of the Chinese jar in a demonstration of theme through the clarity of a formal pattern. To Eliot, circles are important for containing still, central points in a turning world of words. As such, the formal pattern uses language to evoke a sense of something beyond language, a transcendent order or symbol of permanence. There is necessarily a gap between temporal and symbolic realities as form supplements language. That gap or sense of dislocation is inherent in the nature of fallen language, which perforce relates to a fallen world, and is therefore characteristic of most symbolic discourse. By contrast, innocent perfection requires that there be no sense of dislocation. The presentation of innocence presupposes acts of perception in which reality and appearance are indistinguishable in the union of language and symbolic form. In this respect, perhaps no poet since Milton has pondered the relationship of language to pure form so carefully as has Wordsworth, who, in his treatment of the theme of innocence, is even capable of expressing the process of perception by which innocence may be attained. An example of his ability to create a sense of innocence is in ‘‘Home at Grasmere’’ as the poet describes the sensation of living in that place: ’Tis, but I cannot name it, ’tis the sense Of majesty, and beauty, and repose, A blended holiness of earth and sky, Something that makes this individual Spot,
V o l u m e
2
6 0 7
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
Eliot, T. S., ‘‘Milton,’’ in Sewanee Review, Vol. 56, No. 2, Spring 1948, pp. 185 209.
This small Abiding place of many Men, A termination, and a last retreat, A Centre, come from whereso’er you will, A Whole without dependence or defect, Made for itself; and happy in itself, Perfect Contentment, Unity entire.
, ‘‘Milton II,’’ in On Poetry and Poets, by T. S. Eliot, Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1957, pp. 165 83.
The sensation Wordsworth cannot name is, of course, innocent perfection, which he is attempting to apply to his home ground. Language can only approximate that sensation, and so the passage, as it progresses, carefully refines its terms, using circles and patterns of enclosure to control the description, which becomes increasingly abstract and aligned with the purity of geometrical form, until it concludes in the line ‘‘Perfect Contentment, Unity entire’’ in which words of two syllables enclose those of three. Here, as in the examples from Paradise Lost, all elements of language are coordinated to serve the symbolism of pure form and even express the process by which that coordination or union of perceptions is achieved. Wordsworth’s memories of a more perfect state of being are, of course, at the heart of his endeavor to give them a life in the present throughout his major poetry, just as they are the source of the symbolic forms he employs in that endeavor. In Paradise Lost, Milton attempts a fiction which may seem even more daring: a sense that his innocent Eden is no mere memory but a perception of perfection on which memories will be based. For both Milton and Wordsworth, the results show, at the very least, how an illusion of perfection may be suggested beyond the capabilities of verbal meaning alone. At the most, a poignant sense of something ranging from the archetypal to the Platonic may be awakened as the particularities of language fade into insignificance. Source: Lee M. Johnson, ‘‘Language and the Illusion of Innocence in Paradise Lost,’’ in Of Poetry and Politics: New Essays on Milton and His World, edited by P. G. Stanwood, Medieval & Renaissance Texts and Studies, Vol. 126, 1995, pp. 47 58.
Fish, Stanley, Surprised by Sin: The Reader in ‘‘Paradise Lost,’’ Macmillan and St. Martin’s Press, 1998. Herman, Peter C., Destabilizing Milton: ‘‘Paradise Lost’’ and the Poetics of Incertitude, Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. Hutson, Arthur E., and Patricia McCoy, Epics of the Western World, Lippincott, 1954. Lewis, C. S., A Preface to ‘‘Paradise Lost,’’ Oxford Uni versity Press, 1942. Milton, John, Paradise Lost, Norton Critical Edition, edited by Gordon Teskey, Norton, 2004. Peter, John, A Critique of ‘‘Paradise Lost,’’ Columbia University Press and Longman, 1960. Von Maltzahn, Nicholas, ‘‘The First Reception of Para dise Lost,’’ in Review of English Studies, Vol. 47, No. 188, November 1986, pp. 479 99. Waldock, A. J. A., ‘‘Paradise Lost’’ and Its Critics, Cam bridge University Press, 1947. Walker, William, ‘‘On Reason, Faith, and Freedom in Paradise Lost,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500 1900, Vol. 47, No. 1, 2007. Willey, Basil, The Seventeenth Century Background: Studies in the Thought of the Age in Relation to Poetry and Religion, 1934, reprint, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This guide facilitates comprehension of impor tant epics across the centuries, including Paradise Lost. Beer, Anna, Milton: Poet, Pamphleteer, and Patriot, Blooms bury Press, 2009. This work, which uses recently available archives, depicts Milton, his humanity, and his times. Daems, Jim, Seventeenth Century Literature and Culture, Continuum Press, 2008. Giving an overview of the period, Daems presents here a practical guide for students, including an explanation of key terms and a helpful chronology.
SOURCES Adams, Robert M., and George M. Logan, ‘‘The Seven teenth Century: Introduction,’’ in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Vol. 1, Norton, 1993. Daiches, David, Milton, Hutchinson, 1966.
6 0 8
Empson, William, Milton’s God, Chatto and Windus, 1961.
E p i c s
f o r
Forsyth, Neil, John Milton: A Biography, Lion UK, 2009. Forsyth addresses the psychological complex ities and political principles of one of the most politically active poets in English history.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P a r a d i s e
L o s t
Milton AND romanticism
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS
Milton AND Puritanism Paradise Lost Milton AND seventeenth century
John Milton
Milton AND reason
Milton AND epic
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
6 0 9
Pharsalia MARCUS ANNAEUS LUCAN 65
The Pharsalia, written during the reign of Nero (54–68 CE ), is a harrowing portrait of the disintegration of Rome, of civil war, and the triumph of a single will. Yet Lucan’s unfinished epic was a subject of criticism even as he wrote it. In Petronius’s Satyricon, a bitterly satiric novel written by another victim of Nero, a character complains that Pharsalia is not a true epic but a history because it does not incorporate divine motivation. Even more important to later readings of the poem was the historian Tacitus’s negative portrait of the poet in the Annales. Lucan’s ability to paint the terrifying and the unearthly and to produce a pithy quotable line has not endeared him to all critics, but he has never lacked readers. Between 550 and 750 CE , Pharsalia was the only secular poem copied. His partisan portraits of Cato, Brutus, and Marcia made them models for medieval clerics and eighteenthcentury revolutionaries. His treatment of the witch Erictho and her necromancy made a fundamental impression on the western mind. Lucan’s influence surfaces in the narratives of witch trials as well as in horror literature. Despite Lucan’s references to fate, his use of human rather than divine will as the source of action and events is more immediately understandable to modern readers, who may know the work as Civil War (or Bellum Civile or De Bello Civili) because scholars believe that Pharsalia was not Lucan’s choice for the title. Oxford University Press issued the work in a newly annotated, free verse translation in 2008 as Civil War.
6 1 0
P h a r s a l i a
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Of all the poetry written during the short life of Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, better known to English readers as Lucan, only his unfinished epic Pharsalia survives. What little is known about Lucan comes from two biographies that circulated in some manuscripts of Pharsalia and from the Annals of the historian Tacitus. Lucan was born in Cordova in Spain on November 3, 39 CE . He committed suicide at the order of the emperor Nero on April 30, 65 CE . The grandson of a famous rhetorician, Seneca the Elder, and the nephew of philosopher, writer, and financier Seneca the Younger, Lucan was brought to Rome as a baby. There he received the usual upper-class Roman education in literature and public speaking. He also studied Stoicism. By the time he was a teenager, he had made himself a reputation as a public speaker. Nero, his uncle Seneca’s student, encouraged him at first with political appointments, but later the emperor forbade him to plead in the courts, publish his poetry, or even to give private readings. Traditionally, this treatment has been used to explain why Lucan joined a plot to assassinate Nero. Modern scholarship has tended to reject this revenge motive. It is uncertain whether Nero’s change of attitude towards the poet came from jealousy of Lucan’s talent or fear of Lucan’s philosophical and political beliefs that his talent increasingly served. Lucan had written a poem that suggested Nero’s involvement in setting the great fire of 64, which destroyed much of Rome. It is likely that Lucan’s part in a plot to assassinate Nero and to restore the Roman republic was influenced both by his philosophic and political beliefs and his frustration at being denied the political forum of the law courts and an audience for his poetry. Lucan was, however, by all accounts, one of the main conspirators. Stoicism stressed rationality, control of emotions and inner freedom. It taught the existence of a continuum of order embracing both natural law and human ethics. Stoic beliefs and ideals not only permeate Pharsalia, they put its followers in direct opposition to a ruler like Nero. Despite these principles, when the plot was discovered, Lucan broke down and implicated other conspirators, including his innocent mother. He was allowed, like his uncles and father, to commit suicide. For a Roman and a Stoic, suicide was a dignified and rational way of meeting a hopeless situation, and it also legally preserved
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
his estate for his young widow, Polla. It seems Polla never remarried and celebrated his birthday at least for the next twenty years.
PLOT SUMMARY Book One Lucan begins his epic with themes and images that run through the work, ‘‘of legality conferred on crime,’’ images of self-slaughter and self-induced ruin brought on by Rome’s own power and its citizens’ corrupted by wealth and greed. Peace was maintained as long as Crassus, the wealthiest man in Rome, and Julia, daughter of Caesar and wife of Pompey, lived to hold Caesar and Pompey apart. Their deaths left these two unencumbered rivals. Caesar, despite a vision of Rome begging him to turn back, defies the Senate and crosses the Rubicon, the small river in Italy. (‘‘Crossing the Rubicon’’ became a saying that signifies making a small move that has huge ramifications and does not allow one to go back.) He takes Ariminum. Curio comes to urge him to take up arms against Pompey and the Senate. Caesar addresses his troops looking for their support. They are wavering when the senior centurion Laelius speaks, pledging absolute loyalty to Caesar even if it means turning a sword on one’s brother, father, or pregnant wife. They swear their allegiance to Caesar. Fear runs before his army; citizens and senators flee Rome. Portents appear. The senior Etruscan augur sees in the entrails of a sacrificed bull the full horror of the republic’s collapse. The astrologer Figulus sees it in the stars. The book ends with a Roman matron filled with the spirit of prophecy, running frantically through the streets of Rome prophesying the civil war.
Book Two Mothers and wives besiege the altars with prayer while the men prepare for war. An old man recalls the horrors of the civil war between Marius and Sulla. His picture of the butchery in Rome will be matched by the horrors of the sea fight at Massilia (Marseille). Brutus goes to Cato for advice. Cato tells him he intends to join Pompey’s side to protect the republic. Marcia, Cato’s former wife, arrives from the funeral of her husband, Cato’s friend whom she had married at Cato’s request to give the man children. Marcia and Cato marry again. Pompey marches to Capua while Caesar comes down the Italian peninsula, driving all
V o l u m e
2
6 1 1
P h a r s a l i a
before him. Domitius is surrounded in Corfinium and his own men hand him over to Caesar. Caesar releases him. Domitius hurries to join Pompey. Pompey withdraws to Calabria and sends his son to rouse the whole Roman world before setting sail for Greece.
Book Three Pompey sails for Greece. While sleeping, he has a vision of his dead wife Julia, Caesar’s daughter. She reproaches him for his marriage to Cornelia and brings him a prophetic warning of the underworld’s preparations for the civil war. Caesar is vexed at Pompey’s retreat. He sends Curio to secure the grain-producing islands of Sardinia and Sicily, while he leads his troops to Rome. There the tribune Metellus alone opposes his rifling of the treasury. Cotta convinces Metellus to give way. Meanwhile, the known world flocks to Pompey. Caesar leaves Rome and marches towards Massilia. There he insists that the city join him in the civil war. They ask to be allowed not to involve themselves in an internecine Roman war. Caesar lays siege to Massilia. He leaves for Spain, ordering that the siege be kept. The Greeks defeat the Romans at the landward walls. The Romans attack by sea in a ferocious battle. Men die horrible deaths, their bodies broken and unrecognizable. Massilia falls.
Book Four Caesar enters Spain where Afranius and Petreius lead the senatorial army. He pitches his camp opposite the senatorial camp. Rains and the melting snows cause a flood and starvation. When the weather improves, the two armies move their camps. The camps are now so close that the soldiers recognize their friends and relatives across the lines. For a short while, the ties of blood and friendship seem likely to turn the running tide of war. Petreius, however, goads his men back to warfare, killing the very men whom they had welcomed. Caesar rejoices that he now has the moral high ground. He besieges the republican force in the arid hills until thirst breaks them. Afranius leads his dying men out to sue for peace. He asks only that they not be compelled to fight in Caesar’s army. Caesar grants this request; the soldiers depart to enjoy the blessings of peace. Caesar’s fleet in the Adriatic suffers a setback, although in the courage of Vulteius and his men choosing suicide to cheat the republican forces of victory, they achieve a moral victory. Curio, meanwhile, sails for Africa and reaches the ruins of Carthage. He expects luck because he pitches his camp at the ruinous camp of Scipio Africanus,
6 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
conqueror of Carthage. When battle with the North African princes comes, however, his men are slaughtered, and he commits suicide. The narrator regrets that Pompey profited by such a defeat. The book ends with a summation of Curio’s career and character. A man of enormous talents and patriotism, he betrayed his country and his promise; Sulla, Marius, Cinna, and all the Caesars bought their country, but Curio sold it.
Book Five Winter has come. In Epirus, the Senate sits in session preparing for war. Appius, a senator learned in religious matters, travels to Delphi to consult the oracle. The priestess tries to avoid her duty, but is forced to do it by Appius and the god, Apollo. She speaks but is ‘‘not permitted to reveal as much as she is suffered to know,’’ since ‘‘the endless chain of events is revealed’’ to her. Her prophecy to Appius is true but misleading. He finds the peace in Euboea she foretells, in his grave. Caesar faces down a mutiny. He hurries to Rome and is voted consul. He then rushes to Brundisium. There at first the fleet is becalmed. Eventually, he reaches Greece. Mark Antony is slow to join him with his men. Caesar attempts to sail back to Italy in a small fishing boat but, surviving a ferocious storm, returns to his army in Greece. The storm over, Antony’s forces arrive. Pompey recognizes that the war is about to come to a head. He sends Cornelia to the island of Lesbos for safety. Both are grief-stricken at parting.
Book Six The armies encamp on neighboring heights. They move, trying to gain advantage. Caesar plans a great entrenchment to hem in Pompey’s troops without their knowing it. Pompey realizes his plan and disperses his troops to stretch Caesar’s armies. Pompey’s forces are well provisioned but suffering from disease. Caesar’s are unable to get new provision because Pompey holds the coast and are thus starving. Pompey attempts to break out. He is nearly successful, but is held at bay by Scaeva, one of Caesar’s centurions. Pompey then breaks out at the seacoast. Caesar rushes to fight him, but suffers a defeat. Pompey does not follow up his initial advantage, but as Caesar withdraws, Pompey intends to hurry his flight. Pompey is urged to return to Rome, but refuses to do so before he can disband his army. Pompey marches towards Thessaly. Lucan recounts the evil things that have originated in Thessaly. The rivals pitch their camps. Sextus, the son of Pompey, urged by
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
fear, decides to consult the senior witch, Erictho. Sextus finds her working on a spell to keep the war at Philippi. The witch is pleased to help and immediately searches for a suitably fresh corpse and forces it to speak, promising safety from any future necromancy. The soldier describes the dead heroes and villains of Roman history, mourning or rejoicing over the battle’s outcome. He urges the Pompeians to go bravely to death; they will be admitted to Elysium, the fields of the blessed.
Book Seven The morning of Pharsalia dawns. Pompey wakes from a dream in which the citizens in Rome acclaimed him. The army urges a speedy engagement and accuses Pompey of hanging back. Cicero (in his one appearance in the Pharsalia), eager to return to the forum, urges Pompey to engage the enemy. Pompey has a premonition of the disaster to come. He knows that whichever side wins, horrors and carnage will follow. The auspices cannot be taken; the bull bolts into the fields and cannot be caught. Ready for a day of foraging, Caesar sees his chance. He urges his army on, telling them the opposing army is full of foreigners; most of the lives they must take are not Roman. Caesar also speaks of his inclination to clemency compared to Pompey and the Senate, praying the gods to ‘‘give victory to him who does not feel bound to draw the ruthless sword against beaten men, and does not believe that his fellow citizens committed a crime by fighting against him: ‘‘None of you must smite a foe in the back, and every fugitive must pass as a countryman.’’ Pompey dreads the approach of Caesar’s army and understands his dread as a bad omen. He harangues his troops, urging them to think of Rome, the aged senators, the mothers of families, Romans yet to be born, entreating them to secure their freedom. The battle takes place. The slaughter leaves the world desolate. Liberty is lost there to generations yet unborn, who have no chance to fight for themselves. The battle turns against the republican army. Pompey leaves the battle, fearing that otherwise the army will stay to be slaughtered. Caesar allows his soldiers to pillage Pompey’s deserted camp and denies burial to the dead.
Book Eight Pompey takes a ship to Lesbos to rejoin Cornelia. She sees Pompey’s approach and immediately recognizes the signs of defeat and collapses. The people of Lesbos offer Pompey a secure base. Filled with gratitude, he declines. All grieve the departure
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
of Cornelia who has won their affection with her goodness. Pharsalia’s survivors rally to Pompey. He sends King Deiotarus in disguise to see if he can raise the east to their aid. Finally, at Syhedra, he addresses the senators. He asks to whom they should turn for aid, Libya, Egypt, or Parthia. He rejects the first two and suggests Parthia. Lentulus rejects this suggestion with disdain because it is unRoman and against the essential nature of their campaign to preserve liberty. Lentulus urges them to seek aid in Egypt. Egypt meanwhile learns of their approach and takes council. Old Acoreus urges loyalty to their benefactor, Pompey. Pothinus urges the young pharaoh to kill Pompey who will bring Caesar down upon them. Achillas is sent to meet Pompey and kill him. He offers to bring Pompey ashore in his boat. The Romans are suspicious, but Pompey chooses to die rather than to reveal fear. Cornelia begs to accompany him and is refused. Once in the boat, Pompey is murdered; his head is brought to the pharaoh. Cordus cremates Pompey’s body on the seashore and buries the ashes in hope of retrieving them for Cornelia.
Book Nine Pompey’s spirit soars to heaven. Cato and Brutus are now the leaders of a senatorial party, which ‘‘after the death of Magnus, was the party of freedom.’’ Cornelia grieves, urging her stepsons to carry on the war. Cato gives Pompey a somewhat ambiguous funeral oration, rallies the army, and sets sail for Cyrene, which he takes. He and his army set out for Libya. Unable to reach it by sea, he marches over land through the desert, suffering thirst and then poisonous snakes. He refuses to consult the great oracle of Ammon Zeus. A number of his men die from snakebites, and he refuses with disdain a drink of water from one of his men. Cato shares his men’s sufferings and encourages them even at their deaths. Finally, the Psylli protect his army against the snakes. Eventually, they reach Leptis. Caesar, meanwhile, has been tracking Pompey. He visits the site of Troy. Caesar prays to the gods to give him prosperity and promises to restore Troy. He reaches Egypt where he is presented with Pompey’s head. Caesar at least feigns horror.
Book Ten Caesar arrives in Egypt. He visits the tomb of Alexander, giving the narrator the chance to redirect his reader’s view of Alexander’s achievements,
V o l u m e
2
6 1 3
P h a r s a l i a
casting an equally unflattering light on Caesar’s. Cleopatra seduces Caesar. He pursues his affair with her while the senatorial forces regroup. During a great feast given by Cleopatra in Caesar’s honor, Lucan introduces three traditional categories of information about Egypt, the great wealth of the country, its long history, and finally the mystery of the Nile’s floods and source. Pothinus, who plotted Pompey’s murder, now moves against the other Roman who threatens Egyptian independence and his own position. He convinces the young pharaoh to surprise Caesar, ridding him at one stroke of both the internal (Cleopatra) and external threat to his throne. Pothinus does not follow up his initial advantage. Caesar, energetic and resourceful, takes Ptolomy hostage and sets fire to the Egyptian fleet, which threatens him. The fire spreads to the city itself. Caesar beheads Porthinus and seizes the city’s great lighthouse, closing Alexandria to shipping. He prepares to evacuate his army on his own ships when he is brought to bay on the causeway linking the lighthouse to the city by fresh Egyptian forces. The book breaks off with another appearance of the heroic Scaeva.
CHARACTERS
Brutus was with Cassius, the leader of the group that assassinated Caesar in 44 BCE .
Caesar The antihero of Pharsalia, Caesar is a Roman general and politician from an ancient Roman clan that claims descent from Iules, son of the Trojan prince Aeneas and the grandson of the goddess Venus. Caesar is fortune’s man, but he also makes the most of fortune. He grabs every advantage with both hands. When fortune wavers, he makes his own. He is a master of military engineering. His personal bravery and consideration for his men make him popular with the men in the ranks. The historical Caesar was noted for his clemency, but Lucan plays this trait down at every turn.
Cato The moral center—if not the hero—of the Pharsalia, Cato has been traditionally seen as the embodiment of Stoic ideals in the service of the Roman state.
Cleopatra The sister and queen of the young Ptolomy, king of Egypt, Cleopatra throws her lot in with Caesar and distracts him from his duties in pursuing war. For Lucan, civil war appears to be preferable to dallying with Cleopatra.
Cornelia
Achillas Achillas is the Egyptian official who kills Pompey on the order of the Pharaoh Ptolomy and his council. He is later executed by the Egyptian princess Arsinoe.
The widow of Crassus’s son who dies at Carrhae with his father, massacred by the Parthians (the inhabitants of modern Iran), Cornelia marries Pompey after the death of his wife Julia. The reaction of the people of Lesbos when she leaves the island with her husband testifies to her appeal.
Arruns The oldest of the Etruscan seers, Arruns is called to Rome in Book One to perform the traditional rites of divination. When he inspects the internal organs of the bull sacrificed to the gods, he discovers that ‘‘What we fear is unspeakable, but worse will follow.’’
Crassus
Brutus
Curio
A Roman senator and follower of Stoicism, Brutus is a descendant of Brutus the first consul who drove the tyrant king Tarquin Superbus out of Rome and founded the republic. At first, he intends to join neither side to avoid the guilt of civil war and to free himself to deal with the winner, whether Pompey or Caesar, but then Cato convinces him to join Pompey’s camp.
One of the tribunes (officials whose duty it is to look after the rights of ordinary citizens), Curio urges Caesar to defy the Senate and fight his fellow countrymen. He is, for Lucan, even viler than Caesar. Caesar buys his country’s liberty, but Curio sells it. He is a potent symbol of Roman strengths and talents diverted from the good of the commonwealth to personal aggrandizement.
6 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
With Pompey and Caesar, Crassus dominates Roman politics until he and his son, Cornelia’s first husband, are slaughtered along with their legions in an attempt to conquer the Parthians, the inhabitants of what is modern Iran.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
Deiotarius A client king, ruler under Roman patronage of part of Asia minor, Deiotarius is a loyal friend to Pompey and the republican cause. Disguised as a beggar, he is sent by Pompey in the aftermath of the battle of Pharsalia on a secret mission to the king of the Parthians in modern Iran.
Lucius Ahenobarbus Domitius Lucius Ahenobarbus Domitius is an ancestor of Nero. Lucan treats him with some respect, not because he wishes to flatter Nero, but because he is the one major republican who dies in battle at Pharsalia.
Erictho Erictho is the chief Thracian witch who is more than happy to oblige by contacting the god at Delphi. She is the most notorious of the famous Thracian witches. In many ways, she is the female equivalent of Caesar.
Figulus Figulus is an astrologer whose reading of the stars confirms the terrible, if enigmatic, prophecies of Arruns. Peace will only bring the endless loss of freedom. He urges the Romans not to pray for an end to the bloodshed because when it ends, their freedom will, too.
Gnaeus Pompeius Gnaeus Pompeius is Pompey’s eldest son. His father sends him to raise soldiers and allies all over the Roman world.
Pharsalia, not merely between fellow countrymen, but kinsmen.
Laelius Laelius is a senior centurion of Caesar’s army. His speech in Book One convinces the army to follow Caesar into civil war. Laelius’s unwavering loyalty to Caesar rather than to his country or even his family represents a disastrous change in the late Roman republic. Soldiers’ loyalty to a charismatic patron commander rather than to Rome fueled the rise of dictator warlords like Sulla and Marius in Pompey and Caesar’s youth, as well as Pompey and Caesar themselves. In Lucan’s childhood, the continuing loyalty of the legions to Caesar’s family frustrated an attempt to restore the republic after the murder of Emperor Caligula. The Roman preference for the rule of one man rather than the Senate continues after the death of Nero.
Lagus See Ptolomy
Publius Cornelius Lentulus Publius Cornelius Lentulus is one of the consuls in 49 BCE . He convenes the Senate at Epirus and commands the left wing of the republican forces at Pharsalia. In Book Eight, he takes the lead in quashing the idea that the Parthians should be called into the war.
Magnus See Pompey
Marcia Iuba Iuba is the king of Libya, who destroys the army of Curio. He is an image of the timeless enmity between Rome and Carthage.
Julia The daughter and only child of Caesar and the wife of Pompey, Julia is the child of his beloved first wife Cornelia who died young. When the civil war begins, she is dead, and Pompey is married to another Cornelia, the widow of Crassus’s son who died with his father fighting the Persians. At the beginning of Book Three, she appears in a dream to Pompey in the guise of a fury (a spirit who punishes kin murder) to prophesy his death and the carnage of the civil war. She resents Pompey’s quick remarriage and tells him that in battle she will appear to him as a constant reminder that the war is, as Lucan writes at the beginning of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Marcia is Cato’s wife and the mother of his three children. Cato divorced her so that his childless friend Hortensius could marry her and father a family. In Book Two, Hortensius has just died. Marcia comes to Cato from the funeral and asks him to marry her again so she can be with him in his struggle for Rome and die his wife. Some commentators see Marcia as a symbol of Rome.
Marius Marius is a Roman general, dictator, and husband of Caesar’s aunt. He is the opponent of Sulla.
Metellus Metellus is the tribune of the people who attempts to stop Caesar from breaking into the public treasury to pay his soldiers. Lucan observes that it is only his love of money that makes Metellus incapable of fear.
V o l u m e
2
6 1 5
P h a r s a l i a
Old Roman Man
Scaeva
In Book Two, an old man recounts the sorrows and horror of the civil war and proscriptions in the time of Sulla. He is the counterpart of the matron inspired with prophecy in Book One. His description of the murder and mutilation of the dead fulfilled in every battle of the civil war.
Scaeva is a Roman centurion, the paramount example of virtus perverted. He single-handedly holds off Pompey’s army while Caesar brings up reinforcements. Caesar sees Scaeva, as reported in the last lines of the Pharsalia. It has often been assumed that this appearance must be a vision, but Jamie Masters, in his argument that the extant poem is complete although not thoroughly revised, points out that the historical Scaeva survived his much exaggerated wounds at Dyrrachium.
Pompey Pompey, who is also known as Magnus, is a successful general and politician who has managed almost to live down his connection with the vicious dictator Sulla. There sometimes appears to be two Pompeys. The first is a man as bloodstained and hungry for power as Caesar. The second is the leader of the fight for libertas, not the perfect hero, but as Cato says of him, good by comparison to his evil times.
Porthinus The chamberlain of the young Egyptian king and the power behind the throne, Porthinus suggests the murder of Pompey and attempts to kill both Caesar and Cleopatra in the palace at Alexandria. Parthinus is executed by Caesar.
Ptolomy Ptolomy, who is also known as Lagus, is the young pharaoh of Egypt and brother of Cleopatra. Some writers see in him at least a partial portrait of Nero. The variant name is derived from his ancestor, the first Macedonian king of Egypt.
Roman Matron Possessed by Apollo, the god of prophecy, the Roman Matron makes the third of three prophecies about the war at the end of Book One. The first two are made by men trained in the reading of the future, Arruns in the Etruscan manner observing the internal organs of sacrificed animals, and Figulus, an astrologer. The matron’s prophecy is the clear and violent. While the other prophets are professionals who have been asked to read the signs, she speaks the words that convey direct intervention of the divine in human affairs. Apollo’s choice of her to be his mouthpiece is particularly poignant given that she is a matron (the mother of a family). She naturally fears for the men of her two families, but she also echoes the intervention in early Roman history of the Sabine women who attempt to end a battle between their Roman husbands and Sabine fathers and brothers.
6 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
Pompeius Sextus Pompeius Sextus is the younger of Pompey’s two sons. He decides out of fear to consult Erictho. It has been suggested that he is meant as a portrait of Nero.
Sulla The first of the Roman dictators, in the modern sense of the word, as opposed to the traditional Roman sense of a man given special constitutional powers for a limited period in times of national crisis. His rule was infamous for massacres and wave after wave of political murders.
THEMES Libertas Libertas for a Roman citizen meant various rights and obligations. Particularly important to the Roman sense of self was the freedom, theoretically, to have a voice in shaping Roman law and policy. Romans acknowledged only the law and the lawfully constituted magistrates whose power derived from their will. It is easy to dismiss libertas, particularly in the late republic, as only aristocratic privilege. Lucan makes clear in Pharsalia that he is aware of the shortcomings of libertas. Lucan’s libertas may appear limited or naive to some, but it has touched a chord with every period to which the liberty of the individual to live a considered and self-controlled life in an orderly and humane society has been recognized as a supreme good. It is unfair to speak of his concept of libertas as being restricted to one class. Lucan displays the imaginative sympathy to recognize the nobility and virtus (courage) of anyone who yearned for the right and the honorable. He carefully draws attention to the Massilians who have left the Romans behind in the practice of their
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
own virtues. They emerge, as no Roman does, with the qualities of the early republic. They are resolute, true to their friends, and desiring only to behave with piety towards gods and men.
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Suicide and Fratricide
Create a PowerPoint presentation on the rise and personalities of American populist politicians in the first half of the twentieth century, providing pictures where possible and comparing these populists to the Populares of the late Roman Republic. Lucan’s circumstances as a writer who tries to work while beset by pressures or restrictions have been repeated throughout history. Write a report about a comparable experience for writers working under another dictatorship, such as those persecuted by Pol Pot in Cambodia or Polish artists and intellectuals under the Nazis. In Book Ten, Lucan has one of his characters discuss the source of the Nile. Research online and in the library about the search for the source of the Nile up to its discovery in the nineteenth century and draw a timeline of the efforts. Lucan has both his narrator and Julius Caesar mention Caesar’s reform of the calendar. Do an interdisciplinary study of the development of various calendars around the world and then present drawings or photos of other calendar systems with explanatory notes. Note their importance for the development of mathematics and astronomy.
Poet, novelist, literary scholar, and translator Robert Graves called Lucan the ‘‘father of the costume film.’’ Compare Lucan’s use of atmospheric landscape, the supernatural, or the representation of brutality to their use in films. If possible, use film clips to illustrate your points.
Lucan’s portrait of Erictho and her magic contributed to the development of western ideas of witchcraft. Find other stories that contain witchcraft, or historical accounts of witch trials, and write a comparison report or make a presentation poster for class that outlines the similarities between the witchcraft elements in these stories and the beliefs and accusations in Lucan’s text.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Lucan begins the Pharsalia by reminding his audience that the Roman civil war is worse than civil, it is fratricidal. Pompey and Caesar were, as he repeats at every turn, son-in-law and father-in-law, thus in the conflict, kin against kin. Rome turns its sword upon itself. The speech of the Centurion Laelius is chilling not only for the fanaticism it places in the service of an amoral leader, but also for the complete breakdown of the social contract and common humanity. Laelius will turn his sword against the gods, his father, his brother, even his pregnant wife out of loyalty to Caesar. He has lost the sense of the wounds each of these blows would inflict upon him. This sort of war involves all participants in guilt; no one’s hands, however righteous his cause, are free from the blood of a brother or sister, a fellow citizen. Lucan never allows his readers to forget the suicidal nature of the conflict. Timothy Hill, in a chapter on Lucan in his book about the place of suicide in Roman life, says that Lucan exploited the concerns of his audience regarding suicide, a contemplation focused on nobility, yet riddled with anxiety. Hill also points out the number of suicides in the epic and the detail given to their description. Even the grammatical structure of Lucan’s sentences serves to carry the theme. Again and again the logical object of a sentence is made the grammatical subject as in this example: ‘‘their breasts dashed against the steel, and their throats struck the hand.’’ Lucan uses this structure because it illustrates the paradox of civil war, where every blow wounds the one who strikes even more than the one who receives it. Nevertheless, suicide has its positive side for Lucan. It is the final weapon against the tyranny of humans and events. People can be forced to endure any evil, if they do not fear death. Death removes a person from all compulsion. It is also, in the sense of the Roman concept of devotio, the means whereby one offers one’s life to the gods for the good of the people. The word devotio paradoxically and appropriately means both consecrating and cursing. These meanings are reflected
V o l u m e
2
6 1 7
P h a r s a l i a
in Cato’s wish to offer his life to the powers of heaven and hell, to atone for his country’s sins.
Fortune, Fate, and Chance Lucan makes little distinction between fortune and fate. They both correspond roughly to the modern meaning of fate, but they are not exactly interchangeable. Servius wrote, ‘‘Birth and death are the provinces of fate; all that lies between is the province of fortune.’’ Frederick Ahl explains that Fate is used here to suggest the definite and definable order of the world, the ultimate boundaries of life on individuals, nations, and the universe itself. Death is the only certainty in life, and therefore, it is the only event over which the individual may have control and it is the ultimate weapon in defense of freedom. Lucan attributes to natural law the existence of inevitable moral entropy. The empire’s own growth brought it to the state where collapse was inevitable. Chance is only a cause for which men do not understand the reason. Fortune is chance controlled by divine agency. Because it favors certain individuals, fortune appears to have a rudimentary personality. This favor, however irrational or immoral, is a series of occurrences that has a pattern. Fate in the opening of Pharsalia is described as invidia, or jealous. This might be too little to allow it to be described as a personification, but it recalls the Greek belief that the gods would never allow people or their institutions to blur the distinction between the human and the divine through too much success.
Virtus Virtus is the word behind the modern English virtue. However, while the modern English word tends to mean what is practiced, the Latin word tends to mean the practice. That is, virtus does not refer to individual virtuous states, like honesty, prudence, humility, but to the strength that carries out right action. The difference between pietas and virtus is the difference between sterile and unthinking dedication to the mos maiorem or traditional customs and values and the conscious thoughtful commitment to discovering and following the good. The suicide of Vulteius and his men is a classic example of the Stoic use of death, but their virtue is thrown away on a man who will reduce men and women to a state in which death is seen as the only freedom. The centurion Scaeva is the embodiment of martial courage and devotion to duty. He withstands the onslaught
6 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
Marcus Porcius Cato (The Library of Congress)
of an army, but his virtus is corrupted because it is directed toward the victory of a tyrant over libertas. Caesar’s mercy in this view is a punishment to the one who receives it.
STYLE Epic Features Lucan composed his epic in Virgil’s shadow. However, he absorbed and transformed Virgil and the whole epic tradition back to Homer. He was forced to jettison the traditional gods, not so much as a result of his Stoic education, but because the Virgilian epic and Julio-Claudian propaganda had so closely associated the traditional pantheon with Caesar. His choice and development of the witch Erictho and of the image of Anateus are good examples of his subversion of the Virgilian epic.
Point of View It is important to distinguish between Lucan and his narrator. Lucan the poet depicts situations and characters so that readers look at them one way, while the narrator insists readers look at them in another. It is interesting to consider how
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
the point of view would have changed if the conspiracy against Nero had succeeded.
Setting The action of Pharsalia sweeps back and forth across the Roman world. The choice of setting was dictated largely by history, but the specific treatment of places is atmospheric, colored by the traditional associations of wild places and city. City equals family and society. Wilderness conveys danger and horror, the result of the breakdown of society and family.
Imagery The leading images of the Pharsalia are those of shattered boundaries and dismembered bodies. The horrific treatment of men’s bodies forces the reader to place both sides before the bar of common humanity. Civil war must destroy even what the republican cause hopes to save. Persistent images of disintegration convey the violent disintegration of the Roman state and the shredded bonds between friends, kinsmen, and brothers. These images are buttressed by the repeated reference to friends and kinsmen, seeing each other across the battle lines. Related to the image of broken bodies is the image of the broken boundary. Under this category is the crossing of the Rubicon and the deaths of Crassus and Julia who had at the same time joined Pompey and Caesar and kept them from confrontation. Lucan places Crassus and Julia in a continuum with two emotionally potent episodes in Roman history: Romulus’s murder of his brother for defiantly jumping over the lines of Rome’s unbuilt walls and the Sabine women’s throwing themselves between the opposing forces of their husbands and fathers. The first preyed on the Roman mind with a sense of fratricidal bloodguilt. The second was a bracing example of female virtus in the service of duty born of love. Cato in Book Two pulls together this imagery when he wishes that he could stand between both armies and intercept every blow. The battle between Curio and Iuba is described in terms of gladiatorial combat. Lucan’s focus on the gladiatorial combat hinges on the original function of these combats as funeral games and sacrifices to the dead. Curio’s death is described as an offering to the dead of Carthage. Lucan’s landscapes and their figurative significance are firmly within the Latin literary tradition. Fear of the wild, often expressed in terms
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
of forests and mountains, seems to have been embedded in the Roman psyche. Cities represent the natural law of humanity, the safety of family, and the known context of social cohesion. The wilderness marks the site of war and the breakdown in human relationships, even among family and friends.
Digressions Lucan often digresses in the Pharsalia. The digressions draw on a well-developed practice in public speaking and are paralleled in the epics of Lucan’s contemporaries, Statius and Silius. Lucan’s intensity as he tells his main story leaves little space for the delight and technical virtuosity that audiences expected, so these elements are placed almost entirely in his digressions and allow his audience to stabilize emotionally. Despite their apparent lack of justification in the work as a whole, internally, the digressions are carefully composed. They display a thorough knowledge both of their subjects and of their traditional literary treatment. Stylistically, they are dramatic and concrete with neatly turned phasing and pointed moral or philosophical reflection. The digressions are, in fact, far more integrated into the narrative proper than is often acknowledged. The birds-eye view of Brundisium begins with its foundation as a refuge for peaceloving fugitives. The focus narrows line by line from Italy to its extreme southeast corner, to the city itself, the hills behind, the harbor, and the ships at anchor before opening out again to the sea. The movement across the landscape recapitulates Pompey’s flight through Italy to the refuge of Brundisium and anticipates his flight overseas. The description creates not only a sense of place, but more importantly it draws the narrative movement into ironic focus.
Rhetoric Quintillian called Lucan, grandson of the greatest teacher of public speaking in Rome, a better model for a public speaker than for a poet. His poem exploits all the tools of rhetoric and not only in the formal speeches. Rhetoric is simply the means by which a speaker or writer, but usually a speaker in Rome, explains a position or idea and/or convinces an audience to adopt a particular opinion regarding the subject at hand. The duty of the orator, or indeed, of any writer, is to teach, to move, and to entertain. The writer must assemble materials (inventio), carefully organize it (dispositio), and use language to its best advantage (elocutio). The writer must carefully plan out the
V o l u m e
2
6 1 9
P h a r s a l i a
introduction and development of the themes divisio, reducing them to apt and striking comments, short and often ironic, but always didactic sententiae. Finally, the orator must present the facts in a particular light (color) so that the audience at least experiences them from the orator’s point of view.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT
decreed that their resolutions (plebescita) should have the force of law for the whole community. Democracy went no further in Rome, partly because of the expertise the Senate provided and partly because the common people were content to leave matters in its members’ hands. Furthermore, the people’s representatives, the tribunes, were responsible for bringing in a considerable amount of legislation through the Tribal Assembly and were always at hand to monitor the Senate, whose acts they could veto.
First-century Rome and Before Lucan set his epic more than a century before his own time. To understand why Lucan should feel so strongly about events that not even his grandfather could have remembered, it is necessary to understand the circumstances in which the young poet found himself, circumstances that were the direct result of the defeat of the senatorial cause. While the empire at large was reasonably wellgoverned with peace, prosperity, and even justice, the upper classes of Rome and Italy generally suffered the caprices of immediate absolute rule under a series of men who were not immune to either the temptations of their power or the paranoia attendant upon it. Even allowing for the possibility of a certain amount of sensationalism in available sources for events in Rome between Augustus (reigned from 27 BCE until his death in 14 CE ) and Nero (reigned 54–68 CE ), it is clear that Rome was a place of enormous uncertainty and real danger for anyone whose class or role in society involved them in public life. Disengagement was not always a protection because it could be interpreted as a sign of disapproval and disloyalty.
Senatus Populusque Romanus The tradition of participation in government and in public service were vital elements in the formation of the Roman character. The Roman republic was theoretically ruled by the Senate and the people or, in Latin plebs, but was effectively governed by the Senate, three hundred men chosen for life and drawn typically from the landed aristocracy. The Senate’s position derived from custom rather than law. Its capable handling of affairs, particularly during the life-or-death struggles with Carthage and the complex situations in which Rome found itself in Greece, meant that the Roman people were willing to leave foreign affairs and problems of finance to the Senate. In 287 BCE , the Lex Hortensia recognized the sovereign authority of the Roman people and
6 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
The Collapse of a System Lucan never idealized the Roman Republic in its last days. Wealth and widespread slavery, the consequences of Rome’s vast conquests, exacerbated some problems and created others that would have in earlier times been resolved by compromise among a people whose chief characteristic was their pragmatism. Much of Roman politics was family-based and a relatively restricted small group of noble families controlled the consulship, the state religion, and the Senate. Loyalty to family and a desire to protect and increase its power became, in the absence of a powerful external enemy, many senators’ first aim. Among the people at large, the Tribal Assembly came to represent almost exclusively the wishes of city plebs, although if sufficiently aroused, the generally more conservative small farmers would come in to vote. After the Lex Claudia barred senators from taking part in banking or commerce in 218 BCE , a third class arose. The equites were originally plebs who could afford to serve as mounted soldiers. After senators were barred from trade, the equites became the entrepreneurial class in Rome, agitating for more influence on government policy. The equites were in a position to benefit from Rome’s expansion, and their interests became more and more a pretext for further expansion. Enormous wealth flowing into Rome from its conquests upset the traditional economy based on the small farmer. The wealthy could afford slaves to cultivate their land; the small farmer could not. Grain flowing in from large slave-cultivated estates in Sicily and Sardinia exacerbated the problem of a class that had suffered enormous labor losses in the fight against Carthage. Furthermore, this wealth introduced not only pleasurable distractions for Rome’s ruling class, but the possibility of bribing the urban plebs to ensure the outcome of elections. Into this changing world in which power was becoming more closely linked with privilege than with duty, two factions
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
First century: Nero reigns over a vast empire that is established by Julius Caesar by 14 CE and that includes present-day Spain and France, everything in Europe south of the Danube, Italy, Greece, parts of Asia Minor, including Syria and Turkey, and parts of Northern Africa, including Egypt. Today: Former African and Indian colonies of European powers assimilate some of the literary and cultural heritage of their former rulers and adapt and transmute it. First century: Lucan’s world is dominated by the figure of an absolute ruler whose actions can be curbed only by his own moral sense or by assassination. Nero’s reign is one of terror, particularly in his persecution of Christians and other minorities. Today: Absolute rulers continue to exist as monarchs or military dictators. Some have
emerged in the Senate: The Optimates and the Populares.
Optimates and Populares It is incorrect to think of the Optimates as a reactionary senatorial party and the Populares as a democratic or reform party. Moreover, there was not any real class distinction between them. All were senators; among the most notorious Populares were men of the most ancient families. Whatever their motives and intentions, the real distinction between is the two groups was one of method. The Optimates controlled the Senate, and by blocking the policies of other senators, led them to seek support from the Tribal Assembly. Some Populares, like the Grachi brothers, were genuine reformers concerned about the effects of the growing disparity between rich and poor citizens, but many, if not most, sought personal power.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
brief periods in power, whereas others such as the leaders of Cuba and North Korea have long reigns and someone designated to succeed and continue their despotic regime.
First century: Stoicism, originating in ancient Greece, is adopted by upper-class Romans because it revives the old Roman virtues of industry, fearlessness, and stern devotion to duty, seen as a better ethic than the aristocratic self-indulgence and opulence of the early days of the empire; however, the poor who need comforts to meliorate their miseries cannot afford to be drawn to it. Today: Stoicism is much discussed and attracts new followers. Interestingly, there is a major comeback of stoicism in psychotherapy through cognitive behavioral philosophy (CBT) and the treatment of emotional disorders.
Stoicism Stoicism, particularly as it was adapted by the teacher Panaetius of Rhodes, appealed to many Romans because it provided a philosophical basis for such traditional Roman ideals as virtus (courage), pietas (dutiful love and loyalty), and gravitas (seriousness). In Roman Stoicism, a person seeking wisdom and right living could feel love, loyalty, and friendship. They were expected to concern themselves with humanity and, therefore, were not to exclude themselves from political life. In matters of religion, the Roman Stoics, like Stoics in general, rejected the traditional gods of mythology but believed that God was reason immanent in the universe; divine reason gave individuals an ethical impulse. Stoicism could be hard and self-sufficient, but the call to follow reason struck a chord in the Roman character.
Taste and the Age of Nero M. P. O. Morford, in his book on epics, stresses that Lucan was a product of the age of Nero.
V o l u m e
2
6 2 1
P h a r s a l i a
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Lucan wrote with his already claustrophobic world closing in on him. He wrote as if he could not possibly believe that the conspiracy against Nero would succeed; he was no longer rallying his contemporaries, but people of all time to the cause of libertas. The political nature of Lucan’s life and works set the critical agenda for the Pharsalia even more than changes in literary taste.
Nero, Emperor of Rome
Even while Lucan was at work on his epic, there was unease about the suitability of his treatment. It was not that he chose to handle a historical narrative but that he made the gods the prime movers in events. Virgil’s Aeneid had co-opted the Roman gods literally into the Julian clan to which Julius Caesar belonged. He had enshrined in his magnificent poetry that clan’s belief that they were descended from Iules, son of Aeneas, son of the goddess Venus and grandson of Jupiter himself. Lucan sidestepped this heritage by replacing divine will with fate and human will. His contemporary, Petronius criticized the decision, but his criticism is placed in the mouth of such a sleazy character that the traditional assumption that the criticism is serious may be wrong. Nevertheless, the opinion that the Pharsalia is history rather than literary epic because of its handling of causation is repeated again and again in antiquity and the Middle Ages.
(Michael Nicholson /
Bettmann Corbis)
Literature had languished since the death of Augustus, partly because of the daunting greatness of the works of writers such as Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, and partly because of imperial hostility. The first century was an age of scholarship. Modern readers who read Lucan’s description of Etruscan forms of divination and the details of necromancy or snakes must not forget the emperor Claudius’s work on Etruscan divination or the elder Pliny’s Natural History. For people who saw education as primarily literary and rhetorical, works such as the Aeneid seemed to suggest that epics should be overtly learned. Nero intended to launch a cultural revival. His literary ambitions, combined with a petty nature and an autocratic style of government, meant that true literary activity, which requires freedom of the critical as well as the creative facility, was impossible. A revival of the republicanism that was never far buried in Roman hearts and minds was inevitable. Nero simply did not have the character to compete with Rome or with a philosophy for citizen allegiance.
6 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
Although his portrait of Julius Caesar is at odds with that of many medieval writers, Lucan was popular with readers, and one proof of that popularity is the number of extant hand-written copies. Four hundred manuscripts of his epic survive, including a fragment that represents the only surviving copy of any secular poem made between about 550 and 775 CE . It was translated into Old Irish and was used by at least one Icelandic saga writer. Lucan was quoted by Aldhem in seventhcentury England and in twelfth-century France by Heloise. In the sixteenth century, Christopher Marlowe published a translation of Book One; Shakespeare adapted its opening lines in Julius Caesar; Ben Johnson used a speech from Book Eight in his play Catiline. In addition, Lucan’s politics found him admirers at the end of the eighteenth century. Ahl wrote that Lucan ‘‘codified the political rhetoric of liberty.’’ Readers in the late nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century were not favorable toward Lucan. Both imperialist and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
socialist ideologies were against him, as well as the steady retreat of classical studies and the dominant position of Virgil, both in the curriculum and in criticism. As Greek and Latin in western education slowly contracted, Lucan was no longer a standard author. Lucan’s idea of liberty and his ambiguous treatment of the imperial nation state lost its hold in both England and Germany. In Germany, national unity had finally arrived under a German Caesar. To the Englishspeaking world, caught between Pax Britannia and manifest destiny, Julius Caesar and Augustus were the leaders of a benign empire, taking chaos by the scuff of the neck. Attacks on Lucan became personal and vicious. His political ideals were irrelevant; his dedication to them hypocritical; he informed on his own mother. In short, his poetry was lost in the politics, although it is fair to say he brought this on himself by producing one of the most intense and single-minded political poems ever written. It is a measure of the strength of the Virgilian ideal that when George Brisset began Lucan’s rehabilitation in the late nineteenth century, it was by denying he was a republican. It was the twentieth century’s experience of tyranny and bloodshed that turned the critical tide. Lucan’s experience hit home. Since the late twentieth century, interest in Lucan has grown, and it has been positive. A 2002 book, Fifty Key Classical Authors, by Alison Sharrock and Rhiannon Ash, included Lucan because the horror and confusion of his war story seems to them to match the pessimism of the turn-of-themillennium world. W. R. Johnson’s studies of the characters of Erictho, Cato, and Pompey are deeply perceptive as he argued that Lucan’s ‘‘disgusting exaggeration’’ is neither disgusting nor exaggeration. The reader should be horrified, but this horror should spring from a lacerated common humanity, not from broken canons of literature. Shadi Bartsch, a Lucan scholar, read the Pharsalia as a document for modern times. Her quotations from Hannah Arendt, an influential German-Jewish political theorist, about the experiences of the Nazi concentration camps are apt. Masters, by contrast, provides commentary that has often been missing on the historical background, the sources, the manipulation of history and of the literary tradition, which alone will save the modern reader from flattening Lucan’s narrative into mere reportage.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain looks at Pharsalia in terms of Roman ideals and education. The Romans were practical and superstitious. Their sense of self was defined in part by Roman tradition that required strict attention to the details of worship and to the phenomena by which the gods communicate with humans. It was also defined, at least for the literate upper classes, by a view of history and of service that was embedded in the language and literature, and which dominated their education. Romanitas (the idea and ideal of what it means to be Roman) was not a matter of genes, but of language and outlook. Romanitas was taught from the Euphrates to the Irish Sea, from the edge of the Sahara to the lowlands of Scotland. The effects of that teaching survived to modern times, so much a part of western thought and institutions that they hide in plain sight. The American pledge of allegiance is pure Romanitas. Any Roman hearing it would have instinctively sympathized with the concepts and the way in which they are expressed. Liberty that comes from recognizing that without law only the strong are free was the essential, if betrayed, ideal of Romanitas. Virgil enshrines it in the Aeneid. Other nations would produce greater art, literature, and science, but Rome shall rule and crown peace with law, to spare the humble and to fight the proud to the end. A fine ideal, perhaps, but real? Ideals always take a battering in real life. Human nature has not changed between Lucan’s or his heroes’ days and modern times. A craze for power and insatiable greed brought down the Roman republic. For the upper classes in Rome, at least, the first century of the empire was more often than not a claustrophobic nightmare; common decency and humane behavior were upturned. But the ideal remained, and there were always men and women who tried to follow it. Some of them, like Cicero, died defending the republic, some of them died, like Lucan, in conspiracies against madmen, or even like Scribonius and Paetus, simply in opposing the idea of an emperor. Others, like the Plinies, Agricola, even emperors Titus, Trajan, Antonius, and Marcus Aurelius, simply tried to do their duty
V o l u m e
2
6 2 3
P h a r s a l i a
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
THE SPOKEN AND WRITTEN WORD WAS A TOOL, MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE SHORT SWORD CARRIED BY EVERY ROMAN SOLDIER FROM NEW RECRUIT TO LEGATE. TO PERSUADE, TO EXPLAIN,
6 2 4
Virgil’s Aeneid, written between 27 and 17 BCE , is the essential Latin epic. Like Lucan’s Pharsalia, it was unfinished at its author’s death. It quickly became a school text so Lucan would have studied the poem in great detail. His own epic has been compared, usually unfavorably, to Virgil’s. Caesar’s De Bello Civili (c. 40 BCE ) offers his view of the Roman civil war. Like his account of his campaigns in Gaul (modernday France and the Rhineland), it is written in the third person and, while understandably self-serving, is disarmingly direct and matter-of-fact. Tacitus’s Annals, written early in the second century CE , is the history of the Roman emperors from the death of Augustus to Nero. Tacitus’s natural sympathies were republican, but he still believed that good men could and should serve their countrymen even under a tyrant. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (1599) takes up the story of the Roman civil wars, covering Caesar’s assassination and the deaths of the leaders of the final conspiracy, Brutus and Cassius. Shakespeare’s treatment balances itself between these two heroes. ‘‘The Civil Wars: What We Don’t Know’’ (2003), by Elisabeth Jean Wood, published in Global Governance, is an examination of the emergence, persistence, and resolution of various modern civil wars that could be applied across the centuries. Civil War from the America at War series, published by Facts on File in 2003 for a Young Adult audience, emphasizes how civil wars, like that of Lucan’s time, can pit family against family and brother against brother in combat. In 2004, Duckworth produced Silver Latin Epic: A Selection from Lucan, Valerius Fadcus, Silius Italicus and Status, designed to provide a sampling of Roman epic works for students.
E p i c s
f o r
TO USE THIS POWER EFFECTIVELY FOR THE GOOD OF THE STATE AND FOR ONE’S FRIENDS AND DEPENDANTS WAS THE DUTY, PURPOSE, AND LIFEBLOOD OF EVERY GOOD ROMAN.’’
by those around them, with whatever abilities they had. For what else was a Roman to do? A Roman defined himself by public life, by public service, by the mutual respect and aid of patron and client, of friend and kinsman. He was a public being. To live retired, far away from public life, was the fate of the old, the exiled, or the extremely eccentric. So what were the Roman’s tools in living out this ideal? The spoken and written word was a tool, more important than the short sword carried by every Roman soldier from new recruit to legate. To persuade, to explain, to use this power effectively for the good of the state and for one’s friends and dependants was the duty, purpose, and lifeblood of every good Roman. One’s whole education was based on language and the uses of language. The Roman was taught to take texts apart and see how and why they worked. Romans learned to design their texts to catch the emotions of the audience. They learned the importance of the right word, the exact example, the telling anecdote. They learned, or tried to learn, how to swing an angry crowd; a wet, footsore knot of soldiers; or a group of grave, experienced old men. Everything educated Romans knew was directed by the use they would make of it in public life. Every educated man was educated to be a statesman or at least a politician. For some, the arena would be the Senate and the great law courts in Rome, but throughout the empire, in Roman colonies and in local market towns, Roman citizens and provincials alike repeated the same process and lived on their own local stages the same lives. This is the background of Lucan’s Pharsalia and of Lucan himself. The ideal, the education, the defining mode of life had claimed him. He
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
was from a provincial family that had made good and that had made good by producing the greatest teacher of public speaking of his day, his grandfather Seneca the Elder. His uncle the younger Seneca had become a senator, the tutor and the advisor of an emperor. Lucan had inherited all the sparkling talent of his family. He could persuade, he could move, he could catch the eye and the mind. So why, asks Masters, is Lucan the suicide, the failed conspirator, the author of an unrevised if not unfinished epic? Because of the ideal and because of the nature of Romanitas and Roman education, because he found that the lack of real libertas could not be replaced by private integrity and interior freedom, and it was self-delusion to believe otherwise. Lucan believed that liberty and participation in the making and defining of law were at the heart of Romanitas. He found himself in the Rome of Nero in a place where he was excluded from the work that defined him as a Roman, the only existence that he desired or could even imagine. It was not that Nero had barred him from defending clients in the law courts, from giving public readings of his poetry. That was only the result of Lucan’s realizing that the Roman system could not and did not work as long as it was headed by a man above the law, whose only curb was his own sanity or the assassin’s sword. Perhaps his view of events was colored like those of the republican senators a century before, the resentment of a young man who felt that he should be at the center of real power, where the decisions were made, though he could have been there had he been willing. As Shadi Bartsch (1997) reminds readers, Lucan believed in his tools, just like every writer does who takes on a totalitarian regime. If those tools had served to establish the imperial ideal, to defend the status quo, he would wrench them back and upturn them. Did Nero want a golden age of poetry? Lucan would give him poetry to match the world he had created in Rome, horror for horror. Did Nero want to be a god? If so, how could he complain if a poet begged him not to unbalance the heavens with his divine weight, when everyone including the pudgy young emperor knew that the gods were known by their great size? Rhetoric and rhetoricians have always had bad press. There is something rather unsavory, in many people’s minds, about learning and planning the art of persuasion, of getting one’s views across, but rhetoric is only a tool. It can be used for good or for evil. In Lucan’s eyes, the gods had
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
been hijacked, the sword had been seized by this obscenity of rule, but the words, the formidable arsenal of rhetoric, was still his. So Lucan wrote a rhetorical epic. He had to persuade, and he had to persuade quickly and thoroughly before the words, drained of their real meaning by imperial propaganda, were lost to him, too. He had to transmit the claustrophobia and despair of his world to his audience, make them face the unthinkable so that they would do the unthinkable, reject the Julio-Claudians and all their works and all their empty glories. From the opening lines of the poem, he drums it home. Jealous fate may have resented the power of the Roman people, but those people, the greater and the lesser, were eager tools in the hands of fate. This cooperation is what gave the Romans civil war, and ultimately Nero, with Roman blood spilt by Roman hands, while Rome was still ringed with enemies. Further, what were these Roman deaths like? Worse still, how died the noble Massilians, more Roman in their attitudes than the Romans themselves? Their bodies were smashed beyond recognition. In Lucan’s work, the gods of Rome predict no happy culmination to Jupiter’s plans. They predict only the crime and pollution of civil war and the death of the libertas that was to be Rome’s great gift as a nation to all men. Where is the piety of the divine Julio-Claudians when their founder treats the gods and Rome like nothing more than the spirits of his household shrine? Julius Caesar’s manic energy, his ability to seize events and make his will the fate of the weak, are a reproach, not only to every one of the republican figures who opposed him, but to Lucan’s audience. Lucan created a world crashing down, a world in which his audience members are still dazed survivors walking around in the ruins. It is a world in which decency survives, but that decency is presented in a way that gives the Roman people little comfort. The Roman women who crowd the altars, the picture of traditional piety, the Roman men who take up their weapons against their own countrymen and kin, seem powerless to cry halt. They allow themselves to be led rather than to bring their own collective power to bear on events. Cornelia, the pattern of a Roman matron, the pattern of a Roman, drawing foreigners to admiration by her virtus, is the personification of the bad fortune. Lentulus is eloquent in his denunciation of paying a price for victory that will be a defeat of their ideals, but his eloquence sets in
V o l u m e
2
6 2 5
P h a r s a l i a
Why does Lucan force his audience down the road of claustrophobic despair, cutting off each possible retreat, thwarting the efforts and gifts of every decent character, leaving power in the hands of the two characters who single-mindedly pursue power, for whom no act is too vile, who will sacrifice kin and force the gods to do their bidding—Caesar and his female counterpart, Erictho? How similar they are, ever hungry for battle, ever inventive in finding new ways to force the events or the gods to do their bidding. The answer may lie, if it lies anywhere, at the end of Lentulus’s speech in Book Eight: ‘‘Quantum, spes ultima rerum, libertatis habes.’’ (A last hope, how much freedom you have.) Forced to see the cause and the plain face of their predicament, perhaps they will finally seize events like a Caesar. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on Phar salia, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learn ing, 2011.
Katherine O. Eldred In the following essay, Eldred argues that Lucan’s snakes are poetic figures and their verbal play highlights the danger of language.
The Roman civil wars chronicled in Pharsalia destroyed the republic and brought the legendary leader Julius Caesar to power. (The Library of Congress)
motion the chain of events that lead to Pompey’s death and the disintegration of the republican will to fight. With Cato, Lucan kills any comfortable hope that personal freedom and integrity can be maintained under the rule not of the law, but of one man. Cato has no illusions; he will not retire into philosophic consolation. He will not live with a selfish illusion of freedom, but he can commit the final rebellion of death. In addition, if the good are impotent, the bad are busy making the better side worse. One after another, Lucan drew the portraits of Roman senators who sold their birthright, who shamed their class and country. The gifted Curio sells his country’s freedom. Appius wakes the long silent oracle of Delphi simply to find out, at a time when the Senate cannot even meet in Rome, how things will go for him. The great Pompey’s younger son, crawling to a witch rather than the gods, watches one of his father’s own men dragged unwillingly from the safety of death to learn what cannot help him.
6 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
Cato’s Libyan encounter with the grotesque at Pharsalia 9.734–838 is among the more graphic and repelling episodes in Lucan’s poem. Past critics preferred to label it either a digression, meant to demonstrate the extent of Lucan’s scientific knowledge or rhetorical-poetical prowess, or a cruel joke played for the bitter amusement of the reader. Only recently has this tide of disapproval been stemmed, largely by two studies that have analyzed Lucan’s snake episode as an integral part of the poem’s narrative. Bartsch’s 1997 book on Lucan reads the snake episode in all its gory splendor as indicative of a constant battle fought in the poem over integrity and discontinuity. Her interpretation finds meaning in the contest of Cato, who wishes to erect himself as a boundary between the opposing sides of civil war, and in the snakes, which notoriously confuse categories: ‘‘[W]hat we have here is the confrontation par excellence of the principle of boundary violation and the principle of boundary maintenance, two obsessive concerns of the poet throughout this epic’’ (35; cf. 32–33). A different tack is taken by Leigh, who argues that Lucan’s snakes are allegorical figures that underscore only ‘‘the hopeless failure of Cato’s moral instruction’’ (267). Leigh’s snakes are allegories of passions, and as Aulus’ miserable failure in the face of thirst—representative of the insatiability of desire—proves, Cato’s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
LUCAN’S SNAKES ARE POETIC FIGURES IN THEMSELVES, THAT THEIR LANGUAGE PLAY WRITES LUCAN’S POEM ON THE BODIES OF CATO’S SOLDIERS AND THAT THE EPISODE LEAVES THE READER WITH A POWERFUL SENSE OF THE DANGER OF LANGUAGE.’’
Stoic philosophy is impotent. Both authors also suggest that Lucan did not write this scene with such excessive detail somehow by accident; rather, his aim was an intentional alienation that fuels both the distance and the involvement the poem provokes in its reader. Lucan’s epic, however, as Masters and Henderson have shown, is itself about poetry. The Pharsalia makes use of metaliterary language and metapoetic images in ways that make itself its own subject. This process of commenting on poetic composition occurs both in what we might consider a straightforward fashion and in more complex constructions like the Massilian grove, an episode that reflects on the composition of the poem. Characters in Lucan’s epic participate in metapoetic commentary as well, as we see in the analyses of Scaeva, the Pythian, and Erichtho. Since this poem, then, is ‘‘about’’ poetry in the same way it is ‘‘about’’ civil war and ‘‘about’’ excesses of power, it seems to me that poetry too should not be left aside when reading Lucan’s snakes. My question is not, in the words of Bartsch, ‘‘Why snakes . . . ?’’ (31), but ‘‘Why these snakes?’’ Perhaps it is not surprising that Cato, marching across the desert, should encounter snakes as his enemies. But these snakes could only have attacked his men here, in Lucan’s poem, in Lucan’s Libyan desert. Leigh has suggested these snakes function allegorically. I want to take his suggestion a step further and make concrete this ‘‘allegory’’ within the concerns of the epic. I shall argue that Lucan’s snakes are poetic figures in themselves, that their language-play writes Lucan’s poem on the bodies of Cato’s soldiers and that the episode leaves the reader with a powerful sense of the danger of language. When Lucan’s snakes appear, Cato’s men are dying of thirst. The Roman general has rejected the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
prophetic powers of the temple of Jupiter Ammon, and having driven his men forward into the Libyan desert, comes across a pool of water only to find it infested with poisonous snakes (604–10). Since the army will perish without water (611), Cato insists to his men that they have nothing to fear from the snakes’ venom and drinks himself from the pool (612–16). At this point the poem moves to the Medusa excursus and the snake catalogue (619– 733), both of which play prelude to the grotesque series of deaths to follow. Johnson’s characterization of the Medusa excursus and the snake catalogue are representative of the school of criticism that would separate Lucan’s snakes from the meaning of the larger epic: ‘‘At this point Lucan interrupts his narrative and digresses . . . with a lengthy aetiological myth . . . .’’ Fantham, however, proposes that Lucan positions the Medusa ex cursus and the snake catalogue precisely at the point when Cato leads his men to snake-infested water (607–18) in order to relieve Cato of direct responsibility for the deaths in the snake aristeja that follow: ‘‘By generalising the hazards, Lucan escapes the implication that Cato’s gallant men die at the snake-infested pool obedient to his orders. But it is not clear that they leave the pool, or where they are attacked’’ (119). In Fantham’s reading, the Medusa excursus and the snake catalogue intentionally break the narrative in order to separate Cato’s order from the deaths of his men— deaths that may result from that very order to drink the snake-infested water. Her reading is supported by dipsas (‘‘the thirsty one’’), the last snake appearing in the pool at line 610 before the Medusa excursus (619–99) and the first snake to attack and kill. The Medusa excursus and the snake catalogue, then, are not ‘‘digressions’’ at all, but serve at least one function—that of distracting attention away from Cato’s responsibility for the deaths of his men. The connections between these two episodes and the surrounding narrative are strengthened by the function of the head of Medusa herself. As Perseus flies over the empty desert, drops of blood from his trophy—the severed head of Medusa—blossom into poisonous snakes on the Libyan sand below. These are Medusa’s offspring: her blood and the sand combine to form species after species of snakes—deadly mirrors of the generic angues of Medusa’s hair— which will in short order attack Cato’s army. Medusa’s head serves another function as well. The Gorgon leaves to her children not only
V o l u m e
2
6 2 7
P h a r s a l i a
animal form, but also her one characteristic remaining after death—her head, her caput, for the first snake to push up from the sand is defined first as a head: . . . ‘‘Here, the blood first stirred a head from the sand, the asp arose . . . ,’’ (9.700– 01). The blood dripping from Medusa’s head has given birth to another head, which takes on the form of an asp only after it is pushed from the sand. This caput is the first in the text after the decapitation of Medusa herself twenty lines earlier: . . . ‘‘What look the head of the Gorgon held, severed by the wound of the curved blade!’’ (678–79). Four other snakes participate in these head games as the narrative proceeds: the amphisbaena moves towards its twin heads (719); the dipsas twists back its head to kill the first of Cato’s soldiers (738); seps causes Sabellus’ head and neck to flow away (781); Paulus is struck through the head by the flying iaculum (824). The narrative, therefore, progresses from Medusa’s head to the heads of her offspring to the heads of Cato’s men attacked by that offspring. Let me carry one step further this metaphor of parent-and-child for describing Medusa’s relationship to Cato’s snakes. Because the snakes in both the catalogue and what is generally considered Cato’s aristeia inherit the vocabulary of Medusa’s head, I suggest that those snakes inherit as well Medusa’s power of metamorphosis. Pavlock has phrased particularly well one conceptualization of that power in her reading of Ovid’s Medusa: Ovid suggests that the Gorgon’s head with its terrifying snaky locks is itself an image of meta morphosis, for Minerva changed Medusa’s exceptionally beautiful hair into serpents . . . Perseus effectively employs this vehicle of meta morphosis, which transfixes an individual into an eternal image of himself, at a particular moment of his existence: the hero in book 5 monumentalizes the hubris of Phineus and com pany for their disruption of his wedding celebra tion. (40 . . . )
While the details of Lucan’s adaptation of Ovid’s Medusa have been noted by scholars, Ovid’s metamorphic element has not been integrated into a reading of Lucan’s Medusa or Cato’s snakes. It is this quality of metamorphosis, the transformation of an object into the eternal image of itself, which Medusa passes on to her snake-offspring, and which the snakes in turn use upon Cato’s men. In other words, the snakes will metamorphose the Roman soldiers. But Medusa’s offspring inherit her metamorphic power
6 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
with a twist: whereas Medusa’s gaze turns those who gaze upon her into permanent images of themselves, the snakes turn those whom they attack into permanent images of the snakes— into, I suggest below, a permanent and materialized state of language itself. Let us look closely at the more sanguinary details of the snake-induced slaughter. The first snake to attack is dipsas, which bites Aulus who is, we may imagine, the first solider to drink from the snake-infested pool: [Sc. Aulum (9)] . . . ‘‘The dipsas, twisting back its head, bit Aulus, who trod upon it,’’ (737). Dipsas had earlier appeared in Lucan’s poem at line 610, thirsting in the middle of the snake-infested pool . . . (610). The snake next appears in the catalogue proper at 718 where it is called torrida dipsas. Lucan has taken his snake directly from the Greek . . . a snake whose bite provokes thirst and whose name derives from the [Greek] noun . . . [for] ‘‘thirst.’’ The Latin adjective torrida reflects the concept inherent in the snake’s Greek name, and so we might translate ‘‘torrida dipsas’’ something like ‘‘thirst-causing thirstcauser,’’ ‘‘parched parcher,’’ or ‘‘scorching scorcher.’’ At lines 741–60, Lucan graphically expands the function of the dipsas: the fiery venom creeps into Aulus’ bones and sets the internal organs alight (741–42); the poison drinks (ebibit) vital fluids and dries up the tongue in the thirsty palate . . . (744); sweat and tears disappear (745–46); the thirsty poison demands water ( . . . 750). Aulus is driven to drink up the Syrtes (756) and open up his own veins in search for drink (760). Lucan will continue to follow this pattern when describing the horrific deaths of Cato’s men in the catalogue or death-narrative: the Greek name of the snake . . . is restated in a Latin adjective or tag (e.g., torrida dipsas), and the soldier then dies a death that itself recreates the name of the snake that kills him (e.g., Aulus being literally consumed by thirst). The second soldier to die is Sabellus, fanged by tiny seps. This snake is first described at 723: . . . (‘‘and corroding seps, dissolving bones and body together’’). Again, Lucan has modified the Greek name . . . (‘‘putrefying sore’’) with a Latin phrase. The adjective tabificus and the tag ossa dissolvens expand the notion of putrefaction . . . : the Latin snake causes decay and dissolves bones. Sabellus finds his body turning into one massive bleeding sore: . . . ‘‘and now there is an empty wound without a body,’’ (769). His limbs swim in pus, his calves melt, the knees and thighs
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
dissolve, the groin drips with black decay (770– 72). The rot then spreads up his body and into his bones until no body, only a wound, remains. This metamorphosis, from body to bleeding sore, is not necessarily one the reader might expect from Lucan’s narrative, given Aulus’ death. Whereas Lucan’s dipsas kills Aulus just as a Greek dipsas would kill—by inflicting great thirst— Lucan’s seps kills differently from its Greek predecessor: the Greek incarnation of seps causes death by intense thirst . . . but the Lucanian seps does so by putrefaction. The detailed studies of Cazzaniga and Aumont note that Lucan transfers characteristics from one snake to another. In the case of seps, however, Lucan leaves aside the traditional form in which this snake kills, and substitutes a different poison. Lucan does so, I argue, for the effect of allowing the snake to kill by making ‘‘real’’ the meaning of the snake’s name, that is, metamorphosing the victim into the death reflective of the snakes’ names. Sabellus metamorphoses into the definition of a Lucanian seps on a human-sized scale. The poet singles out his seps as the most dangerous among its companions . . . (787). In praising the excessive danger of this snake, the poet calls attention to this change of effect, from death brought by thirst to death brought by a process represented in the snake’s name. The truly chilling factor of seps in the poem is its etymologizing process of killing. Lucan’s dipsas suggests a pattern, Lucan’s reps confirms it; these snakes will metamorphose Cato’s soldiers as they die. This emphasis on death embodied in a word continues with the rest of Lucan’s snakes. Prester swells his victim (789– 804), haemorrhois turns Tullus into a stream of blood (806–14), and iaculum shoots through the skull of Paulus (822–27). In all these cases the poet makes the most of etymology and graphically expands the name of each snake in the process of killing and dying. The scorching prester is first mentioned in the catalogue at line 722, where Lucan restates, as before, the Greek name of a snake in a Latin adjective or tag: . . . ‘‘greedy prester, opening wide its foaming mouth.’’ The Greek word . . . (a hurricane or waterspout accompanied by lightning) also referred to the veins of one’s neck when swollen with anger; it is this meaning (swelling), and the death that the snake inflicts, which Lucan tags with his adjective distendens. Nasidius is struck by a torridus (‘‘burning’’) prester. His skin swelling
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
( . . . tumor, 792–30), Nasidius disappears, overcome by his own swollen body . . . (796). The bite of the prester has caused Nasidius to swell beyond even the sails in a windstorm: . . . ‘‘not so large [as Nasidius] do sails swell in a storm’’ (799–800). A haemorrhois turns Tullus into a stream of blood at 806–14. Lucan calls the snake ingens in the catalogue, adding that it does not allow the blood of victims to stand still . . . (708). The snake’s name is formed from the Greek verb . . . ‘‘to lose blood’’ or the adjective . . . which indicates something liable to discharge blood. The stricken Tullus is compared to a statue pouring forth saffron water, as all his limbs spurt forth red poison (808–810). He weeps and sweats blood; his limbs are awash with his own veins (813–14). Of Tullus Lucan concludes: . . . ‘‘His entire body is one wound’’ (814). Iaculum, which replicates the Greek snake . . . flies from a tree and pierces the head of Paulus. The poet has already called these snakes . . . ‘‘flying’’ in the catalogue (720). Paulus meets death at the same time as he is wounded: . . . ‘‘Death seized [Paulus] together with the wound’’ (825). Lucan makes the most of this etymology, claiming that Scythian arrows are sluggish (segnis) in comparison with the swift iaculum (827). The one snake that appears to muddle up this neat scheme is the Niliaca serpens at 815–21, which kills ‘‘unlucky’’ Laevus in a manner not explicitly detailed by the poet. Lucan mentions only the swiftness of death. The snake’s poison freezes Laevus’ blood: . . . ‘‘[Laevus’] blood pressed his heart, frozen by the serpent of the Nile’’ (815–16). Lucan adds that other poisons do not work so swiftly . . . (819). The snake, however, is a Niliaca serpens, and should participate in the larger field delineated by ‘‘the Nile’’ and ‘‘Egypt’’ in the poem. Occurrences of Niliacus previous to the serpens allude to the death of Pompey and the power of the boyking Ptolemy. At the end of Book 8, Ptolemy has ordered embalmers, with their unspeakable art (arte nefanda), to solidify and freeze Pompey’s features (8.687–91). Although there are no direct verbal correlations between the episode of the Niliaca serpens and that of the death of Pompey, it is tempting to suggest that the Niliaca serpens kills by instant embalmment, that Laevus suffers the same fate as Pompey’s head under the influence of the adjective Niliaca. Two hundred lines earlier, Pallas Athena recognized that Medusa’s power of metamorphosis survives even after the Gorgon’s death.
V o l u m e
2
6 2 9
P h a r s a l i a
Unable herself to gaze upon the monster’s severed head, Pallas covers over Medusa’s face with her snaky hair to protect Perseus: ... Not even Pallas had the power to gaze upon [Medusa], and [Medusa’s head] would have frozen the face of Perseus (though he was turned aside), if Tritonia had not spread out the dense hair and covered over the face with snakes. (681 83)
But covering over Medusa’s face is not enough. Her blood escapes the covering and falls to the sand below as Perseus flies over Libya, and this blood too bears Medusa’s power of metamorphosis: the Gorgon’s blood changes sand to snakes. These snakes, the metamorphic offspring of Medusa, also carry her power; in their turn, the snakes ‘‘metamorphose’’ Cato’s men, changing each man into a living—and dying—embodiment of a word, of a name. Thus the metamorphic quality of Medusa’s head transforms each soldier into a permanent image of the name of the snake that kills him. Lucan’s deliberate change of characteristics from one snake to the other supports the contention that the poet’s interest lies in having his snakes recreate their own etymologies in the deaths they inflict. Like the rest of Lucan’s epic, his snakes, then, are ‘‘words,’’ but words with a very special metamorphic power that allows them to bring death reflective of their own names. In Lucan’s snake episode, language becomes a literal killing machine. Words hold danger, and the death of each man performs, in show-stopping detail, the name of the snake that kills him. These snakes are speech-acts, the very deeds that they effect; they are examples of speech-acts that, in ‘‘saying,’’ do what they ‘‘say’’ in the moment of their ‘‘saying.’’ This reification of language, inherited from Medusa’s ability to metamorphose an object into a permanent image of itself, demonstrates in particularly nasty ways the danger inherent in speech. We might even go so far as to say that the snake episode demonstrates on a physical level the danger of Lucan’s poem: that to read an act of nefas (here, the civil war) is to participate in that act of nefas. In this case, the snakes act as Lucan, as poets, writing the nefas of the poem on the bodies of their ‘‘readers,’’ Cato’s soldiers. One snake does not kill, however, nor does it explicitly metamorphose a Roman soldier into the embodiment of its own name. Of all Cato’s men attacked by snakes/words, only Murrus
6 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
survives, striking off his own hand as a basilisk sends his poison through Murrus’ spear: ... What benefit to wretched Murrus, that basiliscus, the king snake, Was pinned by his spear? Swift poison rushed through Murrus’ weapon, And attacked his hand; at once he raised his uncov ered sword, And immediately cut off his whole arm. Watching the miserable example of his own death, He stood safe, as his hand was destroyed. (828 33)
The basilisk (king-snake) does not bite the man but instead is ‘‘bitten’’ by Murrus’ spear; Murrus then watches the exemplar of his own death as his hand dies. What sort of death is he watching? What death is brought on by the king-snake? And how should the reader interpret this scene, in light of the danger of poetry wrought by the previous snakes? Two readings of Murrus’ trial—one allegorical and one more speculative—are possible here. The first reading is based on the metaphor of the body politic, a metaphor used in Lucan’s poem as early as 1.2–5: ... [I sing of] a powerful people having turned its hand of victory against its own vital organs, and related battlelines . . .
Lucan’s image of civil war rewrites Menenius Agrippa’s tale of the belly and limbs at Livy 2.32 into a vicious and deadly attack on the self, a political unity skewered through its innards by means of its own right hand: no right-thinking patrician can persuade the limbs of Caesar and Pompey’s civil war not to turn violence on the belly. Lucan’s poem unfolds a series of meditations on this very image, of the body turned against itself in civil war. Certainly Murrus’ action is such a meditation. Murrus commits civil war against his own body after the poison of the king-snake races through his spear; despite the soldier’s best attempt to kill the basiliscus, Murrus is forced to turn his sword upon himself—to engage in that act of civil war that has been the subject of Lucan’s poem from the beginning—in order to survive. If we map Lucan’s lived experience onto the poem, we might see in Murrus a figure for the poet himself, forced to ‘‘cut off’’ his writing hand after Nero, the ‘‘king-snake,’’ banned Lucan from
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
public recitation or speech in the law courts. This may be an appealing image, but even if tenable, it forgets the independent role of ‘‘body parts’’ in Lucan’s epic. Dismemberment becomes a character in the poem long before Murrus makes his mark. Quint has suggested that the frequency of dismemberment in the Pharsalia reflects Lucan’s resistance to the enforced unity of imperial oneman rule upon the Roman body politic: ‘‘The formlessness of narrative and history in the Pharsalia . . . thus affords some consolation when it is construed as a resistance to form: to the political unity and uniformity that the imperial regime sought to impose . . . ’’ (147). Cato’s snakes demand that same unity of one-man rule, or rather one-word rule: dipsas, seps, and their companions would make one thing (thirst, a wound) out of the many body parts forming the working bodies of the soldiers. If the pattern of the earlier snakes holds as well for the basilisk, then its one-word rule concerns the concept of king or tyrant. It is a short conceptual leap from basiliscus the king-snake to the image of the dominus which has been building in Lucan’s epic over the previous eight books (e.g., 1.670). The exemplar of death brought by the king-snake, then, would be similar to the process of destruction brought by Caesar’s and Pompey’s forces as they battle over control of the Roman world. Might the ‘‘death’’ brought on by the basilisk bring exactly what Murrus undergoes—amputation of the body in order for the remainder to survive, or a literal enactment of civil war? Murrus won’t die, as the state won’t die, but the king-snake will force ‘‘amputation’’ in the state—civil war, like killing like—in order for the state to survive. If that amputation does not occur, the infection of civil war will destroy the entire body. A second reading is more speculative. I would like to suggest that this passage is relevant for discerning Lucan’s own conception of his relationship to his poetic past. Since, as I have argued, the snakes represent poets and poetry in themselves, in this instance the ‘‘king-snake’’ may be understood as epic tradition. As suggested above, the snakes, being the offspring of Medusa, inherit her power of metamorphosis, a power that is written out on the bodies of Cato’s men. All the snakes, apart from basiliscus, actively attack the men they kill: seps bites, iaculum
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
flies through the air. Only the basiliscus inflicts death on Murrus’ arm without attacking the arm itself, that is, it attacks but in a passive fashion. Here the king-snake is most like Lucan’s Medusa, who can ‘‘kill’’ by actively gazing upon her victim or by being seen by her victim. Lucan notes carefully Medusa’s power of metamorphosis whether she sees or is seen: ... Ill fated Medusa had this [her snaky hair] for all to look upon safely . . . Who, that saw [her] directly. did Medusa allow to die? (636 38)
Pallas Athena’s care in covering over Medusa’s face, as I have mentioned, draws attention to the Gorgon’s power of metamorphosis even after her death. Of Medusa’s many snaky children, only the basiliscus has this same power of metamorphosis if attacked (or seen). The king-snake is attacked by Murrus’ spear, but its poison travels through the weapon into Murrus’ hand without, it seems, any action on the snake’s part. Like Medusa’s ability to passively turn those gazing upon her into stone, the basiliscus passively transforms those who would attack it. The kingsnake thus inherits something of Medusa that is inherited by none of its brethren, namely, a power to transform without direct action. The king-snake, it seems to me, inherits as well something of Medusa’s purpose in the epic. The Medusa excursus, together with the HerculesAntaeus episode at 4.591–660, is considered something of an anomaly, an action in a poem so overtly concerned with the absence of the gods. Both episodes point back to a more Vergilian style of epic, an ‘‘achieved fiction’’ in which gods and men, myth and history, are equally comprehended. Medusa thus figures poetic tradition in Lucan’s epic. Among her offspring, basiliscus is most like the Gorgon, inheriting her ability to ‘‘poison’’ victims whether attacking (seeing) or attacked (seen). These threads may be fragile but they do help bolster my contention that the Medusa excursus and Murrus’ deadly encounter with basiliscus turn the reader’s mind toward Lucan’s struggle with his epic tradition, a struggle evidenced elsewhere in the poem. In this sense, then, the dying arm of Murrus speaks to the necessity of drastically changing traditional epic form in order for the genre to continue. Recent studies of violence in Silver Latin poetry suggest that the high incidence of dismemberment
V o l u m e
2
6 3 1
P h a r s a l i a
therein correlates to a certain style of writing, in which sentences are ‘‘chopped up,’’ episodes are piled one upon the other, and the body of the text is broken just as the body of any character. The text as a whole is composed is such a way as to reflect the amputations that make up that text: ‘‘What happens to the bodies the characters in Seneca’s and Lucan’s fictions corresponds to what happens to the bodies of those fictions as well . . . ’’ Lucan’s epic, then, surfers the same sort of violence to form that the characters in the Pharsalia suffer. Quint argues that Lucan’s narrative directly confronts classical, Aristotelian literary theory, and challenges the notion of the ‘‘whole, wellknit body’’ of epic with a fragmented, wandering form, a form that is meant ‘‘to depict a world out of joint’’ (147). But in the particular case of the king-snake and its war with Murrus, the fragmentation of form may also depict a purely literary goal: the necessity of a profoundly different kind of epic from the epic of the past. Murrus chooses to lop off his arm and stand apart, classically ‘‘incomplete,’’ rather than be swallowed by the poison of tradition, and thus becomes a figure for Lucan’s epic itself, created to overcome a challenge from the past and watching the death of traditional epic form in order to survive. Source: Katherine O. Eldred, ‘‘Poetry in Motion: The Snakes of Lucan,’’ in Helios, Vol. 27, No. 1, Spring 2000, pp. 63 74.
Matthew B. Roller In this essay, Roller describes the uses of divided communities in Lucan’s Bellum Civile. Lucan’s Bellum Civile is riven with ethical contradictions. It is not simply that different voices within the poem disagree about the proper moral evaluation of particular actions and patterns of behavior; such disagreement is widely present in ancient epic. Rather, these voices, including the narrative voice itself, are collectively enmeshed in a web of competing ethical discourses and modes of valuation that are more or less equally authoritative yet irreconcilable. Thus actions can be evaluated in more than one ethical framework—not only by different voices embracing alternative modes of valuation, but even by a single voice as it applies now one evaluative framework and now another. This paper will contend that these competing ethical discourses, and the contradictory moral judgments that derive from them, are necessary features of the condition of civil war as Lucan
6 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
THESE ALTERNATIVE CONCEPTIONS OF CIVIL WAR THAT IT IS OR IS NOT A CONFLICT WITHIN A SINGLE COMMUNITY AUTHORIZE COMPETING ETHICAL DISCOURSES WHICH IN TURN PROVIDE COMPETING, OFTEN CONTRADICTORY, VALUE JUDGMENTS ON PARTICULAR ACTIONS AND THEREFORE MOTIVATE SHARPLY DIVERGENT ACTIONS IN A GIVEN SITUATION.’’
represents it. For these discourses and judgments are based in competing, irreconcilable conceptions of the Roman community. Indeed, the fracturing of ethical discourse in Lucan may constitute a literary strategy for representing civil war: the warring of two groups within society is reflected in the competition between alternative ethical discourses. Finally, I consider some of the ideological ramifications of Lucan’s literary choices. For by portraying specific modes of discourse as he does, and by making them compete in certain ways, Lucan makes his civil war a context in which he can recreate, explore, and participate in the ideological struggles of his own day. I. TRADITIONAL ROMAN ETHICAL DISCOURSE
Before turning to Lucan, however, I must describe crucial features of the received ethical system of the late republican and early imperial aristocracy. I call this system ‘‘traditional’’ because these aristocrats regarded it as passed down from their ancestors, the maiores, unchanged since time immemorial. Its values consisted in particular conceptions of proper behavior, closely linked with an interest in status and position: praise was bestowed for behavior that enhanced the position of the aristocracy with respect to other groups, and of individual aristocrats with respect to other aristocrats. These behavior patterns and status concerns were encoded in the familiar moral vocabulary of the Latin language: virtus, pietas, fas, ius, fides, laus, honor, gloria, nobilitas, dignitas (along with their opposites), and so on. Although the content of these terms was always subject to contestation, all Roman aristocrats nevertheless operated with regard to this mapping of ethical space—that is, all
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
accepted the validity of the moral categories in which the terms nobilis, pius, fidus, etc., designate positive value. Thus their collective acceptance of this mapping—their judging of others according to these categories, and their own desire to be judged positively according to them—was part of their acculturation, hence partially constituted their identity, as aristocrats within Roman society and as Romans with respect to non-Romans. Looked at another way, the ethical categories defined by the traditional Roman moral vocabulary collectively provide a template for the structure of the Roman community, for they mark out its boundaries, articulate its internal relations, and define degrees of distinction within it; in other words, they define positions in society for people to occupy. Thus the use of these moral terms not only reflects social forms and structures, but also formalizes, confirms, and helps to reproduce those structures. Another crucial feature of this ethical system is that moral value is social and external. The community as a whole, not its constituent individuals, is the basic unit of social organization, and moral value exists only with reference to the community as a whole. This communal, external frame of reference has three aspects. First, a person’s moral value is determined entirely by the judgments of other members of the community, not by his own self-judgment. Second, moral value is allocated (i.e., praise and blame bestowed) on the basis of observed actions, not on the basis of any internal, privately accessible states of mind. Third, these actions are evaluated in terms of the effect they have on the community as a whole—that is, for the degree to which they further the community’s agendas and reproduce its ideologies. A consistent, coherent ethical discourse— praising and blaming, and deploying value terms with reference to the actions of others—therefore requires a notionally coherent, well-defined community to serve as the social basis for moral valuation. As an illustration, consider the semantics of the value terms virtus, pietas, and their opposites. Virtus means ‘‘behavior appropriate to a man’’; most commonly it is attributed to a soldier who has displayed notable valor in battle, or to a magistrate for outstanding service—in each case, actions performed in the public eye for the benefit of the community. Meanwhile pietas, along with its opposite impietas, defines a category of action encompassing duty toward family, community, and the gods. Taken together, these two moral
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
categories of action project a well-defined community, and articulate coherently certain aspects of that community’s inter- and intramural relations: its members owe one another the various duties and obligations associated with pietas, but they must also display virtus by fighting bravely against nonmembers who threaten it from without. Indeed, in such a community these categories overlap, for one who fights well (demonstrating virtus) thereby also defends his family and community (demonstrating pietas). Civil war, however, divides the community and turns it against itself, abolishing the social boundaries and bonds that make these moral categories consistent. Hence pietas and virtus become inconsistent, even contradictory: a soldier who demonstrates virtus by fighting the adversary effectively can also be judged impius for harming other members of his own community; likewise, if he refuses to fight (so as not to kill fellow-citizens), he fails his comrades-in-arms and may be accused of cowardice. For when the community has split into two warring factions, the view that one’s opponents are cives (fellowRomans, i.e., members of one’s own community) and the view that they are hostes (foreign enemies, therefore not members of one’s own community) are available simultaneously. These alternative conceptions of civil war—that it is or is not a conflict within a single community— authorize competing ethical discourses which in turn provide competing, often contradictory, value judgments on particular actions and therefore motivate sharply divergent actions in a given situation. And so it is in Lucan’s Bellum Civile. In the sections below I examine representations of piety and valor (and the deployment of ethical terms generally) in Lucan, arguing that various voices in the poem contradict not only one another, but also themselves. But I contend that there is a systematic logic to these contradictory value judgments: they arise from these alternative conceptions of the community in civil war, the competing views that one’s opponent is a civis and a hostis. II. THE ‘‘COMMUNITARIAN’’ VIEWPOINT
Of the two views of civil war articulated in Lucan, I first discuss what I call the communitarian view: the idea that the conflict at hand takes place within a single community that, despite this conflict, remains fundamentally intact. The very term bellum civile privileges this view, implying as it does that the belligerents are all fellow-citizens,
V o l u m e
2
6 3 3
P h a r s a l i a
members of a single community. In the first eight lines of the poem the narrative voice describes the conflict from this viewpoint. It expresses the Romans’ behavior metaphorically as a person turning a sword against his own vitals . . . , it apostrophizes both factions collectively as cives, and it portrays them as identical and interchangeable (‘‘kindred battle-lines,’’ ‘‘standards opposed to hostile standards, equal eagles, and javelins threatening javelins’’). On this view the conflict is inherently criminal, for slaughtering other members of one’s community—massively violating the obligations and duties one owes one’s fellow-citizens—is manifestly impious. Thus the narrative voice condemns the conflict as a crime, as sacrilege, and as madness (scelus, nefas, furor). Furthermore, on this view of the conflict there is no place for martial valor (virtus), for there is no foreign enemy against whom it can properly be displayed. The communitarian view of the conflict thus authorizes a particular pattern of action, and a corresponding ethical discourse: violence against the adversary is condemned; avoidance of violence is praised. Throughout the poem, the communitarian view is most clearly articulated and enacted by Pompey himself, and to a lesser extent by his followers. This view, however, involves an unavoidable contradiction: if Pompey regards the Caesarians as members of the community, as people who have claims upon his pietas, how can he also advocate violence against them? This contradiction leaves its traces in many of Pompey’s speeches. Consider his speech to his troops at 2.531–95, Pompey’s first words in the poem. Here he represents his clash with Caesar primarily as a dispute within a single community. At 2.539–40 he denies that the conflict is a proelium iustum (which I take to be equivalent here to bellum iustum, a phrase specifically associated with warfare against a hostis) and insists rather that it is the ‘‘anger of a vengeful fatherland’’— anger directed, implicitly, at a recalcitrant member of itself. Elaborating this claim, he goes on to compare Caesar to other Romans who took up arms against the state: Catiline, Lentulus, Cethegus, Cinna, Marius, Lepidus, Carbo, even Spartacus; significantly, he does not compare Caesar to a foreign foe such as Hannibal, a paradigm that others have already applied. Also, at the end of the speech he explicitly calls the conflict a bellum civile. In accordance with the communitarian view, throughout the speech he condemns Caesar’s assault on his fatherland as criminal,
6 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
sacrilegious, and mad: he associates with Caesar words such as scelus, pollutus, nefas, rabies, furens, furor, and demens. But embedded in this communitarian presentation of the conflict are jarring notes, traces of the inherent contradiction noted above. At 2.532–33, for example, he calls his troops the ‘‘truly Roman band’’ (o vere Romana manus) whose war-making is authorized by the Senate, and contrasts this authorization with Caesar’s ‘‘private arms.’’ This portrayal seems to eliminate the Caesarians from the ranks of ‘‘Romans,’’ rather than include them. Similarly, at 2.533 he urges his soldiers to ‘‘pray for a fight’’ (votis deposcite pugnam)—hardly consistent with the violenceaverse communitarian view. These inconsistencies suggest that Pompey cannot in fact reconcile the communitarian view with advocating violence. Perhaps these inconsistencies also account for the speech’s poor reception, for his men do not applaud, nor show enthusiasm for battle. Pompey’s actions, on the other hand, do accord generally with the communitarian view and its associated value system: for the most part he does try to avoid killing his opponents and hence to avoid the impietas—the violation of duties and obligations—that such action, on the communitarian view, entails. At 6.118–39, when Pompey first attempts to break out of the encirclement at Dyrrachium—the first time Pompey himself sends his troops into battle—his sudden onslaught scares the Caesarians literally to death: ‘‘That his victory might owe nothing to the sword, fear had finished off his stunned enemies. They lay dead in the place they ought to have stood—the only thing their virtus had the strength to do. Already there was nobody left to receive wounds, and the storm-cloud bringing so many weapons was squandered’’ . . . . The narrator implies that Pompey remains undefiled by civil bloodshed because his victory is technically non-violent: fear itself does the killing before Pompeian weapons can draw blood. A second episode at Dyrrachium more clearly shows Pompey’s communitarian behavior, but reveals a further contradiction inherent in this ethical stance. Pompey has surrounded a portion of Caesar’s army and could end the war on the spot if he annihilates them—but he restrains his men’s swords: ... All the blood in civil conflict could have been shed, even to the point of peace: but the leader himself restrained the furious swords. You
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
would have been happy, free from kings and master of yourself, Rome, had Sulla conquered for you in that place. It grieves us, alas, and will always grieve us, that the pinnacle of your crimes benefits you, Caesar: you have done bat tle with a son in law who is pius. Oh, cruel fate!
Pompey is declared pius—a positive value judgment—because he restrains his men’s swords (suppressing their virtus) and so preserves Caesar. In this respect he differs from Sulla and especially from Caesar himself, who commits a scelus in fighting his own son-in-law. Yet the adjective pius here is also ironic, as the exclamation pro tristia fata! signals: for thanks to Pompey’s current pietas, the mutual communal slaughter will continue and the state will eventually be enslaved . . . . So Pompey’s pious action not only comes at the expense of virtus, but also, on the communitarian view itself, begets further impietas in the long run—continued mutual slaughter within the community, then subjection to a dominus. The ethical contradictions involved in the communitarian view are further elaborated early in Book 7. On the morning of the battle of Pharsalus, Pompey’s troops, overcome by a ‘‘dire frenzy’’ and hence eager to join battle, accuse their leader of being ‘‘slow and cowardly’’ for pursuing a strategy of delay . . . . That is, they imply that his strategy betrays a lack of virtus and that he is overly concerned with matters of pietas (his duty toward his father-in-law). In reply Pompey concedes that battle can no longer be postponed, in part because the ‘‘prods of martial valor’’ are inciting his soldiers . . . . But he also labels his soldiers’ desire to fight as ‘‘madness for criminality’’ and suggests that victory without bloodshed is desirable in civil war . . . . Since scelus here refers to killing one’s kin and fellow-citizens, Pompey is implying that pietas justifies his strategy of delay and avoidance; thus he counters his soldiers’ implied judgment that he lacks virtus. This passage once again demonstrates that using violence is ethically incompatible with maintaining a communitarian view of the conflict: the desire to be evaluated positively in the category of martial valor (virtus) urges battle, while consideration for community obligations (pietas) demands abstention from battle. Nevertheless, Pompey does attempt to bridge this gap, and to render virtus and pietas consistent. Addressing his soldiers just before the battle, he seeks to motivate them to fight effectively by invoking images of fatherland, wives and children left behind:
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
... ‘‘The day your virtus demands,’’ he says, ‘‘the end to civil conflict that you have sought, is at hand. Pour out all your strength: a final work of arms remains, and a single hour draws together all nations. Whoever longs for his fatherland and dear penates, whoever longs for his off spring and wife and relatives left behind, let him seek them by the sword: god has set every thing in the middle of the field.’’
Later he adduces still other images of the community in need, asking his men to imagine Roman matrons urging them to battle from the walls of the city, Roman senators abasing themselves before them, and the city itself making an appeal—that is, he appeals repeatedly to his soldiers’ sense of duty to family and community, to their desire to be judged pii, in an effort to motivate them to fight with valor (virtus; totas effundite vires). He even refers to the Ceasarians as hostes. Yet in the context of the upcoming battle, his rhetorical strategy is self-contradictory and doomed to fail: for what will his troops do when they see their own fathers, sons, and brothers on the other side? That is, how can they fight vigorously (demonstrating virtus) on the moral basis that Pompey has provided for them (that of acting piously), when the purported hostes facing them are the very people to whom they are bound by obligations of pietas? Again, Pompey cannot resolve the fundamental contradiction inherent in his communitarian view: for this view is consistent with a strategy of avoidance and delay in civil war, but not with violent conflict. Nor do his soldiers deal effectively with this contradiction. For although we are told that his speech kindles their desire to display virtus, it turns out (as we shall see in section IV) that their desire to be judged pii, upon which this desire for virtus is presumably founded, will indeed undermine their will to fight as soon as they recognize their friends and relatives on the other side. III. THE ‘‘ALIENATING’’ VIEWPOINT
Petreius, in the fraternization scene, is the one Pompeian who systematically rejects the communitarian viewpoint and so avoids the contradictions that plague Pompey. In a speech urging his men to kill the Caesarians who have entered the Pompeian camp, Petreius rhetorically excludes the Caesarians from the community. He calls them hostes and insists that the Pompeian troops owe loyalty only to their own side, which he identifies with the state as a whole: ‘‘heedless of your
V o l u m e
2
6 3 5
P h a r s a l i a
fatherland, forgetful of your own standards . . . ’’ (immemor o patriae, signorum oblite tuorum). His value judgments support this construction of the community: he calls his men’s fraternization ‘‘outrageous betrayal’’ (proditio nefanda) and implies that they have violated the trust placed in them (fides) in giving up the fight against the Caesarians. Petreius’ ethical language contrasts sharply with the communitarian language of the narrator in his description of the fraternization: there, nefas is predicated of killing one’s adversary and fides of preserving and cherishing him. Petreius’ words are persuasive; his soldiers, reluctant at first, are finally induced to abandon the communitarian view and slaughter their Caesarian guests. Petreius’ viewpoint, which I call the alienating view, is not ‘‘perverse’’—an adjective that scholars regularly apply to this line of thought— nor is it merely a travesty or inversion of communitarian values: it has a systematic logic of its own. It is the view that one’s opponent is a hostis, a foreign enemy, whose behavior both excludes him from the community of Romans and threatens that community. Therefore making war on him is both pious and valorous. On this view, the conflict at hand is not a bellum civile at all, but rather a bellum externum; it is fundamentally no different from a war against (say) the Parthians or a German tribe. The alienating view is wellrepresented throughout Lucan’s poem, but it is much more commonly associated with the Caesarians than with the Pompeians. This view is first articulated at the initial crisis point in the poem, Caesar’s arrival at the Rubicon. As Caesar stands on the bank of the river, a vision of the Roman state itself, the patria, appears to him and says, ‘‘Where beyond are you aiming? Where are you carrying my standards, soldiers? If you come with legal sanction, and as citizens, this far only is permitted’’ . . . . This image of the nation itself embodies the values of the community as a whole, telling Caesar that he will be violating the proper Roman way of doing things (ius) and hence will be excluded from the body of cives, if he crosses the river with his army: he will, in other words, alienate himself. Caesar responds by forcefully asserting his membership in the community: he invokes the Trojan penates of his own house, the fire of Vesta, and Jupiter in two different forms—all symbols of the Roman community and his membership in it— asking them to favor his undertaking. In this way he affiliates his actions with the interests of the
6 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
community; he implies that he is pius. Indeed, he explicitly denies that he is attacking the patria itself: ‘‘It is not you whom I am harrying with furious arms’’ (non te furialibus armis/persequor). He does concede the application of the tern hostis to himself, but insists that the blame for his behavior will ultimately fall upon his adversaries: ‘‘He, he will be guilty, who made me a hostis to you’’ . . . . The violation of ius and pietas will then be theirs, not his, and his own claim to membership in the community will be vindicated. Caesar here resists being made the object of alienating discourse, though soon he will take up this discourse himself for use against the Pompeians. Initially, however, he makes no effort to exclude them from the community. Addressing his soldiers in Book 1, he justifies war by arguing that Pompey’s extraordinary power must be abolished and by claiming that he is looking out for his soldiers’ welfare. These arguments seem rather ad hoc; he fails to articulate a systematic moral basis for going to war—as he could do, for example, by tarring his opponents as hostes. For this reason his speech fails to persuade: ‘‘he finished speaking, but the crowd, doubtful, murmured to itself with indistinct mumbling. Pietas and their ancestral penates broke their resolve, despite being fierce with slaughter, and their inflamed spirits’’ . . . . His men regard their opponents as members of the community, and thus considerations of pietas preclude the assault Caesar urges. But among Caesar’s centurions is one Laelius, who wears an oak wreath indicating that he once saved the life of a fellow-citizen in battle. The wreath signifies the community’s collective judgment that he has displayed both virtus and pietas— since his heroic action falls into the ethical categories of both ‘‘martial valor’’ and ‘‘service to the community.’’ As such he is an authoritative moral voice: it is he who provides a systematic moral basis for Caesar’s war effort and thus resolves the soldiers’ concerns about pietas. Specifically, he grants Caesar the authority to define the community of Roman citizens as he wishes, simply by indicating whom his soldiers should attack: ‘‘nor is anyone a fellow-citizen of mine if I hear your trumpets against him, Caesar’’ (nec civis meus est, in quem tua classica, Caesar,/audiero). If the community so defined excludes the soldiers’ bloodrelations and spouses, so be it, says Laelius: ‘‘If you order me to bury my sword in my brother’s breast or my father’s throat or in the belly of my pregnant wife, even if my right hand is unwilling, I
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
will nevertheless do it all’’ . . . . He also declares himself willing to plunder and burn the temples of the gods, and even to destroy the city of Rome itself, if Caesar requests it. In these statements Laelius disavows each significant aspect of pietas as normally understood: he forswears his obligations to the gods, to the state and community at large, and to his family. Indeed, he obliquely acknowledges the normative force of this conception of pietas when he concedes that his own right hand may be unwilling: he implies that he must struggle to overcome an ingrained aversion to slaughtering kin. But this acknowledgment merely emphasizes the radical nature of the alienating view he articulates. The point is that, on this view, his kin are no longer members of the community, and pietas is not owed to them. For only those alongside whom one fights are fellowcitizens, and those against whom one fights are not. It is this view of the community that his ethical language is tailored to fit. To judge from the soldiers’ reactions, Laelius’ speech succeeds where Caesar’s speech failed: now that Laelius has addressed their concerns about pietas by redefining the community, the soldiers pledge to follow Caesar into ‘‘any war to which he should summon them.’’ In the next few books Caesar and the Caesarians regularly assert, and act in accordance with, the alienating view of the conflict. In a description of Caesar’s march south through Italy at 2.439–46, we are told that Caesar rejoices in shedding blood continuously, in taking the towns by force, and in devastating the fields; he regards the defenders as hostes. Furthermore, he is ashamed to go by an undefended route, lest he ‘‘appear to be a citizen’’ (concessa pudet ire via civemque videri). In his actions, in his characterizations of the belligerents, and in the moral judgments on the action embedded in his emotional reactions (gaudet, iuvat, and pudet), Caesar manifests the alienating view of the conflict: he and his opponents are foreign enemies in relation to one another; hence it is right, good, and a source of joy to destroy them violently. Scaeva’s behavior and ethical discourse (6.140–262) are also rooted in the alienating view. Rallying the defeated Caesarians after Pompey’s attack at Dyrrachium, he speaks as follows: ‘‘‘To what point,’ he said, ‘has impious fear, unknown to all the weapons of Caesar, driven you? . . . with pietas gone, young men, will you not stand your ground out of anger, at least?’’’ . . . . In accusing them of pavor (the opposite of virtus) and
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
impietas —i.e., of failing to fight well against a foreign enemy and thereby neglecting their obligations to their community—he implicitly constructs a community consisting of Caesarians only and excluding the Pompeians. Indeed, he refers to the Pompeians as hostes at 6.156, and the narrator maintains this characterization of the Pompeians in the lines that follow (hostes, hosti, hostem)—that is, Scaeva can be seen as the focalizer of these words, and of the description of his actions generally as told by the narrator. Toward the end of his aristeia, however, Scaeva briefly adopts communitarian discourse and behavior to create a deception: his virtus subsides (virtute remota) and he addresses the Pompeians as cives, asking them to spare him. When Aulus draws near, Scaeva stabs him in the throat, reigniting his virtus (incaluit virtus) and restoring the alienating pattern of action and valuation. His fellow-Caesarians share this view, and therefore, as representatives of his community and hence a judging audience for his spectacular public performance, they ‘‘praise him as the living image of outstanding Martial Valor’’ (vivam magnae speciem virtutis adorant). They also dedicate his weapons to Mars, presumably a mark of their pietas. But again, his actions are valorous, and theirs are pious, only on the alienating view, in which the Pompeians are regarded as hostes and therefore violence against them is right, appropriate, and divinely sanctioned. The final strong statement of the alienating perspective occurs in Caesar’s speech in Book 7, just before the battle of Pharsalus is joined. A crucial passage in this speech is the following: ... But this I ask you, young men, that no one wish to strike the enemy in the back: consider any one who flees a fellow citizen. But, while the weapons gleam, let no vision of pietas move you, nor your parents if you see them facing you: churn up with your sword those faces demanding reverence.
Here Caesar progressively nuances the notion of ‘‘enemy’’ (hostis). First, opponents who flee are not enemies at all; on the contrary, he formally and explicitly defines those who flee as members of the community (civis qui fugerit esto). This definition provides a social, hence ethical, basis for sparing them: one should not seek to kill a member of one’s community; to do so would be impious. Against those who stand and fight, however, Caesar urges his soldiers to fight vigorously. Even if they are your parents, he says, you must not let pietas move you; you must mangle their
V o l u m e
2
6 3 7
P h a r s a l i a
faces regardless. The claim that those who stand their ground do not warrant pious treatment, regardless even of kinship, implicitly excludes them from the community; it is this subset of the Pompeians who comprise the ‘‘real’’ hostis against whom martial valor must be displayed. Here Caesar takes up Laelius’ earlier suggestion that the community (as the Caesarians see it) be defined in terms of whom Caesar chooses to attack. Also like Laelius, Caesar’s language acknowledges the existence of the communitarian viewpoint: in speaking of parents as ‘‘demanding reverence’’ (verendi), he concedes that the duties of pietas would normally be owed to them. But here too, in his explicit rejection of the traditional social bases for morally judging peoples’ actions, Caesar emphasizes the innovativeness of his alienating view. IV. DISCOURSES AND ARMIES IN CONFLICT
I have argued that the military and political competition between Caesar and Pompey also entails a competition between two different articulations of the Roman community and hence between two different ethical discourses regarding the conflict. Another passage from Caesar’s speech in Book 7 discusses the stakes of the latter competition in particular. ... This [sc. is the day] that certifies, with fate as witness, who took up arms more justly; this battle is going to make the loser guilty. If it is for me that you attacked your fatherland with sword and fire, fight fiercely now and clear your guilt by the sword: no hand is pure, if the judge of the war is changed.
Caesar declares here that he is fighting Pompey for control of the content and application of the Roman ethical vocabulary. The victor, he says, will appropriate the (currently contested) term ius for his own cause and assign the term nocens to the vanquished. Therefore he urges his soldiers to fight fiercely (nunc pugnate truces), i.e., to display virtus: the blame incurred by their assault on the fatherland (si . . . patriam ferro flammisque petistis), the impiety of attacking one’s own community, will be cleared if and only if that attack is successful (gladioque exsolvite culpam). For the victor establishes himself as iudex belli, meaning that the allocation of value terms (such as ius, nocens, culpa, and purus, in this passage) will be entirely at his disposal. Only in victory, then, can Caesar enforce his own articulation of the community and thus make authoritative the ethical discourse based on that articulation. The definition of the community, and
6 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
consequently the moral interpretation of history, belongs to the victor. In the meantime, however, the moral interpretation of events is up for grabs. Contestation over the assignment of value terms is in fact a major theme of the poem, as the first sentence of the poem declares (iusque datum sceleri canimus . . . ). Indeed, in many ancient civil war narratives, control of the ethical vocabulary is at stake: it is a commonplace that civil war produces multiple moral perspectives, resulting in contestation over the allocation of moral terms. We have seen, then, that in the communitarian view of the conflict—which Pompey repeatedly champions, despite its internal inconsistencies— there is no hostis, hence no social or ethical basis for displaying virtus. The obligations of pietas are owed to the Caesarians, as well as to everyone else. Therefore Pompey cannot provide a moral context in which his soldiers can fight the Caesarians effectively. On the other hand, Caesar’s predominantly alienating view, which excludes from the community all who actively oppose him, creates an ethical space in which his soldiers can display virtus as well as pietas. We now turn to the narrative of the battle of Pharsalus, to see how these differing social and ethical constructions of the conflict translate into action. As the battle-lines approach each other on the plain, the soldiers on both sides size up the opposition: ... they look to see where their weapons will fall, or what hands threaten doom against them from the other side. That they might know what terrible deeds they were about to do, they saw the faces of their parents confronting them opposite and the weapons of their broth ers close at hand, and they did not see fit to shift their ground. Nevertheless, a numbness froze all their breasts, and their blood congealed cold in their vitals because of the outrage to pietas. ...
When they see their brothers and fathers opposing them, they realize the violence they are doing to pietas (percussa pietate): their breasts go numb, their blood runs cold, and the start of the battle is deferred. For the moment, the communitarian perspective dominates—despite the fact that Caesar urged his men away from that perspective and that Pompey’s speech kindled his soldiers’ desire to display virtus. But soon Crastinus hurls the first lance and the battle is on. The Pompeians quickly have difficulties: they are too crowded to wield their weapons effectively; they can only hide
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
behind a wall of shields. Meanwhile, Caesar’s troops attack furiously. An extremely one-sided battle ensues, in which the Caesarians do all the killing: ‘‘One battle-line endures civil war, the other wages it; from that side the sword stands cold, but from Caesar’s every guilty blade is warm’’ . . . . This one-sidedness is emphasized again thirty lines later: ‘‘what followed was no battle, but war is waged on one side with throats, on the other with the sword; nor does this battleline have as much strength to kill as that one has capacity to perish’’ . . . . Ultimately, then, the soldiers on each side act in accordance with the ethical frameworks that their commanders provided in advance. Pompey’s soldiers seemingly do not fight at all; they do not commit the impiety of killing family members and countrymen. Meanwhile, Caesar’s troops fight well, displaying virtus by killing those who, on Caesar’s definition, are excluded from the community. There are hints, however, of a latent communitarian perspective among the Caesarians, for even as they kill kin and countrymen their reactions sometimes suggest that they feel qualms; they also have nightmares afterward in which they perceive their actions as a ‘‘savage crime’’ (saevum scelus). V. THE NARRATOR
In my discussion of conflicting definitions and discourses, I have largely neglected the most authoritative voice in the poem, the narrative voice. Like all epic narrators, Lucan’s is, at one level, omnipotent and omniscient: he can move the narrative instantly from one location to another, expand or compress time at will, and so on. But other narrators, particularly Homer and Vergil, generally do not put forward strong opinions: they tend to remain ethically and emotionally detached from the events they narrate and gain credibility precisely by virtue of their selfeffacement. Lucan’s narrator, on the other hand, as many scholars have remarked, is deeply engaged with the poem’s action. He often takes obtrusive, partisan stances on the events he narrates and therefore seems scarcely less opinionated than the voices of Pompey, Caesar, and other characters. Accordingly, the ethical stances he takes, and the value judgments he passes, may seem no more (or less) credible and authoritative than those of the other characters. This claim that Lucan is an active, partisan spectator of the events he narrates is unquestionably true in certain respects. However, an exclusive focus on overt interventions misses subtler,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
less obtrusive, but equally important ways in which the narrator can present and manipulate his own narrative. For instance, the narrator may be completely subsumed in someone else’s viewpoint, adopting the ethical stance and conception of community of the character or group whose story he is narrating at the moment: that is, the character or group in question focalizes the narrator’s description of its actions. One such passage is the narrative of Scaeva’s deeds: here the narrator regularly refers to Scaeva’s. Pompeian foes as hostes, just as Scaeva does; also, the taunting address to the Pompeians, denying that ordinary weapons can stop him, could be seen as Scaeva’s own boast. At a more visible and self-assertive level, the narrator adopts an ethical stance at odds with that of the character or group whose actions he narrates—a situation I call ‘‘hostile narration.’’ For example, he heaps condemnation upon the Caesarians as he relates their occupation and plundering of the Pompeian camp after Pharsalus; he emphasizes in particular the bonds of kinship and community that they have violated— though from the Caesarians’ own (alienating) perspective they have seized an enemy camp, and on that view their actions are morally right. Here, then, the narrator adopts a communitarian ethical stance as he relates actions done in accordance with an alienating view. At his most obtrusive—the narrative mode that scholars have repeatedly noted and studied—the narrator actually interrupts the narrative and gives a more or less extended evaluative commentary on the action in propria voce. A striking case is, where the narrator, in a direct address, tells Scaeva that his alienating view of the community is false. For while Scaeva calls the Pompeians hostes, vigorously fights them, and deploys ethical language accordingly (e.g., pietas is owed only to fellow-Caesarians), here the narrator insists that they are not a foreign enemy such as the Teutoni or Cantabri (evidently the ‘‘true’’ hostes); hence there can be no triumph and no proper dedication of spoils to Iuppiter Tonans. Consequently his virtus, grotesquely misdirected, has gained him nothing but a dominus. A final example of this most assertive obtrusion of the narrative voice is his denunciation of the consequences of Pharsalus: ... The peoples of the world have a wound from this battle greater than their own age could bear; it is more than life and safety that passes
V o l u m e
2
6 3 9
P h a r s a l i a
away: we are laid low for the whole eternity of the universe. Every age is conquered by these swords, and will be slaves. Why did the next generation, or the one after that, deserve to be born into tyranny? Did we ply our weapons in a cowardly manner, or shield our throats? The penalty for someone else’s cowardice sits upon our necks. Fortune, if you gave a master to those born after the battle, you might also have given them a chance to fight.
This passage indicts both parties: the Caesarians for seeking to impose a ‘‘master’’ (dominus) upon the state and thus to ‘‘enslave’’ everyone else (serviet, in nostra cervice); but also the Pompeians for their cowardice, their failure to fight that enabled the Caesarian victory. Thus the narrator rejects the inevitable consequences of the communitarian perspective: in condemning the Pompeians for pavor and timor —i.e., a lack of virtus—he adopts an alienating ethical discourse. Essentially, he implies that the Caesarians are a valid target for martial valor (hence they are hostes and are excluded from the community) and suggests that the Pompeians would have served the community better by taking such a view themselves. These examples of the narrator’s moral judgments on the actions he narrates were of course chosen with malice aforethought, for I wished to demonstrate his inconsistency, on several axes, in the face of competing views of the community and competing ethical discourses. First, as in the Scaeva episode, at one level the narrator may implicate his own viewpoint with that of a character (Scaeva focalizes the narrator’s alienating discourse: see section III above), but at another level sharply distinguish his own viewpoint from the character’s (explicitly rejecting Scaeva’s view, and embracing a communitarian discourse instead: see the previous paragraph). Second, he can enthusiastically reject each faction’s principal viewpoint: by lamenting the Pompeians’ cowardice (quoted above), he indicts the communitarian view that underlay their collapse; then, just one hundred lines later, he provides a hostile narration of the Caesarians’ plundering of the Pompeian camp (i.e., he takes a communitarian ethical stance) and in so doing rejects the alienating perspective that justifies the Caesarians’ actions. Finally, he can equally enthusiastically embrace each faction’s principal viewpoint. In an apostrophe to Pompey after the battle, the narrator tells the defeated general ‘‘it was worse to win’’ (vincere peius erat)—presumably validating Pompey’s communitarian perspective, according to which the killing in this conflict is criminal.
6 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
And even Caesar’s alienating perspective is praiseworthy, under the right circumstances: when Afranius surrenders the Pompeian army in Spain, Caesar sends these troops home unpunished and unconscripted. For on the alienating view, these men, being hostes, have committed no crime in fighting, nor do they owe any military duty to their conquerors. The narrator, then, is inconsistent in that he does not systematically embrace one or the other competing conception of community and its corresponding ethical discourse. Rather, he moves back and forth between them, at one point or another judging the actions of each side by the moral standards of each ethical discourse. Masters, discussing the narrator’s vacillation between the Pompeian and Caesarian causes, speaks of Lucan’s ‘‘fractured voice’’ and suggests (rightly, I think) that its inconsistency necessarily follows from the poem’s subject matter. The present discussion reveals a similar connection between subject and form, for we have seen that the cleft in the community—the defining contradiction of civil war—is reproduced first in a divided ethical discourse and second in the narrator’s conflicting moral evaluations. Consequently, in failing to adopt one view over the other, the narrator not only narrates the civil war, but performs it as well: he allows the alternative ethical discourses and views of community to compete through his own voice just as they compete through the words and actions of the characters. This unresolved competition also shows that neither discourse, and neither conception of the community, by itself can adequately embrace the conflict that is the poem’s subject. Indeed, the opening phrase of the poem, ‘‘war more than civil’’ (bella . . . plus quam civilia), may also suggest in retrospect that both available ethical frameworks are inadequate to the subject. For we have seen that the phrase bellum civile sometimes conveys specifically the communitarian view on the conflict. Therefore, the phrase ‘‘more than civil’’ may imply that the communitarian view does not quite fit. However, this phrase may also imply ‘‘less than (or not exactly) external,’’ in which case the alienating view is also inadequate. On this reading, the words plus quam, like the aporetic competition between ethical discourses, marks the lack of a comprehensive view and the need for a third way. But despite these contradictions, the narrator is not without direction: through the poem as a whole he does seem to adopt (and praise) the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
communitarian view, and engage in its corresponding ethical discourse, more often than he embraces the alternative. Perhaps we should reflect this differential preference by labeling communitarian discourse ‘‘dominant’’ or ‘‘normative’’ in the poem and alienating discourse ‘‘oppositional’’ or ‘‘subversive.’’ But the latter is not thereby swept under the rug: it remains a coherent, visible, persistent, and powerful discourse, emerging repeatedly in the statements and actions of many characters— Pompeians as well as Caesarians—and in the narrative voice. I also see little evolution: there is no move toward a reconciliation of these discourses, nor does either one seem to become more favored or prominent, or less so, over the course of the poem. These discourses simply coexist, in somewhat unequal authorial favor, ever competing and conflicting with each other, inescapable artifacts of civil war itself. A possible third way does appear in Book 9, where Cato is at the center of an entirely different mode of ethical discourse. Here Cato and virtus are closely associated—but this virtus seems to have little to do with martial valor, for there is no fighting in this section of the poem; nor is it ever in tension with pietas, as it often is elsewhere. Rather, it is linked repeatedly with endurance, toil, and overcoming difficulty. The Stoic connection is easy to make: it is a commonplace of imperial Stoicism that moral virtue, though of course independent of indifferent externals such as pain, suffering, and death, is best displayed— and may even be strengthened—by being exercised in their presence. In this and other respects, the ethical discourse centered on Cato is strongly Stoicizing. But Stoic ethics differs radically from both alienating and communitarian ethical discourse. The latter two are fundamentally the same, being alternative versions of the traditional, external, community-based mode of evaluation. They operate identically with respect to the underlying conception of community and differ only insofar as that underlying conception differs. In Stoic ethics, however, moral value is internal and resides in states of mind that are accessible primarily to oneself. Things that are externally observable, such as the actual results of one’s plans and actions, are regarded as beyond one’s control and therefore without moral value. The community therefore has no role in moral evaluation. Thus, Cato’s Stoicism potentially offers an escape from the competing, irreconcilable discourses discussed above: it
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
provides a universal moral standard, invariant over all conditions of peace and war, unity and disunity, as the basis for a reconstituted, unitary ethical discourse. However, at 9.950 the narrator turns his attention back to Caesar; Cato and his Stoic ethics do not reappear in the poem. How Lucan might have developed this alternative system subsequently, and how it might have interacted with the poem’s other ethical discourses, we will never know. VI. LUCAN AND EARLY IMPERIAL ARISTOCRATIC IDEOLOGY
Several times in the poem Caesar articulates an ideological reconstruction of the Roman community and its ethical discourse. This reconstruction, which he can impose if he wins, will establish his alienating view of the community as the normative basis for ethical valuation, thereby removing all moral opprobrium from himself and depositing it upon his adversaries. Yet within the poem itself no such reconstruction occurs. Lucan at no point allows Caesar’s alienating view and its ethical discourse to dominate; also, voices that move toward Caesar’s view in the last three books (after Pharsalus) are presented unsympathetically. Historically, however, Caesar did attempt such a reconstruction, and we can recover its general outlines. Once we have done so, we will be able to consider the ideological consequences of Lucan’s disallowing that reconstruction and of his projecting the particular image of civil war that he does from the cultural context of Neronian Rome. Raaflaub 1974, in his survey of the terms used by the Pompeians and Caesarians, shows that the historical Pompeians generally claimed to be defending the commonwealth (res publica) and that they called Caesar and his followers such things as ‘‘depraved men,’’ ‘‘bandits,’’ and ‘‘condemned criminals’’ (perditi, latrones, damnati); whether they called them hostes is unclear. Thus the Pompeians appear to have engaged in an alienating discourse, marginalizing Caesar within the community or even expelling him from it— though the evidence for their rhetoric is extremely sparse, coming almost exclusively from letters of Cicero (et al.) dating from B.C. 50–48. On the other hand, Caesar and the Caesarians generally labeled the conflict a ‘‘civil disagreement,’’ ‘‘secession’’ (civilis dissensio, secessio), or the like, they labeled the Pompeians ‘‘personal enemies’’ or ‘‘opponents’’ (inimici, adversarii) rather than using the alienating term hostes. They seem, then, to have embraced a communitarian view, or at least avoided
V o l u m e
2
6 4 1
P h a r s a l i a
inflammatory, alienating language. The evidence for the Caesarian viewpoint is much more plentiful, coming from Caesar’s Commentarii, Hirtius’ Bellum Gallicum VIII, and portions of Cicero’s Caesarian speeches (especially Lig., Marc., Deiot.). But these sources, in contrast to the Pompeian ones, postdate the bulk of the civil war and therefore must be seen, whatever their truth value, as representations of the conflict that serve Caesar’s interests in the aftermath. Indeed, the advantages for Caesar of presenting his cause this way, for public consumption and for posterity, are manifest: by embracing a communitarian discourse, he can seek (or claim to seek) reconciliation with the vanquished, and to reintegrate them into the community of which they have always been a part. This, then, is Caesar’s ideological reconstruction of the civil war, the history he as victor gets to write that allows him to mobilize support and consolidate power. Another means of access to the historical Caesarians’ re-presentation of their cause following their victory is through the symbolism of Caesar’s triumphs. It is a commonplace, in Lucan and elsewhere, that a civil war cannot produce a triumph, and there are at least two reasons, inherent in the ceremony’s form and symbolism, why this is so. First, the triumphal procession symbolically subjects the non-Roman to the Roman: it includes a display of spoils, pictures of towns captured, and a parade of notable prisoners led in chains before the triumphator’s chariot. Second, the triumph is inherently expansionist in its celebration of military conquest: Valerius Maximus states that a victory won in reconquering territory previously conquered but subsequently lost does not qualify for a triumph. A victory in civil war is incompatible with a triumph on both these counts, for neither are the vanquished non-Romans, nor does the victory expand the empire. Now, Caesar sent no word of his victory at Pharsalus to the senate—a necessary step, along with being proclaimed imperator, for a commander who hopes for a supplicatio or triumph. Indeed, says Dio, Caesar not only did not triumph, but did not wish to appear to take pleasure in this victory. His refusal to seek a triumph, then, also implies a communitarian viewpoint, and so coincides with the viewpoint taken in the literary sources—the view that Pharsalus was part of a civil war, a conflict within a single community. This interpretation of Caesar’s non-triumph for Pharsalus is confirmed by an analysis of the triumphs Caesar did celebrate. In his quadruple
6 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
triumph of B.C. 46, celebrating victories in Gaul, at Zela, at Alexandria, and at Thapsus, Caesar mixed conflicts that were manifestly external (the first two) with those that were arguably civil—yet the very act of celebrating triumphs was to portray all four alike as bella externa. The triumph for Thapsus involved a systematic manipulation of symbolism, as the sources point out: for although his principal military opponents in Africa were Cato and Metellus Scipio, his triumphal procession prominently displayed the younger Juba, son of the Numidian king who supported Cato and Scipio. Thus Caesar emphasized the foreignness of the force opposing him and so constructed Thapsus symbolically as a battle between Romans (his own troops) and non-Romans. After his victory at Munda, however, Caesar went even further: according to Plutarch, he caused outrage by triumphing unambiguously over other Romans. For (says Plutarch) he had previously avoided seeking recognition for victories in civil war, and his fellow-countrymen were grieved that he now celebrated a triumph for destroying Pompey’s family rather than for defeating foreigners. Caesar, then, used triumphal imagery to represent each conflict after Pharsalus as a bellum externum, and to exclude those opponents from the community. These representations may have persuaded no one (certainly not Plutarch). But the point is that Caesar made the attempt, and in the most public and visible way: we must regard these performances as part of his attempted ideological reconstruction. Lucan, however, disallows this Caesarian ideological reconstruction in two ways. First, the poem portrays no systematic remobilization of discourse to Caesar’s advantage, before or after Pharsalus: it insists on presenting an endlessly divided community, forever bollixed up in competing, irreconcilable discourses. In this respect Lucan differs from other Augustan and JulioClaudian authors, who at least acknowledge that many ideological resources have been organized in support of the imperial regime. Second, and more strikingly, Lucan switches the modes of discourse that each faction embraced historically: it is Lucan’s Pompeians, not his Caesarians, who generally regard their opponents as members of their own community, and his Caesarians who, in their rhetoric and actions, tend to exclude their opponents. This reversal enables Caesar’s victory within the poem, but also precludes him from duplicating the historical Caesar’s ideological reconstruction.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P h a r s a l i a
Lucan’s resistance to Caesarian ideology must itself be ideologically important. What interests does Lucan’s construction of civil war serve, given that its ethical structuring substantially contradicts that of the dominant (i.e., Caesarian) historical tradition? Also, what is the ideological significance, within the social and political context of Neronian Rome, of a Roman aristocrat’s evincing so powerful an interest in fractured communities and competing, irreconcilable ethical discourses? I suggest that Lucan, along with other contemporary authors, perceives a divided community and competing ethical discourses in the Rome of his own day. For like Caesar himself, Caesar’s heirs, the principes, have the power to organize novel discourses that serve their own interests. One example is the discourse of flattery, in which the traditional grounds for praise and blame are disregarded or transmuted so as to create a uniform front of praise. Flattery distorts and undermines the aristocracy’s fundamental, received mode of valuation, and so threatens the social cohesion and group identity that traditional ethical discourse provides them. Seneca’s advocacy of Stoic ethics implicitly addresses this problem and provides the aristocracy with one possible solution. For, as noted in section V, an ethical discourse systematically grounded on an internal standard (states of mind) elides all the problems that traditional discourse, being social and external, encounters in the face of a divided evaluative community. On this reading, Seneca’s support for Stoic ethics is ideological in that it supports the interests of the aristocracy as a whole in its power struggle with the princeps. For by reconstituting a unitary evaluative community, Seneca’s Stoic ethics negates an important aspect of the princeps’ power—the power to organize ethical discourse to his own advantage. Lucan, meanwhile, examines divided communities and competing discourses in the framework of the civil war, which is at once the origin of the principate and also a moment at which these issues are particularly prominent and sharpened. By refusing to allow his Caesar to mimic the historical Caesar’s ideological reconstruction, Lucan resists the reorganizations of community and discourse to Caesar’s (and the principate’s) advantage. But at the same time he fails to reject Caesar’s program decisively; he makes no systematic attempt to stamp out the irruption of Caesarism into aristocratic ethics. Thus he leaves competing articulations of the community and competing discourses forever in conflict, with no
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
resolution in sight. It is, I think, a dark view of the aristocracy’s position: Caesar and the principate ensure a perpetual, irreparable fracturing of their community and destroy even the possibility of talking meaningfully (i.e., morally) about the regime itself or any other matter. Source: Matthew B. Roller, ‘‘Ethical Contradiction and the Fractured Community in Lucan’s Bellum Civile,’’ in Classical Antiquity, Vol. 15, No. 2, October 1996, pp. 319 47.
SOURCES Ahl, Frederick M., ‘‘Form Empowered: Lucan’s Pharsalia,’’ in Roman Epic, Routledge, 1993, pp. 125 42. , Lucan: An Introduction, Cornell University Press, 1976. Bartsch, Shadi, Ideology in Cold Blood: A Reading of Lucan’s ‘‘Pharsalia,’’ Harvard University Press, 2001. Duff, J. D., trans., Lucan: ‘‘The Civil War’’ (‘‘Pharsalia’’), Harvard University Press, 1988. Hill, Timothy, Ambitiosa Mors: Suicide and the Self in Roman Thought and Literature, Routledge, 2004, p. 213. Johnson, W. R., Momentary Monsters: Lucan and His Heroes, Cornell University Press, 1987. Masters, Jamie, Poetry and Civil War in Lucan’s ‘‘Bellum Civile,’’ Cambridge University Press, 1992. Morford, M. P. O., The Poet Lucan: Studies in the Rhet orical Epic, Bristol Classical Press, 1996. Sharrock, Alison, and Rhiannon Ash, Fifty Key Classical Authors, Routledge, 2002, p. 322. Tacitus, The Annals of Imperial Rome, translated by Michael Grant, Penguin Books, 1996.
FURTHER READING Behr, Francesca D’Alessandro, Feeling History: Lucan, Stoicism, and the Poetics of Pass, Ohio State University Press, 2007. This book focuses on Lucan’s use of the rhet orical device of apostrophe in which the narra tor talks directly to the characters and explains how Lucan’s style is a criticism of the tradi tional Roman approach to history and ethics. Champlin, Edward, Nero, Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005. This is a biography of Lucan’s emperor and enemy Nero, the Roman emperor famous for persecuting Christians and fiddling while Rome burned. Champlin uses major imperial histories to explore more fully Nero’s life.
V o l u m e
2
6 4 3
P h a r s a l i a
Kelly, Christopher, The Roman Empire: A Very Short Introduction, Oxford University Press, 2006. This work is a comprehensive yet concise review of the history of the Roman Empire; its formation and the assimilation of other peo ples; and its political, religious cultural, and social composition. Masters, Jamie, and Ja´s Elsner, eds., Reflections of Nero: Culture, History, and Representation, University of North Carolina Press, 2009. This book is not so much a biography as a review of various aspects of Nero’s life and his surroundings; it includes a chapter on Lucan and a discussion of Stoicism. O’Hara, James J., Inconsistency in Roman Epic: Studies in Catullus, Lucretius, Vergil, Ovid, and Lucan, Cambridge University Press, 2007. This book examines the works of classical Greek and Roman authors to show that incon sistencies are sometimes intentionally created and can affect interpretations.
6 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
Tesorliero, Charles, Frances Muecke, and Tamara Neal, eds., Lucan, Oxford University Press, 2010. This book presents an international collection of important articles that critique Lucan’s epic; it includes a guide to Lucan scholarship and a history of the poem’s literary reception.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Lucan Pharsalia AND Lucan Lucan AND civil war epic AND Lucan Lucan AND Nero Lucan AND Seneca Lucan AND stoicism
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Poetic Edda Provenance is the history of manuscript ownership, which attempts to explain how old literary works survived from one century to the next. This history traces the known record of documents, where they were located and who owned them and what versions existed, perhaps in different places, perhaps even at the same time. Before the use of the printing press, literature was transmitted orally, and then at some later time it was written down by hand. When it was written down, it was preserved for future owners of the manuscript. But that writer and all subsequent ones can affect the work: They can choose the organization; they can choose to omit parts; they can insert material that is new or relevant to their own times; they may offer commentary, right inside the text. In these and many other ways, as the oral work transitions into written text, it goes through a number of alternations. Issues of provenance and multiple transcriptions are fundamental to any study of an ancient work, and they have been fundamental to the study of the edda (lays or short poems) that originated among Norse peoples in Scandinavia and were perhaps first composed sometime between the ninth and twelfth centuries. The essence of the problem is this: The collection of Norse poems, often referred to as the Elder Edda, appears not to have survived to modern times. However, before it was lost, some person or persons used the collection of poems, perhaps in the twelfth century, as source material. What has survived to modern times are medieval manuscripts
ANONYMOUS 800–1100
6 4 5
P o e t i c
E d d a
that used the original written texts, that quoted from them, and it is these versions of the earlier, now lost, poems that people read and study in modern times. These later texts are referred to variously, but one title is the Poetic Edda. The Poetic Edda preserves what is known about the earlier poems. Modern translations of this work come via the Konungsbo´k, or Codex Regius (King’s Book), copied in Iceland about 1270 CE . This manuscript suggests that the original poems were the work of many poets. Its language suggests that the poems were composed between 800 and 1100 CE , and these poems were perhaps first written down between 1150 and 1250 CE . The later versions of the poems are a rich source of information about Norse culture and beliefs and about the Vikings. However, they also show later influences. For example, the Sigurd story draws on actual historical events regarding the tribes that invaded the Roman Empire between 350 and 600 CE . Christian Irish influence can also be traced. The Poetic Edda first came to scholarly attention in the seventeenth century as antiquarian interest in the non-classical past was growing in Europe. It was published in its entirety just as intense romantic and nationalistic interest in the perceived tribal ancestors of the European nation states emerged toward the end of the eighteenth century. This interest, combined with the new field of philology (the comparative study of languages in historical texts), ensured popular and scholarly interest in texts such as the Poetic Edda. In the later nineteenth century, some of the lays (short narrative poems or lyrics) were published in bowdlerized (corrupted) versions designed for children. In the hands of Richard Wagner (1813–1883), the Poetic Edda provided material for one of the century’s masterpieces: a group of four operas. Northern legends and the scholarship based on them were misused by the Nazis to develop and promote their ideas of race, the poems being seriously misrepresented by this use. In these three instances, one sees how ancient texts bear the impress of later uses. The texts change as they are reformed in a given time and context. In the 1960s, the poet W. H. Auden (1907–1973), in collaboration with an Old Norse scholar, Paul B. Taylor, produced a translation of sixteen of the poems. In 1969, Ursula Dronke published her translation, The Poetic Edda: Heroic Poems. Proving that interest in the work continues in the new millennium, Oxford University Press published Carolyne Larrington’s translation in 2009.
6 4 6
E p i c s
f o r
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The Poetic Edda, as it exists in the modern editions, is not a continuous narrative, but a collection of thirty-nine poems of varying lengths and types, including short narratives or lays; traditional wisdom, including what amounts to a manual of good behavior; and several dialogues, in which the questions and answers provide a glossary of poetic terms and myth. Taken together, these pieces form a history of the world from creation to apocalypse, and in them, high tragedy exists side by side with bumptious comedy. Thirtyfour poems are preserved in the Codex Regius (King’s book), copied in Iceland about 1270 CE and located as of 2001 in the Royal Library in Copenhagen, Denmark. The language preserved in that hand-written document suggests that the poems were composed between 800 and 1100 CE but were first written down between 1150 and 1250 CE . The poems appear to be the work of many poets, and some draw on various historical traditions. However northern and pagan they may appear to be in sum, they also contain material that suggests interaction with Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian cultures. It is not known where in Iceland the Codex Regius was copied. The elegance of the scribe’s writing and its similarity to those of at least two other Icelandic scribes of the period suggest its copyist was connected to a fairly large scriptorium with high standards. Despite early attempts to connect the Poetic Edda as a collection with a legendary Icelandic scholar, Saemundur Sigfu´sson the Learned (1056–1133), none of the poems can be attributed to a specific identified individual, and scholars suspect they were collected in the twelfth or thirteenth century, perhaps only a generation before the production of the Codex Regius. Nothing is known of the Codex Regius until the year 1643 when it came into the possession of Bishop Brynjo´lfr Sveinsson (1605–1675). It was already damaged then, and it appears no copy was made of it before certain missing leaves were lost permanently. In 1662, the bishop gave the manuscript to the king of Denmark. In 1665, the two mythological poems Vo¨luspa and Ha`vema`l were published by the Danish scholar Peder Hansen Resen as part of an edition of Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda. The first full edition was prepared by the Arnamagnaean Commission in Copenhagen between 1787 and 1828.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
E d d a
PLOT SUMMARY The Sibyl’s Prophecy At Odin’s request, a prophetess predicts the future from the Creation to the Fall and renewal. She begins with a time when nothing existed; the heavens and earth come into existence, but in chaos. The gods, who create the arts and crafts, social life, and finally, mankind, impose order. She prophesies the war between the Aesir and the Vanir and their conciliation, the death of Balder through Loki’s trickery, Loki’s punishment, the dwarves’ golden home, the realm of the dead, and the punishment of the wicked. She foresees the final battle between gods and giants that will end in their mutual destruction. Sun and stars fail, the earth sinks beneath the sea, but in the final stanzas, she describes a second green earth rising from the waters. Balder and Hod, his blind brother who accidentally killed him, will come again to rule. Then a mighty one, sometimes identified as Christ, will come down to bring the deserving to a hall more beautiful than the sun.
The Sayings of the High One In this composite poem only stanzas 111 through 164 are in the voice of Odin the ‘‘High One.’’ It begins with practical advice on behavior and attitude: It takes sharp wits to travel in the world they’re not so hard on you at home Better to be alive than to be lifeless the living can hope for a cow.
Even among such homely advice, however, is fame, so important to the epic attitude: ‘‘Cattle die, kinsmen die, / One day you die yourself; but the words of praise will not die.’’
The Lay of Vafthrudnir Odin has a contest with the giant Vafthrudnir to determine who has the greater knowledge of the gods, creation, and the future. Odin wins because he alone knows what he whispered in Balder’s ear as Balder lay on his funeral pyre. The lay serves as a glossary of the metaphors and images used in early Norse poetry.
The Lay of Grimnir Hunding had two sons: Agnar and Geirrod. They were fishing from a rowboat and were swept out to sea. When they made land, a farmer took them in until spring came. When they arrived back home, Geirrod jumped out of the boat and pushed it and his brother back out to sea. Geirrod became
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The Poetic Edda was a primary source for Richard Wagner’s cycle of musical dramas The Ring of the Nibelungen (composed between 1848 and 1874), which consists of four interconnected operas: Rhinegold, The Valkyries, Siegfried, and The Twilight of the Gods. Wagner adapted the mythical and legendary world of the Poetic Edda to express his own disquiet with the Industrial Revolution and political movements and developments in nineteenthcentury Germany.
One important German movie of the silent era is Fritz Lang’s Siegfried (1924), which was adapted from the Poetic Edda.
The 2004 fantasy mini-series in three parts Dark Kingdom: The Dragon King dramatizes the story of Siegfried’s life. It was written by Diane Duane and Peter Morwood, directed by Uli Edel, and distributed by Tandem Communications. It first aired in the United States in 2006 on the SciFi Cable Channel and as of 2010 was available on DVD from Song Pictures.
king. Later, Odin and Frigg, his wife, were looking down at earth. Odin teased Frigg that Geirrod, whom he favored, was king while Agnar, whom Frigg favored, lived in the wilds. Frigg answered that Geirrod was stingy. Odin bet her he would find him generous to strangers. Frigg sends a message to Geirrod to beware of a wizard coming to his court, describing Odin in disguise. Odin arrives and when he refuses to give more than an assumed name, Grimnir, he is seated between two fires to make him speak. Geirrod’s son Agnar thinks it wrong to mistreat a guest and brings him a drink. For this act, Odin blesses the boy and tells him his real name. When the king hears, he jumps up to take him away from the fires, but stumbles and falls on his own sword.
Skirnir’s Journey This lay tells of the god Frey who sees and loves a giant’s beautiful daughter. He sends his servant
V o l u m e
2
6 4 7
P o e t i c
E d d a
serpent that encircles the earth, drags it up into the boat, but thankfully, throws it back. Hymir then challenges Thor to crack his cup. Thor flings it; columns crash and stone splinters, but the cup is unbroken. At the mistress’s suggestion, he flings it at the giant’s head, and it breaks. Thor grabs the kettle and kills the pursuing giants. Aegir brews the beer.
The Insolence of Loki Loki infuriates the assembled gods and goddesses by bringing up past scandals. His stories grow more and more vile until he is finally frightened into leaving with the threat of Thor’s hammer. He curses the gods as he leaves.
The Lay of Thrym
Norse gods Loki and Hodur
Skirnir to persuade her to accept him as her lover. Skirnir cajoles and threatens her until she finally accepts Frey.
Thor’s great hammer, Mjollnir, is stolen. Loki discovers that the giant Thrym has it. Thrym tells Loki that he will give it back only if he can marry Freyja. Not surprisingly, Thor has no luck in convincing Freyja that she should marry a giant. A council of the gods and goddesses is convened, and Heimdal suggests that they dress Thor as a bride with Loki as her maid. Thor does not like it, but he must have his hammer to keep the giants out of Asgard. Thrym is beside himself with joy when they arrive, but after a comical passage in which Loki has to explain the bride’s incredible appetite and frightening eyes, Thor gets his hands on his hammer and kills his prospective in-laws.
The Lay of Volund
This is the first of the comical lays. Odin disguises himself as a ferryman and engages Thor in a duel of words. Thor loses badly.
Volund, the most famous smith of the north, is taken prisoner by Kind Nidud who lames him. Volund makes himself wings, avenges himself by murdering Nidud’s sons and raping his daughter, and flies away.
The Lay of Hymir
The Lay of Alvis
The gods feel like having a party and ask the giant Aegir to brew beer for it. Thor unfortunately annoys Aegir. He tells Thor he must borrow the brewing vat belonging to the giant Hymir. Thor and Tyr, Hymir’s son, set out for Hymir’s home where Hymir’s young mistress welcomes them. She warns them Hymir does not like guests and makes them hide when he comes. She tells Hymir that his son has come with a friend. Three bulls are cooked for dinner. Thor eats two of them. Hymir tells his guests that they will go out hunting for supper. Thor suggests that he will take a boat out and fish if Hymir provides the bait. Thor rows out, baits his hook with an ox’s head, and catches the
The dwarf Alvis tries to steal Thor’s daughter, but is tricked into such a lengthy display of his knowledge, which amounts to a catalogue of poetic synonyms, that he is caught by dawn and dies from exposure to sunlight.
The Lay of Harbard
6 4 8
E p i c s
f o r
The First and Second Lays of Helgi Hunding’s Bane and the Lay of Helgi Hjorvar’s Son The Helgi lays are incomplete and confused. Taken with the notes attached to them, they recount a story of two lovers who are reborn again and again. The first and second lays are the story of Helgi, Sigmund’s son. Helgi is loved and protected
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
by the valkyrie Sigrun. (In Norse tradition, a valkyrie is a female who decides who dies in battle and then conducts the dead to Valhalla.) Helgi must fight Sigrun’s father, brothers, and suitor to save her from an unwanted marriage. He kills them all except for her brother Dag, whom he spares. Dag swears peace with Helgi, but sacrifices to Odin for vengeance. Odin lends him his spear, and Dag kills Helgi. Sigrun is inconsolable. A maid tells her Helgi’s spirit is in his burial mound. Sigrun goes to his grave to be with him one last night, dying of grief soon after. Later, they are both reborn, as Helgi Hunding’s Bane and Kara. In the ‘‘The Lay of Helgi Hjorvar’s Son’’ another Helgi is loved by a valkyrie, Svava, who marries him. His brother Hedin confesses that he made a drunken vow to marry Svava. Helgi replies that his vow may be good for both of them; he is about to go into battle and does not expect to survive. Helgi, as he foresaw, is mortally wounded. Dying, he asks Svava to marry Hedin. She refuses, but Hedin promises her he will avenge Helgi. The lay breaks off in the manuscript with a note that ‘‘It is said of Helgi and Svava that they were born again.’’
The Prophecy of Gripir Ironically, the only straightforward version of Sigurd and Brynhild’s story is in the form of a prophecy. Sigurd asks his uncle what he sees in store for him. Gripir tells him that he will be a great hero. Sigurd questions Gripir further. Gripir tells him he will avenge his father, kill Fafnir the dragon, the evil Regin, and win Fafnir’s treasure. He will wake a sleeping valkyrie and learn her wisdom. Gripir then breaks off. Sigurd asks him if he sees something shameful. Gripir reassures him and finally continues. Sigurd will fall in love with Brynhild. They will swear to be faithful, but Sigurd will betray her, because of Queen Grimhild who wants Sigurd married to her daughter, Gudrun, and Brynhild to her son, Gunnar. Sigurd will forget Brynhild and promise Gunnar and Hogni that he will win her for Gunnar. Sigurd will live happily with Gudrun, but Brynhild will plot her revenge for his betrayal. Gunnar and Hogni will fall in with her plans and murder Sigurd. Gripir consoles his nephew that at least he will be fortunate in his fame. Sigurd leaves saying, ‘‘You would have been glad to say good things of what is coming if you could.’’
The Lay of Regin This lay begins with the history of Fafnir and his hoard. Regin takes Sigurd as his foster son,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
forges him a mighty sword, and urges him to kill the dragon Fafnir. Sigurd insists on avenging his father first.
The Lay of Fafnir Sigurd, returning after avenging his father, kills Fafnir. The dying dragon warns Sigurd that his treasure is cursed and that Regin means to kill him. Sigurd roasts and eats the dragon’s heart and finds he understands the birds talking about Regin’s plans to kill him. Sigurd kills Regin.
The Lay of Sigdrifa Sigurd has learned from the birds about a valkyrie lying in an enchanted sleep. He wakes her, and she shares her wisdom with him.
Fragmentary Lay of Sigurd This poem is a dramatic fragment dealing with the murder of Sigurd.
The Lay of Gudrun Gudrun grieves for Sigurd while various noblewomen attempt to comfort her. Brynhild commits suicide to be with Sigurd in death.
The Short Lay of Sigurd This is Sigurd’s story from Brynhild’s point of view. After the tale of her betrayal and revenge is told, she makes plans for her funeral and warns Gunnar what the future holds for him and for Gudrun.
Brynhild’s Journey to Hel Brynhild on her way to meet Sigurd in the land of the dead encounters a giantess who accuses her of murder and fickleness. Brynhild justifies her behavior to her.
The Second Lay of Gudrun Gudrun tells of Sigurd’s murder, of her brother’s duplicity, and her marriage to Atli.
The Third Lay of Gudrun Gudrun is suspected of being unfaithful to Atli. She proves her innocence by putting her hand into boiling water and withdrawing it unhurt.
Oddrun’s Lay Atli’s sister, Oddrun, tells of her grief for Gunnar. After Brynhild’s death, Gunnar wanted to marry her, but Atli forbade it. Oddrun and Gunnar met secretly. Atli learned of this and murdered Gunnar and Hogni.
V o l u m e
2
6 4 9
P o e t i c
E d d a
Balder, whose corpse is depicted here, was the son of Odin and Frigg and a favorite of the gods. The blind god Ho¨d, deceived by Loki, killed Balder by hurling mistletoe, the only thing that could hurt him.
The Lay of Atli
Balder’s Dreams
Gunnar and Hogni, despite forebodings, visit their brother-in-law, Atli, where they are murdered in Atli’s attempt to extort Andvari’s treasure from them. Gudrun avenges her brothers, murdering her sons by Atli, and feeding them to their father. She then burns Atli and his men in their hall.
Odin consults a prophetess to learn the fate of his beloved son Balder.
The Greenland Lay of Atli This poem is another version of Gudrun’s revenge for her brothers’ murders.
Gudrun’s Chain of Woes Gudrun urges her sons by her third husband, Jonacr, to avenge their half sister, murdered by her husband Jormunrek.
King Frodi had two captive giant girls. He put them to work grinding out gold and peace at a magic hand mill. They prophesy his downfall.
The Waking of Angantyr Hervor, Angantyr’s daughter, goes to his grave to demand his sword, Tyrfing, so she can avenge him. Angantyr’s ghost, who knows Tyrfing is cursed to kill every one who uses it, tries to dissuade her, but she will not be persuaded. He allows her to take it.
CHARACTERS
The Lay of Hamdir Hamdir and Sorli, the sons of Jonacr and Gudrun, set out to avenge their half-sister, Swanhild. On the way, they meet and murder their half-brother, Erp. When they reach Jormunrek’s court, they fail to avenge their sister for the lack of his help.
6 5 0
The Mill Song
E p i c s
f o r
Agnar Agnar is the son of King Hunding and the brother of King Geirrod. He is patronized by the goddess Frigg, but he still lost his inheritance to his younger brother and lived as an outcast.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
Another Agnar in the Poetic Edda is the son of King Geirrod who brought Odin a horn of wine when his father was torturing the disguised god between two fires. Odin rewarded Agnar with a successful reign.
All-Father See Odin
Alvis In the poem ‘‘The Lay of Alvis,’’ Alvis the dwarf attempts to steal away the god Thor’s daughter to marry her as the price of Thor’s great hammer, Mjollnir. Thor, however, catches him and insists that only if Alvis answers correctly a series of questions can he marry his daughter. Alvis answers the questions correctly, but Thor has kept him above ground until sunrise, and he turns to stone. The series of questions and answers amounts to a catalogue of literary synonyms.
E d d a
in the Poetic Edda, he is a vicious, greedy ruler who murders his brothers-in-law for the sake of Andvari’s treasure.
Balder Balder is the favorite son of Odin and Frigg and a favorite among all the gods. Frigg asked every living thing and all objects of metal, wood, or stone to swear never to harm him. The gods amused themselves by hurling weapons at him certain he could not be harmed. Loki, however, learned that Frigg had forgotten to ask the mistletoe. He made it into a dart and urged Balder’s brother, the blind god Hod, to join in the game. The dart killed Balder. Balder’s brother Hermod rode to the land of the dead and begged Hel, goddess of the dead, to release him. She agreed if every person and thing in the world would weep for him. All did, except one giantess, believed to be Loki in disguise.
Bodvild Andvari Andvari is a dwarf who is fated to take the shape of a pike. Andvari’s treasure plays a pivotal role in a series of lays. In ‘‘The Lay of Regin,’’ his gold is stolen by Loki to pay compensation for the unwitting murder of a man called Otter, killed while in the shape of an otter. Andvari curses the treasure. The gods pay Otter’s father, Hreidmar, and brothers, Fafnir and Regin, compensation with the stolen gold. Fafnir murders his father for the treasure, beginning the series of disasters that follow the treasure from owner to owner.
Angantyr Angantyr’s father, Arngrim, won in battle a sword called Tyrfing that had the quality that wounds made by it never healed. The sword, however, had been stolen from the dwarves. The dwarves laid a curse on the blade so that it would always bring death to whomever carried it. Angantyr and his eleven brothers were killed together and buried in the same mound. When Angantyr’s daughter found out the identity of her father, she was determined to avenge him and took Tyrfing from her father’s grave despite his ghost’s attempt to dissuade her.
Atli Atli is the ruler of the Huns, the son of Budli, and brother of Brynhild. The character has its origin in the historical Atli, but the poets have made him and his people a Germanic tribe. Atli is not always a negative figure in northern legends, but
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Bodvild, the daughter of King Nidudd, is raped by Volund in revenge for his imprisonment and maiming by King Nidudd.
Borghild Borghild is Sigmund’s wife and Helgi Hunding’s Bane’s mother.
Bragi Bragi is the god of poetry.
Brynhild Many scholars believe Brynhild (also known as Sigdrifa) is based on a historical character, a sixthcentury Visigoth princess, married to a Frankish king. Brynhild is Atli’s sister and a valkyrie. She was betrothed to Sigurd. In the ‘‘The Lay of Sigdrifa,’’ Odin has decreed she will no longer be a valkyrie but must marry because she had disobeyed him and fought for a hero he had doomed. She swears she will only marry a man who does not know fear. Odin pricked her with a sleep thorn and she slept until wakened by Sigurd. They pledge to marry each other, but Sigurd is given a magical drink at the court of Gunnar, forgets her, and marries Gunnar’s sister, Gudrun. In return for Gudrun, Sigurd promises to win Brynhild for Gunnar and unwittingly breaks his oath and betrays her. Brynhild loves Sigurd deeply but believes that he has cold-bloodedly wronged her. She sets in motion Sigurd’s death. When he is dead, she kills herself to join the man she considers her real husband in the land of the dead.
V o l u m e
2
6 5 1
P o e t i c
E d d a
Dag is the son of Hogni and Sigrun’s sister. He kills Helgi in revenge for his father.
giantesses, ground out gold and peace. Unfortunately, he drives the giantesses too hard and they rebel, breaking the quern.
Dvalin
Gagnrad
Dvalin is a dwarf. Angantyr’s cursed sword, Tyrfing, is described as Dvalin’s weapon.
See Odin
Dag
Gangleri Ermanrik
See Odin
See Jormunrek
Geirod Erp Erp, the son of Atli and Gudrun, was murdered by his half brothers Hamdir and Sorli on the way to Jormunrek’s court to avenge their sister. His death doomed their plans since his blow would have silenced the old king.
Eylimi In ‘‘The Lay of Helgi Hjorvard’s Son,’’ Eylimi is the father of the valkyrie Svava, wife of Helgi Hjorvard’s son. In the ‘‘Prophecy of Gripir,’’ he is Gripir’s father, Sigurd’s maternal grandfather.
Fafnir Fafnir, son of Hreidmar and brother of Otter and Regan, murders his own father for Andvari’s treasure. Fafnir turns into a dragon to better guard the treasures. As a dragon, he is killed by Sigurd. In both Roman and Germanic tradition, the dragon was a symbol of greed.
Geirod, the son of King Hunding, supplants his older brother Agnar and rules until Frigg tricks him into mistreating the disguised Odin against all rules of hospitality. He trips and falls on his own sword as he runs to release Odin when he realizes his mistake. His son Agnar had comforted and brought Odin a horn of wine against his father’s wishes and was rewarded by the god.
Gerd Gerd is a giantess, daughter of Gymir, and loved by Frey. Frey sends his servant Skirnir to woo her. Skirnir has to threaten to curse her with degradation and disgrace before she will meet Frey.
Gjuki Gjuki is the king of the Burgundians, husband of Grimhild, and father of Gunnar, Hogni, and Gudrun. He is apparently dead by the time Sigurd reaches the Burgundian court.
Father of the Slain
Glaumvor
See Odin
Glaumvor becomes Gunnar’s wife after Brynhild’s death.
Fenrir Fenrir is the great wolf, the son of Loki and a giantess. He is bound by the gods until Ragnarok when he will break his chain and devour Odin.
Frey Frey is a Vanir and a fertility god.
Grimhild Grimhild is the queen of the Burgundians, wife of Gjuki, and mother of Gudrun, Gunnar, and Hogni. There seems to be a hint of the witch or sorceress about her. She is the mastermind of the plot to drug Sigurd into forgetting his vow to Brynhild, marrying Gudrun, and helping Gunnar win Brynhild.
Freyja Grimodin
Freyja is a Vanir and the goddess of love.
See Odin
Frigg Frigg is the Aesir goddess of love, Odin’s wife, and the mother of Balder.
Frodi Frodi is the king of a golden age of peace and prosperity. He owned a magic stone quern, or hand mill, that, when turned by two captive
6 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
Gripir Gripir is the brother of Hjordis and Sigurd’s maternal uncle. In northern heroic literature, the son of a man’s sister was his closest male relative. In the ‘‘Prophecy of Gripir,’’ he has the gift of prophecy and tells his young nephew all that lies before him. He ends his prophecy with the promise
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
that Sigurd will be ‘‘fortunate in his fame’’ that no man will surpass. Sigurd is the greatest hero of the north. His exploits color the images and metaphors of the traditional skaldic poetry and Icelandic saga literature.
E d d a
Hel Hel is the land of the dead and also the name of its goddess. Hel is the daughter of Loki.
Helgi Hjorvard’s Son See Helgi Hjorvard’s Bane
Gudrun Gudrun is the daughter of Grimhild and Gjuki. Sigurd, under the influence of Grimhild’s potion, marries Gudrun. Gudrun knows both of Sigurd’s relationship to Brynhild and the plot to use a potion on Sigurd. It is she who provokes Brynhild into revenge. After Sigurd’s death, Gudrun is persuaded to marry Atli, king of the Huns. She eventually murders him and his men to avenge his murder of her brothers. Her third husband is Jonacr by whom she has twin sons, Hamdir and Sorli.
Gunnar Gunnar is king of the Burgundians after Gjuki and the son of Grimhild and Gjuki. His character changes between the lays involving Sigurd and Brynhild and those involving Atli. In the former, he is a deceiver, a breaker of oaths, and a murderer, led first by his mother and then by his wife, but always by his greed. In the later, he is a king who knows himself to be doomed but who will use the most unlikely tool for a hero, his and his brothers’ deaths, to deny Atli Andvari’s treasure.
Gunnlod Gunnlod is the giantess who guards the mead of poetry.
Guthorm Guthorm is the son of King Gjuki and a stepbrother of Gunnar.
Hagal Hagal is the foster father of Helgi Hunding’s Bane.
Helgi Hunding’s Bane Helgi Hunding’s Bane is the son of Sigmund Volsung and Borghild and the hero of ‘‘The First Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’ and ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane.’’ His wife was Sigrun, the valkyrie who watched over him in battle. Sigrun chose Helgi, but her family engaged her to King Hodbrodd. In the battle that followed, her father and all her brothers, but one, Dag, were killed. Sigrun and Helgi lived happily and deeply in love, despite her grief for her kinsmen, but eventually Dag killed Helgi in revenge for his father. Helgi and Sigrun loved each other so much that they were allowed to have one last night together in Helgi’s burial mound. A note at the end of the lay says that she died young of grief for her husband. In the Codex Regius at the end of ‘‘The Lay of Helgi Hjorvard’s Son’’ and at the end of ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’ are references to a tradition that Helgi and Sigrun were reborn three times: once as Helgi Hjorvard’s son and Svava the valkyrie, then as Helgi Hunding’s Bane and Sigrun, and finally as Helgi Hadding’s Bane and Kara the valkyrie.
Hervard Hervard is a brother of Angantyr. He was killed and buried with him.
Hervor Hervor is the daughter of Angantyr, who retrieves her father’s sword from his grave, much against his wishes, to avenge his death. Another Hervor is Hervor the Wise, King Hlodver’s daughter, a valkyrie and Volund’s wife.
Hjalmar Hamdir
Hjalmar is the slayer of Angantyr.
Hamdir, Gudrun’s son, dies avenging his sister Swanhild’s death on Jormunrek, king of the Goths.
Hjalperk
Heimdal
Hjordis
Heimdal is the ‘‘radiant’’ god and the gods’ watchman. His horn is called Gjallarhorn.
Hjordis is Sigmund’s second wife and the mother of Sigurd.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Hjalperk is Sigurd’s foster father.
V o l u m e
2
6 5 3
P o e t i c
E d d a
Hjorvard Hjorvard is another brother of Angantyr who was also killed and buried with him.
Hoddmimir
the gods in tight corners, but whose advice usually involves morally questionable choices that create further problems for those who take it. His mischief becomes pure destructive maliciousness over the course of the history of the gods.
See Mimir
Mimir Hogni Hogni is the father of Sigrun. Helgi kills Hogni in a battle fought to prevent Sigrun’s marriage to another man. Hogni is avenged by his son Dag who uses Odin’s spear.
Mimir, also known as Hoddmimir, is the guardian of the well under the root of Yggdrasil, the ash tree at the center of the universe.
Niflungs
Another Hogni is a Burgundian prince, brother of Gunnar and Gudrun. He dies rather than reveal the whereabouts of Andvari’s treasure.
Niflungs are essentially synonymous with Gjuking, the family and followers of King Gjuki.
Hrani
Njord is the god of the sea.
Hrani is also a brother of Angantyr who was killed and buried with him.
Norns
Hreidnar Hreidnar is the father of Regin, Fafnir, and Otter. He is given Andvari’s treasure by Loki and Odin as compensation for their killing of his son Otter when he was in the shape of an otter.
Njord
Norns, also known as Urd, are the Scandinavian version of the Fates, who determined the destiny of the world and of individuals. They were of the race of giants.
Oddrun
Hunding is the father of Agnar and Geirrod. Another Hunding is a king killed by Helgi Hunding’s Bane.
Oddrun is the sister of Brynhild and Atli. She was originally promised to Gunnar. When Atli would not allow them to wed after Brynhild’s death, they had a secret affair. Odrun gave this as one of the reasons that Atli killed Gunnar.
Jonacr
Odin
Jonacr is Gudrun’s third husband and the father of Hamdir and Sorli.
For an almost-complete list of Odin’s names see ‘‘The Lay of Grimnir,’’ stanzas 12 and 13, which end ‘‘I’ve never been known by one name only / since I have wandered the world.’’ Some of Odin’s many names are: All-Father, Warfather, Father of the Slain, Gagnrad, ‘‘Counsel for Victory,’’ Gangleri, Grim, and Ygg. The king of the gods, known among the pagan English as Woden, the god of Wednesday, he was the god of battle, magic, poetic inspiration, and all those who die in battle. He was a shape-shifter and could appear as an old oneeyed man dressed in a hooded cloak and broad hat, or as a wolf. He was usually accompanied by the so-called beasts of battle: two ravens, Thought and Memory, and wolves. He sacrificed his eye and hung nine days and nine nights on Yggdrasil, the tree that supports the world, to gain wisdom. He is the lord of runes and secret wisdom. Odin protected kings and encouraged heroes, largely to build up a fighting force in Valhalla, the hall of the slain, for the great battle with the forces of darkness at the end of the world. When he thought
Hunding
Jormunrek Jormunrek is the historical fourth-century king of the Goths who entered legend as the murderer of his young second wife Swanhild and his son, who were falsely accused of adultery together.
Kostbera In the ‘‘Greenland Lay of Atli,’’ Kostbera is Hogni’s wife, a wise and learned woman who tries to make sense of Gudrun’s runic warning and has a prophetic dream of disaster.
Loddfafnir Loddfafnir is the recipient of Odin’s wisdom in the ‘‘Sayings of the High One.’’
Loki Loki is an Aesir, but of doubtful allegiance. He is the trickster who is the preferred companion of
6 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
the time was right, he would disarm even a protected favorite to bring about his death in battle. It has been suggested that Odin became important only during the period when the Germanic peoples were entering the former provinces of the Roman Empire when, as a god of war bands, he attracted worshipers. Normal social and tribal bonds were under stress and were often replaced by new groups coalescing around successful warriors.
Otter Otter is Regin and Fafnir’s brother and Hreidnar’s son. Andvari’s treasure was handed over to his brothers and father as compensation for his murder while in the shape of an otter.
E d d a
by no means fit to live. Willingly I shall die with King Siggeir, although I married him reluctantly.’’
Sigrlinn Sigrlinn is the daughter of King Svafnir and mother of Helgi in his first incarnation.
Sigrun The three Helgi lays suggest that Sigrun, also known as Svava and Kara, was, like her beloved Helgi, reincarnated three times. In each incarnation, she was a valkyrie who chose to protect and love Helgi and eventually marry him.
Sigurd
Regin is Hreidnar’s son and the brother of Otter and Fafnir. He was twice cheated out of his part of Andvari’s treasure. A dwarfish smith warped by thwarted greed, he takes Sigurd under his wing to train him to kill Fafnir, now in the shape of a dragon. Sigurd is warned of his treachery by both the dying Fafnir and the birds, and kills him.
Sigurd is the Siegfried of Richard Wagner’s operas. In the Poetic Edda, he is the son of Sigmund and Hjordis. He is the greatest warrior of his time. He kills the man-turned-dragon, Fafnir, and wins Andvari’s treasure from him. Following this, he wakes the valkyrie Sigdrifa/Brynhild, learns her wisdom and promises to marry her before he goes off to his fate at the hands of the wife and children of Gjuki. Sigurd is the type of honorable and courageous hero, who despite all his qualities, is manipulated into acting completely against his ideals.
Sif
Sinfjotli
Sif is a goddess and Thor’s wife.
Sinfjotli is the son of Sigmund and Signy his sister and the half-brother of Sigurd and Helgi. The story of his birth is not recorded in the Poetic Edda where he is presented as helping his young half-brother Helgi.
Ran Ran is the goddess of the sea. Her husband and the god of the sea is Aeggir.
Regin
Sigdrifa See Brynhild
Sigmund Sigmund is the son of Volsung and father, by different women, of Helgi, Sinfjotli, and Sigurd.
Signy Siggeir, Signy’s husband, murdered Sigmund and Signy’s father and brothers. Signy sends her young sons to Sigmund hoping they will be able to help Sigmund avenge their family. When the boys prove to be less than the stuff of heroes, Signy, determined to have vengeance, changes shape with a sorceress, seduces her brother, and bears him a son, Sinfjotli. Sinfjotli helps Sigmund in the vengeance. Sigmund only learns that he is his son and not his nephew when Signy tells him after they have set fire to Siggeir’s hall. Signy then enters the burning hall because, as she says to her brother and their son in the ‘‘Volsung Saga,’’ ‘‘I have worked so hard to bring about vengeance I am
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Sorli Sorli is the brother of Hamdir and son of Gudrun and Jonacr. He is killed on the expedition to avenge their half-sister, Swanhild.
Surt Surt is the lord of the fire giants. He has given his name to a volcanic island off Iceland.
Svava See Sigrun
Swanhild Swanhild is the daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun. She is married to King Jormunrek of the Goths who executes her when she is falsely accused of adultery with her stepson.
V o l u m e
2
6 5 5
P o e t i c
E d d a
Thor Thor, also known as Ving-Thor and Veor, is the god of thunder. He is the son of the Earth (Fjorgyn), and with his great hammer, Mjollnir, he defends gods and men against the giants. He was the most popular of Norse gods. People wore little hammers much as Christians do crosses. Even after Christianity became common, some people would take no chances and keep up a quiet personal devotion to Thor as well as to Jesus.
THEMES Divided Loyalties Norse society was violent, as reflected in the ‘‘Sayings of the High One’’: Don’t leave your weapons lying about behind your back in a field, you never know when you may need of a sudden your spear.
The god of war, Tyr was apparently once a more important god, but lost most of his functions and popularity to Odin and Thor by the time the Poetic Edda was composed.
In this society personal loyalties were everything, the only real basis of order and security. Nothing stood between order and chaos except the certainty that vengeance would be exacted for a wrong. The duty to defend family and lord was at the core too of personal honor and self-esteem. The man who did not take vengeance could expect neither mercy from his enemies nor sympathy from his friends. Love, friendship, and practical expedience could not stand in the way for long. Women would sweep aside all the commonplaces of love and gender roles to have it. The clash between competing loyalties and duties is perhaps the most important springboard of action in Old Norse literature.
Urd
Hospitality and Generosity
See Norns
The ‘‘Sayings of the High One’’ paint a world where hospitality to the stranger as well as to the friend was a sacred duty. This idea was founded on the realities of Viking society. Populations were often small and scattered. In winter, it would be murder to deny a traveler a place at the fire. The man who welcomed a traveler to his home might soon be glad of a welcome himself. This idea was important to survival. Odin himself was represented as checking an accusation of inhospitality. Even a child realized that mistreatment of a stranger is wrong and defied his father and king in ‘‘The Lay of Grimnir’’ to bring a horn of wine and a kind word to the disguised Odin. That small act was enough to win the little boy the life-long favor of the god.
Thrym A king of the giants, Thrym stole Thor’s hammer, Mjollnir, in an attempt to force the gods to give him Freya as his wife. He and many of his family and wedding guests were killed when Thor got his hands back on his hammer.
Tyr
Veor (Holy, Defender of the Home) See Thor
Ving-Thor See Thor
Volund Volund is the Weyland Smith of many English place names and the hero of the ‘‘The Lay of Volund.’’ He was the son of a Finnish king famous for his ability to work iron, gold, and silver. He was captured and lamed by King Nidud, who wanted to monopolize his skills. Volund made himself wings, and after killing Nidud’s sons and raping his daughter, flew away from his captivity.
War Father See Odin
Ygg
Generosity was the sign of nobility of spirit, of the regard of the giver for the person to whom the gift was given. It was one of the things that bound society together. If hospitality originates in the recognition of common humanity, gift giving is the specific recognition of the importance of one human being for another, whether between friends, lovers, or a king and his warrior.
See Odin
Wisdom Ymir Ymir is a giant from whose body the earth, sea, and sky were made.
6 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
Odin gave his eye for wisdom; Sigurd spent most of his courtship of Brynhild learning her supernaturally acquired wisdom. Heroes are expected
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
E d d a
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
The Vikings opened trade routes down the rivers of Russia to Constantinople. Investigate the importance of Viking trade and trading posts to the development of the modern states of Russia and the Ukraine. Using a computer, prepare a visual presentation, complete with maps, to show the trade routes and to illustrate your conclusions. Icelanders often boast of having the oldest parliament, the Althing. Investigate the origin and functions of the Althing and compare it to early attempts at self-government on the American frontier, beginning, perhaps, with the Plymouth Colony. Write a research paper on your findings. The story of Sigurd and Brynhild has spawned several adaptations. Choose one of the stories in the Poetic Edda and write your own story or screenplay. Take creative license with the setting and add to the plot as needed while maintaining the essence of story so that your classmates can still recognize which story you chose to adapt. Share your work in small
to have discernment. They must be able to judge a situation and the character of the men and the women around them. The Norse poets gave wisdom, its acquisition and transmission, through their poetry. The preoccupation with prophecy in the Poetic Edda is a reflex of this pursuit of wisdom, even though it is a mixed blessing in a world overshadowed by pessimism and fate. To modern readers, this preoccupation may seem irrelevant and lacking in an aesthetic sense, but in Norse society it was an essential, defining poetic function. Elegance of diction, delicate metrical effects, creation of atmosphere, and emotional power were tools, not ends, for the Norse poet. In gnomic verse, poets distilled wisdom into memorable turns of phrase. In the narrative lays, poets provided embodiments of wisdom and foolishness in action. Experience is the source of wisdom.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
groups and discuss what was difficult about writing an adaptation. What did you enjoy most about this assignment?
Many of the heroes of the lays in the Poetic Edda are not Scandinavian, but came from tribes as far apart as Burgundy and what is now southwest Russia and Ukraine. Why do you think these poems cover such a wide geographical area? How much do these different groups of people have in common? Write an essay in which you compare and contrast two of the nationalities or ethnicities represented in the Poetic Edda.
Norse raiding, trading, and colonization could not have happened without the developments made by Scandinavian shipbuilding. Investigate Viking ships and their construction and the engineering and design principles behind their success. Create a three-dimensional model of a Viking ship that illustrates these design principals and put your model on display for the rest of the class to examine.
Still there are limits to wisdom. The ‘‘Sayings of the High One’’ suggest that it is better not to know too much or to be too wise; perhaps the true nature of life would be too hard to carry. Most poignantly, however, it warns against knowing the future: ‘‘If you can’t see far into the future, you can live free from care.’’ Discernment too could be thwarted by the pull of other ideals and by magic. The betrayal that lies at the heart of Sigurd’s tragedy is one induced by sorcery. Gudrun knows disaster awaits in marriage with Atli, but she too succumbs to her mother’s potions.
Trickery Many lays from the Poetic Edda have, at the core of their conflict, some trick or riddle that the protagonist must overcome in order to succeed. For example, in the ‘‘Lay of Hymir,’’ Hymir gives Thor increasingly difficult challenges, the
V o l u m e
2
6 5 7
P o e t i c
E d d a
The Norse god Odin is considered the mythological godfather of poets. The Poetic Edda includes a story about how Odin learned the runes, the alphabet of the ancient north Germanic tribes. (Christel Gerstenberg / Corbis)
final one sounding deceptively simple: to break his cup. Thor, known for his strength, cannot do this immediately but is given help by Hymir’s mistress and succeeds in breaking the cup on the giant’s head. In another story involving trickery, the ‘‘Lay of Thrym,’’ Thor must dress as a bride to get his hammer Mjollner back. In the
6 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
‘‘Lay of Alvis,’’ Thor succeeds in punishing his daughter’s would-be kidnapper, the dwarf Alvis, by tricking him into talking until dawn, whereupon the sunlight kills the dwarf. The emphasis on trickery in these lays underlines a value in Norse society on wit and creative thinking.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
(c) 2011 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved.
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
E d d a
tinder’’ for fire or ‘‘the giver of linen’’ for a lady. The most complex rely on allusions to legend or myth.
STYLE Epic Features Leaving aside the ‘‘Sayings of the High One,’’ which has more in common with works such as the biblical Proverbs, it appears that the Poetic Edda is not an epic but materials for one. Here, for once, modern readers have the relatively short poetic narratives, or lays, which supposedly lie behind the epic. While the collection provides in the ‘‘Sibyl’s Prophecy,’’ a narrative from earth’s creation through destruction and renewal, the majority of the poems fit only loosely into that scheme. There is no single hero, but rather a number of heroes ranging from the dim, but effective god Thor to Gunnar, the treacherous brother-in-law of Sigurd, who, nevertheless, dies a hero while fighting the great tyrant of the age, Atli. Unlike the generic epic, the Poetic Edda has the obscenities of Loki in ‘‘The Insolence of Loki’’ and the broad humor of the Thor episodes— particularly the ‘‘Lay of Thrym,’’ an early example of that situation beloved of slapstick humor: the brawny man forced to pass himself off as the blushing girl.
Prosody The lays of the Poetic Edda are typically in four line stanzas. Each line is divided by a caesura (pause). Each half-line contains two stressed syllables; the half lines are connected across the caesura by alliteration connecting a stressed initial sound in the first half of the line to a stressed initial sound in the second. Individual consonant sounds only alliterate with the same sound. All vowels alliterate with each other. There is no restriction on the position of the stressed syllables. Fornyrdislag (ancient verse) allows generally only two unstressed syllables per half-line, as in ‘‘Betty Bouncer bought a candle.’’ Ma´laha´ttr (speech verse) allows three unstressed syllables per half-line, as in ‘‘Sad little Susan, sought for a candle.’’ In a third stanza form ljo´daha´ttr (song measure), the first and third lines are in ma´laha´ttr, the second and fourth have only three stresses.
Allusion An allusion is a figure of speech that makes brief reference to a person, place, or other body of work, drawing on their meaning and assuming the reader recognizes the connections implied. Allusions add depth of meaning in few words. The Poetic Edda constantly alludes to a body of myth and legend that it only imperfectly preserves and that controls the imagery and symbolism of not only the Poetic Edda, but of Norse literature in general and Skaldic verse in particular. Even within the Poetic Edda, there are poems that are essentially dramatic glossaries of allusions and metaphors, for example, ‘‘The Lay of Alvis’’ and ‘‘The Lay of Vafthrudnir.’’
Heiti and Kennings The two most prominent poetic devices are heiti and kennings. Heiti are simply cultivated and unusual words for common things or concepts. They can be archaisms, lost from everyday speech, or common words used in a way peculiar to poetry, or poetic coinages. Kenning comes from the verb kenna to characterize or define. They consist of a noun plus a modifier in the possessive case, as ‘‘the raven’s feeder’’ for a warrior. Some rely on natural or everyday connections such as ‘‘the bane of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Vikings The Vikings entered history with the sacking of the Lindisfairne abbey in Ireland in 793. Known for their courage, the Vikings entered popular imagination as bloodthirsty and immensely daring pirates, but they were first and foremost farmers and traders, raiding for treasure and slaves to accumulate capital to acquire status at home or looking for lands abroad to colonize. Their raids, trading expeditions, and colonizing took them from Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul) to the coast of North America. They laid the basis of the Russian state with their trading posts along the Volga and Dneiper rivers. They founded nearly all the cities of modern Ireland. The threat of their great raiding parties was a catalyst for the development of England as a unified state. The society the Vikings came from was one of mixed farming, fishing, and hunting, supplemented by trading. The Vikings would turn their hand to any effort. Greatly improved ship designs towards the end of the eighth century gave the Scandinavians the finest ships in Europe. Their knorrs were the most effective cargo ships yet
V o l u m e
2
6 5 9
P o e t i c
E d d a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
800s: Raw material and slaves are the main resources of northern and western Europe. Tens of thousands of European men, women, and children are sold into slavery not only within Europe, but into Muslim Spain, North Africa, and the Middle East. Today: Due to high unemployment rates in countries such as Libya (30%), Sudan (19%), and Tunisia (16%), thousands of North Africans are forced to seek a living in Spain and France. 800s: Iceland is settled during the late 800s. The area is poor, with a small population, but it produces a vibrant and extensive literature in prose and poetry. Reading to the family group or to assembled neighbors is a common winter’s entertainment into the nineteenth century in farming districts.
Today: Iceland has one of the highest literacy rates in the world. As of 2010, the Central Intelligence Agency World Factbook records the literacy rate of Icelanders at 99 percent.
800s: This century marks the beginning of the Medieval Warm Period, a global warming trend that melts ice in northern seas and may be a contributing factor to the Vikings’ ability to travel and raid. The Medieval Warm Period lasts about five hundred years. Today: Global climate change is a concern as temperatures worldwide increase a few degrees. This rise in temperature is seen in glacial melt, which contributes to rising sea levels, threatening coastal cities. Sea levels could rise as much as six feet during the twenty-first century.
built. Their longships could cross the Atlantic or sail up the Seine to lay siege to Paris.
them. The people looked to the sea as naturally as to the land for opportunities.
In addition to their trading and manufacturing settlements in Ireland and settlements in England, the Vikings colonized the Isle of Man, the Orkneys, Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and Greenland. Many of the original settlers of Iceland were from Norway where the consolidation of the country under a central kingship was opposed by many noblemen and free farmers, used to handling their own affairs without outside interference. Other settlers came from the Viking settlements in Ireland, always under pressure from the native Irish princes. The Viking Age came to end in the eleventh century with the introduction of Christianity to Scandinavia.
The Scandinavians were farmers wherever the land was good enough. Rye, wheat, oats, and barley were grown depending on local conditions. Cows, sheep, pigs, geese, and chickens were kept. The people supplemented agricultural production with hunting, fishing, and gathering wild foods, including honey, birds’ eggs, and wild plants. Farms were family enterprises and, depending on the richness of the land, often at some distance from one another. Towns only began to emerge from trading posts and ritual centers around 1000 CE .
Scandinavian Society Scandinavia and its people were dominated by the sea. The landscapes of the three Nordic countries, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, are distinct, but in all of them the terrain tended to separate communities, while the sea connected
6 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Control of land was the basis of wealth. Sons in a land-owning family increased its power since their wives’ dowries would increase and consolidate their landholdings. The family itself in a legal sense and in terms of the various social obligations of Norse society was defined to the degree of third or fourth cousins recognizing a common great-great-great-grandfather. Obligations of one kind or another would also
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
E d d a
bind a man to the protection of a more powerful neighbor, whom he in turn would support at need. In a hard and violent age, these mutual bonds were essential to the maintenance of order and to ensure access to justice. Men worked their farms with the help of their family, which might include two or three generations. For those who could afford owning them, slaves were used for heavier labor. Free laborers might work for their keep and a small wage. A rich landowner could afford to employ more help, giving him the leisure to go on raids and conduct trade and with luck acquire the wealth necessary to maintain or enhance his status.
Viking Ships and Shipbuilding The development of ship construction toward the end of the eighth century gave the Scandinavians the finest ships in Europe. They perfected sailing ships that had no need of deep water, safe anchorages, or quaysides, but could cross the North Sea or the North Atlantic under sail, as well as be rowed up most of the major rivers of Western Europe. These ships were slender and flexible. They had symmetrical ends and a true keel, the lengthwise structure along the base of a ship to which its ribs are connected. They were clinker-built, that is, of overlapping planks riveted together. At times these planks would also have been lashed to the ribs of the ship with spruce roots to ensure the ship’s flexibility in rough seas. They were steered with a side rudder fitted to the starboard side. One ship excavated in 1880 from a mound at Gokstad on the west side of the Oslo Fjord was 76.5 feet long and a maximum of 17.5 feet wide. When fully laden it would have drawn only three feet of water: it could have been sailed deep into the heart of the Irish countryside or up to the gates of Paris. A copy was sailed across the Atlantic.
Treasure However it was acquired, treasure, particularly silver, was important in Viking society. One function was display. Fine jewelry and ornamented weapons indicated status and success. It was considered part of family wealth like land, and, despite legend, no more than one or two pieces of jewelry were buried with the dead. It was used to reward one’s retainers and to provide lavish hospitality. Both increased a man’s standing in his society. Spent on land, it raised a freeman’s status. For a slave, it could mean liberty.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Norse god Thor (Bettman Corbis)
On a practical level, because the Scandinavians did not have coinage, silver had to be weighed and tested before transactions could take place. It was not necessary, therefore to keep all one’s silver in coins or even ingots. If, mid-deal, a man found himself a little short of cash, he need only throw in his cloak pin or a piece of a bracelet, properly weighed.
Iceland and Its Professional Poets Almost from the beginning of its settlement, Icelanders kept in constant touch with Ireland, England, and their Scandinavian homelands. Icelanders with poetic skills found their services appreciated and well rewarded by Norse rulers or by rulers with Norse subjects. Indeed poetry became something of an Icelandic monopoly. For 350 years, from Egill Skalla-Grı´ mson to Jo´n murti Egilsonn who composed for King Eirı´ kur Magnu´sson in 1299, there are records of 110 Icelandic court poets. Snorri Sturluson, author of the Prose Edda, was probably trying to keep alive a tradition, which had proven useful not only to individual Icelanders, but to Iceland as a whole. A successful court poet would give his fellow countrymen access to the king’s court and keep distant Iceland’s concerns from being completely forgotten.
V o l u m e
2
6 6 1
P o e t i c
E d d a
Late Iron Age Finland The Late Iron Age in Finland occurred around 900 CE . Viking material culture is found in Finland during this time although the Finnish people and their settlements of this period remain distinct from the Norse. Finland was on the trade route between Birka, Sweden, and Staraja Ladoga in modern Russia, both major Viking trading centers. Northern Finland was an important source of fur and iron in Viking trade. Scholars are unsure whether Viking goods in Finland indicate Viking settlement or Finns who returned home after going on raids with Vikings. Language may have been a barrier to the Finns participating more in Viking raids.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The first indication of the critical reception of the Poetic Edda is the simple fact of its preservation in an elegant manuscript, the Codex Regius with the explanatory prose passages interspersed among the lays. It is often assumed that, as Christianity reached the peoples of northern Europe, devout Christians, as well as the institutional church, automatically attempted to destroy the memory of the old gods and the human heroes whose activities, judged by Judeo-Christian standards, were often less than edifying. Nevertheless, the poems in the Poetic Edda were preserved, collected, and copied. This process can perhaps be most easily understood with reference to the work of the Icelandic scholar and politician, Snorri Sturluson (1179– 1241), author of the treatise titled the Prose Edda, which laid the foundation for the analysis of Norse poetry. The stories preserved in the Poetic Edda were part of the essential tools of the skalds, Norse poets who worked within complex metrical forms, using allusions and metaphors drawn from native heroic and mythological lays, much as Greek and Roman poets enriched their poetry with allusions to their gods and heroes or Christian poets to the Bible. A gifted skald could hope for patronage and advancement in the northern courts. In particular, Iceland, which was poor in other resources, produced more than a few of these poets. In the twelfth century, the ability to understand the older skaldic poetry and to compose in its manner was under threat from Church disapproval on one hand and new French-influenced popular poetry on the other. Christianity was probably the lesser threat. Once conversion was
6 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
reasonably complete and real, references to Thor and Volund were generally considered as innocuous as references in Latin poetry to Hercules. The growing loss of the traditional material may indeed be reflected in the Poetic Edda itself given that the ‘‘Lay of Varthrudnir’’ and the ‘‘Lay of Alvis’’ function as dramatic glossaries of poetic terms and allusions. Sturluson attempted to reverse this loss with his Prose Edda, prose versions of the old stories together with a treatise on the complex metrical rules governing the composition of the various types of skaldic verse, and which provided an explanation of the ancient gods that turned them into clever Trojans, taking advantage of the gullible northerners. In a renaissance of the older literature, reflected in the work of Sturluson, the poems of the Poetic Edda were collected and copied. There is no record of the Poetic Edda before the Codex Regius came into the possession of Bishop Brynjo´lf Seinsson in 1643. The manuscript had lost a number of leaves by that time, and no known copy exists that was made before the leaves were lost. In 1662, the bishop sent the manuscript to the ruler of Iceland, King Frederick III of Denmark. The Renaissance had begun with a renewed interest in Greek and Roman literature and art. Before long, however, people in northern and western Europe, in emulation and partial reaction to this absorption, began to search for information about their own ancestors and their cultural background. This interest, fed by the political usefulness of national identities, led to speculation about ancient monuments and the careful combing of Greek and Latin texts for information. It also meant that early vernacular writings now interested all those who felt it was their duty or in their interest to encourage scholarship and a sense of a shared national past. In 1665, the ‘‘Sibyl’s Prophecy’’ and the ‘‘Sayings of the High One’’ from the Poetic Edda were published together with Sturluson’s Prose Edda. The full collection, however, was published only between 1787 and 1828. By this time, the romantic movement and the new study of philology, the study of the development and interconnection of languages as traced in ancient documents, were ready to make full use of the texts. Scholars pored over them for linguistic clues to the development and interconnections of the Germanic branch of the Indo-European languages and ancient northern society. In England and Germany as the century progressed, the Poetic Edda, along with the Icelandic Sagas, prose tales of fictionalized historical events and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
characters, were moving into the consciousness of the reading public at large. In Nordic countries, this assimilation was strikingly resisted on some fronts; in nineteenth-century Iceland, the traditional evening saga reading was discouraged in favor of the Bible. The Danish scholar Grundtvig attempted to reintroduce the images, characters, and narratives of the Poetic Edda, but with little success. Well into the twentieth century, the Poetic Edda, like many other early medieval epics, for example, Beowulf and the Ta´in Bo´ Cua´ilgne, were approached almost purely as philological lucky dips or archaeological artifacts. It can be no coincidence that Auden’s translations, which helped bring the Poetic Edda to the attention of late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century readers, were dedicated to his former teacher Tolkien, whose own 1936 lecture, ‘‘Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics,’’ radically shifted the perception of the epic toward it first and essential existence as literature. Stylistic discussions of the poetry occurred more often in the critical literature, even though Nordal’s edition of the ‘‘Sibyl’s Prophecy’’ (revised in 1952 and printed in English translation in 1978) has nothing to say about the attributes of the poetry, which contains this mythology, like the use of insects and leaves in amber. Ursula Dronke’s commentaries, particularly on the Atli lays, demonstrate both the richness of construction and the imaginative play of author with historical material. Oxford World’s Classics series published Carolyne Larrington’s translation of the Poetic Edda in 1999 and reissued it in 2009. This was the first translation to be published in Britain for fifty years, and it was received quietly by scholars and lay readers alike. In 2002, Larrington partnered with Paul Acker to publish a survey volume of critical essays, The Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Mythology, collecting previously published work on the edda and presenting four new essays. Although intended for readers new to these stories, reviewer Jonathan Grove for the journal Folklore was disappointed with Acker’s introduction and with the overall editorial attention toward their intended audience. Rather than take on the work as a whole, most scholars treat the lays individually or in small sets. An exception to this pattern is David Clark’s 2005 study of vengeance as a common element and driving force in most of the stories collected in the Poetic Edda.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain looks at the great romance of the Poetic Edda in an effort to understand its neglect by writers and critics. Seventeen of the lays in the Poetic Edda concern the house of the Volsungs. Fifteen directly or indirectly point towards the Icelandic Volsung Saga, the Middle High German Nibelungenleid, and finally to Wagner’s series of operas, Ring of the Nibelungs. They are part of one of the best case histories for the development of the epic from short lays or tales available. The other two ‘‘The First Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’ and ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’ could also be approached as points on a continuum of development, but a development that was somehow interrupted. The second lay already is expanded. It adds incidents and treats them with greater complexity, even if it still relies, in true lay style, on the dramatic use of the characters’ voices to create atmosphere and setting, direct the audience’s sympathies, and propel the narrative. In that process of development, however, Helgi and his beloved Sigrun proved a dead end, whereas Sigurd and Brynhild became the star-crossed lovers of northern legend, the Viking answer to Lancelot and Guinevere or Tristan and Isolde. Sigurd was not the only son of Sigmund to inspire the love of a valkyrie, but his elder brother Helgi and his valkyrie Sigrun/Svava/Kara and their love stretching across three lifetimes has never caught the popular fancy; even the extant lays in the Poetic Edda are fragmentary. Their story must once have been popular. What happened? In the second lay, as mentioned above, the story already incorporates events after Helgi’s defeat and killing of Sigrun’s father, brothers, and unwanted suitor. The audience now had both the beginning and end of their love, expanding Helgi’s death into what might otherwise have been detached as a separate lay. Helgi’s death by Dag, the brother-in-law he had spared, is of far less importance or interest to the poet than the love of Helgi and Sigurn. To express this love to the audience, the poet devoted slightly over one-third of his lay to Sigrun’s lament for Helgi and their meeting in his grave mound. He incorporated both the theme
V o l u m e
2
6 6 3
P o e t i c
E d d a
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Lee Hollander’s The Skalds: A Selection of Their Poems (1947) presents the poets of the Viking Age and a selection of their poetry whose incredibly elaborate lyric poetic language and imagery depends upon the myths and legends preserved in part in the Poetic Edda. Magnus Magnusson and H. Pa´lsson’s Njal’s Saga (1960) is perhaps the greatest of the Icelandic family sagas set in the period when Icelandic society was slowly adopting Christianity and making the cultural changes conversion required. Magnus Magnusson and H. Pa´lsson’s The Vinland Sagas (1965) tells the story of the Vikings in North America in their own words. This book would be good to read in conjunction with Viking Expansion Westwards. Magnus Magnusson’s Viking Expansion Westwards (1973) is a lavishly illustrated history of the expansion of the Vikings from England to North America. Magnusson focuses on
individuals such as Aude the Deep-Minded, and the realities of daily life bring the reader face to face with the people who wrote and listened to the Elder Edda. Eight Days of Luke (1975), by Diana Wynne Jones, is the young readers’ story of a lonely boy named David who befriends a clever boy named Luke. But Luke, who is really the Norse god Loki, is in trouble and needs David to help him clear his name. Jesse L. Byock’s The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer (1990) is a prose retelling of the Sigurd story. It is closely related to the lays in the Poetic Edda but presents all the Volsung stories as part of an integrated whole. The young readers’ novel Runemarks (2008), by Joanne Harris, tells the story of a girl with a rune mark on her hand who has been shunned by society but finds herself integral to a war between the Norse gods and the new religions controlling government.
of the unquiet grave and an audacious reversal of the demon-lover motif.
the process was never given the emotional complexity to sustain a long narrative.
Instead of being carried off unwillingly to the horrors of the grave as in the demon lover ballads and tales, Sigrun goes to the burial mound, arranges a bed, and insists: ‘‘Here in the barrow we’ll go to bed, released from sorrow, I will sleep, Helgi, safe in your arms the way I used to when you were alive.’’ This material might serve to flesh out an epic, but placed on center stage, they seem more naturally the stuff of romance. This and the substitution in the second lay of the first generalized hero’s boyhood with Helgi’s daring secret mission to spy on his family’s enemies suggests a poet with a gift for narrative innovation. What then cuts off the development? Possibly the lack of a theme to support an extended narrative. The winning of Sigrun provided the center of a narrative lay, but
The core of the story, the unshakable love between Helgi and Sigrun, could not accommodate an emotional struggle between them to take the place of war. Such a change would rob the story of its essential character. In the second version, the scene in which, going over the battlefield, she first finds the despised Hodbrodd dying and then Helgi safe, might easily have become an extended episode. Helgi says, ‘‘Sigrun I will grieve you by what I say . . . there fell this morning at Freka Stone, Bragi and Hogni; I was their bane.’’ Her reaction does not give the society that produced the Volsung Saga or Njal’s Saga much to work with for extending the conflict and therefore the narrative: ‘‘Then Sigrun wept. She said: ‘Now I would wish those warriors alive, and still have your arms around me.’’’ Then, as the story
6 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
E d d a
French romance as a genre was typically about a love that found its harbor in marriage. THE WOMEN OF POETIC EDDA AND OF THE SAGA LITERATURE IN GENERAL ARE PRAISED FOR THE SAME QUALITIES AS THE MEN. . . . THE BALLAD TRADITION IS FULL OF WOMEN WHO FOLLOW THEIR LOVERS TO WAR IN DISGUISE, OFTEN SAVING THEM.’’
says, they married and had sons, but ‘‘Helgi didn’t live to grow old’’ and ‘‘grief and sorrow caused Sigrun to die young.’’ Helgi had spared Sigrun’s brother, Dag, who repays the oaths he has sworn with Odin’s spear in vengeance for his father. When he confesses the slaying to his sister and offers compensation to her and her sons, she curses him, but she does not pursue vengeance. Her focus and the story’s focus remains love of Helgi rather than vengeance. She dares the terrors of the grave for him and dies of her grief; he comes back to her from the dead, from the halls of Odin. Perhaps the most compelling scene, the one that might have offered the possibility of an extended narrative is Helgi’s return from the dead to his wife for one night. It operates within the context of their inability to meet in the Norse afterlife. Since Sigrun is fated to die of grief, not in battle, she cannot join her husband in Valhalla. It is often overlooked by modern readers that Brynhild does not want Sigurd dead merely to punish him. She wants to ensure that she will have him in the afterlife. She does not kill herself out of guilt or remorse, but to join him in the kingdom of Hel. Sigurd must be killed treacherously, not merely because of his prowess, but because if he dies in battle he is lost to her forever. The composers of the lays were very much alive to this. Their sensitivity to it is reflected in ‘‘Brynhild’s Hel-ride.’’ The tale of Sigurd and Brynhild was a tale of thwarted love, but there is no adultery, no stolen meetings, none of the twists and turns of lovers’ intrigue, only the cold frustrated fury of a woman who has been tricked into marrying a man she despises, having been betrothed to the one man she could respect and therefore love. Besides, the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The women of Poetic Edda and of the saga literature in general are praised for the same qualities as the men. Modern readers tend to judge the medieval taste in heroines by Chaucer’s, but Geoffrey Chaucer had a highly personal taste for the plaintive and helpless woman (usually married). Bruinhild’s character did not change substantially between the Norse and courtly version of her story. The ballad tradition is full of women who follow their lovers to war in disguise, often saving them. The problem of the Helgi legends dead end may lie exactly in the cleft stick of the edda traditions of the afterlife and in the reincarnation motif. The great engine of the traditional development of the Helgi story, the narrative tool by which the story could be extended, was that the lovers were reincarnated at least three times. The story never found a replacement. However much reincarnation may appeal to modern sensibilities, if only as a narrative tool, it was a bar to wider development of the story between the Vikings’ conversion to Christianity and the end of the nineteenth century. It has been suggested that the statement at the end of ‘‘The Lay of Helgi Horvard’s Son’’ may be a belated scribal attempt to link the old Helgi tradition to the Volsung-Helgi tradition. But it seems unlikely that such an idea would have occurred out of nowhere to a Christian scribe, least of all to attract an audience. Keeping alive interest in the story would have suggested suppressing or ridiculing such a heathen concept as reincarnation, as the prose passage at the end of ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’ suggests: ‘‘In olden times it was believed that people could be born again, although that is now considered an old woman’s tale.’’ More likely to represent a scribal attempt to make the sequence more acceptable would be the prose introduction to ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane’’: ‘‘King Sigmund, the son of Volsung, married Borghild from Balund. They called their son Helgi, for Helgi Hjorvard’s son.’’ This statement at most suggests an subconscious recognition of their similar fate. The lines in ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi Hunding’s Bane—‘‘before she had ever seen Sigmund’s son / she had loved him with all her heart’’—is also suggestive of a love reincarnated. Perhaps the problem is more fundamental. There simply was not enough material. Despite the great potential offered and already exploited
V o l u m e
2
6 6 5
P o e t i c
E d d a
AS IN THE TROPE OF THE NORSE SHIELD MAIDENS, WHO REJECT THEIR GENDER AND SEXUALITY IN FAVOR OF THE PURSUIT OF WAR, SO GUDRUN REJECTS HER CHILDREN AND HUSBANDS IN FAVOR OF THE PURSUIT OF REVENGE.’’
Norse goddess Frigg (Bettmann Corbis)
by certain incidents, there were not enough of them. Even when fleshed out, there certainly were not enough tensions to make a convincing saga like that which formed around Sigurd. The tradition of their love offers only one possible tension between them: There is no meeting again for them after death. No writer after the conversion to Christianity would be able to exploit the literary possibilities of this endless loss or the alternative, the rebirth and repetition of the cycle of their love. There is no great object to be pursued. It is the nature of their love, their own natures, that they should find each other, and nothing shall come between them, not even death itself, which is the meaning of the story. That is what differentiates them from the characters in the Sigurd material. The center of their story is their love that propels them across death. Their great sorrow, the thing that they must conquer is their separation by death. That is a subject worthy of an epic, but not an epic that could have been written in the prevailing cultural atmosphere. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on Poetic Edda, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
David Clark In the following excerpt, Clark discusses Gudrun as the heroic ideal and the motive of vengeance in the Poetic Edda.
6 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
Vengeance of central importance to the heroic poems of the Poetic Edda, underpinning the action of each one. The following article focuses on the final four poems of the Codex Regius—Atlakvida, Atlamal, Gudrunarhvot, and Hamdismal—since they constitute a manageable body of material for close analysis, unified by the figure of Gudrun, although displaying significantly different perspectives on revenge . . . The article . . . addresses the question of whether the portrayal of Gudrun is anti-feminist or in fact constitutes a portrait of an autonomous female figure in control of her own destiny. The poems considered here thus provide a test case for an approach to the twin themes of vengeance and kin-slaying in the Codex Regius compilation as a whole. Steblin-Kamenskij makes the following statement concerning the Eddaic lays under discussion here: To a modern man it might seem that Gudrun’s vengeance is a piling up of monstrous crimes designed to horrify the hearers. But to interpret thus her vengeance would be, of course, to ignore the ethics of the society where this heroic legend and the lays based on it were popular. Since the greater the sacrifices a vengeance requires the more heroic it is, Gudrun’s vengeance for her brothers no doubt seemed an unexampled heroic deed, and this is explicitly said in the lays. (86)
The critical approach exemplified in this statement is diametrically opposed to that of this article. Although he claims to be interpreting the lays on their own terms, Steblin-Kamenskij makes unwarranted generalizations about ‘‘the ethics of the society,’’ . . . not to mention the possibility that the poems may in fact be working against a social ethic (the vengeance imperative) . . . ... Gudrun is exceptional and an outsider (as is Brynhildr); her individuality—her self-assertion—
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
is admirable in its strength, but it is not unambiguously eulogized, as we shall see, for it is ultimately fatal both for her and her family line and also for the society that cannot contain her. Indeed, her uniqueness may render her an ‘‘archetype’’: it is argued below that in Hamdismal Gudrun and her sons are both made representatives of the ‘‘heroic ideal’’ and simultaneously are also vehicles through which the poet can explore the dilemmas of heroic society—the characteristics of a Heroic Age (as imaginatively recreated by the poet) inhere in them . . . and the next section contends that Hamdismal and Gudrunarhvot share a common theme in their undermining of the revenge ethic. HAMDISMAL AND GUDRUNARHVOT: UNDERMINING THE ETHIC OF VENGEANCE
Just as Hamdir reveals in Gudrunarhvot that ... For you, brothers’ vengeance became terrible and painful, when you murdered your sons (str. 5)
so in Hamdismal, he reproaches his mother for lack of foresight, continuing with what Dronke calls ‘‘cynically sententious lines’’ (Heroic Poems, 151): ... Each against the other should so wield unto his life end a wound cutting sword such that one harms not oneself. (str. 8)
In Gudrunarhvot, there is the explicit recognition that, ironically, if Gudrun had not taken vengeance for the previous killing of her brothers, she would have made it easier to avenge Svanhildr: ... We could all, thinking together, have avenged our sister upon Iormunrekkr. (str. 5)
In this poem no more is seen of the two sons, as they ride to avenge Svanhildr, and the audience is left with scant hope of their survival. Hamdir warns, ... that you might drink a funeral feast to all of us, to Svanhildr and your sons. (str. 8)
Gudrun (who had previously been described as hloiandi (str. 7) [laughing]) is left gratandi (str. 9) [weeping] to bemoan her fate: the poem ends with a note of consolation (str. 22), but the only way that Gudrun can find peace is in death: ... May fire burn the breast, full of evils. (str. 21)
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
In Hamdismal, by contrast, most of the poem describes the brothers’ vengeance. Here, the responsibility for the ironic loss of a potential helper in their mission is taken from Gudrun’s shoulders and placed on their own, when they kill their half-brother, the second Erpr: . . . [they diminished their strength by a third]. This is even more striking if one makes a comparison with Gudrunarhvot, insofar as Hamdir does exactly that for which he reproaches his mother: he acts without foresight. The poet foregrounds their error, but it is not until the denouement that he allows them to recognize: . . . [The head would be off now, if Erpr lived]. The three similes of strophe 5 illustrate movingly the fact that . . . [you [i.e. Hamdir and Sorli] alone live of the strands of my race]: Gudrun is . . . [Alone . . . like an aspen in the wood]; . . . [bereft of kinsmen as a fir-tree of branches]; and . . . [destitute of pleasures as a forest of leaves] (str. 5). This imagery is picked up again at the end of the poem, where the satisfaction that the brothers derive from the fact that . . . [We have fought well] and . . . [We have gained good glory] is undercut by the reminiscence of Gudrun’s awful loneliness in . . . [as eagles on a branch] (str. 30). This is a verbal parallel with . . . [branch-damaging girl]. Gudrun likewise stands on men’s corpses—those of her kinsmen—just as the brothers, like her, are left ‘‘standing alone.’’ The poem is thus framed with ‘‘sorrowful tasks’’ and the deaths of the last living relatives of the woman who incited their vengeance. Gudrun . . . is now totally isolated with no hope of redress and, from a modern perspective, it seems only an empty comfort that her daughter has been avenged. The function of the eerie emblem of the sister’s son hanged on vargtre vindkold (str. 17) [the wind-cold wolf-tree] is surely not just to contribute to an impression of desolation—it also adds another kin-killing to that just previously perpetrated by the brothers. Moreover, it perhaps hints that Gudrun is ultimately responsible for the deaths of her final two sons, just as she killed the offspring of her union with Atli— certainly the tree imagery of the poem’s beginning is here picked up in a dark and ominous way in reinforcing the argument that it is returned to deliberately at the end of the poem to foreground the sterility of the vengeance achieved.
V o l u m e
2
6 6 7
P o e t i c
E d d a
The only scene of apparent happiness in Hamdismal, the glaumr [merriment] in Iormunrekkr’s hall, is not only tainted with a note of horror as he laughs about hanging the two young men (strr. 18–21), but also totally overshadowed by the image in the previous strophe of the hanged man and followed by the horrific picture of strophe 23: ... men lay in blood come out of the breasts of the Goths.
That this unpleasant scene is not just an ancient legend, but also has relevance to the poem’s audience is perhaps signified by the sense of timelessness described earlier in relation to strophe 2, linked with . . . [We have gained good glory, though we should die now or tomorrow] in strophe 30. The verbal echo here with ‘‘Vara pat nu / ne i gaer’’ (str. 2) is paralleled with that of fornara (str. 2) [more ancient] and the final prose comment that ‘‘petta ero kollud Hamdismal in forno’’ [This is called the ancient lay of Hamdir]. The timelessness both distances the action and renders it eternally relevant by the very non-specificity of the chronology. Just as one of the brothers (unnamed) calls for the two of them to avoid ‘‘the example of wolves,’’ saying they should not fight ... like the dogs of the Norns, which, greedy, are reared in the wilderness (str. 29)
so it seems the poet calls for this principle to be extended outside the immediate family-line to society at large-heroes must live not in a ‘‘wilderness,’’ but in a community. He does not minimize the tragedy of Svanhildr’s death—indeed the description in strophe 3 heightens the horror— but reminds the audience that revenge is selfperpetuating and ultimately leads to loneliness and sterility. The very last statement of the poem proper is: ... Sorli fell there at the gable of the hall, but Hamdir sank down at the back of the house. (str. 31)
This separation is surely not otiose but rather intended to foreground the loneliness of revenge once more. Hamdismal ends with the image of two young men, lying dead, alone, on a pile of bloody corpses, and the mind inevitably returns—not least because of the verbal echoes—to Gudrun in her splendid but barren isolation. It cannot be
6 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
anachronistic, then, to see the poem as conveying a sense that the ethic of vengeance for kin is limited and even self-destructive. Gudrunarhvot shows Gudrun not only as the murderess of Atlakvida, but also as a victim of heroic society’s treatment of women: she is not only hurt grievously . . . when her brothers kill Sigurdr, who . . . [Alone for me was . . . better than all], but ... they intended to harm me more, when those princes gave me to Atli. (str. 11)
In this context, the murder of her sons is seen in strophe 12 less as the terrible and unnatural deed of Atlamal than as a sad necessity imposed by circumstances forced on her by others. Her attempted suicide here may be seen by juxtaposition to be, at least in part, motivated by her sorrow at killing the boys: ... I went to the shore, grim was I to the Norns. (str. 13)
In this poem, Svanhildr is indeed seen as the favorite child . . . [whom of my children I fully cared for the best]), but she is destroyed by marriage, the radiant figure clothed in gold and costly weavings . . . [before I gave her to the Gothic people] trodden in the mud beneath horses’ hooves. The thought of her husband’s ignominious murder in their bed combined with the memory of her brother’s heart being cut from his living body (str. 17) is enough to send her into a kind of grief-stricken hallucination that Sigurdr is returning to her: ... Bridle, Sigurdr, the black horse . . . Do you remember, Sigurdr . . . ? (strr. 19 20)
Moreover, the ostensible comfort that the uttering of . . . [this series of sorrows], is to be, can hardly blot out the terrible pathos of a sorrow so great that only the funeral-pyre of strophe 21 can end it. In this poem, certainly, woman appears as a victim or pawn of heroic society, and Savborg’s comment seems to epitomize the portrayal of Gurdrun in many of the poems which deal with her: . . . [For Gudrun there is grief in the past, grief in the present, and grief in the future]. . . . ... . . . However, the question might be raised as to whether Gudrun (as the central figure of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
these poems) is being criticized on the one hand for taking active vengeance even though she is a woman, or, on the other, for inciting the revenge taken by her male relatives—that is, becoming a scapegoat for the results of male violence, as Jochens contends. EN-GENDERING HEROIC VENGEANCE: MADNESS AND ANTI-FEMINISM
Carol Clover uses Gudrun’s speeches in Cudrunarhvot and Hamdismal as part of an extended argument about the nature and function of lamenting and whetting; her conception of these behaviors is comparable to that of Alexiou on Greek lament (see Alexiou 22). Clover points out that in Hamdismal Gudrun’s speech ‘‘is pure lament . . . [but] is meant as a hvot’’ (‘‘Hildigunnr’’ 155) (that is, functions as a hvot) and that the fact that in Gudrunarhvot ‘‘the same set of verses that in Hamdismal was harnessed to a lament could here be reharnessed to a hvot suggests an easy transfer between the two themes’’ (‘‘Hildigunnr’’ 158). These inextricably linked functions are often seen to be the paradigms for female participation in revenge, and so it is important to consider whether Gudrun, as inciter of vengeance through lamentation or active whetting, is held ultimately responsible for the ensuing revenge and whether this betrays an antifeminist attitude on the part of the authors of the poems. One must not, however, assume that a social reality lies behind the depictions considered. It is possible that in historical situations such as those described by Alexiou, women may genuinely have been responsible for the perpetuation of vengeance. The Eddaic poems, however, are primarily literary creations, and we must deal with the possibility that they embody male alibis for the results of violence. Certainly, women were and are still often associated with emotional and mental instability, contrasted with male rationality—an association that renders possible the representation of female literary characters as mentally ill and/or dangerously violent in relation to men, and the re-presentation of the pathology of historical female killers as being linked in some way to their gender (see Seidler, Gilbert and Gubar, Caminero-Santangelo, and Berrington and Honkatukia) . . . It is entirely possible to present Gudrun as part of this anti-feminist trope, as in Jochens’s assertion:
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
The whetter was largely a male construct appli cable to the pagan era. For contemporary audi ences she served as a convenient scapegoat for male misdeeds that threatened the existence of the present society.
It is most commonly assumed (as in the quotation above) that Gudrun is inscribed by a male author for a predominantly male audience. Jesch does raise the interesting possibility with regard to the poems’ composition and audience that rich or influential women may have commissioned or occasioned elegiac poetry in addition to the well attested practice of commissioning memorials for rune stones (49–50). However, it would be premature to agree with Gisli Sigurdsson that the Eddaic poems are ‘‘female-orientated poems . . . made by women or for the benefit of a female audience’’ (255). Probable male authorship problematizes the representation of Gudrun in the poems by raising perhaps unanswerable questions as to whether male representations of women can ever be authentic and whether ventriloquism always disempowers the female subject. Nonetheless, it does not entirely mitigate against a (male) portrayal of an autonomous (female) figure. Moreover, Gudrun cannot be dismissed entirely as a ‘‘male fantasy’’ or daydream (Jochens 88). A further attempt to detect anti-feminism might see Gudrun as part of the ‘‘monstrous Other’’ trope. Certainly in Atlakvida which . . . depicts Gudrun as having inhuman self-control, the horror of her deeds is foregrounded, and the poem lends an element of sympathy even to Atli. Indeed, it could be argued that Gudrun is monstrous precisely for adopting the masculine prerogative of active revenge and the display of heroic (that is, tough and anti-emotional) behavior— that is, she transgresses the boundaries of the lamentation-whetting role prescribed for women who desire vengeance. Likewise, the analysis of Hamdismal above sees Gudrun as an implied presence, isolated and destructive, at the end of the poem. However, one could take a subtler approach to Woman as Other. One might construe Gudrun as a figure of awe, rather than of monstrosity— her deeds are recognized to be terrible, but the poetic attitude evoked is one of awe-struck admiration. As was seen above from the end of Atlakvida, ‘‘Never again will a bride in a mail coat go thus to avenge her brothers.’’ Gudrun can in this context be construed as a successful male impersonator: she takes on the male role of active vengeance, the male paraphernalia of armor. As in the trope of the Norse shield maidens, who
V o l u m e
2
6 6 9
P o e t i c
E d d a
reject their gender and sexuality in favor of the pursuit of war, so Gudrun rejects her children and husbands in favor of the pursuit of revenge. This could be interpreted as an attempt at autonomy in a male-dominated society, were it not for the fact that Gudrun is not acting on her own behalf, but avenging her brothers—her actions are with reference to men. Similarly, it is problematic from a feminist viewpoint that the basic motivation for the actions of both Brynhildr and Gudrun is their love for the same man, the (idealized) Sigurdr, continually designated by superlatives. Although this counts against the anti-feminist reading in one sense— since from a male point of view, this perhaps excuses the violent actions against other men because of the motivation of avenging another (perfect) man—nevertheless, female choices and actions in the poems are predicated upon and motivated by the lack of a male partner, and female lives are conceivable only with reference to men— whether lover, husband, brothers, friend, or enemy. It is possible, however, looking at Gudrun through the lens of two modern concepts, to suggest that Gudrun in fact constitutes an autonomous female figure, that is, she is engaged in shaping her own destiny. FEMALE AUTONOMY: ‘‘SKOP LET HON VAXA’’
In the introduction to her recent book, Guilty Pleasures, Pamela Robertson takes a revisionist view of the concept of ‘‘camp’’ and looks at its employment in terms of gender parody, not by gay men of women, but by women of women. She writes: In opposition to drag, the surprise and incon gruity of same sex female masquerade consists in the identity between she who masquerades and the role she plays she plays at being what she is always already perceived to be. (12)
Looked at in this way, Gudrun can be seen, in Atlakvida at least, not as a successful male impersonator, as above, but as a successful female impersonator. Gudrun’s terrible revenge in Atlakvida can be seen to serve as a form of subversive parody of her role as wife and queen. In strophe 34, the audience is told: ... Gudrun went out then to meet Atli with a gilded goblet to present the reward for the ruler.
She also bears drink to the warriors (str. 36), and this is precisely the behavior expected of a
6 7 0
E p i c s
f o r
Germanic queen—one thinks of Wealhpeow in Beowulf and the type of the Lady with the Mead Cup (see Enright). However, of course Gudrun is actually serving up her children’s blood instead of the ale the men expect, and the dainty tidbits (ironically termed olkrasir [ale-morsels]) that accompany it are the boys’ flesh blended with honey. Again, when Gudrun gives away the household treasure in strophe 40, she is inhabiting the role of the archetypal, generous Germanic queen admirably. However, her motive is in fact to squander and waste the treasure, not to use it to strengthen loyalty toward her husband. It has already been seen how Atli’s death is described in the context of happier times of lovemaking for the couple, and the situating of the killing in their marital bed, combined with this reference, foregrounds Gudrun’s subversion of this aspect of her role as queen. There is additionally a symbolic reversal of gender roles as, in strophe 42, we are told, . . . [With sword-tip she gave the bed blood to drink]. Since we have been told that Atli . . . [had no weapon] immediately after a reminiscence of their past love-making, it is clear that the killing involves a symbolic castration of Atli and ‘‘endowment’’ of Gudrun, as she penetrates her husband’s inert and passive body, drenching the bed in blood in a symbolic hymenal rupture and defloration. Gudrun becomes simultaneously not only a female impersonator but also a male impersonator, perhaps the ultimate manipulation of gender roles. The final conflagration includes not only Atli and his warriors in its death-toll, but also the skialdmeyiar who, in this context, fall victims to Gudrun the female-male impersonator by virtue of their own male impersonation. The problem with this reading of Atlakvida in terms of the search for female autonomy in the Eddaic poems is that it is still open to the charge of anti-feminism—the male author here using Gudrun simultaneously both as a female beyond all females, and lethal and terrifying with it, and also as a negative exemplum to all women in the audience with ideas of taking active control of their destiny (‘‘skop let hon vaxa’’ str. 40). Gudrun may be playing with gender roles, but her laughter is threatening, not joyful. Finally, though, one can see Gudrun from yet another angle—and indeed acknowledge that she is, in this analysis as in the poem, the object of the male gaze. Although women may
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
well have constituted part of the audience of the Eddaic poems, it seems likely that a large part of the audience was male. Since Gudrun is such a dynamic figure in these poems, it is instructive to consider the issue of audience identification. In her influential contribution to film studies, Carol Clover notes the statistical predominance among audiences of horror films of young adult males and argues that ‘‘male viewers are quite prepared to identify not just with screen females, but with screen females in the horrorfilm world, screen females in fear and pain’’ (Clover, Men, Women 5). I wish to engage less with this aspect of Clover’s thesis, than with the questions she raises of male-female identification in general. There is little scope in the Gudrun poems for a male audience, in Laura Mulvey’s terms, to gaze with a ‘‘voyeuristicscopophilic look’’ (25), since Gudrun has little physical ‘‘presence’’—in the poems, description is largely of actions, and much of the narrative is carried forward by dialogue. Later in her introduction, however, Clover speaks of the politics of displacement: the use of the woman as a kind of feint, a front though which the boy can simultaneously experience forbidden desires and disavow them on grounds that the visible actor is, after all, a girl. (Men, Women 18)
Read in this context, Gudrun might become not a transvestite figure, as above, but rather a medium enabling (some) men to ‘‘act out’’ through identification their (possibly subconscious) desire to escape the male-and-war-dominated society in which they live—Gudrun thus functioning not as Jochens’s ‘‘male fantasy,’’ but rather to punish the forces of male aggression represented by Atli, Jormunrekkr, and the others. The resumption of the narratorial voice at the end of the poems allows the hypothetical male audience member to disavow his experience and maintain the status quo—distanciation from autonomous women. This shift, however, does not invalidate the process of female identification. Indeed, even if one does not accept the motivation for the identification postulated above, it is nevertheless rewarding to consider the possibilities inherent in a male audience identifying with a strong female character taking revenge on the men who have injured her, even if, ultimately, this has its root in their depriving her of a male lover and thus rendering her existence always predicated upon maleness— whether in absence, or in opposition.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
GENERALIZING THE BLAME FOR VENGEANCE
It is thus inaccurate to suggest that the poet is scapegoating Gudrun alone (because she is female), since this oversimplifies the poems. In addition to the complexities of attitude explored above in Atlakvida and Atlamal, it is clear in Hamdismal that Gudrun’s sons are also held responsible for the results of their vengeance. Firstly, one of the brothers himself explicitly recognizes their fault in strophe 28: . . . but it is not just the practical consequences of their action that he bemoans—he understands the moral transgression involved in killing one’s brodir, someone who should have remained . . . [the battle-inviolate one]. That the point here is primarily symbolic is evinced by the lack of realism in the scenario envisage: there seems little reason why one of the brothers could not have cut off Jormunrekkr’s head before his arms or legs and, thus, obviate the problem. Rather the need for community transcending the circle of the immediate kinship group is emphasized along with the need for wisdom rather than heroics. An article by Brodcur and Brady admirably summarizes the progression in Hamdir and Sorli’s understanding of their kinship obligations as represented by the three phrases . . . [the one born of a different mother], . . . [brothers born of the same mother], and . . . [our brother]: The first emphasizes the hostility of the legit imate sons toward the illegitimate, and explains their violation of the obligations of kinship. The second crystallizes . . . the expression of the brothers’ exultation in their double tri umph: their vengeance upon Jormunrekkr, and their apparent vindication of their slaying of Erpr. The third, at the moment of their downfall, signalizes [sic] the emotional reversal by which, at last, they recognize not only that it is Erpr who is vindicated over them, but also that the blood tie between him and themselves is real and binding. Through this recognition, and most specifically through the words brodir okkarr, the poet achieves, in the final moment, a genuine catharsis. (136)
Although one would not necessarily wish to join See in his opinions on the date of Hamdismal, one can certainly agree that part of its overall message is . . . [that everyone should consider the consequences of his actions]. Beck goes further and argues that Hamdismal ‘‘contains an outspoken critique of hugr’’ (143), a concept he attaches to the heroic ideal. He points out that, although Hamdir is designated . . . [the high-minded one],
V o l u m e
2
6 7 1
P o e t i c
E d d a
Sorli (of whom strophe 9 says, . . . [he had a wise mind]) criticizes him in strophe 27, saying: ...
THE EDDA . . . IS A REPOSITORY, IN POETIC
You would have had a great heart, Hamdir, if you had had wisdom.
Beck comments:
CULTURAL LIFE OF THE NORTH DURING LATE
It is clear that hugr is ascribed to the heroic mentality; at the same time, however, it is dis tinguished from hyggiandi and manvit. Only hugr in combination with hyggiandi and man vit would have made possible the killing of Jormunrekkr . . . Hugr means intellect and cou rageous disposition, not necessarily coupled with wisdom. (144)
One should not go along with Becks conclusion that Hamdismal reflects the ‘‘thymos stage of culture’’ whose heroes are ‘‘not yet controlled by the morality of higher, organized societies’’ (145) since this seems to betray a false sense of societal and cultural progression from ancient and primitive to later and ‘‘higher.’’ Nevertheless, in conjunction with the other material adduced above, there is enough to suggest that any characterization of Hamdismal, at least, as purely anti-feminist scapegoating of women in the person of Gudrun, is simply not borne out by the poem itself—there is no scapegoat here, unless it is the heroic ethic of vengeance itself. CONCLUSIONS
It has not been possible to consider how the interpretation of the final four poems of the Codex Regius argued here affects that of the other heroic poems, particularly the poems concerning Gudrun where her grief rather than her vengeance is foregrounded. It has also sought rather to raise questions about the societies of audience and origin than to answer them. However, it has been argued that heroism is portrayed in some of the heroic poems, especially Hamdismal and Gudrunarhvot, as individualistic and belonging to the past— although heroes (whether male or female) possess an admirable grandeur, they can also be destructive of family and social groups in their obsession with vengeance. The analysis from various angles of gender issues in the woman-centered Gudrunpoems, in particular of the female roles of lamentation and whetting (both serving to incite vengeance) suggests that elements of anti-feminism enter into the portrayal of Gudrun—she can be seen as monstrous or mad in Atlakvida, for instance. Nonetheless, the poems do not uniformly blame women for the results of male violence. Indeed, far from blaming Gudrun alone, it
6 7 2
FORM, OF . . . THE ETHICAL VIEWS AND THE
E p i c s
f o r
HEATHEN AND EARLY CHRISTIAN TIMES.’’
is argued the blame for the results of revenge is generalized in Hamdismal. Gudrun’s murderous actions in Atlakvida are represented as those of a woman taking control of her destiny, but to the question of whether this is an approved course of action or rather one to be feared and stigmatized, this article found no definitive answers. Ultimately, Gudrun’s portrayal is ambiguous, and this may reflect ambivalence on the part of the author. Nevertheless, this very ambiguity leaves both attitudes available to a medieval or a modern audience—perhaps, I have suggested, both attitudes simultaneously—and functions not only to raise the possibility of successful female autonomy, but also, via the concept of (possibly disavowed) male-female identification, to destabilize binary notions of gender. Source: David Clark, ‘‘Undermining and En gendering Vengeance: Distancing and Anti feminism in the Poetic Edda,’’ in Scandinavian Studies, Vol. 77, No. 2, June 22, 2005, pp. 173 200.
Lee M. Hollander In this essay, Hollander attributes the preservation of the Teutonic literary heritage to the early Christian missionaries and to Icelandic inhabitants who described the Viking Age and recorded its sagas and Eddic lays. What the Vedas are for India, and the Homeric poems for the Greek world, the Edda signifies for the Teutonic race: it is a repository, in poetic form, of their mythology and much of their heroic lore, bodying forth both the ethical views and the cultural life of the North during late heathen and early Christian times. Due to their geographical position, it was the fate of the Scandinavian tribes to succumb later than their southern and western neighbors to the revolutionary influence of the new world religion, Christianity. Before its establishment, they were able to bring to a highly characteristic
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
fruition a civilization stimulated occasionally, during the centuries preceding, but not overborne by impulses from the more Romanized countries of Europe. Owing to the prevailing use of wood for structural purposes and ornamentation, little that is notable was accomplished and still less has come down to us from that period, though a definite style had been evolved in wood-carving, shipbuilding and bronze work, and admirable examples of these have indeed been unearthed. But the surging life of the Viking Age—restless, intrepid, masculine as few have been in the world’s history—found magnificent expression in a literature which may take its place honorably beside other national literatures. For the preservation of these treasures in written form we are, to be sure, indebted to Christianity; it was the missionary who brought with him to Scandinavia the art of writing on parchment with connected letters. The Runic alphabet was unsuited for that task. But just as fire and sword wrought more conversions in the Merovingian kingdom, in Germany, and in England, than did peaceful, missionary activity so too in the North; and little would have been heard of sagas, Eddic lays, and skaldic poetry had it not been for the fortunate existence of the political refuge of remote Iceland. Founded toward the end of the heathen period (ca. 870) by Norwegian nobles and yeomen who fled their native land when King Harald Fairhair sought to impose on them his sovereignty and to levy tribute, this colony long preserved and fostered the cultural traditions which connected it with the Scandinavian soil. Indeed, for several centuries it remained an oligarchy of families intensely proud of their ancestry and jealous of their cultural heritage. Even when Christianity was finally introduced and adopted as the state religion by legislative decision (1000 CE ), there was no sudden break, as was more generally the case elsewhere. This was partly because of the absence of religious fanaticism, partly because of the isolation of the country, which rendered impracticable for a long time any stricter enforcement of Church discipline in matters of faith and of living. The art of writing, which came in with the new religion, was enthusiastically cultivated for the committing to parchment of the lays, the laws, and the lore of olden times, especially of the heroic and romantic past immediately preceding and following the settlement of the island. Even after
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
Christianity got to be firmly established, by and by, wealthy freeholders and clerics of leisure devoted themselves to accumulating and combining into ‘‘sagas,’’ the traditions of heathen times which had been current orally, and to collecting the lays about the gods and heroes which were still remembered—indeed, they would compose new ones in imitation of them. Thus, gradually came into being huge codices which were reckoned among the most cherished possessions of Icelandic families. By about 1200 the Danish historian, Saxo Grammaticus, already speaks in praise of the unflagging zeal of the Icelanders in this matter. The greatest name in this early Icelandic Renaissance (as it has been called) is that of Snorri Sturluson (1178–1241), the powerful chieftain and great scholar, to whom we owe the Heimskringla, or The History of the Norwegian Kings, and the Snorra Edda—about which more later—but he stands by no means alone. And thanks also to the fact that the language had undergone hardly a change during the Middle Ages, this antiquarian activity was continued uninterruptedly down into the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when it was met and reinforced by the Nordic Renaissance with its romantic interest in the past. In the meantime the erstwhile independent island had passed into the sovereignty of Norway and, with that country, into that of Denmark, then at the zenith of its power. In the search for the origins of Danish greatness it was soon understood that knowledge of the earlier history of Scandinavia depended altogether on the information contained in the Icelandic manuscripts. In the preface to Saxo’s Historia Danica, edited by the Danish humanist Christiern Pedersen in the beginning of the sixteenth century, antiquarians found stated in so many words that to a large extent his work is based on Icelandic sources, at least for the earliest times. To make these sources more accessible, toward the end of the sixteenth century, the learned Norwegian, Peder Clausso¨n, translated the Heimskringla, which, with the kings of Norway in the foreground, tells of Scandinavian history from the earliest times down to the end of the twelfth century. Since it was well known that many valuable manuscripts still existed in Iceland, collectors hastened to gather them although the Icelandic freeholders ‘‘brooded over them like the dragon on his gold,’’ as one contemporary remarked. As extreme good fortune would have it, the Danish kings then ruling, especially Fredric III, were
V o l u m e
2
6 7 3
P o e t i c
E d d a
liberal and intelligent monarchs who did much to further literature and science. The latter king expressly enjoined his bishop in Iceland, Brynjo´lfur Sveinsson, a noted antiquarian, to gather for the Royal Library, then founded, all manuscripts he could lay hold of. As a result, this collection now houses the greatest manuscript treasures of Northern antiquity. And the foundations of other great manuscript collections, such as those of the Royal Library of Sweden and the libraries of the Universities of Copenhagen and Uppsala, were laid at about the same time. This collecting zeal of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may almost be called providential. It preserved from destruction the treasures, which the Age of Enlightenment and Utilitarianism following was to look upon as relics of barbarian antecedents best forgotten, until Romanticism again invested the dim past of Germanic antiquity with glamor. At the height of this generous interest in the past a learned Icelander, Arngrı´ mur Jo´nsson, sent the manuscript of what is now known as Snorra Edda or The Prose Edda (now called Codex Wormianus), to his Danish friend Ole Worm. Knowledge of this famous work of Snorri’s had, it seemed, virtually disappeared in Iceland. Its author was at first supposed to be that fabled father of Icelandic historiography, Sæmundr Sigfu´sson (1056–1133), of whose learning the most exaggerated notions were then current. A closer study of sources gradually undermined this view in favor of Snorri; and his authorship became a certainty with the finding of the Codex Upsaliensis of the Snorra Edda, which is prefaced by the remark that it was compiled by Snorri. To all intents and purposes this Edda of Snorri’s is a textbook—one of the most original and entertaining ever written. In it is set forth in dialogue form the substance and technique (as we should say) of skaldship, brought conveniently together for the benefit of those aspiring to the practice of the art. The first part, called ‘‘Gylfaginning’’ or ‘‘The Duping of Gylfi,’’ furnishes a survey of Northern mythology and cosmogony; the second, called ‘‘Skaldskaparma´l’’ or ‘‘The Language of Skaldship,’’ deals with the subject of ‘‘kennings,’’ whose origin is explained by quotations from skaldic poems and other lore; the third, called ‘‘Ha´ttatal’’ or ‘‘The Enumeration of hættir (metres),’’ contains Snorri’s encomiastic poem, in
6 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
102 stanzas, on King Ha´kon and Duke Sku´li, exemplifying as many metres employed in skaldship and giving explanations of the technical aspects of the skaldic art. Among the scholars eagerly scanning this precious find the conviction soon made itself felt that the material in it was not original with Snorri: they saw that much of the first two books was on the face of it a group of synopses from older poetic sources which, in their turn, investigators ascribed to Sæmundr. Hence when that lucky manuscript hunter, Bishop Brynjo´lfur, discovered (about 1643) the unique and priceless codex containing what we now call The Poetic Edda, it was but natural that he should conclude this to be ‘‘The Edda of Sæmundr,’’ whose existence had already been inferred theoretically. And this conclusion was unhesitatingly subscribed to by all, down to modern times. The fact is, though, that the connection of Sæmundr with The Poetic Edda has no documentary evidence whatever. Moreover, it is inherently improbable. But, since the great bulk of poems which we have come to regard as ‘‘Eddic’’ is handed down precisely in this manuscript, and since we lack any other collective title, the name of Edda, which properly belongs to Snorri’s work, has been retained for all similar works. We know with a fair degree of certainty that Snorri himself named his handbook of poetics ‘‘Edda’’; but as to the meaning of this word we are dependent on conjecture. Quite early, the name was taken to be identical with that of Edda, who was progenitress of the race of thralls according to ‘‘The Lay of Rı´ g,’’ and whose name means ‘‘great-grandmother.’’ This identification was adopted by the great Jakob Grimm who, with his brother Wilhelm, was one of the first to undertake a scientific edition of part of the collection. In the taste of Romanticism he poetically interpreted the title as the ancestral mother of mankind sitting in the circle of her children, instructing them in the lore and learning of the hoary past. However, as it happens, Snorri did not, in all likelihood, know ‘‘The Lay of Rı´ g’’; nor does this fanciful interpretation agree at all with the prosy manner in which the Icelanders were accustomed to name their manuscripts, or—for that matter—with the purpose and nature of Snorri’s work. It is altogether untenable. Another explanation was propounded early in the eighteenth century by the Icelandic scholar, A´rni Magnu´sson, and has been accepted by
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
many. According to him, Edda means ‘‘poetics’’—a title which (from a modern point of view) would seem eminently fitting for Snorri’s work. Later scholars, who have provided a more solid philological underpinning for this theory than A´rni was able to, also point out that the simplex o´r, from which Edda may be derived, signifies ‘‘reason,’’ ‘‘soul’’ and hence ‘‘soulful utterance,’’ ‘‘poem,’’ agrees excellently, etymologically and semantically, with the related Latin vates and the Old Irish faith, ‘‘seer,’’ ‘‘poet.’’ Nevertheless, this explanation does not quite satisfy, for the word ‘‘Edda’’ in the meaning ‘‘poetics’’ is nowhere attested before the middle of the fourteenth century. The simplest theory, agreeing best with the matter-of-fact Icelandic style of naming their writings, is the proposal of the Icelandic-English scholar, Eirı´ k Magnu´sson. He reminded us that Edda may mean ‘‘the Book of Oddi.’’ This was the name of the renowned and historic parsonage in southwest Iceland which under that remarkable mind, Sæmundr Sigfu´sson, had become a center of learning whither flocked gifted youths eager for historical or clerical instruction. After his death, in 1133, the estate, continuing to prosper, kept up its tradition for learning under his two sons, and especially under his grandson, the wise and powerful chieftain, Jo´n Loptsson. It was he who fostered and tutored the three-year-old Snorri and under whose roof the boy lived until his nineteenth year. What is more likely than that Oddi with its traditions and associations played a profound role in Snorri’s entire development? To be sure, whether Snorri wrote his work there in later years, whether he gave it the title in grateful recognition of the inspiration there received, or whether he wished thus to indicate an indebtedness to manuscript collections of poems owned at Oddi—these are mere surmises. Magnu´sson, indeed, believed that Snorri, while in Oddi, had used a manuscript containing about all the lays comprised in the codex found by Bishop Brynjo´lfur, and from them made the synopses found in the ‘‘Gylfaginning.’’ . . . Subsequent finds added a few lays of Eddic quality to those preserved in Brynjo´lf’s codex, which thus remains our chief source for them. This famous manuscript, now known as Codex Regius No. 2365 of the Royal Library of Denmark, is a small quarto volume consisting of forty-five sheets closely covered with writing. No distinction is made between prose and poetry, except that the beginning of every lay is marked
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
off by a large colored initial, and every stanza, by a smaller one. The whole is in one firm, legible hand which paleologists agree in assigning to an Icelander of the last half of the thirteenth century. He must have copied it from, it seems, at least two manuscripts for the nature of a number of scribal errors shows that he did not write from memory or from dictation. Paleographic evidence furthermore shows that these postulated manuscripts themselves cannot have been older than the beginning of the thirteenth century; also, that they must have been written by different scribes, for there is a distinct paleographic and orthographic boundary between ‘‘Alvı´ ssma´l,’’ the last of the mythological lays in Regius, and the heroic lays. We know nothing concerning the provenience of this priceless collection, not even where it was preserved when Bishop Brynjo´lfur found it. As to the date when the lays were first collected, various considerations make it probable that this occurred not earlier than the middle of the thirteenth century. Next in importance to the Regius comes the manuscript Fragment 748 of the Arnamagnæan Collection of the Copenhagen University Library, dating from the beginning of the fourteenth century. Among other matters it contains, in a slightly different form and in a divergent order, part of ‘‘The Lay of Ha´rbarth,’’ ‘‘Baldr’s Dreams’’ (for which it is the sole source), part of ‘‘The Lay of Skı´ rnir’’, ‘‘The Lay of Grı´ mnir,’’ ‘‘The Lay of Hymir,’’ and part of ‘‘The Lay of Volund.’’ For all the differences between the manuscripts, scholars are unanimous in holding that it derives, ultimately, from the same source as Regius. The different ordering of the two collections may be due to the various lays having been handed down on single parchment leaves, which the scribe of Regius arranged as he saw fit. He no doubt was the author of the connecting prose links. The large Manuscript Codex No. 544 of the Arnamagnæan Collection, called Hauksbo´k from the fact that most of it was written by the Icelandic judge, Haukr Erlendsson, about the beginning of the fourteenth century, is important for Eddic study in that it supplies us with another redaction of ‘‘The Prophecy of the Seeress.’’ For ‘‘The Lay of Rı´ g’’ we are entirely dependent on the Codex Wormianus of the Snorra Edda (referred to above) written in the second half of the fourteenth century, where it is found on the last page. The huge Codex No. 1005 folio of the Royal Library, known as the Flateyjarbo´k because
V o l u m e
2
6 7 5
P o e t i c
E d d a
Brynjo´lfur Sveinsson obtained it from a farmer on the small island of Flatey, is the source for ‘‘The Lay of Hyndla.’’ ‘‘The Lay of Grotti’’ occurs only in the Codex Regius manuscript No. 2367 of the Snorra Edda, dating from the beginning of the fourteenth century, where the poem is cited in illustration of a kenning based on the Grotti myth. There exists also a considerable number of paper manuscripts of the collection; but aside from the fact that some of them contain the undoubtedly genuine ‘‘Lay of Svipdag,’’ not found in earlier manuscripts, they are of no importance since they all date from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and are essentially derived from the same source as Regius, if not from that collection itself. To be sure, they bear eloquent testimony to the continued interest of Icelanders in these poems. The Eddic lays which are found in these manuscripts, utterly diverse though they be in many respects, still have in common three important characteristics which mark them off from the great body of skaldic poetry: their matter is the mythology, the ethical conceptions, and the heroic lore of the ancient North; they are all composed in a comparatively simple style, and in the simplest measures; and, like the later folk songs and ballads, they are anonymous and objective, never betraying the feelings or attitudes of their authors. This unity in apparent diversity was no doubt felt by the unknown collector who gathered together all the lays and poetical fragments which lived in his memory or were already committed to writing. A well thought-out plan is evident in the ordering of the whole. In the first place, the mythic and didactic lays are held apart from the heroic, and those of each group disposed in a sensible order. The opening chord is struck by the majestic ‘‘Prophecy of the Seeress,’’ as the most complete bodying forth of the Old Norse conceptions of the world, its origin and its future. There follow three poems, in the main didactic, dealing chiefly with the wisdom of the supreme god, O´thin (the lays of Ha´r, of Vafthru´thnir, of Grı´ mnir); then one about the ancient fertility god, Frey (‘‘The Lay of Skı´ rnir’’); five in which Tho´r plays the predominant, or at least a prominent, part (the lays of Ha´rbarth, of Hymir, of Loki, of Thrym, of Alvı´ s). The poems following in the present translation (‘‘Baldr’s Dreams,’’ the lays
6 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
of Rı´ g, of Hyndla, of Svipdag, of Grotti) are, it will be remembered, not contained in Regius. The Heroic lays are found arranged in chronological order, as far as feasible, and joined by Prose Links so that the several smaller cycles form one large interconnected cycle. The procedure is especially clear in the case of the Niflung Cycle. Not only has the Collector been at pains to join the frequently parallel lays, but he tries hard to reconcile contradictory statements. Connection with the Helgi Cycle is effected by making Helgi Hundingsbani a son of the Volsung, Sigmund. The tragic figure of Queen Guthru´n then links the Niflung Cycle with the Ermanarich lays (‘‘Guthru´n’s Lament,’’ ‘‘The Lay of Hamthir ’’). There has been a great deal of discussion as to the authenticity and age of the Prose of the Collection, but it is clear now that (excepting the piece about ‘‘Sinfjotli’s Death,’’ which no doubt is a prose rendering of a lay now lost) the Prose Links for the most part add nothing, or very little, of independent value—nothing, indeed, which could not have been inferred from the poems themselves. We shall hardly err in attributing these links to the intelligent, but not very gifted, compiler of the Collection. The case is somewhat different, perhaps, with the narrative which binds together the fragments of ‘‘The Lay of Helgi Hjorvarthsson’’ and those of ‘‘The Second Lay of Helgi,’’ and with the Prose Links of the Sigurth Cycle from ‘‘The Lay of Regin’’ to ‘‘Brynhild’s Ride to Hel.’’ Especially the latter group notably resembles in manner the genre of the Fornaldarsaga—prose with interspersed stanzas—a form exceedingly common in Old Norse literature and one which, for aught we know, may have been the original form in this instance. Still, even here the suspicion lurks that the Prose is but the apology for stanzas, or whole lays, imperfectly remembered: there is such discrepancy between the clear and noble stanzas and the frequently muddled and inept prose as to preclude, it would seem, the thought of their being by the same author. Even greater diversity of opinion obtains concerning the age and home of the lays themselves. As was stated above, in sharp contradiction to our knowledge of skaldic poetry, we know nothing about the author of any Eddic poem. Nay, in only a very few, such as ‘‘The Lay of Grı´ pir,’’ or ‘‘The Third Lay of Guthru´n,’’ can one discern so much as the literary individuality of the authors. In consonance with medieval views, they were
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
probably felt to be merely continuators, or elaborators, of legendary tradition. Thus, to illustrate by a very clear case: A Gothic lay about the death of Hamthir and Sorli is known to have existed already in the sixth century. So the person who indited or, perhaps, translated, or possibly, added to such a song could not well lay claim to be an ‘‘inventor’’ and hence worthy of being remembered. Skaldic art, on the other hand, may also deal with myth and legendary lore or allude to it; but—note well—skaldic poems do not narrate directly, though some do describe in detail pictorial representations of scenes from mythology or legendary history. Hence, there the author is faithfully recorded if we owe him but a single stanza; just as was the troubadour and the minnesinger, in contrast with the anonymity of the chansons de geste and the German folk epics. Thus it is that we are entirely dependent on internal evidence for the determination of the age and the origin of the Eddic poems, individually and collectively. And here experience has taught that we must sharply differentiate between the subject matter of the poems and the form in which they have been handed down to us. Failure to do so was responsible for some fantastic theories, such as the uncritical notions of the Renaissance, that the poems harked back to the Old Germanic songs in praise of the gods of Tuisco and Mannus, or else to the barditus, as Tacitus calls the terrifying war songs of the ancient Teutons, and the speculations of the Age of Romanticism which claimed the Eddic poems as the earliest emanations of the Spirit of the Germanic North, if not of all German tribes, and would date them variously from the fifth to the eighth century. It was not until the latter third of the nineteenth century, when the necessary advances in linguistic knowledge and philological method had been made, that it was established beyond contradiction that the Eddic poems have West Norse speech forms; that is, that they are composed in the language that was spoken only during and after the Viking Age (ca. 800–1050 CE ), in Norway, Iceland, and the other Norwegian colonies in the Atlantic, and hence, in their present shape, could have originated only there. In the second place, they can under no circumstance be older than about 700 CE —most of them are much later—because it has been shown experimentally that the introduction of older (Runic) forms of the Old Norse language would largely destroy the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
metric structure. This date a quo is admirably corroborated by comparison with the language of the oldest skaldic poems, whose age is definitely known. More general considerations make it plausible that even the oldest of the lays could hardly have originated before the ninth century. Of the Heroic lays precisely those which also appear in other ways to be the oldest breathe the enterprising, warlike spirit of the Viking Age, with its stern fatalism; while the later ones as unmistakably betray the softening which one would expect from the Christian influences increasingly permeating the later times. And the Mythical lays, by and large, bespeak a period when belief in the gods was disintegrating, thanks to contact with the same influences. In particular, ‘‘The Seeress’ Prophecy’’ reads like the troubled vision of one rooted in the ancient traditions who is sorrowfully contemplating the demoralization of his times (which we know a change of faith always entails) and who looks doubtfully to a better future. There is also the testimony of legendary development. To touch on only one phase of the matter: we do not know when the Volsung and Nibelung legends were first carried to Norway, but sparing allusions in the oldest skaldic verses from the early ninth century would point to the seventh or eighth century, thus allowing several generations for the complete assimilation and characteristic Northern transformation of the material. Some lays, however, show traits of a legendary development which had not taken place in Germany before the ninth century—in other words, they presuppose another, later, stratum of importation. Contrary to views formerly held, we now understand that the lays about the gods are, on the whole, younger than some of the heroic lays, which in substance (except the Helgi lays) deal with persons and events, real or fictive, of the Germanic tribes from the Black Sea to the Rhine during the Age of Migrations. In general we may say that, although there is little unanimity among scholars as to the dating of individual lays, the composition of the corpus of Eddic poetry can safely be ascribed, not to a single generation, not even to a single century, but to three or four centuries at the very least. Intimately connected with the question of the date is that of the home of Eddic poetry. There is fair agreement about only two poems. ‘‘Atlama´l,’’
V o l u m e
2
6 7 7
P o e t i c
E d d a
which is generally allowed to be of Greenlandish origin, and ‘‘The Prophecy of Grı´ pir,’’ which no doubt was composed by an Icelander of the twelfth century or later who had before him a collection of the lays dealing with the Sigurth legends. But a strong diversity of opinion exists concerning the place of origin of the bulk of the lays. For one thing, no evidence can be derived from the language because the Old West Norse of the Edda was spoken with scarcely a dialectal variation throughout the far-flung lands of the North Atlantic littorals and archipelagoes. Again, all attempts to seek definite and convincing clues in climatic or topographic references, or in the fauna and flora mentioned in the poems, have proved vain. Did they originate in the motherland, Norway, or in Iceland, or in the British or North Atlantic islands? Those who claim the bulk of the Eddic poems for Norway have contended that the related Skaldic poetry flourished there especially throughout the tenth century, favored by a period of comparative calm following the organization of the realm by Harald Fairhair; whereas Iceland, from its first settlement down to the beginning of the eleventh century, was in a condition of constant turmoil which could not have favored the rise of a body of literature like that of The Edda. Undeniably, Norway furnishes the cultural background for the Weltanschauung of nearly all of the poems, mythologic, gnomic, and heroic. In every respect their milieu is that of a cold, mountainous land by the sea. One, ‘‘The Lay of Hyndla,’’ may refer to a Norwegian princely race; another, ‘‘The Lay of Rı´ ig,’’ glorifies the institution of monarchy based on an aristocracy; both poems but poorly agree with Icelandic, republican conditions. The theory of origin in the British Islands settled by Norwegians—the Orkneys, the Shetland Islands, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and the littoral of Ireland, Scotland, and Northern England, is based on several considerations. These regions furnish precisely the stage where the rude Vikings first came in contact with the cultural conditions of a more advanced kind already deeply infused with Roman and Christian elements. Indeed some Celtic influences are seen in the apparel, the architecture, and the wood carving of ancient Scandinavia. In literature the saga, and possibly also skaldic verse, were thought to owe their inception to Irish impulses. Also a small number of both mythical and heroic motifs
6 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
occurring in the Edda may have congeners in the British Islands. Now, most of these claims are discounted by modern scholarship. Those who argue Icelandic origin admit that Anglo-Celtic influences are evident, but insist that this can be amply accounted for by the fact that a very large proportion of Icelandic settlers had come from Norway by way of the North British Islands and littoral where they had sojourned for shorter or longer periods, frequently even wintering, and whence they had brought with them a goodly number of Celtic slaves and freedmen. Also, on their return journeys to the motherland they frequently touched at North British, and especially at Irish, trading towns, interchanging goods and ideas. As to the milieu being that of a cold, mountainous land, this holds of course also for Iceland. There, the general state of unrest attending the first times was by no means unfavorable to the intense cultivation of the skaldic art—witness such poets as Egil Skallagrı´ msson, Hallfrœth O´ttarsson, Sighvat Tho´rtharson, not to mention scores of others—and hence probably was no more unfavorable to conditions for the inditing of Eddic lays. The first families of Iceland were notably proud of their origin from the princely races of the motherland—whence the aristocratic note of some lays. Indeed the whole people clung to their cultural traditions all the more tenaciously for being separated from their original homes. In general, the defenders of Icelandic origin would put the burden of proof on those who contend that the Eddic lays did not take at least their final, distinctive shape in the land where arose, and was perpetuated, virtually all of Old Norse literature. Certainly, the later poems definitely point to Iceland. On the other hand this does not preclude a number of stanzas, particularly the gnomic ones representing the stored wisdom of the race, from having originated in Norway. Of late the Norwegian paleographer Seip has endeavored to demonstrate, on the basis of a number of Norwegianisms in Codex Regius, that all the Eddic lays were originally composed in Norway. Other scholars would ascribe these to a pervading influence from the motherland, since several manuscripts of unquestionable Icelandic origin also show Norwegianisms. All this raises the question as to the ultimate source, or sources, of the matter of the Eddic poems. Were they all or partly indigenous to Scandinavia?
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
With regard to the mythological poems we shall probably never know, though here and there we seem to glimpse a connection with classical or oriental legends. But in all cases the matter has undergone such a sea change that we never get beyond the verdict ‘‘perhaps.’’ With the Helgi poems we are on somewhat firmer ground. The Vendel Period of Scandinavian hegemony (550–800) in the north of Europe, attested by innumerable archeological finds in the western Baltic lands, may well have been accompanied by a flourishing poetic literature of which these lays (and B eowulf may be remnants. The matter of the Niflung cycle undoubtedly is of German (Burgundian) provenience; and much has been made by German scholars of faint South and West Germanic traces in the style and language of the lays dealing with the Gju´kungs, Sigurth, and Atli. But whether these stories were transmitted to the North in poetic form or only there received their characteristic aspects, that is another question. The fact that only on Scandinavian soil did a rich literature actually arise as early as the ninth century, although its origins date even further back, would seem to speak for the latter assumption. But in the case of the retrospective and elegiac monologue poems it has been convincingly demonstrated that they share many motifs, phrases, even vocables, with what must have been the forerunners of the Danish ballads. One of the distinguishing features of Eddic, as against skaldic, poetry is its comparative simplicity of style and diction. This is true notwithstanding the fact that we have to deal with poems different in subject matter and structure and composed by different poets working centuries apart. Essentially, the style is akin to that of the alliterative poetry of the other Old Germanic tribes, especially in the use of kennings and the retarding devices of variation and parenthetical phrases. It is to the employment, rather more extensive than usual, of these stylistic features that Old Norse poetic style owes its peculiar physiognomy which, in skaldic art, becomes most pronounced. The figure of speech called a ‘‘kenning’’ is a kind of condensed metaphorical expression. It most often contains a real, or implied, comparison, or else defines a concept with reference to something else. Thus, a ship (which may be thought of as galloping over the waves) is called a ‘‘sailsteed’’; a warrior, a ‘‘helm-tree’’ because, helm-clad, he stands proudly erect like a tree, braving the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
E d d a
‘‘shower-of-arrows’’ (as the battle is designated for obvious reasons). Or instead of naming a person or object directly, there is a reference to somebody, or something, else. Tho´r, for example, is called, simply, ‘‘Sif’s husband,’’ or ‘‘Hrungnir’s bane,’’ or in allusion to his typical activity, ‘‘Breaker-of-thursheads.’’ Similarly, blood is termed ‘‘dew-ofwounds’’ or ‘‘dew-of-sorrow’’; gold, ‘‘the burthenof-Grani’’ (Sigurth’s steed which bears away the Niflung hoard); a prince, most often ‘‘breaker-ofrings,’’ ‘‘reddener-of-swords,’’ or similar names, referring to the two qualities most highly admired in rulers—generosity and bravery. Figures like these are common to the poetic speech of all races and all times. The important difference is that whereas elsewhere they are coined ad hoc, as the situation demands, and struck in the heat of poetic fervor, in Old Germanic, and particularly Old Norse, poetry they have become stereotyped; that is, entirely independent of the situation in hand, and hence are apt, at first, to appear to us farfetched and frigid, until by longer acquaintance we arrive at the deeper insight that they are part and parcel of a style, like the ever-recurring ‘‘dragon motif’’ of Scandinavian carvings. In skaldic poetry the systematic and unlimited use of kennings marks that type of composition off from anything known elsewhere in world literature. Only two Eddie lays, ‘‘The Lay of Hymir’’ and ‘‘The First Lay of Helgi Hundingsbani,’’ show a frequency of kennings approaching skaldic usage from afar. In ‘‘The Lay of Alvı´ s’’ the express didactic purpose is to cultivate copiousness of diction by enumerating the ‘‘unknown names’’ (heiti) and kennings by which common objects may be designated. Although somewhat less prominent, variation or parallelism is a stylistic device characteristic of all Old Germanic poetry—as it is, indeed, of the poetry of many nations. Only the more important features will be enumerated here, especially such as come out clearly in a somewhat faithful translation. There is variation of words, of conceptions, of verses; and there is refrain. The variation of words (synonymic variation), more particularly found in gnomic poetry, is on the whole not frequent in The Edda. The following stanza will furnish an example: With his friend a man should be friends ever, and pay back gift for gift; laughter for laughter he learn to give, and eke lesing for lies.
V o l u m e
2
6 7 9
P o e t i c
E d d a
More frequent, and also more characteristic, is the repetition of related, or contrasting, conceptions. These are usually joined by alliteration, and occasionally by rime, so as to form together a half-line. Thus: ‘‘bark nor bast,’’ ‘‘he gives and grants,’’ ‘‘shalt drivel and dote,’’ ‘‘in wine and in wort,’’ ‘‘whet me or let me.’’ Peculiar to Eddic poetry is the repetition, with or without variations, of entire half-lines. One example for many will suffice: I issue bore as heirs twain sons, as heirs twain sons to the atheling.
With variation: I saw but naught said, I saw and thought.
Repetition (with variation) of a full-line occurs in the so-called galdralag or ‘‘magic measure’’ of the ljthaha´ttr stanza: No other drink shalt ever get, wench, at thy will, wench, at my will.
Refrain—for example, the ‘‘know ye further, or how’’ of ‘‘The Seeress’ Prophecy’’—and incremental repetition—especially in the gnomic poetry—are occasionally used with telling effect. Only less characteristic of skaldic art than the unlimited use of kennings is the employment of parenthetical phrases—usually containing an accompanying circumstance. In The Edda the device occurs infrequently, and most often in ‘‘The First Lay of Helgi the Hunding-Slayer,’’ which also approaches skaldic art in the use of kennings; for example (Stanza 17): But high on horseback Hogni’s daughter was the shield din lulled to the lord spoke thus.
In contrast with Old West Germanic poetry, which is stichic, and quite generally uses run-on lines, Old Norse poetry is strophic, the stanzas as a rule being of four lines each. Each stanza is most commonly divided into two vı´suhelmings or ‘‘half stanzas,’’ by a syntactic cæsura. This is the rule; but imperfect stanzas occur too frequently to be explained away in all cases by defective tradition. It is certainly worth pondering, however, that unexceptional regularity is found, on the one hand, in poems whose question-answer form offered a mnemotechnic help to preservation, and on the other, in those that belong to the youngest strata; whereas lays which, for a number of reasons, seem among the oldest—for example, ‘‘The Lay of Volund’’ and ‘‘The Lay of Hamthir’’— are quite irregular in this respect. The inference seems plausible that stanzaic structure was a later and specifically Scandinavian development, the
6 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
bulk of Old Norse monuments being younger, both chronologically and developmentally, than most West Germanic monuments. Like the mass of Old Germanic poetic monuments, the Eddic lays are composed in alliterative verse; in verse, that is, whose essential principles are stress and concomitant alliteration. The rhythmic unit of alliterative verse is the so-called ‘‘half-line,’’ represented in metrics by convention as dipodic. These two feet, as will be seen, may be of very different lengths. In the normal half-line there are four or five syllables (very rarely three) two of which are stressed, the position of stress depending on the natural sentence accent. The rhythmical stress (and concomitant alliteration) generally requires a long syllable. . . . However, it may also be borne by two short syllables (‘‘resolved stress’’), . . . ‘‘a salar steina,’’ where salar constitutes two short syllables; this may be paralleled by ‘‘that etin’s beerhall,’’ with etin reckoned as two shorts); or else by one short syllable immediately following a stressed long syllable . . . (see the discussion of rhythmic patterns below). In the unstressed syllable, quantity is indifferent, marked thus: x. The juxtaposition of two stresses without intervening unstressed syllable, so rarely used in modern poetry, is not only permitted but is a distinctive feature in Old Germanic poetry. . . . Always, two half-lines, each an independent rhythmic unit, are joined together by alliteration to form the ‘‘long-line.’’ Alliteration, or initial rime, consists in an initial consonant alliterating, or riming, with the same consonant . . . . Because the verse is addressed to hearers, not to readers, ‘‘eye-rimes’’ are not permitted. Also, alliteration may be borne only by words of syntactic importance. ... Beyond stating that alliteration is the bearing principle in their verse the ancients made no statement about how this verse is to be read. Simple observation shows that the alliteration is borne only by stressed syllables concomitant with the syntactic importance of the word, and also that the stress is borne predominantly by nominal elements—nouns, adjectives, and pronouns. As stated earlier, there is agreement among scholars that the half-line is dipodic. But there is divergence of opinion about the disposition and relative stress of the various elements of the half-line, that is, about its rhythm.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
P o e t i c
In view of the utter difference between Old Germanic verse and any modern or classic scheme of versification, an adequate comprehension of the principles of Old Germanic verse technique is essential for the correct reading and understanding—nay, for entering at all into the spirit—of Old Germanic poetry. It is hoped that the reader will acquaint himself with the facts set forth above before attempting to recite Eddic lays—and indeed he should recite them, for they are meant for the ear, not the eye. In reciting the Eddic lays it should ever be kept in mind that the strongly expiratory nature of Germanic verse demands very strongly stressed syllables, and correspondingly weak or slurred unstressed syllables. . . . The translator has endeavored to follow faithfully the rules of Eddic metrics above explained— at least in spirit. Naturally, in an analytic tongue like English many more particles, pronouns, and prepositions must be used than in the highly inflected Old Norse. . . . Source: Lee M. Hollander, ‘‘General Introduction,’’ in The Poetic Edda, University of Texas Press, 1962, pp. iv xxix.
E d d a
Sturluson, Snorri, The Prose Edda: Tales from Norse Mythology, translated by Jean I. Young, University of California Press, 1966, reprint, Carruthers Press, 2008.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Ferguson, Robert, The Vikings: A History, Viking Adult, 2009. Ferguson covers the Viking period from 790 to 1100, placing it within European history and discusses how this period of trade and plunder assisted in the development of Scandinavian and Western Europe’s culture. Larrington, Carolyne, trans., The ‘‘Poetic Edda,’’ Oxford World’s Classics series, Oxford University Press, 1999; reissue edition, 2009. Larrington provides an updated translation. The book is a useful guide for both student and scholar with notes, a genealogy, a name index, and a scholarly introduction. O’Donoghue, Heather, From Asgard to Valhalla: The Remarkable History of the Norse Myths, I. B. Tauris, 2007. O’Donoghue’s book is an accessible examination of the durability of Norse myth and how it has been used, transmitted, and remembered.
SOURCES Clark, David, ‘‘Undermining and Engendering Vengeance: Distancing and Anti Feminism in the Poetic Edda,’’ in Scandinavian Studies, Vol. 77, No. 2, Summer 2005, p. 173. Dronke, Ursula, Myth and Fiction in Early Norse Lands, Variorum Collected Studies Series CS524, 1996. , The ‘‘Poetic Edda’’: Heroic Poems, Vol. 1, Clar endon Press, 1969. Edgren, Torsten, ‘‘The Eastern Route: Finland in the Viking Age,’’ in Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, edited by William W. Fitzhugh and Elisabeth I. Ward, Smith sonian Institution Press, 2000, pp. 103 15.
Taylor, Paul B., and W. H. Auden, trans., The ‘‘Elder Edda’’: A Selection, Faber and Faber, 1973. Auden was a major twentieth century avant garde poet who nevertheless maintained a lively interest in early medieval poetry. The introduc tion is particularly useful for the beginner. Turville Petre, Gabriel, Myth and Religion of the North, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1973. This book is still considered one of the best and most readable on the subject.
Grove, Jonathan, Review of The ‘‘Poetic Edda’’: Essays on Old Norse Mythology, in Folklore, Vol. 114, No. 3, December 2003, p. 445. Larrington, Carolyne, trans., The Poetic Edda, Oxford World’s Classic, Oxford University Press, 2009. Litchfield, Mary E., The Nine Worlds: Stories from Norse Mythology, Ginn, 1895, reprint, Kessinger, 2007, pp. 1 5;. Munch, Peter Andreas, Norse Mythology: Legends of Gods and Heroes, American Scandinavian Foundation, 1926, reprint, Oxford University Press, 2002, pp. 1 4, 123 263. Nordal, Sigurthur, ed., Vo¨luspa, translated by B. S. Ben edikz and John McKinnell, Durham and St. Andrews Medieval Texts 1, 1978.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Codex Regius Elder Edda Norse mythology Poetic Edda Vikings Volsunga AND saga
V o l u m e
2
6 8 1
The Song of Igor’s Campaign ANONYMOUS C. 1185
The Song of Igor’s Campaign is one of the classics of medieval epic literature and the only surviving example of the epic form written in Russian. It was composed between 1185 and 1187, shortly after the events it describes took place. The epic relates the unsuccessful expedition of Prince Igor of Novgorod-Seversk in Kievan Rus against the nomadic tribes known as the Kumans, who had been raiding the Kievan Rus lands in the southeast. Igor is defeated and captured, but he eventually escapes and returns to Kievan Rus. Kievan Rus was the name of the area about which the epic author writes. This area was subsequently divided between Russia and Poland, along with other neighboring powers. Later still, it was one of the republics of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (called the Soviet Union or the USSR), and at dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the republic gained its independence as Ukraine. Kievan Rus is used in this chapter as the name of the country because that was its name in the 1100s at about the time the epic was written. However, people in the epic are referred as Russian. The manuscript of The Song of Igor’s Campaign was discovered in 1795 and first published in 1800. The one surviving manuscript was then destroyed in the fire of Moscow in 1812. Fortunately, a copy had been made for Russia’s Catherine the Great (1729–1796). However, there are many corrupt passages where the anonymous author’s meaning is unclear.
6 8 2
T h e
The Song of Igor’s Campaign has always been treasured for its literary quality. It is dense with imagery, simile, and metaphor, and shows great structural variety. To the tale of Igor’s military campaign, the author adds reminiscences of the country’s past. He employs laments, panegyrics (passages which lavishly praise a person), omens, and dreams. The Song of Igor’s Campaign is also notable for its poetic view of nature, in which animals, vegetation, and natural forces react to and even shape the actions of humans. The author’s psychological insight into his characters has also been admired. The author pleads for unity among the Kievan Rus princes, who had a history of feuding among them. The author believes that disunity leads to disaster. A melancholy feeling, therefore, pervades the epic. Although the author makes Igor’s defeat seems more important than it was historically, his words proved prophetic. Early in the next century, the Mongol army of Genghis Khan (1162–1227) conquered Kievan Rus and subjugated it for two hundred years.
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
PLOT SUMMARY Lines 1-70: Invocation The epic begins with a tribute to Boyan, an eleventh-century Kievan Rus bard who paid tribute in song to the military exploits of Kievan Rus princes. Nothing is known of Boyan other than the allusions to him in the Song. The author praises Boyan’s poetic inspiration and names three princes who were subjects of Boyan’s songs: the great ruler Yaroslav, prince of Kiev from 1019 to 1054; Mstislav, who was known as Mstislav the Brave; and Roman, who was killed by the Kumans in 1079. The author then says he will tell of events that happened in his own time, not in the past, and he introduces his subject: He will describe how Igor led the Kievan Rus forces against the Kumans in defense of their homeland. Then follows another brief apostrophe (direct address) to Boyan, in which he imagines how Boyan might sing of Igor’s military campaign.
Lines 71-150: Preparations for Battle AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The author of The Song of Igor’s Campaign is unknown. Scholars believe the epic was the work of one man, not the accumulated effort of many, but anything else said about the author is speculation. From the text, it appears that the author was very familiar with military life, and it is possible that he took part in Igor’s campaign. The anonymous author also knew about hunting and had detailed knowledge of the flora and fauna of the prairies. He was learned in books and oral tradition and was well acquainted with the genealogies and histories of the Kievan Rus noble families. It is possible, then, that he was a court poet or a close companion of a prince. When The Song of Igor’s Campaign was discovered in 1795, some suspected it might be a forgery. However, few question its authenticity in the early 2000s. Scholars point out that the Old Russian language in which the Song is written is used with great skill, and no one in the eighteenth century had the knowledge or the poetic genius to forge a work of such high quality. This is the same verdict that Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837), the foremost Russian poet, reached at the time the manuscript was discovered. He said there was not enough poetic ability in the entire eighteenth century to forge even a small part of The Song of Igor’s Campaign.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Igor’s brother Vsevolod joins Igor. Vsevolod speaks in affectionate words of his brother, and tells Igor to saddle his horses, for his own are ready. Vsevolod then praises his own soldiers as having been bred for battle from an early age. They are masters in the pursuit of honor for themselves and glory for their prince. Next, Igor addresses his army. He tries to inspire them with heroic words about how it is nobler to die in battle than to be taken captive. Filled with ambition, he says he wants to drink water from the river Don, which is at the Kuman frontier. But as Prince Igor mounts his horse and rides into the prairie, there are various ominous signs in nature. These include howling wolves and the song of a bird (daeva) traditionally associated with misfortune. But the prince is so eager for battle he does not notice them.
Lines 151-180: Early Russian Success The action moves immediately to the battlefield. On the first day of battle, the Russians are victorious. In the early morning, they slaughter their enemies and take away booty such as beautiful cloths and garments. They also capture young Kuman women and bring them back as part of the spoils of war.
Lines 181-230: Russian Adversity The second day of battle day begins with ominous signs from nature. When battle commences, the fortunes of the previous day are reversed. The
V o l u m e
2
6 8 3
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
he reminds his readers of the downfall of Prince Boris, who died in battle but whose name was tarnished because he too warred against other Russian princes. He also failed to listen to the advice of Prince Oleg, who advised him to surrender. This period, the author says, was disastrous for Kievan Rus. Death was everywhere, and the peaceful farming of the land was interrupted.
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Prince Igor, an opera written in 1890 by the Russian composer Alexander Porfir’yevich Borodin, is based on in The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Borodin added to the tale some episodes and descriptions from two Russian chronicles. In the 1920s, Russian artist Ivan Golikov painted a series of lacquer miniatures illustrating The Song of Igor’s Campaign. These are considered to be masterpieces of this Russian art form. Roman Tikhomirov directed a 1970 film adaptation of Alexandre Borodin’s opera Prince Igor. Against a landscape of twelfthcentury Kievan Rus villages, the production presents singing by Russian opera stars and the Kirov Opera Chorus and dancing by members of the Kirov Ballet. In 1990, Humphrey Burton directed the BBC film production of the opera, Prince Igor. This film is 193 minutes long.
In 2007, the film Prince Igor was released. This 109-minute film production was shot on location in Russia.
Russian army is surrounded on all sides by the enemy; they try to retreat. As the earth groans under the weight of the conflict, the Russians fight bravely and inflict heavy casualties on the opposing side. Igor is not mentioned directly, but his brother Vsevolod is twice praised for his courage and prowess.
Lines 231-266: Rebuke of Igor’s Grandfather As the battle rages, and the signs are bad for the Russians, the author digresses. He goes back to former events and criticizes the princes of that era for their feuding. He singles out two individuals in particular. First, he names Oleg, Igor’s grandfather, whom he blames for the internal wars that destroyed the unity of Kievan Rus. Historically, this was Oleg Svyatoslavich of Chernigov. Next,
6 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
Lines 267-298: Russian Defeat Returning to the battle, the author says this is the greatest battle of all time. The Russians fight on in the lands of their enemy, but by noon of the third day they are defeated. The two brothers are parted, but their fate is not yet disclosed. The defeat takes place on the shores of the Kayala river, which is a tributary of the Donets, which is itself a tributary of the river Don.
Lines 299-350: Lamentations In a long section, the author laments that in the wake of Igor’s defeat, unhappy times have now come to Kievan Rus. The remaining princes quarrel among themselves, and the area is subject to invasion on all sides. Grief and sorrow spread across the land as the victorious invaders demand tribute (money) from each household.
Lines 351-390: Igor Rebuked The narrator then criticizes Igor and his brother for permitting, by their defeat, the evil forces to gather strength. He points out that Prince Svyatoslav, the Prince of Kiev and one of the most powerful of the Russian rulers, had always triumphed over the Kuman enemy. Svyatoslav is the cousin of Igor and Vsevolod. Svyatoslav had even captured the Kuman leader and taken him to Kiev as a prisoner. Historically, this event occurred in 1184, a year before Igor’s campaign. The narrator says that the peoples of Europe—Germans, Venetians, Moravians, and Greeks—praise Svyatoslav because the victory over the Kumans kept open the trade routes between Russia and southwestern Europe. But now all that has changed. Many reproach Igor for allowing the Kumans to capture so much Russian wealth. It is at this point that the narrator reveals for the first time that Igor was not killed in the battle, but was taken prisoner.
Lines 391-410: Prince Svyatoslav’s Dream The narrator relates the dream of Prince Svyatoslav of Kiev. It is full of ominous signs. He dreams he is covered by a black shroud, drinking wine that makes him sorrowful. Strangers from a
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
foreign land pour pearls onto his chest (pearls were a traditional symbol of tears), and all night he hears the ravens calling.
Lines 411-450: The Prince’s Dream Explained The Prince’s boyars (nobles) explain the dream to him. They tell him the story of Igor’s ill-fated expedition, of how the forces of darkness overcame the forces of light. The victorious enemy is likened to a brood of panthers marauding across Kievan Rus lands, celebrating their revenge. Glory has faded from Kievan Rus and only shame is left.
Lines 451-490: Svyatoslav Speaks Svyatoslav replies in words that give more insight into why the narrator rebuked Igor in the previous section. The prince says that Igor and Vsevolod acted too rashly. Although they showed courage, they were too ambitious, and that was why they failed.
Lines 491-590: The Bard Appeals to Russian Princes The narrator now appeals, one by one, to the surviving Russian princes. He asks them to unite in defense of Kievan Rus. First, he addresses Volodimir, who has been wounded trying to repel the Kumans as they attack the city of Rim, on the river Sula. Then he appeals to the powerful Vsevolod, Prince of Suzdal, for assistance. Next, he turns to Rurik and David, noting their military prowess and appealing for their help in avenging the Russian defeat. He makes a similar appeal to Yaroslav of Galich (Igor’s father-in-law), whose troops have proved their mettle. Then Roman and Mstislav are evoked as mighty warriors who have subdued Hins, Lithuanians, Yatvangians, and Kumans. Ingvar and Vsevolod, and three unnamed sons of Mstislav, are next. The author calls on them to protect the prairies and avenge the Russian land.
Lines 591-610: Tribute to Izyaslav The narrator recalls the bravery of the warrior Izyaslav, who was killed in battle in 1162 against the Lithuanians. Izyaslav fought alone, without his two brothers, Bryachislav and Vsevolod, and this is honored by the author as a sign of Izyaslav’s courage.
Lines 611-630: Reproach of Yaroslav and Vseslav Yaroslav, the subject of an appeal by the author in lines 523-541 is now rebuked. (There is some
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
doubt among scholars about whether this may in fact be a different Yaroslav). Along with the descendents of Vseslav, he is held responsible for the invasions of Kievan Rus by the Kumans. The invasions happened because of the feuding between the Russian princes.
Lines 631-686: The Story of Vseslav Vseslav of Polotsk (d. 1101) conquered Novgorod in 1067, but was then defeated at the river Nemiga by Yaroslav’s three sons. (Novgorod had traditionally been ruled by the House of Yaroslav.) In 1068, Vseslav became Prince of Kiev for seven months. He had a reputation for being a magician. These facts explain many of the references and expressions in this section. Vseslav is said to cast lots for a maiden; the maiden is the city of Kiev. He touches the golden throne with his staff—an allusion to the brevity of his reign. At night he has the ability to envelop himself in a blue mist as he travels, or to take on the form of a wolf—signs of his power as a magician. Lines 645-648 allude to Vseslav’s victory at Novgorod, and the following lines (649-658) to his defeat at Nemiga.
Lines 659-686: Assessment of Vseslav The narrator elaborates on Vseslav and his magical powers. He ruled his territories by day, but at night he prowled like a wolf. He managed to travel all the way from Kiev to Tmutorakan in one nightan incredible journey since Tmutorakan is more than seven hundred miles southeast from Kiev. Then when the bells of the Church of St. Sophia in Polotsk tolled matins (morning services) for him, he could hear them in Kiev, three hundred and fifty miles south. Despite the fact that Vseslav was physically strong and a magician, he still suffered personal catastrophes. The author quotes the bard Boyan as having said of Vseslav that no one can escape the judgment of God. This section concludes with another short passage mourning the fate of Kievan Rus. It looks back to the glory days of Vladimir I and then looks with regret on the present, in which Russian forces are divided against themselves.
Lines 686-730: Lament of Yaroslovana, Igor’s Wife Igor’s wife, Yaroslovana, stands on the walls of the city of Putivl and laments for her lost husband. She says she will fly like a cuckoo to the river Kayala and wipe the wounds from Igor’s body. The remainder of her lament is divided into three
V o l u m e
2
6 8 5
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
parts, each of which apostrophizes (addresses directly) an inanimate force. First, she asks the wind why it chose to blow the weapons of the enemy in the direction of the Russian army. Why could it not just blow on the seas, setting the ships in motion? Then she addresses the river Dnieper. She says that since the river had the power to pierce the stone hills that run through the land of the Kumans, it can also respond to her request and return her husband to her. The last part of her lament is addressed to the sun. She asks the sun why it sent its hot rays onto her husband’s warriors, scorching them on the battlefield when there was no water available.
Lines 731-770: Igor Escapes One night Igor escapes from his Kuman captors. At midnight, on the other side of the river, a friendly Kuman named Ovlur provides him with a horse. Igor swims across the river, leaps on the horse, and speeds away. Ovlur accompanies him. The account of the escape is brief, but it follows the description given in the chronicles of the period. According to the chronicles, Igor’s guards were enjoying a boisterous night drinking fermented mare’s milk, and this gave Igor his chance to slip away.
to interpret, and no commentator has satisfactorily explained these puzzling lines.)
Lines 831-861: Igor Returns to Kievan Rus The author quotes a passage from a song by the bard Boyan, in which Boyan says it is hard for a body to be without a head—that is, for a land to manage without its king or leader. After pointing out how badly Kievan Rus misses Igor, the author describes the effect of Igor’s return to Kiev. The sun shines and maidens sing, cities and whole countries rejoice. Igor goes immediately to the church called the Blessed Virgin of the Tower. The Song ends with a song of praise in honor of Igor, his brother Vsevolod, and his son Vladimir, and to all the Christian knights of Kievan Rus who are fighting the pagans.
CHARACTERS Boris Boris was a Russian prince who died in 1078. He was the grandson of Yaroslav I. He is used by the author as an example of princely folly (lines 245-50).
Boyan Lines 771-802: Igor Speaks to the River Donets The river Donets tells Igor that he will receive glory, and Kievan Rus will receive joy. In return, Igor praises the river. He says it carried him on its waves, and he has enjoyed the green grass on its banks and the mists that enveloped him in the shadows of its trees. He compares it favorably to the river Stugna, which is a tributary of the Dnieper, south of Kiev. It was in that river that Prince Rostilav (paternal ancestor of Igor’s wife) was drowned in 1093, after a battle with the Kumans.
Boyan was a minstrel and poet who sang in former days about the exploits of the Russian princes. He does not appear directly in the epic but is invoked several times by the author, who praises his skill as a bard. Boyan is said to have been a ‘‘nightingale of the times of old.’’
David of Smolensk David (d. 1198), brother of Rurik, fought the Kumans in 1183, alongside Rurik’s forces. The author urges him and his brother to avenge the defeat of Igor.
Euphrosyne Lines 803-830: Igor Is Pursued by the Enemy Two Kumans, Gzak and Konchak, pursue Igor on horseback, but soon realize they cannot capture him. Gzak suggests that they kill Igor’s son, Vladimir, whom they still hold captive. Konchak replies with a suggestion that they enmesh Vladimir in the charms of a beautiful woman (presumably so that he will not be able to escape). Gzak replies that if they do that, they will end up with neither the woman nor Vladimir. Then he adds that the birds will start to beat them on their own territory. (The conversation between the two Kumans is difficult
6 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
Euphrosyne is Igor’s wife. She is also called Yaroslavna. She appears late in the epic and sings a lament to the wind, the river, and the sun in which she reveals her deep love for her husband. She also expresses compassion for Igor’s fallen warriors.
Gzak Gzak is a Kuman warrior who pursues Igor after he has escaped.
Igor, Prince of Novgorod-Seversk Igor is the prince who leads the Russians in their attack on the Kumans. He is depicted as courageous
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
and manly, imbued with a warlike spirit. He cares deeply about glory and battle and has the ability to inspire his men. ‘‘It is better indeed to be slain / than to be enslaved,’’ he tells them (lines 96-7). He is prepared either to triumph in battle or die in the process. Igor is also devoted to his brother Vsevolod and concerned for his welfare in the battle. But on the negative side, he is so eager to pursue his military goals that he fails to see warning signs in nature. Later in the poem, he is condemned for being too ambitious. Nonetheless, he is held in high esteem by Russians, which is proven when he returns to Kievan Rus and the whole land rejoices. Igor is also a family man, with a wife and son who accompany him into battle.
Ingvar of Galich Ingvar is a prince (d. 1202) to whom the author appeals for assistance in avenging the Russian defeat.
Izyaslav Izyaslav was killed in the Battle of Gorodets in 1162, against the Lithuanians. He is recalled as a brave warrior.
Konchak A companion of Gzak, Konchak is a Kuman warrior who pursues Igor after he escapes.
Mstislav of Peresopnits Mstislav (d. 1224), fighting alongside Roman of Galich, conquered many other nations and is highly praised by the author.
Mstislav of Tmutorakan Mstislav (d. 1036), brother of Yaroslav I, is referred to in lines 26-28 as a great warrior.
Oleg, Prince of Chernigov and Tmutorokan Oleg was Igor’s grandfather, who died in 1115. He does not appear directly in the epic, but the author recalls him and some of his deeds. Oleg is blamed for initiating feuds with other Russian princes.
Oleg Malglory See Oleg, Prince of Chernigov and Tmutorokan
Ovlur Igor’s servant, Ovlur assists Igor in his escape from captivity.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Roman of Galich Roman (d. 1205) was a powerful warrior. Linked with Mstislav of Peresopnits, he is praised by the author for subduing many other nations, including Hins, Lithuanians, and Kumans.
Roman of Tmutorakan Roman (d. 1079) was the brother of Igor’s grandfather. He is referred to once in the epic, in lines 26-28.
Rostislav of Pereyaslval Rostislav of Pereyaslval was a prince who was drowned in the river Stugna, a tributary of the river Dnieper, in 1093, during a retreat after a battle with the Kumans.
Rurik of Belgarod Rurik of Belgarod (d. 1215) was a Russian prince hailed by the author for his military prowess. In 1183, he fought a battle with the Kumans. The author appeals to him for help in avenging Igor’s defeat.
Svyatoslav III Igor’s first cousin, Svyatoslav III (d. 1194) is the Prince of Kiev and the most powerful of the Russian nobility. The author presents him as an ideal, wise ruler. He is feared by the Kumans and has won victories against them, capturing their leader. For these exploits he is widely praised by many peoples and nations. In words described as ‘‘golden,’’ Svyatoslav rebukes Igor for behaving rashly and neglecting his duty and causing sorrow for his prince.
Vladimir of Putivl Igor’s son Vladimir at the age of twelve accompanies his father into battle. He is mentioned only in passing, when two Kuman warriors consider whether to kill him because his father has escaped. At the end of the epic, the author includes Vladimir in his final words of praise to the Christian knights who fight the pagans.
Volodimir, Prince of Pereyaslavl Volodimir was wounded as he repelled a Kuman attack on Pereyaslavl. He died of his wounds in 1187.
Vseslav of Polotsk Prince Vseslav of Polotsk (d. 1101) was thought to be a magician. He travels surrounded by blue mist and is described as a werewolf. He won a victory over Novgorod, lost a battle at the river Nemiga, and ruled for a short period in Kiev. The bard
V o l u m e
2
6 8 7
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Boyan said of him, ‘‘Neither the guileful nor the skillful, / neither bird, / can escape God’s judgment’’ (lines 676-78).
Vsevolod Vsevolod is the brother of Ingvar. The author appeals to him and his brother to come to the aid of Kievan Rus.
Vsevolod, Prince of Trubchevsk and Kursk Igor’s brother Vsevolod is called Wild Bull or Fierce Bull and is a formidable warrior. It is Vsevolod who urges Igor to begin the military campaign. His troops are ready to ride off to the Kuman lands even before Igor’s men are fully prepared, and he is deeply proud of the valor and martial skill of his men. His golden helmet gleaming, he fights valiantly, standing his ground even when the tide turns against the Russians. Immersing himself totally in the battle, he forgets everything else, even his home and his wife. Although he kills many of the enemy, he is eventually taken prisoner. He is hailed at the end of the epic as one of the warriors fighting the pagans.
Vsevelod, Prince of Suzdal Vsevelod later became Vsevelod III (d. 1212). One of the most powerful princes of the time, he is praised by the author for the exceptional strength of his forces. (He is not to be confused with Igor’s brother, Vsevelod.)
Yaroslav I Yaroslav I, known as the Wise, was Igor’s greatgreat-grandfather. He is referred to in line 25 as one of the men praised by Boyan. He is also referred to as great. Yaroslav ruled Kiev from 1019 to 1054.
Yaroslav of Galich Yaroslav (d. 1187) was the father of Igor’s wife, Euphrosyne, and therefore Igor’s father-in-law. He is praised as a great military leader who has expanded his lands and defeated the Hungarians.
Yaroslavna
Patriotism is again evoked in the phrase ‘‘the sons of Rus’’ (148) to describe Igor’s army as they approach the battlefield. (Rus is the ancient name of Russia; as Kievan Rus refers to that area around Kiev.) Their collective identity as Russians is presented as more important than their individual genealogies. In the midst of the battle, Igor’s men are ‘‘brave sons of Rus’’ (209), and when they fall, they die in defense of the Russian land (298). It is clear that for a warrior, no destiny could be greater than this. Love of country is again suggested by the poignant refrain ‘‘O Russian land, / you are already behind the culmen!’’ (Culmen means hill.) This is first uttered as Igor and his men enter the Kuman lands. It suggests the affection the author and by extension the warrior feel for Kievan Rus and how acutely they are aware of the fact that they have journeyed to a distant, foreign land. The melancholy that pervades the epic is linked to the fate of Kievan Rus. Sometimes it is in the form of nostalgia for a lost, glorious past. For example, the author laments that as a result of Igor’s defeat, ‘‘The Russian land shall moan / recalling her first years / and first princes!’’ (679-81). Although there are some laments for individuals, as when the Russian women mourn the fact that they will not see their husbands again (331-38), these are quickly followed by a more generalized lament for the Russian nation: The city of Kiev mourns, as does Chernigov and the entire land of Kievan Rus. This patriotic sorrow caused by the fall of Kievan Rus dominates the author’s mind, and patriotism fuels his desire for the Russian defeat to be avenged.
Duty and Responsibility
See Euphrosyne
THEMES Patriotism The love of the homeland and the desire to fight to preserve it is a continual theme in The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Early in the epic it is made clear
6 8 8
that Igor leads his troops ‘‘in the name of the Russian land’’ (line 50). As Igor’s army sets off on its mission, the author imagines glory ringing in Kiev, trumpets blaring in Novgorod-Seversk, and banners raised in the city of Putivl. In other words, the whole of Kievan Rus is rejoicing in patriotic pride at this expedition.
E p i c s
f o r
The author does not present the defeat of Igor as the result of bad luck or the evil tricks of the enemy. As the epic unfolds, it transpires that Igor has only himself to blame for the catastrophe. Although the author is sympathetic to Igor, and his courage is never in question, Igor is rebuked for being too concerned with personal glory at the expense of his national duty. Historically, Igor and the three other princes embarked on their military
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Epics such as The Song of Igor’s Campaign often glorify war, or at least view it as a legitimate, even laudable, way of pursuing political goals. Examine how attitudes towards war, and what war itself involves, have changed in recent times, especially since the Vietnam War. Are our heroes today warriors like Igor, or have we come to value different virtues? If Igor’s campaign had taken place today, for example, what would have been the reaction of the world to the conduct of the Russians after they were victorious on the first day of battle? Pretend you are a journalist covering a recent Russian campaign and write a newspaper editorial in which you evaluate the conflict. Russians treasure The Song of Igor’s Campaign as part of their literary and national heritage, yet the epic records not a great victory but a catastrophic defeat. Research and examine other examples in history of how a great defeat has been enshrined in a nation’s mythology and given a positive meaning. Examples might include the way Serbian nationalism has been fueled by a defeat suffered by Serbian forces in Kosovo in 1380; and the way the British turned the
evacuation of their troops from Dunkirk in France in 1940 into a kind of moral victory. An example from American history might be the heroic but doomed defense of the Alamo against Mexican forces in San Antonio, Texas, in 1836. Is there something about a brave defeat that moves people more than a great victory? Select a famous defeat that was turned into some kind of victory and do some research online and in the library on it. Then write a paper in which you explore the differences between what the event actually was and how it was interpreted later and to what end. Assemble images from online sources of art works that celebrate and idealizes war, and give a PowerPoint presentation in which you identify the images and explain their historical context and its propagandistic purpose. Such a presentation might include David’s portrait Napoleon Crossing the Alps (1800); Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People (1830); Leutze’s George Washington Crossing the Delaware (1851). It might include World War II posters, such as German anti-Semitic posters, and subsequent U.S. posters advertising to encourage individuals to enlist in the military.
adventure without the support of the other Russian rulers. This is why in the epic, Svyatoslav III, Igor’s cousin, censures him. Svyatoslav had defeated the Kumans only two year earlier, in 1183, and Igor’s defeat undid all the Russian gains. Igor’s honor is tarnished, therefore, because he acted too rashly. Caught up in martial fervor, he declared, according to words the author places in the mouth of Svyatoslav, ‘‘Let us be heroes on our own, / let us by ourselves grasp the . . . glory’’ (480-81).
neglected their duty and quarreled among themselves. The effect has always been disastrous. These incidents form the substance of many of the laments in the epic. For example, Igor’s grandfather Oleg ‘‘forged feuds with the sword’’ (235), and Prince Boris is rebuked for ‘‘vainglory’’ (pride and boastfulness), which he paid for with his life. Moreover, according to the author, the feuds associated with Yaroslav and all the descendents of Vseslav (d. 1101) are directly responsible for the invasion of Kievan Rus by the Kumans.
The moral is that the needs of the nation must be put before personal needs and ambitions. It is a matter of fulfilling one’s duty. The author links this theme of Igor’s lack of responsibility to occasions in the past when Russian princes have
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Given the author’s interpretation of the political events of previous years, it is not surprising that he devotes nearly one-sixth of the entire epic (lines 491-630) to an appeal to the various Russian
V o l u m e
2
6 8 9
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
‘‘After Prince Igor’s Battle’’ (1880), by Russian artist Viktor Vasnetsov ( RIA Novosti / Alamy)
princes for a unified front to defeat the invaders and restore the former glory of Kievan Rus.
Nature and Its Meaning As in many medieval epics, nature plays an active role in the plot. The natural world is neither neutral nor inanimate. It reacts to human actions. When Igor sets off for battle, there are warning signs in nature: an eclipse of the sun and a storm at night. Nature already knows the outcome of the battle, and these signs might be interpreted as a warning to Igor. But he ignores them, and during the battle nature itself seems to turn against him. For example, the direction the wind causes the enemy arrows to devastate the Russian army. After Igor’s defeat, however, nature mourns. The grass droops and trees bend to the ground in sorrow. When it is time for Igor to escape, nature assists him. The magpies and ravens keep silent, which allows Igor to hear the sound of the woodpeckers, who with their tapping guide Igor to the river from which he can make his escape.
STYLE Epic Features The Song of Igor’s Campaign contains many of the elements of the traditional epic. It is about a heroic figure, Igor, who is of national significance
6 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
for Kievan Rus and for the later greater Russia. The setting is vast, stretching across the great expanse of Russian lands, and the author augments this effect by recalling many battles from the past and naming the places where they were fought. The action involves feats of courage in battle, and the omniscient point of view adopted by the author allows him to tell of events widely apart in time and place. Thus he conveys the inner feelings of some of the characters through dialogue and description. Finally, epics usually begin with an invocation to a muse, and this custom is echoed in the Song: The author starts by recalling the skill of the earlier bard, Boyan. However, many aspects of the traditional epic are not present in The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Supernatural beings take no part in the action. The Song relates events in the immediate not the distant past and is, therefore, more directly historical than medieval epics typically are. It is also much shorter and more concise than the traditional epic, and it is written not in verse with elevated language, but in what scholars of the Russian language describe as a cadenced (rhythmic) prose. Nor is the Song entirely a narrative work. The story of Igor’s campaign, his capture and escape, takes up less than half of the epic. The remainder consists of lyrical lamentations for Kievan Rus, omens, dreams, exhortations by the author to other Russian princes, and nostalgic flashbacks to events in Russia’s past.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
Metaphor The author hints at the beginning about the metaphoric style of his work. He writes that when Boyan wanted to recall some deed of old, ‘‘He set ten falcons upon a flock of swans, / and the one first overtaken, / sang a song first’’ (21-24). Seven lines later, the author explains his metaphor: Boyan did not literally do this, the ten falcons were his ten fingers and the swans were the strings of his musical instrument. Of the many metaphors in the epic, one of the most striking is the metaphor in which battle is describes in terms of farming. For example, Oleg ‘‘sowed the land with arrows’’ (236). The metaphor is repeated in lines 278-79, where the earth ‘‘was sown with bones / and irrigated with gore.’’ The crop that these seeds produce is ‘‘grief’’ throughout Kievan Rus. The metaphor recurs in extended form when the author recalls the fate of Vseslav at the battle at the river Nemiga. Warriors’ severed heads are ‘‘spread sheaves,’’ the threshing implements are steel swords, and the threshing floor is where bodies are laid out. Souls are ‘‘winnowed’’ from bodies, and the banks of the river are sown with bones (651-58).
Simile Similes are frequent. A simile is a figure of speech in which an explicit comparison is made, using like or as, between two dissimilar objects that resemble each other in one aspect. In this epic, the comparisons are usually made between humans and animals or birds. Boyan is compared to a nightingale and an eagle; warriors on both sides are likened to gray wolves; the Kumans as they advance are like ‘‘dispersed swans.’’ When Igor’s wife laments his fate, she is compared to a cuckoo, and when Igor escapes from captivity, he speeds to the reeds by the river ‘‘like an ermine,’’ settles on the water ‘‘like a white duck,’’ then runs ‘‘like a demon wolf’’ and flies ‘‘like a falcon’’ (751-59). The effect of these similes is to suggest the close connection between the human and the natural world, which is one of the themes of the epic.
Imagery The author makes full use of color imagery. Red and gold are the most prominent colors. Igor’s men carry vermilion shields (vermilion is a brilliant red color), and the Kuman standards, or flags, are also vermilion. The battle scene features ‘‘bloody effulgences’’ at dawn (a red sky) and ‘‘crimson pillars’’ (a metaphor for Igor and his brother as they go down to defeat, perhaps suggesting the setting sun).
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Gold is used always with references to the nobility. Igor has golden stirrups and a golden saddle; his brother Vsevelod has a golden helmet. Princes have ‘‘golden thrones’’; Svyatoslav’s tower is ‘‘gold-crested’’ and his words are golden. In Russian art of the period, gold symbolized glory and magnificence. The Kumans are associated with black ravens and black clouds. The color blue is used to describe not only the river Don but also the wine of sorrow that Svyatoslav drinks and the mist that surrounds the sorcerer Vseslav.
Hyperbole Another technique used by the author is hyperbole, a figure of speech which employs exaggeration to heighten an effect. When Igor’s brother Vsevolod describes his own warriors he emphasizes that they have been well trained for battle. A series of hyperbolic statements follow. His men were ‘‘swaddled under war horns, / nursed under helmets, / fed from the point of the lance’’ (79-81). The point is that his men have been bred for warfare since an early age. Then when the author appeals to Vsevolod, Prince of Suzdal, for assistance, he says Vsevolod’s men are so powerful they can scoop the river Don dry using only their helmets (502-03). Similarly, Rurik and David were so effective in battle that their helmets floated on blood; Yaroslav has hurled heavy missiles over the clouds (529), and the iron breastplates of Roman and Mstislav make the earth rumble (553). In each case the exaggeration heightens the dramatic effect: Great power is available for Kievan Rus if the princes would only use it.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The area that makes up modern Ukraine is located on the north shore of the Black Sea and is surrounded by Russia on the east, Belarus to the north, and Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, and Rumania on the west. Ukraine is the second largest country in Europe after Russia, and in the early 2000s, it had over 48 million people. However, the modern country of Ukraine did not exist in ancient times. Various tribes occupied different parts of the area from the fifth century into the ninth, with settlements developing along the Dnieper River, where Kiev is located. Some time during the ninth century, a unification of tribes occurred, and a state came into existence called
V o l u m e
2
6 9 1
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Eleventh century: During the period of Kiev’s greatest glory, many are built. These include Vladimir’s Church of the Dime (begun 989); Church of the Dormition (begun 1073); the Church of St. Michael (begun 1108); and the Cathedral of Hagia Sophia (begun 1036). After Igor escapes and reaches Kiev, he goes to a place of worship, The Blessed Virgin of the Tower. Mid-twentieth century: In November 1941, during World War II, the Church of the Dormition is destroyed by mines laid by Soviet forces retreating from the German advance. The Church of St. Michael is destroyed during the Stalin era (1924–1953). Today: The Cathedral of Hagia Sophia still stands in Kiev, its exterior displaying a seventeenth-century restoration. Many of its original frescoes and mosaics are intact, nearly a thousand years after the cathedral was built. The cathedral, which is considered to be one of Ukraine’s greatest treasures, also contains the tomb of Yaroslav I. ‘‘Glory rings in Kiev’’ (line 68) wrote the author of The Song of Igor’s Campaign, and the Cathedral of Hagia Sophia bears witness to those words.
Eleventh century: Kievan Rus is a loosely organized federation of many competing and often warring principalities. In The Song of Igor’s Campaign these principalities are regarded as a single national state for all Russians.
as Ukraine is a republic under the control of Soviet Russia. Today: As a result of the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine is an independent nation comprising most of the lands that formerly made up Kievan Rus. Eleventh century: Battles are fought with soldiers on horseback, who line up behind ranks of foot soldiers. The early stages of the battle are fought by the foot soldiers, and these skirmishes are usually followed by a mass charge of the mounted troops. Weapons include bows, arrows, swords, and lances, pitted against armor that includes shields and helmets, all of which are mentioned in the battle scenes in The Song of Igor’s Campaign. Mid-twentieth century: During World War II, the United States uses the centuries-old military strategy of charging cavalry and ushers in a new epoch when it uses atomic bombs against Japan. In 1942, Lieutenant Ed Ramsey leads the last American cavalry charge to victory against the Japanese in the Philippines. The U.S. soldiers are armed not with swords but with the Colt 1911. On August 6 and August 9, 1945, the United States drops an atomic bomb on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Mid-twentieth century: Ruled by foreign powers through the centuries, the area once referred to as Kievan Rus and later known
Today: The Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons (1970) has been signed by 189 countries, including Russia and the United States; however, nuclear proliferation continues. In 2009, President Obama seeks arms reductions talks with Russia, with the hope of reducing stockpiles of nuclear weapons in the United States and Russia.
Kievan Rus. During the late tenth century, Eastern Christianity was accepted by the ruling monarchs and a national Orthodox church was established. During the twelfth century, Kievan Rus began to decline, and it was soon conquered
by the Mongols. Sometime during this period The Song of Igor’s Campaign was written, and the epic in its depiction of internal conflict and heroic defeat seems to have anticipated the centuries of national suffering to come.
6 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Between the twelfth and the twentieth century, the area was occupied and controlled by foreign powers. In the late fourteenth century, it came under the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and by the 1560s, Lithuania and Poland controlled the area, with Poles and other outsiders exploiting local peasants. Poland continued to control areas west of the Dnieper into the eighteenth century, but late in the 1700s the Polish state came to an end, and the area was partitioned between the Austrian Empire to the west and the Russian Empire, under the Romanov dynasty, to the east. The Romanovs actively suppressed Ukrainian language and culture and sought to impose Russian language and ways. This oppression continued into the 1800s, during the second half of which even publishing in Ukrainian was illegal. At the same time, industrialization developed slowly, and coal mining increased in the southeast. Always present but for centuries suppressed, Ukrainian culture and language began to reemerge during the nineteenth century. One impetus was the work of poet Taras Shevchenko (1814– 1861), who fomented Ukrainian nationalism and promoted Ukrainian intellectualism. This resurgence was slowed by conflict during and following World War I but was revitalized as the AustroHungarian Empire dissolved. Still, civil war and conflict with outside forces stalled efforts to establish a unified Ukraine. In the next couple years, Ukraine was divided between Russia and Poland, with other sections becoming part of Romania and the newly created Republic of Czechoslovakia. The area that ultimately became modern Ukraine after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 languished for decades through the twentieth century with civil war, boundary conflicts, population loss to North America, and entrenched poverty. In 1941, the Nazis attacked Russians in Ukraine and took Kiev. During the occupation, Germany divided Ukraine, and once again local customs and language were suppressed. Russians fought Germans and insurgent Ukrainians. After World War II, the victorious Russians dissolved the Ukrainian national church and other institutions and imposed Soviet culture. Through the following decades, Ukrainian discontent and bitterness intensified. Having experienced protracted suffering, Ukrainians were more than ready in the late 1980s for the concept of Glasnost (political openness). At the end of 1991, following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Ukrainians voted for the republic’s full independence, and a new era of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
This illustration depicts Moscow clergy as they would have looked at the time the work takes place. ( Austrian Archives / Corbis)
Ukrainianization in education and culture began. During the 1990s, Ukraine received considerable financial aid from the United States, and in the early 2000s, there was reason to hope for the country’s increasing stabilization.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Song of Igor’s Campaign had an influence on Russian literature long before it was rediscovered in 1795. The manuscript known as the Zadonshchina, which commemorates the victory in 1380 of a Russian army over the Mongols, is based on the earlier epic in structure and poetic detail. The Zadonshchina was written about 1385. In the modern era, The Song of Igor’s Campaign has been called a national classic, the greatest achievement of the Kievean period (1030–1240). The anonymous author has been called the equal
V o l u m e
2
6 9 3
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
of Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837), Russia’s greatest poet. Pushkin himself had plans to translate the epic into modern Russian, although he never fulfilled his desire. Poets of the Romantic era were inspired by the Song’s lyrical beauty and depth of feeling. In the nineteenth century, Nikolai Gogol used imagery taken directly from the Song in his short stories. The reputation of the epic continued to grow in the twentieth century. Scholars spent much time on research, trying to produce the most accurate text possible. This was necessary because the one extant manuscript and the first printed version of 1800 contain many corrupt or obscure passages that have proved difficult to elucidate. The Song of Igor’s Campaign was first translated into English in 1902, by Leo Wiener, and again in 1915, by Leonard A. Magnus. Another translation appeared in 1943, by Bernard Guilbert Guerney, who wrote of the epic: ‘‘It is not only higher in poetic content but infinitely more readable than the Nibelungenlied and the Chanson de Roland.’’ Vladimir Nabokov translated the epic in 1960, calling the work a masterpiece. Nabokov’s literal translation is considered to be the most accurate, although Nabokov sacrifices some of the poetic devices of the original, such as the frequent alliteration. In the Soviet Union, Soviet poet Pavel Antokolsky, as quoted by Russian literary scholar Vladimir Kuskov, wrote in Pravda in 1938, ‘‘[The Song of Igor’s Campaign] is an eternally flowering trunk extending branches laden with fruit into the future. Therefore we hear direct and indirect echoes of this work in many monuments of our culture and art.’’ In 1941, Ukraine was invaded by the German Nazis. During those dark times of World War II, The Song of Igor’s Campaign struck a deep chord with the occupied people. They were inspired by the epic’s call for unification in order to defeat the enemy. It is unlikely that The Song of Igor’s Campaign will ever fall into disfavor or lose the reverence with which the Ukrainian and Russian people regard it. Many educated Ukrainians and Russians know parts of it by heart. In 1980, Kuskov called it an ‘‘immortal work of Russian and world literature.’’ It has frequently been translated in many different forms of prose and poetry, including free verse and more structured forms of meter and rhyme.
6 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
CRITICISM Bryan Aubrey Aubrey holds a PhD in English and has published many articles on literature. In the following essay, he discusses the epic in light of Joseph Campbell’s description of the monomyth. There has not been a great deal of detailed critical work in English on The Song of Igor’s Campaign. It is often discussed fairly briefly in surveys of early Russian literature, and critics usually note the historical background, the poetic language and symbolism, and the political theme of Russian unity. Occasionally, a few parallels have been noted between The Song and other medieval epics, such as the Western European The Song of Roland and the Germanic Nibelungenlied. However, The Song of Igor’s Campaign differs from the typical medieval epic. The Song of Roland has its origins in events four centuries before the work was written; similarly, the historical events underlying the twelfth-century Nibelungenlied go back to the fifth and sixth centuries. Both of these epics contain miraculous or supernatural elements, such as the miraculous sword wielded by Siegfried to kill a dragon in the Nibelungenlied and the equally miraculous sword Durandal, as well as the magic horn, possessed by the knight Roland in the Song of Roland. In contrast to these, The Song of Igor’s Campaign remains much closer to historical events, having been written within a year or two of their occurrence. The author shows little interest in the kind of supernatural events that play an important role in other epics. There are few magical happenings in The Song, and those apply to a peripheral character from the past, Vseslav, who is used by the author as a bad example of princely conduct. The Song of Igor’s Campaign is also far less imbued with Christian values and symbolism than the Song of Roland. In the latter work, Roland is helped by the direct intervention of the Archangel Gabriel; Charlemagne and his knights embody the Seven Cardinal Virtues of Christian moral theology, and the pagans embody the Seven Deadly Sins. In contrast, although The Song of Igor’s Campaign was written two centuries after the conversion of Russia to Christianity, the Christianity it exhibits does not seem to be central to the author’s way of interpreting the world. Granted, the Kumans are described as infidels and pagans, and the epic concludes with a passage praising the Christian knights, but the Christianity extends no deeper than that.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
IN THE MONOMYTH, A HERO JOURNEYS TO AN UNKNOWN OR UNFAMILIAR REALM, UNDERGOES MANY TRIALS, WHICH MAY INCLUDE A SYMBOLIC DEATH AND REBIRTH, AND THEN RETURNS TO HIS
Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1869), one of the greatest novels ever written, is an epic of war on Russian soil, describing how the Russians beat back the French invasion of 1812.
Serge A. Zenkovsky’s Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles, and Tales (1963) includes some extracts from the Primary Chronicle of Kievan Rus. The most interesting pieces are ‘‘The Apostle Andrew Comes to Russia,’’ ‘‘The Founding of the City of Kiev,’’ ‘‘The Beginning of the Russian State and the Arrival of Rurik,’’ ‘‘Vladimir Christianizes Russia,’’ and ‘‘Yaroslav the Wise.’’
Historian John Keegan’s The Face of Battle (1995) is a riveting account of what it must have been like for the soldiers who actually fought in a medieval battle. The example he uses is the battle of Agincourt in 1415 between English and French armies, in which the weapons used did not differ much from those used by the armies of Igor and the Kumans. Keegan also discusses the battle of Waterloo in 1815 and the Battle of the Somme in 1916.
Borderland: A Journey through the History of Ukraine (1999), by Anna Reid, is a journalist’s exploration of present-day Ukraine that gives a picture of its tragic past and its hopes for the future.
Written for middle-school readers, Donna Jo Napoli’s 1999 novel, Stones in Water, relates the experience of fourteen-year-old Roberto who is taken by Nazis from a Venetian movie theater and shipped with a lot of other teens to Italy for cheap slave labor. The protagonist escapes and makes his way back through Ukraine toward home. Ukrainian Culture (2009) explores the diverse culture of Ukraine and explains how eastern and western influences over a millennia helped shape it.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
SOCIETY TO BESTOW A BOON ON HIS FELLOW MAN.’’
The author’s purpose is more political than religious, and the gods he prefers are the pagan gods of mythology, not the Christian God, who is mentioned only twice. And one of those references (in line 733) may be, according to translator Vladimir Nabokov, a corrupt passage, possibly altered by a Christian transcriber. The original word may have been Stribog, the god of the winds. Stribog is one of four pagan gods mentioned; the others are Dazhbog, the god of abundance; Hors or Horus, the god of the sun; and Troyan, whose function is not known but who is invoked four times. Although there are differences between The Song of Igor’s Campaign and other epics of the period, The Song nonetheless contains certain elements that can be elucidated by an approach known as archetypal criticism. This is a method of analyzing literary texts in terms of recurring symbolic or structural patterns (archetypes) that appear in the literature and mythology of many diverse cultures. One of the best known archetypal approaches was developed by mythologist Joseph Campbell in his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which was first published in 1949 and became a bestseller in the 1980s. Campbell noticed that many mythological stories, although different in surface details, followed a similar underlying pattern. He called this pattern the ‘‘monomyth.’’ In the monomyth, a hero journeys to an unknown or unfamiliar realm, undergoes many trials, which may include a symbolic death and rebirth, and then returns to his society to bestow a boon on his fellow man. Archetypal criticism and the concept of the monomyth are useful for understanding parts of The Song of Igor’s Campaign. They may also explain something of why this epic has held the respect and won the admiration of readers over a
V o l u m e
2
6 9 5
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
long period of time; it sets out in symbolic fashion the process of human renewal or psychic growth. First, the hero Igor hears what Campbell calls the ‘‘call to adventure.’’ He journeys beyond the territories he is familiar with, leaving Russia far behind, as is conveyed in the refrain, ‘‘O Russian land, / you are already beyond the culmen.’’ Since a culmen is a hill, this phrase conveys the sense that Igor and his men have completely cut themselves off from their own world. Indeed, the battle takes place ‘‘in the field unknown, midst the Kuman land’’ (276). Before this, the author has linked Igor symbolically with the sun. Vsevolod refers to his brother as ‘‘one bright brightness’’ (73) and only eighteen lines later, as the warriors assemble, Igor notices that the ‘‘bright sun’’ is eclipsed. This temporary ‘‘death’’ of the sun foreshadows the fate of Igor, who is like a sun to his men. The metaphor of Igor as sun is continued in the short battle scenes. He and Vsevolod are ‘‘two suns,’’ and they are ‘‘crimson pillars’’ that are extinguished and veiled with darkness as they sink into the sea. These are images that suggest the setting of the sun on the horizon. Light is covered by darkness. It is remarkable that Igor now disappears from the action of the epic completely, until his escape over three hundred lines later. The author does not disclose his fate. In terms of the monomyth, Igor is in the condition Campbell describes as ‘‘the belly of the whale,’’ where he is completely enveloped in the unknown. This symbolic loss of self, a sleep, or even a death, contains the seeds of the hero’s rebirth. Seen in this light, the simple phrase ‘‘Igor sleeps,‘‘ which appears when the author finally returns to Igor, suggests significance beyond its immediate context. Igor may be asleep, but he is now ready to wake up: ‘‘Igor keeps vigil’’ is the very next line. When the hero is ready to return to his society, the monomyth often features what Campbell calls the magic flight, in which the hero receives supernatural aid on his journey home. Sometimes the flight includes a sea journey at night. Igor’s escape resembles a magic flight. His relationship to natural and supernatural forces clearly undergoes a change at this point in the narrative. The winds whip up at night, and God (perhaps it is the god of the wind) shows him how he can return to Russia. This contrasts to the adverse way the winds blow during the battle, which help to ensure Igor’s defeat. Now, as Igor makes his break for freedom, he is more at one with
6 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
nature than he has been before, and similes drawn from nature (ermine, duck, wolf, falcon) are used thick and fast to describe him. Swimming across rivers plays a role in his escape, and he also engages in a charming dialogue with the river Donets, in which each praises the other. This relaxed exchange on the banks of the river is quite different from Igor’s calamitous experience at the swift-flowing river Kayala where he met his defeat. And nature has even more to offer Igor as he tries to escape his pursuers. Magpies and ravens fall silent, enabling the woodpeckers to guide Igor to the river with their tapping. All this is suggestive of rebirth, an effect reinforced by Igor’s destination when he finally reaches Russia. He does not return to his home in Novgorod-Seversk. Instead, he goes straight to Kiev, the capital city of Kievan Rus, where he is to present himself at the ‘‘paternal golden throne’’ (736). This is the throne of Prince Svyatoslav. In the epic, Svyatoslav is presented as the ideal ruler, who rebukes Igor for his rashness and his willingness to put the quest for personal glory above his duty to Russia and the other princes, especially Svyatoslav himself. The implication of Igor’s journey to Kiev is that during his captivity—his time ‘‘in the belly of the whale’’—Igor has learned from his mistake. Now he recognizes where his duty lies, and he seeks to make amends. As Igor reenters Kievan Rus, the author appropriately returns to the sun image, which is also a metaphor for the prince himself: ‘‘The sun shines in the sky: / Prince Igor is on Russian soil’’ (841-42). Igor’s rebirth, then, consists of his growth beyond pride and personal ambition into a leader who accepts his place in the social hierarchy and who knows how to act in a way that brings the support of nature. In terms of the monomyth, this is the boon that Igor brings to his people. The author points out that the body cannot function without the head, and so a people cannot function without their leader (835-40). The influence of the head is felt throughout the body, just as the influence of the sun is felt throughout the body of the earth. Now that Igor, Kievan Rus’s son/sun, has risen once more, his own growth can, or should be, his country’s too. Not all the components of the monomyth are present in The Song of Igor’s Campaign, but examining the epic within that framework shows that it possesses an inner, psychological dimension alongside the political one.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
˘
C a m p a i g n
˘
˘
Prince Vsevolod I of Kiev. The author of The Song of Igor’s Campaign makes a plea for unity among the Russian princes of the Middle Ages, who were constantly feuding. (Archive Photos / Hulton Getty)
Source: Bryan Aubrey, Critical Essay on The Song of Igor’s Campaign, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
6 9 7
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
˘
´
6 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
S o n g
2
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
6 9 9
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Robert Mann In the following essay, Mann explores the meaning of the beginning stanzas of the The Song of Igor’s Campaign. No satisfactory solution has yet been proposed for the problems presented by the following passage near the beginning of the Slovo o polku Igoreve: Let us, brothers, begin this tale from old Vladimir to the present day Igor, who pulled out his mind with his fortitude and sharpened it with the valor of his heart, filled with the battle spirit, led his valiant regiments against the Polovtsian land for the Russian land.
Why does the narrator propose to begin ‘‘from Vladimir’’ when Vladimir plays no role at the beginning of the tale? And what is meant by ‘‘beginning from Vladimir to Igor’’? Likhachev’s argument that this line defines the chronological limits of the events dealt with in the tale is weak in at least two respects. First, Vladimir is mentioned only in passing, and the Igor Tale can hardly be said to deal with him. Second, no similar syntactic constructions in Old Russian have been found to support Likhachev’s idea. Taking words from a passage in the Zadonshchina and from a similar passage in the Slovo o pogibeli russkoi zemli, the only known literary work before the Zadonshchina that closely resembles the Igor Tale stylistically, Roman Jakobson reconstructs the passage this way: Let us, brothers, begin this tale, because the princes have been sad for the Russian land from old Vladimir to the present day Igor. . . .
Although I think Jakobson is correct in viewing the lines in question as defective, the line he chooses to insert is unjustified both stylistically and textologically. These lines are linked only by their position before an ot . . . do construction and by thematic similarity. There are no lexical parallels between the two lines to justify Jakobson’s choice of words. In addition, the subordinate conjunction zane zhe (‘‘because’’) has no place in the Igor Tale, a
7 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
paratactic work with very little subordination. As a subordinating conjunction of reason, bo (‘‘for’’) is used throughout the tale. One can deduce a more likely reconstruction if one compares the unintelligible lines of the Igor Tale with the related Zadonshchina passage as it appears in all of the copies and in a more complete context. In three of four copies, the ot . . . do construction contains a number which gives the line a clear meaning. Only copy K-B, like the Igor Tale, lacks the number and is as meaningless in this respect as the Igor Tale passage. The line from the Slovo o pogibeli russkoi zemli on which Jakobson bases his reconstruction was cited above. The problem with basing a reconstruction on the final lines of this text is that the work is probably only a fragment of a larger composition. The final lines may be incomplete, and the words ‘‘A v ty dni bolezn’ krestiianom’’ (‘‘But in these days there is trouble for Christians’’) may express a complete thought independent of the passage following, which contains the ot . . . do construction. Either a number or a phrase establishing spatial or temporal boundaries, as in the Zadonshchina, may be missing in the manuscript. That this is indeed the case is suggested by a passage in the sixteenthcentury Stepennaia kniga which is styled after the Slovo o pogibeli russkoi zemli or a related work. As in the Zadonshchina, the ot . . . do construction serves to connect historical reference points. The passages differ only in that a time span is used as a connector in the Zadonshchina, while the Stepennaia kniga focuses on the place from which the princes rule. This suggests that the mysterious passage in the Igor Tale lacks a phrase or number specifying spatial or temporal boundaries. Because it is more closely related to the passage in the Zadonshchina than to the one in the Stepennaia kniga, it is likely that the Igor Tale formerly contained a number at this point in the narrative, as in the Zadonshchina. Letters with a bar, or titlo, were used in Old Russian to represent numbers. They could easily become unintelligible if they were copied poorly or if a scribe forgot to include the titlo. This could eventually lead to the deletion of the number, which is most likely what has happened in the Igor Tale as well as in copy K-B of the Zadonshchina. Before it was distorted, the Igor Tale passage probably read: Let us, brothers, begin this tale. From old Vladimir it was 170 years
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
to the present day Igor, who pulled out his mind with his fortitude. . . .
Compare the opening words of the Primary Chronicle: . . . (‘‘Now let us begin this tale’’). These words are followed by a lengthy passage which establishes geographical reference points. Later the chronicle sets up chronological reference points with a long series of ot . . . do constructions, which are preceded by the words: . . . (‘‘thus let us begin from here and place dates’’). It is worth noting that neither of the two numbers contained in the Zadonshchina copies exactly corresponds to the number of years which elapsed between the Battle on the Kalka and the Battle of Kulikovo (one hundred fiftyseven years). However, the number 170, which appears in copy U, exactly coincides with the number of years between the death of Vladimir the Great in 1015 and Igor’s campaign. This even points to the remote possibility that the choice of numbers in the Zadonshchina might have been influenced by the Igor Tale. Source: Robert Mann, ‘‘A Note on the Text of the Igor Tale,’’ in Slavic Review, Vol. 39, No. 2, June 1980, pp. 281 85.
SOURCES Campbell, Joseph, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, New World Library, 2008. Cizevskij, Dmitrij, History of Russian Literature: From the Eleventh Century to the End of the Baroque, Moulton, 1960. Eger, Christopher, ‘‘The Last Cavalry Charges Mounted on Horses: They Rode into Battle in WWII,’’ Suite101.com, http://ww2history.suite101.com/article.cfm/the_last_ cavalry_charges (accessed February 6, 2010). Guerney, Bernard Guilbert, A Treasury of Russian Liter ature, Vanguard Press, 1945. Kuskov, Vladimir, A History of Old Russian Literature, Progress, 1980. Nabokov, Vladimir, trans., The Song of Igor’s Campaign: An Epic of the Twelfth Century, Overlook TP, 2009. Zenkovsky, Serge A., ed., Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles, and Tales, Plume, 1974.
FURTHER READING Mirsky, D. S., A History of Russian Literature, North western University Press, 1999. Mirsky’s book is a good one volume history of Russian literature from the earliest days through the twentieth century.
V o l u m e
2
7 0 1
T h e
S o n g
o f
I g o r ’ s
C a m p a i g n
Reid, Anna, Borderland: A Journey through the History of Ukraine, Westview, 2000. Reid combines research and personal history to tell the tragic story of the land of Kievan Rus that ultimately became modern Ukraine, a name that itself means ‘‘borderland.’’ For any one who wants to understand this country and its struggle to form a national identity, Reid’s book is indispensable. Subtelny, Orest, Ukraine: A History, University of Tor onto Press, 2009. Subtelny’s 1988 first edition of this book was praised as the definitive history of what was at the time a republic of the USSR. This fourth edition includes an overview of Ukraine’s his tory in the early 2000s, focusing on the various cultural and political changes that occurred during the presidencies of Kuchma and Yushchenko. Thompson, John M., Russia and the Soviet Union, 4th ed., Westview Press, 1998.
7 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
The first chapter, ‘‘Ancient Russia and the Kie van State,’’ gives a good overview of the devel opment of Kievan Rus and its political and social structure.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Igor of Novgorod Seversk Kievan Rus medieval epic literature Russian epic Song of Igor’s Campaign Ukrainian epic Ukrainian literature
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Song of Roland The Song of Roland (Chanson de Roland), generally believed to have been composed around 1130, is the oldest surviving French epic. It is the preeminent example of the chanson de geste, or song of great deeds, a poetic form usually used to tell stories of heroism rather than the accounts of love relationships that became more popular later in the twelfth century. The work knew an astounding success throughout the Middle Ages. Versions of the tale were popular in England, Wales, Scandinavia, the Netherlands, Germany, and Italy until about 1500, but the story languished during the Renaissance (1500–1700). Starting in the late nineteenth century, scholars in France and Germany began to study the tale, noting its relevance to the formation of modern-day France. The epic draws a line between France and Islamic Spain. By describing ‘‘sweet France’’ (la douce France) as consisting of a particular people, faith, and territory, the anonymous author lays the foundation for the emerging French nation-state.
ANONYMOUS C. 1130
The story establishes the eighth-century Charlemagne as the father of France. Particular attention is given to naming specific barons who were, in fact, not contemporaries of Charlemagne but twelfthcentury feudal lords, contemporaries of the anonymous author or authors of the Song of Roland. The story glorifies these barons by contrasting their honor, valor, and courage with the treachery of the Muslims, then called Saracens. The Christian forces of the French defeat the Muslims with divine intervention and great determination.
7 0 3
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
The characters of the story are still revered in French culture in modern times. The treasonous French baron, Ganelon, who betrays the noble Roland to the enemy, embodies deception. Roland, Charlemagne’s nephew, serves as a model of obedience and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds. Song of Roland serves as the foundation of French literature, giving modern readers insight into the inception of the cultural life of France.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Little is known about the anonymous author or authors of the Song of Roland. The oldest surviving manuscript, the Oxford Digby 23, is signed ‘‘Turoldus’’ and written in Anglo-Norman, a language predominant in England following the Norman invasion from France in 1066. K. Sarah-Jane Murray’s 2004 essay on the Digby 23 manuscript explains how the scribe copied the text and how marginal comments prove its popularity in medieval times. Murray also explores connections between the French epic and Plato’s Timaeus, with which it was bound. Few people outside the clergy in medieval France and England were literate, so Turoldus may have been a monk. One school of thought asserts that the epic shows signs of being composed orally, perhaps copied down by Turoldus and other scribes when the story was performed at a feast or celebration. The extent to which the text’s first scribes might have added their own creative touches to the story is not known, but scribes are generally considered to be recorders of traditional tales, and not authors of original ones. Another theory maintains that the legend, existing from the time of Charlemagne (742–814), was put into poetic form by a single individual in the late eleventh century. The debate over the authorship of the Song of Roland probably can never be resolved.
PLOT SUMMARY Part I: The Betrayal of the Peers The Song of Roland begins at the close of Charlemagne’s seven-year campaign against the Saracens, or Muslims, in Spain. The Frankish (French) forces have conquered all of Spain except for the city of Saragossa, ruled by the Saracen king
7 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The English composer Peter Racine Fricker wrote three fragments from the Song of Roland for unaccompanied chorus, published by Schott in 1955, and available from Schott Music.
A full-length feature movie directed by Frank Cassenti, La Chanson de Roland, appeared in France in 1978 from Z productions.
In 1992, Greg Roach created the award-winning multi-media interactive book CD-ROM The Madness of Roland from HyperBole. Le mystere ` de Roncevaux is a stage adaptation written by Adolphe, Baron d’Avril, and published in 1893 in Paris. The play was published again in 1993 by Troyes.
An electronic edition of the Song of Roland (1995) was edited and produced by Douglas B. Killings and is available online.
Edward MacDowell wrote The Symphonic Poems, which includes two fragments from the Chanson de Roland, one called ‘‘The Saracens’’ and the other called ‘‘The Lovely Alda.’’ The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, directed by Karl Krueger, produced a CD recording of the work in 1999.
Marsile. Charlemagne’s men are weary from their long battles and yearn to return to their lands in France. Likewise, the Saracens are eager for the French to leave them in peace. Knowing that his army is no match for the French forces, Marsile holds a council to ask his men for advice. The knight Blancandrin suggests that they play upon the French desire to return home by paying Charlemagne rich tribute and promising to follow him back to France and convert to Christianity—never intending, of course, to do so. This way the Saracens will rid Spain of the French army. The Saracens agree that this is an excellent plot, and they send an envoy and a caravan loaded with riches to the French king with the proposal. Charlemagne calls a council of the Peers, his twelve most trusted advisors, to decide what to do.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
The Peers encourage Charlemagne to accept Marsile’s offer and end the war. Only Roland speaks out against the plan, reminding the French of past incidents of Saracen treachery. His is the lone dissenting voice, and he is disregarded. Several men volunteer to serve as Charlemagne’s envoy back to Marsile, but are rejected because of the danger of the mission. Roland proposes his stepfather, Ganelon, and all the Peers agree that he would be a good choice. Ganelon, angered at Roland for putting him in such a perilous position, denounces him and names Roland’s supporters among the Peers as his enemies now. As Ganelon rides off with the Saracen envoy, Blancandrin, the two plot to kill Roland. Blancandrin will be glad to rid himself of a formidable enemy, and Ganelon will have his revenge. Roland and the other Peers will be found in the rear guard of the departing French forces, and Ganelon tells the Muslims exactly when to attack. For his efforts, Ganelon is well-rewarded with gifts by Marsile, Queen Bramimonde, and the Saracen court. When Ganelon returns, he convinces the French of the good intentions of their enemy, encouraging Charlemagne to accept Marsile’s offer and return to Aix. The next day, preparations are made for the trip, and Roland and the Peers are appointed to the rear guard at Ganelon’s suggestion. Charlemagne, deeply upset by the danger to which he is exposing his nephew and favorite knight, nonetheless agrees to the arrangement. Charlemagne and his men pull away, leaving the rear guard.
Part II: The Last Stand of the Peers On the other side, the Saracens are preparing for the attack. Marsile gives his nephew the honor of leading the raid against the French rear guard. Like the French forces, the Saracen contingent includes Marsile’s twelve most trusted and valiant warriors. The Saracens, who vastly outnumber the French rear guard, outfit themselves richly for battle in gleaming golden armor, and the sound of their battle trumpets is heard by the French rear guard. Olivier, Roland’s closest friend, sees the Saracens approaching, armed for battle, and declares Ganelon a traitor, but Roland will hear no evil of his stepfather. Olivier encourages Roland to blow the horn that will call the rest of Charlemagne’s forces back to help defeat the Saracens. Roland contends that to call for help would dishonor him as a knight. He vows to kill all of the Saracens, single-handedly if necessary. Olivier continues to beg Roland to blow his horn, as the enemy approaches. Finally,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
when it is too late for Charlemagne to come to their rescue, Archbishop Turpin blesses the French barons so that they will die as holy martyrs, and they engage the Saracens. With their battle cry of ‘‘Montjoie,’’ the French barons confront the Saracens, described by the author as a series of one-to-one combats. The carnage is great on both sides, and the Saracens call for reinforcements. Roland announces his intention to sound his horn to call Charlemagne. Olivier now objects, saying that because they are clearly doomed, it is wrong to call the rest of the French forces back to fight in what is now a lost cause. Turpin intervenes, pointing out that despite the fact that the rear guard cannot be saved, Charlemagne should be called to come and take revenge for them. Roland blows the horn with all his might, so hard that he bursts a vessel in his brain, which will eventually lead to his demise. Charlemagne hears the horn and knows that his men are in mortal danger. He and his men wheel about to rush to their aid, and Ganelon is arrested and tortured as a traitor. The rear guard continues to fight their hardest, down to the last man. Olivier is struck down, and in his pain does not recognize Roland and almost kills him. The two are reconciled as Olivier dies. Finally, only Roland and Turpin remain standing, fighting the Saracen army. The remaining Saracens flee the approaching French forces as Turpin dies from his wounds. Close to death, Roland arranges the bodies of the French dead, turning them to face the retreating Saracen army so that it will not appear that any French fighters tried to run from the battle. Determined not to let his sword, Durendal, be taken by a pagan, Roland tries to break it on a stone. The mighty sword, however, will not break. Roland retreats beneath a pine tree, hiding both the sword and the horn underneath his dying body. Three angels sent by God come to escort Roland’s soul to paradise. Charlemagne and his men arrive, too late to aid the Peers. The French fear that they will be unable to avenge their men since they cannot pursue the Saracen forces with night falling. Charlemagne prays, and God causes the sun to stop in the sky, giving the French the light they need to ride on. They overtake and decimate the fleeing Saracens. The French make camp, planning to return to France the next day. In the night, Charlemagne has a vision, announcing a great battle. In yet another dream, a chained bear is attacked by a greyhound. Marsile had sent for Baligant, the Emir of Babylon (Cairo) to help fight Charlemagne.
V o l u m e
2
7 0 5
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
Charlemagne, meanwhile, is overcome with grief at Roland’s death. Only with the encouragement of his men is he able to pull himself together for the burial of the Peers and the great battle to come. Baligant’s men attack the French, and great valor and destruction ensue for both armies. Finally, the Emir and Charlemagne meet in one-to-one combat. Baligant calls for Charlemagne to capitulate and become his vassal. Charlemagne refuses and is almost killed. With the aid of God’s angel, Gabriel, Charlemagne regains his strength and strikes a mortal blow. The remainder of the Saracen army flees.
Part III: The Trial Victorious, but at a great price, the French army returns home. The bodies of Roland, Olivier, and Turpin are laid to rest. Aude, the sister of Olivier and fiance´e of Roland, learns about their deaths from Charlemagne. She asks God not to let her live on without Roland, and she falls dead at Charlemagne’s feet. Ganelon stands accused of treason to Charlemagne. His argument is that he indeed plotted revenge on Roland, but that he always remained faithful and loyal to Charlemagne. He thus pleads vengeance, which is legal, and not treason, which merits death. Ganelon is seconded by thirty of his relatives, with the mighty warrior Pinabel as his champion. Pinabel will fight Charlemagne’s representative, and the warrior who wins will prove the case for his side. None of Charlemagne’s barons, however, will stand up to the mighty Pinabel. A small, slight warrior named Thierry approaches, volunteering to fight the giant Pinabel. Thierry feels that Charlemagne’s accusation of treason is just, since Roland was in Charlemagne’s service at the time the vengeance was carried out. God helps Thierry to slay Pinabel, and Ganelon and his thirty relatives are put to death for the treason. The tale closes with a conversion. The wise Queen Bramimonde, brought to France as a captive of war, converts to Christianity. The narrative stresses that the conversion is not forced, but is her choice, which for the twelfth-century transcriber of the account is a further sign of Bramimonde’s wisdom and righteousness. The ancient Charlemagne goes to his room to rest. Hardly does he fall asleep when God sends the angel Gabriel to bid Charlemagne go and rescue a Christian king who has been attacked by Saracens. With great regret, the weary king will go to their aid. The battle will never cease for the defender of Christianity.
7 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
CHARACTERS Aude Aude is Roland’s fiance´e and the sister of his best friend Olivier. When she hears from Charlemagne that Roland is dead, she rejects his offer of his own son Louis as a husband. She asks God that she not live on after Roland’s death, and in a display of ultimate loyalty, she falls dead at Charlemagne’s feet.
Baligant Baligant is the Emir of Babylon, or Cairo. Marsile calls on him to come and help him defeat Charlemagne. Baligant makes the long trip in record time, and his troops fight valiantly against Charlemagne’s forces. Although a Saracen, Baligant is a fine and noble warrior, and the epic implies he surely would have won the battle if he had been a Christian. Only with the help of the angel Gabriel is Charlemagne able to kill Baligant in the decisive battle.
Blancandrin Marsile’s most trusted advisor, Blancandrin is described as wise, valiant, and a worthy soldier. It is he who hatches the plot to betray the French and) trick them into leaving Spain, and he acts as King Marsile’s emissary to the French to carry the sham proposal that the Saracens do not intend to honor. He and Ganelon devise the plan to annihilate Roland and the Peers who make up the French rear guard.
Bramidonie See Bramimonde
Bramimonde Queen Bramimonde is the wise wife of the Saracen king Marsile. In several passages she is shown functioning effectively as a ruler in the Saragossan court, and she displays knowledge of the deployment of both the French forces and her own country’s defending army. She predicts doom for the Saracen forces. Captured by the French, Bramimonde converts to Christianity when taken to France. While this may be offensive to readers in the early 2000s, to the author of the epic it was intended to show the Saracen queen’s noble qualities, inherent goodness, and wisdom.
Bramimunde See Bramimonde
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
Carlemagne
Charles the Great
See Charlemagne
See Charlemagne
Gabriel is God’s emissary and the leader of the angels that help the French army. Gabriel leads Roland’s soul to Paradise after his death and helps Charlemagne and Thierry triumph in combat.
See Charlemagne
Charlemagne Charlemagne is the venerable leader of the Frankish (French) forces. When the epic opens, he has been in Spain for seven years, at war with the Saracens, as Spanish Muslims (and many other foreigners) were termed by the Franks. Charlemagne is the Defender of the Christian faith, and so his purpose is to travel from place to place, fighting to regain lands lost to ‘‘the infidel,’’ that is, to non-Christians. The character is based on the actual historical figure of Charlemagne (742814), King of the Franks (768-814) and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. The epic’s unknown author or recorder took some liberties with historical fact, however. Charlemagne is said to be two hundred years old, for example, and in the Song of Roland, he is presented as the contemporary of French nobles who actually lived hundred of years after him. The central event of the Song of Roland—the ambush and slaughter of the Frankish rear guard by Spanish forces at Roncesvalles— is also based on historical fact. At times Charlemagne seems almost weak. The barons who are among his followers make most of the important decisions for the group. He has strong objections to putting his favored nephew, Roland, at the head of the rear guard because of the danger of the position, yet he is unable to prevent it. Charlemagne is almost killed by the Emir of Babylon, Baligant, and only wins the battle with the help of God. In the final conflict, when Charlemagne accuses Ganelon of treason, none of Charlemagne’s strongest soldiers will stand up for him in combat, acting as his champion. Only the weak Thierry will step forward to profess his belief in Charlemagne and champion his lord. Despite his age and a hint of frailty, Charlemagne is spoken of in reverent terms by both the French and the Saracens. At the close of the text, as Charlemagne finally lies down for a well-deserved rest, God calls to him, telling him to go and regain another Christian land lost to the infidel. The weary, reluctant, and weeping Charlemagne does as he is told.
Charles I See Charlemagne
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
R o l a n d
Gabriel
Carlemagnes
E p i c s
o f
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Ganelon Roland’s stepfather Ganelon is one of Charlemagne’s most trusted advisors. When the Franks debate the merits of the Saracen peace plan—to pay rich tribute and to become French vassals and Christian converts if the French forces will leave Spain—Roland reminds the group that the Saracens have broke such promises before, and he advises an immediate attack on their forces. Ganelon scornfully rejects Roland’s suggestion, even going so far as to term it the advice of a fool. He urges strongly that the French accept the terms and leave. His arguments convince Charlemagne and his ad visors. When Roland proposed that Ganelon undertake the dangerous mission of carrying the French response to the Saracen peace proposal, Ganelon denounces Roland angrily in front of Charlemagne and his gathered advisors and curses those Franks who support Charlemagne’s decision to send him on the mission. Ganelon admires Charlemagne, and he deems himself loyal to his ruler even after he betrays Roland and the Peers to the Saracens. Ganelon’s betrayal of Roland for goods and money echoes the betrayal of Jesus by Judas Iscariot in the New Testament. Because of this association, Ganelon’s name came to represent the arch-traitor.
Guenelon See Ganelon
Guenelun See Ganelon
Guenes See Ganelon
Karlemagne See Charlemagne
Marsile King Marsile rules Saragossa, the only Spanish city that has not fallen to Charlemagne’s forces in seven years of fighting. In many ways, Marsile’s rule parallels that of the French leader. He is well
V o l u m e
2
7 0 7
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
respected by his people, and he, too, seeks the counsel of twelve trusted advisors in planning his strategy. His treachery, promising to become Charlemagne’s vassal and then attacking the rear guard, leads ultimately to the annihilation of his troops. The French only attain their victory with the help of God, implying that while the forces of goodness are on the side of the French, the Saracens were their equals in strength and bravery in battle. Marsile’s ruthlessness is underscored by the fact that he pledges to send his own son Jurfaleu as a hostage in order to guarantee the promise he intends to break, knowing that Jurfaleu will be executed when the treachery is discovered.
King Marsile See Marsile
Marsilie See Marsile
Marsilies See Marsile
Olivier Roland’s best friend, fellow soldier, and the brother of Roland’s fiance´e Aude, Olivier represents wisdom where Roland stands for bravery. Olivier encourages Roland to call back the main body of Charlemagne’s forces as soon as Ganelon’s treachery is discovered and the French rear guard is attacked by the Saracens. Had Roland followed this advice, Charlemagne’s men could have returned to aid the outnumbered rear guard and their destruction may have been avoided. The struggle between these two close friends over blowing the horn to call for help comprises a central theme of the epic. The intervention in their dispute by the Archbishop Turpin helps the friends to reconcile before they die.
Pinabel Pinabel is a formidable French warrior and a relative of Ganelon. He volunteers to defend his relative against Charlemagne’s accusation of treason, facing Thierry in the bout of judicial combat that will determine Ganelon’s guilt or innocence.
Roland Eclipsing Charlemagne in this epic, the emperor’s nephew Roland takes center stage. He is renowned for his bravery, always volunteering for the most difficult and dangerous assignments. His bravery
7 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
and pride in his abilities as a soldier ultimately bring about his death and the deaths of the men he leads. Roland proposes that his stepfather, Ganelon, take the dangerous role of carrying Charlemagne’s answer to the Saracen envoy when the Saracens propose a diplomatic end to the war. This begins the central conflict of the plot. Roland had wanted to undertake the mission, but Charlemagne refused to risk one of his best soldiers. Roland may have thought that his stepfather would be happy to accept such an honorable assignment, but Ganelon does not seem to share his stepson’s love of danger. Ganelon avenges himself by choosing Roland to lead the dangerous rear guard as the French return to Aix, a mission that Ganelon believes will result in Roland’s death: Ganelon has already betrayed this contingent of the French forces to the Saracen envoy, Blancandrin. When the Saracens attack the rear guard, Roland refuses to blow the horn that would call Charlemagne and the rest of the French troops to their aid, believing that it would be dishonorable. The outnumbered French contingent is wiped out by the Saracens. After an argument with his friend Olivier that is settled by Archbishop Turpin, Roland finally calls on Charlemagne to avenge the deaths of his fellow fighters, blowing the horn so forcefully that he bursts a blood vessel in his brain and falls, mortally wounded. He arranges the bodies of the dead to face the Saracen army, so that it will not appear than any of them fled from battle. He dies from the brain injury sustained as he blows the horn to call Charlemagne.
Thierris See Thierry
Thierry Although short and slight, Thierry, Duke of Argonne, is the only one of Charlemagne’s followers who will fight with the mighty warrior Pinabel to determine the outcome of the charge of treason against Ganelon. During their battle, he commends Pinabel’s bravery and physical prowess and asks him to consider halting their combat and requiring Ganelon to answer the charge of treason. Thierry appears to be no match for the huge warrior Pinabel, but with the aid of God, Thierry wins the bout of judicial combat.
Tierri See Thierry
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
Turpin An archbishop fighting with the French forces, Turpin excels in warfare even as he tends to the souls of Charlemagne’s men. Turpin’s prayers before battle and his blessings over fallen men guarantee martyrdom for them. Side-by-side with Roland, Turpin makes a brave last stand against the Saracen sneak attack. His wise intervention between the quarreling Roland and Olivier helps them to reconcile before both die on the battlefield.
Archbishop Turpin See Turpin
THEMES Culture Clash As the Saracens and Franks encounter each other, differences in culture and religion come to the foreground. The French admire the Saracens for their prowess, the beauty of their armaments, and, at times, their valor. However, Charlemagne’s sole purpose according to the epic is to defend the Christian religion. As such, all nonbelievers must be converted or destroyed. Since the Islamic Saracens control Spain, which was formerly Christian, Charlemagne’s special mission is to drive the Muslims from the area and reclaim the land for Christianity. The epic shows no real understanding of Islam by the medieval, presumably Christian, author of the text.
Duty and Responsibility Charlemagne is the venerable lord of the French fighters. They must serve him, even if this means personal danger or hardship. Roland, eager to serve, tries to volunteer for every mission. When he is appointed to head the rear guard, he vows to protect Charlemagne from all harm. Then, he refuses to blow the horn that will summon Charlemagne when the rear guard is attacked, putting himself at risk but sparing his kind. Even the treacherous Ganelon accepts his duty to act as emissary to the Saracens when Charlemagne orders it, but because of the danger involved, he harbors resentment against Roland, who encouraged his appointment. Ganelon tries to separate his duty to Charlemagne from his duty to Charlemagne’s men. He contends that he remained faithful to Charlemagne even while betraying Roland. Charlemagne and the knight Thierry, who fights on the king’s behalf, believe that the duty owed to Charlemagne includes protection of his men. The
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
fact that an angel of God helps Thierry to defeat the knight who fights for Ganelon suggests that God agrees that Ganelon’s duty was to Roland as a representative of Charlemagne.
Friendship Olivier and Roland are model friends brought together in battling a common enemy. They have fought together for many years, and Roland is engaged to marry Olivier’s sister. Olivier does not hesitate to criticize Roland for not blowing the horn to summon Charlemagne, and their differing views on calling for help lead to a serious argument. While Roland represents sometimes heedless bravery, Olivier represents a more considered wisdom. Together they form a perfect union, and their reconciliation in the final hour attests to the strength of their friendship and the necessity that the qualities of bravery embodied in Roland be tempered with the kind of wisdom Olivier expresses.
Good and Evil The characters in the Song of Roland are aligned clearly on the side of either good or evil. Individual Saracens are acknowledged to possess qualities of bravery, wisdom, skill in battle, and even physical attractiveness—but for the epic’s author, the fact that they are pagan and not Christian relegates them to damnation. Conversely, some Christian characters are shown to have faults. Most notably, Roland’s excessive pride leads to an angry exchange with his best friend, the massacre of the rear guard, and his own death. But as a Christian crusader, Roland is on the side of good, and at his death angels escort his soul to heaven. Marsile, when killed, is ushered away by demons. God intervenes several times in the French cause and to ensure that Ganelon is punished for betraying Roland. In the end, good triumph over evil, at least from the French perspective.
Honor Roland struggles with the issue of honor as he decides whether to blow the horn or not. He deems it dishonorable to blow the horn to call the main body of the French forces back to help him fight the Saracens, yet once the French rear guard is massacred, honor dictates that Charlemagne be called to avenge the death of the Peers.
Issues of Right and Wrong In the binary moral worldview of this epic, each action falls either on the side of right or the side of wrong. Written strictly from the point of view of
V o l u m e
2
7 0 9
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Many commentators on the Song of Roland debate the nature of Roland’s character. Does his refusal to summon help for the rear guard support an interpretation of Roland as a brave and noble man, or does it mark him as guilty of the sin of pride? Can a case be made for both interpretations? Relying on research and a close reading of the epic, write a character study of Roland.
Ganelon claims that he always remained loyal to his lord and king, Charlemagne, even though he betrayed another of Charlemagne’s knights to the Saracens. Can Ganelon’s claim be justified? Consider modern political events in which highly placed officials broke laws or caused harm while claiming to keep faith with a leader. Examples might include: the Watergate conspirators, Oliver North, German army officers during World War II, Soviet and U.S. double agents during the Cold War; or Lewis Libby and Dick Cheney in the Valerie Plame incident. Pretend you are a journalist or news commentator and write an article in which you report on such an event and characterize its perpetrators.
Explore instances of music and/or film that incorporate aspects of the Song of Roland, and then use recordings and/or film clips in a classroom presentation in which you describe how the epic was used in modern times. Evaluate the modern work, including how well done it is and how it uses the epic. Open a discussion in which class members evaluate how the epic is represented in these modern
the French Christians, the action fulfills the bias that right is on the side of the French. The Christians believe in God, and their actions are viewed as essentially right, whereas the non-Christian Saracens, because they do not believe in the Christian idea of God, are doomed to be wrong. Individuals may present qualities that differ from this mold.
7 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
works and what effect it has in shaping the modern work. Research the early history of France and look at the ways that the Song of Roland reflects more about eleventh-century France than the France of the eighth century in which it is set. Write a paper in which you compare and contrast the two centuries in French history. Roland’s fiance´e, Aude, prefers death to living without her beloved. This was considered an honorable and desirable choice for a woman of her time. How is this choice viewed by readers in the early 2000? Have a panel discussion in which some members argued for the choice Aude makes, justifying it within the epic’s social and value system and other members suggest alternative choices that Aude could make, if she had a modern perspective.
The trial of Ganelon gives a picture of medieval justice. Compare this system of justice with that of the United States in the early 2000s. Choose a recent case that has parallels to the trial of Ganelon and compare and contrast them in an essay.
Toward the end of the Song of Roland, the captive Saracen Queen Bramimonde voluntarily renounces her Islamic faith and is baptized as a Christian. To the anonymous author of this epic, the choice proves her wisdom and goodness. Offer another explanation of why she, as a foreign prisoner of a war in which her husband has been killed, might accept the belief system of her captors.
For example, Ganelon, though French, acts wrongly toward Charlemagne in betraying Roland. The Babylonian Baligant, though a pagan, is regarded as a valiant and courageous warrior by both sides. Nonetheless, the essential conflict between Muslim and Christian is rendered in terms of right versus wrong, and the Christians, being on the side
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
French people through the generations to come will remember these individuals and believe them to have been admirable. The epic links them imaginatively to Charlemagne, the national hero who lived two hundred or more years before them, during the very early stages of France as a nation state. The importance of memory—of how the story of the battle will be recalled and retold—is part of the text. The dying Roland turns the bodies of the French dead to face the retreating Saracen army. He does this to make sure that since no one survives to tell of the battle, Charlemagne will believe that no French man turned away from the conflict and fled. In this way, the epic’s author projects on Roland’s actions what epic writing itself accomplishes: an idealization of the past to be perpetuated among those who come afterward.
STYLE Poetic Form and Rhyme
In this illustration, Roland is set upon by the Saracens while guarding the pass at Roncesvalles in the Pyrenees. He is depicted holding the sword Durandel and blowing on the horn Oliphant to summon aid from the king. (Rischgitz / Hulton Archive / Getty Images)
of right, are destined to win the battle. Medieval Christians believed that God would intervene on the side of right. Therefore, in the narrative, God intervenes to help the French defeat Marsile’s army, to enable Charlemagne to slay Baligant, and to make it possible for the weak knight Thierry to strike down the giant Pinabel.
Memory The role of the epic is to create and perpetuate a history of the origins of the French nation. Charlemagne emerges as father of the French, and the recounting of his battles in the Song of Roland narrates the earliest history of France. Many of the characters in the text are not historical contemporaries of Charlemagne but, rather, lived at the time that the text was first written down. By using their names in the epic, the author ensures that
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Song of Roland survives into modern times in various manuscripts, which are themselves transcriptions copied by hand and handed down from the Middle Ages through the following centuries. Each manuscript alters the story slightly and uses a somewhat different literary technique or style. Most modern editions of the epic are taken from the manuscript called Digby 23, housed in the Bodleian Library in Oxford, England. This manuscript includes marginalia that offers cues about how the text was interpreted and understood by early scholars. So the manuscript itself preserves a history of the document, along with suggesting ways in which it was handled and interpreted. The fact that the manuscript survives proves that the epic was considered important by some of its earliest readers. The Song of Roland is written in poetic form. The verse paragraphs are called laisses, and they are of varying length. The rhyming scheme is assonance, meaning that only the final stressed vowels are identical. Most lines have ten syllables, with a break, or caesura, after the fourth syllable.
Language The person who transcribed the Digby 23 manuscript penned this epic in Anglo-Norman, a form of French spoken in the region that is now England about one hundred years after the Norman invasion of 1066. The story existed in oral and perhaps earlier written forms long before 1266, of course, and the original language of the epic is unknown.
V o l u m e
2
7 1 1
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
Point of View The story is told by an omniscient (all-knowing) third-person narrator. The author is not involved in the story, but is very clearly on the side of the French. Authorial asides criticize the treachery of Ganelon and the frightfulness of the Saracens, for example, while praising the bravery of Roland and the wisdom of Olivier.
Foreshadowing From the beginning of the tale, the author lets the audience know the essential elements of the story. Ganelon is called a traitor long before he actually betrays Roland to the enemy. Roland and the Peers proclaim their own death and martyrdom before the battle even begins. Charlemagne cries when Roland is appointed to the rear guard, knowing somehow that he will not see this favorite knight alive again. The technique of foreshadowing points to the oral nature of the text: Typically, in this kind of oral narrative, the audience hears the outcome and significance of the story then the story itself. Foreshadowing helps set the stage for the performance reciting or reading the story.
Symbolism As in most medieval texts, symbolism is an important part of the Song of Roland. Charlemagne’s dreams are full of symbols, mainly animals. Medieval bestiaries, or animal dictionaries, attributed certain characteristics to each animal. These characteristics transfer to the animals in Charlemagne’s dreams, each of which represents an important character in the story. Another example of symbolism occurs when Ganelon drops the glove and baton ceremonially given to him as emissary from his ruler, Charlemagne. By dropping these tokens of trust, Ganelon’s treachery is symbolically foretold. The natural and man-made elements in the Song of Roland are both symbolic and literal. For example, the author notes that Charlemagne sits under a pine tree during one of his council meetings. The triangular shape of the pine was thought to represent the Holy Trinity, central to the Christian system of belief. Tellingly, Roland drags himself beneath a pine tree to die. The skies themselves reflect the action of the epic. Charlemagne prays for help in defeating the fleeing Saracens, and God stops the sun in the sky so that the French have the extended daylight they need to pursue their enemy. Moreover, the author describes at length the armor and outfitting of the troops. Each knight bests the prior one in the quality of his weaponry
7 1 2
E p i c s
f o r
and gem-encrusted armor. In all, the medieval author seems to privilege the man-made world over the natural one.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Charlemagne’s Reign The historical Charlemagne was likely born about 742, about 300 years before the Song of Roland was earliest extant manuscript was created. Descended from Germanic tribesmen, Charlemagne possessed a remarkable love of learning for a ruler of his time. He learned to read and tried, without success, to learn to write. In addition to his local Germanic dialect, he spoke old Teutonic, literary Latin, and understood Greek. Charlemagne, like his literary image in the epic, fought to defend the Christian faith in foreign lands, including the regions that are now Spain, France, Germany, and Italy. His success on the battlefield unified the peoples of these countries, who had divided by tribal conflict for centuries. Charlemagne’s administrative expertise provided a structure to his vast empire. He made military service codified and mandatory. To increase the sense of public participation in government, he fostered assemblies in which landowners came together and made suggestions to be brought before the king. Under his rule, the beginnings of the modern jury system were formed. The empire was divided into counties for administrative purposes, and local assemblies served as governing bodies and courts for the region. He shared his love of learning by bringing in foreign scholars to his realm and establishing schools. At his direction, monks began to make more accurate and legible copies of the Bible, the writings of the Church Fathers, and Latin classics. This renewal of learning, often termed the Carolingian Renaissance, helped reintroduce much of ancient and classical literature to Europe. In 800, Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of the Romans by Pope Leo III. This first coronation had for the additional effect of subordinating temporal power to the Roman Catholic Church, as the emperor had to look to the pope for justification of his power. However, this act greatly increased the power of the king, since his power was deemed to have come from God, thus establishing a precedent for rule by Divine Right. In 806, while remaining in control of his entire empire, Charlemagne divided parts of his empire between his two sons, Carloman (later Pepin) who became king of Italy, and the younger one,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
COMPARE & CONTRAST
700s: Charlemagne expands his empire to include all of present-day France and Germany, as well as parts of Spain, Italy, Slovenia, Hungary and Croatia. His seat of power was Aachen, in present-day Germany. He is crowned king in 800. 1000s: France is divided into small houses of power, ruled by local lords. The marriage of Henry II to Eleanor of Aquitaine makes the king of England the most powerful ruler in what is present-day France. The French king controls the area around Paris, but his influence is slight outside the immediate area. The barons in the Song of Roland exert considerable influence over Charlemagne’s actions. Today: France, though divided into departments for administrative purposes, has a highly centralized government located in Paris. Attempts to spread power and influence throughout the country are underway, but Paris remains the political and cultural center of France.
700s: The Islamic empire expands as conquests begun by Muhammad in 622 continue throughout this century. Muslims meet little organized resistance until they push well into France and are stopped and driven back by Charles Martel in 732. 1000s: The Islamic empire, like the Christian one, is divided into two parts; the Shiites with a capital in Cairo, and the Sunni caliphate centered in Baghdad. Baligant comes from Cairo to aid his vassal, Marsile.
Louis, who became king of Aquitaine. When his eldest and illegitimate son, Pepin the Hunchback led a rebellion again his father, Charlemagne had this man confined in a monastery. Charlemagne died in 814 at the age of seventy-two, leaving his legacy to Louis, who was unable to maintain the unified empire has his father had.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Today: Muslims worldwide form various groups, two of which are Sunnis and Shiites. No central power exists as each country has its own Islamic spiritual and temporal rulers. 700s: In Europe, marriage laws based on Christian doctrine are passed, providing women with a degree of security and added responsibility. 1000s: Wives, left behind as their husbands go on crusade, control lands and run households. In the Song of Roland, Marsile’s wife, Bramimonde, rules in her husband’s absence. Today: Women enjoy equal protection under the law and hold positions of power in local and national governments in many countries, though wage inequality continues. 700s: The French language emerges as a combination of Latin and various Germanic tongues. 1000s: Old French has evolved into an entirely separate language. The Song of Roland marks the beginning of literary development with works written in the vernacular. Today: France continues to cherish its literary heritage, encouraging young writers and making French literature a central element in its curricula. The Academie Franc¸aise is charged with maintaining the purity of the French language. Laws restrict the use of non-French-language words in advertising, public interchange (such as television programming), and even the ratio of French to non-French language songs that can be broadcast on the radio.
Women’s Lives during Charlemagne’s Rule Marriage was a central question during the late eighth century. The Roman Catholic Church had one set of rules, whereas Carolingian society had others. During this period, the two models of marriage moved closer to each other. Charlemagne prohibited remarriage after divorce and
V o l u m e
2
7 1 3
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
declared that adultery could not be considered a cause for dissolution of a marriage. Wives were generally chosen by the husband’s father. Among nobility, women had a degree of security because of the stricter marriage and divorce laws, but they also gained new responsibility. Charlemagne’s queen had the power to rule in his absence. She also had Charlemagne’s backing on any requests made of his judges and ministers. All women were concerned with childbearing and rearing. Noble women provided religious instruction to boys until they left home at the age of seven to go to another lord’s court, and they taught daughters until they married somewhere between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Because of a high incidence of death in childbirth, women lived only an average of thirty-six years, whereas men generally reached almost fifty. The peasant women of Charlemagne’s realm owed services to their overlords, just as their husbands did. In an unusually thoughtful document for the period, Charlemagne decreed that these women had rights to a certain standard of living, including heat and security. Charlemagne had at least twenty children by his wives and concubines. Among his offspring were at least seven daughters. Charlemagne’s need to protect the bloodline (that is, restrict it to the male line) and preserve the of inheritance caused him to forbid his daughters from marrying. Nonetheless, he supported them in their common-law alliances and claimed their offspring as grandchildren. So the somewhat enlightened views he placed into law for women in his realm did not extend to his own daughters. That said, his daughters enjoyed considerable education and were well provided for.
The Battle of Roncesvalles In 773, Charlemagne took on the role of protector of the Roman Catholic Church. Charlemagne fought the enemies of the Church for most of his reign. At that time, the non-Christian threat included Spanish Muslims (called Saracens in the Song of Roland, Bavarians, and Saxons, among others. In 777, the Muslim governor of Barcelona, Ibn al-Arabi, asked Charlemagne to aid him against the emir or caliph of Cordoba. Charlemagne crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, captured Pamplona and advanced on to Saragossa. En route, he treated the Christian Basques, living in northern Spain, as enemies. His campaign into Spain, though somewhat successful, did not unseat the caliph of Cordoba, largely because the reinforcements expected from Ibn al-Arabi did not materialize. Realizing that he would never be able to
7 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
take on the formidable caliph alone, Charlemagne began his return to France. Traveling back through the Pyrenees in 778, he was attacked by the Christian Basques, whom he had mistreated on his entrance into Spain. The route through the Pyrenees consisted of long, narrow passes through the high mountain range, and, in one of these passes, the Basques swooped down on Charlemagne’s rear guard and annihilated it to the man. Within the ranks of the rear guard, historians report there was a man named Hruodland, and it is believed that the heroic Roland is based on this historical person.
Christians and Muslims in the Middle Ages The Muslim invasions of Spain and even France in the eighth century thrust Western Europeans into close contact with another culture and religion. Christians and Muslims remained enemies on the battlefield for another 700 years, but their rapport changed significantly during this period. Early fighting was focused mainly on stemming the seemingly endless flood of Muslim invaders into Christian lands. National boundaries were fairly firmly fixed, however, by 732, when Charles Martel drove advancing Muslim troops from established Frankish territories back into Spain, where they made their stronghold for many centuries to come. These lands were always coveted, but to those living in present-day France the threat of loss of further life and property had diminished. The dream of reconquest was ever-present, however, spurred by the Catholic Church, which promised martyrdom for those who died trying to recapture Christian lands. The Crusades—military actions against nonChristians with the dual purpose of winning converts and seizing land—were common from the eleventh through the thirteenth centuries. While this cultural contact was hostile by definition, other practical relationships began to form that continued to flourish until the end of the Reconquest in 1492. Trading relationships, ambassadorial envoys, cross-cultural education, and even cohabitation exposed those people who lived north of the Pyrenees to a way of life quite different from their own. The Muslim culture had developed art and learning to a much higher degree than their counterparts in the West. Exquisite fabrics and spices were the envy of many Christians who profited through commerce and trade with the so-called infidels. Christian noblemen sent their sons to learn in the courts of Muslim Spain, where the finest teachers could be found. Intermarriage became a theme in the literature of the high Middle
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
the battle of Roncesvalles. The written text, he contended, was simply a version of the oral story copied down by a cleric. This critical approach is called traditionalism. Be´dier contended that, while the story of Roland and Olivier was a popular legend, the cleric who found in the legend material for an epic poem added the detail and complexity that made it into a significant literary work. This is called the individualist approach. The issue here is whether the epic descended as an oral tradition through various generations and with retelling was amplified in certain ways until it reached a certain person who recorded it or the epic is an original work of a single individual who created it from various existing source materials.
Woodcut of the crusading emperor Charlemagne, in whose service Roland fought and died (Bettmann Corbis)
Ages, suggesting that some such marriages between Christians and Muslims did indeed take place. While the differences in religion provided for an uneasy and sometimes tumultuous coexistence, even during the period of the Crusades, Christians and Muslims forged alliances that have not since been repeated.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Song of Roland was largely ignored by critics and the reading public until the nineteenth century. In their cursory examinations of the French epic, the first commentators on the work considered it lacking in emotionalism and both primitive and inferior to Greek and Latin epics. The first real interest in the text stemmed from a debate between Gaston Paris (1839–1903), the most illustrious professor of medieval French literature in late nineteenth-century France, and his student, Joseph Be´dier (1864–1938). Paris claimed that the Song of Roland was essentially an oral text, having been sung by minstrels since
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
This critical debate, never resolved, has given way to different readings and debates, making the Song of Roland arguably the most analyzed work in the French literary tradition. Many essays closely analyze the actions and character of Roland. Should he have blown the horn? Is he guilty of the sin of excessive pride in refusing to call for help, or is such reckless bravery the hallmark of the worthy soldier? Critic Alain Renoir sees Roland’s internal conflict as a religious one, and several commentators have noted that Roland’s final prayer is followed by the approach of angels who take his soul to heaven, indicating that he has found redemption. D. D. R. Owen and others, however, maintain that the motivation for Roland’s conduct is nonreligious, based on three types of duty: to king and country, to family, and to self. Roland’s refusing to blow the horn is not a sin of pride but rather an admirable trait of bravery that comes from his utter devotion to the feudal political system. The question of Roland as hero or as redeemed recalcitrant yet remains, as does the dispute between traditionalist and individualist interpreters, unresolved. Yet another trend in Song of Roland criticism reads the epic for the insight it provides into late eleventh-century French life. While at first glance the tale seems far from realistic, many of its episodes recount events common in eleventh-century life. Emanuel J. Mickel has found that Ganelon’s trial by judicial combat between his representative and a representative of his accuser is an accurate account of such medieval trial. For Eugene Vance, the story illustrates a political conflict that preoccupied eleventh-century France. According to Vance, the author writes to explore the role of the barons, the center of power, and the nature of loyalty. The Song of Roland lends itself as well to postmodern criticism. In a foray into psychoanalytical
V o l u m e
2
7 1 5
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
criticism, R. Howard Bloch finds the hostility between Roland and Ganelon to be an expression of the oedipal archetype. Ganelon, married to Roland’s mother after the death of Roland’s father, represents the wicked stepfather, while Charlemagne, Roland’s maternal uncle, is Roland’s spiritual father. This psychoanalytic reading explores the many twisted and complicated familial relationships found in the Song of Roland. Feminist critic Ann Tukey Harrison looks at the women in the text, finding that Aude is essentially passive and defined by her relationship to male characters (Roland’s fiance´e, Olivier’s sister), whereas Queen Bramimonde functions independently: She is active in ruling Saragossa and guiding court business. In her 2002 study, The ‘Song of Roland’: On Absolutes and Relative Values, Marianne J. Aries explores the key problems concerning ethics in the epic and demonstrates the lively modern debate the epic continues to generate. The many and varied approaches to reading the Song of Roland prove the work’s timeless appeal. The epic is sufficiently complicated and vague to allow multiple readings that have significance for audiences of all times. Each reader can find a lesson, a moral, or an example that is appropriate to his or her own experience. As long as the Song of Roland is read, new audiences will bring new ideas and approaches to the text. Some of these notions will no doubt share much with those of the eleventh-century audience, while others will be unique to the reader’s time and place.
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Defiance and courage characterize the quest of the knight portrayed in Robert Browning’s 1855 poem ‘‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’’ (‘‘childe’’ is an archaic term for ‘‘knight’’).
Norman Daniel’s 1984 study Heroes and Saracens describes the portrayal of Christians and Muslims in medieval literature. A History of Women: Silences of the Middle Ages (1992), edited by Christiane KlapischZuber, is a collection of essays that describe what life was like for medieval women.
Jamaica Kincaid’s short story ‘‘Song of Roland’’ appeared in the New Yorker magazine on April 12, 1993.
In 1993, Judith Tarr published a novel for young adult readers that focuses on one of Charlemagne’s daughters. In His Majesty’s Elephant, Tarr presents an historically correct picture of the ninth century but uses magic to fuel her story.
Charlemagne: A Biography (2005), by Derek Wilson, is a lively introduction to this great leader and is appropriate for young adult readers.
Ramey is an associate professor of French at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. In this essay, she discusses the epic’s basis in fact, its use of the term Saracen, and the ways the epic stylizes and transform an historical battle for purposes of propaganda.
Jeff Sypeck’s Becoming Charlemagne: Europe, Baghdad, and the Empires of A.D. 800 (2009) introduces young adult readers to the world in which Charlemagne was crowned emperor by the Roman Catholic pope. Gina L. Greco’s The Good Wife’s Guide (Le Menagier de Paris): A Medieval Household Book (2009) gives a vivid picture of the dayto-day domestic life of medieval women.
The oldest known epic in France, the Song of Roland, which dates from around 1100, bears traces of the battles that had taken place about two hundred years earlier. While ostensibly telling the story of Charlemagne at Roncesvalles in 778, the events of the Song of Roland have been shifted into a twelfth-century setting, superimposing a long history of Christians’ concerns about Muslims upon the real threat of a Muslim invasion, which gripped France during the eighth-
century reigns of Charles Martel and Charlemagne. The historical battle, most likely a decimation of Charlemagne’s rear guard in 778 by Christian Basques, then in control of the Pyrenees Mountains, which separate present-day France and Spain, is transformed in the epic for the early
CRITICISM Lynn T. Ramey
7 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
THE AUTHOR IS ABLE TO STEP BACK FROM THE EASY DICHOTOMY OF GOOD VERSUS EVIL THAT FORMS THE BASIS OF THE EPIC IN ORDER TO ADMIT SIMILARITY AND ADMIRATION.’’
twelfth-century audience. While it would no longer make sense for Charlemagne to be fighting what were Christian brothers in Spain, the threat of the Muslim infidel had very real meaning and a long history of representation to the listeners. Charlemagne’s struggle with the Saracen forces could thus take on the guise of good versus evil, right versus wrong, that makes ideal material for an epic tragedy. Yet this tale that would seemingly be made up of straight-forward dichotomies of black versus white incorporates ambiguities at each turn. When Roland decides not to blow the horn, his action could be interpreted as a mistake due to excessive pride. At the same time, his refusal to summon Charlemagne can be viewed as Christian and Germanic bravery. T. Atkinson Jenkins reads Charlemagne as heroic, while Eugene Vance counters that Charlemagne embodies disillusionment with the whole ideal of heroism. The epic seems to show a mixed view of the role of women, for as Ann Tukey Harrison shows, Aude retires while Bramimunde acts. Apparently almost every question that is asked of the characters in the Song of Roland can be answered more than one way. Nowhere is this statement truer than in the picture the author draws of the Muslim. In the early twelfth century, western Christians likely knew little about the customs, habits, and religion of Muslims. The people invading Spain and France were unknown and foreign, and local people hardly knew even what to call them. To complicate the issue of identity further, the people who actually carried out the invasions were not a homogenous group. Having come via Morocco and the Straits of Gibraltar up through Spain, the invaders included Arabs (both Muslim and non-Muslim), as well as Berber tribesmen who had not converted to Islam. These individuals did not even speak the same language, some conversing in Berber and others in Arabic. In many ways,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
then, the medieval term Saracen, used to refer to this disparate group of peoples, is a generalizing term, such as intruder or threatening stranger, which was more accurate because of its vagueness. The term Saracen probably comes from the Greek, sarakenos, a word used to describe Islamic invaders, that is, strangers who were followers of the prophet Muhammad. Saracen, however, is used in the epic to describe all foreign enemies, including people from Hungary, the Holy Land, and even the Normans, with apparently no need for justification on the part of the author of a text. Saracen is used interchangeably with pagan. In addition, in the late Middle Ages, the remains of Roman architecture, long-since unused and of forgotten origin, were sometimes termed Saracen. The term seems to hold the same place in the medieval imagination that ‘‘foreign,’’ ‘‘exotic,’’ or ‘‘outlandish’’ represents for readers in the early 2000s. The Song of Roland undoubtedly speaks of the Saracens as Muslims, yet no understanding of Islam itself can be found in the text. In a work of Christian crusade propaganda such as this epic, one would not necessarily expect the author to take a great interest in truthfully representing the tenets of Islam and the differences between this faith and Christianity, even if the author had that information. However, even the most basic information about Islam is lacking. The poet credits the infidels with having numerous gods, contrary to the first and most fundamental belief of Islam that ‘‘There is no god but God.’’ Examples of this misunderstanding include the author’s assertion that Marsile worships three gods: Muhammad, Apollo, and Tervagant. Likewise, when the Saracens wish to swear an oath to do their best to kill Roland, they swear on their holy book, presumably the Koran, mistakenly identifying it as co-authored by Muhammad and Tervagant. The Saracens, anticipating the return and vengeance of Charlemagne, pray to one of their gods, Tervagant, who predictably does not come to their aid. Angry with the non-response of their gods, the Saracens desecrate their own temple, cursing and tearing down the statues of Tervagant, Muhammad, and Apollo. This scene enacts perhaps the ultimate sacrilege among Christians who believed quite literally in icons, but it makes no sense regarding Islam, given its prohibition against images. The Saracen warrior mirrors the Christian quite frequently throughout the text. Charlemagne retires to an orchard, underneath a pine tree, following his initial defeat of the Saracens. Here his 15,000
V o l u m e
2
7 1 7
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
soldiers gather around, but most notably present are the Peers, Charlemagne’s closest men and advisors with whom he proceeds to discuss plans for leaving Spain. Marsile, the Saracen ruler, also goes into an orchard following the same battle and is described as sitting in the shade. His 20,000 men surround him, and he takes this moment to call his closest advisors to advise him on how to crush the French. The political and governing strategies of the two groups are the same. Both leaders are greatly respected by their men, yet their best ideas and future directions come from a select group of noble advisors (dukes and counts), many of whom are related to each other and to the king. As Marsile and his men seal their plan, the parallelism is complete; twelve chosen from the Saracens, led by the nephew of Marsile, will do combat with the twelve companions of Charlemagne, led by Roland, his nephew. The glove that the Saracen carries as representative of his ruler is the same emblem that Ganelon, ambassador of Charlemagne, accepts from his king. The Saracen is the Christian double in other aspects of the epic as well. During the battle, as is the convention in most battle scenes of the chansons de geste, each Christian knight meets individually with a Saracen knight. Blows are exchanged and one knight emerges victorious, having killed the other. The two armies are equipped identically, though a certain exoticism characterizes the Saracen outfit. The armor remains essentially western, as does the basic riding techniques (on a special war-horse, in tight lines). Yet the Saracen is distinguished from the French by the provenance of his weaponry. The author gives the impression that excellent, perhaps the best, armor comes from far away, from the pagan lands of Saragossa and Valencia, as well as from Venice. No doubt about it, the Saracen is regally equipped. The shield of an emir is beautifully encrusted in amethyst, topaz, and diamonds. Admiration for the Saracen is not limited to his armor. The Saracen knight can be noble, handsome, loyal, and bold. In short, the same characteristics admired in the Christian knight can be found in certain Saracen knights. The author highlights the prowess and beauty of the Saracen Margarit. Baligant, the emir of Babylon, serves as a prime example of the knight that would be perfect, were he only a Christian. Physically, even, this Saracen shares the traits of the Christian. Even his skin is white. The author is able to step back from the easy dichotomy of good versus evil that forms the basis
7 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
of the epic in order to admit similarity and admiration. The armor of the Christian knights is not quite as fabulous as that of the Saracen. Baligant distinguishes himself as almost a true baron, to be compared with the treasonous French renegade, Ganelon. When the two armies are shown as similar, the epic seems to examine Christian values and culture. Better weaponry can be found in other cultures. Superior knights can be found among foreign armies, and indeed certain Christian knights fall short of their Saracen counterparts. The Saracen is not without his abominable traits, however. Roland sees the approaching hordes in terms of black versus white, noting that they ‘‘are blacker than ink and have no white except for their teeth alone.’’ Just as the emir epitomizes the almost-ideal knight, the appropriately named Saracen, Abyss, embodies all the French fears of their enemy. Abyss is immoral and physically repulsive. Stripped of his humanity, he is unable to laugh and play. The archbishop of Turpin, who symbolizes Christianity and goodness, takes it upon himself to destroy Abyss, who personifies evil, Abyss. The fight is reduced to good versus evil, right versus wrong, truth versus lies. The portrait of the Saracen in the Song of Roland vacillates between the positive and the negative. At the same time that the audience of the 1100s feared the Saracen, and thus pictured him in monstrous terms, they also coveted the refinements of Muslim culture, many of which were totally lacking in the West. The Saracen characters of the epic echo this ambivalence between fear and envy. As Joseph J. Duggan relates, the Song of Roland and other militant poems ‘‘helped shape the mentalities that made the crusades possible.’’ These propagandistic poems did not simply oppose Christians and Muslims, but they also constructed a Saracen who was frightening and inhuman enough to kill at the same time that he possessed objects and characteristics worthy of appropriation. The epic battle satisfied both these urges. Source: Lynn T. Ramey, Critical Essay on Song of Roland, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
K. Sarah-Jane Murray In the following essay, Murray compares Plato’s Timaeus with the Song of Roland. Oxford Bodleian MS Digby 23 contains two works, each copied by a different twelfthcentury scribe. The first part of the codex is given
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
THE TIMAEUS AND THE ROLAND RESPECTIVELY ARTICULATE, AND EXEMPLIFY, THE HUMANIST CONCERNS OF ELEVENTH AND TWELFTH CENTURY FRENCH CLERGIE.’’
over to Calcidius’ Latin translation of Plato’s Timaeus, a learned cosmological treatise which describes the creation of the universe. (Calcidius’ detailed commentary on the Timaeus, however, does not appear in this codex.) The second part of MS Digby 23 constitutes the oldest surviving copy of the Song of Roland, the famous Old French epic celebrating the courage of Charlemagne’s rear guard and the supremacy of the Christian Roman Empire over the Saracens. The Timaeus and the Roland were bound together sometime in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, although the exact date remains the subject of much debate. In this article, I suggest that the medieval juxtaposition of these seemingly disparate works is a fruitful one: it allows us to recognize new connections between the ancient dialogue and the famous vernacular chanson de geste that we might not otherwise see. Both compositions share a central concern for the humanist process of translatio studii and exemplify the important place myth or narrative occupies in the search for, and articulation of, truth. Let us begin by considering Caicidius’ translation, which occupies the first half of the codex. The Timaeus was one of the most widely-copied works during the Middle Ages: today it survives in over 180 manuscripts. Notes inscribed by learned readers in the margins of many of those codices (including Digby 23) bear witness to its popularity amongst medieval scholars. Such notable figures as Bernard of Chartres and William of Conches assembled sets of glosses on the Timaeus, and John of Salisbury refers to the dialogue on several occasions in his Metalogicon. In more recent times, J. H. Waszink, Raymond Kiblanski, Margaret Gibson, Stephen Gersh, Paul E. Dutton and others too numerous to mention have continued to probe the place of the Timaeus in the medieval school curriculum. To date, scholarly interest has focused primarily on the second (and indeed most
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
substantial) part of the dialogue, in which Timaeus, an expert in physics, discusses the origins of the universe. This learned disquisition is preceded, however, by a sort of narrative prologue which sets the tone for the inquiry. In the opening passages of the Timaeus, Critias recounts to his three interlocutors the story of the lost civilization of Atlantis. It is within the so-called Myth of Atlantis that the relationship of the Timaeus to the Song of Roland is the most readily discerned. Although it appears to be a fable, Critias is at pains to establish that the Myth of Atlantis is indeed knowledge (and worthy of transmission) because it is true. . . . Similarly, when the story draws to an end, Socrates reaffirms that what he has heard is ‘‘neither invented fiction nor fable, but a true story’’. . . . The myth of Atlantis, in other words, constitutes an example of what Macrobius (fl. 430), in his Commentary on Scipio’s Dream will call a ‘‘narratio fabulosa’’—a narrative that has the air of a fable (fabulosa quidem putatur), although truth lies beneath (Veritas subest) the veil of allegory. The crux of the story, central to the present discussion, is as follows. Many years ago, the great Athenian law-giver Solon (described as a sapiens— wise man—in a marginal gloss of MS Digby 23, fol. 3v) traveled to Egypt. During a conversation he had there with an Egyptian priest, he learned of the existence of the lost civilization of Atlantis, which once upon a time rose up out of the Atlantic and threatened the entire European continent. The Atlantian soldiers were no match for the Athenian army, which fought bravely against the tyrants. It was a great war, and the victory of the Greek soldiers confirmed the courage and military prowess of Athens. Then one night the earth shook and the entire island of Atlantis was swallowed up by the ocean, disappearing, forever, under the waves. All of the inhabitants and all of the soldiers— Greeks and Atlantians alike—died. Since the Athenians kept no written account of the war, the memory of Athens’ glorious military victory, which liberated the countries of the Mediterranean and beyond from the power-hungry civilization of Atlantis, was forgotten. Consequently, when he encounters the Egyptian priest, Solon has no knowledge of those ancient events. ‘‘‘Ah Solon,’ exclaims the discerned priest, ‘the Greeks are always children; in Greece there is no such thing as an old man. . . . You are all young in your minds which hold no store of old belief based on long tradition, no knowledge hoary with age.’’’ . . . The
V o l u m e
2
7 1 9
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
Egyptians, however, had maintained detailed written historical records in their temples since the earliest times. Thanks to those documents, the military prowess of ancient Athens can now be fully recognized. The priest entrusts the long-lost history of Athens to Solon who, having returned home, shares it with his friend Dropides, Critias’ greatgrandfather. The latter then recounts the myth of Atlantis to his son, who, in his old age, shares it with Critias (20e). Finally, in the Timaeus, Critias narrates the story to his three interlocutors. Thus we witness in the opening passages of the Timaeus the birth of an oral tradition, originating in Egypt and passed down within Critias’ family from one generation to the next. Plato adds that many years ago Solon began to record the story in writing but, owing to his civic responsibilities, was never able to complete the poem. ‘‘If only he had taken his poetry seriously, instead of treating it as a pastime’’ (21c), Solon would have achieved great fame! At last Plato, in his Timaeus, is carrying the teachings of the Myth of Atlantis to term: he is writing it down by inscribing it within the larger scope of his cosmological discussion. In so doing, Plato completes the process that originated with Solon’s voyage to Egypt so many years before. He reestablishes Athens’ glorious past and thereby cures the cultural amnesia of his compatriots. The mythical narrative recounted by Critias in the opening passages of the Timaeus commemorates and celebrates, for the very first time in Western literature, one of the greatest (although in all probability fictitious) military victories of ancient Greece. We shall never know whether or not the events narrated by Critias in the Timaeus actually occurred; the existence of Atlantis will remain a mystery (or, to borrow the words of Critias, a ‘‘marvel’’). The truthfulness of the Atlantis story, however, is much less enigmatic: without writing— without books—we are all children. The Atlantis myth draws the reader’s attention to the importance of celebrating and commemorating the deeds of our ancestors not only with an oral tradition, but with written words. Calcidius emphasizes this aspect of Plato’s narrative with an elaborate adnominatio based on the root litlitoribus (22d), litterarum (23b), litteras (24a), litteris (23b). Writing is the medium that allows for the cultural memory of a nation and a people—their history—to be recorded pur remembrance (‘‘for remembrance’’), as Marie de France puts it, and passed on to future generations.
7 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
This central theme of the Atlantis story is further underlined by twenty terms, based on the root memor-, which appear between 20e and 26d in Calcidius’ Latin translation. These are, in alphabetical order: commemoratio (21a), commemorationis (21b), memorabiles (20e), memoranda (23c), memoratis (26d), memoria (21d, 21e, 22a, 22b, 23a, 23b, 26a, 26c), memoriae (21b), memoriam (22b, 23b, 26a, 26b) and memoriter (21b, 23b). In studying the Latinized Timaeus, medieval clercs learned the importance of cultural memory and encountered a very ancient articulation of the concept of translatio studii. What, then, might be said of the second half of Digby MS 23? The OF Song of Roland (ca. 1090– 1100) preserves, restores and celebrates, in an historico-mythical form, the courage of all those who served ‘‘Carles, li reis, nostre emperere magnes’’ (Charles the king, our great emperor) in the battle against the Saracens at Roncevaux. Those men are our ancestors, stresses the composer, and we must celebrate our heritage. Consequently, Eugene Vance, Hans-Erich Keller, Karl Uitti, and Peter Haidu have each situated the Roland within the context of a poetics of French national memory. We recall that the historical account of Charles’s battles in Spain had been recorded previously by Einhard in chapter nine of the Vita Karoli (ca. 821). Uitti convincingly identifies two major differences between Einhard’s account and the Roland. In the former, Charlemagne’s rear guard is attacked by the Basques, not by the Saracens. And, whereas the enemy flees under the cover of night in the Vita Karoli, the geste depicts God miraculously extending the day and allowing the sun to remain high in the sky so that His champion, Charlemagne, can return and avenge the death of Roland and Olivier. This does not mean, however, that the Roland is purely fictional: it too is a ‘‘fabulous narrative.’’ In both the Roland and the Vita, the soldiers who fall at Roncevaux give their lives bravely in order to ensure that the emperor and the rest of his army survive the treacherous ambush and return home safely. But the OF geste goes one step further than Einhard’s chronicle, which mentions only briefly the massacre: it also allows us to experience and acknowledge the loss of Roncevaux more deeply. In substituting the Saracens for the Basques, the author of the Roland subordinates the deaths to the overall victory of the Franks, and of Christianity, in Spain. In so doing, the Roland underscores the central message—or truthfulness—of the passage from the Vita Karoli. Binarily opposed to the Saracens, Roland and his friends actively represent
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
the heroism of the (Christian) Frankish soldiers. In other words, the historically-rooted myth of Charlemagne has been ‘‘poeticized’’ so that the battle of Roncevaux can be fully understood and remembered. ‘‘Roland,’’ writes Ludovic Vitet in 1852, ‘‘c’est la France, c’est son aveugle et impe´tueux courage.’’ Roland and his men—like the Greek soldiers of the Timaeus so many centuries before them—are the champions who rid Western Europe of an impending Atlantis-like threat of invasion. The respective military victories of France and Greece are, we might add, accompanied by tremendous earthquakes. As a result of the natural disaster, in Critias’ story, the continent of Atlantis is annihilated. Many centuries later in France, the inhabitants are so taken aback by the sign of Roland’s impending death that, as the earth shakes (e terremoete), they are convinced the end of the world has come (laisse 110). The process of writing down the oral chanson de geste—its transition, as Sylvia Huot puts it, ‘‘from song to book’’—also echoes the by now widely-read Myth of Atlantis. Plato already suggested the intrinsic link between textuality and orality in the Timaeus. The Egyptian priest does not present Solon with a copy of the written records of the Egyptians, nor even a translation. (If he can speak with Solon, then presumably he also writes a language Solon understands.) Instead, the priest relates the story of Atlantis to Solon orally, and it is then transmitted, orally, until Plato writes it down. The Timaeus clearly suggests that the oral tradition alone is not sufficient; yet it is an integral and essential part of the process of transmission. If the message of the Timaeus is that oral traditions must, in order to survive, end in writing (or we would be children), it is equally true that if a piece of writing is to have life, then that life must be oral. Thus, Plato shares with his readers a written mythical account of the lost civilization of Atlantis, whilst inscribing the tale within the fictitious oral framework of a ‘‘dialogue.’’ And by its very nature, the Song of Roland echoes the interdependency of textuality and orality: it is preserved for us in writing, but, like many twelfth-century narratives, was destined to be performed or read aloud. Digby 23 renders explicit the symbiotic relationship between manuscript and voice. The story (OF geste) of Charlemagne’s soldiers, sung throughout Europe, commemorates, restores and remains faithful to the actions (Lat. gesta) of these brave men, so that they too become a model for posterity. William of Malmesbury
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
writes in the De geslis Anglorum (1125) that Roland’s tale is sung before the battle of Hastings. Wace adds in the Roman de Rou (ca. 1160): . . . (Taillefer, who sang mightily well, on his horse which advanced rapidly, went before the duke singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Olivier and the vassals who died at Roncevaux). The story of Roland’s death is sung so as to give strength to those who are about to fight. With each performance of the geste, the great military prowess and courage of the ancestors of eleventhcentury France are once more brought to life. As we now understand, though, without writing— without clergie—the memory of a hero like Roland could never endure. Writing, states Wace in the Prologue to the Rou, allows us to commit to memory ‘‘the deeds, the sayings and the manners’’ of our ancestors . . . , so that ‘‘we know how to speak about the days gone by’’ . . . .Without writing, adds Benoıˆ t de Sainte-Maure in the Roman de Troie (ca. 1165), we should live not only as children as the Timaeus suggests but like beasts. The Timaeus and the Roland respectively articulate, and exemplify, the humanist concerns of eleventh- and twelfth-century French clergie. The strong thematic links shared by the two parts of Digby 23 are overwhelming. It comes therefore as quite a surprise that the assembly of the Timaeus and the Roland has been generally viewed as purely coincidental. Dominica Legge, for example, argues that the Roland, would have been of little interest to the Augustinian canons who came to own the manuscript, or to other groups of clerics, suggesting that the oral and vernacular geste had little in common with the scholarly Timaeus. We have seen, of course, that nothing could be farther from the truth. Yet even Taylor, who maintains that the Roland did not survive by chance but because its owners enjoyed reading the poem, does not consider the implications of placing the two works side-by-side in the same volume. Let us consider them. The Roland and the Myth of Atlantis both constitute written testimonies and humanist celebrations, in mythico-poetic form, of the cultural memory and oral traditions of the respective worlds in which they came into being. ‘‘Scribite, scriptores’’ the Timaeus seems to urge its readers, ‘‘ut discant posteriores’’ (write, writers, so that posterity may learn); in turn, the Song of Roland provides an example of how French-language clergie responds to that challenge. The Digby manuscript presents an inherently clerkly thematic unity that points to the process of translatio studii articulated by Chre´tien
V o l u m e
2
7 2 1
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
de Troyes in the prologue to Clige´: . . . (Greece was the first seat of renown of arms and letters. Then military prowess came to Rome, and with it, the sum of all learning, which has now come to France). As they turn the pages of the manuscript, readers of Digby 23 are guided even today through the very steps of that process, beginning with Plato’s Greek dialogue, translated into Latin by Calcidius, and followed by the French Song of Roland. In this codex, the Roland becomes a sort of gloss, which brings to light the truth served by Plato’s myth. (The converse is also true: the Atlantis story provides a precursor to the ‘‘poetic restoration of history’’ in the Roland.) Meanwhile Critias’ story in the Timaeus itself constitutes a form of geste: it too commemorates the deeds (res gestas [21a]) of the courageous Greek soldiers who gave their lives during a fierce war in a foreign land. That the two parts of the Digby manuscript were copied by different scribes during the twelfth century and assembled at a later date is no reason to dismiss or ignore the overall coherence of the volume as it survives today. During the preparation of an anthology, it was not uncommon for several scribes to work independently on distinct parts of a manuscript; ‘‘the copyists may not even have been aware of the position for which the texts they copied were destined.’’ Huot aptly demonstrates, however, that the rubrication and illumination of compilations of this sort clearly suggests that the individual pieces were eventually assembled into coherent and unified books. This is the case, for example, of B.N.F. MS fr. 375, in which individual texts are numbered as branches in the table of contents, as if each work constitutes a part (or subsection) of a lengthy romance. Compilations could also, of course, be the work of a unique individual, like fourteenthcentury British Library MS Cotton Vespasian B X (I). In this codex, an insular scribe, probably from the great cathedral-school of Durham, has copied the text of the Latin Navigatio sancti Brendani immediately after Benedeit’s OF translationadaptation of that story. By physically bringing together the Latin and vernacular compositions, the Durham scribe draws our attention to—and invites us to study—the special relationship between these works. At the same time, he (or she) emphasizes the importance of Benedeit’s vernacular rewriting by placing the OF poem at the beginning of the codex. Digby 23 stands apart from the manuscripts mentioned above in that the Timaeus and the Roland were not only copied by two different twelfth-century scribes, but also maintained
7 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
individual lives until their collation at least one century later. This does not mean, however, that the two works were never read together. Charles Samaran identified, on the last page of the Roland (fol. 72r), the presence of the word ‘‘Chalcidius,’’ which he believed to have been copied by the same thirteenth-century reader who inserted several verses from Juvenal’s eighth Satire on one of the flyleaves (fol. 74r). Samaran deduced from this that the codex must have been assembled in the thirteenth century. (Were this indeed the case, then the annotation made by the reader could be understood as a reference to the first part of the codex.) Ian Short, however, maintains that the Digby Timaeus and Roland circulated in separate copies until the fourteenth century. If this is true, then it is also quite possible that a learned thirteenth-century reader of Roland, familiar (as he surely would be) with Plato’s Timaeus, recognized significant links to Calcidius’ translation and acknowledged these with the aforementioned annotation. In any case, the thematic unity of Digby 23 invites modern scholars to consider to what extent the binding of once-separate manuscripts into a single book may have constituted, at least in some cases, an educated and intentional act during the Middle Ages. In presenting side-by-side Plato’s Timaeus and the OF Song of Roland, Digby MS 23 becomes an inherently humanistic book, that exemplifies twelfth-century clergie’s quest to commemorate and implement the teachings of the ancients. In particular, the fruitful juxtaposition of the widelyread and learned Latin work and equally-famous vernacular poem urges readers of Digby 23, both medieval and modern, to reflect upon the important place occupied by writing, and by truthful mythical narrative, in the preservation and transmission of knowledge. Digby 23 also raises important questions that go beyond the boundaries of the manuscript and the juxtaposition of the two works it contains. Literally standing upon the shoulders of Plato’s dialogue, the vernacular and poetic Roland invites scholars of medieval literature to see one step further by considering to what extent the principles gleaned from the widespread study of the Timaeus, and in particular of the Myth of Atlantis, may have contributed to the emergence of other vernacular narrative poetry—such as the Anglo-Norman Voyage de saint Brendan or even the courtly romances of Chre´tien de Troyes— during the second half of the twelfth century in France. But that is a task for the future.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
Source: K. Sarah Jane Murray, ‘‘Plato’s Timaeus and the Song of Roland: Remarks on Oxford Bodleian MS Digby 23,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 83, No. 2, Spring 2004, pp. 115 26.
Ann Tukey Harrison In the following excerpt, Harrison compares the two main female characters in the Song of Roland, Aude and Bramimunde. Modern students of the humanities in high school, college, and graduate school who study the history of western civilization in a wide variety of disciplines from anthropology to comparative literature and French are currently exposed to the Chanson de Roland (in English, modern French, or Old French); usually they read short passages of a hundred verses or so, and they are told about the content and emphasis of the work as a whole. Such readers are led to two conclusions concerning women characters in French epic literature: 1) women are unimportant or even nonexistent in the French epic; 2) the major female character in the Chanson de Roland, Aude, Roland’s fiance´e, offers a typical feminine depiction: her appearance is brief, unusually beautiful, and poignant. The first premise does find corroboration in many chansons de geste, where women are secondary or tertiary figures, not major protagonists of heroic proportions. The French epic seems to have been written for, by, and about men. The second premise, asserting the representative nature of Aude and the remarkable beauty of her few verses, continues to be popular, both in French and English-language scholarship. In some ways, this can be seen as a direct response to the intellectual currents of our own time, when women as students and scholars are increasingly interested in the roles of women in literature and in the cultures that produced such writings. Two questions are central to a balanced appraisal and understanding of women characters in the Chanson de Roland: how important to this work is Aude? are there other artistically interesting women characters in the poem? Aude is first mentioned during the rearguard battle. When first named in verses 1719– 1721, she is a relative latecomer to the story. The poet focuses at once on her relationship or kinship to both of the heroes, Roland and Olivier: she is fiance´e to one, sister of the other. The two companions have disagreed vigorously earlier, and their debate is renewed at the turning point of the battle, when their heroism is at its apogee.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
Here the reader first hears of Aude, from Olivier, in the heat of anger . . . . Critics have observed the importance of the whole battlefield debate without much attention to its effect on the characterization of Aude. She is introduced at a privileged moment of high emotion, in a passage that circumscribes four traits essential to her character: her noble family lineage; her passive status therein dominated by their right of bestowal of her person in marriage; her prestigious betrothal; and her discreetly sexual role as bride-to-be. At this point, Aude’s possession, within the limits of family and marriage—two of the primary circles of medieval woman’s social existence—is a subject of a mild oath, uttered in anger, a corollary to the foremost male pursuit—warfare. It is not an exaggeration, within this context, to equate Aude with royal booty, one of the better prizes of conquest. Aude’s major episode, two thousand verses later, consists of a dialogue with Charlemagne, about Roland, followed by her death and interment. Described only as ‘‘une bele damisele’’ [‘‘a fair damsel’’], she meets the emperor on the steps of his palace, to ask: ‘‘C¸o dist al rei: ‘O est Rollant le catanie, / Ki me jurat cume sa per a prendre?’’’ [‘‘She said to the King: ‘Where is Roland, the captain, / Who gave me his solemn word he would take me to wife?’’’] Charles, weeping and tearing his beard, tells her she inquires after a dead man, and he then offers her his own son Louis in marriage. Aude finds the offer ‘‘estrange,’’ which I interpret to mean ‘‘incompatible or inconsistent with my nature and view of my life.’’ Praying that it not please God, his angels, and saints for her to survive Roland, she drops dead. (The same idiom, aler a sa fin, is used to describe Roland also, right after his death.) Charlesmagne, thinking she has fainted, attempts to revive her, then calls four countesses to carry the body to a convent, where, after a night’s vigil, she is buried beside an altar. Finally, Charlemagne endows a convent in Aude’s honor. Aude is faithful, pious, beautiful, a noblewoman whose sacrifice is honored. Her status is thrice indicated: first, by her direct approach to the emperor, which is well received by him; second, by his reactions to her words, his deep concern for her and his marriage offer of his own heir; finally, by his endowment of the convent. Although Aude is here an initiator of action, a woman who speaks and acts, she does so only in relation to male characters. As her introduction as a character was
V o l u m e
2
7 2 3
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
defined by her relationship to Roland and Olivier, her deeds here are directly related to Charlemagne, her sovereign, with full power over her person. The poet implicitly suggests the spatial and legal constraints within which she exists (the palace and the arranged marriage), while explicitly stating the male dominance that circumscribes her life. Charlemagne’s actions begin and end the episode, and his words or deeds occupy seventeen of the twenty-nine verses. Aude’s life has been one of honor, within the confines of family, betrothal, and church; although she is associated with the major heroic figures of the poem (Roland, Olivier, Charlemagne), she is sheltered, protected, bestowed. She is wholly dependent, and her honor, like her status, is reflected from male characters. Some critics call her death a martyrdom, and both Re´au and Brault associate her demise with the iconographic formula of the Death of the Virgin. As Brault writes: ‘‘Like Mary, Alda is a virgin, and her passing, which is so peaceful it completely deceives Charles into believing she has merely fainted, is an awe-inspiring dormition.’’ Scholars have seen her as the last victim of the Battle of Roncesvalles, the most touching reminder of Roland, the incarnation of ideal love and the most moving of all tributes to Roland’s glory, one of Roland’s greatest claims to glory. Although her twenty-nine verses are surely not mere decoration, some of these claims on her behalf are hyperbolic and distorted. Her episode is woven well into the epic’s action; she does contribute to the character development of both Roland and Charlemagne, but she does not directly reinforce the poem’s central theme of Christian supremacy over the pagans. Beautiful Aude is tightly confined, subordinate, and supportive, and if that is typical of unmarried noblewomen of her time, then she can be called representative and, if not mimetic, at least grosso modo realistic. A much more significant female figure is the Saracen queen Bramimunde, wife of Saragossa’s King Marsile. By far the most developed woman character in this epic, she is an independent, active participant in four different passages, each of which is strategically located within the poem’s action. Bramimunde first appears in the scene of treachery (when the betrayal of the French rearguard is planned by Ganelon and the Saracen leaders to whom he is an ambassador); she is next a central figure during the scenes showing the reactions to Marsile’s defeat; she is prominent
7 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
in three stages of the second half of the poem when Charlemagne as Roland’s emperor and Christendom’s champion defeats the Emir Baligant, sovereign of Marsile and ruler of Araby; and finally, her conversion to Christianity is reported by the poet as part of the poem’s conclusion. In each instance she is directly and explicitly linked with the emperor Charlemagne. She is the sole individualized Saracen survivor, and by her baptism, arranged at Charles’ behest, she embodies the primary theme of the chanson: the Christians are right, the pagans are wrong. Laisse 50, within the section of the poem where Ganelon plans the Saracen ambush of the French rearguard led by Roland, contains a description of Bramimunde’s gifts to the wife of the French ambassador and traitor. While Ganelon is in council with the enemy Saracens, Bramimunde comes to the gathering, declares her affection for the Frenchman, and states that she is sending two necklaces (with gold, amethysts, and sapphires) to Ganelon’s wife. In this her first appearance, Bramimunde concludes with a formulaic, oblique reference to Charlemagne: ‘‘Vostre emperere si bones n’en out unches’’ [‘‘Your Emperor never had such fine ones’’]. The Queen is not the only pagan to give presents to Ganelon; Valdabrun has already offered his sword and Climorin his helmet, but the men’s gifts are to the ambassador directly, and the men exchange kisses as well to seal the gift-giving. Bramimunde’s gifts are non-military, for Ganelon’s wife (a woman never mentioned again), and the feudal kiss is replaced by a statement that ‘‘Il les ad prises, en sa hoese les butet’’ [‘‘He took them, he sticks them in his boot’’]. The author of the Roland is fully cognizant of Bramimunde’s femininity, and he depicts actions and statements that are appropriate for women. Brault finds Bramimunde’s words to Ganelon ‘‘bold and suggestive.’’ . . . [He] explains that ‘‘the voluptuous and amoral Saracen lady is a stock character in epic literature.’’ He also notes that in this passage, as elsewhere in the epic tradition, ‘‘diabolism and eroticism are closely intertwined.’’ I find little substantiation for this interpretation, in this section of the text or in other appearances of Bramimunde in the poem. She is a Queen, with a political and religious role; her gifts are to Ganelon’s wife; and nowhere else in the text does her conduct convey an erotic connotation, much less diabolism.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
Bramimunde’s second scene takes place in Saragossa, immediately after the defeat of Marsile. In laisse 187, she cries out, along with 20,000 men. They are reported to curse Charlemagne, then proceed to depose their gods while uttering blasphemous shouts and curses quoted by the poet directly. Although Bramimunde is the only individual of the stanza, her appearance is very short (three verses), and the actions and words are attributed to the mob as well. The next stanza, laisse 188, the last before the principal division of the poem (the second part or Baligant episode), is devoted entirely to Bramimunde’s outpouring of grief, in deed and word. . . . The Saracen reaction to Marsile’s defeat is described in terms of the undifferentiated mob and Bramimunde, who is the only individual to speak for the infidel cause. She performs the ritual actions of grief and delivers a carefully balanced, eleven-verse speech of formal lamentation. The third set of passages in which Bramimunde appears are the three stages of the Baligant section; she is still a part of the Saracen court. Marsile, her husband, was victorious over Roland’s rearguard, but Charlemagne’s army has destroyed the Saracen troops. Now Marsile’s sovereign, the Emir Baligant, comes to do battle with the Emperor Charles, in the ultimate conflict between pagan and Christian. When the messengers from Baligant arrive at Saragossa, at the court of Marsile, his Queen receives them, and she counsels them twice. Neither speech is well received, and both times a male character virtually tells her to be quiet, in so many words. Their refusal to listen to her is, eventually, their undoing, for she has ended each statement of advice with a warning about the power of Charlemagne . . . .
o f
R o l a n d
along with the subsequent death of Marsile. She fills an official role, both as Queen and as witness. The fourth stage of her role in the Chanson de Roland is her conversion to Christianity. It is announced by the poet during the sack of Saragossa; each time the reader is told that it is the will of the king that she be converted, but by love and not by force, in France and not in Spain. She is to be taken, as a prisoner, to Aix. This information is conveyed directly twice. The first time, she is the only individual taken, unconverted, from Saragossa home to France. . . . The second reference says that the Emperor wishes her only good. After the trial of Ganelon and the execution of his kin (among whom there is no mention of his wife, to whom Bramimunde sent the necklaces), Charlemagne’s first concern seems to be the conversion of his queenly captive. . . . [In the baptism scene, as] with the gift-giving scene, the poet is conscious that Bramimunde is a woman, and the ritual observed is appropriate for a nun, not a male convert. The final stanza of the entire poem contains the reiteration of the conversion of Charlemagne’s important prisoner; this is the third accomplishment of his mission—he has done justice, assuaged his anger, and given Christianity to Bramimunde. . . . Although converted and baptised Juliana, she is in the last reference known under the old, familiar Saracen name, and she here represents the Saracen community of which she is the sole individualized survivor.
And finally, Bramimunde, from a tower, witnesses the Emir’s defeat, called the confounding of Araby, and she invokes Mohammed while reporting the shame and death she sees. Upon hearing her words, her wounded husband Marsile turns his face to the wall and dies of grief.
A feminist appraisal of Bramimunde must answer at least three crucial questions: is she a full-fledged member of the society depicted? does she act outside of the love-marriage situation? is she a role model? Certainly Bramimunde’s participation in her society is full, if not extraordinary. The gift scene, her role in the formal reception of Baligant’s embassy and the Emir’s arrival at Saragossa, and finally her conversion, at the singular behest of Charles: the importance of these episodes and her particular behavior in them show her as not only a full-fledged member, but, by the end of the geste, as the representative of the Saracen world. On two instances when she is rebuffed by Saracen men, rudely, the poet shows that Bramimunde is right and the pagans are wrong when they do not heed her warnings.
Bramimunde is in evidence and speaks at three crucial moments during the Baligant encounter: the arrival of the messengers, the arrival of the Emir himself, and the defeat of Baligant
Though the reader would infer that her title Queen of Spain comes to her through marriage with Marsile, the author of the Roland only twice qualifies her as ‘‘his wife,’’ both in stanza
Bramimunde is the official of the court to welcome the Emir Baligant, throwing herself at his feet, as she bemoans her pitiful situation, since she has lost her lord (Marsile being wounded and incapable of protecting her).
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
7 2 5
S o n g
o f
R o l a n d
187, in the scene where she sees and understands the severity of her husband’s wounds. The poet far prefers to call her by name or royal title. Bramimunde is portrayed as a loyal wife, fulfilling the regal duties of her status, but after the mortal wounding of her spouse Marsile, her activity, prominence, and representative position increase, verse by verse. And long after her king-consort has died, Queen Bramimunde is alive, a worthy convert, far beyond the love-marriage identification of other medieval women in other works of literature, such as Iseut. The most important facet of Bramimunde’s presentation by the Roland poet is her close association, specifically stated in each instance, with Charles. Every time she appears, without exception, she or the poet makes explicit reference to Charles the Emperor. And this link, forged from her debut as gift-giving queen, to the great king, with a divinely bestowed mission of subduing or converting the pagans, brings Bramimunde into contact with the major theme of the poem. Neither diabolic nor erotic, she is not a romantic foil for Charles, or a feminine counterpart, or a pseudoconsort; she is instead a living example of the most lasting and benevolent side of his assigned earthly task—the flower of the pagan world converted to Christianity, admitted in honor to the very center of Christendom, and the only preoccupation of Charles when the vengeance is over. Aude and Bramimunde offer an interesting set of opposite characteristics; in some ways they are complementary to one another: Christian/Saracen, virgin betrothed/wife then widow, noblewoman/ queen, representative of women left behind/representative of the Saracen political and religious community, inexperienced youth of uncompromising idealism/experienced middle age capable of compromise and conversion. Critics observe a religious association for both (Aude with the Virgin Mary in death, Bramimunde with St. Juliana in baptism), and both are clearly female, depicted as women in actions appropriate to women. Teachers who decide to emphasize Aude at the expense of Bramimunde are choosing to stress Roland’s sacrifice as the central event of the epic, since Aude as a character serves, perhaps exclusively, to reinforce Roland’s role. Bramimunde as a character is more full, much more active, and woven into the greater theme of the whole epic: Charlemagne’s conquest of the pagans, as the champion of Christendom. Although the total number of verses devoted to both women is small (twenty-nine for Aude and one hundred forty-
7 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
seven for Bramimunde, out of four thousand), these women are integral to the plot, character, and thematic development of the chanson. An examination of them both, in measured fashion, is but another way of observing the meticulous artistry of the Roland poet. Source: Ann Tukey Harrison, ‘‘Aude and Bramimunde: Their Importance in the Chanson de Roland,’’ in French Review, Vol. 54, No. 5, April 1981, pp. 672 79.
SOURCES Aries, Marianne J., The ‘‘Song of Roland’’: On Absolutes and Relative Values, Studies in Mediaeval Literature, Vol. 20, Edwin Mellen, 2002. Bloch, R. Howard, ‘‘Roland and Oedipus: A Study of Paternity in La Chanson de Roland,’’ in French Review, Vol. 46, 1973, pp. 1 18. Burgess, Glyn S., trans., The Song of Roland, Penguin Books, 1990. Harrison, Ann Tukey, ‘‘Aude and Bramimunde: Their Importance in the Chanson de Roland,’’ in French Review, Vol. 54, No. 5, April 1981, pp. 672 79. Jenkins, T. Atkinson, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in La Chanson de Roland, edited by T. Atkinson Jenkins, American Life Foundation, 1924, reprint, 1977. Mickel, Emanuel J., Ganelon, Treason, and the ‘‘Chanson de Roland,’’ Pennsylvania State University, 1990. Murray, K. Sarah Jane, ‘‘Plato’s Timaeus and the Song of Roland: Remarks on Oxford Bodleian MS Digby 23,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 83, No. 2, Spring 2004, pp. 115 27. Owen, D. D. R., The Legend of Roland: A Pageant of the Middle Ages, Phaidon, 1973. Renoir, Alain, ‘‘Roland’s Lament: Its Meaning and Function in the Chanson de Roland,’’ in Speculum, Vol. 35, No. 4, 1960, pp. 572 83. Vance, Eugene, Reading the ‘‘Song of Roland,’’ Prentice Hall, 1972.
FURTHER READING Argote, Joel Thompson, ‘‘Charlemagne’s Women,’’ in Romance Languages Annual, Vol. 9, 1997, pp. 1 5. Argote explores the history of misogyny, link ing the idea of female inferiority, which was generally held in the Middle Ages, with both Aristotle’s philosophy and the medieval Chris tian church. Starting with the assumption that a medieval text would present a woman as Other, Argote argues that both Bramimonde and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S o n g
Charlemagne’s wife actually ‘‘subvert the domi nant ideological structure in ways that go unno ticed by the undiscerning patriarchal eye.’’ Auerbach, Erich, ‘‘Roland against Ganelon,’’ in Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans lated by Willard R. Trask, Princeton University Press, 2003, pp. 96 122. This chapter in Auerbach’s fiftieth anniversary edition of his important 1953 work examines the technical composition of the Song of Roland, focusing on the work’s representation of reality. Burgess, Glyn S., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Song of Roland, translated by Glyn Burgess, Penguin, 1990, pp. 7 25. The introduction to this modern translation of the poem provides information about the prov enance of the manuscript, the historical back ground of the poem, a plot synopsis, and a technical analysis of the poetry and language of the poet. Kibler, William W., and Leslie Zarker Morgan, eds., Approaches to Teaching the ‘‘Song of Roland,’’ Modern Language Association of America, 2006. Thirty specialists in the field contributed essays to this book, which in total is designed to help teachers in higher education introduce their stu dents to this epic, either in French or in trans lation. This work is an indispensable aid for teachers of the French epic. King, David S., ‘‘Mutilation and Dismemberment in the Chanson de Roland, a Question of Faith?’’ in Romance Notes, Vol. 45, No. 3, Spring 2005, pp. 247 62. In this essay, King explains the medieval idea that the soul permeates the physical body and that mutilation and amputation in the epic can be read as indicating moral depravity and the loss of spiritual integrity. Morrissey, Robert, Charlemagne and France: A Thousand Years of Mythology, Heldref, 2003.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
R o l a n d
In a readable and accessible narrative, Morrissey explains how the character of Charlemagne was reconstructed through ten centuries of French history. Ramey, Lynn T., ‘‘The Death of Aude and the Conversion of Bramimonde: Border Pedagogy and Medieval Feminist Criticism,’’ in Approaches to Teaching the ‘‘Song of Roland,’’ edited by William Kibler and Leslie Zarker Mor gan, Modern Language Association, 2006, pp. 232 37. This article finds points of entry for students of diverse backgrounds when reading this stereo typically French, so called masculine war epic. The entire book is interesting and accessible for students and teachers alike. Ramey, Lynn T., ‘‘‘La geste que Turoldus declinet’: His tory and Authorship in Frank Cassenti’s Chanson de Roland (France, 1978),’’ in Hollywood in the Holy Land: The Fearful Symmetries of Movie Medievalism, edited by Nickolas Haydock and Edward Risden, McFarland, 2008, pp. 147 60. This article looks at the film version of the Song of Roland made in France in 1978 and discloses how the director inserted his own preoccupa tion with the Franco Algerian war and racism in 1970s France into the medieval epic.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Charlemagne Charlemagne AND Battle of Rouncesvalles Chanson de Roland medieval French epic Saracen Song of Roland Song of Roland AND Islam
V o l u m e
2
7 2 7
Sundiata DJELI MAMOUDOU KOUYATE´ C. 1200–1400
This tale tells of the great thirteenth-century ruler of Mali, Sundiata. The story has been passed down through the centuries from a long line of oral historians, or griots, who are charged with keeping the memories of the past alive. Once only available to those who could understand the native language of the griot, which in the case of Sundiata is Mandekan, the Sundiata intrigued Mali historian Djibril Tamsir Niane. He transcribed the words of the griot Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´ and produced a French translation in 1960. (Naming the people and their language, from which this epic comes, is a difficult matter. This entry uses Malinke as the name for the people and Mandekan for the name of their language, following the preference of John William Johnson, a translator of the epic and folklore scholar.) An English translation by G. D. Pickett appeared, which first appeared in 1965, was published by Longman in a revised edition in 2006. The Sundiata illustrates the anthropological importance of saving the words of the oral historians before the advent of literacy extinguishes their memories. The griots and many other oral historians work for a particular patron, and as the patronage system falls into decline, these taleweavers are less and less able to support themselves with their words. The significance of these oral historians is underlined in the epic itself: A griot plays an important role in helping Sundiata defeat his enemy Soumaoro. In addition, the story of Sundiata contains important lessons for people of all times. For
7 2 8
S u n d i a t a
example, it cautions that appearances can be deceiving: Sundiata’s physically repulsive mother becomes an honored queen, and Sundiata himself overcomes a severe handicap to become a great warrior. Another lesson is that hospitality pays, as those rulers who receive Sundiata well during his period as an outcast are rewarded under his reign. Above all, readers learn to respect their own history and ancestors, for they are the link to their past and to their own identity.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The story of Sundiata, the thirteenth-century ruler of Mali, was preserved through the patriarchal line of griots, bards whose function in their society is to preserve the oral history of their people. This account was told from father to son for generations. It was first written down by the historian Djibril Tamsir Niane (b. 1932), who transcribed the story as it was recounted by Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´. The stories told by griots are not fixed in the way that written texts are: Each recitation or performance may include additions or deletions and can feature embellishment of some episodes and the downplaying of others. The griot may choose to play up the accomplishments of the distant ancestors of audience members as a sign of respect or to ensure that they will like what they are hearing. Thus, while the basic story derives from multiple storytellers who shaped it over time, the version that Niane wrote down is distinctly that of Kouyate´. Kouyate´ is a modernday griot of the Keita clan, which claims descent from Sundiata himself. Niane made the work available to a wide audience by publishing his version in French, and G. D. Pickett later translated the work into English. Pickett also collated his translation with the original Mandekan spoken by Kouyate´.
PLOT SUMMARY Part I: The Buffalo Woman After giving his lineage and justifying his right to tell the tale, the narrator begins the story of Sundiata by telling how Sundiata’s mother and father came to be married. Sundiata’s father, Maghan Kon Fatta, rules Mali. He has one
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
The story of Sundiata is told in part by a master griot in the film Keita! The griot teaches a young boy his own worth by sharing with him the story of his ancestor, Sundiata. The 1994 motion picture directed by Dani Kouyate´ is available on videocassette from California Newsreel. The film is in Jula and French with English subtitles. The Disney full-length animated movie The Lion King (1994) incorporates many elements of traditional African oral narrative. The cartoon’s plot resembles that of Sundiata in several respects. Studio executives have stated that The Lion King is Disney’s first wholly original film, not based on any existing work. This has been questioned by some scholars.
Son-Jara: The Mande Epic Performance by ` o` is a 2003 abridged audio Jeli fa-Digi Sisok book by John William Johnson that gives his translation of the Sundiata epic as told to ` o. ` The CD is him by the griot fa-Digi Sisok available from Indiana University Press.
wife, Sassouma Be´re´te´, and a son named Dankaran Touman. One day a hunter comes to Maghan Kon Fatta’s court, bringing part of his catch in homage to the ruler, as was customary. The king asks the hunter, who is also a fortuneteller, to throw his cowry shells in a divination ceremony to reveal the future. Speaking in obscure language, the hunter reveals that the king’s successor is not yet born and that his heir will come from a hideous woman brought by two strangers. Some time later, two hunters appear at court from the land of Do with a veiled female hunchback. The brothers announce her to be a wife worthy of the king and proceed to relate how they obtained her. The hunters had gone to search for a buffalo that was ravaging the countryside of Do. Great rewards had been promised
V o l u m e
2
7 2 9
S u n d i a t a
to whoever killed the buffalo. They encountered an old woman who begged for food, which they gave her. In return for this kindness, she revealed that she was the buffalo in human form and told them the secret of how to kill her animal form. She insisted that when the hunters were offered their choice from among the local maidens as their reward, they select the ugly hunchback named Sogolon Kedjou. Sogolon is the buffalo’s wraith; that is, she embodies the soul of the shape-shifting buffalo. The hunters agree to all of this. The spirit of the buffalo makes Sogolon strong, however, and she fights off the hunter who attempts to consummate his marriage with her. Unable to use her as they wish, the hunters thus bestow her on Maghan Kon Fatta, neglecting to tell him that she will not submit to any man. Reminded of the fortune-teller’s prophecy by his griot, Gnankouman Doua, the king takes Sogolon Kedjou as his second wife. On their marriage night, however, the king tries in vain to possess her, but with the strength of the buffalo spirit, she rebuffs him. After a week of such failures, the king tells her that he has discovered that he must sacrifice her. She faints from fear, and he is able to consummate the marriage while she is unconscious. Sundiata is conceived that very night.
Part II: Sundiata’s Childhood Maghan Kon Fatta’s first wife, Sassouma, fears that the prophecy, which seems to be coming true, will mean that her own son Dankaran Touman will not rule Mali after his father. She is pleased when it becomes evident that her rival’s son cannot walk. Sogolon and the king try remedies of all sorts, but Sundiata remains lame. The king marries a third wife, Namandje´, whose son Manding Bory becomes Sundiata’s best friend. The king seeks more advice about his sons and is reassured that Sundiata is the foretold heir. The king gives his own griot’s son, Balla Fasse´ke´, to Sundiata to be his griot. The king dies not long after this. Sassouma plots with the council of elders to have her son Dankaran Touman put on the throne. Sassouma encourages others to ridicule Sogolon and her other children, but especially Sundiata, who is still crawling at the age of seven. One day, in tears from being mocked, Sogolon laments to Sundiata that he cannot go and pick baobab leaves for her as other boys do for their mothers.
7 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
Sundiata calls for an iron rod. He uses it to haul himself to his feet and takes his first steps. Striding to the baobab tree, he pulls it, roots and all, from the ground and brings it to his mother. From that day on, Sundiata excels at all physical pursuits, in particular hunting. As the years pass, Sassouma grows more worried that Sundiata will take the throne from her son. When Sundiata is ten, she asks the nine great witches of Mali to kill him. They agree to try, but when Sundiata returns their deceit with kindness, they find they cannot harm him and instead offer their powers in protection. Sundiata’s mother Sogolon realizes that her family is in danger at the Mali court. When the regent prince Dankaran Touman sends Sundiata’s griot, Balla Fasse´ke´, to the court of the sorcerer-king Soumaoro Kante´, Sogolon and her children leave. Sundiata vows to return and reclaim the throne someday.
Part III: Sundiata in Exile Sundiata and his family spend seven years in exile, sometimes finding welcome but more often finding that Sassouma has sent messages to other kingdoms urging that they turn the wanderers away. In the court of Djedeba, for example, the sorcerer-king Mansa Konkon challenges Sundiata to a life-or-death match of a word game called wori, which Sundiata wins by revealing that the king has accepted a bribe to kill Sundiata. When Sundiata wins, the king allows him to live but expels him and his family from the court. Next the family goes to Tabon, where one of Sundiata’s childhood friends, Fran Kamara, is crown prince. The reunion is joyful, but the boy’s father is afraid of Sassouma, and he insists that Sundiata and his family go elsewhere. They travel to Ghana, to the palace of the great Cisse´ clan. King Soumaba Cisse´ welcomes the visitors and treats Sundiata and his siblings as princes and princesses of his own realm. Sogolon falls ill, and the family must move to a more favorable climate. In Mema, the court of King Soumaba Cisse´’s cousin, Tounkara, the family thrives, and the youthful Sundiata becomes an important advisor to King Tounkara, even governing in the king’s absence.
Part IV: Soumaoro Kante´, the Sorcerer-king During Sundiata’s years of exile, his griot, Balla Fasse´ke´, has been at the court of Soumaoro
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
Kante´. This evil king’s power is legendary. His town of Sosso is fortified and invincible, his own palace a seven-story tower in the center of town. On the seventh floor he keeps his fetishes, magic charms that are the source of his evil power. Soumaoro has conquered all the surrounding peoples, including the people of Mali. One day Balla Fasse´ke´ stumbles into the fetish room. Carpeted in human skins, the room contains the heads of the nine kings that Soumaoro has conquered. A giant snake, owls, and fantastic weaponry also fill the room. The griot spots a magic balafon, or xylophone, that he begins to play, bringing the ghoulish chamber to life. Soumaoro knows that someone has touched his xylophone, and he races to the chamber to kill the intruder. Balla Fasse´ke´, hearing the king’s arrival, improvises a tune in honor of the sorcerer-king. The song so pleases Soumaoro that he decides to make Balla Fasse´ke´ his own griot. The evil king continues attacking and subjugating lands, ruling his people in terror. In an ultimate outrage, Soumaoro steals the wife of his own nephew and chief general, Fakoli Koroma. Fakoli swears revenge, and the men of many lands attacked by Soumaoro answer Fakoli’s call to arms. As Dankaran Touman seeks to join the revolt, Soumaoro again invades Mali. Dankaran flees, leaving his villages to be pillaged and the capital city of Niani to be burned to the ground. Soumaoro proclaims himself king of Mali, but some villagers remember the words of the soothsayer and form resistance groups loyal to the prophesied king of Mali, Sundiata; however, no one knows where to find the exiled king.
One day in Mema, Sundiata’s sister Kolonkan sees a woman selling baobab leaves, a type of produce available only from Mali. She speaks to the woman, who is in fact one of the Malinke searching for Sundiata. Sogolon and Sundiata receive an embassy of notables from the court of Mali, learning of Soumaoro’s depredations against their homeland. Sundiata vows to join the army of Fakoli to help defeat Soumaoro. The next morning, Sogolon dies. Sundiata leaves to join Fakoli, despite the protests of the king of Mema, who considers Sundiata his heir. Sundiata begins his march on Soumaoro by defeating the troops under the command of Soumaoro’s son, Sosso Balla. Later he meets Soumaoro’s own troops, and though Sundiata and
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
Reunited in battle with his griot, Balla Fasse´ke´, Sundiata learns that Soumaoro’s evil power can be destroyed if he is shot with an arrow tipped with a magical rooster’s claw. During the next battle, Sundiata grazes Soumaoro with the magic weapon, depleting his powers enough so that he can be driven from the battlefield, though not killed. The victorious troops then march on Soumaoro’s town of Sosso, take the fortified city, and find that the king’s fetishes have lost their power. The sorcerer king has been conquered.
Part VI: Sundiata, Ruler of Mali The allies go on to defeat all of Soumaoro’s partisans. Sundiata travels back to Mali to rule. He appoints the descendants of Balla Fasse´ke´, the Kouyate´s, as the official griots to his heirs, the Keitas. He finds that the inhabitants of Niani have already started to rebuild their city, and Sundiata makes it his center of power. Here Sundiata rules justly and wisely for many years. Though many great rulers come after Sundiata, none equal the son of the Buffalo Woman and the Lion King. He leaves his mark on Mali for all time, Kouyate´ reminds us, and his decrees still guide the citizens in their conduct.
CHARACTERS Sosso Balla
Part V: The Return of Sundiata
E p i c s
Fakoli’s other allies fight well, they cannot take Soumaoro himself, for he has magical abilities and can vanish at will. Little by little, the allies drive back Soumaoro’s troops, but he eludes them.
E d i t i o n ,
Soumaoro’s son, Sosso Balla leads his father’s troops. When the sorcerer-king flees at the battle of Krina, Sosso Balla is Sundiata’s main captive.
Sassouma Be´re´te´ Maghan Kon Fatta’s first wife, Sassouma Be´re´te´ expects her son to become the next king of Mali. When prophets foretell the marriage of the king and Sogolon and the birth of Sundiata, Sassouma is consumed with jealousy. She taunts Sogolon when her son cannot walk, thus provoking Sundiata to raise himself to his feet to avenge his mother’s honor. Plotting his death, she hires witches to kill him, but they are won over to his side because of his inherent goodness. Knowing that his family is in danger, Sundiata flees from the intrigues of Sassouma,
V o l u m e
2
7 3 1
S u n d i a t a
but she continues to plague him. Sending sums of money to his hosts, she convinces them either to turn him away or try to kill him. In the end, however, Sassouma’s plotting only serves to fulfill Sundiata’s destiny, as the travels and travails she forces upon him cause him to develop into a strong, wise, cautious, and judicious person and mighty warrior.
Do Mansa-Gnemo Diarra
Manding Bory
King Gnemo Diarra
Manding Bory, son of Namandje´, is Sundiata’s step- or half-brother and best friend. The two boys grow up together, inseparable, and when Sogolon and her family go into exile, Manding Bory accompanies them. Later, when Sundiata becomes the commander of his own troops, he appoints Manding Bory as the head of his rear guard. Manding Bory continues to be Sundiata’s most important general under the new empire of Mali once Sundiata has taken the throne of his homeland, and he receives many honors in return for his services.
See Do Mansa-Gnemo Diarra
Do Mansa-Gnemo Diarra is the king of the land of Do. When he grants the ugly hunchbacked woman Sogolon Kedjou as the prize to the hunters who kill the buffalo ravaging his lands, he starts the cycle of events that bring Sundiata’s parents together. The people of Do join Sundiata in defeating the sorcerer-king Soumaoro.
Manding Diara See Sundiata
Sogolon Djamarou Sundiata’s youngest sister, Sogolon Djamarou goes into exile with her family when her mother, Sogolon Kedjou, fears that Sundiata is in danger from the plotting of the king’s first wife.
Djata See Sundiata
Manding Boukari See Manding Bory
Mari Djata See Sundiata
Buffalo of Do When a buffalo terrorizes the countryside of Do, the king puts a bounty on its head. Many hunters try to kill the buffalo and are killed in the process. Nonetheless, the hunters, Oulamba and Oulani, decide to try their hand at the task. On the trail of the buffalo, Oulamba sees an old woman lamenting her hunger and begging for food, and he responds by sharing his food with her. She is, in fact, the Buffalo of Do in human form. Touched by his generosity, she tells him the magical method of killing her. In return, the Buffalo of Do asks that the hunter choose Sogolon Kedjou, her wraith, as his reward.
Buffalo Woman See Sogolon Kedjou
Nare´ Maghan Djata See Sundiata
Sogolon Djata See Sundiata
Gnankouman Doua Griot to King Maghan Kon Fatta, Gnankouman Doua often advises the king when he must make important decisions. It is the griot who encourages the Hunter of Sangaran to reveal the prophecy about the king’s future bride, Sogolon. Reminding the king of his duty to follow the prophecy of the hunter, Gnankouman Doua helps fulfill Sundiata’s destiny. Gnankouman Doua’s son, Balla Fasse´ke´, continues his father’s line, becoming griot for Sundiata.
Soumaba Cisse´ The king of Ghana welcomes Sundiata and his family into his court for a year after they flee Mali. Hospitable to his guests, he treats the children like princes and princesses of his own country. When Sogolon falls ill in Ghana, the family must leave for the more healthful climate of Mema. The generosity and kindness of Soumaba Cisse´ ensure goodwill for his people when Sundiata becomes a great ruler.
7 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
Balla Fasse´ke´ Given to Sundiata by his father, Balla Fasse´ke´ is Sundiata’s griot and the son of King Maghan Kon Fatta’s griot Gnankouman Doua. Sundiata’s half brother Dankaran Touman sends Balla Fasse´ke´ to the court of the sorcerer-king Soumaoro. Having learned the secrets of Soumaoro’s chamber of fetishes, Balla Fasse´ke´, along with Nana Triban, advises Sundiata on the magic required to drain
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
the sorcerer-king’s powers. Because he is instrumental in Sundiata’s victory over Soumaoro, and the praise songs he sings about Sundiata, Balla Fasse´ke´ ensures that Sundiata’s descendants, the Keita, will always choose their griots from his line, the Kouyate´. Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´, who told the version of the epic that was transcribed by D. T. Niane, claimed descent from Balla Fasse´ke´.
Maghan Kon Fatta Sundiata’s father, Maghan Kon Fatta, is known for his great physical attractiveness and his hunting skills. He is also considered to be a wise and kind ruler. Already married, he expects his first son, Dankaran Touman, to be his heir until the day that a soothsaying hunter tells him that another son, not yet born, had been foreseen to rule Mali. From this point on, Maghan Kon Fatta struggles between following what was foretold and what appears on the surface to be the natural way of things. When he sees the ugly hunchbacked woman Sogolon, he can hardly believe that he is to marry her, yet he fulfills the prophecy by their union. Even when their son, Sundiata, is born lame, Maghan Kon Fatta complies with the soothsayer and declares the child to be his heir. Each decision is difficult for Maghan Kon Fatta, but the fact that he follows the advice of the soothsayers and village wise men, rather than making the choices that his pride dictates, is taken as a sign of his wisdom and goodness as a ruler.
The Hunter from Sangaran shows up at Maghan Kon Fatta’s court one day to give the king a portion of his catches, as custom dictates. Sangaran hunters were known to be great soothsayers, so Maghan Kon Fatta and his griot ask him to tell about the future of Mali. Divining with cowry shells, the hunter is the first to tell the king about Sogolon, her destined marriage with the king, and the remarkable destiny in store for the son they will have together.
Son of the king of Tabon, Fran Kamara grows up in the court of King Maghan Kon Fatta together with Sundiata. When Sundiata’s family flees Mali, they travel first to Tabon, but Fran Kamara’s elderly father fears retribution from Sassouma Be´re´te´ and her son Dankaran Touman and insists that the family stay only briefly before moving on. Once his father has died, Fran
S t u d e n t s ,
The evil sorcerer-king Soumaoro subjugates the surrounding peoples and reigns over them. His strength derives from the powers of darkness. When he appropriates both Sundiata’s griot and his nephew’s wife, he angers these two warriors enough to encourage them to join forces to defeat him at the battle of Krina.
Sogolon Kedjou A hunchback, the ugly Sogolon is an unlikely choice as bride by the successful hunters of the Buffalo of Do. However, they promised the old woman who revealed the secret of hunting the buffalo to select Sogolon. Given that the hunters are unable to consummate their relationship with her, because she draws on the strength of the buffalo which she embodies to fight them off, the hunters give Sogolon to the king of Mali, thus fulfilling the destiny prophesied by the hunter/ soothsayer of Sangaran. The second wife of the king, Sogolon is mocked by the king’s first wife when her son Sundiata turns out to be crippled. When Sogolon finally laments her son’s condition in front of him, Sundiata finds within himself the strength and courage to walk. Sogolon flees with her family after the king’s death to protect her son and eventually dies in exile.
Frako Maghan Keigu King of Ghana See Soumaba Cisse´
King of Mali See Maghan Kon Fatta
King of Mema See Mansa Tounkara
King of Sosso See Soumaoro Kante´
Fran Kamara
f o r
Soumaoro Kante´
See Maghan Kon Fatta
Hunter from Sangaran
E p i c s
Kamara becomes an ally of Sundiata in his battle with Soumaoro.
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Sogolon Kolonkan Sogolon Kolonkan is Sundiata’s oldest sister. While her family is in exile in Mema, Kolonkan recognizes the baobab leaves from Mali in the market. Knowing that they are not locally available, she speaks with the woman selling them and learns that envoys from Mali have come searching for her brother Sundiata.
V o l u m e
2
7 3 3
S u n d i a t a
Sogolon Kondouto
Oulani
See Sogolon Kedjou
Oulani is one of the two brothers who hunt and kill the Buffalo of Do and bestow Sogolon on King Maghan Kon Fatta.
Mansa Konkon The first host of Sogolon and her family, Mansa Konkon welcomes the exiles from Mali at the royal court of Djedba until Sassouma Be´re´te´ bribes him to kill Sundiata. Mansa Konkon challenges Sundiata to a word game called wori, with the stakes being death to Sundiata if he loses. Sundiata, aware of the bribe, wins the game in revealing the king’s treachery. Sundiata’s life is spared, but he and his family must once again flee.
Fakoli Koroma Fakoli is Soumaoro’s nephew and right-hand man until Soumaoro steals his wife. This so enrages Fakoli that he revolts against the tyrant. Sundiata joins forces with this mighty warrior to defeat Soumaoro at Krina.
Lion of Mali See Sundiata
Sogo Simbon Salaba See Sundiata
Sundiata Sundiata begins his life as an unlikely hero. Although soothsayers have predicted great things for this child, his body is crippled from birth, and by the age of seven he has still not learned to walk. He was conceived in the union of the Buffalo Woman with the Lion King. Fortune-tellers say that he will become the greatest ruler Mali has ever known. His mother’s rival attempts to change his destiny and keep her son on the throne of Mali, but as the story shows, the rightful ruler of the Malinke eventually triumphs. Despite hardships, misfortune, and physical infirmity, Sundiata grows to be the mighty warrior predicted by the prophets, saving his people from a tyrant.
Dankaran Touman Maghan the Handsome See Maghan Kon Fatta
Nare´ Maghan See Maghan Kon Fatta
Namandje´ Namandje´ is the third wife of Sundiata’s father, King Maghan Kon Fatta. In sharp contrast to Sogolon, Namandje´’s beauty is legendary. Namandje´’s son, Manding Bory, becomes Sundiata’s best friend.
The Old Woman See Buffalo of Do
Mansa Tounkara
Oulamba Oulamba is one of the two brothers who hunt and kill the Buffalo of Do. Their kindness to an old woman unlocks the secret of killing the buffalo. In return for the knowledge she gives them, they agree to select Sogolon as their bounty. Unable to possess Sogolon sexually, Oulamba gives her to the king of Mali, Maghan Kon Fatta, forming the union that will produce the great king Sundiata.
7 3 4
Dankaran Touman, son of Sassouma Be´re´te´, is Maghan Kon Fatta’s first son and the heir to the throne before the birth of Sundiata. Even though the conflict between Dankaran Touman and Sundiata over the throne causes much hardship for Sundiata and his family, Dankaran Touman never shows himself to be a bad person. He would have been content to let Sundiata take his place as heir, but Dankaran’s mother prods and goads him into an antagonistic relationship with his stepbrother. He proves to be a coward rather than a scoundrel, subjugating himself to the evil sorcerer-king, Soumaoro, and fleeing from conflict when his attempt to revolt against Soumaoro fails.
E p i c s
f o r
The king of Mema hosts Sundiata and his family during their exile from Mali after they have been forced to leave several other courts due to the intrigues of Sassouma Be´re´te´. Impressed by Sundiata’s courage, he makes Sundiata his heir and main general. When Sundiata decides to return to his people and try to free them from the tyranny of Soumaoro, the king grows angry and even refuses to let Sundiata bury his mother in his land. Tounkara and Sundiata are later reconciled. Tounkara is an ally during the fight
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
with Soumaoro, and is rewarded once Sundiata becomes ruler of Mali.
Nana Triban Nana Triban is the daughter of Maghan Kon Fatta’s first wife Sassouma Be´re´te´ and the sister of Dankaran Touman. Because of the enmity between Sogolon and Sassouma, one would expect Nana Triban to join with her family in hating Sundiata. At an important moment, however, Nana Triban sides with Sundiata and is crucial in helping him overcome the sorcerer-king, Soumaoro. Nana Triban had been given to Soumaoro as a wife by her brother during his rule of Mali. She helps Sundiata overcome the evil sorcerer-king by telling him how to overcome Soumaoro’s powers.
THEMES Artists and Society In the version of Sundiata collected by D. T. Niane, the narrating griot, Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´, makes the role of the oral historian a primary theme of the work. One of the major characters in the story is Sundiata’s griot, Balla Fasse´ke´. Sundiata opens with the griot Kouyate´ explaining his right to tell this epic story. At the point when the main battle is about to take place, the griot again pauses to commend the role of the oral historian in preserving the culture and history of his society. At the end of the epic, Sundiata establishes both the line of rulers (the Keitas) and the line of griots advising the ruler (the Kouyate´s). The importance of tradition and the griot’s role in preserving memory emerges as a central concern of Sundiata. The griots have a double function: on the one hand, they write the history of the culture; on the other hand, their narrative becomes a work of art, and since the narrator/griot is a character in the narrative, the persona of the griot is part of the art work the griot creates.
Beauty Sogolon, Sundiata’s mother, is considered the ugliest woman in her village. When the hunters choose her as their bride, they are laughed at by the villagers. Yet the unattractive Sogolon is destined to give birth to the greatest ruler of Mali. While her lack of beauty makes her an unlikely wife for the king, the prophecies concerning her offspring prove stronger than societal judgment.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Sogolon becomes the most important wife of the king. Sogolon also proves to be intelligent, perceptive, and a good mother. Thus, the epic gives a different perspective on surface attractiveness, making it secondary to character and personal accomplishment.
Coming of Age The first part of this epic concerns itself with the journey, both physical and spiritual, that Sundiata makes as he grows from a child into a man. While Sundiata always has the strength of a ruler within him, as was predicted before his birth, he must change in several ways in order to claim that power. He must first learn to walk and to lead his peer group in such traditional activities as hunting. Lame from birth, he finds the power within himself to stand up and walk in order to defend his mother’s honor. Made to leave his own country by the mother of his half-brother, Sundiata must learn how to be a warrior and how to comport himself in the courts of other rulers. He excels at hunting, and his feats in battle lead one foreign king to regard the exiled prince as his own son. Called to lead his people in a time of great trouble, Sundiata leaves this comfortable position and goes forth to reclaim his homeland from an evil king, but has he does so, his mother dies. Finally Sundiata must learn when to make his stand, as he does in the battlefields of Krina. The warrior-king who emerges from this process is strong and wise, admired by all. This king establishes the administrative and justice system for the great empire of Mali.
Limitations and Opportunities In a twist on the common folklore element of a child destined for greatness growing at an abnormal rate, Sundiata is stricken from birth with a disability that prevents him from walking. He seems far from the great leader foreseen by the soothsayers. His father doubts whether a boy who cannot even walk can be the anticipated savior of the Malinke. Sundiata must overcome both his physical handicap and the perception of others that it renders him unfit to rule. While his victory over the tyrant Soumaoro gains Sundiata immediate acclaim and the throne of Mali, his lasting accomplishments are his establishment of a system of administration and justice for his vast kingdom. Sundiata’s truest strength comes from within.
V o l u m e
2
7 3 5
S u n d i a t a
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
The griot plays an important role in Malinke society and in sustaining and developing the oral texts of such epics as Sundiata. Find one or more passages from the text of Sundiata in which the griot’s art is discussed. Write a short response paper that compares and contrasts how the griot works with how the historian in Western culture works.
Mali, and the system of government in your own country. Write a research paper that discusses how governance has change in Mali and how it is similar to and different from the form of government your country practices.
Most of the women who appear in Sundiata are defined by their relationships to men. Their actions are considered important chiefly for the ways that they affect male characters. Are any of this epic’s female characters defined wholly on their own terms? Consider differences between the status of women in thirteenth-century Mali culture and Western culture in the early 2000s. Is it ever appropriate to apply the standards of one culture to the literature of another? Can a modern American or European student find anything to value in a work of art produced by a culture that differs radically from the student’s own? Divide your class into two teams and have a debate about the role of women in the world of Sundiata versus the role of women in modern Western society. Use examples from the text to support your points.
Compare the plot of the full-length animated Disney film The Lion King with that of Sundiata. Create a visual aid that illustrates the similarities and differences between the thirteenth-century epic and the 1994 cartoon movie. Do you think The Lion King is an original work? Why or why not?
Explore expressions of friendship in the epic. Who are the important sets of friends? What traits are admired in friends? How do friends help Sundiata fulfill his destiny? Friendship is also important in the Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien. Read the first book, The Fellowship of the Ring and compare it regarding the topic of friendship with Sundiata. In small groups, discuss how the qualities that create friendship are the same and different in these two books. Animal imagery plays an important role in Sundiata. Choose three to five examples of animal imagery from the epic and, using a computer, create a visual presentation that illustrates what the images are, what they symbolize in Malinke culture, and why they are important to the story.
Sundiata introduces the Kouroukan Fouga, or constitution, to his people at the end of the epic. The Kouroukan Fouga establishes the system of government and has been kept by the griots and passed down through the oral tradition since the thirteenth century. Research the Kouroukan Fouga, modern
Magic and the Supernatural Magic and supernatural events surround Sundiata even before he is born. Soothsayers predict the circumstances of his parentage and birth and that he will become Mali’s ruler. Sundiata’s parents are brought together by the hunters of a supernatural buffalo, and his mother magically partakes of the spirit and strength of the buffalo. In an attempt to thwart
7 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
Sundiata’s predicted destiny and ensure that her own son will inherit the throne of his father, Sassouma hires witches to kill him by supernatural means. Her plan backfires: Their malevolent powers cannot work against anyone with a pure and good heart. The sorcererking Soumaoro derives his evil power from his room of magic fetishes, and Sundiata eventually overcomes him with the aid of magic.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
Kirina is one of the three Malinke towns that formed the foundation of Sundiata’s empire of Mali. It was here that he fought the famous battle with his rival Sumanguru in 1235. (Werner Forman / Art Resource, NY)
Strength and Weakness
Kinship
The epic explores traditional perceptions of strength and weakness. The buffalo ravages the lands of Do, but when the hunters give hospitality and kindness to an old woman, she unlocks the secret of the buffalo’s power, and they easily defeat it. When Sassouma Be´re´te´ sends the most powerful witches in Mali to kill him, Sundiata’s kindness neutralizes their power, leaving them unable (and unwilling) to harm him. The kings who are kind to Sundiata and his family during their years of wandering are repaid by being made allies of this powerful kingdom once Sundiata takes the throne of Mali. The sorcerer Soumaoro derives great strength from his evil fetishes, but the scratch of a magic arrow is enough to leave him powerless. In Sundiata, great power can be overcome by simple acts of kindness.
Kinship, or the relationships between family members, is a subtle but pervasive theme in Sundiata. Many of the characters are related to each other as a parent, step-parent, sibling, or half-sibling. Kinship ties their fates together but does not guarantee a good relationship. For example, Sassouma is constantly at odds with Sogolon and Sundiata, but Sogolon and Sundiata get along well with the third wife, Namandje´. Sundiata is especially close with his half brother and Namandje´s son, Manding Bory. When he is exiled from Mali, his family travels with him. In an interesting twist on kinship, during his exile Sundiata forms a close relationship with the king of Mema, Mansa Tounkara, who zconsiders Sundiata to be his son and heir. This unusual circumstance underlines Sundiata’s special status as a natural born ruler who is well-loved by his people and outsiders who learn to appreciate him.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
7 3 7
S u n d i a t a
STYLE Oral Literature The story of Sundiata has been handed through generations of griots. These oral historians form their own caste, and they alone are authorized to tell the history that has been entrusted to them by their forefathers. The griot Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´, who recounted the version of Sundiata transcribed and translated by D. T. Niane, claimed descent from Sundiata’s griot Balla Fase´ke´. Young people from this caste are screened for storytelling and other performance abilities and taught to sing or speak tales or play musical instruments. Women can also be griots. The spoken word is considered suspect in Malinke culture, because language can be used to distort or misrepresent the truth, so griots have an ambiguous place in society. They are entrusted with history, yet their words are never fully believed. Each griot possesses a precious secret: the truth of history; yet each is known to intentionally modify each story in the telling, in order to make the story appeal to a particular audience. The story of Sundiata enters into the historical and fictional realm simultaneously, and these two aspects of the tale cannot be separated from each other. In Western culture, there is no longer a tradition of oral literature and stories such as Sundiata must be recorded, translated, and published in a book in order to be studied seriously by many scholars.
Setting The setting of Sundiata is thirteenth-century Mali, a kingdom in West Africa. The setting is crucial to this epic because the story ties the Malinke people to their homeland through the courageous ruler Sundiata and his sound rule as king. During the story, Sundiata travels to neighboring kingdoms, sometimes finding succor and sometimes being turned away. While guests of the king of Mema, Sundiata’s sister Kolonkan recognizes the baobab leaves—an import from Mali—in the marketplace, and thus Sundiata makes the connection with his people in their time of greatest need.
Language and Translation The meaning of words in any given language is complicated by nuance, which makes a translator’s job difficult as he or she must capture the meaning and suggestiveness in the text without compromising its readability. In some cases, concepts (such as the nature of relationships
7 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
between half-brothers or what it means to be a fit ruler) may not be the same from one culture to another and translation alone cannot convey the meaning to the foreign reader. Elements such as these are best dealt with in an introduction or notes. Explanatory material thus becomes crucial to understanding a translated text. The story of Sundiata appears in the oral literature of many West African tribes and in many languages. Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´ recounted the tale to Djibril Tamsir Niane in Mandekan, the language of the Malinke people. Niane wrote down his words in that language, then translated the tale into French for its initial publication in 1960. G. D. Pickett translated the epic into English in 1965, working from Niane’s published French text as well as his original Mandekan transcription. Clearly much of nuance may be lost in translation; however, diligent translation efforts can transport the work of one culture and time across boundary lines and centuries to readers in another place and period.
Point of View The point of view of the narrator, griot Mamoudou Kouyate´, is crucial in defining the substance of the epic. He states again and again his inherited right to tell the history of the Keita ruler, because he is descended from the griot who served Sundiata. Several times in the course of the story, the griot refers to himself and to the importance of the griot’s art. The griot functions as an omniscient narrator, able to adopt shifting points of view, to describe the thoughts and feelings as well as the actions of every character, and even to step back and comment about the meaning or importance of what is unfolding.
Foreshadowing The technique of foreshadowing is used to hint at something that is yet to come, preparing the reader or viewer for later developments and outcomes. In Sundiata, prophecy plays a similar but even more direct role. Most of the major events are foretold by seers or fortune-tellers. One tells the king of Mali that his heir will be born of an ugly woman who will be brought to his court. Other soothsayers tell the king that his crippled son is the future savior of Mali, unlikely as that seems. Prophecies do not hint at what is to come the way that foreshadowing does. Rather, these prophecies indicate the path of destiny. The king may choose not to follow the path indicated, but then he will not produce the heir that had been
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
predicted. Further, indigenous African cultures are replete with cautionary tales about the bad luck that commonly befalls those who chose to disregard such prophecies and to forge their own destinies in defiance of what has been foretold.
Grotesque The grotesque plays a role in the epic. Sogolon’s deformity, a hump that makes her resemble a buffalo, makes her repulsive to the men. Nonetheless, she is the only woman who can transmit the spirit of the buffalo to the son she will bear. Soumaoro’s chamber of fetishes also approaches the grotesque. The heads of the kings he has conquered as well as human skins of his victims line the chamber. Soumaoro derives his magic power from these symbols or emblems of evil. This power, however, is not permanent; more magic can break its spell. The grotesque images in the epic serve to cover forms of power: Sogolon’s serving good and Soumaoro’s pledged to do evil. This gives the reader or listener the sense that there is a price to pay in holding such power.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Sundiata’s Dynasty: The Keita Clan Sundiata was not the first Keita to rule the Malinke people. The Keita dynasty began sometime in the eighth century and continues into the early twenty-first century: As of 2010, the Keita were still chiefs of the Kangaba Province. Rule passes from father to son, but if the child is too young to rule, a close family member from the father’s side rules until the child is of age. This appears to have been the case with the son of Sundiata himself. Manding Bory, Sundiata’s step-brother and best friend, ruled Mali for a period of time after the death of Sundiata in 1255. Islam was introduced into Mali with the conversion of a Malinke king around 1050, and Malinke griots have long claimed that the Keitas descend from Muhammad’s companion Bilal ibn Rabah, the first mu’adhdhin (the man who issues the call to prayer). Forming a link between the Keitas and the companion of the Prophet makes their rule seem divinely ordained. According to the griots, the grandson of Bilal ibn Rabah came to Mali and was the first of the Keita.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Rise of the Empire of Mali Until the time of Sundiata, Mali was a minor kingdom owing allegiance first to the king of Ghana and later to the king of Sosso, Soumaoro Kante´. Most of the history that is available in modern times comes via the epic Sundiata in its many forms and across many nations. Over the years, many additions have been made to the story, giving Sundiata credit for the actions of previous or later Malinke kings. One story tells that Sundiata was the twelfth son of Maghan Kon Fatta. Soumaoro Kante´ is said to have killed the other eleven, leaving the sickly Sundiata alive because he did not appear to be a potential threat. In this version, Sundiata recovers the use of his legs just in time to defeat Soumaoro at the battle of Krina. The battle of Krina is estimated to have taken place in 1235. With this battle, Sundiata became the leader of a vast empire that covered much of present-day West Africa. Less clear is what happened to Sundiata following the victory at Krina. Some say he was killed by an arrow at an exhibition of arms while others relate that he was drowned near his hometown of Niani. Also unknown are the actual descendants of Sundiata. In order to please the patrons of a performance, griots often add the names of those in the audience to the list of Sundiata’s sons. In this way, a prominent family can gain even more prestige by claiming to be descended from the great Sundiata himself.
Sundiata’s Times: 1230 1255 Sundiata played such a vital role in the history of Mali that the entire thirteenth century is referred to as Sundiata’s Time by the Malinke. After the battle at Krina, the conquered countries were divided into administrative units. Soumaoro’s people were made slaves. Some of them took flight, settling in what later became Coˆte d’Ivoire. Some of the Keita clan remained loyal to Sundiata’s halfbrother Dankaran Touman, and these peoples fled to the south. Sundiata’s empire spread the Mandekan language throughout West Africa.
Life at Court The extended family has always formed the basic social unit among the Malinke. The head of the family filled many roles. Among them, he had certain priestly powers and acted as judge, administering communal property and making decisions on relationships within the family. The head of the village was simply the head of the family that was thought to have been in the village for the longest period of time. He performed as village chief and priest. Different villages were also sometimes
V o l u m e
2
7 3 9
S u n d i a t a
COMPARE & CONTRAST
1200s: The historical Sundiata consolidates a vast empire stretching over most of West Africa and including many different peoples. Today: A colony for many years, Mali receives her independence from France in 1960. The former French colonies are divided into many different countries, often with disputed borders. An ongoing border conflict with Burkina is not resolved until 1986. By the early twentyfirst century, Mali is one of the most stable nations in Africa.
1200s: Mali is largely an agricultural state, with gold and salt mining later providing additional trading materials. The unit of exchange is most often the cowry shell, occasionally gold. Today: Mali remains an agricultural state, with gold, cotton, and livestock being the
linked into one group, as was the case with the Keita clan. With time, the leader of a large group of villages came to be called a king. He usually had several wives, with the senior of them receiving the most respect. Commoners paid great respect to their king. The king usually ate in private, his meals surrounded by mystery. When a subject was in the royal presence, he or she would lay prostrate and put dust and ashes on his or her head. The king had a spokesman who did all of his public speaking. The etiquette of the court demanded distance and respect from the king’s subjects.
7 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
1200s: Hunting is the main occupation of the ruling class. The Keitas are known to be great hunters, and Sundiata and his father are often referred to as lions, in order to praise their hunting ability. Today: Expanding human population, overhunting, and poaching by Africans and Europeans deplete much of Mali’s wildlife. Significant conservation efforts, including two national wild game preserves, aim at preserving Mali’s wildlife heritage.
1200s: The Keita clan rules the Malinke people, and Sundiata’s empire includes many ethnic groups throughout West Africa. Sundiata divides Mali into administrative regions, remaining chief ruler of the region. Today: Members of the Keita clan remain chiefs of a province in Mali, but the government is now a republic. Amadou Toumani Toure´ is elected president in 2002.
main export commodities. The currency used in Mali is the CFA franc (Central African franc), shared with most countries in the former French West Africa.
1200s: Islam is practiced in Mali, having been introduced to West Africa in the ninth century, but it is not the dominant religion. Sundiata is not a devout Muslim; his descendent Mansa Musa makes Islam the official religion of the Empire of Mali. Today: About 90 percent of Malians are Muslim. Of the remaining population, 9 percent have indigenous or animist beliefs and 1 percent is Christian. Adherents to Islam in Mali are considered tolerant and moderate.
Subjects could appeal to the king for justice. The court usually had scribes, but most of the king’s decrees were transmitted orally. The king consolidated his strength by making sure that his vassals paid him strict obedience. The sons of vassal kings were often sent to court to live, as seen in Sundiata at the court of Mema. The court was filled with slaves loyal to the king, and at times the slaves were given positions more powerful than some of the noblemen. The jelis, or griots, made up another caste important to the court. These men served as close confidants to the king and transmitted the oral history of the monarch.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
Economy and Daily Life Salt and gold mines brought wealth to the people of Mali. Generally, the king exacted a tax from the miners, often enough to make him quite rich. Mali was an important trading center during Sundiata’s time. Most of the populace, however, were farmers and had little to do with external trade. Their crops included millet and sorghum. Often the slave caste worked the land. Another caste consisted of blacksmiths, but they were noblemen. Other artisans such as tanners and carpenters were also respected. Textile manufacture eventually developed into an art form. Along with gold, cowry shells were used as currency in Mali. By the time of Sundiata, some historians believe that the kola nut, which when chewed has the effect of a stimulant, had already attained the ceremonial significance that it enjoys in modern times in West Africa.
Mali Independence Niane published his French translation of Sundiata in 1960, a watershed year for the nation of Mali in West Africa. On June 20, 1960, Mali gained independence from France after more than sixty years of colonial rule. Mali’s first president was Modibo Keı¨ ta, elected September 22, 1960. The nation was troubled by economic decline, political coups, and border skirmishes over the next forty years but remained one of the most stable countries in Africa.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW The story of Sundiata has attracted little critical interest among English speakers. This neglect can be explained two ways, the first of which is a general lack of interest in African texts until the late twentieth century. English and American literary scholars traditionally privileged the Western literary canon. Those wanting to see other texts undergo mainstream critical analysis had a hard battle to fight. With the development of professorships in African literature throughout the world, this resistance was in the early 2000s being overcome. The second explanation is that of linguistic and social inaccessibility. Many stories from Africa are oral, told in indigenous languages. Those outside the small language-speaking community are unable to access the tale until it is transcribed and then translated into the outsider’s
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
language. In addition, many of the guardians of African oral tradition do not wish to communicate their words beyond their own communities. They suspect, perhaps rightly so, that in fixing their stories in written form they will lose control over the production of the text. The important element of performance is inevitably lost in the written version of an oral tale. Little by little, many of the oral texts of Africa are being recorded and eventually transcribed. Even so, as of 2010, much of African oral literature remained unknown outside its small community of production. Sundiata was largely unfamiliar outside Mali before D. T. Niane’s version was published in French in 1960. The English-speaking world had to wait until G. D. Pickett’s translation appeared in 1965. Sundiata is now known as an excellent example of West African epic. A children’s version, with beautiful paper-cut illustrations, has been produced by David Wisniewski. The first steps have thus been taken, spreading knowledge of this epic throughout different communities of readers. During this first phase, critical attention has focused on the anthropological and historical detail found in Sundiata. Critics have tended to read the tale as history rather than literature, although it combines both. As a piece of history, Sundiata has much to say about life in thirteenthcentury Mali and the reign of the great king Sundiata. But Sundiata is equally a literary text. The part the griot plays in shaping history to please his audience cannot be overlooked. Each griot plays the roles of both historian and artist. More studies on both the oral and literary functions of Sundiata are certainly in order. Post-colonial criticism flourished in the late twentieth century and can be used to help nonAfrican readers of traditional African texts gain insights and understanding. Problems such as defining the audience (a specific cultural community or universal readership) and applicability of Western critical theory (for instance, using a feminist or Marxist perspective to interpret an ancient African text) are two of the many questions that must be raised and addressed by readers of Sundiata. As a starter, some of these issues were addressed in The Post-Colonial Studies Reader, edited by Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, and published in 1995 (a second edition appeared in 2006). In the decades after Niane published his translation, Sundiata, despite its focus on West Africa,
V o l u m e
2
7 4 1
S u n d i a t a
became an important text in African studies. Scholar Robert C. Newton criticized this approach in his 2006 essay, ‘‘Of Dangerous Energy and Transformations: Nyamakalaya and the Sunjata Phenomenon.’’ Newton argued that the Sundiata people know in modern times may not be the same story that was told hundreds of years earlier and is likely to have evolved to fit the times. While it is a powerful story, it may also be waning in relevance just as the oral tradition fades alongside the trajectory of technology and social change. Jan Jansen, writing in 2001, stressed the importance of Sundiata in performance but instead argued—with her own field research as reference—that the epic is a fixed story with little mutability. While griots may add names of people or villages to please their patrons, they do not alter the main story and the audience is aware of the elements of flattery. Other forms of criticism available to the reader of epic have proved invaluable for understanding Sundiata. An early examination of the oral aspect of epic literature was provided by Alfred Lord’s Singer of Tales (1960), which looks at Serbo-Croatian epic in the twentieth century. Questions of nationalism and nation-forming have been long associated with epic literature, and critical approaches to the epic and history should be examined to see if they shed light on reading the West African epic as well. One thing is certain, however. Sundiata is the epic recounting the pinnacle of an important dynasty in West Africa, and it tells modern readers much about the heritage, literary and cultural, of a population still vital in the early twenty-first century. With that in mind, it seems certain that the critical history of the thirteenth-century epic story Sundiata had begun.
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (1958) relates the clash between African and European cultures during colonial days, using a style similar to that of the oral historian.
Roots: The Saga of an American Family (1976), by Alex Haley, follows the life of a Malinke man, Kunta Kinte, who is abducted from his homeland in Gambia and taken to the United States to be a slave. Haley discovered Kinte’s story while researching his own heritage, and this novel is his recreation of how his ancestor’s life unfolded.
Camara Laye recounts another version of Sundiata’s story in his Guardian of the Word: Kouma Lafoˆloˆ Kouma, translated from French into English in 1980.
The Children of Segu, translated into English in 1989, is Maryse Conde´’s fictional account of the Bambara kingdom in Mali at the end of the eighteenth century. A collection titled West African Folktales (1991), by Jack Berry, introduces the reader to the spoken art of West Africa in a series of short tales. Anansi Boys (2005), by Neil Gaiman, is a modern fantasy story about two brothers who must come to terms with each other and their destiny after the death of their father, who just happens to be the African god, Anansi.
CRITICISM Lynn T. Ramey Ramey is an associate professor of French at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. In this essay, she focuses on the role of the griot in crafting a unique version of the story each time it is retold, and she comments on the atypical nature of a written and published version of Sundiata. Readers of an epic such as Sundiata must realize that the tale was designed to be performed for a certain audience at a specific time. Most published stories in modern times have one, fixed version. However, Sundiata is an oral tale, carefully
7 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
passed down through the centuries by a segment of African society charged with preserving the memory of it. Many different tribes have griots who tell the story in their separate ways, from the perspective of their own people’s history. For instance, the griots of Soumaoro’s descendants would not tell the battle of Krina in the same manner as the Kouyate´s, griots to Sundiata’s ancestral line. In addition, different griots in the same family will have various strengths, some perhaps preferring
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
BECAUSE THE EPIC IS ABOUT ORIGINS, THE TALE TREATS CAREFULLY THE PEOPLE AND PLACES WHERE EACH EVENT OCCURRED. AS IF TO ANSWER QUESTIONS THAT MEMBERS OF THE AUDIENCE MIGHT ASK, THE EPIC PROVIDES THE GENEALOGY OF THE MIGHTY KEITA CLAN AND THE FEATS PERFORMED BY THE CLAN AND ITS FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS.’’
to leave out battle scenes, whereas others relish in the gory details. Likewise, the same griot may tailor his story to the audience of the moment. If one of Manding Bory’s descendants is the guest of honor, perhaps the griot will emphasize his role in Sundiata’s reign. No two oral versions of Sundiata are the same. Sundiata is a living history text. The story tells of the beginning of what was to be the high point of the great African empire of Mali. Still performed in modern times, the epic conveys to the people of Mali information about their past and their unique identity. It tells them why they are special. The goal of the storyteller is not necessarily to tell the historical facts. Rather, like the author of a literary text, the griot seeks to please the audience at the same time that he instructs. This technique involves, of course, attention to aesthetic properties of speech, including metaphor, description, and building to climactic moments. The content, too, is subject to manipulation in the repertoire of the well-trained oral historian. While the basic elements of the tale remains constant, slight changes in the content can pique the audience’s interest. The truth of history is secondary to its artistic re-creation. In fact, Christopher Miller maintains factual truth always gives way to the creativity of the griot. Miller notes that in Malinke society silence is revered. Kings and noblemen, therefore, show their status by maintaining silence whenever possible. The griot caste functions in society precisely to allow the speech necessary and desirable for social interaction to take place. The griot speaks for the king on occasions when public speaking is needed, such as delivering
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
speeches, making judicial declarations, and performing historical recitations. Because the griot is so gifted with words, his status is ambiguous. He has power to create or recite the history of important deed, yet by speaking aloud he has lowered himself. His rhetorical agility leads the Malinke to suspect his every word, and yet his pronouncements carry weight. For instance, if the oral historian says that a piece of property was given to someone by another person’s ancestor, his words are often heeded. Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´’s task in recounting the story of Sundiata has very real implications in modern times. Because the epic is about origins, the tale treats carefully the people and places where each event occurred. As if to answer questions that members of the audience might ask, the epic provides the genealogy of the mighty Keita clan and the feats performed by the clan and its friendly neighbors. How did the Kouyate´ clan come to be the griots for the ruling Keita clan, someone might inquire. Kouyate´ responds by telling how Sundiata’s father, Maghan Kon Fatta, gave Balla Fasse´ke´ of the Kouyate´ family to his son as griot. Then when Balla Fasse´ke´ performed extraordinary service at the battle of Krina, Sundiata decreed that the Kouyate´s would always be griots to the Keitas. Out of self-interest, the story of Balla Fasse´ke´ is probably always recounted when a Kouyate´ tells of Sundiata. By telling of his auspicious origins and authority, the griot raises the worth of both his story and his position. When a griot from Ghana tells the story of Sundiata, however, Balla Fasse´ke´ might well be altogether absent from the account. Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´ not only elevates himself in Sundiata, he does the same for many members of Malinke society. In the opening of the epic, he recounts the origin of the Keitas and the Malinke people, claiming that they are descended from the black companion of Muhammad, Bilali Bounama. Since the Malinke converted to Islam in the eleventh century, great prestige comes from having a close connection to the Prophet. The fact of this claimed lineage bears no significance to either the audience or the griot. The griot’s word is always suspect, but it carries authority nonetheless. History once again defers to the larger goal of the griot, which in this case might be to create pride and unity among the Malinke people. The Malinke people gain as well a sense that they are unique and special, distinct from their
V o l u m e
2
7 4 3
S u n d i a t a
neighbors. Mamoudou Kouyate´ states his goal at the beginning of the text: ‘‘By my mouth you will get to know the story of the ancestor of great Mali, the story of him who, by his exploits, surpassed even Alexander the Great; he who, from the East, shed his rays upon all the countries of the West.’’ When he gives their ancestor as Bilali, the griot states that the inhabitants of Mali are not indigenous, that they come from the East. They are a people blessed by the Prophet and not simply converted Muslims like those around them. Because they are not from the land they conquered and rule, they are above the other tribes. The hunter divines for Maghan Kon Fatta and reports that a light is coming from the east. This light is Sundiata, who like Bilali, has a divine presence and spreads his aura among all the Malinke. Finally, when Sundiata is born, the griot tells that ‘‘great clouds coming from the east hid the sun’’ and a flash of lightning ‘‘lit up the whole sky as far as the west.’’ This stormy sky mirrors symbolically the birth of Sundiata, who comes with fury from the East and gives light to an entire community.
The epic is a living text. Djeli Mamoudou Kouyate´ claims that his oral history is superior to written history, for those people with a written history ‘‘do not feel the past any more, for writing lacks the warmth of the human voice.’’ Part of feeling the past is participating in it. Sundiata allows its Malinke audience to become a part of the past. The griot creates an illustrious history for his listeners. By making reference to the present within the past, history becomes alive. The ability (and necessity) for the historical text to change with each telling is part of what makes oral history fascinating and ever-relevant. Our text of Sundiata is simply one version, rooted in a specific time and place. If and when oral history disappears from Mali, it will be a truly great loss.
Griot Mamoudou Kouyate´ is also a man of his own times. As he tells his version of the story to Niane, he incorporates his own concerns and those of his audience. Griots often include the names of their patrons in the lists of illustrious men at battles. Such additions are not considered to radically alter the account of history but are rather whimsical touches that please the author and audience. Inspiration comes from the patronage system, which ensures that those storytellers who flatter the audience will receive the most gifts in return. As Kouyate´ summarizes, ‘‘the generosity of kings makes griots eloquent.’’
Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds., The Post Colonial Studies Reader, 2nd ed., Routledge, 2006.
Kouyate´’s privileging of the East over the West, as he repeatedly gives the origin of the great Sundiata as eastern, may well stem from the concerns of the 1950s when Niane collected the griot’s words. After World War II, as the world seemed to organize itself into Eastern and Western Blocs, Africa had to find its place. U.S. and Soviet interests began competing in Africa, trying to win access to rich mineral deposits. A former colony of France, Mali harbored some resentment against the intrusion of Western culture. In 1961, Mali began cooperative agreements with the Soviet Union to locate mineral deposits. Mamoudou Kouyate´’s insistence on the supremacy of the East over the West held not only historical significance for Mali, but also a clear message for his listeners in the late 1950s.
7 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
Source: Lynn T. Ramey, Critical Essay on Sundiata, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
SOURCES
Country Profile: Mali, Library of Congress, Federal Research Division, January 2005, pp. 1 18. Jansen, Jan, ‘‘The Sunjata Epic: The Ultimate Version,’’ in Research in African Literatures, Vol. 32, No. 1, Spring 2001, pp. 14 46. Lord, Alfred B., Singer of Tales, Harvard University Press, 2000. Miller, Christopher, ‘‘Orality Through Literacy: Mande Verbal Art after the Letter,’’ in Southern Review, Vol. 23, No. 1, Winter 1987, pp. 84 105. Newton, Robert C., ‘‘Of Dangerous Energy and Trans formations: Nyamakalaya and the Sunjata Phenom enon,’’ in Research in African Literatures, Vol. 37, No. 2, Summer 2006, p. 15. Niane, D. T., Sundiata: An Epic of Old Mali, translated by G. D. Pickett, Rev. Ed., Longman, 2006. Wisniewski, David, Sundiata: Lion King of Mali, Clarion Books, 1999.
FURTHER READING Conrad, David C., trans., Sunjata: A West African Epic of the Mande Peoples, Hackett, 2004. Conrad’s translation of the Sundiata epic is taken from a performance by Djanka Tassey Conde´. Using a more poetic form than other
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u n d i a t a
translators, his version is easy to read and adds depth to the story. Eisner, Will, Sundiata: A Legend of Africa, Nantier Beall Minoustchine, 2002. Illustrator Eisner presents the famous story Sundiata in full color in an book aimed at younger readers. Imperato, Pascal James, Historical Dictionary of Mali, Scarecrow Press, 1996. Many of the characters in Sundiata are included as entries in this dictionary. Imperato’s chronol ogy of Mali shows the political and social changes that have taken place in Mali from its early history. The introduction supplies infor mation about Mali in the late twentieth century, including data about resources, the economy, and politics. Imperato, Pascal James, Mali: A Search for Direction, Westview Press, 1990. Imperato describes the political climate of late twentieth century Mali and Mali’s relationship with its neighbors and the global community, including U.S. Malian relations. Johnson, John William, trans., Son Jara: The Mande Epic, Indiana University Press, 2003.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Johnson provides a new translation of the Sun diata epic, which has garnered much critical attention for its scholarly approach, including explanatory notes, side by side English and Mandekan text, and an optional audio CD of the original performance by Jeli fa Digi Sosoko, from which his translation is derived. Levtzion, Nehemia, Ancient Ghana and Mali, Africana, 1980. Levtzion’s book is one of the few sources on the historical period of Sundiata written in Eng lish. Levtzion treats all aspects of society, from life at court to the economy and religion.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Griot AND epic Jeli AND epic Mali Empire AND epic Mali AND thirteenth century Sundiata AND epic Sunjata AND epic
V o l u m e
2
7 4 5
Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge ANONYMOUS C. 1100
Traditionally, the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge has been thought to be set in the first century CE . But the earliest extant manuscript of any version of the work was written in the early twelfth century in the great monastery of Clonmacnoise, overlooking the Shannon River in Ireland. Sometime between the first and early twelfth centuries, the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge came into existence. Some people believe that the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was intended to be as important to Irish history and the Aeneid was to Roman history. Between 1100 and 1800, its characters and plot were mentioned repeatedly. However, during those centuries, the stories of the Irish hero Finn Mac Cumhghaill (Finn Mac Cool), his son Oisı´ n, and his warrior band, the Fianna, were probably more popular. Then, in the nineteenth century, Irish nationalism and contemporary scholarship stimulated more interest in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as the major source of Irish identity. Its national and cultural worth was judged against the classical past and the dominant English language culture, and it was clearly chosen as Ireland’s own vernacular epic. The Irish literary revival at occurred about 1900 introduced the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge to a world audience. Lady Augusta Gregory, patroness of the young W. B. Yeats (1865–1939), published retellings of the stories clustered around Cu´chulainn, the hero of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Yeats wrote a series of plays based on the stories of Cu´chulainn and Deirdre (Derdriu) and the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge entered western literary heritage.
7 4 6
T a´ i n
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY The twelfth-century manuscript called the Book of Leinster preserves a note stating that at one time none of the poets of Ireland knew the full Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. The note explains that two pupils of the poet Sencha´n Torpe´ist set out to find a copy that had been taken out of Ireland to exchange for a copy of the Cuilmenn, the Irish name for the Etymologiae of Isidore of Seville, the greatest digest of learning of the early Middle Ages. On their way, these pupils happened upon the grave of Fergus, one of the great heroes of the Ulster cycle of tales. His spirit came and recited the whole Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge to them. The note’s scribe, however, added an alternative version: some people said Sencha´n himself learned the whole story from some of the descendants of Fergus, which seemed reasonable. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge survives in several versions. The Book of the Dun Cow, or Lebor na hUidre, copied in the twelfth century and the Yellow Book of Lecan, copied in the late fourteenth century, preserve an older, shorter version, perhaps as old as the seventh or eighth century. This version is often described by scholars as mutilated and interpolated with alternative and sometimes contradictory versions of events. Other scholars suggest that these additions are the author’s own attempt to acknowledge variant material and that this early version should be seen as a collection of materials relating to the great cattle raid of the Cooley peninsula. The Book of Leinster, copied in the twelfth century, preserves a fuller, more unified version. The compiler of this later version of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge attempted to clear up inconsistencies and repetitions and produce a polished narrative. The elaborate style, however, suffers in comparison with the older version, despite its variants and additions. There is no real consensus as to exactly when the original author of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge wrote the epic, or even if it is essentially the version that survives in the Book of the Dun Cow. Early scholars pushed the composition back as far as they might on linguistic grounds, but subsequently it was strongly suggested that the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was deliberately composed to have the feel of an ancient work. Many modern editions with translations of both the Book of the Dun Cow and Book of Leinster are available. In 1969, the poet Thomas Kinsella produced a translation of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
working from the earliest version with additions from the later versions. Proving continued interest in this Irish epic, Penguin Classics published Ciaran Carson’s translation, The Ta´in: Translated from the Old Irish Epic Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in 2007.
PLOT SUMMARY I. The Pillow Talk The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge begins with Medb and Ailill, the queen and king of Connacht, talking in bed about which one of them is the richer. Their possessions were counted; they were equal except that Ailill had a beautiful bull, Finbennach, the calf of one of Medb’s cows that had gone over to Ailill’s herd rather than belong to a woman. Medb asked Mac Roth if there was any bull its equal in Ireland. There was only one: the Donn Cu´ailnge in Ulster. Mac Roth was sent to borrow the bull for a year with the offer of a generous reward. Da´ire, its owner, was pleased to lend the bull on such generous terms. Unfortunately, one of the messengers drank too much and announced that if the bull had not been lent, they would have taken it by force. Da´ire was enraged and ordered them to leave.
II. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge Begins Ailill and Medb muster their army and wait for a favorable omen before setting out. The poetess and prophetess Fedelm tells Medb that the army will suffer enormous losses at the hands of Cu´chulainn, repeating again and again, ‘‘I see it crimson. I see it red.’’
III. The Army Encounters Cu´chulainn Fergus, given command of the army, leads it astray to give the Ulstermen time to recover from their curse. Cu´chulainn feels the imminent approach of the army and asks his father, Sualdam, to warn the people. Playing for time, Cu´chulainn leaves a challenge to the Connacht army, but the army circumvents it. Again, he attempts to slow them down with a challenge: He places a forked branch in the river and impales the heads of four of the advancing warriors on it with a challenge that the army cannot pass until someone pulls the branch out with one hand. Fergus meets the challenge. Ailill asks Fergus Cu´chulainn’s age. When told that Cu´chulainn is only seventeen, Medb scoffs that he could not be much of a warrior yet.
V o l u m e
2
7 4 7
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
VI. From Finnabair Chuailnge to Conaille
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Rock band the Decemberists released The Ta´in, a 2004 EP consisting of a single eighteenminute track. Lead singer and songwriter, Colin Meloy, wrote the five-part musical adaptation. The band also made a music video, available online at http://pitchfork. com/tv/#/musicvideo/317-the-decemberiststhe-tain-kill-rock-stars, the Pitchfork Media website. Fabulous Beast Dance Theatre created and performed The Bull, an adaptation coproduced by the Dublin Theatre Festival and the Barbican. It was performed at the Dublin Theatre Festival in 2005 and at the Barbican in 2007.
Cu´chulainn takes his stand at the river Cronn, calling upon air, earth, and the river to help him. Maine, the son of Ailill and Medb, and thirty horsemen reach the river and Cu´chulainn kills them all. These massacres continue until Fergus and Lugaid mac Nois Allchomaig organize terms of engagement favorable to Cu´chulainn.
VII. Single Combat
Complete: Bull, by Darren Maher, is a fivepart radio play produced by Impact Theatre and WiredFM. As of 2010, it was available from http://www.impact-theatre.com/actordarren.html for download in MP3 format.
Ailill, through his herald Mac Roth, tries to bargain with Cu´chulainn in an effort to save what remains of his army, but Cu´chulainn refuses the king’s offers. Fergus goes to talk to the hero next, taking along Ailill and Mebd’s foster son Etarcomol, who picks a fight with Cu´chulainn and pays with his life. Cu´chulainn next defeats the warrior Nadcranntail in single combat.
Writer and cartoonist Patrick Brown created in 2007 the webcomic adaptation The Cattle Raid of Cooley. As of 2010, it was available at http:// paddybrown.co.uk/?p=179, his website.
VIII. The Bull Is Found. Further Single Combats. Cu´chulainn and the Morrı´gan.
IV. Cu´chulainn’s Boyhood Deeds Fergus recounts Cu´chulainn’s boyhood deeds, including the story behind his name change. As a small boy, he killed a fierce watchdog that attacked him and then guarded its owner’s property until a new one could be reared. Hence came the name Cu´ Chulainn (the hound of Culann).
V. ‘‘Death Death!’’ Cu´chulainn puts a log in the army’s path with a challenge that they dare not continue until a warrior leaps it in a chariot. Cu´chulainn reluctantly kills his boyhood friend Fra´ech who had been sent against him. Fergus leaps the oak with his own chariot. Cu´chulainn fights and kills all who come against him.
7 4 8
The army pillages Ulster as they search for the bull. Ailill suspects that Fergus and Medb are having an affair, and he sends his chariot driver Cuillius to spy on them. He finds them sleeping together and steals Fergus’s sword from its sheath. He returns with the sword to Ailill and confirms his suspicions. Ailill seems pleased by this: ‘‘She is justified. She does it to keep his help on the Ta´in.’’ He then tells the charioteer to keep the sword safe.
E p i c s
f o r
Medb sets out with one-third of the army to find the bull and lay waste to Ulster. Cu´chulainn meets her cowherd Buide mac Ba´in with the stolen Bull of Cooley. Cu´chulainn kills Buide, but Medb’s men get the bull to their camp. Cu´chulainn fights warrior after warrior. In the midst of his struggles, the Morrı´ gan, in the shape of a young woman, comes and offers herself to him. He spurns her. She swears to hinder him. He promises to wound her. She will carry the marks forever unless he gives her a blessing. He continues to fight whatever champions they send against him. When Lo´ch, his foster brother fights him, three times the Morrı´ gan hinders him and is wounded. Fergus encourages Bricriu to taunt the flagging Cu´chulainn to keep his anger up in the fight. Cu´chulainn feels his own need for help. He kills Lo´ch, but is exhausted. The Morrı´ gan appears now as an old woman milking a cow. He asks for a drink of milk. She gives him three drinks and with each he blesses her and she is healed.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
IX. The Pact Is Broken: The Great Carnage Medb organizes an ambush, but Cu´chulainn kills the warriors. She offers her daughter to him, but he cuts the girl’s hair and leaves her on a pillar stone. Laeg spots a fine-looking man coming toward them. Cu´chulainn recognizes him as one of the sı´dh. The man identifies himself as Cu´chulainn’s father from the fairy hills, Lug mac Ethnenn. Cu´chulainn admits, ‘‘My wounds are heavy. It is time they were let heal.’’ Lug tells him to sleep. He tends his son’s wounds. While Cu´chulainn sleeps, the boys of Ulster come to his aid and are, to Cu´chulainn’s sorrow, slaughtered after a brave fight. Cu´chulainn orders out his sickle chariot, ‘‘every angle and corner, front and rear, was a tearing-place,’’ and in a frenzy, rages through the army encamped against him.
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
Fintan, father of Cethern, arrives to avenge his son. His other son is taken prisoner and returned on condition that Fintan not attack Ailill’s army until the final battle. Rochobad Rigderg arrives to help Cu´chulainn, but Ailill arranges a trap for Rochobad, baited with Finnabair, who has told her parents how much she loves him. Her parents agree to allow Finnabair and Rochobad to sleep together if Rochobad gives them a truce until Conchobor arrives. THE WARNING OF SU´ ALDAIM AND THE MUSTER OF THE MEN OF ULSTER
Sualdam goes to his son’s aid. Cu´chulainn sends him to warn the Ulstermen to come immediately if they hope to punish the invaders. Sualdam reports ‘‘men murdered, women stolen, and cattle plundered.’’ He falls and is decapitated by his own shield, but his head repeats the warning. Conchobor vows to crush the raiders and bring back their booty.
X. Combat with Fergus and Others The next day Cu´chulainn shows off his handsome figure to the Connacht army, conscious of the frightening, battle-frenzied creature they saw the day before. An Ulster warrior, Aengus, comes and hurls stones at the Connacht army until he is slain. Trying to find another warrior to fight Cu´chulainn, Medb approaches Fergus. He refuses to fight his foster son. However, he faces Cu´chulainn, asking him to retreat a step before him if he gives ground at another time when asked by Cu´chulainn. He agrees. There is more fighting in which Cu´chulainn is victorious. Fiacha mac Fir Febe, an Ulster exile, goes to Cu´chulainn’s aid in an unfair fight against Gaile Da`na, his twenty-seven sons, and his nephew.
XI. Combat of Ferdia and Cu´chulainn Medb works on Cu´chulainn’s foster brother and closest friend, Ferdia, telling him Cu´chulainn has slandered him. The two men fight over four days. Finally, Cu´chulainn, gives Ferdia a mortal wound but laments over his lost friend.
XII. Ulster Rises from Its Pangs The Ulster warrior Cethern arrives, attacks the army, and then retreats to Cu´chulainn with a litany of his wounds. He kills doctor after doctor until Conchobor’s doctor Fingin arrives. He examines his wounds from a safe distance and tells him he can either stay still for a year and live or have three days of strength to fight before dying. He chooses the latter and dies fighting.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
XIII. The Companies Advance Ailill asks Mac Roth if he can see the Ulstermen approaching. He says they are coming on like a lightning filled mist. He goes out again and sees the Ulster camp and comes back with descriptions of the men and troops he has seen. Fergus identifies them for the king.
XIV. The Last Battle A truce is arranged until the next morning. The Morrı´ gan appears to prophesy the coming slaughter. In the morning, the battle begins. Ailill and Medb beg Fergus to join the fight and give him back his sword. He cuts through the Ulstermen and confronts Conchobor but is restrained by Cormac who begs him to remember his own people. Cu´chulainn leaves his sick bed, arms, and confronts Fergus, demanding that he keep his promise to retreat before him. Fergus takes the Ulster exiles out of the battle. The men of Leinster and Munster follow them. Cu´chulainn catches up with Medb but spares her. Fergus observes that the outcome of the battle is what one would expect when the herd follows a mare. The Ulster army triumphs over Connacht. The following morning the survivors gather to watch the fight between the two bulls. The Donn Cu´ailnge defeats Finnbennach and litters the landscape with parts of Finnbennach’s body. The places where they fight give rise to place names (places where important events occurred). The Donn Cu´ailnge finally dies at Druim Tairb.
V o l u m e
2
7 4 9
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
CHARACTERS Aengus Aengus is an Ulster warrior who turns aside the whole Connacht army, pelting them with flagstones. The Connacht army eventually overwhelms and kills him.
Aife Aife is a woman warrior living on the island of Britain. When Cu´chulainn defeats her, he spares her life on the understanding that she will give hostages to his teacher Sca´thach and bear him a son. She is to name the boy Connla and send him to Cu´chulainn when he is big enough to wear the gold thumb ring Cu´chulainn leaves for him. He tells her the boy must never reveal his name to any man, never give way to any man, and never refuse any man combat.
name to any man, never give way to any man, and never refuse any man combat. When he comes to Ulster, these promises lead to Connla’s death. He refuses to give his name or give way. He matches Condere mac Echach in eloquence and stuns Conall Cernach and ties him up with his own shield strap. Cu´chulainn goes out to fight him. Emer recognizes that the boy must be her husband’s son and pleads with him not to kill his own child. Cu´chulainn insists, however, that he must kill him for the honor of Ulster. He kills Connla with a weapon that Scathach had taught only him to use. Cu´chulainn acknowledges his dying son, and the boy greets the hero of Ulster and dies.
Cormac Connlongas Cormac Connlongas is Conchobor’s son. Cormac is one of the Ulster exiles with Medb’s army.
Cu´chulainn Ailill Ailill is Medb’s husband and the owner of the white bull, Finnbennach. He is a cynical man who generally accepts his wife’s decisions, but seems curiously detached throughout the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge.
Amargin Amargin is the husband of Finnchaem and father of the hero Conall Cernach.
Cathbad Cathbad is a druid and the father of Conchobor. Because he is a druid, Cathbad has prophetic powers.
Cu´chulainn is the son of Conchobor’s sister, Deichtine; both the human Sualdam mac Roich and a sı´dh prince are identified as his father. He is the Achilles of the Ta´in, fated to die young but to leave a glorious memory. He holds off the combined forces of the other three provinces of Ireland and the Ulster exiles while the warriors of Ulster suffer the effects of Macha’s curse. Young, mercurial, and glorious, Cu´chulainn does what he can and what only he can do, while all around him is deceit, treachery, and chaos. Many of his fantastic deeds parallel those in Greek and Latin accounts of Celtic champions and warrior society.
Cu´ Chulainn Conall Cernach
See Cu´chulainn
Conall Cernach is Cu´chulainn’s cousin and foster brother. Conall is one of the Ulster exiles with Medb’s army.
Deichtine
Conchobor Conchobor is the son of Ness and Cathbad the druid. Conchobor was conceived because his mother learned from Cathbad that the hour was propitious for the conception of a king. Conchobor is the most celebrated king of the Ulster cycle. The character of Conchobor is deeply ambivalent. On one hand, his Ulstermen idolize him. But on the other, he has lost some of the finest men of his kingdom through duplicity.
Connla Connla is the son of Aife and Cu´chulainn. Cu´chulainn told Aife that the boy must never reveal his
7 5 0
E p i c s
f o r
Deichtine is Conchobor’s sister and wife of Sualdam mac Roich. She is the mother of Cu´chulainn by a strange series of events that lead the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge to identify both the human Sualdam mac Roich and a sı´dh prince as his father.
Derdriu Derdriu is often compared to Helen of Troy. Cathbad predicted before her birth that Derdriu would be the most beautiful of women and the destruction of Ulster. Conchobor ordered that she be raised in complete seclusion until she was old enough to become his wife. Derdriu, however, falls in love with Noisiu, Uisliu’s son. He tries to refuse her because of the prophecy and the king’s decree, but she put him under a magical compulsion or
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
geasa, and they ran away together with his brothers and their followers. Eventually, Fergus, Dubthach, and Cormac, Conchobor’s son, give them their word that they can come safely back to Ulster and make their peace with the king. Conchobor has, however, tricked them all and has Noisiu and his brothers murdered. Fergus, Dubthach, and Cormac burn the king’s stronghold at Emain Macha and go into exile with their warriors. Derdriu commits suicide rather than be given to Noisiu’s murderer, Eogan mac Durthacht.
Finnchad Fer Benn
Dubthach
Horned Man
Dubthach is one of the Ulster warriors who stand surety (to stand in promise) for the return of Uisliu’s sons. Dubthach goes into Ulster with Fergus and Cormac.
See Finnchad Fer Benn
Emer Emer is the daughter of Forgall Monach. She becomes Cu´chulainn’s wife.
Etarcomol is a foster son of Ailill and Medb. Fergus is against Etarcomol coming along on the parley to establish the single combats but takes him there under his protection. Etarcomol picks a fight with Cu´chulainn, who tries to avoid killing him, out of courtesy to Fergus, but must kill him in the end.
Fedelm Poetess and prophetess of Connacht, Fedelm returns from study in Britain and meets Medb’s army about to set out on the cattle raid. Medb demands that she prophesy the expedition’s outcome. The girl predicts their slaughter at the hands of Cu´chulainn.
Finnabair Finnabair is the daughter of Ailill and Medb. She is promised to one warrior after another to induce them to fight Cu´chulainn. She is eventually even offered to Cu´chulainn and sent to him in the disguise of her father. Cu´chulainn sees through the disguise, cuts off Finnabair’s hair, and thrusts a pillar stone under her cloak and tunic, shaming her without defiling her. She is said to commit suicide when she learns of the killing of so many princes on her account. In a variant tradition, she goes off with Cu´chulainn at the end of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge.
f o r
C u´ a i l n g e
Finnchad Fer Benn is called the Horned Man because of the silver horns he wears. He is Conchobor’s son and is sent to call up the warriors of Ulster.
Finnchaem Finnchaem is the sister of Conchobor and Deichtine. She is Conall Cernach’s mother and Cu´chulainn’s foster-mother.
Ferchu Loingsech Ferchu Loingsech is a Connachtman who never accepts the rule of Ailill and Medb. He proposes to his band that they kill Cu´chulainn and win their favor. All twelve attack Cu´chulainn and are killed.
Crunniuc mac Agnomain
Etarcomol
E p i c s
B o´
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Crunniuc mac Agnomain is the husband of Macha. His boasting of his wife leads to her race against the king’s chariot and her curse on the men of Ulster.
Buide mac Ba´in Buide mac Ba´in is Medb’s cowherd. Cu´chulainn kills him.
Bricriu mac Carbad Bricriu mac Carbad is a mean-minded man who loves stirring up trouble; it is said of him that if he heard something unfavorable about any decent person he could not rest until he had told it. He is chosen to judge between the two bulls because it is well known that ‘‘he favored his friend no more than his enemy.’’ He is killed by the bulls.
Ferdia mac Dama´in Ferdia mac Dama´in is Cu´chulainn’s foster brother and closest friend. He is the son of a king of Connacht. He does not want to fight Cu´chulainn, but Medb shames him into fighting. They fight for four days, and Cu´chulainn finally defeats Ferdia with the gae bolg, a terrible javelin only he can use. He laments his friend. His beautiful lament for Ferdia is one of the high points of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge with its repetition of the highest praise for Ferdia’s ability.
V o l u m e
2
7 5 1
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
Eogan mac Durthacht Eogan mac Durthacht is the king of Fernmag. He comes to make peace with Conchobor and is chosen to kill Noisiu and his brothers.
Lug mac Ethnenn Lug mac Ethnenn is Cu´chulainn’s sı´dh father. He comes to take his son’s place, when Cu´chulainn is on the edge of collapse from his wounds and lack of sleep.
Da´ire mac Fiacha Da´ire mac Fiacha is the owner of the Bull of Cooley. He is going to lend the bull until he learns that had he not accepted Medb’s offer, the bull would have been taken by force.
Fiacha mac Fir Febe Fiacha is the son of Conchobor’s daughter. He is one of the Ulster exiles with Medb’s army. Fergus sends him to bring news of the fight when Gaile Da´na and his twenty-seven sons and his sister’s son simultaneously attack Cu´chulainn’s with their poisoned weapons and fists. Fiacha breaks the compact of the Ulster exiles and goes to the hero’s aid. To protect the Ulstermen from Medb’s wrath, Cu´chulainn and the two sons of Ficce kill all twenty-nine.
Lugaid mac Nois Allchomaig Lugaid mac Nois Allchomaig is the king of Munster. He goes to parley with Cu´chulainn on several occasions at the behest of Ailill. He is on good terms with Cu´chulainn. At his request his brother La´re´ne is the only man who escapes alive from single combat with Cu´chulainn.
Laeg mac Riangabra Laeg mac Riangabra is Cu´chulainn’s charioteer. He is the hero’s confidant, counselor, and right-hand man.
Sualdam mac Roich Sualdam mac Roich is Cu´chulainn’s mortal father who dies when he cut his head off on the rim of his own shield trying to rouse the warriors of Ulster.
love of Derdriu but she puts a geasa on him, binding him to do as she requires. Though given safe conduct from Conchobor, the king of Ulster, he and his brothers are murdered by Eogan mac Durthacht on Conchobor’s orders, despite Fergus’s own son throwing himself across Noisiu to save him.
Macha Macha is the daughter of Sainrith mac Imbaith. She gives birth to twins after the race against the chariot of the king of Ulster. She curses the men of Ulster with labor pains for their cruelty towards a woman in childbirth. Her story not only explains why Cu´chulainn has to stand alone against the combined forces of three provinces of Ireland, but it also explains the name of the royal fortress, Emain Macha.
Medb Medb is the daughter of the High King of Tara who gives her the province of Connacht for her own. Originally, Medb is the goddess of sovereignty, the patroness of every true king. In the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, she is a cold, amoral, powerhungry woman, who treats her own daughter as a commodity to be bargained with for a moment’s advantage. Her own adulteries are merely a form of leverage. She is one of the most fully realized and internally consistent of the characters.
The Morrı´gan The Morrı´ gan is the goddess of war. She is a presence on the battlefield but does not participate in combat. She causes panic in the Connacht army and attempts to seduce Cu´chulainn. She is traditionally associated with fords where she could be seen washing the clothing of those fated to die in a coming battle. This manifestation has passed into Scottish Highland folklore as the Bean-nighe, who is seen washing the clothing of those about to die.
Nes Mac Roth Mac Roth is the messenger of Ailill and Medb. He is sent to borrow the Bull of Cooley from Da´ire mac Fiacha.
Noisiu mac Uislenn Noisiu mac Uislenn is Derdriu’s lover and one of the finest men in Ulster. He tries to escape the
7 5 2
E p i c s
f o r
Nes is the mother of Conchobor by the druid Cathbad. She marries Fergus on the understanding that her son Conchobor can be king for a year, ensuring that his children will be the children of a king and giving them both status and a place in the succession. She then manipulates the situation to ensure that the warriors of Ulster do not allow Fergus to resume the throne.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Cu´chulainn, like the modern superhero, is capable of feats that are impossible for normal people. Read a comic book or graphic novel about a superhero such as Spider-Man, Batman, or Superman. Write a paper comparing and contrasting the superhero and Cu´chulainn.
The artifacts that are described in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge have often been compared to the artifacts and the decorative style of the ` culture. Research the La Tene ` style La Tene in Europe, Britain, and Ireland and its persistence in Irish art. Using a computer, create a multimedia presentation of artifacts ` that exemplify the La Tene style, highlighting items that could be stand-ins for things mentioned in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Early medieval Ireland produced more than a vernacular literature. It had an enormous effect on Western literary culture, even on the basic level of how a text is presented on the page. Investigate the development of word
Sca´thach Sca´thach is a woman warrior and the prophetess of Albu, the island of Britain. She completes Cu´chulainn’s education as a warrior. He defeats her greatest enemy, the woman warrior Aife, by whom he has a son, Connla. Sca´thach prophesies to him that he is to have a short life but everlasting fame.
Setanta See Cu´chulainn
Warped One See Cu´chulainn
White Horned See Finnbennach
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
division, punctuation, and page layout in early Irish and Irish-influenced manuscripts. Write a short research paper to present your findings. The excavation at Navan Fort, the site of Emain Macha, has uncovered an Iron Age complex that is probably religious in nature. The interpretive center is an integral part of an initiative in Northern Ireland to give a sense of cultural inclusion to both Nationalist and Unionist communities in Northern Ireland. Research the differing attitudes of Northern Nationalists and Unionists in relation to the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. With a partner (each of you takes a side), debate the issues that divide these two groups. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is full of incidents that explain place names. Research the place names in your own locality to establish what lies behind them. Create a visual aid, such as a large map, to share the historical information you have learned.
THEMES The Breakdown of Social Order Cu´chulainn is the focus of a valiant attempt to preserve his society. Around him, the basic relationships of the early Irish social order are snapping: The ties between kin, between foster brothers, between men and women, between kings and subjects are broken. It is characteristic of medieval Irish thought that this anarchy flows from rulers. Conchobor drives out his own kin through deceit, treachery, and murder. Medb counsels the murder of faithful allies and manipulates men into breaking the sacred bonds of fosterage and kinship. Between them, they compromise Fergus, a hero as great Cu´chulainn and leave widows, orphans, and grieving parents across Ireland.
V o l u m e
2
7 5 3
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
Honor Honor is an important quality to the heroes of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Warriors do not engage each other unless the fight is mutually agreed upon. Cu´chulainn, knowing his own prowess in battle, attempts to avoid killing good men but often must follow through because he is honor-bound to engage with those who seek to fight him. Young Etarcomol is an example of a fight Cu´chulainn tries to avoid because the boy is under the care of his friend Fergus, but the headstrong boy taunts the warrior until he cannot ignore the engagement. Queen Medb is an unsympathetic character because of her lack of honor. She tricks people to get what she wants and does not seem to care who is harmed in her quest to acquire the brown bull of Cooley, including her daughter Finnabair.
Heroism Bravery is at the heart of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Facing physical dangers in combat is of the utmost importance. The highest expression of such heroism is the hero alone; Cu´chulainn standing against the enemies of Ulster with only the most intermittent and qualified aid is an excellent example in western literature. Whatever flaws Cu´chulainn may have, his physical courage and the motives that fuel it are respected. Cu´chulainn makes a decision based on his understanding of his ability and training, his sense of obligation to his Ulster kin and to Ulster society as a whole, and on the desire to purchase immortal fame.
Topography and Place Names A major element in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is the attention given to the setting of the action. This is not in the usual form of verbal description, which allows the audience to see the setting. Instead, the setting is established as a story behind a place name. Incidents often appear to be included simply to explain the name of a minor ford or wood. Some stories may have been invented simply to provide such an explanation. The great battle between the men of Ulster and the forces of Medb and Ailill at the end of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is treated in far less detail than the circuitous route of the dying bull, Donn Cu´ailnge, leaving behind him a scatter of place names. The preoccupation with place names and their meanings and origins is not confined to Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. A whole genre of place name narratives exists in Irish literature, the dinnsenchas. This native genre was reinforced by the
7 5 4
E p i c s
f o r
Medb (also known as Maeve), Queen of Connacht, who made a raid on the Ulaid (Ulstermen) to carry off the great bull of Cooley. (Mary Evans Picture Library. Reproduced by permission.)
importance of biblical place names in explaining the Bible in early Christian writings and by the use of place name narratives in classical literature, particularly in Virgil’s Aeneid. It is possible that identification of a story with a place was a device for remembering a particular character or event. The place name narratives in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge cannot be dropped out of the narrative without changing its meaning and character. First, they anchor the action, however fantastic, in the reality of the Irish countryside. Second, they all seem to share in establishing the action of the epic as of such importance that this raid and its heroes have made an indelible mark on Ireland. Third, they effectively confirm the author’s status with his audience by his apparently exact and detailed knowledge of every cairn, every wood in the path of the raid, and the combat of the bulls. This use of place name stories as an indication of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
learning is illustrated in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge when Cu´chulainn, on his first day as a warrior, is instructed in place name lore by Ibor, Conchobor’s charioteer.
Persistence of War and Search for Peace Despite its concentration on the martial achievements of Cu´chulainn, the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge does not glorify warfare or treat cattle raiding as merely a commonplace nuisance. Cu´chulainn’s grief over the death of Ferdia is only the most striking of his laments, and his reaction to the sound of the final battle (‘‘anger destroys the world’’) is telling. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was composed in a society that was attempting in some small measure to limit violence.
STYLE Epic Features An epic is a long narrative in which a crisis must be met and overcome, whether in the form of warfare or a quest. An epic almost always represents the summation of a culture’s ideals at the point when those ideas are in flux. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge certainly qualifies as an epic because it is a long and complex narrative, treating a serious subject, the survival of a people in the terms of their ability to protect themselves, the integrity of their borders, and their means of survival. The action is centered on an outstanding hero, Cu´chulainn, who holds the fate of his people in his hands. Around him are equally magnificent and compelling characters, subsidiary only in reference to Cu´chulainn. The action springs from the clash of Medb and Ailill who are almost god-like in their detachment. The progress of the action is vitally affected by earlier decisions of Ulster kings: the command to Macha to race the king’s chariot, despite her appeals, and Conchobor’s treachery towards the sons of Uisliu. The first results in the warriors of Ulster being stricken with labor pains so that they cannot defend their homes; the second results in the desertion of many of their greatest warriors, splitting even the king’s own family.
Foreshadowing Foreshadowing is a literary device that builds tension during a story by informing the reader of events to come without indication of how the story will get there. Sometimes the characters are aware of the foreshadowing, for example, if one character has a dream, and sometimes only the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
reader is aware through their observation of multiple points of view. In the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, foreshadowing is achieved in different ways. One is through prophecy, as delivered by characters such as Fedelm, who tells Medb that Cu´chulainn will slaughter her army. Another way foreshadowing is presented is through the characters. They are broadly drawn such that a reader knows, within the first few chapters, who is good (Fergus, Cu´chulainn), who is foolish (Ailill), and who is wicked (Medb). In this way the reader can anticipate the outcome of the tale and, in some cases, the fates of individual characters.
Point of View The narrator in all versions of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge sounds like a modern researcher. He is well informed about places, actions, and conversations. The narrator claims to do nothing more than report, noting the existence of alternate traditions and stories. In place of the help of the muses with their divine knowledge, there is, in one version, the ghost of Fergus or at least the traditions preserved by his descendants. Even when the narrator describes a character’s mood, that mood is only what is apparent from either the character’s plain admission or actions.
Imagery and Symbolism Imagery in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge has been described, as Patricia Kelly suggests, as ‘‘limpid.’’ Her example, the description of the prophetess Fedelm, consists of concrete description in short sentences using only two comparisons in describing fourteen separate items. Looking at similar descriptions, the Fedelm description emerges as unusual in having even two comparisons. There is, however, a famous extended description that functions essentially as a metaphor using the messenger/interpreter, watchman/interpreter correspondence. Mac Roth, Medb’s messenger, reports a scene of unnatural phenomena that functions as a metaphor of the army of Ulster since Fergus is able to read these phenomena for what they really are—the effects of the army of Ulster on the march. The basic symbols of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge are hound/wolf, cow/bull, and horse. In general, the first is largely reserved for Cu´chulainn but is connected with a social type: the young warrior. The second is used of humans in general, but more particularly in the comparison of cows and women. Finally, horses are used as symbols of kingship. This symbol is exploited ironically when a mare is used to characterize Medb’s incompetence as a leader of men. An image that passes into symbol in Cu´chulainn’s lament for Ferdia is the gold
V o l u m e
2
7 5 5
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
brooch that Medb gave Ferdia as part of the inducement to fight his foster brother. In Cu´chulainn’s grief, the brooch is transformed into a symbol of all that Ferdia was.
Style and Prosody The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is unusual in the epic tradition in that it is written largely in prose with inset passages of syllabic verse. Some of these passages, for example, the prophecy of the Morrı´ gan, the unrhymed, alliterative rosc(ad) or rhetoric gives the impression of being older than the surrounding prose text. It has been suggested, however, that they are the products of poets who are trying to compose in what they thought was an ancient style. This text was probably not an attempt to confuse the audience about the age of their compositions but to create the proper atmosphere of antiquity and give an exalted and heroic quality to the characters who spoke them.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Reinvention of Early Irish History The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge floats within a period of over a thousand years. At one end is the generally assumed date of the essential action and characters of the first century CE . At the other, is the date of the earliest manuscript written in Clonmacnoise on the Shannon River in the first quarter of the twelfth century. Between these two dates is the great watershed of Irish history: the introduction of Christianity. Christianity and Roman culture, because of the proximity of the Roman Empire in Britain, began to affect Ireland in the third century. Their influence was strengthened with the mission of St. Patrick (387–493) in the second half of the fifth century. At that point, the Irish had already developed a script of their own: Ogham. This script shows signs of having been affected by a highlevel understanding of Latin grammatical and linguistic theory. Within a century of St. Patrick’s death, Ireland was producing good Latin scholars and fervent Christian missionaries. Irishmen were laying the basis for modern page presentation and the spread of literacy, both in Latin and vernacular across Western Europe. Meanwhile, Ireland was in constant turmoil as new tribal and family groups such as the Ui Neill remade not only the political landscape but the landscape of history, reinterpreting the past to establish political legitimacy. While the myth of the high kingship was
7 5 6
E p i c s
f o r
being invented, the whole pre-Christian history of Ireland, or more properly, the pre-Patrician history of the island and it peoples, was overhauled. This was partially an attempt to integrate the Irish into mainstream Mediterranean culture and Christian salvation history. It also represented an attempt to provide a basis for native Irish law acceptable to the new religion and learning. There was also an attempt at cultural one-upmanship. If the Jewish nation boasted of Moses, the Greeks of Homer and Plato, and the Franks and Romans of descent from Troy, the Irish would claim to be the descendants of a pharaoh’s daughter, the foster mother of Moses. At some point in this intellectual and social ferment, Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as it exists in the earliest collection began to take shape.
Cattle and Cattle Raiding Across Irish history, certain constants of Irish life emerge: endemic warfare, disunity, and cattle rearing as the basis of the economy. In this atmosphere, cattle raiding emerged almost as an institution and continued until the final imposition of English rule. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is only the most famous tale of a cattle raid. The names of thirteen such tales survive. The tale type and its popularity were a reflection of social reality. For most of Ireland’s history, indeed up to about 1980, cattle rearing for meat, milk, butter, and hides was the mainstay of the economy. Prices in early medieval Ireland were expressed in cattle and slave girls at a ratio of seven cows to one slave. The integrity of a community vis-a`-vis its neighbors were demonstrated by the successful cattle-raid. A king’s authority was expressed in terms of the ability to enforce a tax on cattle over a given area. Cattle-raids were used regularly as a tool of local politics by both the native Irish and the Anglo-Norman settlers and were a constant fact of Irish life into the seventeenth century.
Iron Age Ireland The setting of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is the first century CE , which corresponds with the Iron Age in Ireland. The Iron Age in Ireland gradually emerged around 600 BCE when artifacts in the ` style began to appear in Ireland, as seen La Tene in archaeological finds. This signaled the introduction of Celtic cultural influences from mainland Europe, including the use of iron. Scholars originally believed that Celtic people invaded Ireland from central Europe, but genetic evidence in the early twenty-first century shows that it was a slower process, a migration, that came from Anatolia (modern Turkey), through the Iberian
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
COMPARE & CONTRAST
First century: Family is important for individual identity. To strengthen familial ties, male children are often fostered out to their uncles, returning home once they attain manhood. Bonds between foster brothers, such as Ferdia and Cu´chulainn, are as strong as the bonds of blood relations. Today: The family unit in Ireland is nuclear, like other Western countries, consisting of parents and their children. Children live with their parents until adulthood. First century: Hurling plays an important role in Ulster society. This social event emphasizes the qualities and traits of courage and physical aptitude that are admired. Today: Hurling is the Irish national game and is promoted, with several other native sports, by the national Gaelic Athletic Association. It is played in nearly every school in Ireland. Local club teams feed their best players into county teams, which then compete
peninsula, and up the west coast of Europe to Britain and Ireland. This migration was also completed around 1700 BCE , much earlier than originally believed. The indigenous inhabitants gradually blended with their Celtic visitors. Irish kingdoms, like those described in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, emerged around 400 BCE and had strong class distinctions, including aristocrats, warriors, farmers, and druids. The Iron Age in Ireland began to transition into the historic period after the arrival of Roman visitors just before the first century CE Ptolemy composed his famous Geography, which included the first written description of Ireland and her people, in 100 CE , and Christianity arrived in Ireland around 400 CE , definitively ending Irish prehistory.
Historical Fiction and the Place and Date of Composition As part of a larger effort to integrate Irish history into biblical salvation history and place
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
on the national level. County and provincial finals are as hotly contested as any ancient raid.
First century: Care and breeding of livestock is an important aspect of Ulster society. The number and quality of livestock a person maintains reflects on his or her character. This importance explains why Medb and Ailill emphasize the quality of their cattle during their pillow talk. Today: Cattle rearing still dominates Irish agriculture. Irish butter and beef are exported all over the world. Irish cheese makers have an international reputation. Although artificial insemination is used almost exclusively on modern Irish farms, the pursuit of the best bull is still important; league tables of available bulls are published in farming journals. Most cattle reared in Ireland are from breeds developed on mainland Europe, but a native breed, the small, hardy Kerry cow is still bred.
their past on a footing with that of Greece and Rome, medieval Irish scholars placed the action of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge around the time of Christ. They worked tirelessly to ensure that their proofs for its date corresponded to accepted notions of chronology and historical evidence. Cecile O’Rahilly, an editor of the three versions of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, believed that the earliest version of the work was written in the seventh century but composed three centuries earlier. But the language of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is affected by the introduction of Christianity and Latin. Further, archaeological study of artifacts, particularly of swords and their use, suggests that the constant reference to beheading and the descriptions of the use of swords in general can only be explained in terms of the long sword, introduced during the Viking period. It would be nearly impossible to perform the actions recounted with the much shorter Iron Age or early Christian period swords. For these reasons, the author of
V o l u m e
2
7 5 7
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
eighth century and after were capable of producing deliberately archaic texts. It would be appropriate for an author attempting to recreate a period long past to attempt to reproduce what he and his audience would recognize as linguistically oldfashioned. Thus, if a modern writer set her story in the sixteenth century, she might attempt conversation using words and meanings of words familiar to her audience from Shakespeare. After the 1970s, a number of scholars have attempted to assign a particular place and situation and even an author to the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. As of the early 2000s, no suggestion had gained general acceptance. It is fairly clear, however, that the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge must be one of the earliest Irish sagas to reach a stable form because so many other versions of the tales depend on it in one way or another. It must also have been in existence by the ninth century since the story of its being exchanged for Isidore’s Etymologiae and being recovered from the ghost of Fergus is preserved in the Triads of Ireland.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Cu´chulainn carries Ferdia across the river. ( Classic Image / Alamy)
the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge should be seen as consciously attempting to recreate a past for which there were broad outlines but few particulars. To recreate that past, the author relied on whatever information could be gleaned from native Irish sources, undoubtedly including the memory of the warfare that led to the downfall of the ancient Ulaid. The author would also have adapted information about other ancient peoples known through Latin texts, people who were understood as living at a similar level of civilization, perhaps including information from Roman writers on British and continental Celtic peoples of the first century BCE and the first century CE . It is also possible that this recreation was affected by pagan peoples whom Irish missionaries had encountered in their work. The poetic speeches inserted in the prose narrative were once thought to be extremely early. Later, however, it was shown that writers working in the
7 5 8
E p i c s
f o r
The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge appears alien, primitive, and unimaginably ancient. There are unmistakable signs, however, that this textual atmosphere is a sophisticated construction of the past, making the work’s historicity a scholarly donne´ (a feature in a literary work that is taken for granted or expected by virtue of the genre or milieu in which it is contained) well into the twentieth century. B. K. Lambkin noted the clarity of perception of its earliest critic, the scribe of the twelfth century Book of Leinster, who remarked about not giving any credence to the story and finding some events improbably. This comment was forgotten by subsequent readers in their desire to have a reliable historical source. Its apparent primitiveness caught the imagination of nineteenth-century scholars whose obsession with the presumed and desired antiquity of the Ta´in quickly became part of the Irish strain of nineteenth-century romantic nationalism. Scholarship under its influence, and not only in Ireland, often justified itself in the search for the pure, unsullied national character of a people. As editor Barbara Hillers noted, even the greatest nineteenth-century scholars approached the Ulster cycle of tales as history and its characters as real people. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was taken to be a rich source of historical, mythological, and
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
linguistic information. As Gerard Murphy noted, the question of literary technique hardly entered into their consideration; its artlessness was a positive virtue, if only as a proof of its great antiquity. The critical situation of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is somewhat better than Irish saga literature as a whole. There are good modern editions with translations. Yeats’s dramatic adaptations of the Ulster tales never achieved the popularity of his lyrics, but Kinsella’s 1969 translation opened the work up to a wider audience whose interests were more exclusively literary than philological, mythological, or historical. Ironically, it was further historical and archaeological research picking up anachronisms in the text that shifted interest to the author’s artifice and learning in projecting the aura of an archaic pagan past. This has been furthered by the emergence of a strain of historical-political readings according to N. B. Aitchison, moving interest away from the period it depicts to that of its original audience. This movement towards the analysis of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as highly ironic political satire has been further complicated by the fault line that opened up across the fields of early Irish literature and history in the second half of the twentieth century. On one side were the so-called nativist critics who traditionally emphasized the pagan and Indo-European material fossilized in medieval texts. They dominated the study of early Irish history and literature until the later twentieth century. On the other side were the revisionists, beginning with James Carney who emphasized the quick and thorough assimilation of classical and Christian literary culture among the Irish and its profound influence on Irish vernacular literature. Carney’s explanation of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge’s origins with its even-handed recognition of both native and classical Christian material is worth recapitulating. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, like the Irish sagas in general, shows in its vocabulary that it was given the form found in manuscripts that postdate the introduction of Christianity. The essential narrative and characters go back to a more or less remote preChristian past. This nucleus of characters and action, however, were like the grain of sand in an oyster’s shell. They attracted the author’s total literary experience, ranging across classical and Christian literature as well as native material, particularly the senchus, the stories that explained place names or how certain peoples came to be in a particular part of the country. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge also
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
attracted both popular characters from other legends into its narrative and popular types of narrative episodes. It is understandable that students of language, history, and archaeology have monopolized the study of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, because only by taking them into account can criticism have validity. Nevertheless, whatever criticism has done, as Carney suggested, the original author of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge attempted to give Ireland the equivalent of the Aeneid. Scholars and poets since about 1850 have worked tirelessly to ensure it that position in the history of Irish literature and in the popular imagination. In her 2006 book Playing the Hero: Reading the Irish Saga Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, scholar Ann Dooley investigated the literary, linguistic, and historical roots of the writing of this epic. In her point of view, the medieval scribes who authored the epic not only had an agenda of creating a literary and heroic history for Ireland but were themselves steeped in a time of change that is reflected in their work. Ciaran Carson, a native of northern Ireland, published a new translation of The Ta´in, for Penguin Classics in 2009. In her detailed review of the book in Irish Literary Supplement, Maria Tymoczko took Carson to task for following the same pattern of translation from the source material as Kinsella, thereby providing no new linguistic insight into this story although Carson has great potential for this as a native speaker of Irish Gaelic.
CRITICISM Helen Conrad-O’Briain Conrad-O’Briain holds a PhD from Trinity College Dublin where she is a research associate of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies and an adjunct lecturer in the School of English. In the following essay, Conrad-O’Briain explains the connection between topography, place name narratives, and the action of this Irish epic. Students of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in particular and early Irish literature in general have often neglected treating it as literature. Patricia Kelly at the beginning of ‘‘The Ta´in as Literature’’ identifies as the main obstacles to literary analysis the scholarly preoccupation with mythology, history, and prehistory, and a primitive quality that Gerard Murphy in Saga and Myth in Early Ireland attributed to their origin in ‘‘the youth of the world, before the heart had been
V o l u m e
2
7 5 9
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
P. W. Joyce’s Old Celtic Romances, first published in 1879 and printed in 2009, is one of the first and most influential collections of translated Irish tales. ‘‘The Children of Lir’’ is perhaps the best-known story in the collection, which leans towards romance and magic rather than heroic battle.
In Reading the Irish Landscape (1997), Frank Mitchell and Michael Ryan explain the geological and environmental history of the island from the earliest rocks to the presentday pressures on the Irish environment.
Paul Saenger’s Space Between Words: The Origins of Silent Reading (2000) is a demanding text but valuable for anyone interested in the development of western literacy and the way information is presented in text.
Every Man for Himself: Short Stories about Being a Guy (2005), edited by Nancy Mercado, is a collection by popular young adult writers, including Walter Dean Myers, David Lubar, and David Levithan, that, with both humor and seriousness, delve into the question of what it means to be a man.
The Mabinogion is a medieval epic that collects eleven mythological stories of preChristian Wales. Like the Ta´in, the Mabinogion is a literary construct that recalls legendary characters as far back as the Iron Age. Oxford University Press published a new translation by Sioned Davies in 2008.
trained to bow before the head or the imagination to be troubled by logic.’’ Research has made this explanation of the peculiar quality of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge more and more difficult to accept. Work on all the elements of the texts suggests that the so-called primitive quality of the epic is a carefully constructed one, using biblical and classical as well as native material to build a picture of the past that accords with what might be called an anthropology of pagans.
7 6 0
E p i c s
f o r
Late twentieth-century readings of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge were still driven by history, shaped by assumptions about the epic as political allegory. But no single time, place, or situation, no one key for this allegory ever achieved general acceptance. Despite Kelly’s belief that ‘‘a reliable verdict of the artistic failure or success of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is only possible if the texts’ aims have been correctly identified,’’ it is still valid to look at the text as something that should on one level explain itself. That is, the assumption is the literary work contains a story that offers insights into the human condition. Whether the first version represents a Christian re-interpretation of the past designed with a political purpose or, as Pa´draig O’Corrain suggests, a file of material to be worked up for various purposes at a later date, that version and all later ones reflect the tastes and preoccupations of their contemporary audience. If a theme, motif, or image is used throughout a work, it is important. However unappealing a literary device might be to a modern audience, such elements have significance. Living far from the places named, with no sense of connection to the individual commemorated in any given place name, modern readers may not see an immediate purpose in the place name narratives in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. But these place name narratives cannot be dismissed as meaningless. Carney suggests that they are the element most likely to be derived from the native tradition but that the writers used them in new ways. The function of these dinnsenchus, to use the Irish term, was to preserve the historic lore attached to a place. They existed as independent narratives and were gathered into collections at an early date. They were not originally part of any dramatic, fictional narrative. Their frequent use in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge indicates the author’s decision to use them. When Carney identified the place name stories as native, he recognized that they reach back into the pre-Christian past and that they played a unique part in Irish literature and cultural life. Other literatures use place name narratives and refer to the meaning of place names. For example, Virgil’s Aeneid contains stories attached to place names, which make his poem more than a glorification of the Julian clan of the Emperor Augustus or even of Rome. Instead, his descriptions of the places, people, and their origins, while fewer and more developed than those in the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge create a contextual framework of Italy
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
as the setting for his action. Another example is how Scripture scholars and preachers often stress the meaning of place names in the Bible, connecting the names with the spiritual meaning of the actions that are said to have occurred in those places. It is not surprising that an important study of the topography of the Holy Lands in the Middle Ages was written by the Irishman Adomnı´ n. Associations between place and narrative must have re-enforced into an already active native interest and genre, suggesting the possible ways short narrative attaches to place and thus refers to something connected to yet outside of the local people. Clearly, the author of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge used an important body of material in which his audience had a cultivated interest. The Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge does not have the sort of landscape description, beloved by the romantics and Victorians, which focuses on the individual and particular. The essential function of these landscapes is to create atmosphere, as for example in the description of Dartmoor in The Hound of the Baskervilles. The author of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was perfectly capable of creating such a landscape; however, he handled landscape differently. In his hands, the actual landscape is a figure for the vast Ulster army finally coming to Cu´chulainn’s aid. It echoes Cu´chulainn’s calling of the land of Ulster to rise and fight the invaders with him. Natural features such as woods, fords, plains, and standing stones appear in the epic. But they are not there to create atmosphere. Rather they link place narratives to the epic action in order to create an effect. The land is, thus, connected in sympathy with its people and their actual and mythic history. When Cu´chulainn intercepts the raiding army of Medb and Ailill, he says: ‘‘I summon air and earth; but I summon now above all the Cronn river . . . and the water reared up to the treetops.’’ Standing at the ford, a naturally defensible place but also a boundary with all the significance of a boundary, Cu´chulainn calls upon the country to stand by him to protect its people. Thus, fame, or at least memory, is shared by both place and warrior. The landscape with its narrative thus marks the site or setting where the action occurs. Every fight in the epic is about protecting Ulster, whether the Ulster of water and earth or flesh and blood. In this way, the dinnsenchus are subjected to a new organizing principle. Suddenly, not only the place names but the endless series of individual combats begin to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
The Druid warns Queen Medb about Cu´chulainn’s impending attack against the Connacht Army. (Mary Evans Picture Library. Reproduced by permission.)
make sense. One great story, one great threat, one great champion to meet it, has emerged from their total. One combat would not have made Cu´chulainn the champion of Ulster any more than one clan or province would have made Medb’s army the formidable force it was. It is the cumulative effect. Cu´chulainn’s rings his province with the graves of its enemies. Boundary burials are usually of one’s own protecting ancestors or heroes; here, they are of one’s enemies. Cu´chulainn sets the boundary not for Ulster, but for those who have attacked her. Source: Helen Conrad O’Briain, Critical Essay on Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cen gage Learning, 2011.
Maria Tymoczko In the following essay, Tymoczko discusses the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in light of the history of Ireland, the nationalist movement, and various interpretations of the epic.
V o l u m e
2
7 6 1
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
and which David Lloyd has characterized in part as having a ‘‘‘translational’ aesthetic’’ (1993: 97). WHAT MAKES THE CASE OF TA´IN BO´ CU´AILNGE PARTICULARLY INTERESTING IS THAT, UNLIKE TRANSLATION IN MANY OTHER POSTCOLONIAL SITUATIONS, IT IS NOT THE COLONIZERS WHO ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEFORMATIONS OF THE TRANSLATED TEXTS AND THE PARTIAL REPRESENTATIONS OF PRECOLONIAL CULTURE.’’
In coming to terms with the Modern Age, with modernity itself, a major task for all peoples has been to readjust their relationships to ageold lifeways, to traditions that have structured material and social life alike and that have defined them as nations, in the earliest sense of the word. Such lifeways and traditions are at the heart of culture—they are needed for identity, security, and stability; yet they must be modified or at times even abandoned for adaptability and change. Declan Kiberd views the Irish as one of the first peoples to experience the demands of the Modern Age—the rapidly changing conditions that brought alternations to virtually every sphere of life, that made people migrants in time as well as space—and he has called Ireland the ‘‘crucible of modernity’’ (1998). Seeing the Great Famine as the impetus that launched Ireland into modernity, Kiberd argues that the Irish responded vigorously to its challenges, showing themselves remarkably flexible and resilient, forward-looking rather than backward-looking, as illustrated, for example, by their willingness to give up the national language within a generation in the midnineteenth century. Half a century later Ireland was faced with yet another major task, the task of making the claim to be a nation in the political sense of the word, a claim that was at the time—and often still is today—predicated on the possession of a distinct culture. The Irish were enterprising in this task as well, reviving (and inventing when necessary) all aspects of Irish tradition that were useful for the definition of an Irish national culture, from games to language. The impulse is clearly apparent in the Irish literary revival, which Kiberd has called ‘‘essentially an exercise in translation’’ (1995: 624)
7 6 2
E p i c s
f o r
Curiously, despite the commonplace assent that the judgments of both Kiberd and Lloyd command about the Irish literary revival and translation, and despite the meticulous and detailed study that the use of Irish sources by major figures of the Irish literary revival has received, very little descriptive and analytic work has been done on the translations per se of early Irish literature into English. Kiberd himself virtually ignores the translations of early Irish literature in his magisterial study Inventing Ireland, even those translations produced by the major Irish writers that he considers, such as Augusta Gregory’s Cuchulain of Muirthemne and Gods and Fighting Men, or Thomas Kinsella’s The Ta´in. Kiberd omits the first two from consideration altogether in his study and passes over the latter with a phrase; noting that Kinsella ‘‘tried to bridge [the rift between English and Irish] by producing translations,’’ Kiberd acknowledges that ‘‘[Kinsella’s] version of The Ta´in is justly famous’’ (1995: 587). This gap in the scholarship on Irish literature is unfortunate, for, as work in translation studies has increasingly shown, translated literature plays a vital role in the development of any literary system. The translation record between languages and cultures is a particularly rich source of information about cultural transfer both synchronically and diachronically, illuminating, for example, the shape of the literary systems involved, reception conditions, patronage effects, power relations between cultures, and so forth. Moreover, when translation occurs within a complex, multilingual cultural system—as is the case when early Irish literature is translated into English primarily for an Irish audience—translations reveal much of interest about cultural stratification, competing values within a culture, literary prestige, and the like. It is important to rectify this gap in Irish Studies, for the construction and definition of a cultural heritage through the translation of early Irish literature was one of the most potent activities of the Irish literary revival and Irish cultural nationalism during the last century and a half, arguably shaping both the rebellion against England and the character of the emergent Irish state. The subject is also of interest for theoretical as well as historical masons, shedding light on many topics of current interest, including the nature of tradition, the transition into modernity, the intersection of language and nation, and the relation of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
texts and ideology. The translation of Irish literature is in fact a principal locus of the manipulation and invention of tradition in Ireland. In a fulllength study, I have pursued the question, considering several facets of the translation of early Irish literature into English; here I will offer an overview of some main themes that emerge from a detailed consideration of the translations of early Irish literature. In Culture and Imperialism Edward Said has argued that narratives create ‘‘‘structures of feeling’ that support, elaborate, and consolidate the practice of empire’’ (1994: 14); at the same time his work documents the resistance and alternate structures of feeling created within dominated cultures to counter the practices of empire, resistance that erupted in the twentieth century in nationalist movements all over the world and that gradually won independence for the colonized, bringing to an end the practices of direct colonial rule. Just as dominant cultures create images of the past to bolster their practices of power (cf. Said 1994: 15 ff.), so do colonized cultures like Ireland create visions of the past to further ideological resistance and political programs (cf. Fanon 1966). Although such images of the past—like those of the colonizers— are manipulations of the past, often simplified or essentialized or even fetishized structures, they are powerful means of drawing together oppressed peoples and giving them a consciousness of their own potential for self-determination. In the case of a country that has undergone a language shift (whether because of intralinguistic diachronic changes or because of a shift to another language consequent to the process of colonization) or a country that brings together populations speaking several languages (and thus whose past is encoded in different languages), translation is a central means of creating images of the past and structures of feeling that support resistance and the coalescence of the nation. Ireland is such a country, and translations of Irish texts into English in fact constitute the earliest instance of a translation program in the service of postcolonial resistance. The translations represent a response to both nationalism and modernity, entailing an adaptation of traditional literary materials and their ancient values to conditions at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. Located at the heart of ‘‘native’’ Irish culture, these literary texts are the prime legacy of pre-Norman Irish culture to the Modern Age.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
Literary translations are inevitably partial; the information in and meaning of a source text is always more extensive than a translation can convey. Conversely, the receptor language and culture offer constraints that limit the possibilities of the translation, as well as extending the meanings of the translated text in other directions that are inherent in the receptor language and context. As a result, translators must make choices. Such choices in turn serve to create representations of their source texts, representations that are also partial. This partiality is not merely a defect, a lack, or an absence in a translation—it is also an aspect that makes the act of translation partisan, engaged and committed, either implicitly or explicitly. Such representations and commitments are apparent from analyses of translators’ choices word-by-word, page-by-page, and text-by-text, and they are also often demonstrable in the paratextual materials that surround translations, including introductions, footnotes, reviews, literary criticism, and so forth. The translation history of the early Irish versions of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge into English stands as an excellent example of these processes at work. Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge is one of the longest pre- Norman narratives in Irish—and among the longest texts, it is the most heroic. Early in the nineteenth-century process of reclaiming Irish cultural materials, the importance of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was realized; as early as 1861 in his Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Ancient Irish History, Eugene O’Curry (1861: 40–41) defined Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as perhaps the most important of the early tales as a source of information about early Irish culture. Yet despite the existence of a number of virtually complete nineteenth-century manuscript translations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, and the publication of ten English-language versions of the text (with the earliest appearing in 1873), the first complete translation of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge into English was not published until 1976, some seventy years after the earliest complete German translation. Translators—including important figures such as Standish Hayes O’Grady, A.H. Leahy, Augusta Gregory, and Mary A. Hutton—faced not simply a text with linguistic difficulties, but a text with problems of decorum (including sexual elements, scatology, and unheroic behavior that conformed to neither imperialist Victorian values, nor those of the cultural nationalists), a formal structure that was substantially different from models in English and European literary canons, and striking cultural alterity that was potentially alienating when
V o l u m e
2
7 6 3
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
juxtaposed with dominant English cultural standards and nationalist ideals. All these aspects of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge made it less an asset to Irish cultural nationalism than a possible liability, despite the manifest importance of the early versions of the tale. The result was a series of partial translations that served to obscure traditional elements of the tale that could not be accommodated within a framework of an emerging nationalism seeking to counter imperialist stereotyping of the Irish and at the same time to establish a distinct identity for the Irish people. In English-language translations the sexual and scatological aspects of the earliest texts of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge were either omitted or dampened through the use of euphemisms and generalities; thus Medb’s offer of her own body (her ‘‘thighs’’) to heroes who will face Cu´ Chulainn, as well as Cu´ Chulainn’s unheroic behavior, trysts, and very active lice, are either absent or veiled in English translations before 1922. Unusual customs are assimilated or discounted; for example, the centrality of cattle-raiding to Ireland’s early economy is downplayed in favor of a representation of the conflict in Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as an instance of war or in favor of a focus on single combat. The formal aspects of Irish hero tale are similarly tamed; the high heroism of the translations stands in contrast to the grotesque, hyperbolic, and comic elements of the early Irish versions of the story. Moreover, the formal quality of early Irish narrative—characterized by a mixture of two types of prose and three types of poetic elements—becomes represented in English in terms of familiar canonical forms: epic, romance, folktale, and the scholarly model of the prosimetrum, among others. Most significantly, almost all the early representations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in English translations recuperate the tale for Irish nationalism by in some way focusing on the conflict between Cu´ Chulainn and his foster-brother Fer Diad and by placing the tale within the framework of a heroic biography of Cu´ Chulainn— much more notable as a construction of nationalist criticism than as a feature of the Ulster Cycle as it is found in early Irish manuscripts. The most striking aspect of this translation history of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge into English is the partial suppression of the tale before 1922, with the medieval source texts abbreviated, excerpted, or summarized in most of the early translations—and, thus, subject to notable manipulations. In fact the situation did not improve after Irish independence,
7 6 4
E p i c s
f o r
for there is almost a fifty-year gap between Joseph Dunn’s translation of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, published in North America in 1914, and the next translations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, those of the second half of the twentieth century (the translation by Thomas Kinsella published in 1969 and the two translations of Cecile O’Rahilly published in 1967 and 1976). Clearly this pattern cannot be simply attributed to either linguistic difficulty or incompetent translators, particularly after 1905 when Ernst Windisch’s complete German edition and translation of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was published, for thereafter an English translation could simply have followed Windisch’s close and complete German rendering. As a cultural document, for more than a century Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge presented troubling challenges to the nationalist definition of Irish tradition that emerged before Irish independence and that became part of the nation’s foundation, rehearsed in the nationalist doxology thereafter. The translation history of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in English can be explained only in terms of the interference of ideology on translation. With the appropriate materials suppressed in translation, Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was available for use in the nationalist program, and to good use it was put, promoting a conception of Irish heroism that set a trajectory to 1916 and all that followed. Because the Ulster Cycle in Englishlanguage translations and adaptations was subsumed within the framework of a heroic biography of Cu´ Chulainn, the stories could be integrated into a coherent pattern that worked to counter the depersonalization that colonized peoples surfer under colonialism, fostering instead self-confidence and heroic models of resistance to oppression. Cu´ Chulainn—particularly as he was pictured in translations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge published in English— came to epitomize the ideal of militant Irish heroism, which thus became a personalized concept rather than an abstract one. Cu´ Chulainn’s extravagant and heroic boyhood deeds (which constitute an episode within Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge), his welcome of a short life with fame, his role as guardian of his tribe, his victories in single combat, his refusal to shirk challenge, and his early tragic death beset by overwhelming odds (in The Death of Cu´ Chulainn) were all highlighted in English-language translations of the early Irish tales. The paradigm permitted nationalist identification with a hero of the most militant and uncompromising sort, and it glorified both individualism and action on behalf of the tribe. The trajectory this set to 1916 was a literal one, not merely figurative, as the role of Cu´ Chulainn in Pearse’s thought suggests; for Pearse, Cu´
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
Chulainn was not only a model of his own life, but a model he used to form the children at St. Enda’s School as well (Tymoczko 1999: 79–80). Within this biographical framework the most significant formula to emerge in Englishlanguage translations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge was the celebration of the fight between Cu´ Chulainn and his foster brother Fer Diad, an episode highlighted in almost every translation of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge before 1922. For a variety of reasons— including its structural unity and formal features, such as a high incidence of poetry, as well as its apprehensible social customs and generally sober, even tragic, tone—the episode was not only palatable to Victorian readers, but also could be compared favorably with other national epics. In retrospect, however, what is most striking about the choice to highlight this episode in translation is the ideological force of Cu´ Chulainn’s fight with Fer Diad: the implicit and even explicit message that violence toward friend and brother is sad but necessary if a man is to fulfill his group loyalties and patriotic duties. This is, of course, a representation that promotes civil strife and civil war—the very means by which the Irish nationalist movement achieved independence from Britain, the means used in the Irish Civil War, and the means taken up again in Northern Ireland after 1968. Thus, the treatment of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in English translation contributed to a discourse of violence in Ireland from the nineteenth century to the present. The translation of the early Irish texts of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge into English is by no means an isolated or aberrant example of such translation effects. This Irish case study confirms what is seen in translations in many other contexts, and it is consistent with contemporary translation theory. It is normal, for example, to be able to trace the impact of ideology on translation and to find interference from the receiving culture. Moreover, as the translations of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge indicate, in investigating the cultural manipulations in translations, it is as important to consider what is not translated as what is translated. Zero translation is a significant factor in the selection of texts, as well as in the treatment of specific elements within texts that are chosen to be translated; thus the macroscopic patterns of textual choice are as important to describe as the choices revealed on the microscopic levels of individual translations, and the treatment of the two levels is interrelated. Although it is impossible in the present context to make the case
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
in detail, the translation of early Irish literature into English also demonstrates the relationship between translation and other cultural systems, including politics and the body of original literary works contemporary with the translation movement. This phenomenon is to be expected from a systems perspective on translation theory, in which the literary system (which includes translated literature) is theorized as being in turn embedded in other social systems (Even-Zohar 1990). The case exemplifies as well problems with normative approaches to translation: certainly the case of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge demonstrates that, however inadequate they were as literal representations, the translation strategies adopted must be accounted as excellent ones, given the goals of the translators to develop resistance to the colonizers and to build national consciousness. Invidious distinctions between translations and adaptations are difficult to sustain in such a context if one takes a historical and descriptive view of translation, such as the one adopted here. Similarly, the question of equivalence in translation becomes less a prescriptive or a priori matter, than a descriptive and a posteriori one. The role of translation within Irish cultural nationalism indicates, moreover, that translation in certain charged cultural situations is not simply a matter of textual production but rather an act, a deed, at times with over political significance, where the function of the translation is as significant as the content, the context as important as the text. What makes the case of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge particularly interesting is that, unlike translation in many other postcolonial situations, it is not the colonizers who are responsible for the deformations of the translated texts and the partial representations of precolonial culture. Instead, these manipulations are attributable to the cultural nationalists and the colonized themselves, as they exploit their traditions to suit the needs of their own times. In his discussion of the nexus of translation theory and postcolonial theory, Douglas Robinson identifies what he calls the ‘‘narrative or utopian myth of postcolonial translation studies,’’ which moves ‘‘from translation as a channel of colonization, through translation as a lightning-rod for surviving cultural inequalities after the collapse of colonialism, to translation as a channel of decolonization’’ (1997: 6). Alternately, following Frantz Fanon (1966: 178–79), one can view these stages as involving assimilation to colonial standards; dialectical opposition between colonialism
V o l u m e
2
7 6 5
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
and an emergent definition of national identity, itself paradoxically tied to colonialism if only through its oppositional structure; and the emergence of an autonomous or decolonized identity that transcends dialectical dependence on the colonizers. Robinson (1997) argues that most studies of translation that prescribe programs for developing and achieving resistant or decolonized translation programs are curiously thin and unarticulated, with examples of actual practices as yet unimpressive. In part this may be because most former colonies have not as yet had time to move beyond the dialectical stage of engagement with imperialist legacies. In Ireland, by contrast, because it was the first colony of England to achieve liberation in the twentieth century, there has been sufficient time for the translation program to mature and become articulated. In fact the history of translations of early Irish literature in English confirms the utopic narrative of postcoloniality and postcolonial translation. One can see, for example, in the earliest adaptations and translations of the Ulster Cycle, the impetus to adapt both formal structures and cultural markers to dominant English standards. In Standish O’Grady’s adaptations of the tales published in 1878–1880, for example, early Irish culture is presented in terms of the cultural context associated with medieval romance, complete with knights and castles with drawbridges; various other early adaptors and translators adopt similar representations. Early translators also speak of and represent the Irish tales as epics or romances, assimilating the complex narrative form of early Irish literature to prestigious forms already established in English literary canons. A second stage can be identified in which the Irish are distinguished from the English, but in such a way as to differentiate the two cultures in antithetical ways. In this group of translations are highlighted certain cultural markers that were valorized by Irish cultural nationalism at the time (such as the Irish otherworld, indicating Irish imagination and spirituality), but that were not offensive to dominant imperial standards. At this stage representation of Irish formalism is also affected by nationalist values—thus Gregory translated the early hero tales as a series of short prose narratives, a form that suggests comparison with the folktales much appreciated by the nationalist movement, and her language is an English dialect used by Irish country people, a class that played an important role in the definition of Irishness among cultural nationalists.
7 6 6
E p i c s
f o r
A third, more autonomous stage—a form of decolonized translation—is apparent in translations that appeared after World War II, some decades after Irish independence. The most important translations of early Irish literature in this regard are those of Thomas Kinsella, collected in his volume entitled The Ta´in. Kinsella’s decolonized stance toward Irish literature, values, and culture is evident throughout his work. Thus, for example, he combines twentieth-century formal structures (including imagistic poetry and heterogeneous narrative models associated with James Joyce and the modern novel) to represent the complexity of early Irish narrative form, rather than simplifying Irish formalism to conform to earlier canonical models. His treatment of distinct features of early Irish culture is equally bold: he invents English terms, extends the semantic fields of existing English terms, or imports Irish words as reserved markers to represent specific central cultural features of the early Irish texts. Such terms as warp-spasm for the Irish rı´ astrad (Cu´ Chulainn’s ‘distortion’ when in a battle-rage), or pangs for the ces of the Ulstermen (the weakness that strikes them when they are most in need), or the borrowed sı´ dh used for the Irish otherworld and its inhabitants, are instances of ostranie, or defamiliarized language, in Kinsella’s translations. Such terms call attention to the distinctiveness of the Irish cultural concepts at issue and transfer, rather than translate, Irish cultural configurations, without at the same time skewing the texts by foregrounding those same concepts as a consequence of, say, exiguous explanation. Perhaps most importantly, Kinsella challenges the pieties of both the colonialist and the nationalist projects by representing aspects of the texts that are at variance with those ideologies, including the explicitly physical and sexual aspects of the tales. He preserves as well the self-reflexive humor of the source texts that interrogates heroism rather than simply celebrating it. Kinsella’s work represents a decolonized or resistant mode of translation, thus successfully achieving and developing strategies that recent programmatic appeals in translation studies have by and large merely called for. Not all English translations of early Irish literature in the second half of the twentieth century are decolonized translations, however. Cecile O’Rahilly’s scholarly translations that accompany her editions of the earliest version of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge (Recension I) and the version of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge found in the Book of Leinster do not show the same cultural orientation as that of
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
Kinsella. They are instead what Eugene Eoyang (1993: 194, 199) calls ‘‘contingent translations,’’ translations that are not fully self-standing, but that send the reader back repeatedly to the source text because of their very cumbersomeness. Rather than challenging nationalist pieties as Kinsella does, O’Rahilly’s translations show an ideological commitment to the supremacy of Irish as a language per se—they are, in fact, in the tradition of both the Irish language movement of the turn of the century and of the public policies that privileged the Irish language and Irish speakers in the state of Ireland after 1922. O’Rahilly’s emphasis remains on these values promoting the Irish language, and her translation strategies are consistent with her system of patronage—her work was supported and published by the government-funded School of Celtic Studies of the Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies. Although translations ostensibly represent the entire semantic content of the two earliest versions of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, in fact O’Rahilly downplays and even obscures many aspects of the tale that had caused interference in the earlier translations; she does so by the judicious selection of euphemisms, the deployment of a stiff scholarly register of English, and the like, pursuing a strategy that keeps her translations within the bounds of decorum that were the dominant standards of the Irish state, supported by both formal and informal social controls, a standard that ironically emerged from a coalescence of British Victorianism and Roman Catholicism. These are the standards that the translations of Kinsella, for example, implicitly contest. The translation history of early Irish literature into English thus illustrates the usefulness of postcolonial theory for the study of Irish literature and culture, even as it confirms and in some ways modulates that same theory. Because Ireland has had a longer time to play out conflicts that remain after a colony achieves independence, its cultural products—including its translations– offer more extensive and more articulated evidence for analysis by and assimilation into postcolonial theory than do those of cultures that have attained independence more recently. As can be discerned even in the summary discussion above, the direction that translations of early Irish literature have taken shows close parallels to many of the literary developments in Ireland in the same decades. This is in part because, as systems theory has been at pains to point out, translated literature is part of a receiving culture’s literary system and is subject to many of the same
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
constraints as original literary production. The contested areas within literature are mirrored in the system of translations. During the Irish literary revival, early Irish literature in ways came to represent central elements of the emerging system of Irish literature in English, furnishing both content and formalism alike for Ireland’s great writers. Ironically, there are inverse correlations to be found as well, indicating the complementarity of the translation movement and the literary writing of the Irish revival, for while the translations of early Irish literature were almost uniformly epigonic in their formal representations before Kinsella’s work, many Irish literary works in English are characterized by intense formal experimentation that can be linked to the formalisms of Irishlanguage literary texts. The cultural eruption that produced English translations of early Irish literature also produced Ireland’s postcolonial literature, and critical insights relevant to the one often illuminate the other as well. Finally, the study of translation in Ireland offers a cautionary lesson to those scholars involved in recent revisionist translation studies who have made calls for translation to assume a geopolitical role fostering resistance to oppression of various kinds. The Irish translation movement is in fact a rare example of exactly what is called for: a highly successful, popular translation movement that contributed in a material way to the end of imperial dominance in the Irish state. Ireland’s independence movement in turn inspired independence movements in many of Britain’s colonies, thus ultimately helping to shape the world in which we live. In retrospect it is also clear, however, that there are some bitter ironies to the geopolitical success of the translation movement in Ireland, its resistance to imperialism, and its valorization of Irish culture and Irish literature. Although the translations were instrumental in replacing colonial stereotypes of the Irish with new valorized images, those images also contributed to the construction of stifling and repressive social mores in post-independence Ireland, mores that came to be written into the very constitution of the Irish state. The image of Irish culture formulated in translations of early Irish literature became a sort of cultural prison, restricting social change and the emergence of a fully decolonized perception of Ireland’s cultural heritage. Paradoxically, the images created by the translation movement came to constrain even the process of translation itself, as is apparent in the fifty-year gap in the translation record of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge,
V o l u m e
2
7 6 7
T a´ i n
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
for example. Another way of putting this point is to say that translations of early Irish literature facilitated cultural nationalism and the independence movement, but they also resulted in a rigid, petrified, and even fetishized image of Irish culture and Irish tradition for decades after independence. They helped sustain a state that was in many ways regressive and repressive, and still later they contributed to a discourse of violence in the North. Fortunately, in the tendency of tradition and images of precolonial culture to become ossified and fetishized, translation is not merely part of the problem, but also potentially part of the solution. It has often been observed that there can be no ‘‘final’’ translation. Because reception conditions change, because language itself changes, translations must be continually redone, reworked. The new reworkings take up new choices, new partialities. The case of Kinsella stands as an example of a translator who translates old texts anew into the idiom of his day, making the past again answer the needs of both present and future, as have so many of Ireland’s cultural innovators. Because of the necessity of renewing translations, translation is a cultural function that ultimately undermines the fetishizing of cultural objects and cultural constructs—including the fetishizing of a national tradition. Translation is a site that acts to counter the petrification of images of the past, of readings of culture, custom, and tradition. It models the ways that the reinvention of tradition and the reconfiguration of customs—like the actual linguistic transposition of texts—can be no other than a process of perpetual renewal and change. Thus, translation is always a potential locus of ideological and political engagement. As this study indicates, in the crucible of modernity translation is an ideological tool, a powerful means of reworking and adapting the past. It maintains continuity with custom and tradition, but also shapes the future. Translation becomes a sign of difference as well as similarity, facilitating the migration of peoples in time as well as space, holding a special potency in the emerging hybridized, globalized world. In recent studies these powers of translation have been claimed as a particular sign of the postmodern age, yet most of these same strengths have been apparent in translations of early Irish literature into English since the nineteenth century. Speaking to our contemporary condition, Salman Rushdie (1992: 17) claims that ‘‘we are translated
7 6 8
E p i c s
f o r
men,’’ a condition of life apparent in Ireland for at least the last 150 years, since the loss of Irish as the dominant national language. If increasingly we seem to live in translated worlds, we must remember that, because of its particular history, Ireland was one of first countries to be translated and that this current process of cultural translation has been in the making a great long time. In Ireland, however, translation is not just an extended, metaphorical means of talking about cultural change and modernity; the actual practices of translation and the properties of specific translations offer illuminating insights into Ireland’s cultural history and development. Source: Maria Tymoczko, ‘‘Translation in the Crucible of Modernity,’’ in Eire Ireland, Vol. 35, No. 1 2, Spring Summer 2000, pp. 122 38.
SOURCES Aitchison, N. B., ‘‘The Ulster Cycle: Heroic Image and Historical Reality,’’ in Journal of Medieval History, Vol. 13, 1987, pp. 87 116. Carney, James, Studies in Irish Literature and History, Dublin Institute, 1955. Hillers, Barbara, ‘‘The Heroes of the Ulster Cycle,’’ in Uli dia: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Ulster Cycle of Tales, edited by J. P. Mallory and Gerard Stockman, December Publications, 1995, pp. 99 106. Kelly, Patricia, ‘‘The Ta´in as Literature,’’ in Aspects of the Ta´in, edited by J. P. Mallory, December Publications, 1992, pp. 69 102. Kinsella, Thomas, trans., The Ta´in, Oxford University Press, 1969. Lambkin, B. K., ‘‘Navan Fort and the Arrival of ‘Cul tural Heritage,’’’ in Emania: Bulletin of the Navan Research Group, No. 11, 1993, pp. 61 64. , ‘‘The Ulster Cycle, The Navan Centre, and the Improvement of Community Relations in Northern Ire land,’’ in Ulidia: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Ulster Cycle of Tales, edited by J. P. Mallory and Gerard Stockman, December Publica tions, 1995, pp. 281 90. Murphy, Gerard, Saga and Myth in Ancient Ireland, Pub lished for the Cultural Relations Committee of Ireland by Colm O´ Lochlainn, 1961. O’Corrain, Pa´draig, ‘‘The Ta´in: A Clue to Its Origins,’’ in Ulidia: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Ulster Cycle of Tales, edited by J. P. Mallory and Gerard Stockman, December Publications, 1995, pp. 31 37. Oppenheimer, Stephen, ‘‘Myths of British Ancestry,’’ in Prospect, No. 127, October 21, 2006. Raftery, Barry, ‘‘The Island Celts,’’ in The Celts, edited by Venceslas Kruta et al., Rizzoli, 1997, pp. 557 77.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T a´ i n
Tymoczko, Maria, ‘‘Retranslating the Ta´in,’’ in Irish Lit erary Supplement, Vol. 29, No. 1, Fall 2009, pp. 13 15. Yeats, W. B., Selected Plays, edited by Richard Allen Cave, Penguin Books, 1997.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Carson, Ciaran, trans., The Ta´in: Translated from the Old Irish Epic Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ilnge, Penguin Classics, 2009. Carson, a poet, translates this Irish epic into modern, easy to read prose. This version is com parable to Kinsella’s popular 1969 translation. Dooley, Ann, Playing the Hero: Reading the Irish Saga ‘‘Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge,’’ University of Toronto Press, 2006. Dooley, a professor specializing in medieval Irish literature, scrutinizes the twelfth century authors of the Ta´in to come to a better
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
B o´
C u´ a i l n g e
understanding of what this story can tell mod ern audiences about both its subject and its authors. Mallory, J. P., ‘‘The World of Cu´ Chulainn: The Archae ology of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge,’’ in Aspects of the Ta´in, edited by J. P. Mallory, December Publications, 1992, pp. 103 59. This study is useful in two ways. First, it is an indispensable study of the development and historical source of the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. Sec ond, it is an excellent example of how literature and archaeology can be used to illuminate one another.
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Tain Bo Cuailnge Cattle Raid of Cooley Cu Chulainn Ulster Cycle Queen Medb
V o l u m e
2
7 6 9
The Tale of Genji LADY MURASAKI SHIKIBU C. 1000
Murasaki Shikibu’s long novel The Tale of Genji probes the psychological, romantic, and political workings of mid-Heian Japan. The novel earned Murasaki Shikibu notoriety even in the early eleventh century, some six hundred years before the printing press made it available to a wider audience. Individuals in the royal court, which served as the subject of the novel, sought out chapters. According to legend, ladies-in-waiting and courtiers even pilfered unrevised copies. Some thousand years later, the novel continues to delight an enthusiastic audience. Stamps, scrolls, comic books, museums, shower gels, movies, parades, puppet plays, CDs—all show that Murasaki Shikibu and her creation have achieved national treasure status in Japan and drawn global admiration. The tale spreads across four generations and is accented with poetry and romance and a heightened awareness to the fleeting quality of life. Murasaki Shikibu’s tale explores a complex web of human and spiritual relationships, which makes the novel easily understandable to the modern reader. Many scholars consider The Tale of Genji to be the world’s first great novel. Readers through the ages have especially admired the depiction of the Heian court society’s aesthetic sense. Beauty—in flesh, flowers, sunsets, and musical notes—moved and influenced that society. The title character, Genji, flourishes in this atmosphere. He is a master of speech, poetry, music, manners, and dress.
7 7 0
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
her biography is gleaned from Murasaki Shikibu Diary and a set of autobiographical poems she left behind. She may have been born as early as 973, but possibly as many as five years later. She died some time between 1013 and 1031. Scholars believe that Murasaki Shikibu died around her fortieth year. Murasaki Shikibu was born in Kyoto. Her father, Fujiwara Tametoki, was a member of a minor branch of the nation’s most powerful family and held a post in the Board of Rites. Murasaki, which literally means violet, probably refers to a character in the author’s own novel. Before she began writing The Tale of Genji, Murasaki seemed to have been known as To Shikibu.
A portrait of Murasaki Shikibu ( Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy)
The Tale of Genji has had a pervasive influence on later Japanese and worldwide art. It has inspired Noh theater, waka poetry, scroll paintings, pop music, and dances. It has had an especially profound influence on Japanese literature. Court fiction for hundreds of years afterward openly modeled itself after The Tale of Genji. Modern writers, including Kawabata Yasunari in his 1968 Nobel Prize acceptance speech, still cite this novel as a great influence. Among several editions that appeared in the early 2000s is the 2010 paperback edition of Arthur Waley’s popular translation, which was published in the Tuttle Classics in Japanese series.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Murasaki Shikibu wrote the long novel The Tale of Genji, a diary, a collection of short lyric poems, and assorted poems found only in anthologies commissioned by royalty. Otherwise, very little is known for certain about her life because Heian Japanese custom deemed it bad manners to record the names of well-born ladies. Much of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Murasaki Shikibu’s mother died when she was still a child. Her father was a well-known scholar, and other ancestors were accomplished poets. Murasaki Shikibu profited from her family’s artistic and scholastic pedigree. She learned all the feminine arts that would have been expected of her, but, contrary to custom, she was educated alongside her brother and developed a command of Chinese and Japanese literature as well as Buddhist writings. Murasaki Shikibu married at about the age of twenty, but her husband died a year later. She had one daughter. Murasaki Shikibu probably began writing The Tale of Genji before 1005, when she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Shoshi, the consort of Emperor Ichijo. Shoshi’s father, Michinaga, had surrounded Shoshi with a group of brilliant court ladies, and Murasaki Shikibu may have been included because parts of the novel had already been circulated and admired. Her activities at Shoshi’s court are detailed in the diary, which primarily deals with the birth of two sons to the empress between the fall of 1008 and the beginning of 1010. Living among aristocrats, Murasaki Shikibu probably was privy to the gossip of real court people. That knowledge, along with her cultured upbringing and sensitive understanding of human nature, helped Murasaki Shikibu to create a masterpiece of literature. Long-standing debates about the chapter orders and whether the work is of a single author will likely never be solved. Except for fragments, the earliest surviving texts are from at least two centuries after the date of composition. The book circulated in the court in Murasaki Shikibu’s days, not in complete manuscript form, but rather as chapters. Thus, it is unlikely
V o l u m e
2
7 7 1
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
that readers read the chapters in an order Murasaki Shikibu imposed. The proper chapter order debate is complicated by the fact that some chapters discuss events that happened at the same time, instead of advancing the plot chronologically. Many scholars do not question that Murasaki Shikibu wrote most—if not all—of The Tale of Genji. However, the discrepancies in style and tone, as well as poetic technique, have convinced some that isolated chapters were written by another person. The final ten chapters, in which the mood turns noticeably more pessimistic, are the subject of the most skepticism.
PLOT SUMMARY Chapters 1 41 The Emperor and Kiritsubo give birth to the novel’s hero, Genji, in eleventh-century Japan. Kiritsubo, the Emperor’s true love, is a member of the lower ranks of court. The slander and petty jealousy of the other palace wives contribute to the mental anguish that results in her early death, when Genji is but three years old. Raised at court, Genji impresses everybody with his unparalleled beauty. He is exceptional in every way. But despite his father’s unflinching devotion, indeed because of it, the boy receives the name Genji, which classifies him as a commoner. The Emperor knows that without influential maternal relatives, the child’s position as a crown prince (the son picked to become the next emperor) is tentative, especially after the Emperor dies. Since the Kokiden faction will most certainly cause his son problems, it seems more practical to secure for the boy a court ranking (a political but not royal position) and to encourage his studies. A Korean soothsayer’s prediction that the boy will never become emperor plays a part in this decision. Roughly translated, Genji, or Minamoto, means commoner. It also carries the negative connotation that the bearer of the name has been dispossessed of a potential birthright because of an embarrassment or scandal. But the name Hikaru Genji, by which he becomes known, means shining prince. The Emperor’s grief over Kiritsubo is eased when he meets her look-alike, Fujitsubo, who becomes the Emperor’s official consort, and Genji
7 7 2
E p i c s
f o r
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
An animated version of The Tale of Genji (1987), a joint production of Asahi Publishing, the Asahi National Broadcasting Company, and Nippon Herald Films, was directed by Girsaburo Sugii and won accolades from the Japan Film Appreciation Society. It was released on video in 2000. A 1999 CD, produced by Futitsu Software Corporation, introduces the novel through picture scroll reproductions, photographs, illustrations, and narration. In early 2000, the last part of Saeko Ichinohe’s three-part dance, The Tale of Genji premiered at Lincoln Center in New York City, scenes from which as of 2010 could be viewed online.
The official website for the novel at http:// www.taleofgenji.org provides a summary, a photographic guide to the book, and more.
The website http://webworld.unesco.org/gengi from UNESCO presents The Tale of Genji as part of its Global Heritage program.
grows up in her presence. Genji is drawn to Fujitsubo for much the same reasons as his father. The Emperor seeks a substitute for his wife and Genji for his mother. Right after Genji’s coming-of-age ceremony, at the age of twelve, Genji is married to Aoi, the daughter of the Minister of the Left. She is a Fujiwara. Aoi turns out to be cold and unsympathetic, and Genji spends most of his time at the palace in his mother’s apartments (though he is now denied access to her). His inattentiveness to his wife inspires resentment from his father-in-law. Aoi’s brother, To no Chujo, becomes both Genji’s close friend and bitter rival. Five years pass between the first and second chapters. At the age of seventeen, Genji is already an experienced lover. His countless affairs occupy much of his time and energy. He seems to have a penchant for difficult situations, or he is too weak to avoid them. Genji seduces Yugao, a former
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
mistress of To no Chujo’s, and shortly after, she dies of a mysterious ailment. The living ghost of Lady Rokujo, one of Genji’s many partners, seems to be responsible. Although this is Lady Rokujo’s first appearance, it is understood that her jealousy is the root cause of the trouble. Genji, now eighteen, discovers Murasaki in the hills north of Kyoto. He is there seeking a cure for a persistent illness. Although just a girl of ten, Murasaki looks hauntingly like Fujitsubo. She turns out to be her niece. A series of negotiations in which Genji tries to adopt her fail. He will not be denied, though, and before her father, Prince Hyobu, can make his proper claim, Genji spirits her away to his household. He begins her education, grooming her to be his future romantic partner. Meanwhile, Genji’s persistent efforts to be with Fujitsubo finally come to fruition. She becomes pregnant as a result of their one sexual encounter, but the son’s real heritage must remain secret. Fujitsubo resolves not to allow Genji even the slightest access to her in the future, although the Emperor, unaware of the clandestine relationship, sometimes brings the two together. Everybody assumes the son, who eventually will be Emperor Reizei, to be the current emperor’s offspring. Genji is filled with shame because he betrayed his father and fears that the secret will be revealed. Genji’s captivation with the young Murasaki further alienates him from Aoi. Meanwhile, he becomes involved with one of Kokiden’s sisters, Oborozukiyo, who is engaged to the heir apparent. This is another dangerous liaison because Kokiden sees Genji as a threat to her son, the crown prince. Aoi becomes pregnant. As her pregnancy progresses, her health fails. Lady Rokujo again seems to be the culprit. Their baby is named Yugiri. When Aoi dies, Genji goes into deep mourning, despite the couple’s weak relationship. He consummates his relationship with Murasaki, thus making the transition from her father figure to her husband. The Emperor, Genji’s father, dies, and the power shifts to the Minister of the Right and Lady Kokiden. As Genji’s power and influence decline, he seems to mature. However, then the Minister of the Right catches his daughter, Oborozukiyo, and Genji in the act of making love. Lady Kokiden is determined to punish Genji. Feeling the force of Kokiden’s wrath, Genji decides to go into a self-imposed exile in Suma. By now Genji has entered his twenty-sixth year. He is
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
surrounded in the rustic seaside retreat by only a few attendants. The capital denizens almost all grieve the loss of Genji, who by now is well known for his many gifts and charm. Genji at first maintains hearty correspondence with many friends, but after a while only Murasaki and To no Chujo ignore Kokiden’s wishes to have him left alone. He increasingly longs to return. During a fierce storm, Genji dreams that his dead father has told him to put out to sea. Coincidentally, or by divine intervention, depending on one’s reading, the ex-Governor of Harima visits Genji. The entourage goes to Akashi. The ex-Governor promotes a relationship between Genji and his daughter. The affair is consummated shortly before the young emperor officially pardons Genji, who heads home. Back in the capital, Genji’s half brother, the current emperor, abdicates to Fujitsubo’s son (secretly Genji’s, too). Genji is restored to the court. In Akashi, the ex-governor of Harima’s daughter has a baby girl. Genji’s genuine sympathy for women is shown through several incidences: He agrees to raise the dying Lady Rokujo’s daughter and also helps Safflower Lady out of miserable conditions. Genji’s sensitivity and artistic talents are further displayed during a painting contest. He wins easily by displaying works he painted during his exile. Although just thirtyone years old, Genji begins to contemplate his retirement. Genji’s domestic life now takes the forefront. He builds a series of elaborate complexes to house his many love interests and children. While he is less reckless than in his youth, Genji continues to pursue new affairs, such as with his cousin, Princess Asagao. Murasaki begins to worry that Genji has grown tired of her. Fujitsubo dies and a period of mourning follows. Yugiri, Genji’s son with Aoi, now twelve, enters court life. Yugiri is prevented from pursuing a relationship with To no Chujo’s second daughter Kumoinokari (his cousin). Genji gets a larger estate and, finally, all his wives can share the same address. He covertly manages to bring Yugao’s daughter (by To no Chujo) to his palace, in part so that she might avoid a bad marriage. Now thirty-six, Genji seems content. He remains loyal to his many female relations. Tamakazura, Yugao’s daughter, becomes popular among suitors. Genji, too, begins to fall in love with her, but is rejected. Genji thinks of revealing her identity to To no Chujo, but then begins
V o l u m e
2
7 7 3
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
tutoring her on the koto (traditional Japanese stringed instrument) and decides to leave things as they are. Yugiri feels a pang of desire but thinks Tamakazura is his sister. Then he eavesdrops on Genji acting in an unfatherly manner to her. To no Chujo meanwhile discovers a long-lost daughter, a most inelegant woman, living in Omi. When it comes time for Tamakazura’s initiation ceremony, Genji reveals her true parentage to To no Chujo. With this fact now well known, Tamakazura’s relationships begin to change. She soon marries Higekuro, unhappily. Higekuro’s former wife, Murasaki’s stepsister, goes into a jealous fit and pours burning incense all over him. Now thirty-nine, Genji prepares for his Akashi daughter’s initiation ceremonies. The magnificent ceremony reminds To no Chujo that his own daughters have not been as successful. He rues his decision to separate his daughter Kumoi from Yugiri, who by now has achieved a distinguished rank. At a memorial service for his late mother, the late Princess Omiya, To no Chujo approaches Yugiri about reconciliation. Subsequently, at a wisteria-viewing party, the two resolve their differences. That very night, Yugiri consummates his relationship with Kumoi, and soon they move into the refurbished Sanjo mansion. The retired Emperor Susaku wants to become a Buddhist monk. He convinces Genji to marry his favorite daughter Nyosan, so that her protection will be assured. Her installation at Rokujo worries Murasaki, who resolves not to show any signs of jealousy. Nyosan is of higher birth than Murasaki but is unrefined in every other way, and again Genji appreciates his true love all the more. Kashiwagi is intent on having an affair with Nyosan. Meanwhile, the little Akashi princess has a baby boy. During her labor, she meets her old grandmother and learns that she was not born in the capital. This fact, which marks her as being of unsophisticated ancestry, serves to humble her. Murasaki beseeches Genji to let her become a nun, but he refuses. Genji gives Nyosan music lessons to prepare for a performance honoring the retired Emperor Susaku’s fiftieth birthday. Murasaki again refuses to be jealous, and Genji contrasts her disposition to that of Aoi and Lady Rokujo. Murasaki falls ill, the work of Lady Rokujo’s dead ghost. Once the ghost is lured into the open, Genji says prayers to appease her anger. Murasaki begins to get better.
7 7 4
E p i c s
f o r
While Genji is occupied with Murasaki, Kashiwagi seduces and impregnates Nyosan. Genji discovers the truth of the matter, and Kashiwagi’s shame overwhelms him. He falls ill and dies before seeing his son. Nyosan delivers a boy who looks nothing like Genji and then she becomes a nun. Yugiri takes responsibility for the care of Ochiba, the wife of his friend Kashiwagi. Yugiri, who has been an example of the faithful husband, soon makes unwanted advances toward Ochiba. When he returns to Kumoi, a letter arrives from Ochiba’s mother. In order not to raise Kumoi’s suspicions, Yugiri refuses to open it. Ochiba’s mother assumes her daughter has been jilted and soon after dies. Ochiba blames Yugiri, who alternately tries to console and seduce her. Kumoi, hurt and angered at her husband, takes her two daughters and moves back to her father’s house. In Genji’s fifty-first year, Murasaki begins formal preparations for her death and then dies. Genji’s grief is unbearable. He enters seclusion at Nijo, disperses his property, and destroys his old letters. His death scene is not rendered, but starting with Chapter 42 the story shifts to the third generation.
Chapters 42 54 Nine years have passed. Kaoru, distinguished by a strong and distinct odor, declines to pursue any romantic relationships, though he is desired by many court women. He becomes curious about the circumstances of his mother’s flight to the nunnery. Niou does pursue romantic relationships. He, in fact, deliberately competes with Kaoru. Kobai, To no Chujo’s oldest surviving son, takes over as head of the Fujiwara clan. He has married Prince Hotaru’s widow, Makibashira. They have a son together, Hotaru’s first. He tries, as is tradition in the Fujiwara clan, to marry his daughters into the imperial family. Higekuro has died and left Tamakazura with two daughters. He has instructed her to marry them into the imperial family. After some competition for the daughters, the retired Emperor Reizei, who has long been interested in Tamakazura herself, accepts Himegimi as a replacement. She bears him two children. His other women, Chujo and Akikonomu, become jealous. The present emperor, angry that he was not given first choice of daughters, settles for Wakagimi. This decision turns people against Tamakazura, who has been accused of arrogance in thrusting two daughters into the imperial line.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
Prince Hachi, the Eighth Prince, is introduced. Living in exile, his wife, late in her life, gives birth to two daughters, then dies. He lives a pious life in a meager cottage at Uji, although his parental responsibilities prevent him from taking religious vows. Kaoru begins studying Buddhist scriptures with Prince Hachi. They become fast friends. Kaoru becomes attracted to Prince Hachi’s eldest daughter. On a subsequent visit, Kaoru learns from Bennokimi, daughter of the late Kashiwagi’s nurse, the true story of his birth. Prince Hachi dies shortly after giving his daughters final instructions to beware of casual suitors. Kaoru, upset that he failed to properly honor his true father, longs to become a monk. Kaoru and the two daughters mourn the loss, and so does Niou, although he obviously wants to use the occasion to seduce the princesses. Kaoru catches a glimpse of the women through a screen and is impressed by their beauty. Kaoru pursues the elder princess and promotes Niou to the younger. The elder, though, interprets her father’s final wishes to mean that she should make no attachments at all. She tries to convince Kaoru to marry her younger sister. But Kaoru helps Niou, a known philanderer, to seduce the younger sister. They marry in secret. Around the same time, Niou takes another wife. He barely manages to spend any time with Nakanokimi. The elder daughter, Oigimi, becomes distraught over her role in the disastrous affair. She grows ill and dies. Kaoru comforts Nakanokimi and comes to think of her as a replacement for Oigimi. Although Kaoru never consummated his relationship with the elder sister, he mourns for her as deeply as he would for a beloved wife. Nakanokimi respects this sensitivity. Niou plans to move Nakanokimi to the capital. Kaoru refuses to become involved with Yugiri’s daughter Rokunokimi because of his infatuation with Nakanokimi. Nakanokimi becomes pregnant. Kaoru continues to console her. He begins to wish he had taken Nakanokimi as his own when he had the chance. Niou suspects that the relationship between his friend and his wife is no longer platonic. Nakanokimi, to avoid future jealousy, directs Kaoru to pursue Ukifune, an illegitimate half-sister who looks like Oigimi. He does. Even though Kaoru marries above his station, he obsesses over Ukifune. Ukifune’s mother carefully supervises her daughter’s interests while her husband thinks mostly of his own daughters. A guard lieutenant
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
withdraws his proposal to Ukifune when he learns that she is not a blood relative to the powerful governor. Ukifune, humiliated, is stored away at the house of her half-sister Nakanokimi. Niou, finding her alone, nearly manages to force himself upon her. Ukifune’s mother, in the name of security, takes Ukifune to an unfinished cottage. Kaoru finally manages a meeting with Ukifune and soon takes her to his villa at Uji, where he begins her social education. Niou learns of Ukifune’s situation. One night, in the darkness, Ukifune confuses Niou for Kaoru. He spends the night with her, and the next day. Soon, Niou is as obsessed with her as Kaoru. They both send her letters professing their love and laying out plans to take her to a secret hideaway. Niou kidnaps Ukifune, who falls in love with him. Ukifune becomes depressed over her situation, burns her love letters, and throws herself in the Uji River. Her body is discovered downstream at the grounds of an abandoned mansion. On the grounds of a nunnery, Ukifune recovers her health. An exorcism helps her recover. She refuses to engage in even polite exchanges with a suitor. As she recovers her memory, she realizes that Kaoru is of greater worth than Niou. She convinces the bishop to administer her vows and so renounces the world. Kaoru learns of the situation. Much disturbed, he goes to the nunnery to talk with Ukifune. She refuses to acknowledge anybody, even her brother who delivers a message from Kaoru.
CHARACTERS Lady Akashi Lady Akashi is the daughter of a provincial governor turned priest, whom Genji woos during his exile. She is daunted by his elevated position and refinement, but eventually succumbs and becomes one of Genji’s secondary wives. Her daughter is adopted by Murasaki and eventually becomes empress.
Akikonomu Akikonomu, the daughter of Prince Zembo and Lady Rokujo, serves as high priestess of the Ise shrine and later, with Genji’s backing, becomes the wife of Emperor Reizei (Genji’s son). She eventually becomes empress. Genji inappropriately tries to seduce her.
V o l u m e
2
7 7 5
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Lady Aoi The only daughter of the Minister of the Left at the opening of the novel and Genji’s first principal wife, Lady Aoi marries Genji when he is twelve and she is somewhat older. She is portrayed as cold and curt, and the two never seem compatible. Genji incurs the resentment of her family by his prolonged absences from her home at Sanjo. At a lustration ceremony, Lady Aoi pushes her carriage past the one belonging to Lady Rokujo. This move humiliates Rokujo and in turn inspires her spirit to take possession and kill Aoi. After Aoi dies, Genji mourns profusely. This deep mourning period may be explained by Genji’s feelings of guilt, both for being a bad husband and for causing her premature death. Before Aoi dies, she gives birth to their son, Yugiri.
Princess Asagao Princess Asagao is the daughter of Prince Momozono, a brother of Genji’s father; she is thus Genji’s first cousin. He pursues her from time to time, but without success.
Bennokimi The daughter of Kashiwagi’s late nurse, Bennokimi holds the true story of Kaoru’s birth. She finally, after many years, tells Kaoru everything and hands over a packet of Kashiwagi’s old love letters to his mother, Princess Nyosan.
Bishop of Yokawa The Bishop of Yokawa performs the exorcism that enables Ukifune to recover from her seemingly fatal illness. Later, he cuts her hair and allows her to take vows. He regrets having done this after he realizes Kaoru’s attachment to her.
Chujo The name means captain. Several female servants bear this name, probably taken from their father’s rank. One is the servant of the wife of the Governor of Iyo. In a subsequent chapter, a different Chujo seems to be a servant of Lady Rokujo. To no Chujo is Genji’s brother-in-law, best friend, and frequent rival. Like Genji, To no Chujo possesses great charm, beauty, and refinement in the arts. He is generally successful in his romantic pursuits. However, he is seen as just a step below his rival in all areas: a poor man’s Genji. He is the eldest son of a Minister of the Left and Princess Omiya, and the brother of Lady Aoi. He is the father of Kashiwagi, Kobai,
7 7 6
E p i c s
f o r
Kumoi, and (by Yugao) Tamakazura. His principal wife is a daughter of a Minister of the Right.
Chunagon A series of ladies in waiting bear this name. In Chapter 7, a Chunagon is mentioned as an attendant of Lady Aoi, and Genji later sleeps with her. The same or another Chunagon serves as Genji’s intermediary in a correspondence with Oborozukiyo.
Fujitsubo After the death of Kiritsubo, the Emperor (Genji’s father) marries her look-alike, Fujitsubo. Fujitsubo is the sister of Prince Hyobu and thus the aunt of Murasaki. Although she ranks as a secondary wife, Fujitsubo is clearly his favorite. She serves as a substitute not only to the Emperor for the loss of his wife, but also to Genji for the loss of his mother. Genji recklessly pursues Fujitsubo and finally seduces her. As a result, she bears a son, the future Emperor Reizei, whom the world thinks of as the Emperor’s child. She and Genji shamefully protect the terrible secret. She becomes a nun to impede Genji’s persistent advances. Her death at the age of thirty-seven sends Genji into a long period of mourning.
Genji The son of the Emperor and Kiritsubo, Genji is marked from his birth as extraordinary in every way. Because of weak maternal backing (Kiritsubo was of the lower ranks of court), the Emperor deems Genji a commoner. Ironically, the Korean fortuneteller who predicts and thus helps seal this fate also deems the boy, the Shining Genji. Genji’s natural beauty, combined with his cultivated skills in all the arts, makes him incomparably charming. It explains, in part, Genji’s great success with women. As he grows older, Genji learns to accommodate his many wives, concubines, old loves, and many children. This loyalty seems to arise from Genji’s great sympathy for humanity. But in the spirit of mono no aware, Genji also understands too deeply the fleeting quality of earthly things. Through it all, Genji’s one true love remains Murasaki. Soon after her death, Genji too dies, and the implication seems to be that society from that point on declines.
Prince Hachi A younger stepbrother of Genji, Prince Hachi enters the novel at the very end. While Prince Hachi lives as an ascetic in exile, his wife gives
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
birth to two daughters and then dies. Prince Hachi, already quite old, must give up plans to become a priest to assume his new parenting responsibility. He lives a saintly existence in a cottage near Uji. He and Kaoru become friends and study Buddhist scripture together. On his deathbed, he appoints Kaoru guardian of the Uji princesses
Prince Higekuro Prince Higekuro successfully wins his bid for Genji’s ward Tamakazura, to unsatisfactory results. Tamakazura seems to hold no fondness for Prince Higekuro and marries him out of fate. Prince Higekuro’s principal wife, Murasaki’s stepsister, is supposedly a mad woman whose father, Prince Hyobu, becomes angry with Prince Higekuro and wants his daughter and all their children to return to his home. The principal wife dumps ashes all over Prince Higekuro, thus ending any attempt at reconciliation. The act of jealousy is attributed to spirit possession. Prince Higekuro’s father was a Minister of the Right. His sister Shokyoden becomes the principal wife and empress of the Emperor Susaku, so he is an uncle of the emperor reigning at the novel’s end.
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Kaoru A son of Genji’s second principal wife, Princess Nyosan, Kaoru learns as an adult that his true father is not Genji but Kashiwagi. He looks nothing like Genji. He feels guilt and a sense of failure for not having properly honored his true father. His rivalry with his cousin Prince Niou is the main topic of the last fourth of the novel. Kaoru is not inclined toward romantic pursuits until he meets Prince Hachi’s daughters, Oigimi and Nakanokimi. He seems to have Genji’s sympathetic nature, but not his skill with women. Although both of the Uji princesses are beautiful, he falls in love with Oigimi, who dies without succumbing to his advances. He transfers his love to Nakanokimi, but out of loyalty promotes Niou as her husband. He instead consoles Nakanokimi over Niou’s long absence. Upon Nakanokimi’s advice, he transfers his love one more time, to her stepsister Ukifune. This final affair ends even more disastrously than the others do. As Kaoru and Niou vie for possession of Ukifune, the fragile woman becomes overcome with shame. After a failed suicide attempt, Nakanokimi ends up in a nunnery, where she refuses to communicate with Kaoru or any potential suitor.
Kashiwagi
Himegimi The daughter of Prince Higekuro and Tamakazura, the beautiful Himegimi attracts many suitors. Emperor Reizei wins her mother’s approval, in part because Prince Higekuro wanted his daughters married into the imperial line. She bears Emperor Reizei two children, a second daughter and first son, and in the process causes jealousy among his other wives, Chujo and Akikonomu.
A son of To no Chujo, Kashiwagi possesses some of the fine skills of the earlier generation, especially with the koto. His principal wife is Princess Ochiba, a daughter of Emperor Susaku. He is a suitor for Genji’s ward Tamakazura. He seduces Genji’s second principal wife, Princess Nyosan, and is the true father of Genji’s son Kaoru. When Genji discovers the secret, he becomes sick with shame and dies young.
Prince Hotaru
Kiritsubo
A younger half-brother of Genji, Prince Hotaru unsuccessfully courts Tamakazura, who is so shy that she lets her attendant Saisho handle all correspondence. Finally, Genji convinces her to bring a bag of fireflies (hotaru) into her bedchamber, which gives off enough light for Prince Hotaru to get a glimpse of her. This is where he gets his name.
Prince Hyobu Prince Hyobu is the son of a former emperor and brother of Fujitsubo. Genji’s love, Murasaki, is Prince Hyobu’s child by a concubine. A daughter of his principal wife becomes the principal wife of Prince Higekuro.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Genji’s mother, the Emperor’s favorite consort, is extremely beautiful but from the lower ranks of court society. The Emperor’s other ladies are jealous of Kiritsubo, which causes her to fall ill and die. Due to Kiritsubo’s class standing, her son Genji faces a future with no strong maternal backing. This situation contributes to the Emperor’s decision to deem his son a commoner. Both the Emperor and Genji search far and wide for Kiritsubo’s substitute, a dynamic that leads, in the case of Fujitsubo, to much regret.
Kobai After Kashiwagi’s death, Kobai is To no Chujo’s eldest surviving son. He takes over as head of the
V o l u m e
2
7 7 7
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Fujiwara clan upon his father’s death. Kobai has two daughters from his first principal wife, and his union with Makibashira finally produces a son. In true Fujiwari fashion, Kobai attempts to marry his daughters into the imperial family. He sends notes on a branch of rose plum, which is how he gets his name.
This seduction begins a long relationship. Early in the novel, when she avoids him, Genji sleeps with her stepdaughter, the wife of the governor of Kii. After the death of her husband, Lady of the Locust Shell suddenly becomes a nun.
Lady of the Orange Blossoms
The brother of the Lady of the Locust Shell, the beautiful Kogimi serves as messenger between Genji and his sister.
Genji takes charge of Lady of the Orange Blossoms after the death of her younger sister, Lady Reikeiden, who is a consort of Genji’s father. She helps raise Genji’s son Yugiri and To no Chujo’s daughter Tamakazura.
Kokiden
Makibashira
Genji’s wicked stepmother, Kokiden, the Emperor’s principal wife, sees Genji as a threat to her own eldest son’s future. Her jealousy and hunger for power lead her to treat Genji as a foe. Kokiden’s son is indeed made crown prince while Genji settles for commoner status. Under the reign of their son, Emperor Susaku, she and her father, a Minister of the Right, are very powerful. A sister apparently marries Prince Hotaru. A younger sister, Oborozukiyo, marries Emperor Susaku. Kokiden’s relentless rage over Genji’s affair with Oborozukiyo leads to his self-imposed exile.
Makibashira marries Kobai after the death of her first husband, Prince Hotaru.
Kogimi
Koremitsu The son of Genji’s old nurse, Koremitsu goes on confidential missions for Genji.
Lady Kumoi Lady Kumoi becomes Yugiri’s principal wife after a long period in which their match is prevented by her father, To no Chujo. They consummate their love after a wisteria-viewing party. There seems to be a parallel between this affair and Genji’s affair with his cousin Asagao, except here Yugiri is more successful. Her name is taken from the lines of one of her own poems, ‘‘wild goose in the clouds,’’ that tells of her longing for Yugiri.
Lady Murasaki Lady Murasaki first enters the novel as a ten-yearold child. She is the daughter of Prince Hyobu and Fujitsubo’s niece. Genji discovers her in the northern hills on a mission to receive treatment for a persistent illness. Her resemblance to Fujitsubo causes Genji to become obsessed with her. Genji’s desperate and persistent pleas to adopt her are finally approved, but at the same time, Prince Hyobu decides to take charge of her. Genji steals Murasaki away to begin her education, which amounts to a long, careful grooming to become his perfect lover. At fourteen, she becomes one of Genji’s secondary wives and his favorite. She embodies the ideal Heian woman, sophisticated, loyal, and even tempered. She dies at almost the same time of the year as Aoi, causing Genji such despair that he is unable to tend to the funeral arrangements. Her name comes from a plant that produces a lavender dye. Her prominence in the novel probably accounts for its author being known as Murasaki Shikibu.
Naishi
See Yugao
Naishi, also known as the elderly Lady of the Bedchamber, acts as aggressor toward Genji, which makes him very uncomfortable. Genji and To no Chujo inadvertently enter her bedchamber at the same time and make light of the situation by staging a mock fight.
Lady of the Locust Shell
Nakanokimi
Though Lady of the Locust Shell (also known as Utsusemi) is the wife of the governor of Iyo, Genji persists in his unwanted advances toward her until he finally manages to seduce her. He is attracted by her quiet and sullen temperament.
The youngest daughter of Prince Hachi, Nakanokimi is seduced by Prince Niou, who immediately becomes preoccupied with another wife. His long absences from Nakanokimi seem to confirm his reputation as a philanderer and
Lady of the Bedchamber See Naishi
Lady of the Evening Faces
7 7 8
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
mark their relationship as a disgrace. Her sister dies from the shame of having promoted the relationship against her father’s wishes. With Nakanokimi pregnant in Uji, Prince Niou marries Rokunokimi.
Prince Niou The third son of Emperor Kinjo and Empress Akashi, Prince Niou hopes to succeed his brother to the throne. He thwarts his own hopes through scandalous behavior. Prince Niou, who is extremely elegant, engages in a friendly rivalry with Kaoru. He wins Nakanokimi, whom Kaoru also loves, if after the fact. His marriage to Yugiri’s daughter Rokunokimi prevents him from spending time with Nakanokimi even during her pregnancy. Eventually, he suspects Kaoru has become involved with Nakanokimi. Prince Niou pursues Ukifune, which causes her eventual misery.
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
mean that she and her younger sister Nakanokimi should reject all proposals. Partly for this reason, she rejects the persistent advances of Kaoru. Trying to do what is best for the future, Oigimi tries to shift Kaoru’s interest to Nakanokimi. When the affair seems to end in disgrace, Oigimi starves herself to death in a scene reminiscent of Murasaki’s death.
Omyobu Omyobu is one of the women who attend Fujitsubo.
Lady Reikeiden A one-time minor wife of Genji’s father, Lady Reikeiden falls on hard times. Genji is interested in her younger sister, the Lady of the Orange Blossoms.
Emperor Reizei Nun of Ono After finding the sickened body of Ukifune, the Nun of Ono nurses Ukifune back to health.
Princess Nyosan A daughter of Emperor Susaku, Princess Nyosan (also known as the Third Princess) becomes Genji’s second principal wife. Princess Nyosan gives birth to Kaoru, who would seem to be Genji’s son but is actually the product of an illicit affair with Kashiwagi.
The son of Fujitsubo, Emperor Reizei abdicates early, after he learns that he is the child of Genji rather than of Genji’s father. His principal wife and empress is Akikonomu. His other ladies include Chujo and later Himegimi.
Lady Rokujo
A younger sister of Kokiden, Oborozukiyo is engaged to the heir apparent (Emperor Susaku). Genji seduces her after failing to gain admittance to Fujitsubo’s chambers. Her father, the Minister of the Right, catches her and Genji in the act. Their affair angers Kokiden and earns Genji exile.
The widow of Prince Zembo, Lady Rokujo is a longtime mistress of Genji. She is apparently an older woman whom Genji tires of after their initial liaison. Her jealousy is so intense that her wandering spirit kills Yugao and Aoi and attacks Murasaki, among others. Distracted by jealousy and anxiety over Genji, Lady Rokujo accompanies her daughter Akikonomu in her move to court as a Shinto priestess at Ise. On her deathbed, Lady Rokujo begs Genji to look after her beautiful daughter. The character gets her name from the branches of the tree on which Genji ties love notes.
Ochiba
Rokunokimi
After her first husband, Kashiwagi, dies, Ochiba (also known as the Second Princess) is attended to by Yugiri. She is shocked when, at the height of her mother’s illness, Yugiri tries to hoist himself on her. Ochiba’s mother writes Yugiri, but he does not respond due to an awkward situation with his wife. The mother equates the lack of response to a public jilting; she has a relapse and dies. Yugiri continues to pursue Ochiba.
Yugiri’s daughter Rokunokimi is first promoted as a wife to Niou and then to Kaoru. Niou finally accepts Yugiri’s proposal just as his other wife Nakanokimi becomes pregnant in Uji.
Oborozukiyo
Oigimi Oigimi interprets the dying wish (a warning against frivolous suitors) of her father, Prince Hachi, to
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Safflower Lady Genji and To no Chujo engage in a friendly rivalry for the affections of the Safflower Lady, also known as Tayu. When Genji glimpses Safflower Lady, he is not impressed but visits her anyway out of sympathy. It turns out she has a big red nose. In addition, she lacks culture, which is exhibited in the poorly made Chinese robe she
V o l u m e
2
7 7 9
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
gives Genji as a present. In a rare example of insensitivity, Genji, in a poem, compares her unkindly to a safflower, a flower with a bright red bloom. He makes jest of her in a private moment with Murasaki by painting his own nose red. Later, a more mature Genji shows his compassion when he saves Safflower Lady from miserable conditions. Genji helps repair the mansion she inherits from her father and then moves her to his own, better, living quarters.
Second Princess
no Chujo’s son, Kashiwagi, and Genji’s younger brother, Prince Hotaru. The discussion about fiction between Tamakazura and Genji is one of the most memorable parts of the novel.
Tayu See Safflower Lady
Third Princess See Princess Nyosan
To no Chujo Ukifune
See Ochiba
Shokyoden Shokyoden is the sister of Prince Higekuro, principal wife of the Susaku Emperor and mother of the emperor reigning at the end of the novel.
Shonagan Shonagan is the nurse of Murasaki. Her name is the same as that of a famous contemporary of the author, Sei Shonagan, the sharp-tongued woman who wrote the Pillow Book.
Emperor Susaku Emperor Susaku is Genji’s brother, the son of their father and his principal wife, Kokiden. He succeeds his father and is succeeded by Emperor Reizei, who is succeeded in turn by Emperor Susaku’s son (by the sister of Prince Higekuro), who reigns at the end of the novel. His daughter Princess Nyosan (by Genji no Miya) becomes Genji’s second principal wife. Another daughter (by Lady Ichijo) is the principal wife of Kashiwagi, son of To no Chujo. Another wife is his maternal aunt, Oborozukiyo, who deceives him with Genji.
A stepdaughter to the Emperor, Ukifune gets thrown over by a guard’s lieutenant when he discovers she is not a blood relation. Ukifune’s mother is intent on arranging a suitable match for her daughter. Kaoru expresses interest in Ukifune, but before he can claim his prize, Niou finds her alone at the house of her half-sister Nakanokimi. In an attempt to divert disaster, Ukifune’s mother moves her daughter to an unfinished cottage. Kaoru finds her and moves her again, to his own villa at Uji, where she begins koto lessons. Niou covertly visits Ukifune and manages to trick her into intimate relations. The two rivals bombard Ukifune with ardent pledges. Ukifune’s affections are divided, and her shame and indecision are so great as to cause her to leap into the Uji River. She is found alive and taken to a nunnery, where she takes her vows and maintains a distance from the world, in particular from men.
Ukon This name is used for several female attendants, including one of Yugao’s maids. Genji supports her for many years. She is instrumental in bringing Tamakazura to Genji’s palace.
Tamakazura
Utsusemi
The daughter of To no Chujo and his mistress Yugao, Tamakazura remains hidden for much of the time. After she flees an aggressive and unattractive suitor, Genji finds Tamakazura and brings her to his mansion at Rokujo. Genji keeps her existence secret from her father and commissions the Lady of the Orange Blossoms to raise her. He makes advances toward Tamakazura, but she rebuffs him. He finally marries her off to Prince Higekuro, with whom she has several sons and two daughters. When Tamakazura finds imperial matches for both daughters, court ladies accuse Tamakazura of being presumptuous, which depresses her. Her unsuccessful suitors include To
See Lady of the Locust Shell
7 8 0
E p i c s
f o r
Yugao Yugao, also known as the Lady of the Evening Faces, is the former mistress of To no Chujo, by whom she has a daughter, Tamakazura. To no Chujo abandons Yugao because, as he says in his rainy night conversation with Genji, she is too meek and forgiving. Genji later and by coincidence notices the flowers or ‘‘evening faces’’ outside her house and investigates the hidden delights inside. Unlike To no Chujo, Genji is attracted to Yugao’s gentility. Yugao briefly becomes Genji’s mistress, but she is killed quickly by the jealous spirit of the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
Lady of Rokujo. Out of sympathy, Genji employs Yugao’s maid Ukon and asks her to find the daughter Tamakazura, whom he raises under his protection.
Yugiri The son of Genji and Aoi, Yugiri, like Genji, rises through the ranks eventually to become an important minister of state. Yugiri suffers from the policies of Genji and his uncle To no Chujo, who act to prevent him from making the mistakes of their own youth. As a low-ranking court member, he studies the classics. For some years Yugiri feels oppressed by his father’s decision not to promote him more rapidly. His childhood friendship with his cousin Lady Kumoi grows into romance, but her father, To no Chujo, initially prevents their match. Eventually, as Yugiri rises in station, the match is approved, and Lady Kumoi becomes his principal wife. At the behest of his friend Kashiwagi, Yugiri accepts the responsibility for caring for Ochiba (Second Princess). Once a relatively faithful and devoted husband, Yugiri starts to feel smothered by Lady Kumoi and their many children. He pursues Ochiba. Lady Kumoi, upset, leaves with their daughters to go home to her father. Yugiri compares his own ill fortune to Genji’s good fortune with women.
THEMES Evanescence The theme of evanescence unifies much of the action. Evanescence means to vanish like vapor. The characters in The Tale of Genji appreciate beauty, an aesthetic value known in Japan as miyabi. However, this appreciation is tempered by their understanding that impermanence pervades everything. This prevailing attitude gives the novel an underlying tone of sorrow, which can be translated into another Japanese term, mono no aware, or, loosely, the pity of things. Given this widespread sense of fleeting human beauty and life, many characters in this novel take religious vows. Fujitsubo, Genji’s old nurse, Ukifune, and others withdraw from the material world. Murasaki and Genji seriously consider taking vows, though they ultimately do not. Murasaki depicts Genji as a complex character with a keen awareness of the inherent sorrow of all human existence.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Substitution Throughout The Tale of Genji, male characters seek consolation for lost or unattainable loves in women of similar composition. Genji’s father, the Emperor, is inconsolable after the death of Kiritsubo until he finds a substitute woman, Fujitsubo, who resembles her. Genji himself falls in love with Fujitsubo, a mother replacement. Later, he falls in love with Murasaki because of her resemblance to Fujitsubo. His interest in Yugao and her daughter Tamakazura stems from one love. Late in the novel, Genji’s supposed son Kaoru loves Oigimi and then her younger sister Nakanokimi, and then a half-sister Ukifune. In Kaoru’s desperate and endless search for Oigimi, the reader sees the need for substitution as being almost beyond the character’s control.
Jealousy In the Heian society, men take multiple wives. A woman’s relative standing is measured in part by her relationship to her husband. Jealousy, then, is a natural part of the worldview and it kills. The novel opens with a case of jealousy as a murderous as a weapon. Kiritsubo, the Emperor’s favorite, becomes the subject of malicious gossip. All the Emperor’s other women resent her. A sensitive and beautiful woman, Kiritsubo finally wins her plea to go home where she dies an emaciated wreck. Traditionally, jealousy causes spirit possession. Lady Rukujo’s spirit takes possession of Aoi, Yugao, and Murasaki. The first two women die as a result, and Murasaki gets very ill but then recovers. Higekuro’s wife, too, acts in a way attributed to spirit possession. She flies into a jealous rage at the news that she may be ousted from her position as principal wife by a new mistress. She dumps ashes all over her husband’s head. Although contemporary readers no doubt understand her rage, Heian readers, especially male, would disapprove of such jealousy. Women were to welcome their competition, almost as family. In fact, Genji loves Murasaki all the more for her resistance to jealousy.
Supernatural Events The phenomenon of spirit possession serves as a mechanism whereby the female characters can express certain desires; it also manipulates situations for political gain. According to an article by Lily Iriye Selden, spirit possession was not real but hysteria produced by emotional extremes or faked for personal gain.
V o l u m e
2
7 8 1
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
In The Tale of Genji, a great importance is placed on the arts. People gain respect and admiration based on their musical, artistic, and writing abilities. Make a list of the qualities that gain your respect and admiration, whether among celebrities or the people in your life. As a class, compare your lists and discuss the values system of contemporary life in the United States as it compares to that of ancient Japan. In the political system of Heian-era Japan, who were the decision-makers and how did they come to power? Make a comparison/ contrast chart or a PowerPoint presentation showing the fundamental differences between that system of government and democracy as it is practiced in the United States. The characters in The Tale of Genji are sensitive to the seasons. In groups of four, make lists of poetic references to each of the four seasons: five each for spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Report your findings to the class, then, judging by the context of these references, discuss the broad assumptions that can be made about the characteristics of these seasons
Other supernatural events infuse the novel with a mystical quality. The Korean fortune teller of the opening chapter figures in the Emperor’s decision to give his son the status of a commoner. Genji’s malaria is cured by an old mountain sage who is more exorcist than physician. The storm in Suma serves as a sign that Genji should move to Akashi. Emperor Susaku’s dream of Genji’s father leads to an eye ailment. These and other supernatural events are meant to be interpreted literally.
Social Decline The novel may cover four generations, but no character can compare with Genji. Even in his lifetime, Genji is seen as a throwback to a better time. The Emperor calls Genji’s wonderful Dance
7 8 2
E p i c s
f o r
and how they are similar to or different from those in your area.
Online or in the library, research the concept of karma, or interview someone who believes that actions in past lives influence circumstances in the present life. Find information that explains how this spiritual law serves to govern morality. Compare the influence of karma to the moral law codified in modern legal systems. In a report of your findings, draw conclusions about the power of each to modify human behavior.
The court women in the society depicted in The Tale of Genji seem to have some rights and privileges (consider the author as an example). What could women in this society do to preserve and increase these rights? What can women who are severely restricted by their culture in modern societies do to increase their rights? Each student in the class should choose a country or culture, research its struggle for women’s rights, and make a presentation to the class using whatever media are appropriate.
of the Blue Waves, the ‘‘only one worth seeing.’’ Repeatedly, the author asserts that no one compares to Genji. The suggestion is that as time passes an inevitable decline occurs in the social order. Genji possesses unparalleled beauty. His skill in the arts, his social graces, and his absolute refinement, everything he does is unmatched. Genji is the paragon, and after him, no one is as fine. This decline reflects the Buddhist belief that their religion was in decline, with no hope of reversal. In Genji’s last appearance, he is described as being handsomer than ever. Then in the next chapter, nine years later, it is said that there is no one like the late Genji. The novel follows Niou and Kaoru, the first a quick-witted man of action, the latter a sensitive and introspective person. Neither can measure up to the standards set by Genji.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Scene from The Tale of Genji (The Library of Congress)
According to J. Thomas Rimer, in A Reader’s Guide to Japanese Literature, ‘‘Together they might have equaled Genji; separately, they seem limited, inadequate.’’
Excessive Desire Love in Japanese really means longing. Love, then, is a loss of self control. Genji is incomparable in everything he does, but he lacks all restraint in his pursuit of earthly pleasures. This behavior is a Buddhist sin. Genji understands he should not pursue Fujitsubo, Oborozukiyo, and many other women, but still he does it. This weakness defines the human condition in the novel.
STYLE Genre The Tale of Genji does not meet many of the classical requirements of an epic, that is, a narrative poem about a superhuman hero. The Tale of Genji is written in prose. The hero and the setting are completely mortal, more realistic than cosmic. It is a time of peace and tranquility;
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
the quintessential epic tales such as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey tell of great war heroes. Genji never brandishes a weapon, nor does he ever receive notice for his bravery. Rather, Genji distinguishes himself in love. His self-exile to Suma fits into the epic mold: the hero goes abroad, where he confronts and defeats a series of potentially fatal tests. Nonetheless, his hero status is achieved through national recognition of his talents in arts, manners, and beauty.
Narrative Technique In a work of fiction, the narrator tells the story. Murasaki Shikibu’s narrative technique establishes a framework for the whole story. Since she wants to chronicle life in this idealized society, Murasaki Shikibu must convincingly portray the characters, setting, and action. Here, the fictional world is represented as true to the historic world. The first sentence reads, ‘‘In a certain reign.’’ This line immediately provides a vague historical context to the story. Although the narrator, at this point, does not come through, she establishes trust with her reader. Later, the author intrudes upon the narration, lending it a conspiratorial tone, as if she is revealing something of herself to the readers.
V o l u m e
2
7 8 3
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
At times, the author intrudes upon the narration to comment on her rationale for leaving out certain details, on her mood, or on her writing process. Scholars suggest that she wanted to remind her audience that the work, despite its detailed description of court life, was fictional. Otherwise, the narrator remains unobtrusive, more or less objective though not omniscient.
Plotting Techniques Genji’s exploits give the first forty-one chapters a raw outline. In general, though, The Tale of Genji does follow traditional plotting techniques. Most stories have a beginning, middle and end. Typically, plots exhibit causality and unity. However, in The Tale of Genji, the action, which covers four generations, is more episodic, meaning the action shifts from one incident to the next and each has equal weight. Even Genji’s death, which would seem crucial, receives very little dramatic attention. He dies and the action picks up nine years later with a shift in focus to the next generation. Certainly, there is tension in the novel. Genji’s many affairs, and their potential consequences, compel reader interest. There is little attempt to maintain this tension, though. Plots and subplots stop and start and overlap, proceeding at a pace comparable to real life. Whether this structure was intentional or an accident resulting from re-organization problems of the widely distributed chapters is not known.
Character Development In the course of such a long novel, the reader learns about major characters both through their actions in various scenes and through authorial commentary. Murasaki Shikibu promotes her readers’ understanding of characters in ways that seem related to her times. For example, characters are often described in terms of their parentage. In introducing Genji, the narrator first describes his mother. This Heian method is known as ab ovo. Other times, the narrator refers to new characters as if they are already present. Lady Rokujo appears for the first time in Chapter 4, although from the context it seems as if the reader should already know her. It is another five chapters before this character directly participates in the story. Again, it is impossible to know if this was a convention used by Murasaki Shikibu or if it was the result of chapters being lost or shuffled.
7 8 4
E p i c s
f o r
Use of Poems Sprinkled through the novel are nearly eight hundred poems. These poems illuminate the importance of artistic achievement in Heian society and also the conventions of courtship. Beyond that, the use of the poems highlights the relationship between spiritual and human. References to nature occur in many of the poems. The cumulative effect is to equate nature with a higher power. In a line such as ‘‘The dew does not rest long upon the leaves,’’ there is a very clear connection between nature and human existence.
Melancholy Tone The author’s attitude toward her subject matter can be deduced from the tone of the words in The Tale of Genji. This tone relates closely to two of the novel’s major themes, evanescence and social decline. A melancholy and generally pessimistic tone communicates the premise that the material world, especially life itself, is fleeting and that society is in perpetual decline. The novel is filled with regret and sadness, especially in the final few chapters.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT Heian Era (794 1186) The Heian era gets its name from the capital, which in 794 moved from Nara to the area occupied in modern times by the city of Kyoto. Heian means peace and tranquility. The capital was built to accommodate the emperor and ranked aristocrats of the court. The social range of The Tale of Genji, then, only includes the emperor, aristocrats, and their families, and not the lower classes. All who were considered noble, beautiful, and worthwhile resided in the capital. Therefore, Genji’s exile to the mountains and his relationship with a country woman would be seen as vulgar. The tale opens during the reign of Emperor Daigo (897–930), at the high point of Heian civilization. The novel moves ahead some seventy years to Murasaki’s own time. The tenth son of Emperor Daigo, Minamoto no Takaakira, might have been a model for the character of Genji. Like Genji, he was made a commoner, and like Genji, he was exiled (in 969) but later was restored to the capital. The Heian court was weakened by the rise of military powers outside the capital, and in the
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Heian (Classical) Period (800–1186): Japan enjoys prosperity, learning, and the arts. Members of the ruling class are not as interested in political process and military action as they are in enjoying their own closed circle of high refinement and pleasure. Literature is largely the work of women. Today: Modern Japan little resembles the feminine court society of the Heian culture. Japan has a democratic government that represents all Japanese people, not just those related to and living near the emperor. Other countries recognize Japan as an economic superpower rather than a leader in the arts. However, the arts thrive, and both men and women produce Japanese literature. Heian Period: The emperor may have multiple wives and concubines. Since the seventh century, he has been considered the Son of Heaven, implying divinity. An emperor can retire and choose a successor from among his relatives. The emperors from 850 to 1070
twelfth century several revolts occurred. However, The Tale of Genji made a lasting impression on Japanese culture. Donald Keene, in Seeds in the Heart, notes that the novel maintained its charm through the centuries and was treated with respect and nostalgia, even among the samurai class that had destroyed the Heian way of life and its court.
Heian Literature The proliferation of literature, and especially of the long novel, was made possible by a new, phonetic writing system. The Buddhist Kobo Daishi, who had studied Sanskrit in India, introduced a phonetic alphabet. Hiragana consists of simple, cursive strokes in which each character represents a single syllable. Hiragana is easier and faster to write and does not require a knowledge of Chinese characters. In the Heian period,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
are controlled by the non-imperial Fujiwara family. Today: The Imperial House of Japan is the oldest continuing hereditary monarch in the world and is now known as the Chrysanthemum Throne. Post-World War II, the emperor is not considered divine, although he is the head of the Shinto religion. His role is mostly ceremonial since Japan has a democratic, constitutional monarchy.
Heian Period: Chinese influence declines, and military power rises. Shoguns and the samurai class begin a way of life that is to persist into modern times. Today: Following World War II, the new Japanese constitution restricts the government from building up military power or waging war. Ancient rivals, modern Japanese and Chinese have very different political systems. Japan is a democracy, whereas China is a communist country.
women generally used hiragana and men kana. Murasaki, however, wrote The Tale of Genji in kana, making it accessible to men.
Courtship and Marriage Court ladies were rarely seen by men because they were hidden behind curtains, doors, or screens. Men fell in love not based on looks, but rather from the sound of a woman’s music or the sentiment in her poems. Therefore, a glimpse or a woman might send a man into a swoon of longing. Women painted false eyebrows on their foreheads in place of their real eyebrows, which they shaved off. Their teeth were blackened. Their faces were pudgy and powdered white. A slight plumpness was considered beautiful. Hair was the most admired physical trait with custom
V o l u m e
2
7 8 5
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
dictating that a woman’s hair be at least as long as she was tall. Clothing and scents were also carefully stylized. Court women’s robes were layered and arranged so that various color combinations could be admired in the long, dangling sleeves. Sometimes, a man could glimpse a sleeve jutting out from behind a screen or carriage door, in a style referred to as idashi-guruma. Over time, robes were delicately incensed and perfumed to create a distinctive fragrance, and a person of good breeding could easily recognize a woman by her unique scent.
poetry, but never used court life as a subject. Poetry was often used to decorate paintings.
According to William J. Puett, in Guide to the Tale of Genji, social life in the capital was largely nocturnal. Consequently, buildings and furniture were designed to accommodate courtiers who did not go to bed until dawn and lived mostly in the semi-darkness of artificial light.
Religion
Polygamy, or having more than one spouse at a time, was common practice. The first, major, marriage was arranged by family, and subsequent, lesser, marriages could be made by any combination of arrangements. After marriage husbands and wives generally lived apart, like Genji and Aoi, with the husband making occasional visits. Sexual relations with close family members, like with Genji and Fujitsubo, were not considered taboo. The problems in such relationships involved politics (tampering with the imperial succession) more than other factors.
The Arts Heian women were expected to be educated at home in calligraphy, embroidery, painting, and other feminine arts. Men were to learn the Chinese classics and the histories in preparation for official careers. All members of court were expected to be accomplished musicians on a variety of instruments. In the novel, there is frequent mention of the koto, but also the lute and the flute were played. The thirteen-string koto was considered a feminine instrument. Genji was a master of the seven-string koto, which went out of fashion, historically, about the time of his death in the novel. During the Heian period, poetry became increasingly involved with the court. There were many poetry competitions, know as uta-awase, held under the sponsorship of the emperor or some other member of the imperial family. Poetry was often written on assigned topics. Judges weighed how well a poem fulfilled the required specifications. Court members composed the
7 8 6
E p i c s
f o r
That The Tale of Genji gained high regard in Heian times and beyond is proven by its pervasiveness throughout the arts. In the last century of the Heian period, the illustrated narrative hand scroll, the emaki, came to prominence. Dating from about 1130, the illustrated Tale of Genji represents one of the high points of Japanese painting. The illustrations convey the emotional content of the scenes.
At least three religions influenced Heian culture: Shintoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism. In Buddhism, life is seen as suffering, which is created by desire, pleasure, attachment to this world, and rebirth. If nothing is done to end the cycle of rebirth, it will continue forever. The law of karma determines whether the cycle of rebirth is broken. Nirvana, the divine state, is possible for all human beings, but only when a person is free from human desire. Taking vows was seen as a way toward achieving nirvana. Failure, in the Buddhist mindset, is never final because compassion is central to living the moral life. The word Shintoism literally means the way of the Gods. Shintoism affirmed the divinity of all that is beautiful in nature. The right to rule was tied to Shinto beliefs. Shrines were built for the exclusive use of the imperial family and were used in connection with imperial succession. Shintoism, then, was important for public concerns, but Buddhism for private matters. The Sumiyoshi shrine, which is central to Genji’s exile, plays an important part in his return to the capital and the birth of a future empress. Prior to The Tale of Genji, Japanese culture was heavily influenced by the Chinese, and so naturally Confucianism played a role. Confucianism affirmed humanism, rationalism, and ethics. To uphold its beliefs, it relied on human experience rather than religious doctrine. It placed ren, meaning humanity or love, above all other values. During Murasaki Shikibu’s time, Confucianism was an essential part of formal education, but like Buddhism was primarily a male preserve. In Confucian belief, the ideal society could be realized because each individual had the capacity for self-actualization, and the state was obligated to aid in the individual’s cultural and intellectual growth.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
the last part of the twelfth century, digests of it were required reading for poets. The Tale of Genji continued into modern times to be regarded as an integral part of a Japanese student’s curriculum. A 1999 review in the Economist stated: ‘‘In Japan today, The Tale of Genji is as natural to the culture as Mount Fuji and the cherry-blossom season. High schools teach sections of the ancient text, in its classical Japanese, to prepare pupils for university entrance. Novelists challenge themselves by writing modern translations.’’ In the early 2000s, Harvard University discovered that it owned a 1510 copy of The Tale of Genji with rare illustrations by Tosa Mitsunobu. This discovery occasioned a paper entitled ‘‘Genji Goes West: The 1510 Genji Album and the Visualization of Court and Capital,’’ by Melissa McCormick, that describes the status of the novel in medieval Japanese culture. McCormick stated that the original text had antiquated language by 1510 but that did not matter because the story had become an integral part of Japanese culture.
The ghost of Lady Yugao drifts through the gourd garden in this woodblock print of a scene from chapter four of the story. ( Asian Art & Archaeology, Inc. / Corbis)
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Since its earliest appearance, The Tale of Genji has been universally applauded by literary critics and ordinary readers alike, with few exceptions. Certainly some medieval writers thought it was inferior because prose was considered a feminine form, and Japanese purists into the twentieth century criticized the novel’s decadence. Keene, in Seeds of the Heart, pointed to the oldest work of criticism of Japanese fiction as an indication of early praise. Mumyo Zoshi (Story Without a Name, c. 1200) is cast in the form of conversation among various literary ladies about their favorite books. They all take for granted that The Tale of Genji is the supreme work of fiction, even suggesting that the author must have prayed to Buddha for divine assistance and received it. Soon after its appearance, The Tale of Genji became essential reading for the upper class. In
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Motoori Norinaga, writing in the eighteenth century, dispelled the commonly accepted Buddhist and Shinto interpretations of the novel. Norinaga insisted that the good and evil of The Tale of Genji do not stem from religious traditions but rather from a quality of mono no aware, or a delicate awareness of the pathos of the human condition. The novel’s perennial appeal can be attributed, in part, to its focus on character. In The Pleasures of Japanese Literature, Keen explained that the work has a modern feel and that, regarding its handling of characterization, readers have seen connections between it and the works of Boccaccio, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and Marcel Proust. Indeed, comparisons to these later authors occur frequently in literary criticism, as well as comparisons to Fielding and Samuel Richardson. Keene speculated that Murasaki Shikibu purposely focused on aspects of human nature that are universal. The novel seems so modern to present-day readers that they may even forget the remoteness of Heian Japan.
CRITICISM Donald G. Evans Evans holds an MFA in fiction writing from Syracuse University and is an adjunct instructor for Continuum, Loyola University of Chicago’s
V o l u m e
2
7 8 7
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
THE FACT THAT GENJI HAS INVADED THE POP CULTURE, ESPECIALLY IN JAPAN, BUT ALSO IN THE UNITED STATES, SUGGESTS THAT THE MODERN READER CAN EASILY CAST GENJI AS A
Sei Shonagon’s The Pillow Book, written around 1000, is a series of jottings and essays that chronicles life in the Heian court. The Ivan Morris translation appeared in 1971. The Ten Thousand Leaves (1981) is an anthology of Japanese poetry selected from the Manyoshu collection of eighth-century poetry and translated into English by Ian Hideo Levy. Murasaki Shikibu’s The Diary of Lady Murasaki (1996), translated by Richard Bowring, primarily deals with the birth of two sons to the empress between the fall 1008 and early 1010. Tale of the Bamboo Cutter (1998), from an unknown author in the early tenth century, is considered the ancestor of all romances. It is the story of the exquisitely beautiful Kaguyahime, who was born inside a bamboo stalk.
In 2001, Miyeko Murase published a volume of fifty-four miniature paintings that represent the best and most complete set of traditional Genji iconography. The Tale of Genji: Legends and Paintings includes a historical overview on the author, the novel, the literature of the time, and relevant illustrations.
Famous Tales Around the World (2004) is an anthology of forty short stories and excerpts designed to strengthen student knowledge of diverse cultures, literature, and social studies skills. A Thousand Years of Love (2006), by Avia Belle Moon, is an historical novel about a woman in the Heian court and her journey from Kyoto to Hangzhou. In 2008, Frederic C. Beil published James Sloan Allen’s Worldly Wisdom: Great Books and the Meanings of Life, which uses fifty classics from around the world to illustrate valuable lessons for understanding human nature; The Tale of Genji is in the chapter titled ‘‘The Promises and Perils of Aesthetics, Imagination, and Romance.’’
7 8 8
E p i c s
f o r
MODERN HERO.’’
Continuing Education Program. In the following essay, he explains why Murasaki Shikibu’s thousand-year-old novel remains so accessible and appealing. Imagine a white-faced, black-toothed woman. Painted eyebrows crest either side of her forehead. Her hair reaches the floor. She hides behind a screen with just the ornate sleeves of her robe in view. On the other side is a carefully scented man. At home waits his wife, and his other wife, a couple of concubines, a pseudo-adopted daughter who someday will be his lover. But for now—as he sends off a love haiku via messenger—his passion swells for this woman whose koto he heard as he sat under the cherry blossoms. Ever since the first installment of Arthur Waley’s English translation appeared in 1925, critics of Mirasaki Shikibu’s eleventh-century Japanese novel The Tale of Genji have remarked on its seeming modernity. Even in the early 2000s, many readers find the novel far more accessible than other classics. Nearly a thousand years and a continent separate the contemporary American reader from the Japanese society of The Tale of Genji, yet the work has a timeless quality that makes the novel easier to study than the works of Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, or Milton. The reason might be identified in the comments of Edward G. Seidensticker, in the introduction to his English 1993 translation, that, although the characters are from the highest levels of Heian society, they ‘‘fall within the ordinary range of human experience.’’ Characters and their psychological and emotional experience make up the dominant focus in Murasaki Shikibu’s ageless story. Craft, especially the author’s decision to portray her world realistically, makes the novel come alive in modern times. Her work is definitely above so many antiquated tales, in which the circumstances, characters, and setting are remote from modern experience.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
The talented Murasaki Shikibu benefited from her rare circumstances: an intellectual and artistic woman working in a form dominated by women, living in a culture which regarded art above all else. The world she lived in and her ability to observe it and describe it in fiction all made her novel possible. Detailed descriptions make her Japanese aristocratic society come to life. The reliable narrator describes authentic customs, manners, and styles, which may seem odd to an urban American teenager living in the early 2000s. But this content always makes sense in its context. Once readers trust the world, they also trust the emotions of its characters. The title character, Genji, invites compassion. Called a commoner, somebody who is held back by his lack of birthright, he is an underdog hero. Moreover, in every sense except for his name, Genji defies the word common. His natural beauty combines with the other skills he cultivates, in dance, song, poetry, music, and painting. No one else matches his ability in any of the arts, of which romance seems to be one. Perhaps Genji’s great compassion comes from his disadvantaged birth. Throughout the novel, the hero repeatedly shows affection, even respect, for characters well below his station. When he stumbles across the down-on-her-luck Safflower Lady, Genji, by now the highest aristocrat, instinctively wants to help. He restores her mansion to order and brings the red-nosed woman to his own mansion. Whether in the eleventh century or the twentyfirst, decency, kindness, and humility are valued. This cultivated refinement begins with beauty. The American obsession with beauty covers much of the cultural landscape: pretty faces, perfect tans, and washboard abs recur across advertising. Billboards smile, television ads blink, and Websites pop up: all the pitch men and starlets ooze beauty. Although the Heian era’s definition of beauty differs from the American one, the cultural obsession remains the same. As part of her esthetic interest, Murasaki Shikibu marvels over Genji’s dazzling looks at every turn, for example, ‘‘The chrysanthemums in Genji’s cap, delicately touched by the frosts, gave new beauty to his form and his motions.’’ Genji’s kind of beauty is rare, and his refinement in dress accentuates it. Genji obtains hero status much like so many American heroes gain stardom. Genji’s reputation spreads far and wide. But Murasaki Shikibu seems intent on exploring his psychology. The
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
modern American can easily understand Genji’s accomplishments without understanding the finer points of the culture. The context is Genji’s rank: first. One need not know what a koto is or what it sounds like to know that Genji’s skill in using it is astonishing. One need not appreciate the Heian culture’s sense of beauty to understand that Genji sends women into a swoon. To describe Genji only as a lover is to cheapen his overall value. At his core, Genji is a true romantic. He lusts after countless women, no single one is able to satisfy his great sexual appetite. He conducts elaborate clandestine trysts: He travels far, he uses disguises, and he employs messengers and enlists allies. Even when he suffers from malaria, Genji musters the strength to pursue the child Murasaki. During his exile, he manages to find a new partner. In the course of Genji’s amorous adventures, he risks everything: his reputation and social standing, the continued happiness he has with his true love, his standing with the gods. He does not come through it unscathed: Genji’s self-imposed exile, to cite the most dramatic instance, is the result of an unwise affair. Genji’s exhilaration, the recklessness of his infatuations, predates by hundreds of years Shakespeare’s Romeo and Goethe’s Faust. The modern era is filled with such stories of reckless abandon in romance. Importantly, Genji is not a cad. Unlike Don Juan, his interest is never in the conquest. Unlike Don Giovanni, who humiliates Donna Elvira for belaboring their affair, Genji never forgets any woman he has loved. He sees to the needs of the Safflower Lady and pretends to maintain an interest in her. He educates rather than chastises Omi for her crassness. Although Genji romances more than his share of women, such as the frightened Yugao, he redeems himself by taking a genuine interest in their lives. The rainy night conversation, in which Genji and To no Chujo debate the characteristics of the ideal woman, is worth considering. To a modern reader, the discussion presents an array of chauvinistic values. Again, though, Genji’s magnetic personality helps bridge this cultural gap. According to W Puett, ‘‘each character in the discussion does emerge as a distinct personality and, most of all, Genji’s sensitivity and open-mindedness are seen by comparison.’’ The sexual politics of the novel might present the greatest difficulty for a contemporary American reader. Male dominance might have been a fact of life in Heian society, but that does not mean
V o l u m e
2
7 8 9
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
the modern reader will want to tolerate it. However, the reader always senses that, unlike typical male chauvinists, Genji actually cares. Keene (in Seeds in the Hearts) thinks that this caring attitude makes each of Genji’s women feel safe and satisfied in his attention and that literature would have missed a truly unique character if Genji had been any different. Genji’s sensitivity, his sympathy, his loyalty are worthy qualities for modern readers. These characteristics are easily seen against any backdrop, even Heian-era Japan. Genji’s flaws, his mistakes, seem to accentuate these qualities. For every mistake, he seems all that much more in touch with the complicated fabric of his life as it affects and is affected by other lives. Genji’s underlying humanistic tendencies give him a more rounded and identifiable personality than the archetypal hero. He betrays family and friends. He regrets poor decisions. Even in his betrayals, maybe because of them, he appreciates his impact on others. and he is able to laugh at himself. When Genji and To no Chujo meet in the bedchamber of the elderly lady Naishi, it is an embarrassing moment for the Shining One. ‘‘Still ignorant of the latter’s identity, Genji thinks of headlong flight; but then he thinks of his own retreating figure, robes in disorder, caps all askew.’’ As the scene progresses and the two rivals engage in mock battle, Genji swallows his pride. ‘‘Somewhat rumpled, they go off together, the best of friends.’’ It is not the only time Genji gets caught in an exposed and compromising situation. The Minister of the Right catches Genji and Oborozukiyo in the act. A undressed Genji can be read figuratively as a character exposed to the world. Genji, as the embodiment of mono no aware (a sensitivity to things), is acutely aware of the fleeting quality of life. Although Genji lusts for life, he understands his time as a flicker in space: ‘‘But he was also obsessed with evanescence. . . . He wanted to withdraw quietly and make preparations for the next life, and so add to his years in this one.’’ In this case, the idea derives from Buddhist philosophy. But the origins, again, is less important than the human preoccupation. All people must face the inevitability of death. Genji’s great sadness over the loss of Fujitsubo, Aoi, and Murasaki come across to the modern reader as authentic and understandable. He mourns what was, even as he anticipates what will be. The fact that Genji has invaded the pop culture, especially in Japan, but also in the United
7 9 0
E p i c s
f o r
States, suggests that the modern reader can easily cast Genji as a modern hero. As testimony, there is a popular Genji comic book, an animated film, a Murasaki Shikibu stamp, a Genji museum in Kyoto, a sandalwood and musk-scented Genji shower gel, and many related Web sites. Those readers who especially admire Murasaki Shikibu’s great achievement, who appreciate The Tale of Genji as great literature, might take offense at such commercial popularization. After all, to lump the refined and incomparable Genji with Pokemon and Brittany Spears seems like a grand insult. But in modern American society, such recognition constitutes widespread interest. It means that The Tale of Genji, far removed in time and place from its origins, has not lost its appeal. Source: Donald G. Evans, Critical Essay on The Tale of Genji, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Valerie Henitiuk In the following excerpt, Henitiuk discusses how The Tale of the Genji moved beyond being a national work to having a place in world literature. The question of how and why works from a given national context merge into what Goethe first termed Weltliteratur has become extremely topical, what with the recent appearance of such seminal books as Pascale Casanova’s La Re´publique mondiale des lettres (1999) [The World Republic of Letters (2005)], David Damrosch’s What Is World Literature? (2003), Christopher Prendergast’s Debating World Literature (2004), and numerous studies on the issue of translation and power (e.g., the essay collection edited by Maria Tymoczko and Edwin Gentzler in 2002). As Damrosch pointedly asks: ‘‘Which literature, whose world?’’ The emerging global perspective of comparative literature has countered its historical Eurocentrism, but the practice of analyzing, recreating, and disseminating the literary production of worlds beyond the discipline’s traditional purview may serve merely to reinforce the dominant, masculine, Western worldview, thus ultimately distorting what it purports to value. The transformation that works of national literature undergo in taking their place within globalization involves not simply the replacing of one set of linguistic signs for another, but also a fundamental and often politically charged shift. Although interlingual and intercultural transposition add to the influence of a given text by rendering it accessible to that
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
BECAUSE ITS TRANSLATIONS HAVE BEEN AND ARE READ AS TEXTS IN THEIR OWN RIGHT, THEY INEVITABLY SHAPE THE RECEPTION OF THE GENJI IN THE HOST CULTURE INDEPENDENT OF ITS EXISTENCE IN THE CULTURE OF ORIGIN.’’
broader audience, this necessarily means forcing it into a new and unfamiliar mold for greater ease of consumption and assimilation, thereby eliding linguistic and other difference and harming the text and its unique contextual identity. Accordingly, comparatists need to focus attention on the intricacies of reception history, examining the role of translation as a privileged yet problematic vehicle for cultural exchange and global canon formation. The Genji Monogatari . . . [The Tale of Genji], written by a woman we know by the sobriquet of Murasaki Shikibu . . . , has become widely accepted in both West and East as a world masterpiece, but far from transparently so. How does a work located for centuries within the Japanese canon become ensconced in a global canon and, more importantly, what form does this worlded Genji take? To begin to answer this sort of question, I want to indulge in a speculative look at a path not taken with regard to the translation history of this great tale, in the interests of suggesting the absent perspective of a potentially ideal translation that we do not and never will have: a version of this masterpiece as read by Virginia Woolf. This notion is not as far-fetched as it may at first appear. The author of A Room of One’s Own and Orlando did, after all, review the first part of Arthur Waley’s rendition in 1925, but suppose she had actually set about to offer her own translation? Woolf learned Russian well enough to collaborate on English versions of several works from that body of literature, and it was therefore not unfeasible for her to have done the same with Japanese. In conducting the following thought-experiment, I will be specifically interested in what has not been available to be read in the existing versions of Murasaki Shikibu’s great tale—the lacunae, or what Lawrence Venuti has called the remainder, namely those aspects of a text that, for a variety of reasons, do not get ‘‘carried across.’’
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Over the past three-quarters of a century, the Genji has been rendered more or less fully into English by three different translators: Waley in the 1920s and 1930s; Edward Seidensticker in 1976; and Royall Tyler in 2001. Translations of a foreign, orientalized culture can operate as a form of Western aggression and colonization, appropriating the Other for its own purposes. This effect is aggravated several times over when a Japanese court lady writing women’s lives and women’s selves a millennium ago is rendered for an English-language audience only by men, and men who possess varying motivations as her mediators. A proper regard for the author-reader relationship, as well as the respective cultural values of host and receptor societies, insists that we ‘‘map the journeys texts undertake’’ and examine the multiple causes and effects behind any move from national to world literature, considering the impact of cultural appropriation, textual manipulation, ideology, and gender identification. The Genji dates from the early eleventh century, but is widely read today via translations into modern Japanese and a vast range of other languages. Although an examination of the Japanese modernizations of the Genji is beyond the scope of this article, it should be pointed out here that famous women authors such as Yosano Akiko, Tanabe Seiko, and Setouchi Jakuchoˆ have in fact produced widely read translations of the tale. Within Japan, therefore, while male authors such as Tanizaki Junichiroˆ have also translated it, Murasaki Shikibu’s work is closely associated with the tradition of joryuˆ bungaku . . . or ‘‘feminine writing,’’ now called josie bungaku . . . or ‘‘women’s writing.’’ The first book-length rendition of the Genji into English is an abridged one, containing only 17 of the 54 chapters, that was initially published in London in 1882. Translator Suyematz Kenchio (now known as Suematsu Kenchoˆ), an attache´ to the Japanese legation studying at Cambridge, had a quite pragmatic goal, namely to improve Japan’s status as a nation by revealing its cultural sophistication and thus encourage revision of unfair trade treaties. Beginning in the 1920s, Arthur Waley, the great British scholar of both Chinese and Japanese, serially produced the first ‘‘complete’’ English translation with a different objective in mind: to place the tale firmly among the classics of world literature. His monumental achievement is beloved by many readers for its charming, fluid style, but also mistrusted for its numerous inaccuracies. In addition to omitting significant portions and inventing others, he has
V o l u m e
2
7 9 1
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
characters fainting onto divans and ‘‘jumping up and throwing open casements’’—elements that are in no way part of Heian . . . Japan, the great period of cultural flourishing that lasted from 794 to 1185. It has been rightly observed that Waley’s presentation often brings to mind similar cultural incongruities to those found in Robert Graves’s I, Claudius—the metamorphosis of an ancient world into that of British public school boys, and that his descriptions of Buddhism occasionally sound somewhat too Anglican for comfort. American Edward Seidensticker began working on this text in the 1960s, and in 1976 published what is widely viewed as a significant improvement over Waley’s translation in fidelity to the source text. However, his tone can be ‘‘offhand and even flippant,’’ tending to ‘‘shap[e] the narrative . . . to a more vigorous taste.’’ Seidensticker often reduces where Waley inflates, although the latter did make egregious (and well-documented) cuts of his own: our heroine Murasaki’s death scene, for example, as well as the entire ‘‘Suzumushi’’ . . . chapter, both instances corrected by his successors (the missing chapter is titled ‘‘The Bell Cricket’’ by both Seidensticker and Tyler). Seidensticker’s version served as the definitive standard for schools and both general and specialized readers throughout the last quarter of the twentieth century. Helen Craig McCullough published selected passages from both the Genji and the Heike Monogatari . . . [The Tale of the Heike] in 1994, but it wasn’t until 2001 that Royall Tyler brought out a brand-new unabridged English translation, which has been called ‘‘the perfect complement’’ to those by Waley and Seidensticker. In seeking to explain his own approach, Tyler quotes Seamus Heaney: It is one thing to find lexical meaning for the words . . . but it is quite another thing to find the tuning fork that will give you the note and pitch for the overall music of the work. Without some melody sensed or promised, it is simply impos sible for a poet to establish the translator’s right of way into and through a text.
The music of the Genji can, admittedly, be hauntingly elusive, but its readers deserve to have every possible effort made on their behalf to hit just the right note and pitch. MURASAKI SHIKIBU AND VIRGINIA WOOLF
There are many obvious reasons why Woolf comes to mind as the ideal mediator between Murasaki Shikibu and the Englishlanguage reader. Both authors were intelligent,
7 9 2
E p i c s
f o r
self-educated women, located at the center of the literary world of the time and place in which they lived; both made frequent and stunning use of sensual imagery; and both demonstrated an interest in exploring the ‘‘truth’’ of fiction. They were also both committed to addressing what it means to be a woman, especially a creative, literary woman experiencing the restrictions of a patriarchal society, caught up in the bounds established by her sex and her relations with others. One could even establish an analogy between Murasaki Shikibu’s mastery of Chinese and Virginia Woolf’s interest in Greek, as both women eagerly and successfully appropriated learning that was clearly marked as masculine in their respective societies. I am far from the first to suggest affinities between these two authors. A 1992 article by Catherine Nelson-McDermott describes certain of the similarities I’ve just mentioned, and Suzanne Henig writes in 1967 of how their mutual status as ‘‘women of sensitivity’’ allowed Woolf to ‘‘bridge . . . the cultural and epochal lacunae’’ separating her from Murasaki Shikibu. Further, Masao Miyoshi’s review (1979) of Seidensticker’s Genji reminds us ‘‘that Woolf’s language . . . has features uncannily like those of Lady Murasaki’s.’’ Even as early as 1926, the Times reviewer of Waley’s second volume wrote that ‘‘Murasaki’s style carries with it a suggestion—to which, it seems, Mr. Waley himself is sensitive—of that of Mrs. Virginia Woolf. Murasaki’s dramatic effects and contrasts are built up by a kind of dramatic ‘texture’ of language, by word-sequences which, in the two writers, seem to originate in rather similar processes of thought.’’ Style is one thing, and indeed Woolf’s own description of a ‘‘woman’s sentence,’’ which instead of falling ‘‘plump to the ground—dead . . . explodes and gives birth to all kinds of other ideas and has the secret to perpetual life’’ is an apt description of Murasaki Shikibu’s prose, but content and tone offer additional and important resemblances. Had she known Japanese and been tempted to translate this tale, Woolf would have been uniquely positioned to reveal many proto-feminist aspects of the Genji, and thereby able to craft a world literature text belonging solidly within a feminocentric discourse tradition. Their condition as women and women writers emerges as a central concern in both writers’ oeuvres, and so the non-existent Woolvian Genji represents a significant and lamentable loss for readers today.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
It is commonly claimed that the Genji Monogatari is about a certain Prince Genji, the perfect lover, and his numerous adventures, but that gratifyingly simple description is far from satisfactory or even accurate. For one thing, this character dies about two-thirds of the way through the story, to be succeeded by young men of subsequent generations. Further, much recent criticism in both East and West has read this tale as instead about its female characters, as constituting a woman writer’s highly genderinflected revision of the traditional narrative paradigm by which the admirable exploits of an irresistible male are detailed. At the very least, it is clear that ‘‘Murasaki Shikibu concerns herself above all with human relationships and the emotions they engender,’’ as McCullough has phrased it. Recent scholarship, especially that taking a feminist critical stance against what has been called ‘‘centuries of androcentric interpretation,’’ has also directly challenged earlier readings of Genji as an idealized lover by highlighting the ironic tone and decided critique of his actions that are implicit in many scenes. Such criticism is very much elided in Waley, and while Seidensticker delights in the irony of his source, he is more impressed with what he sees as a rakish, debonair hero whose behavior in most instances he fully expects his readers to admire. Tyler comes across as a more sensitive reader of the relational complexities that Murasaki Shikibu dissects, but he actively resists taking the tale’s many scenes of coercion (sexual and otherwise) at face value, insisting that modern feminist readings of such scenes constitute an unjustifiable anachronism. Recent translation studies scholarship has helped us see how the translator’s identity as a necessarily gendered rewriter impacts the work. As an outspoken advocate for women and a critic of societal attitudes that disadvantaged or even victimized them, Woolf might well have offered a valuable alternative interpretation of how Murasaki Shikibu’s men and women interact, and the results thereof. Although Woolf could not help but remark on the wide range of fascinating female characters in the Genji, she was misled by her decidedly mediated access to the text into seeing an idealized male as its primary focus. She wrote: ‘‘To light up the many facets of his [Genji’s] mind, Lady Murasaki, being herself a woman, naturally chose the medium of other women’s minds. Aoi, Asagao, Fujitsubo, Murasaki, Yugao, Suyetsumuhana, the beautiful, the red-nosed, the cold, the passionate—
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
one after the other they turn their clear or freakish light upon the gay young man at the centre, who flies, who pursues, who laughs, who sorrows, but is always filled with the rush and bubble and chuckle of life.’’ Whereas with Waley we see the ‘‘hero’’ reincarnated as someone like Lytton Strachey and with Seidensticker as Humphrey Bogart, as Marion Ury once put it, with Woolf we might have had Genji reborn as more like the androgynous Orlando, defined through his/her relationships with women and problematizing assumptions about gender while transcending the limits of time and place. Such a vision would to my mind definitely appear closer to Murasaki Shikibu’s, or at least provide a welcome corrective to overtly masculinized, or otherwise less than reliable readings. The argument being advanced here is not an essentialized one, as I hope to show below by pointing out how McCullough’s partial translation comes no closer to an ideal feminized version than those done by men. As a contemporary of Waley, whose version of the Genji was called by British Vogue ‘‘the most talked of publication of the day,’’ Woolf was among the first generation of English readers to have access to this text. She reviewed his translation for Vogue and her judgment is generally favorable—the review places great emphasis on the fact that the Japanese were producing elegant, lyrical works of literature at a time when the Anglo Saxons were merely ‘‘burst[ing] rudely and hoarsely into crude spasms of song’’—but she concludes that the Genji is ‘‘not, nonetheless, a star of the first magnitude’’ (‘‘Genji,’’ 427). It is clear from references in Woolf’s later writings, however, that Murasaki Shikibu not only captures her imagination, but also inspires her admiration. As indicated above, the fact that her access to this Asian foremother was indirect is problematic: Woolf had never studied Japanese and thus was completely reliant on Waley’s reading. And since he was at the time the acknowledged Western expert of East Asian literature, in both Chinese and Japanese, none of the contemporary criticism dares suggest Waley was in any way inadequate for the task of translating Murasaki Shikibu. The opposite was true: several critics of the day accuse him of improving his author, behaving ‘‘chivalrously’’ toward her, transforming her text by means of his own virtuosity with the English language from the status of near-great to great. This suspicion remains active even as late as 1977, when
V o l u m e
2
7 9 3
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
McCullough writes of how ‘‘most of us [i.e., presumably Western scholars and admirers] feared that the haunting beauty of the Waley Genji, and the extraordinary narrative gifts it revealed, might prove to have come in large part from Waley himself—that a faithful translation of Murasaki Shikibu’s work might leave little more than a repetitious string of romantic adventures.’’ Having read Waley’s Volume One (of an eventual total of six), Woolf is led to state that the Genji cannot be considered a full-fledged masterpiece because it lacks ‘‘some element of horror, of terror, of sordidity, some root of experience’’ (‘‘Genji,’’ 427). She laments what she sees as a missing ‘‘vigour, . . . richness, . . . maturity of the human spirit, failing which the gold is silvered and the wine mixed with water. All comparisons between Murasaki and the great Western writers serve but to bring out her perfection and their force’’ (427). The discussion below will demonstrate that Murasaki Shikibu’s writing does indeed show ‘‘force,’’ lying precisely in elements not carried over by Waley’s particular interpretation (or that of any other of the translators, for that matter), which all but ignored the power politics of Heian society in favor of an excessively aestheticized view. Granted, Murasaki Shikibu’s world is indeed one ‘‘from which filth, ungenteel poverty, rotting corpses in pestilence-stricken streets, and the other physical uglinesses of life in the Heian capital have been deliberately excluded,’’ but many of its less glamorous aspects where vulnerable women are concerned are nonetheless made subtly present in the original. The fact that Woolf viewed this text solely ‘‘through Mr. Waley’s beautiful telescope’’ goes a long way to explaining why she characterizes it as perfect in certain ways, but unable to move the reader in any powerful way (‘‘Genji,’’ 427). Woolf writes eloquently of the oddly disjunctive female tradition in world literature: Strange spaces of silence seem to separate one period of activity from another. There was Sappho and a little group of women all writing poetry on a Greek island six hundred years before the birth of Christ. They fall silent. Then about the year 1000 we find a certain court lady, the lady Murasaki, writing a very long and beautiful novel in Japan.
As we begin the twenty-first century, such inexplicable silences are being filled in with innumerable voices, as previously lost or ignored women writers from cultures and languages across the planet are being rediscovered. But the processes of translation and non-translation nonetheless may leave other sorts of ‘‘spaces of silence,’’ which tend not even to
7 9 4
E p i c s
f o r
be recognized as such. How are readers to suspect that vital elements may in fact be accidentally or even deliberately elided, if they cannot read the original Japanese? I want to underscore that I am not making the old, reductive argument of tradutore tradittore, where the translator is by definition a traitor inevitably betraying both author and reader. Waley’s version is wonderful in many ways, and played an essential role in the Genji’s worlding, bringing it into existence in a very real sense for critics, scholars, and the public throughout much of the West. (Numerous other translations, e.g., into French, Swedish, and Italian, have been made from his English version. In fact, a very recent Spanish version is still relying on Waley as the source text.) Woolf would likely never have known anything at all of Murasaki Shikibu without his intervening guidance. Also, much of what I rue in Waley’s translation is obviously a direct and unavoidable consequence of the limited resources for translation from the Japanese then available and the particular worldview prevalent between the wars (many have referred to a modernist cult of Japan in Britain). Because translation always constitutes ‘‘an act of reading and writing by a specific historical subject,’’ all versions will inevitably be products of their time and place. This fact in no way diminishes the value of translations and the tremendous debt we owe to those who produce them. There are many parts of the Genji that suggest sentiments and views that would have been highly appealing to Woolf, more so than to those who have translated the work into English. Given her personal struggles with a mental disorder, for instance, it is conceivable that she would have responded quite sympathetically to the scene of female ‘‘madness’’ in the ‘‘Makibashira’’ . . . chapter (translated as ‘‘The Cypress Pillar’’ in Seidensticker and ‘‘The Handsome Pillar’’ in Tyler). In that famous episode, a woman whose husband has just taken a second, younger wife (theirs is a polygynous society) dumps a brazier full of ashes on his head before taking the children and moving back to her father’s home. Moreover, Woolf would certainly have had a more personal stake in teasing out the full significance of sentiments such as those Murasaki expresses in the ‘‘Yuˆgiri’’ . . . chapter: Ah, she reflected, there is nothing so pitifully confined and constricted as a woman. . . . What a waste for her to shut herself up in her thoughts, like that Silent Prince the monks cite as the patron of their own trials, and when she knows
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
the good from the bad to say nothing at all! How to strike the proper balance?
While most criticism prior to the very recent present has read such explicit lines as these as uncharacteristically bitter for Murasaki Shikibu’s narrator, even to the point of arguing that they were inserted by another author entirely, surely Woolf would have noted the very real confinements and constrictions of women’s lives that are underscored—albeit subtly—throughout the tale, and thus have sought to bring them to her readers’ attention. In this connection, I would now like to turn to a particular, and particularly important, passage, that concerning the consummation of marriage between Genji and Murasaki, the girl he has raised to be his ideal wife. The argument I make is that this pivotal event has been mishandled by the existing translators, and that the interpretation of someone with the specific interests and sensitivities of Virginia Woolf could have been expected to take a different, potentially more enlightening approach. MURASAKI’S SEXUAL INITIATION
‘‘One of the most, remarkable things about the Genji is the absence of cruelty and violence’’— so writes Seidensticker in a 1982 article, although he does go on to problematize the widespread notion that Murasaki Shikibu’s story involves exclusively a gentle, feminized world of idealized love and romance. Elsewhere, for example, he astutely acknowledges that one strength of this masterpiece is that, unlike other contemporaneous texts such as the Heike Monogatari that describe women as happy to suffer and be trodden upon, ‘‘Murasaki Shikibu takes the more realistic view that a helpless woman is in a pretty sad position and cannot be expected to enjoy it.’’ I will argue that Seidensticker’s English-language version, in which the cruelty depicted in this scene is most apparent, paradoxically distracts the reader from the more fundamental, systemic violence actually being critiqued by the original. The following close reading suggests that because Woolf was so perceptive regarding the ‘‘infinity of slight touches’’ an author may use and ‘‘which can only be properly applied by reading quietly, carefully, and sometimes two or three times over,’’ and because she took a vital interest in women and their relation to fiction, she would have provided us with a new and insightful reading. The background for this episode is as follows. A motherless girl of about ten years of age (known
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
as Murasaki) is stumbled upon by a young man (known as Genji) some eight years her senior, who spies into an isolated house while roaming about the countryside. This child bears a striking resemblance to her aunt, who happens to be the young man’s stepmother. Genji has had a secret affair and fathered a son with his stepmother, but she has recently made herself inaccessible to him. The man offers to take the girl in and become like a father to her, but her caretakers frustrate him by declining to hand her over. The girl’s grandmother, who is also her guardian, dies not long afterward. The young man seizes his opportunity: while everyone is waiting for the girl’s father to come collect her, Genji simply marches in during the night and carries her off, installing her in his own house. Over a period of some four years, they play dolls; practice poetry, calligraphy, and music together; challenge one another at go; and enjoy a cozy platonic relationship. She matures, and he starts to drop hints of a sexual nature, which do not seem to be understood. Then one night, shortly after the (post-childbirth) death of his official wife, he rapes the girl. Or does he? Over a period of some 75 years, different generations of English-language readers have been led to interpret this pivotal moment in the narrative as first a seduction, then an assault, and finally something more indeterminate. Each existing version is obviously a product of its own era, but also of the gender-identification and sensitivity of its translator. Specific choices reflect the understanding or misunderstanding of the overall import of the source-language text demonstrated by Waley and others. It should be pointed out here that, as is only to be expected with a thousand-year-old text of which we have no extant author’s manuscript, variant editions of the Japanese original exist and thus alternate readings can often be justified by a particular variation. Nonetheless, my concern in this article is less with the matter of fidelity to an original than with the effect the translated passage has on its readers. As Andre´ Lefevere has lucidly explained in Translation Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame, ‘‘for readers who cannot check the translation against the original, the translation, quite simply, is the original.’’ Because its translations have been and are read as texts in their own right, they inevitably shape the reception of the Genji in the host culture independent of its existence in the culture of origin. Accordingly, this paper neither delves into the thorny and problematic issue of there being no single, authoritative source, nor attempts to show how each translator relied on one textual tradition over another. My
V o l u m e
2
7 9 5
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
comments on the translators’ unique choices are intended to examine the impact of those choices on the English-language reader rather than to compare the translations against their purported source text or texts. Before discussing the more well-known versions, I will first deal separately with Suematsu (Suyematz). He had arrived in England in 1878, ostensibly to pursue a diplomatic career, although he proved to be more interested in writing than politics. In addition to poems and a historical thesis, Suematsu published Japanese translations of Byron and Shelley before producing his Genji Monogatari, the most celebrated of the classical Japanese Romances, for which he earned one of the first doctorates in literature awarded in Japan. This high Victorian translation, in which Murasaki is rechristened the very British sounding ‘‘Lady Violet,’’ elides the consummation scene into a single sentence: ‘‘Some weeks thus passed away, and there was one morning when Violet did not appear so early as usual.’’ When Genji returns the next day to check on her, Murasaki’s response is described simply as follows: ‘‘she was more than ever shy . . . she still continued silent and shy’’ (175). While no one can deny that the original Japanese is elliptical, Suematsu’s Genji is decidedly censored. Paramount among likely reasons for such omissions must be the fact that it would have been difficult for anyone desirous of being read by as wide a public as possible to do otherwise in late nineteenth-century England. Moreover, European attitudes toward Japanese society in the Meiji . . . period (1868–1912) had been excessively focused on what were taken to be its unusually permissive mores, and Suematsu may well have felt obligated to counter that orientalizing perception by overcompensating in incidences like this one. Even if he were working from an abridged source text, Suematsu was more than capable of consulting other Classical Japanese versions, and so it is hard to take his decision to abbreviate here as less than deliberate. A look at the subsequent English translations reveals what was cut from the first: ... Waley: Soon the situation became unendurable, and though he knew that she would be very much upset he determined somehow or other to get his own way. There came a morning when the gentleman was already up and about, but the young lady was still lying abed. (178)
7 9 6
E p i c s
f o r
Seidensticker: Now he could not restrain himself. It would be a shock, of course. What had happened? Her women had no way of knowing when the line had been crossed. One morning Genji was up early and Murasaki stayed on and on in bed. Tyler: [H]e could endure it no longer; and so despite his compunction it came to pass one morning, when there was nothing otherwise about their ways with each other to betray the change, that he rose early while she rose not at all. (186)
Waley, himself rebellious against Victorian morality, presents this scene as fairly straightforward seduction within a libertine world (the reader is to be forgiven if Bloomsbury springs to mind): while the ‘‘hero’’ may well have ungallantly wheedled young Murasaki into sleeping with him, under duress, there is no hint of actual violence. His is the version that Virginia Woolf read, and so it should come as little surprise that she makes no mention of this specific scene in her review, disturbing as it becomes in the subsequent renditions. In contrast to Waley’s, Seidensticker’s choice of vocabulary (‘‘could not restrain himself,’’ ‘‘it would be a shock’’) strongly implies the mounting urgency of a Genji whose sexual frustration is coupled with a chilling selfishness and lack of concern for the alarm that he is perfectly aware that his uncomprehending victim will experience. Tyler is the least explicit of the three, intentionally leaving the reader in a vague state of knowing ‘‘something’’ has occurred, but drawing no conclusions as to what precisely. The original, by the way, refers to Genji and Murasaki as . . . [otokokimi, ‘‘the gentleman’’] and . . . [onnakimi, ‘‘the lady’’] in this passage, a noteworthy form of reference in a language where verb subjects are omitted more often than not. The effect in Japanese is to highlight the adult, sexual nature of their new relationship, to make it clear what has occurred during the night and is otherwise left unsaid. Further, as Childs helpfully explains, shinobi [ . . . here, to endure or restrain oneself] can be read as ‘‘suppress/keep secret,’’ and kokorogurushikeredo . . . as describing Genji’s state of anxiety rather than Murasaki’s (Tyler, for example, follows this particular reading), thus further problematizing this scene as a simple description of female victimization. ... Waley: That this was what Genji had so long been wanting came to her as a complete surprise and she could not think why he should regard the unpleasant thing that had happened last night
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
as in some way the beginning of a new and more intimate friendship between them. (179) Seidensticker: She had not dreamed he had anything of the sort on his mind. What a fool she had been, to repose her whole confidence in so gross and unscrupulous a man. (180) Tyler: She had never suspected him of such inten tions, and she could only wonder bitterly why in her innocence she had ever trusted anyone with such horrid ideas. (187)
These sentences further develop quite divergent interpretations of events, ranging from dismissive to sympathetic to something rather cagier. Waley’s Murasaki does not indulge in self-accusation for having been too naı¨ ve to anticipate events, which reaction renders her more pathetic in the two other versions. Rather, she is made to express ‘‘complete surprise’’ toward Genji and this new state of affairs—she sulks, but we are led to assume that the young couple will soon leave behind any ‘‘unpleasantness.’’ As we read further, the dismay actually exhibited by Waley’s heroine seems to be on the order of a slightly overwrought reaction to one’s very favorite teacup being broken: ... Waley: [H]e found that she was bathed in sweat; even the hair that hung across her cheeks was dripping wet. . . . But try as he would to coax her back to reason he could not get a word out of her, for she was really feeling very vexed with him indeed. (179) Seidensticker: She was bathed in perspiration and the hair at her forehead was matted from weeping. . . . He tried in every way he could think of to comfort her, but she seemed genuinely upset and did not offer so much as a word in reply. (181) Tyler: [Genji] found her drenched in perspiration. Even the hair at her forehead was soaking wet. . . . She was still furious with him . . . , despite his attempts to console her, and she refused him a single word in reply. (187)
Tyler, on the contrary, does not dilute the anger here: she is ‘‘furious’’ and rightly so—her ‘‘innocence’’ has been extreme and accordingly her ‘‘bitterness’’ at its violation is equally strong, in the face of which she maintains a proud ‘‘refusal’’ to respond. But note how different Murasaki’s emotional response is in Seidensticker—not merely indignant or irate, his heroine is deeply upset, to the point of shedding tears. Did Murasaki Shikibu intend us to imagine weeping? This ‘‘wedding’’ night is the only time throughout the entire tale that she presents us with anything resembling a
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
detailed examination of a woman’s reaction to sexual initiation, and she clearly writes of a heroine drenched in . . . [ase, sweat], not . . . [namida, tears]. Waley is regularly accused of embroidering Murasaki Shikibu’s story. Here, however, the embroiderer’s needle and floss are firmly in Seidensticker’s hand, and his invention of a weeping young woman invites his readership to feel pity in a focused and concrete way the others do not. As a significant point of interest, it should be pointed out that in the Genji and other works of Classical Japanese literature, characters tend to shed tears extremely frequently, as a typical response to anything that moves them. Having Murasaki weep in this scene, therefore, would have rendered her response commonplace, and thus the author deliberately avoids doing so. In an attempt to bring out more effectively the distinct differences among the three main or most widely read English translations, I have delayed examining this passage as it appears in the selected chapters translated by McCullough. Turning now to that version, let us see whether she offers a woman’s voice that differs noticeably from that of her male counterparts and whether she downplays or underscores the matter of sexual violence. The entire passage reads as follows: [N]ow he found it impossible to contain his passion, reluctant though he was to distress her. With their sleeping arrangements as they were, no third person could tell when their relationship changed, but there came a morn ing when he rose early and she rose not at all. She had never dreamed that he had any such thing in mind, and her shock and dismay were correspondingly great. How could she have put all her trust in someone whose true nature was so odious? . . . [H]e saw that she was drenched in perspiration. Even the hair on her forehead was soaked. . . . He tried his best to soothe her, but she maintained a stubborn silence, offended from the bottom of her heart.
McCullough is alone in making an overt reference to the intimate ‘‘sleeping arrangements’’ of hero and heroine, which serves to compensate for the loss of those meaningful otokokimi and onnakimi references in the Japanese. Although tempered by the notion of Genji’s ‘‘reluctance . . . to distress’’ Murasaki, a fact that Seidensticker elides and Tyler emphasizes, this reading leaves no doubt that in McCullough’s mind the scene is grounded in an act of aggression. She describes
V o l u m e
2
7 9 7
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Genji as consumed with his own ‘‘passion,’’ a far more explicit phrasing than the ‘‘situation’’ or ‘‘it’’ characterized as unendurable in Waley and Tyler, respectively. In this version, Murasaki experiences ‘‘shock and dismay’’ to the point of being profoundly ‘‘offended’’ by his actions and ‘‘odious’’ nature, and the use of a rhetorical question gives readers the distinct impression of having direct access to the girl’s reaction, which serves to heighten the impression of extreme distress. The angrily hissing alliteration McCullough creates with ‘‘his best to soothe her . . . stubborn silence,’’ and the finality of those closing words, ‘‘from the bottom of her heart,’’ leave no doubt that this translation is closer to Seidensticker’s than to any of the others. Indeed, in a 1977 review of his version, McCullough praises that translator for highlighting the ‘‘salient fact’’ of the Genji, namely that ‘‘the extreme physical and psychological vulnerability of the Heian woman augured ill for her happiness.’’ So is it rape? Seduction? The Heian version of consensual sex? We must pause to consider whether these distinctions have any meaning in the world of the tale. Clearly, if here today a man in his early twenties were to behave toward a 14-year-old girl in the manner described in this book, we would condemn his actions as assault. But Murasaki has reached a marriageable age (although childlike, she is neither a child nor perceived as in any way unavailable for sexual attentions), and it is not unreasonable that the man who so loves her wants now to take their relationship to another level. Also, the subsequent liaison of Genji and Murasaki is described as a loving, intimate one (albeit not ideal) that endures until her death at age 43. It has been noted that ‘‘[m]any readers of The Tale of Genji, especially . . . Edward Seidensticker’s translation, view Genji as a man who resorted to rape to satisfy his erotic desires,’’ a view which Margaret Childs and others go on to challenge. Seidensticker’s version of this scene does depict a quite brutal loss of virginity, and then deliberately leads the reader to feel compassion for the victim of male aggression, an innocent and wholly unprepared Murasaki. In fact, in a diary kept throughout the decade-long project, Seidensticker is highly critical of this consummation scene, stating that he finds ‘‘the material revolting’’ and that for ‘‘the poor girl [it was like being] raped by her own father.’’ Conversely, Tyler takes great pains to downplay the issue of assault in the Genji, arguing in ‘‘Marriage, Rank, and Rape in The Tale of
7 9 8
E p i c s
f o r
Genji’’ that a twenty-first-century Western conception of consensual relations cannot and does not apply to the very different time and place described in Classical Japanese literature. Likewise, Childs’s article examines the notion of sexual coercion in Heian Japanese literature, what she calls ‘‘the erotic potential of powerlessness’’ (1060). She contends that a male strategy of ‘‘mak[ing] vulnerability tangible’’ in order to increase feminine allure is common to depictions of romantic involvement in the literature of the day and cannot be taken to equal sexual violence (1061). Childs’s fascinating discussion reminds us that the manifestations and representations of even something as basic as human emotional response, typically viewed as universal, can in fact be culturally specific and that it is dangerous to assume that the Heian experience of love will be identical to the modern Western reader’s. If, in our author’s culture, ‘‘pity’’ is ‘‘a significant component of love’’ and ‘‘connections leading from desire to rape, to pity, and then to a loving attachment’’ can and are made in her and others’ literary depictions of sexual entanglements, then this argues even more strongly for a more finely nuanced reading of Murasaki’s defloration scene than we have hitherto been given (Childs, 1059). These recent commentators—who attempt to ‘‘establish . . . some credibility for Genji as a man of at least minimal principle’’—are primarily responding to a wave of late twentieth-century feminist critics, who had broken new ground and stirred debate by questioning Genji’s traditional status as hero and great lover (Childs, 1070). (It should be borne in mind, however, that Genji-as-rapist is not solely a modern view—the fourteenth-century diarist Lady Nij o styles a description of her own wedding night on Murasaki’s—exaggerating the brutality to the extent of depicting torn clothing and a bruised body.) These critics include, in Japan, Komashaku Kimi and Setouchi Jakuchoˆ and, in the West, Norma Field and Doris Bargen. Field has described this scene as ‘‘a betrayal both horrifying and humiliating,’’ while Bargen posits that spirit possession as depicted throughout the Genji is an expression of women’s rage against illtreatment by men. Writing of this text’s ‘‘dark’’ or ‘‘richly colored’’ message . . . Komashaku points out that it is impossible to distinguish seduction from rape in socio-cultural situations that render women weak and powerless, and thus in no position to grant consent or agree to be seduced. Setouchi has argued that almost all sexual relations of the time began with assault, although, interestingly
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
enough, Murasaki does not weep in her own modern Japanese translation, originally published in 1997. Granted, any attempt to apply a term such as ‘‘feminist’’ to author Murasaki Shikibu, or to assume that she had in mind a critique of specifically what is today called ‘‘patriarchal oppression’’ would be naı¨ vely anachronistic. Nonetheless, this is far from the only scene in the Genji where societal restrictions and practices limiting a woman’s options give rise to a situation in which female characters are subject to the whims and carnal demands of the males who are ostensibly positioned to protect them. Given Woolf’s scorn for any society that allows women to be ‘‘locked up, beaten and flung about the room’’ by the men who claim control over their bodies and lives, it is a distinct shame that she was unable to look to a Japanese original and thus read past Waley’s elision of the disturbing nature of this scene. Had this been possible, she might well have instigated a fruitful debate on this particular point decades earlier than it did in fact occur. It is true (as both Tyler and Childs rightly insist) that, despite the surprise inevitable for someone so sheltered, Murasaki actually responds in the expected manner for Heian aristocratic ladies following sexual initiation, and Genji feels no real alarm: she rises late, reads his obligatory morning-after poem, assumes a posture of embarrassment and dismay, but eventually comes around. The text indeed does not mention anger until after the girl has read the verse implying that this is what Genji had in mind all along. Childs argues that Murasaki simply feels duped: that it is her trust rather than her body that has been violated. Tyler goes even further: claiming that Murasaki was never deceived by Genji, that the posture of utter incomprehension toward carnal matters is so obligatory to noblewomen of the day that the author could not have had her ideal heroine behave in any other way. I believe that Woolf’s reading could have taken us in a different direction, incorporating aspects of these apparently contradictory views but moving beyond them. The original text does not lead us to view Genji as a rapist, but neither does it entirely exonerate him of wrongdoing, nor yet does it imply that the question is moot. Murasaki Shikibu’s characterization is highly complex: the callous young man who refuses to consider the serious fright and pain his actions could cause the girl, and who tries ham-handedly
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
to jolly her up when she is upset, is also capable of significant kindness and grace (he does perform celebrations that make of this event a wedding, for example, which he is under no obligation to do). He is certainly no scowling villain or offensive brute. Instead, employing far more subtle and thus pro-founder criticism than Seidensticker’s, McCullough’s, or Tyler’s translations would lead us to believe (and that Suematsu’s and Waley’s miss completely), the author employs her attractive, charming hero and his frequently very entertaining relations with a variety of women to explore the insidious social problems at the very root of situations like this. Tyler writes elsewhere that it is hard to tell if Murasaki should be read as Genji’s true love or merely his property, and surely that is the point, and one that the feminist Woolf would have been able to see and exploit to the full. The sexual act that inaugurates these characters’ new relationship is not an isolated, traumatic incident— rather, the author is urging us to look past the difficulties of any particular coupling to what must be seen as the damaging power imbalance underlying male-female relations in the world being described. Woolf’s review expresses her admiration for Japan’s Heian period as one of those seasons which are most propitious for the artist, and, in particular for an artist of her own sex. The accent of life did not fall upon war, the interests of men did not centre upon politics. Relieved from the violent pressure of these two forces, life expressed itself chiefly in the intricacies of behaviour, in what men said and what women did not quite say. (‘‘Genji,’’ 425)
Any reading that glosses over or misrepresents the damning nature of what Murasaki Shikibu does not quite say in this specific episode is woefully inadequate. Janice P. Nimura calls Seidensticker ‘‘the most unobtrusive’’ of our three English-language guides, and yet the example studied here demonstrates that he sometimes obtrudes excessively, as his facile reading distances us from the author’s far more nuanced and devastating implication. By overstating the case for rape, Seidensticker encourages readers to focus on the incident as outrageous, certainly, but merely one of a handful of discrete events of ‘‘moral ugliness,’’ rather than to consider more deeply the entire system of sexual politics that the Genji delineates. Tyler offers a more indeterminate, cautiously accurate translation, although again it does not quite catch the true critique being leveled at prevailing attitudes and behaviors. The mastery of Murasaki Shikibu
V o l u m e
2
7 9 9
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
lies precisely in the fact that her criticism regarding the fundamental cruelty and systemic violence of the society in which she and her characters live remains implicit but no less scathing. The reader is not to read this scene and say ‘‘how horrible— Genji raped that child.’’ Rather, we are being asked to question whether any two individuals (even ones as ‘‘perfect’’ as Genji and Murasaki) can ever enjoy a relationship based on mutual understanding and respect. McCullough perhaps approaches this conclusion when she states in her translator’s introduction that Genji ‘‘does not realize, or does not choose to understand, that Murasaki’s view of the marriage is very different from his.’’ Similar to Woolf, this Japanese author does not make things simple, and prefers not to spell anything out bluntly or crudely. Only upon repeated and careful readings of how male-female relations play out and what they imply within this text does what Komashaku terms the ‘‘structural tragedy’’ [ . . . koˆzoˆ higeki] underlying the Genji come to light. CONCLUSION
Damrosch writes that ‘‘[w]orld literature may in some sense exist as an ideal order, a hypothetical mental construct, but in practice it is experienced as what is available to read, in classrooms and on bookstore shelves, on course syllabi and in anthologies for students and general readers’’ (111). In terms of literature originally produced in a lesser-studied language such as Japanese (Classical Japanese at that), what is available to be read, taught, and enjoyed in the West is necessarily a translation of that literature, and anything untranslated into English may as well not exist at all. In other words, world literature is inescapably embedded in the ‘‘politics of translation,’’ whereby our engagement with distant cultures is meaningfully mediated by both critic and translator, and thus inseparable from the debates about power, subordination, subversion, and representation of self and Other that preoccupy us today. Given that few individual scholars can read more than a handful of languages, translations help to minimize parochialism and the marginalization of certain literatures. But if world literature is indeed ‘‘writing that gains in translation,’’ this demands due attention to the process by which such gains (and concomitant losses) occur and to the cultural, historical, and gendered blindness and biases any translator will bring to bear.
8 0 0
E p i c s
f o r
Given the fidelity/infidelity binary repeatedly used to judge translations and find them wanting, we might in the end have to admit that the only perfect translation of any national literature text into the world literature corpus is the absent one, that which by virtue of its silence does not colonize, pervert, or diminish the original. Woolf herself writes as follows about another literary tradition: It is useless, then, to read Greek in translation. Translators can but offer us a vague equivalent; their language is necessarily full of echoes and associations. . . . Nor can the subtler flight and the fall of the words, be kept even by the most skilful of scholars .
However, not only the ‘‘flight and fall of words,’’ but also the subtle nuances of meaning behind these words will be carried across to a greater or lesser extent depending on not only the translator’s skill, but also her/his affinity with the author and her text. In a letter to her sister dated 1929, Virginia Woolf concludes a description of her day by stating that she went ‘‘home to bed with Waley.’’ Despite the rather louche mores of the Bloomsbury circle, we may safely assume that she intends in this case to imply intimacy with his books, not his person. That Waley’s ‘‘worlding’’ of Murasaki Shikibu was a great accomplishment in its day I do not dispute, any more than I wish to denigrate the very real contributions made by Suematsu, Seidensticker, McCullough, or Tyler in their turn. Nonetheless, it must be ranked as an irreparable loss to women’s writing and a global female tradition, as well as to the reception of the Genji Monogatari throughout the modern West, that Woolf was never able, metaphorically speaking, to go to bed with Murasaki Shikibu herself. A more direct, unmediated reading of an author she named among the ‘‘great figures of the past, like Sappho, . . . like Emily Bronte¨’’ might well have allowed us, as readers and scholars of world literature, to benefit from what could have been an insightful, sympathetic rendering of one unique and powerful female voice by another, an intimate thinking back through a mother that, sadly, will never be. Source: Valerie Henitiuk, ‘‘Going to Bed with Waley: How Murasaki Shikibu Does and Does Not Become World Literature,’’ in Comparative Literature Studies, Vol. 45, No. 1, 2008, pp. 40 61.
Doris G. Bargen In the following excerpt, Bargen considers the social implications of the episodes of spirit possession in
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
THE EMPHASIS OF THE AUTHOR IS NOT ON SOLVING THE RIDDLE OF THE SPIRIT’S IDENTITY BUT ON ANALYZING THE MALE RESPONSE TO THE COM PLEX PHENOMENA.’’
The Tale of Genji, suggesting they represent a female protest against the polygyny of Heian society. The Japanese national classic, Murasaki Shikibu’s Genji monogatari, is chiefly valued for its exquisitely drawn psychological character portrayals and detailed realistic descriptions of tenth century Heian court life. Yet the work also contains highly dramatic episodes and animated scenes of spirit possession. One of the most memorable scenes occurs in a minor episode in which Higekuro’s wife dumps ashes on her husband’s head. She is violently enraged by the prospect of being ousted from her position as principal wife by a new mistress, and she is possessed. According to the Heian practice of polygyny, she was expected to tolerate another woman joining the household, and therefore her indignant and undignified behavior is perceived as that of a madwoman: Suddenly she stood up, swept the cover from a large censer, stepped behind her husband, and poured the contents over his head. There had been no time to restrain her. The women [in attendance] were stunned. The powdery ashes bit into his eyes and nos trils. Blinded, he tried to brush them away, but found them so clinging and stubborn that he had to throw off even his under robes. If she had not had the excuse of her derangement he would have marched from her presence and vowed never to return. It was a very perverse sort of spirit that possessed her.
Higekuro’s wife’s case is the exception to the rule which takes spirit possession seriously and requires that it be treated with respect. Inasmuch as spirit possession ‘‘permits the expression of things that cannot be said ordinarily or directly,’’ it is, as a technique of communication, eminently suited to the general cultural preference for elegant indirections and subtleties in Heian Japan (A.D. 794–1185). Thus it is the very directness of
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
the distraught woman’s physical attack on Higekuro that renders her blunt action comic. Precisely because her behavior is undisguised and straightforward, and thereby unconventional, it paradoxically appears as an instance of the infuriated lady’s ‘‘derangement.’’ This particular madcap version of possession is counterproductive; direct action defeats its own purpose. The relative simplicity of this comic possession contrasts with the extraordinary complexity of a series of possessions which involve the eponymous hero of The Tale of Genji. In the first of them, Genji’s affair with Yugao is suddenly terminated when Yugao is possessed. Her death puzzles Genji and his puzzlement leads us to speculate about the phenomenon of spirit possession and its relation to gender and courtship conventions at the peak of the Heian period (c. 950–1050). These speculations enable us to understand spirit possession as a female protest against the polygyny of Heian Society. A few readers have begun to speculate about The Tale of Genji’s four major possession cases. William H. McCullough has pointed to ‘‘the havoc wreaked upon Genji’s lovers and wives by the possessing spirit of the very possessive Lady Rokuj o,’’ whose spirit he sees as ‘‘one of the principal unifying elements’’ in the Genji. McCullough draws several useful conclusions. First, the victims of spirit possession in Heian times—indeed in most cultures, and especially in polygynous societies—are women. Second, the spirit who attacks is most typically that of a dead person, and third, the spirit’s motive is jealousy. These insights are valuable, but, in light of the questions raised by anthropologists, they merely lay the foundation for an investigation into the very complex interaction between the possessed, the possessor and society. The phenomenon of spirit possession is an old and universal one, but anthropological research into the subject is relatively new. The opinion that spirit possession is not simply a primitive, pathological practice of superstitious peoples is even more recent. Since the pioneering work of Oesterreich (1921), the many varieties of spirit possession have been divided into two basic categories: voluntary (self-induced) and involuntary (spontaneous). Similarly, the response has been twofold: spirit possession is either thought to be desirable or undesirable. In the latter case, exorcism is deemed necessary. In the most problematic case, then, someone involuntarily enters
V o l u m e
2
8 0 1
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
an ‘‘altered state of consciousness’’ that is considered undesirable or is feared by society at large. It is important to note that spirit possession is not merely a conflict between the possessed and the possessor; it is also a test of the values of the whole society. These values are usually, but not always, represented by exorcists who employ a medium to approach the possessed and drive out and identify the spirit. With identification of the spirit and the promise to meet its wishes, the spell is broken, the victim and the spectators are relieved and, curiously, life goes on much as it had, until the next seizure occurs. Unlike witches, the possessed are not persecuted or punished. When such dramatic occurrences are placed in the realm of fiction, they must be understood within their literary context. While in reality altered states of consciousness can have purely physical causes, as, for example, the hardships of pregnancy, nutritional deficiencies or the use of drugs, the literary manifestations of possession can usually be traced to grave psychological disturbances or conflicts. Certain peculiarities about the phenomenon of spirit possession—such as the elements of ecstasy and self-enhancement in the state of dissociation or speaking in different voices—have raised important questions about the meaning of spirit possession. Who are the possessed in relation to the possessor and the witnesses? What public statement does the intensely private and esoteric experience of spirit possession make about the society in which it occurs? In other words, what do the spirits’ complaints and wishes, voiced either directly through the possessed, or indirectly through a medium, say about the values of the society? How successful is possession as a psychological strategy? It is mainly women who are possessed because they and other peripheral groups oppressed by the dominant group release their tensions and frustrations in this way. Their protest, however, is not directed straightforwardly at the dominant group, but indirectly, through the mysterious esoteric language of spirit possession. Joan M. Lewis has aptly described the nature of this protest as ‘‘oblique aggressive strategy.’’ Jealousy is traditionally regarded as the major force behind spirit possession in the Genji because female grievances are revealed to be rooted in the polygynous system which constantly threatens women’s status and lowers their self-esteem in the very sensitive matter of sexual relations. Thus
8 0 2
E p i c s
f o r
it is a conspicuous fact that the mainly female authors of Heian tales and diaries voice complaints that are universal to polygynous societies, namely, that competing wives, concubines and mistresses become the agents or victims of jealousy. And to the extent that Heian aristocratic women enjoyed exceptional freedom and economic independence, they made bold to express psychological conflicts in a variety of ways. However, from a pool of diverse grievances, scholars have singled out jealousy as the symbol—or source—of women’s rebellious rejection of their assigned role in society. As the case of Higekuro’s wife demonstrates, openly violent, aggressive behavior was viewed with contempt in an elitist society that prided itself on its refined esthetics and an exquisite code of manners in harmony with the society’s hierarchical structure. Therefore hostile and aggressive feelings could not easily find expression. They must be repressed or find their own culturally accepted idiom. Higekuro’s wife’s behavior was not respectable because of the violation of options available to women under intense psychological pressures. These options encompassed a wide range of activities, such as religious austerities or devotion to the arts. Spirit possession was a woman’s most dramatic strategy. Yugao’s possession is the first of the major possession cases. It is prototypical and symptomatic of the cause and purpose of possession, even though its technical apparatus is minimal: there are no exorcists, no mediums and consequently no public ritual. The only spectator, aside from a lady-in-waiting who merely confirms but does not perceive the possessing spirit, is Genji, the woman’s lover. Although spirit possession constitutes the climax of an intensely private love affair, its larger social implications cannot be ignored. What especially distinguishes this possession from the others is its direct termination in death. For many critics of the Genji, spirit possession is virtually synonymous with death. Yet between the first and the last case a remarkable progression takes place. While possession and death are practically synchronic events in the first case, in the next three cases the fatal consequences of spirit possession are postponed or avoided completely. Consequently, a note of hope is sounded in the last case: a suicide attempt
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
is converted into spirit possession, which is transformed in turn into an act of artistic affirmation. Ukifune, the last of the heroines in the Genji, sublimates her self-destructive desires into spirit possession and then resolves her psychological crisis through the therapeutic composition of poetic memoirs.
turn of events, begins to court Yugao, whom he does not initially recognize as the lost lady described by his friend. She is caught in a psychological conflict between lovers which provokes her to terminate the new relationship with a strategy that is the logical, forceful extension of the first: spirit possession and death.
Yugao, however, is seized by a spirit, and dies. The mystery of the sudden possession and its tragic end challenges the witness’s analytic powers. The events before and after the climax of the affair—the possession—are viewed mainly from Genji’s male perspective. His biased interpretation complicates and psychologically charges this famous episode.
Genji’s discovery of Yugao is serendipitous. He is attracted by a humble flower whose name is the sobriquet of the woman of lower rank with whom it is symbolically associated: Yugao. When Genji comes upon the woman, he is captivated by the Yugao flower, its mystery deepened by the poem penned on the fan that accompanies it. Genji pursues this enticing flower-woman despite the fact that he is married to Aoi (T o no Chuj o’s sister) and is still interested in his first passion (Lady Rokuj o) and in other ladies of high rank. Much later when Genji has taken not only the flower but also the woman, he fully realizes what he had merely suspected: he has coveted his best friend’s love.
Crucial to an understanding of the affair between the son of an emperor and an aristocratic lady of relatively low rank are the lovers’ secretive motivations that lead to the mysterious, supernatural event of spirit possession. The mystery of this affair is largely due to the lovers’ sustained incognito. One singular aspect of Heian courtship ritual was that the lover frequently had no inkling of his or her sexual partner’s physical appearance and identity before the consummation of the affair. Esthetic responsiveness was all that mattered and furtive glimpses of the prospective lover were ever so much more enticing than full visibility. In the case of Genji and Yugao, however, the couple’s tantalizing secretiveness continues beyond their initial encounters and into the phase of intimacy. Why? The lovers’ previous adventures determine their response to each other, and provide a clue to the tragedy that results from their departure from courtship routines. Yugao’s unhappy love affair with Genji’s best friend T o no Chuj o bears directly on her subsequent relations with Genji. An orphan without the parental backing necessary for marriage, Yugao was at the mercy of her former lover and had no choice but to forgive him for his frequent neglect. However, after three years of mistreatment, her patience was exhausted. When T o no Chuj o’s wife dealt the last blow by humiliating her, Yugao resolved to disappear, to live without her lover’s support, and to take with her the daughter she had borne him—a strategy that contained elements of self-assertion, protest and self-sacrifice. Her inaccessibility revives T o no Chuj o’s interest. In the famous ‘‘Rainy-Night Discussion,’’ he confides to Genji the story of his lost love. Genji is intrigued and, through a fortuitous
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
While Yugao sees herself in two triangular situations—as a rival of T o no Chuj o’s wife for his love and as the object of an implicit rivalry between Genji and T o no Chuj o—Genji perceives quite a different triangle. Aware of his own promiscuity, he imagines his neglected ladies consumed by jealousy over the new mistress. From his perspective, the figural constellation seems initially to involve several females and one male. Genji’s subsequent awareness of Yugao’s identity complicates matters considerably. The ominous thought crosses Genji’s mind: ‘‘Might she be the lady of whom T o no Chuj o had spoken that rainy night?’’ The possibility of identifying Yugao with T o no Chuj o’s unassertive lady is so disturbing that it is, at first, entirely repressed: ‘‘Genji did not know who the lady was and he did not want her to know who he was.’’ . . . As his love becomes like ‘‘madness,’’ Genji grows increasingly reflective about his fascination with Yugao: ‘‘What was there about her, he asked himself over and over again, that drew him to her?’’ The lady, in addition to her profound excitement, is unduly worried and through her anxiety betrays the fact that she is experiencing this affair in the traumatic context of the previous one: ‘‘She was frightened as if he were an apparition from an old story.’’ While the bittersweet memory of the ‘‘old story’’ with T o no Chuj o causes her to repress the source of her pain, the mystery of her new incognito lover
V o l u m e
2
8 0 3
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
evokes once more the half-forgotten past which casts its ominous shadow on the present and well into her daughter’s future. It is unacknowledged triangular complications of this kind that trigger spirit possession. Genji alludes lightheartedly to the uncanny mystery of their bond. The metaphor used for their reciprocal seductiveness is the fox: ‘‘Which of us is the mischievous fox spirit?’’ As the fox in Japanese folklore induces sexual passion by taking either male or female shape, the image is appropriate and occurs in other possession scenes. Approaching the height of his passion, Genji is again reminded of T o no Chuj o’s unassertive lady. Although he intuitively recognizes a strong resemblance between his friend’s lost love and Yugao, his behavior indicates that he still resists identifying the two. It is at this point that the first crisis in their love affair occurs. During their harvest-moon love-making at Yugao’s residence, Genji fascinated at first, but soon exasperated, by the epitome of lower-class life, the ‘‘plebeian voices in the shabby houses down the street,’’ which he finds ‘‘genuinely earsplitting.’’ Such a difference in the lovers’ sensibilities would ordinarily have been unthinkable in Heian court life, but here dark romantic passion overpowers conventional etiquette. Genji manages to resolve the crisis. Inspired by a pious old man, he makes a modest vow to Yugao and takes her, against her wishes, to a desolate, isolated villa. This forced move triggers their second crisis, and it is lethal for her. Yugao may seem unreasonably ‘‘frightened, and bewildered,’’ but the fears that she experiences as she approaches the climax of the relationship concern a power no less than nemesis. Of lower rank than her former and her present lovers, she must consider herself fortunate to be favored by such high-ranking courtiers. At the same time, she has learned to be distrustful of uneven matches. Yugao, whose self-confidence the earlier affair has already impaired, suffers from anxiety about a similarly abrupt end to passionate love. The move to Genji’s desolate villa is an ambiguous statement that both threatens and elates Yugao. On the one hand, Genji’s earlier plan to establish her at Nij o, his main residence, was rather quickly abandoned in order to avoid all risk of public scandal. In this sense, Yugao interprets the isolation of their affair as her lover’s refusal to acknowledge her and as an omen
8 0 4
E p i c s
f o r
of inevitable rejection. On the other hand, ‘‘Memories of past wrongs quite left her’’ when she considers how much she must mean to a disguised lover willing to risk his own peace of mind at a neglected residence where ‘‘devils’’ might come forth. The lovers oscillate between psychological stress and the joys of passion, but the trauma of her first love intensifies Yugao’s conflicts to a degree not experienced by Genji. At the deserted villa, in the dead of night, Yugao becomes possessed. It is important to note that the phenomenon is described from Genji’s perspective. Because of his successful repression of all thoughts concerning Yugao’s affair with T o no Chuj o, he interprets the possession as an expression of his imagined triangular conflict, i.e., simply as the result of female jealousy. However, for Genji’s other women to have been jealous of the new mistress required their knowledge of her existence. Since the affair had been kept a secret, none of them knew of the new affair and each of them had reason to attribute Genji’s neglect to attentions paid to one of the others rather than to the unknown Yugao. Yet critics have unanimously adopted Genji’s preliminary interpretation of jealousy. In fact, in their exclusive focus on Lady Rokuj o, they have been more definite than he. And they have ignored the function of the possession and its meaning for the afflicted female protagonist. Time and setting help induce Yugao’s extreme mental and physical agitation: ‘‘The girl was trembling violently. She was bathed in sweat and as if in a trance, quite bereft of her senses.’’ Genji too is entering an altered state of consciousness—albeit on a quotidian scale—that of sleep. While sleeping, he has a nightmare of ‘‘an exceedingly beautiful woman’’ who berates him for neglecting her in favor of Yugao. Genji awakens just as this specter of one of his neglected ladies is turning to snatch his beloved away from his bedside. He has been jolted from sleep by Yugao’s violently restless possession trance. His first thought is for himself: he does not at once conclude that Yugao is possessed: ‘‘He awoke, feeling as if he were in the power of some malign being.’’ This moment has gone virtually unnoticed by scholars because Genji reaches for his sword, symbolic of male power, and quickly dispels his fears for himself. Nonetheless it is important to see that the drama of Yugao’s possession is so powerful that Genji feels compelled to share her altered state and continues to do so, in a form of ‘‘possession once removed,’’ even after she has died.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
While Genji’s waking, dozing and sleeping during that fateful night are minutely described in reference to Yugao’s crisis, the heroine’s perspective is dramatized in far less detail. It is through Genji’s feverishly involved perspective, at crucial times bordering on the hallucinatory, that Yugao’s rapid psychological and physical decline are first assessed. Genji’s frame of mind is, therefore, at least as pertinent to our understanding of Yugao’s tragedy as her own history of anxieties. In fact, the violent de´nouement of the love affair forces the hero into the role of interpreter. Due to the suddenness of Yugao’s death and the absence of an exorcist who might have lent the seal of authenticity to the mysterious, Genji must psychologically master his lover’s possession and death without the aid of esoteric magic rituals. It is only when Genji’s ‘‘rationalizations’’ include his role in the drama of spirit possession that he gradually learns to come to terms with Yugao’s death. With a certain amount of selfpity, Genji acknowledges his share of guilt: ‘‘He was being punished for a guilty love, his fault and no one else’s . . . he would gain immortality as the model of the complete fool.’’ Torn between the conflicting emotions of grief for the lost lover and a terror akin to that of a murderer who must dispose of a dead body, Genji’s breakdown seems inevitable. His suffering does not end when his confidant Koremitsu takes care of practical matters. Indeed, he further implicates himself by lying to the suspicious T o no Chuj o about the cause of his absence from court and his present inaccessibility. Not surprisingly, emotional distress is accompanied by psychosomatic symptoms, such as headaches, lack of appetite and fever. Again, only his confidant can help him by suggesting practical ways of doing penance, instead of passively ‘‘torturing’’ himself. Although Genji risks discovery of his involvement in Yugao’s fate, he feels compelled to pay his last respects to his departed lady. At a mountain temple he overcomes some of his own grief by commiserating with her lady-in-waiting. Yet, exhausted from guilt and shame, and perhaps from a momentary sense of relief at having completed this tragic affair, he falls from his horse, like a fool. It is as if this accident were the worst fate liable to afflict a courtier who has been romantically involved with a woman of lower rank.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Back at Nij o he must endure the aftereffects of stress in a twenty-day crisis. His readjustment is slow and painful: ‘‘For a time he felt out of things, as if he had come back to a strange new world. . . . He spent a great deal of time gazing into space, and sometimes he would weep aloud.’’ Since ‘‘gazing into space’’ was a common expression of Heian women’s ‘‘immobile existence,’’ Genji’s form of suffering gives him the appearance of a woman possessed. In short, Genji now reenacts a milder version of Yugao’s trauma which the court, despite their ignorance of Yugao’s tragedy, diagnose as akin to possession: ‘‘He must be in the clutches of some malign spirit, thought the women.’’ From Genji’s standpoint, Yugao’s tragedy can be traced back to his offenses against several women, thus evoking the possessing spirit of jealousy, the stock explanation for female hysteria. That this spirit might attack him as well as any preferred lover is vaguely sensed by the female public’s assessment of Genji’s psychological state. Yet males in Heian culture generally fancied themselves not only aloof from but even immune from the untidy, specifically female emotion of jealousy. Hence Genji remains fixed on the ‘‘exceedingly beautiful woman’’ of his nightmare as the victimizer of Yugao. Although the possessing spirit is never named, a significant detail (foot) noted by one reader, most critics have identified the ‘‘exceedingly beautiful woman’’ as Rokuj o. But the image of the beauty is a collective image, an allegory of Genji’s betrayed ladies. To single out Rokuj o ‘‘whose sense of rivalry’’ becomes a serious threat only in the second possession case, or to speculate about others such as Aoi, is equally beside the point. The emphasis of the author is not on solving the riddle of the spirit’s identity but on analyzing the male response to the complex phenomena. The critics have neglected the role which T o no Chuj o plays in Yugao’s possession and in Genji’s guilty reaction to it. While the affair with Rokuj o is over as far as Genji’s is concerned, Yugao’s affair with T o no Chuj o lies in the immediate past and is, moreover, the very affair confided to Genji in the ‘‘Rainy-Night Discussion.’’ As accomplices in love, Genji and Yugao have both, each in his or her own way, betrayed T o no Chuj o. It can plausibly be argued that this betrayal contributed to Yugao’s possession and death and to Genji’s profound misery. The wrong done to T o no Chuj o is, after Yugao’s death,
V o l u m e
2
8 0 5
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
followed by Genji’s continuing offenses. Not only does the hero dishonestly cover up the affair, but he also blocks T o no Chuj o’s paternal rights until Chuj o’s daughter by Yugao is nearly grown. Genji is, in fact, claiming to be doing penance by caring for Yugao’s child, but his charitable intentions appear rather selfish in the light of his friend’s frustrated natural privileges. No wonder, then, that Genji develops a painful conscience. After the 49th-day services for Yugao, Genji is in a bad way: ‘‘His heart raced each time he saw T o no Chuj o.’’ He concludes that the secret affair with Yugao was actually an ‘‘unfortunate contest of wills.’’ Once again, Genji is haunted by the nightmarish dream ‘‘of the woman who had appeared that fatal night.’’ This dream had originally functioned to repress Genji’s guilt toward T o no Chuj o, and it continues to do so. The problem, however, is that Genji’s initial interpretation of the nightmare and the possession, and his subsequent guilt about his betrayal of T o no Chuj o, ignore the one person who suffers firsthand from the casual behavior of both men: Yugao. Genji’s other women and his best friend are all quite unaware of Yugao’s affair with Genji. In short, only Yugao, the most vulnerable of all the people involved, had been in a position to know all the relevant facts. If anyone had a motive for the oblique aggressive strategy of spirit possession, it was she, the otherwise helpless woman who had been victimized once and was fearful of a second victimization by a second lover. Unfortunately for Yugao, her feverish attempt at spirit possession fails because Genji is simply unable to realize that she, a woman made vulnerable by her lower rank, is the person most likely to use the only psychological weapon available to her in her unequal position vis-a`-vis Genji, T o no Chuj o, and their high ranking aristocratic wives and concubines. Ironically, then, after a moment of fear that he himself might be possessed, he interprets her possession and death neither as an obliquely hostile act nor as an appeal for sympathy and reassurance; he can do no better than to assume egoistically that Yugao’s trauma is the result of female rivalry over him. His halting efforts to fathom T o no Chuj o’s and his own complicity in Yugao’s fate cease. His perceptions are too gender-bound to see that the complex relations between men and women in polygynous Heian society are reflected in the superimposed triangular constellations of his affair with Yugao. Consequently, his guilt remains diffuse. In later
8 0 6
E p i c s
f o r
years, it intensifies. When his wife Aoi and his favorite concubine Murasaki become possessed, Genji’s sympathy for his women grows, but his intellectual response remains clouded by the mores of the times. Finally, spirit possession cannot change the social structure, and malefemale relations remain as they were. Yugao, the female heroine, is doomed to lose in her nonverbal oblique aggressive strategy; in her case, spirit possession is a self-destructive protest. Yet at the end of the Yugao chapter, the author of the Genji, herself a lady at the Heian court, verbalizes the heroine’s grievance against the hero by making a direct appeal to the reader. Monogatari conventions, which required the hero of a romance to be an idealized prince, are flouted. In short, Murasaki Shikibu refuses to make concessions to public taste: ‘‘I had hoped, out of deference to him [Genji], to conceal these difficult matters; but I have been accused of romancing, of pretending that because he was the son of an emperor he had no faults. Now, perhaps, I shall be accused of having revealed too much.’’ Yugao’s case of spirit possession is an oblique criticism of male behavior toward women in polygynous society. Unlike subsequent possessed heroines, who are more eloquent, this unassertive lady has, quite literally, no voice to express her fears. Her spirit possession neither castigates the men who toyed with her nor does it calm her agitated mind. She may nonetheless have scored a victory. The shock of her spirit possession left Genji vaguely, uncomprehendingly, uneasy. In the attempt to penetrate the mystery of his dream and her possession, he is compelled to rehearse—again and yet again—the drama of her death. Source: Doris G. Bargen, ‘‘Yugao: A Case of Spirit Pos session in The Tale of Genji,’’ in Mosaic, Vol. 19, No. 3, Summer 1986, pp. 15 24.
Mary Dejong Obuchowski In this excerpt, Obuchowski explores the influence of Japanese religious eclecticism on The Tale of Genji. In the lengthy and complex Japanese novel, The Tale of Genji, Buddhist priests attend court ceremonies, women disappointed in love become nuns, jealous spirits possess the bodies of Genji’s wives and mistresses, and folk superstitions work their way into the most dramatic of adventures. These varied and apparently conflicting
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
BELIEF THAT CROSSES RELIGIOUS BOUNDARIES, AS IN THE RECURRENT EMPHASIS THAT A MAN’S ERRORS AFFECT HIS CHILDREN, IS BUDDHIST IN THE CONTEXT OF THE TALE OF GENJI BUT UNIVERSAL IN ITS IMPLICATIONS.’’
religious elements pose some questions about the dominant religious attitudes in the story. Are the various practices exclusive, and are they ever at odds with each other? How do knowledge of religious rites and understanding of the associated beliefs illuminate both the plots in the novel and the themes that dominate it? Rather than maintaining distinct identities, these religious beliefs and their related customs tend to come together in Japan.
In order to approach these questions, one may look at religious practices in Japan to illustrate the eclectic nature of the general attitudes toward Buddhist, Shinto, folk, and even Christian beliefs. A historical context shows them most clearly. The folk religions, indigenous to Japan, came first, before history. The mythological beginnings of Japan, imbedded in folk tales, were transmitted, preserved, and undoubtedly transmuted by storytellers until they were permanently committed to writing in the Kojiki and Nihongi in the eighth century as the official history of Japan. Shinto priests kept the manuscripts for many centuries more, and the myths solidified into part of the Shinto orthodoxy. Folk legends outside these documents still hover around shrines and landmarks, especially in rural areas, and recently anthologists have compiled amazing numbers of such stories and variations of them. Shinto became the national religion and remains in its ‘‘pure’’ form at the state shrines at Ise and elsewhere. After 1945, however, the government declared state and religion separate. It denied the belief in the emperor as divine in heritage and act, though many adults today still consider Hirohito to be ordained by the gods. The role of religion nationally remains controversial.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Buddhism arrived in Japan in the eighth or ninth century through China and Korea. At first a threat, it merged into the established religion by a creed known as Ryobu, or two-way Shinto. The practices mingled, and Buddhism became increasingly Japanese as new sects such as Zen groups and followers of Nichiren emerged. Christianity first came via Portuguese Jesuits in the fifteenth century. Toccata Hidetada declared it illegal in the seventeenth, and his son, Tokugawa Iemitsu, who also closed Japan to outsiders, had Christians pursued and persecuted. They went underground, and preserved their icons in disguise; artifacts purportedly Buddhist but containing secret Christian symbols appear from time to time. Missionaries arrived again in the nineteenth century when Japan reopened itself to foreigners. Rather than maintaining distinct identities, these religious beliefs and their related customs tend to come together in Japan. Of course, they exist officially in relatively pure forms, but many supposedly Shinto Shrines bear decorations in Buddhist style. A wedding may have both Christian and Buddhist ceremonies, and when a baby is born, his parents might take him to a Shinto shrine for a ritual visit. Legally, funerals must proceed according to Buddhist conventions. Even young Japanese consciously or unconsciously maintain respect for their ancestors as well as for family honor. Most homes keep small altars which display pictures of deceased parents, often with incense burners beside the portraits. A missionary at a theological seminary told me about a Christian student who, after his ordination, went directly to a cemetery to ‘‘tell’’ his ancestors. In the eleventh century, when Murasaki Shikibu was writing The Tale of Genji, Christianity had not yet reached Japan, but Ryobu Shinto had already assimilated much of what was Buddhist in ritual and architecture as well as belief, and folk superstitions were only more present than they are today in the intensity of their reality to the Japanese. Therefore, when one examines religion in the novel, he must consider its eclectic nature. In the novel, most of the religious ceremonies at the court appear to be Buddhist. The installations, coming of age rites, purifications, and prayers for success or prevention of trouble seem to follow these conventions. Exorcisms, though Shinto in origin, are performed by Buddhist priests. On the other hand, a religious conflict occurs when Lady Rokujo’s daughter
V o l u m e
2
8 0 7
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
becomes Vestal Virgin at Ise. Rokujo accompanies her to that royal Shinto shrine. When she returns, however, Rokujo feels a definite struggle, even a sense of guilt at having violated the Buddhist faith by observing the Shinto rites, and decides to become a Buddhist nun. . . . Lady Rokujo is also a primary figure in one of the most complicated tangles of religion and superstition and the occult that occur in the story. With her, Genji has his first adult affair of consequence. As the liaison progresses, she becomes irritable, demanding, and jealous, the last with some reason. While Genji is trying to disentangle himself from this ‘‘older’’ woman (she is in her middle twenties, he in his teens), he meets a mysterious girl. She is called Yugao, after a flower translated as ‘‘evening face,’’ because of her lovely, fragile appearance, their nocturnal meetings, her shadowy background, and the terrifying nighttime circumstances which bring about her death. As this affair proceeds in great secrecy, neither party revealing name or history, a spirit suddenly possesses Yugao and kills her. Since the whole situation is so clandestine (the body is disposed of quickly and silently), and Genji is prostrated by grief for weeks afterward, no one investigates the cause of Yugao’s death. Twice on the night of the disaster, however, Genji has seen at their bedside a dreamlike figure of an angry woman who is undoubtedly responsible. Some years later, Genji’s proud and estranged wife, Aoi, develops the symptoms of a similar possession after she gives birth to Genji’s only legitimate son. Because the circumstances of her illness are more public, unlike the secrecy with Yugao, Aoi is subjected to prayers and incantations to remove the spirit which is debilitating her, although no one is absolutely certain that she is really possessed. She dies, and Rokujo seems to be the only person jealous enough of Genji to be responsible. Rukujo acknowledges that on occasion her body and spirit do feel detached from each other, and though she emphatically intends Aoi no harm, she may not be able to control the hatred she cherishes toward Genji’s wife. She admits to herself that she has retained a deep sense of injury against Aoi since that lady’s servants rendered Rokujo an unintentional insult during Aoi’s pregnancy. In Japanese folk literature, spirits of the jealous, both living and dead, may enter the object of that hatred and kill that person: this belongs to the most ancient of recorded beliefs. Still later in the
8 0 8
E p i c s
f o r
novel, Genji’s beloved consort Murasaki falls prey to an identical malady (though she is not pregnant), and Genji again calls in quantities of priests to force the spirit out. At length, a medium induces the spirit to identify itself as Rokujo, who has died several years before, and it answers that it had caused the deaths of both Yugao and Aoi. It tries unsuccessfully to persuade Genji to call off the priests. Murasaki partially recovers for a while but later dies anyway, and Genji follows soon after. It is interesting in this context to note that the beliefs regarding possession are folk beliefs, the priests are Buddhist, and the acts of exorcism are Shinto: nowhere is there any indication that those beliefs and practices should be exclusive, nor, in spite of the failure of the rites, that any is more powerful than the others. Both folklore and Buddhism subscribe to the theory that a spirit of a person longing for a loved one at the time of his death will not be able to rest. Hence, Rokujo’s spirit remains active after she dies. Similarly, in Book Five, Hachi no Miya, a half-brother of Genji, is urged to stop mourning his wife in order that he, a priest himself, might be at peace after his own death. He dies, still longing, mourned by his two daughters. The story proceeds in a different direction, enhanced by more folk superstitions. One of the girls, Agemaki, is courted by Genji’s supposed son, Kaoru. She resists all of his advances and offers, and she tries to turn his affections toward her younger sister, Kozeri. Genji’s grandson, Niou, however, begins an affair with Kozeri first, and carries her off as his mistress. Worn out by resisting Kaoru and worrying about the future of her sister, Agemaki wastes away and dies. Heartbroken by the loss of both girls, Kaoru locates a half-sister of theirs, Ukifune, becomes intimate with her, and prepares to set her up near him. Niou, single-minded and voraciously competitive in regard to women, again moves faster and visits her secretly. When Ukifune finds that Kaoru has learned about her infidelity, she attempts suicide by jumping into a rushing river, and her household gives her up as dead. A group of travellers find her and nearly run away because they fear that she is a fox-spirit. According to folklore, foxes are notorious shape-changers. They may assume the form of beautiful maidens and seduce men, or they may perpetrate other kinds of mischief. Apparently a good deal of trouble had occurred in the locality where Ukifune appeared, for an old man reported,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
‘‘Oh yes, it’s a fox that has done that. . . . They’re always doing odd things just here. It’s their favorite tree. Only last autumn one of them carried off a child or two and brought it to this very spot. And when I came running up, do you suppose that fox took any notice of me? Not at all.’’ ‘‘What a dreadful thing!’’ said one of the priests. ‘‘The child, I suppose, was dead?’’ ‘‘No, it wasn’t,’’ said the old man rather testily, ‘‘it was alive. Fox isn’t a fellow to do any real harm. He just likes to give people a bit of a fright sometimes; that is all.’’
Nevertheless, the travellers decide Ukifune is really human and nurse her, though she lies half-conscious for months, not revealing her identity. Her rescuers feel, of course, that she must be possessed, and request a priest to exorcise her. The spirit he contacts makes a significant admission: ‘‘I, too, in my day was a master of magic such as yours. But I died with something on my mind. Not much a trivial resentment; but it was enough to hold me back, to keep me drifting hither and thither, back and forth between this world and the next. I walked into a house. It was full of beautiful women. One of them [Agemaki?] I destroyed. Then I bided my time, and presently this girl here gave me the chance I sought. Day after day, night after night, she lay moaning and weeping, and calling for death to come. At last, one evening when it was very dark, I saw her get up and leave the house. I followed her, and when she was alone, I did my work.’’
Later, the priest states an additional theory of his own: that because she was found in a clump of trees, Ukifune may have been a tengu, or treespirit. Tengu are also shape-changers and causers of mischief, and even as recently as 1860, official documents contained warnings against them. Ukifune, still pursued by Kaoru and yet another suitor, retreats from these complications by becoming a nun. The story, then, incorporates a number of folk myths and creatures as well as possession and exorcism. Many of the superstitions and folk beliefs have bases in common sense, as a matter of fact. Possession explained many illnesses that medical science has more clearly defined in recent years. Custom dictated, however, that a person weakened by sorrow or guilt was more vulnerable to wandering spirits than a happy and stable one might be, as in any illness. The possessing spirit was generally one of an unhappy, grieving, or jealous individual, as is the case with Rokujo and with the spirit that worked upon Agemaki and Ukifune; hence the concern that a person be done with worldly attachments before he dies.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Themes of the damage caused by jealousy, shame, and guilt run through the novel like threads of different colors but of similar texture. Genji and his descendants alike compromise their happiness and that of their offspring by repeating mistakes engendered by passion or willfulness. The cluster of stories surrounding Rokujo establishes one dominant theme: that hatred kills, directly or indirectly. The jealousy in her destroys the three most important women in Genji’s life, and his death is surely linked with that of Murasaki. It works inversely in the case of Rokujo’s final illness; her hostility may well have provoked it. Genji has tried desperately to placate her, even to arranging the marriage of her daughter to the heir apparent. She finally seems to accept his attempts to make amends and his apologies at her deathbed, but her spirit still runs its destructive course afterward. In fact, it becomes increasingly clear through the novel that one is fundamentally responsible for his feelings and desires as well as for his acts, and that religious belief has firm grounding in common sense. In Buddhist as well as Christian thought, the sins of the father are visited on the sons, and the corruption may affect or express the condition of his country. For example, Genji has an affair with his beautiful stepmother, Fujitsubo, who has a baby, Ryozen. The child is apparently Genji’s step-brother but really his son. The boy becomes Emperor while still a small child and comes painfully to find that he was born out of divine succession. The priest tells him, ‘‘ . . . the Powers Above are manifesting their displeasure; for, as you have been taught, it frequently happens that the sins of one generation are visited upon the next.’’ He knows that by continuing as Emperor he is violating religious and ancestral traditions. According to Waley’s note, ‘‘In sacrificing at the Imperial tomb (as if in honor of his father), etc., he was committing an outrage upon the dead.’’ Moreover, this time is one of political and astrological unpleasantness. Public dismay coupled with irregularities in astronomical and weather conditions seem to portend displeasure on the part of the Sun God, from whom the Emperor of Japan is supposed to descend. Now that Ryozen is of sufficient age to understand the problem of his birth and its possible consequences, he worries about whether or not to resign. Genji feels acutely his own guilt in the matter, but attempts to persuade his son to continue as Emperor, because if the reason for his resignation
V o l u m e
2
8 0 9
T h e
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
became known, it would appall the Japanese people, who had never known the line of succession to be broken before. The political effects might be drastic. Nevertheless, after some years Ryozen quietly resigns with the excuse of poor health. Thus, the religious belief in divine succession is intertwined with issues of practical responsibility and the consequences of guilty knowledge. Further links between the effects of sexual misconduct, the physical ravages of guilt or shame, and the kind of understanding that leads to forgiveness come up in a parallel situation. In his later years, Genji takes on an unwelcome marriage of convenience with a niece, Nyosan, in whom he (surprisingly, for Genji) has little interest. He neglects her outrageously. A nephew of his, Kashiwagi, falls in love with Nyosan and seduces her, and she bears his son, Kaoru (mentioned earlier in connection with Agemaki and her sisters). Kashiwagi, a young man who makes heavy demands on himself and who is anxious to be right and perfect in whatever he does, breaks down completely, overwhelmed by grief and guilt at having betrayed his friend and idol, Genji. When Genji finds that Nyosan is pregnant, knows that the child is not his, and suspects Kashiwagi, he is angry only at first. Remembering that he behaved in an almost identical fashion toward his father and that his child by Fujitsubo had been a constant source of discomfort and guilt, he regains his compassion. Consequently, Genji acts kindly toward his nephew, but Kashiwagi feels terrible remorse and imagines that Genji must be justly angered at both himself and Nyosan, and declines rapidly in health. Moreover, he feels that death would remove his ‘‘treachery’’ from Genji’s memory, and in his last days confesses to Genji’s legitimate son, Yugiri, ‘‘for if I died with it on my conscience I should be held back from Salvation in the life to come.’’ His self-hatred finally destroys him. As Fujitsubo had done before her, Nyosan becomes a nun: her shame, too, drives her out of the world. Genji is a character of sufficient magnitude and intelligence to sustain successful affairs with a score or more women; to seduce his father’s wife and to father an emperor out of succession; to survive exile (provoked because of still another affair with another emperor’s prospective consort) and return to political prominence; and to develop enough self-knowledge and conscience to forgive the nephew who philanders with his wife. He is a gifted musician, dancer, calligrapher, poet,
8 1 0
E p i c s
f o r
and diplomat, among many other accomplishments. With every woman he seduces or even desires, he maintains a gentle consideration for the remainder of her life; he even employs or grants places in his household to several former favorites (who get along amazingly well), and he never forgets one or deliberately treats any unkindly. Genji’s descendants inherit a number of his physical assets but lack, however, his selfconsciousness and moral strength. As the story about Agemaki and her sisters indicates, Genji’s grandson, Niou, and supposed son (really his great nephew by two routes), Kaoru, expend themselves on affairs with women without putting similar energy into other accomplishments. Nothing particularly distinguishes either young man except charm and good looks. Niou stands out only in his appetite for new affairs, from which he quickly tires: he may have more than Genji, but he does not exhibit the concern that Genji has lavished on his ladies, even the old and unattractive ones. He vies with his more serious cousin, Kaoru, trying to reach first any woman Kaoru might have been courting. (Genji and his cousin, To no Chujo, Kaoru’s real grandfather, had carried on a lighthearted rivalry as youths: Yugao, for example, attracted them both.) Kaoru, indeed, inherits some of the moral sensitivity that appears in both Genji and Kashiwagi, his real father, but he finds himself unable to act upon it and wastes his time in ceaseless worry and indecision. After his successive failures with Agemaki, Kozeri, and Ukifune, he, too, wants to leave the world and take up the religious life, but he never manages to decide to do so. In religious as well as practical terms, a person not only bears the responsibility of his own acts and inclinations, he also passes on those predilections and their consequences. For example, Genji’s affair with his father’s consort grants him understanding when his own wife is seduced. Genji’s grandson, Niou, inherits his ability to carry on numerous affairs, and they both have liaisons with women who are really possessed or supposed to be. Though Genji passes on his charm and beauty to his descendants, he cannot prevent them from repeating his errors; though he can understand Kashiwagi, he remains unable to extricate him from the consequences of his affair; and though Genji’s relationship with Yugao is one of the most profound in his life, that of Niou (and Kaoru as well) with the lady Ukifune dwindles off into nothingness.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
T h e
Thus, the religious elements of court ritual, exorcism and folk superstition, and themes of jealousy, guilt, and responsibility turn out to be so closely intertwined as to be inseparable. Possession and other folk beliefs work together with the practical realities of jealousy and hatred and the destruction they work on both the object and the source of those emotions, as in the stories about Rokujo. They point up the physical as well as the spiritual consequences of anger and depression. Adherence to Shinto and Buddhist ritual becomes intimately connected with politics in the case of the Emperor Royzen’s tenure. Belief that crosses religious boundaries, as in the recurrent emphasis that a man’s errors affect his children, is Buddhist in the context of The Tale of Genji but universal in its implications. Source: Mary Dejong Obuchowski, ‘‘Religious Threads and Themes in The Tale of Genji,’’ in CLA Journal, Vol. 20, No. 2, December 1976, pp. 185 94.
SOURCES Keene, Donald, The Pleasures of Japanese Literature, Columbia University Press, 1993. , Seeds in the Heart: Japanese Literature from Ear liest Times to the Late Sixteenth Century, Henry Holt, 1999. McCormick, Melissa, ‘‘Genji Goes West: The 1510 Genji Album and the Visualization of Court and Capital,’’ in Art Bulletin, Vol. 85, No. 1, 2003, p. 54.
T a l e
o f
G e n j i
Shikibu, Murasaki, The Tale of Genji, translated by Edward G. Seidensticker, Everyman’s Library, 1992.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Heldt, Gustav, The Pursuit of Harmony: Poetry and Power in Early Heian Japan, Cornell East Asia Program, 2009. This book identifies the links between the poetry and politics of the era and explores a wide range of historical topics such as social differences, rituals, literature, and culture. Kato, Shuichi, A History of Japanese Literature: The First Thousand Years, Kodansha International, 2003. This history follows the development of Japa nese literature from the seventh to mid six teenth century, emphasizing the historical and social context and the relationship of Western and Chinese works to those of Japan. Morris, Ivan, The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan, Knopf, 1994. This book is an update of the highly acclaimed 1964 overview of the Heian period, including glossaries of characters and historical figures. Shirane, Haruo, ed., Envisioning ‘‘The Tale of Genji’’: Media, Gender, and Cultural Production, Columbia Uni versity Press, 2008. This collection of essays covers the historical reputation of the novel and includes visual transfigurations of the text and a history of the court in Heian times.
Puett, William J., ‘‘The Tale of Genji’’: A Reader’s Guide, Tuttle, 2009. Review of The Tale of Genji, in Economist, Vol. 353, No. 8151, December 25, 1999, p. 106. Rimer, Thomas J., A Reader’s Guide to Japanese Liter ature: From the Eighth Century to the Present, Kodansha International, 1988. Seidensticker, Edward G., ‘‘Introduction to the Vintage Edition,’’ in The Tale of Genji, translated and abridged by Edward G. Seidensticker, Everyman’s Library, 1990. Selden, Lili Iriye, ‘‘A Tale of False Fortunes,’’ in Asian Folklore Studies, Vol. 61, No. 1, 2002, p. 182.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS Tale of Genji Murasaki Shikibu Heian period AND literature Murasaki Shikibu AND Japanese literature Tale of Genji AND Themes Heian period AND Women
V o l u m e
2
8 1 1
War and Peace LEO TOLSTOY 1866
War and Peace is a historical novel that chronicles the tumultuous events in Russia during the Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815). Focusing on an aristocratic way of life that had already started to fade at the time that Leo Tolstoy wrote the book in the 1860s, the novel covers fifteen years in the lives of characters from all segments of society. The story captures a generation on the brink of change, with some defending with their lives the existing class structure while others realize that the old way of life is disappearing. Part history lesson, part grand romance, part battlefield revisionism, and part philosophy lecture, War and Peace has captivated generations of readers with its gripping narrative and its insight into the human condition. Among an array of editions, the 2008 Vintage Classics version offers a fresh translation, which has been praised for its readability and for revealing more of the spirit and richness of the Russian novel.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Leo Tolstoy was born to an upper-class Russian family on September 9, 1828, at the family’s estate in Tula Province, Russia. His father was Count Nikolay Tolstoy, a nobleman and prestigious landowner. His mother died when Tolstoy was two years old. Tragically, his father died just seven years later, leaving the boy to be raised in the home of his aunts. He went to the University
8 1 2
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
though, he found himself at a spiritual crisis, brought about by the deaths of several of his children and other relatives. He questioned the meaning of life and was not sure about whether he could or should go on. He drifted away from Russian Orthodoxy, in which he had been raised, and focused on a more rational worldview that eliminated the need for church intervention between individuals and God. This religious reorientation left him at odds with many members of his family, especially his wife. Colored by his evolving philosophical outlook, his later works of fiction were less ornamental and more direct; they include the novellas The Death of Ivan Ilych, Master and Man, and Memoirs of a Madman. Tolstoy also produced many philosophical works and religious tracts. His 1888 essay What Is Art? continued in modern times to be considered an important treatise on art and morality. Tolstoy died on November 20, 1910, of pneumonia.
Leo Tolstoy (The Library of Congress) PLOT SUMMARY of Kazan when he was sixteen, studying Oriental languages and then law, but he left in 1847 without completing his degree. In 1851, Tolstoy went to the Caucasus to live with his brother and began writing his first novel Childhood. Published in 1852, this work was followed by Boyhood (1854) and Youth (1856). During this time Tolstoy served in the army at Sevastopol, fighting in the Crimean War (1853– 1856). He drew on this experience as a soldier when he wrote War and Peace. After the war, Tolstoy returned to his family estate. In 1859, he started a school on his estate for peasant children. In 1861, after the emancipation of the serfs, Tolstoy served as arbiter of the peace, a temporary local judiciary role. The following year, after the deaths of two of his brothers, he married Sophia Behrs, the daughter of a Moscow physician, and began an educational magazine, Yasnaya Polyana, which Tolstoy edited for a little more than a year. After that, a second phase of Tolstoy’s literary career began: the phase during which he produced his two greatest masterpieces, War and Peace and Anna Karenina. He retired to his estate with his wife, wrote, hunted, farmed, and socialized with his country neighbors. At the end of the 1860s,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Book I War and Peace is a massive, sprawling novel that chronicles events in Russia during the Napoleonic Wars when the French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821) conquered much of Europe during the first few years of the nineteenth century. Bonaparte unsuccessfully tried to expand his dominion into Russia, only to be turned back in 1812. The novel opens in July 1805, with Russia allied with England, Austria, and Sweden to stave off Bonaparte’s expansion. A member of a dissolute, upper-class crowd, Pierre Bezukhov is a troublemaker who criticizes governmental policies. At night, he frequents card parties with a fast, drunken crowd, including Anatole Kuragin and Fedya Dolokhov, whom Tolstoy describes as ‘‘an officer and a desperado.’’ Another member of the group, Prince Andrew, is a patriot who is determined to defend his country and aristocratic way of life. The novel soon introduces the Rostov family as they prepare a celebration for their youngest daughter Natasha. Pierre is the illegitimate son of a well-known, wealthy aristocrat, whose life changes when his father dies and recognizes him as his son. Pierre becomes the heir to his father’s large fortune. Prince Andrew leaves to fight in the war against the French, leaving his pregnant wife with his father and sister
V o l u m e
2
8 1 3
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
MEDIA ADAPTATIONS
Sergei Prokofiev wrote an opera based on War and Peace, which was first produced in Leningrad at the Malay Theater on June 12, 1946. A production by the Kirov Opera was filmed in 1991 and re-released on DVD in 2003. The 1956 film War and Peace starred Audrey Hepburn, Henry Fonda, Herbert Lom, Vittorio Gassman, and Anita Ekberg. This threehour-plus film was released on DVD by Paramount Studios in 2002. The quintessential film adaptation of War and Peace is the 1968 Russian mega-version, directed by Sergei Bondarchuk. This six-hourplus film was made available on DVD with subtitles from Kultur Studios in 2002 and again in 2007. A 1972 BBC production of War and Peace, starring Anthony Hopkins and Alan Dobie, was released on DVD in 2007.
In 1994, the BBC produced a six-part miniseries adaptation of War and Peace, with Colin Baker, Faith Brook, Alan Dobie, and Anthony Hopkins, which was later made available from BBC Video.
A downloadable audio book of War and Peace was made available from Blackstone Audio in 2004.
Mary. Natasha’s brother, Nicholas, gets into trouble in the army for threatening a superior officer whom he has caught cheating; later, in battle, Nicholas runs away from the enemy and realizes that he is the coward and cheat. Suddenly popular, Pierre marries Helene Kuragin. Her brother, Anatole, proposes to Mary, but her father will not allow her marriage. Prince Andrew is wounded in battle and left for dead at the end of Book I.
Book II Nicholas Rostov is in love with his cousin Sonya, and she loves him; unfortunately, the family needs
8 1 4
E p i c s
f o r
him to marry somebody with money because their wealth is dwindling. Pierre, reacting to rumors about an affair between his wife and Dolokhov, challenges Dolokhov to a duel. After he wounds Dolokhov, Pierre runs away, questioning his own morals, and in an inn he meets an old acquaintance who introduces him to the Freemasons, a secret society which does good deeds. Pierre becomes an enthusiastic member, separating from Helene and arranging to give away his belongings to help others. Prince Andrew returns from the war on the same day that his wife dies giving birth to their son. Nicholas encourages Sonya to accept Dolokhov’s marriage proposal, but she refuses. Soon after his father puts him on a budget of two thousand rubles, Nicholas gambles with Dolokhov and loses forty-three thousand rubles, and the family has to sell more property to pay the debt. While Pierre is busy freeing his serfs from their commitment to him, in accordance with his new Masonic beliefs, Prince Andrew is setting up new economic policies that will allow them to be self-sustaining after they earn their freedom. In 1808, a truce is called in the Napoleonic War. Prince Andrew becomes disheartened with the difficulties of dealing with the army bureaucracy, and Pierre becomes disenchanted with being a Mason. In 1809, when Natasha is sixteen, Pierre falls in love with her. So does Andrew, and he proposes to the young woman. However, Andrew’s father will not give his consent and tells him to wait a year before marrying. Andrew returns to the army. Meanwhile, Nicholas’s mother convinces him that he cannot marry Sonya; he must marry someone rich. Impatiently waiting for Andrew to return, Natasha lets Anatole court her, secretly giving in to his charm. He makes plans to run away with her, but fails to tell her that he is already married in secret to a girl in Poland. The elopement is broken off when he comes to fetch her and is met by a huge doorman; like a coward, he runs away. Word of this gets back to Andrew, and he breaks the engagement. Natasha tries to poison herself but is unsuccessful. Pierre visits her and confesses his love.
Book III The war begins again in 1812 when the French army moves into Russia. The novel narrates Napoleon’s impressions of the campaign, and then switches to Tsar Alexander, going back and forth between them. During the fighting, Nicholas comes to realize that his earlier cowardice was
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
just a normal reaction to war, and he forgives himself. Recovering from her suicide attempt, Natasha starts to attend morning Mass and gains peace and serenity. Her younger brother, Petya, joins the army, but cannot find a way to tell his family. As the French army advances toward their estate in the country, Mary’s father has a stroke. After he dies, Mary rides into the town nearby to prepare to evacuate her household servants. When she sees the peasants starving, she offers them all of the grain stored on the family estate, but they become suspicious and think it is some sort of trick to get them to leave their land. They are on the verge of rioting against her when Nicholas rides up, saves her, and falls in love with her. People flee Moscow to avoid the oncoming French army. Pierre travels out to Borondino, which is the last place where the French can be stopped. Much of Part III is concerned with different views of the Battle of Borondino—from the perspectives of Napoleon, Andrew, Pierre, and Kutuzov. After the Russian defeat, Moscow has to be evacuated. Natasha insists that the wagons taking her family’s belongings need to be emptied in order to bring some injured soldiers too. One of the injured soldiers turns out to be Andrew, who, seeing Natasha for the first time since their engagement was broken off, forgives her. In deserted Moscow, Pierre comes up with a crazed scheme of assassinating Napoleon. Taken into custody by a French captain, he saves the man’s life when Pierre’s servant is going to shoot him, and, after being given the comforts of good food and drink, he forgets his assassination attempt. He races into a burning building to save a peasant’s child, then assaults a French soldier who is molesting a woman, for which he is arrested.
Book IV Pierre’s wife dies while he is a prisoner of the French army. During a long march, Pierre becomes even more at peace with himself. He meets Platon Karataev, a peasant who owns nothing but has a joyful outlook, and decides to be more like him. Mary finds out that her brother, Andrew, is still alive. She travels to where Natasha and her family are caring for him, and the two women take turns nursing him until he dies. Kutuzov, the Russian general, is urged to overtake the fleeing French and kill them, but he knows his army does not have the energy. Petya Rostov admires Dolokhov’s daring when
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
he accompanies Dolokhov on a scouting party into the French camp. The next day, they attack the French: Pierre is freed when the French soldiers flee, but Petya is killed. As the French menace fades, Pierre rejoins the Rostov family, and he and Natasha console each other over their grief: she has lost her brother, Petya, and her lover Andrew; he has lost many friends in the fighting. They fall in love.
First Epilogue Nicholas and Mary marry, as do Pierre and Natasha. They all live at Bald Hills, the estate left to Mary by her father. On December 6, 1820, Pierre arrives home from a trip to Moscow, where he has been meeting with a secret organization. Pierre and Nicholas disagree about a citizen’s responsibility to the state, but everyone is happy living together, especially Andrew’s son Nicholas, who idolizes Pierre.
Second Epilogue Tolstoy discusses his view of history and how the weaknesses of the historian’s methods fail to distinguish between those actions undertaken by free will and those that are caused by circumstance.
CHARACTERS Elizabeth Bolkonskaya Elizabeth is Prince Andrew’s wife. She dies while giving birth to their son, Nicholas.
Mary Bolkonskaya Mary is the sister of Prince Andrew. She is a devoutly religious woman who stays devoted to her father even though her devotion nearly ruins her life. Early in the book, she is engaged to Anatole Kuragin, but her father objects, and she finds that she cannot ignore his objection. While Andrew goes off to war, Mary stays on the family estate, watching after her father and Andrew’s son, Nicholas Bolkonsky. Her father, Prince Nicholas Bolkonsky, becomes more and more verbally abusive in his old age, and Mary becomes more involved with the religious pilgrims who stop at their estate. When Nicholas Rostov stops at Bolkonsky, he protects her from the peasants, and they fall in love. After her father’s death, she is immersed in guilt, feeling that he was not so bad after all and that it was awful of her not to be with him in his last moments. She ends up marrying Nicholas.
V o l u m e
2
8 1 5
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
Prince Andrew Bolkonsky Prince Andrew is a dashing, romantic figure. For much of the book, he and Natasha are in love but are separated by the war. In the beginning, he is married to the pregnant Anna Pavlovna, ‘‘the little princess,’’ and is active in the army. At the Battle of Austerlitz, he is wounded and listed as dead, but he shows up just as his wife dies while giving birth to their son, Nicholas. When he falls in love with Natasha Rostov, he asks her to marry him right away, but his domineering father tells him to wait for a year to see if their love will endure. He is wounded at the Battle of Borodino and again news comes that he is dead, but while Moscow is being evacuated, wounded soldiers are brought to the Rostov house and Andrew is one of them. Natasha stays with him through the evacuation. Before he died, he reaches a new level of spiritual enlightenment.
Napoleon Bonaparte Napoleon is the emperor of France. Napoleon mistakenly thinks that his army’s progress is due to his own skill, not taking into account the role of fate. On the eve of the great Battle of Borodino, for instance, he is more concerned with a painting of his infant son than with devising an effective battle plan for his troops.
Pierre Buzekhov Pierre is the central character of this novel and its moral conscience. When he first appears, he is a loud, obnoxious man only interested in himself and the next party. Pierre is forced to change when his father dies. After some uncertainty over the will, it is determined that the old Count did recognize Pierre as his son. Suddenly rich and titled, Pierre finds himself very popular. He marries Princess Helene Kuragin. After hearing rumors of an affair between Helene and Dolokhov, Pierre challenges him to a duel. After wounding him, Pierre escapes, and while he is traveling across the country he is invited by an old acquaintance to join the Freemasons, a secret society. As a Mason, Pierre releases his servants and spends millions on charitable endeavors, often without knowing that he is being swindled. He is still married to Helene, but they lead different lives, and he finds himself attracted to Natasha Rostov. As the battle is waged against the French outside Moscow, Pierre hangs around curiously asking questions of the officers; after his return to Moscow, he plans to kill Napoleon. He is captured after saving a child from a burning building and is taken as a prisoner when the French march back to Paris.
8 1 6
E p i c s
f o r
After the war, when he is freed, Pierre marries Natasha. They have children, and at the end of the novel he is involved in a secret society that seeks to overthrow the social structure that has kept men as serfs. The society described resembles the one that led the Decembrist uprising that was to take place in Russia five years later.
Vasili Dmitrich Denisov Denisov is the model of a professional military man. Angered at the inept bureaucracy that is not getting provisions to his troops, Denisov rides off to the division headquarters and threatens a commander, which gets his troops their food but makes Denisov subject to court martial. Returning from the division headquarters, Denisov is wounded by a French sharpshooter. When Nicholas Rostov tries to visit him at the hospital, the place is quarantined with typhus with only one doctor for four hundred patients. Eventually, the court martial is averted, but Denisov retires disillusioned from the service. At the end of the book, he is staying with the family of Count Nicholas at their estate.
Fedya Dolokhov Dolokhov comes off as a rogue, a man of small means who manages to impress the elite and get ahead by using his social position. As a gambler, he wins thousands off Nicholas Rostov. As a lover, he fights a duel with Pierre Bezukhov over rumors about Dolokhov and Pierre’s wife. He is wounded in the duel, but that makes him even more of a romantic figure. He proposes to Sonya, but she rejects him. While the Russian forces are chasing the French army out of the country, Dolokhov makes the bold move of riding into the enemy camp in disguise on a scouting mission; young Peter Rostov idolizes him for his courage.
Boris Drubetskoy Drubetskoy’s rise in the military is due to the social machinations of his mother, who is a wealthy society widow and not afraid to ask, or even beg, highly placed officers to give her son a good position in the army.
Platon Karataev Platon is a Russian soldier who gives spiritual comfort to Nicholas.
Anatole Kuragin Anatole Kuragin is a scoundrel. His role is to break up the engagement of Natasha and Prince
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
Andrew. He starts paying attention to Natasha out of a sense of adventure, considering her as another in his string of conquests. When he proposes to her and arranges to elope with her, even his friend and companion Dolokhov finds the scheme ridiculous. Anatole is already married in Poland, and the priest and witnesses that he arranges for the wedding to Natasha are gambling friends willing to go along with a hoax. The wedding plans fail to transpire when, approaching the house, Anatole is asked in by a huge doorman, and he runs away instead. Later, at a field hospital with an injury, Prince Andrew is put on a stretcher next to Anatole, the man who ruined his wedding plans, who is having his leg amputated. Anatole later dies of complication from that operation.
Helene Kuragin Helene Kuragin is Anatole’s sister, and she is every bit as devious as he is. When Pierre inherits his father’s fortune, she marries him. After he fights a duel with Dolokhov over her honor, they lead separate lives. Helene is known in Petersburg’s polite society. She converts to Roman Catholicism, and, under the pretense that to the church her marriage to Pierre is invalid, plans to marry one of her two suitors. When she dies, it is from a botched operation to cure an illness that is not explicitly described, suggesting that it might be an abortion.
Kutuzov Kutuzov is the commander of the Russian army, and the novel follows him through some of his decision-making processes, especially focusing on his wisdom in ignoring the popular decision that he should attack the French army as it retreats.
Nataly Rostov See Natasha Rostov
Natasha Rostov Natasha Rostov grows from a petulant child to a mature woman who knows the sorrows of war. Natasha is pretty and flirtatious, and the young soldiers are smitten with her. When she and Andrew are engaged, she is delighted to feel like an adult, but as time goes by she becomes impatient. Kuragin, convincing her that she is in love with him, arranges to elope with her, even though he is already secretly married. When Andrew learns about it, he breaks up with her. In shame, she tries to poison herself.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
Later, when Moscow is being evacuated, Natasha is the one who convinces her parents to leave some of their fine possessions behind so that they can take some wounded soldiers. When she finds out that Prince Andrew is one of the wounded, she writes to his sister Mary, and together they nurse him until his death. When Pierre is the only person with whom she can talk about Andrew’s death, Natasha marries him.
Nicholas Rostov Presented as an example of a typical nobleman, Rostov lives a wasteful life with little intellectual or spiritual depth. Early on, he joins the army because he needs the money. He loses great sums of money gambling. Passing by the town near the Bolkonsky estate, he finds the peasants accusing Mary of trying to steal their land by making them evacuate. His aristocratic sensibilities are offended; unarmed, he makes the mob rulers quiet down and turn away. At the end of the book, he is a retired gentleman, arguing with his brother-in-law Pierre that he should leave the government alone to handle properly the situation of the serfs.
Peter Rostov The youngest member of the Rostov family, Peter is mostly forgotten in the background, playing childish games, until, at age sixteen, he enlists in the army. He is killed in the same attack that frees Pierre from the retreating French forces.
Sonya Sonya is a pathetic figure, always in love but too meek to do anything about it. She is a cousin of and lives with the Rostov family, and early in the book she and Nicholas Rostov pronounce their love for one another. His family, in bad financial shape, objects and hopes that he will find a woman with a better dowry to offer. Sonya is Natasha’s confidante and stands by her during her various disastrous love affairs.
THEMES Class Conflict Although there is not much open conflict between members of the different classes in this novel, there is an underlying tension between them. Members of the older generation, such as Countess Rostova and Prince Nicholas Bolkonsky, verbally abuse the peasants who are under their command. In a
V o l u m e
2
8 1 7
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY
Find out about the music that would have been played at Russian social gatherings in the 1800s and 1810s. Make a recording or perhaps set the music to a video with scenes from a period movie for your class. An alternate assignment is to write a report on the role of music in nineteenth-century Russia, including identifying and discussion of the most important Russian composers during that time. Compare and contrast the protests in Iran or a similar public demonstrations in another country to the Decembrist uprising in which Pierre is involved at the end of the novel. Make a similarities/differences chart on the board as a class or as an individual project that covers the purpose of the demonstrations, reaction of the government, continued political activity, and reaction/involvement of other nations. The Society of Freemasons, which influences Pierre, is still an active organization. Write a report or create a PowerPoint presentation on the history of the Masons and/or on the status of modern-day Masons. How have their practices and goals changed from the time of
patronizing manner, they openly discuss how lost the peasants would be without their guidance. Despite oppression and poverty, some characters such as Platon Karataev lead simple, happy lives. The closest the novel comes to an open class conflict is when Mary is confronted by peasants at Bogucharovo, near her family’s estate, as she is planning to evacuate before the French arrive. Tolstoy is clear about the fact that they act, not out of resentment for the social privilege Mary has enjoyed at their expense, but out of their fear that they have no leader. They are starving but will not accept the grain that Mary offers them because they fear angering the French. The greatest danger that they pose to her is blocking her horse when she plans to leave. When Nicholas arrives they
8 1 8
E p i c s
f o r
Tolstoy’s novel? An alternate activity is to invite a Mason to come to class to talk about the organization or interview one or more Masons and write a report about what you learn.
During World War II, Russia was an ally of the United States and Great Britain. Yet for the second half of the twentieth century, the United States and Russia were bitter rivals. With a partner, research the relationship between the two countries at the time of the novel and compare it to the relationship between the United States and Russia today. Report your findings to the class.
Military historians attribute the Russian defeat of Napoleon and Hitler to what is called General Winter. Conduct an Internet search using the terms General Winter and Russia. Report on your findings about the role of weather conditions in these invasions. Discuss whether there was much difference in the effects of the winter conditions during the Napoleonic Wars and World War II and if you think weather conditions are an important factor in modern warfare.
automatically fall under his spell and comply with his demands without hesitation, apparently in recognition of his superior breeding and intelligence. He orders the leaders of the insurrection bound, and several men in the crowd offer their belts for that purpose; ‘‘How can one talk to the masters like that?’’ says a drunken peasant to his former leader as he is being led away. ‘‘What were you thinking of, you fool?’’
Duty and Responsibility The greatest motivation for the noble families in this novel is their duty to the serfs in their care. In other words, the upper classes believe that they have the responsibility to care for their serfs, looking after them as one would look after children.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
Vladislav Strzhelchik as Napoleon in the 1968 film version of War and Peace. (The Kobal Collection / The Picture Desk, Inc. Reproduced by permission.)
This assumption stems from the common perception that the serfs were not intelligent enough to survive without their help. To care for the serfs is an important part of the upper-class code of honor; any nobleman or noblewoman who violates this trust is identified and punished by peers. In fact, this code of conduct controls almost every aspect of upper-class life. It dictates how a gentleman acts in any given situation; to deviate from it invites censure from one’s peers. After the drunken revelers at a poker party throw a policeman in the canal, the act is derided as improper for well-bred gentlemen: And to think it is Count Vladomirovich Bezu khov’s son who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so educated and clever. That is all that his foreign education has done for him!
Later in the novel, Bezukhov, undergoes a series of transformations that raise his sense of social responsibility. He joins the Freemasons with the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
idea of working among the elite to help the poor. He visits the army at the Battle of Borondino and tours the field; half-crazed, he decides he should get a gun and shoot Napoleon. In peacetime, he works with a secret organization to rearrange the social order and free the serfs.
Art and Experience Any historical novel such as War and Peace raises questions about the interplay between fiction and reality. The battle scenes in this novel are commended for their realism, but Tolstoy did not actually experience these battles; instead, they are drawn from his exhaustive research of the war against France and his own experiences in the Crimean War. At the end of the novel, Tolstoy dispenses with fiction and analyzes directly the impact of historians on shaping history. Reality is too large and complex for humans to comprehend, Tolstoy contends, and so historians cannot cover all of the diverse aspects of historical events.
V o l u m e
2
8 1 9
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
STYLE Structure Since War and Peace was first published, critics have discussed the loose structure of the novel. Some contend that Tolstoy raced through the composition process, putting down ideas as they came to him; therefore, the novel’s organization seems accidental or unplanned. As evidence of this haphazardness, they point to the final chapters, which suggest that the author was distracted, and he followed his interests rather than attending to what the novel required to be completed. Some critics think the seemingly random structure suits the ideas that Tolstoy was trying to convey about free will, and they credit him with using a structure that permitted him to balance necessity with chance. Still other critics perceive a clear pattern to the overall book: alternating chapters on war with chapters on peace; the symmetry and repetition in the amount of space devoted to the march to Moscow and the march from it; in the balance struck between scenes of blithe social gatherings and the scenes of existential angst felt by alienated or isolated individuals; and the opposing balance of scenes about love and scenes about death. Whether these patterns were matters of choice or accident continue to be debated.
Hero Prince Andrew is a hero in a conventional sense: He overcomes initial fear in battle to ride bravely against the enemy, and he has a beautiful woman waiting for him at home, dreaming of his return. He has qualities, though, that are less than heroic, such as a fear of commitment. He is all too willing to accept his father’s demand that he put off his marriage for a year. During that time, Natasha is drawn to another man, Anatole, who almost ruins her socially. In the end, Andrew remains an idealized hero by dying a soldier’s death after he has been reunited with his beloved. In addition, Pierre is a modern hero. He is not a warrior, but a thinker; the struggle he fights is with his conscience after he is enriched by an unexpected inheritance. He is not a dashing figure, and he bears his love for Natasha silently instead of declaring it. Yet in the end, he is the one wins her hand.
Narrator Toward the end of the story, Tolstoy increasingly addresses the reader directly, dropping the persona
8 2 0
E p i c s
f o r
of the third-person narrator who has told the stories of these characters. Throughout the novel, there are breaks from the action during which theoretical aspects of war are discussed. Sometimes these digressions read like academic material, describing troop movements; at other times, important historical figures are discussed as characters, with descriptions of their specific movements and thoughts. At the end, Tolstoy drops the fictive mode in order to explore philosophical ideas that matter outside the framework of the novel. In these parts and especially in the second epilogue, the narrator speaks as if lecturing his audience about his theories of history. The idea seems to be that the world of the historical novel is no more an construct than the world created by a certain history book that poses as fact (or truth) rather than art and yet is itself also a construct.
HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Napoleonic Wars In 1789, the French Revolution swept through France. In part, this revolt was inspired by the political ideology and success of the American Revolution, which rejected colonial status without representation under English monarchy and established an independent government based on democratic principles. Mostly, though, the French Revolution was a protest against economic oppression caused by the exorbitant self-indulgence of the French court and aristocracy, which was systematically financed by severe taxation of the middle and lower classes, many of whom suffered in extreme poverty. When the peasants realized that the French government was going to use force against protesters, they became violent. The violence escalated during the Reign of Terror as people in positions of power, the royal family, and those employed by the court, such as the Swiss Guard, were tried and executed. King Louis XVI and his family were imprisoned and then executed. During the bloodbath that escalated and became mob violence more than 17,000 people were killed, including many who wanted the purge in the first place. During this time, France’s enemies tried to take advantage of the situation. As a result, France was constantly at war. Out of all of this conflict, conservative elements in the government supported the rise of military commander Napoleon Bonaparte, whose solution to the government’s instability was to take control himself. He was
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
COMPARE & CONTRAST
Early nineteenth century: The Russian population is almost 40 million people.
Today: Russia has a population of nearly 300 million people. Early nineteenth century: Napoleon Bonaparte is the emperor of France. He claims that position after his rise to military power during the French Revolution. Today: France has a constitutional government; it has a president who controls foreign affairs and defense, a prime minister who
appointed first consul by the constitution of 1799, and in 1802, he appointed himself to that position for life. In 1804, a new constitution appointed him emperor, a title that was to pass to his heirs. Napoleon’s influence was seen in almost all aspects of French social life. However, his paramount interest was military expansionism. Since England and France had always been enemies, he aimed to conquer England, but since England was the most powerful country in the world at that time, his plans were foiled. He turned his attention elsewhere. By 1809, Napoleon ruled most of Europe, except for Russia and England. In 1812, he invaded Russia with 500,000 troops, a situation depicted in War and Peace and a move that had devastating results.
Emancipation of the Serfs From the Middle Ages until the mid-nineteenth century, the Russian economy was based on social economic system of modified slavery called serfdom. In this system, poor agricultural laborers were legally bound to work on large estates and farms. Serfs were owned by the people who owned the land they worked. These laborers provided the work needed to maintain the manor, and in exchange they lived on the manor and had a plot of land to till for their own use. Serfs could buy their freedom or work it off, but few were able to do so. (Serfs were always males; however, female peasants were attached to spouses or parents and,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
heads the government and domestic policy, and a parliament made up of a Senate and a National Assembly with elected members.
Early nineteenth century: News of Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo in 1815 is reported four days later by London’s Morning Chronicle, which scoops the competing British newspapers. Today: News events are available within minutes from all corners of the globe, thanks to the Internet, satellite broadcasts, and cell phones with photo and text options.
likewise, the property of the landowners.) Landowners had a responsibility to take care of their serfs, and in hard times they might have to incur losses to make sure that their serfs were adequately fed and sheltered. This hierarchical social system was fraught with tension and inequality; the privilege of the wealthy was determined by and dependent on the slave class they controlled. As dramatized in War and Peace, the Napoleonic Wars forced landlords to flee their land, and these rich individuals faced open rebellion by those serfs who were not loyal to the system that oppressed them. In the United States, the slave system that was in place at the same time was justified by racist beliefs and the large labor force needed for southern plantations. In Russia, serfdom was a medieval hangover that continued despite late eighteenth-century political unrest in Europe and ideas about human rights that were popularized with the Enlightenment. Many Russian aristocrats realized the social injustice of this system, and in the years after the Napoleonic Wars they banded together to form secret societies that led to the Decembrist uprising in 1817. The Decembrist uprising was the first real revolution in modern Russia. In 1817, landowners started forming secret societies, patterned on societies such as the Masonic Order. These societies, such as the Society of Russian Knights and the
V o l u m e
2
8 2 1
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
A lithograph depicting Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow in December 1812. ( Bettmann / Corbis)
Union of Welfare, started as gentlemen’s clubs, but as they grew in number their rhetoric became increasingly revolutionary. When Tsar Alexander I died unexpectedly in December 1825, there was confusion about who was to assume power, and in this temporary confusion, members of the uprising were able to gather three thousand soldiers to their cause. Alexander’s successor, Tsar Nicholas, gathered fifteen thousand soldiers; the result was a massacre in Senate Square. Members of the secret societies were gathered up and jailed. After trials, the leaders were executed and over one hundred received prison sentences. Not surprisingly, Nicholas’s reign was conservative and intolerant of dissent, but even he realized that the days of the old aristocracy were disappearing. He appointed commissions to study the question of serfdom. In 1855, when his son Alexander II took charge, it was clear that the country was headed for social upheaval and that serfdom would not survive. He had a committee work for four years on the right way for Russia to evolve beyond the serf structure with the least change.
8 2 2
E p i c s
f o r
The system that Alexander announced with his Imperial Manifesto Emancipating the Serfs arranged for land to be divided: Landlords were to keep half of their land, and communes, or mirs, were to distribute the other half equally among the serfs. The peasants had forty-nine years to pay back the cost of their land. This proclamation was read at churches throughout Russia in February 1861, two years before Tolstoy began writing War and Peace. These reforms still left the former serfs, now peasants, under the control of a government ruled by an aristocracy. The issues of freedom and of class continued to ferment in Russia and eventually culminated in the Russian Revolution in 1917.
CRITICAL OVERVIEW Much of the earliest critical reaction to War and Peace focused on how well Tolstoy had accurately portrayed historical events in Russia. Although Tolstoy studied historical documents, he did not adhere strictly to common historical
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
interpretations. As Sarah Hudspeth pointed out, Tolstoy admitted in historical essays which are part of the novel that imposing narrative on history inevitably leads to falsehoods, whether it is a fish story, the recounting of battle heroics, or an epic rendering of large historical events. Still, since many early critics had lived through the events described, while many others had grown up hearing about them, it was difficult for certain critics not to comment on how Tolstoy’s version compared to their own. In general, they found the novel to be historically quite accurate. Some critics took exception to the way that Tolstoy presented the military commanders as not necessarily instrumental to the outcome of the war. Randy Boyagoda, in his article ‘‘Finding Faith in War and Peace,’’ explained that Tolstoy reduced the importance of commanders in order to focus upon the individual experience of the effects of war, including a need for morality and faith. Other critics faulted Tolstoy for failing to improve the social consciousness of the time. According to Edward Wasiolek, in his book on Tolstoy, radical critic Dmitry Pisarev thought that the first half of War and Peace, which was all that was published before his death, was ‘‘a nostalgic tribute to the gentry.’’ Wasiolek also commented on the early criticism of N. K. Strakhov, crediting Strakhov for his appreciation of the psychological insights in the novel and of Tolstoy’s skill in compression. Strakhov appreciated the novel, but he could not fully account for its greatness: ‘‘among all the various characters and events, we feel the presence of some kind of firm and unshakable principle on which the world of the novel maintains itself.’’ The ambiguity of that ‘‘firm and unshakable principle’’ was what earned the novel a lukewarm reception when it was translated into English. Matthew Arnold, in his review for Fortnightly Review, noted that Tolstoy wrote about life, but not art. Perhaps the most lasting criticism by an English-speaking author was that of novelist Henry James. In his introduction to the book The Tragic Muse, as in the introductions to most of his works, James considered philosophical matters of art. Considering Tolstoy and Alexandre Dumas, the French author of The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, James wondered, ‘‘What do such large loose baggy monsters, with their queer elements of the accidental and the arbitrary, artistically mean?’’ He went on to assert
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
that ‘‘there is life and life, and as waste is only life sacrificed and thereby prevented from ‘counting,’ I delight in a deep-breathing economy and organic form.’’ After the Communist Revolution in Russia in 1917, Tolstoy’s literary reputation was maintained by people who had known him and a few stalwart fans. Because of his work with the impoverished during the last decades of his life, and the familiarity that the leaders of the revolution had with his works, his reputation was kept intact. For instance, in 1918 Lenin considered Tolstoy to be more significant than any artist Europe had produced, a judgment that carried considerable weight, considering the totalitarian power exerted by the new Communist government. It was not long before Tolstoy studies went beyond personal reminiscences to intellectual scholarship in Russia. At a time when many other important Russian authors were banned because of their views, Tolstoy was embraced as a foresighted nobleman who wrote about the value of common people and the arbitrary nature of class distinctions. In the twentieth century, Tolstoy’s career was divided into two eras: the sweeping romances of the earlier novels, such as War and Peace and Anna Karenina, and the spiritualism of the later novellas. Critics perceived within War and Peace one phase of the author’s life leading into the other: how the prodigious novelist of the 1860s and 1870s evolved into the thoughtful spiritual man he was by the turn of the century. There is no question of Tolstoy’s greatness in the early 2000s. As evidence of this certainty is the number of new books on him. For example, N. K. Wilson published a biography of Tolstoy in 2001, the Cambridge Companion to Tolstoy appeared in 2002, and Tolstoy’s spiritual essays were newly edited in 2006.
CRITICISM David Kelly Kelly holds an MFA in creative writing from University of Iowa and is an adjunct instructor at Oakton Community College and at College of Lake County, both in Illinois. In this essay, Kelly discusses why the people most likely to avoid reading War and Peace are the ones who would probably enjoy and benefit from it most. It would be difficult to question the quality of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Although most critics would not go as far as E. M. Forster did in
V o l u m e
2
8 2 3
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
WHAT DO I READ NEXT?
WORKING WITH SUCH A LONG FORM GIVES TOLSTOY FREEDOM TO FOLLOW THE LIVES OF HIS CHARACTERS AS THEY TAKE ONE DIRECTION AND THEN THE OTHER, AS THEY LIVE OUT THEIR
Readers who enjoy War and Peace may be interested in Moby Dick, Herman Melville’s 1851 opus about a whaling ship captain and the object of his obsession, the great white whale of the title. Melville digresses so often from his narrative to provide essays about whaling that originally the novel was catalogued in libraries as a whaling manual. Russian writer Ivan Turgenev was a friend of Tolstoy. Contemporary critics consider his 1862 novel Fathers and Sons to be his greatest work. Crime and Punishment is considered the masterpiece of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s literary career. It was published in 1866, the same year as the first installment of War and Peace.
Tolstoy’s other great masterpiece is Anna Karenina, his 1877 novel about an aristocratic woman’s illicit affair with a count. Thomas Hardy, an English author who lived at approximately the same time as Tolstoy, wrote The Dynasts between 1903 and 1908. This epic drama, containing with 19 acts and 135 scenes, focuses on England’s role in the Napoleonic Wars. Stories for Young People: Leo Tolstoy is a collection of five stories written in the style of Russian folklore that are not for young children but for older students and adults. A 2005 edition by Sterling Books includes an introduction and biography.
Aspects of the Novel, proclaiming it to be the greatest novel ever written, most would probably swear to its overall excellence. As with any work, though, critics consider different aspects of its relative merits and weaknesses, no matter how revered. Still, with such universal acclaim, no one ever feels the need to ask why War and Peace is not read more often; anyone who has ever looked at it
8 2 4
E p i c s
f o r
INTENTIONS OR FAIL TO DO SO FOR REASONS BEYOND THEIR CONTROL.’’
on a bookshelf, taking up the space of four or five average novels, knows at a glance the secret of its unpopularity: It is huge. Literary critics tend to skip quickly past this issue of the book’s enormous length, although the general public can never get past it. In the literary world, bringing up a book’s length is as tasteless as mentioning its price—both being practical rather than artistic considerations. Unfortunately, the result is an appropriately huge gap between the values of critics and the values of readers, especially students. Many students find the page count intimidating and would be just as happy reading three hundred pages of nonsense as a thousand pages of excellent prose. This is where the jokes about War and Peace come in, reinforcing the idea that it is not only unimportant, but ridiculous. Students end up making their decision about whether or not to read it without ever looking at a page, judging the book by the distance between its covers. To students who do not care for literature, this book seems the most dreaded of all possibilities. Actually, this is the book that students who do not like literature have wanted. It is not too clever or too wound up in an artistic style to be appealing to the general reader. We all feel life’s pace—its mix of chance and fate—and some people find themselves particularly irritated by the way that life is compressed to fit into a book of a few hundred pages. They sorely miss the rich incidental details that are trimmed off on the edges of the writer’s frame. Young readers, who are dissatisfied with books that do not represent life, need a book like this: one that can take bends, back up, or plow straight ahead, according to what happens in the world we know—not according to some literary theory. Ernest J. Simmons’s
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
classic examination of War and Peace quoted an anonymous reader saying it best: ‘‘if life could write it would write just as Tolstoy did.’’ Of course, all writers write about life in their own way, but what makes this case different is that War and Peace is successful at reflecting an actual pace of life without having to dwell upon how poignant it is or oversell its own sensitivity. It is not difficult to understand. The book has something in it to remind readers of all of their own experiences. Working with such a long form gives Tolstoy freedom to follow the lives of his characters as they take one direction and then the other, as they live out their intentions or fail to do so for reasons beyond their control. War and Peace is about freedom, although Tolstoy did not formally declare this intention until nearly twelve hundred pages were finished. By that time, after readers felt the looseness of his style, the emphasis on freedom of the mind comes as no surprise. The feeling of freedom takes time to establish. A novel that is tightly plotted can get to its point in a few sentences, but these are the books that raise the suspicions of those wary readers who hate the artificiality of art. For an author like Tolstoy to follow the rhythms of life, especially the easygoing lives of the leisured class, means taking time. The idea of freedom, which Tolstoy talks about in the Second Epilogue, is evident in the way that this book came to be, having ended up a different work than he first envisioned. It originally spanned fifty years—at the pace War and Peace has, that would come out to nearly five thousand pages. When the idea first came to Tolstoy, the character Pierre Bezukhov was to be a veteran of the Decembrist uprising, returning to Moscow in 1856 after being exiled in Siberia for thirty years for his part in the uprising. That led the story back to 1825, but writing about the uprising raised the broader question: Who were these revolutionaries? They were Russian noblemen who had tried to overthrow the government to gain freedom for the country’s peasants. What gave them the idea to act against their own interests? Searching for the answer to that question took Tolstoy deeper into the past. Eventually, the sections taking place in 1856 and 1825 were dropped from the novel. Instead, the action begins in 1805, when the major characters are young adults and the Russian aristocracy is first being politicized by the threat of Napoleon, and it concludes in 1820, when Pierre
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
is just starting to discuss the ideas that eventually led to the Decembrist uprising. This flexibility led the book in directions that could not have been anticipated when Tolstoy started it—directions that readers do not see coming. Reluctant readers might not buy the idea that the book is a thrill-ride, but it certainly plays out unlike any other novel, which in itself should cut short most objections to reading it. To get the full effect, readers need to take their time unraveling this book, which is not the same thing as saying that it is difficult to understand. The language is not difficult, and the situations are clear enough, but the wealth of details just will not be understood as quickly as busy people want. Of course, there will always be readers who think that any novel that does not happen in their own towns within their own lifetimes is irrelevant to them. They foolishly think that human nature has somehow become different as the times have changed or that it is significantly different from one place to another. There is not much that will change these people’s minds, because they will always find excuses to avoid reading. It is one of the great ironies of literature that many people will not touch War and Peace because they do not fancy themselves interested in history. They feel that history is not real or relevant. These people could have sat down with Leo Tolstoy and, language problems aside, gotten along just fine. He disliked history, too—at least, the way that historians present it. The novel’s long, winding road leads to its Second Epilogue in which Tolstoy addresses the problems with historical interpretation of the past and how he thinks events should be recorded as time passes. Needless to say, those who feel that they cannot understand history have probably not had it presented to them in an effective way. They might have been told about so-called heroic deeds that were obviously acts of desperation, not good character; they may have been taught about heroic figures with less than heroic personal lives; they may have been taught about ordinary people who are more interesting than the individuals who make history. Over-generalization makes historians liars, a fact that bothered Tolstoy as much as it bothers people who feel that reading stories based in the past is not worth the effort. Sometimes people feel that they are not qualified to read War and Peace because they do not know enough about its time and setting. The book certainly contains a lot of historical
V o l u m e
2
8 2 5
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
TOLSTOY’S BIG PHILOSOPHICAL BELIEF WAS HIS DETERMINISTIC VIEW OF THE WORLD WE LIVE IN.’’
detail, but it also explains the significance of the details. If it did not explain its references, the novel would not been so long. All one should do before starting the novel is to take out a map, find France, find Moscow, and know that in 1812 the French army marched across Europe and Russia to Moscow, then quickly turned around and marched back to France. Any further knowledge of the events of the time—why they advanced, why they retreated, who the principle actors were—would be good to know, but it is not necessary. There will always be people who do not want to read—whatever their reasons, and there are millions of them. They feel that reading is not worth their time, and War and Peace takes time to read. But it is much more reader-friendly than books a fraction of its size. It is not much more difficult to figure out what is going on than it is to catch up with the characters on a soap opera, and it is, in the end, a better experience: Soap operas do not consider the questions of reality and freedom that make non-readers shun novels in the first place. Source: David Kelly, Critical Essay on War and Peace, in Epics for Students, 2nd ed., Gale, Cengage Learning, 2011.
Morton White In the following excerpt, White responds to an essay written by Isaiah Berlin and, in doing so, explains Tolstoy’s deterministic view of history. It is more than a half century since Isaiah Berlin published his scintillating and influential interpretation of Tolstoy’s view of history in The Hedgehog and the Fox. Using a dark saying of the Greek poet Archilochus, Berlin argued that the great novelist was a fox who knew many things but vainly aspired in War and Peace to be a hedgehog who knew one big thing. . . . I have concluded upon rereading the great novel that Tolstoy was a fox who wanted to be a fox, an empiricist who arrived at the big truth of metaphysical determinism, but who did not try to make intellectual contact with an inscrutable entity that Berlin says he felt but inevitably failed to identify. I stand in awe
8 2 6
E p i c s
f o r
of Berlin’s knowledge of Tolstoy and disagree with him on this subject with great trepidation, but I believe that his philosophical antipathy to determinism as revealed in his lecture Historical Inevitability may have led him to suppose that his hero paid only lip service to that doctrine and therefore to think that as a philosophical thinker Tolstoy was after very different metaphysical game. Much of this essay will be devoted to showing why I think Tolstoy never tried in War and Peace to acquire knowledge of what Berlin calls a circumambient flow, but much of it aims at describing how Tolstoy’s view of history led him to regard determinism as an acceptable metaphysics. ... Tolstoy’s philosophical views in War and Peace are not those of a novelist who thinks he has a special way of knowing truth that differs from that used by ordinary people or scientists. He does not think he rides on a high literary road to truth that cannot be reached or traveled by those who rely on logic and experience, and this is consonant with what Berlin calls Tolstoy’s dismissal of ‘‘Hegel’s writings as unintelligible gibberish interspersed with platitudes’’ and his sympathy with empiricist theories of knowledge. When Tolstoy defended determinism by appealing to considerations like those that led to the Copernican view of planetary motion, he did not in my view aim at a suprascientific awareness of the big thing that Berlin calls the historical flow. That is why I doubt that Tolstoy vainly sought contact with the circumambient stream described by Berlin, and I defend my doubt after presenting Tolstoy’s critique of ancient and modern historians, his law of history, and the metaphysical determinism to which he was led after formulating that law. I believe that Tolstoy’s big philosophical belief was his deterministic view of the world we live in, and that he did not quixotically strive to know something he could not possibly formulate about a stream or flow in which all sentient beings are submerged and whose pressure only some of us feel. We may see this by tracing Tolstoy’s steps en route to determinism, and by contrasting that doctrine with the truth about the big fluid that Berlin thinks Tolstoy vainly sought. In my view, the Tolstoy of War and Peace was . . . a thinker who came to accept determinism by using the methods of a fox. If anything emerges in the novel as a big philosophical theme, it is determinism and not Tolstoy’s disappointed search for knowledge that neither he nor anyone else could attain. . . . I think
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
Tolstoy had enough philosophical sense to see this and therefore not to embark on a futile effort to know the unknowable. Tolstoy’s excessively long and somewhat indirect path to determinism begins with an onslaught against historians in part 2 of the Epilogue to War and Peace. He first observes there that ancient historians thought that the divinely directed careers of individual rulers represented the lives of their peoples, whereas modern European historians, whom he was most anxious to refute, replaced those monarchs by other heroes. Modern historians, he said, focused on the lives of generals, ministers of state, orators, scientists, reformers, philosophers, and poets in an effort to epitomize the life of a nation, and therefore he challenged them to explain a number of facts. . . . . . . Tolstoy sharply attacks European historians of intellectual activity for making a similar mistake. He says they do not show that philosophical theorizing caused the movement of peoples since they establish no connection between the murders of the French Revolution and the doctrine of the equality of man; they do not show that reading Rousseau’s Social Contract led the French to hack each other to pieces. Tolstoy grants that one might find some sort of link between the activity of thinkers and great historical movements, but he denies that such activity may be singled out as the sole cause of such movements, shrewdly remarking that intellectual historians may be led to believe it is because they find it agreeable to believe that intellectuals like themselves brought about a large historical event like the French Revolution. . . . Tolstoy also denies that the force he seeks is in the hands of any so-called representative person such as Napoleon or Catherine. He denies that they are representative merely because they happened to have left the greatest number of monuments, or because they promoted such goals as freedom, equality, enlightenment, and progress. He remarks that even if Napoleon and Catherine had those goals, historians have not shown that they were the goals of the peoples they represented, and he repeats that the activity of the millions of men who burned houses and butchered each other cannot be attributed to the activity of a dozen persons who did not burn houses and did not kill their fellow creatures. The ferment of the peoples and their rush to the east cannot be explained, he contends, by the activity of Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI and their
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
mistresses, or by the life of Napoleon, of Rousseau, of Diderot, or of Beaumarchais. Tolstoy dismisses this view by saying: ‘‘The history of the Godfreys and the Minnesingers . . . cannot be regarded as an epitome of the life of the people. . . . Even less explanatory of the life of the people is the history of the lives of writers and reformers.’’ Tolstoy insists that we do not learn from reading the life of Luther what made nations cut each other to pieces during the Reformation, or from reading Rousseau why men guillotined each other during the French Revolution. Against all historians who lay to explain large social events by referring to the words of religious, political, or intellectual figures, Tolstoy maintains that we need a miracle to show that those words brought about the movements of millions of men. And after pointing out that the words of historical personages do not produce any such effect because their commands are often not executed and that the opposite of what they command often takes place, Tolstoy launches into a general discussion of commanding that ultimately leads him to his own view of the force or power he is seeking. According to Tolstoy, some historians collect a whole series of innumerable, diverse, and petty events, such as those that led the French armies to enter Russia, into one large event—an invasion— and they then collect a series of commands into a single one by Napoleon. After that, they declare that his armies invaded Russia because he ordered them to invade it, but Tolstoy observes that we do not find anything resembling one command of Napoleon to this effect. Tolstoy also maintains that even if such a command had been given, it could not have been the cause of a large-scale event like an invasion, as he launches his own answer to the question he has been asking. When men unite in combinations, he declares, the majority takes a more direct share while the minority takes a less direct share in the collective action in which they combine. Using an army as an illustration, Tolstoy introduces the figure of a cone to make this point. At its base, the horizontal area of the largest diameter represents the rank and file, the next higher horizontal cross sections of the cone represent higher grades of the army, and the commander in chief is represented by the point at the apex. The soldiers at the base do the stabbing, hacking, burning, and pillaging they are ordered to do, but they never give orders. As we move up the cone, fewer persons perform overt actions but they give more orders, and finally we reach the
V o l u m e
2
8 2 7
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
commander in chief, who may order but who never stabs, hacks, or pillages. And governing this activity, Tolstoy argues, is a law of history, which says that the more persons participate in an action, the less they command and the more numerous they are; and the less they participate in an action, the more they command and the less numerous they are. ... When Tolstoy asks what he calls two fundamental questions—What is historical force or power? and What force or power produces the movements of nations?—he answers the first by saving in accordance with his figure of the cone: ‘‘Power is the relation of a given person to other individuals, in which the more this person expresses opinions, predictions, and justifications of the collective action that is performed, the less is his participation in that action.’’ And he answers the second by saying: ‘‘The movement of nations is caused . . . by the activity of all the people who participate in the events, and who always combine in such a way that those taking the largest direct share in the event take on themselves the least responsibility and vice versa.’’ He claims that the activity of all the people represented on the cone causes wars and revolutions when they combine in a relationship in which they all take part; and he declares that this is a law of history, a law whose contradiction he calls ‘‘unthinkable.’’ Because Tolstoy believed in this conical law of history, he thought he should be a determinist rather than a believer in free will even though he was strongly pulled to the opposite pole. In the concluding sections of the Epilogue and also in ‘‘Some Words about War and Peace,’’ an article that appeared in 1868, Tolstoy explicitly defends determinism, the big philosophical belief of his novel. When he asks, as usual, why so many people were killed in Europe during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, he answers by saying: ‘‘it was such an inevitable necessity that in doing it men fulfilled the elemental zoological law which bees fulfill when they kill one another in autumn, and which causes male animals to destroy one another.’’ Such a belief, he says, is not only evident, ‘‘but is so innate in every man’s consciousness that it would not be worthwhile proving it were there not another sentiment in man which convinces him that he is free at each moment that he commits an action.’’ In the article and in the novel, Tolstoy characterizes this belief in the necessity of the slaughter of millions of people as
8 2 8
E p i c s
f o r
rational whereas he calls the attachment to free will a sentiment or a feeling, and in both places he concludes that the reasoned belief should triumph over man’s introspected feeling that he is free. In War and Peace this entire subject is broached in some detail after Tolstoy announces his conical law of history: ‘‘If history dealt with external phenomena,’’ he says, ‘‘the establishment of this simple and obvious law would suffice and we should have finished our argument.’’ But, he continues, this law relates to the inner consciousness of man, who says ‘‘I am free, and am therefore not subject to the law,’’ whereas a particle of matter cannot tell us that it does or does not feel an attraction or repulsion of the kind described by a physical law. The problem, Tolstoy says, is that when we regard man as a subject of external observation, we find that he is subject to law, but when we regard him from within ourselves, as what we are conscious of, ‘‘we feel’’ ourselves to be free. This feeling or consciousness, Tolstoy adds, is separate from and independent of reason and observation of the world; and when Tolstoy makes what he regards as the best case for the view that introspected feeling is the source of man’s belief in freedom, he writes: ‘‘You say: I am not free. But I have lifted my hand and let it fall. Everyone understands that this illogical reply is an irrefutable demonstration of freedom.’’ Compare this with what the Savoyard priest says in E´mile (which Tolstoy regarded as the greatest book on education ever written). Rousseau’s priest says: ‘‘You ask me again, how do I know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, I know it because I feel them. I want to move my arm and I move it without any other immediate cause of the movement but my own will. In vain would any one try to argue me out of this feeling, it is stronger than any proofs; you might as well try to convince me that I do not exist.’’ Here Tolstoy, like Rousseau’s priest, seems to identify freedom of will with what Hume and other philosophers call conditional freedom or hypothetical liberty, for when Tolstoy says that the will is free, he illustrates this point by saying merely that if he chooses to lower his arm (when it is not bound to his torso), he will lower it. . . . Should we not deny that I can move my arm? While disregarding this point, Tolstoy, like Rousseau’s priest, equates ‘‘I am free to lower my arm’’ merely with the conditional statement, ‘‘If I choose to lower my arm, I will lower it,’’ but in his article on War and Peace, Tolstoy seems to grant
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
implicitly that his freedom or ability to lower his arm depends on his being free or being able to choose to lower it. He says that when he is alone he can lower his arm but, he adds, ‘‘near me stands a child and I raise my hand above him and want to lower it with the same force onto the child. I cannot do this.’’ However, when Tolstoy says this, he seems to imply that the presence of the child beneath his arm causes him to choose not to lower it since the presence of the child does not directly cause him not to lower it. In between his seeing the child and his not lowering his arm, there is his choice or decision not to lower his arm, a decision he makes because he believes that a child will be hit. But since Tolstoy did not explicitly acknowledge that choice, or the fact that it was brought about by his belief, he said he knew merely by introspection that he could not lower his arm, thereby failing to acknowledge that he relied on causal beliefs that rested on beliefs that could not be established by introspection alone. Moreover, something similar holds for the case where Tolstoy can lower his arm. In that case he says that because he believes a child will not be hit by his arm, he chooses to lower it, and that because he chooses to lower it, he lowers it. Neither of these causal beliefs can be established by feeling alone, despite Tolstoy’s apparent supposition that they can; they rest on general psychological truths supported by examination of many examples of Tolstoy’s behavior. However, because Tolstoy thought that his belief in free will was based purely on feeling whereas Kepler’s astronomy was based on reason and observation, he concluded that he should accept determinism in history by aping the method used by Kepler. Tolstoy wrote in a crucial passage: ‘‘As with astronomy the difficulty of recognizing the motion of the earth lay in abandoning the immediate sensation of the earth’s fixity and of the motion of the planets, so in history the difficulty of recognizing the subjection of personality to the laws of space, time, and cause, lies in renouncing the direct feeling of the independence of one’s own personality.’’ He also wrote: ‘‘It is true that we do not feel the movement of the earth, but by admitting its immobility we arrive at [Ptolemaic] absurdity, while by admitting its motion (which we do not feel) we arrive at [Keplerian] laws.’’ That is why he says in the final sentence War and Peace, ‘‘It was necessary to renounce the consciousness of an unreal immobility in space and to recognize a motion we did not feel; in the present case [of history] it is similarly necessary to renounce a
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
freedom that does not exist, and to recognize a dependence of which we are not conscious.’’ On the basis of this argument, Tolstoy defended his conical law of history against antideterminists by declaring that we could not rely on a feeling of freedom to refute determinism; and once Tolstoy concluded that he had blocked this argument of the antideterminists, he thought he could accept determinism. Although Berlin agrees that in the Epilogue to War and Peace Tolstoy accepts a deterministic view of the world treated by scientists and ordinary persons, Berlin also says that if we take into account what Tolstoy does in the whole of War and Peace, we can see that he sought to know something about a very different big thing. Though he grants that Tolstoy explicitly held that all truth is in deterministic science, Berlin insists that this is not the view that, in fact, ‘‘underlies War and Peace or Anna Karenina or any other work which belongs to this period of Tolstoy’s life.’’ . . . Berlin, . . . draws a line between what he calls the surface on which scientists concentrate and what he calls the depths. On one side of the line, he says, is the world of perceptible, describable, analyzable data that science can deal with, and on the other is the big fluid about which he thinks Tolstoy unsuccessfully sought to know truths. . . . According to Berlin it contains and determines the structure in which we and all that we experience must be conceived as being set; it enters into our habits of thought, action, feeling, emotion, hope, and wishing, as well as our ways of talking, believing, reacting, and being. We are, Berlin says, sentient creatures who ‘‘in part’’ live in a world of things we can discover, classify, and act upon by rational scientific methods but, Berlin continues, we are ‘‘in much larger part’’ immersed and submerged in a medium that we cannot scientifically observe as if from the outside, cannot measure and seek to manipulate, and cannot be wholly aware of. Insofar as we are immersed in this flow, Berlin claims, we cannot observe it with scientific detachment as an object but only feel it vaguely. One might suppose, . . . Tolstoy’s portrait of the good people and the heroes of War and Peace show that he and they felt the presence of a medium that they could not describe? Berlin replies that Tolstoy’s portrait of them shows this because it depicts the Russian commander Kutuzov as wise whereas it makes the time-serving Drubetskoy and Bilibin merely clever, and because it endows Pierre and Prince Andrey with
V o l u m e
2
8 2 9
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
a vision of the big flow, or at least a glimpse of it. . . . What the reader must recognize, Berlin says, is that the good people and the heroes of the novel—Pierre, Natasha, Nikolai Rostov, and Princess Mary—attain an understanding of the need to submit ‘‘to the permanent relationships of things, and the universal texture of human life, wherein alone truth and justice are to be found by a kind of ‘natural’—somewhat Aristotelian—knowledge.’’ How, Berlin asks, do they attain this knowledge? Not by an inquiry of the kind that leads to Keplerian astronomy and determinism, ‘‘but by an awareness, not necessarily explicit or conscious, of certain characteristics of human life and experience.’’ Berlin tells us that these characters and Tolstoy their creator see the way the world goes: . . . how men live and to what ends; what they do and suffer; and how and why they act and should act. It seems to me, however, that this knowledge may be acquired by experience, and that the possession of it by Tolstoy and his heroes does not show that they felt the presence of Berlin’s big, inscrutable fluid. I see no connection between their knowing what they know about life and their feeling what Berlin tells us they feel about his grand medium—a mixed bag that contains our most permanent categories; our standards of truth and falsehood, of reality and appearance, of the good and bad, of the central and the peripheral, of the subjective and the objective, of the beautiful and the ugly, of movement and rest, of past, present, and future, and of the one and the many. Nor do I see any connection between the commonsensical knowledge of Tolstoy’s heroes and Tolstoy’s supposedly unattainable goal of knowing truths about Berlin’s big flow or medium. Since Berlin thinks that Tolstoy could not express what he felt about this medium, naturally Berlin cannot present direct evidence to show that Tolstoy accepted its existence or that he claimed in so many words to have felt its presence. Berlin admits that ‘‘sometimes Tolstoy does speak as if science could in principle, if not in practice, penetrate and conquer everything; and if it did, then we should know the causes of all there is, and know that we are not free, but wholly determined—which is all that the wisest can ever know.’’ However, Berlin dismisses this as mere ‘‘lip service’’ to science and insists that it was Tolstoy’s glimpse into the ‘‘depths’’ that led him to portray Kutuzov as a wiser—not a more scientifically knowledgeable— theorist of war than Pfuel or Paulucci, military
8 3 0
E p i c s
f o r
advisers to the Russian emperor. Yet what I cannot see is that Kutuzov’s views of the way the world goes show that he, like Andrey and Pierre, was in touch with Berlin’s big medium for, like Tolstoy himself, his heroes never say anything about it, nor do they claim that they attain ‘‘intermittent glimpses of it.’’ According to Berlin, Tolstoy himself knows that the big medium is ‘‘there,’’ and not ‘‘here’’—‘‘not in the regions susceptible to observation, discrimination, constructive imagination, not in the power of microscopic perception and analysis of which Tolstoy is so much the greatest master of our time.’’ And that is why Berlin concludes that do what he might, Tolstoy has no vision of the whole; ‘‘he is not . . . a hedgehog; and what he sees is not the one, but always with an ever-growing minuteness, in all its teeming individuality, with an obsessive, inescapable, incorruptible, all penetrating lucidity which maddens him, the many.’’ Nonetheless, Berlin says that Tolstoy dimly felt himself in touch with the medium in which human experiences, categories, frameworks, and much more are submerged, and therefore wanted to be a hedgehog and to create characters who also felt its presence and were aware, consciously or not, of ‘‘the permanent relationship of things.’’ Yet I find nothing in War and Peace that shows this, and I think Tolstoy would have dismissed believed in the existence of Berlin’s big fluid because he couldn’t say what that fluid was. It is hard to believe that the empirically minded, penetrating critic of modern historians . . . and the persistent analyst of free will and determinism would have asserted the existence of something he could not so much as describe. . . . Moreover, I doubt that such awareness led Tolstoy to portray characters who knew the way the world goes; what goes with what; what can never be brought together; what can be and what cannot; how men live and to what ends; what they do and suffer; and how and why they act, and should act and not otherwise. In my view, the wisdom of Tolstoy and of his favorite characters in War and Peace was not illuminated or explained by saying that he dimly felt what Berlin calls deep currents in the big medium. I do not think that Tolstoy—who was, according to Berlin, ‘‘drawn irresistibly beneath the surface to investigate the darker depths below’’—saw or felt anything down there that would account for his or his heroes’ wisdom or knowledge of the way the world goes or of any of the other things on Berlin’s list. Earlier I said that Tolstoy did not think that the novelist had a special method of knowing truth, and this comports well with Berlin’s view that Tolstoy held that ‘‘all our knowledge is necessarily
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
empirical.’’ But it does not comport well with Berlin’s view that Tolstoy believed that such knowledge is worthless and unintelligible ‘‘save in so far as it derives from and points to’’ a ‘‘very palpable kind of superior understanding [of the big flow] which alone is worth pursuing.’’ I do not think War and Peace as a whole shows that Tolstoy sought such understanding, and when Berlin asserts that ‘‘Tolstoy comes near to saying what it is,’’ I find little or nothing in the novel to support this assertion. On the other hand, Tolstoy certainly accepted the big truth of determinism and, as Berlin remarks, held that the more we know about a given action, the more inevitable or determined it seems to us to be. Therefore, Berlin continues, to think that man is free becomes harder and harder, for this involves thinking that a person would have done something other than what he did if he had chosen otherwise. Indeed, Berlin points out that determinism requires not only that our overt actions seem to be less and less free but also that ‘‘our thoughts, the terms in which they occur, the symbols themselves, are what they are, are themselves determined by the actual structure of our world.’’ Here, however, the big thing is no longer the circumambient fluid in which we are all submerged and about which we cannot know truths, but ‘‘the ‘inexorable’ unifying pattern of the world,’’ the world about which we all know truths. Berlin tells us that Tolstoy was seized with ‘‘a passionate desire for a monistic vision’’ of this ordinary world, and it seems to me that his desire was satisfied to some extent when he concluded that all events in it are determined despite the fact that he felt that they are not. This was a big belief he thought the historian should accept in imitation of the astronomer who abandons ‘‘the immediate sensation of the earth’s fixity’’; this was the belief accepted by the Tolstoy who renounced ‘‘the direct feeling of the independence of one’s own personality’’ that was incompatible with his conical law of history; and this was a belief to which I think Tolstoy paid more than lip service. He explicitly accepts determinism in War and Peace, and that doctrine is about a world that is very different from Berlin’s stream or flow that contains categories, concepts, frameworks, standards of truth and falsehood, of reality and appearance, of the good and the bad, of the subjective and the objective, of the beautiful and the ugly, of movement and rest, of past, present, and future, and of the one and the many—a flow that cannot be viewed as an object, according to Berlin, and yet a flow about which Berlin, not Tolstoy, manages to say a great deal.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
It seems to me, moreover, that Tolstoy never indicated in War and Peace that he had a special way of arriving at a big truth about this big flow, or even of feeling its presence. If he saw more than other novelists did, that was not because he had a special method of establishing a contact with Berlin’s big stream but because he saw important things about human beings that were confirmed by experience. And since he thought his belief in determinism was removed only in degree from his belief in less general truths about the world we all live in, the Tolstoy who accepted determinism was not radically different from the Tolstoy whose novel teemed with so many profound insights into life and character. That is why he did not cease to be a fox when he moved his attention from the little to the big, or from the many to the one; and that is why I am inclined to doubt that he was a fox vainly intent upon apprehending Berlin’s big flow in the manner of a hedgehog. He was a fox who expanded his field of vision in order to arrive at the big belief represented by his conical law of history and at the even bigger belief of determinism. He may therefore be compared to an observant Tycho Brahe who managed to become a theoretical Kepler, not to a fox who sought to grow bristles. It is hard to believe that the Tolstoy who thought that Hegelian speculation was gibberish and who dismissed Schelling’s idealism sought to learn something about a flow or medium that he neither mentions nor characterizes. And although I find it very difficult to disagree with Berlin, I find it more difficult to believe that the Tolstoy of War and Peace held that all our knowledge is empirical and also vainly sought to attain nonscientific insight into Berlin’s big flow. He was a fox who studied many little things to arrive at his big belief in determinism, not a fox who wished he were a different animal. . . . I venture to say, however, that Berlin’s view of the big fluid that Tolstoy supposedly felt and his consequent playing down of Tolstoy’s determinism may reflect Berlin’s opposition to determinism, something he expressed in his lecture Historical Inevitability, published in 1954, a year after The Hedgehog and the Fox appeared. I speculate that when faced with his hero Tolstoy’s explicit defense of a philosophy he rejected, Berlin was led to underestimate the centrality of that defense and to see Tolstoy as one who felt or believed in the existence of a big medium that Tolstoy never expressed in so many words. . . . Source: Morton White, ‘‘Tolstoy: The Empirical Fox,’’ in Raritan, Vol. 22, No. 4, Spring 2003, pp. 110 26.
V o l u m e
2
8 3 1
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
A. V. Knowles In the following essay, Knowles describes the experience of reading War and Peace. When Tolstoi first thought of writing War and Peace he gave it the title Three Eras, referring to the years 1856 (when the hero returns home from exile after the death of Tsar Nicholas I and the Crimean War), 1825 (the year of the Decembrist Revolt and the reason for the hero’s exile and ‘the period of [his] delusions and misfortunes’), and 1812 (the Battle of Borodino and Russia’s defeat of Napoleon). His moral integrity then forced him to consider Russia’s ‘failures and shame’ and start earlier, in 1807 (Treaty of Tilsit) and then 1805 (Battle of Austerlitz). In effect he ended up with only the last three and when the first 38 chapters were published in the Russian Messenger in 1865, the editors entitled them 1805. In 1866, it was to be called All’s Well That Ends Well and only in the following year was its final title decided. The novel was completed in 1869. Tolstoi, however, refused to call it a novel, or even a historical chronicle. It was ‘what the author wished and was able to express in the form in which it is expressed’ and he justified this unsatisfactory definition by stating that all Russian literature which rose above the mediocre did not fit into any of the conventional categories of novel, story, or poem, citing Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin (Evgenii Onegin), Lermontov’s A Hero of Our Times (Geroi nashego vremeni), Gogol’s Dead Souls (Mertvye dushi) and others, including his own Childhood. Leaving to one side whether or not it is a novel, more particularly a historical novel, it is clearly antihistorical in intent. The vast, panoramic canvas includes ‘real’ historical characters—Tsar Aleksandr I, Napoleon, the Austrian emperor, generals, diplomats, politicians, and so on—but it also presents a philosophy of history. ‘History would be a fine thing,’ he wrote, ‘if only it were true.’ He studied relevant documents, books, archives, and personal recollections of the period, and distrusted them all. History to Tolstoi was the sum total of what individuals thought and did; the ‘great men’ of history had little or no influence over events, the changes and evolutions noted by historians were illusions, and there was no such thing as progress or historical advancement. At the Battle of Borodino Pierre Bezukhov sees only a succession of incomprehensible acts: Napoleon deludes himself in thinking his orders are carried out or that there is such a thing as a grand strategy; Kutuzov, as much idealized as Napoleon is satirized, knows all
8 3 2
E p i c s
f o r
this, sleeps through councils of war, and lets things take their inevitable course; and the outcome depends basically on the morale of the troops. And here the book’s title is significant in a way other than epitomizing one of the most obvious features of Tolstoi’s style—the use of contrast. It is as if he wants to point up the fact that all those great events and important people that have always been thought to be the stuff of history are quite irrelevant. What is crucial are the lives of the thousands of ordinary people, their personal joys and disappointments, their births and their deaths, their loves and hates, their feelings, thoughts, short-comings, and ambitions. That is reality and everything else is a harmful illusion. Nevertheless it is in his characterization, not in his philosophizing or beating the reader over the head with his own idiosyncratic though stimulating ideas, that Tolstoi’s greatness as a writer really lies. If they had the choice most readers might choose to forget the ‘war’ and cherish and admire the ‘peace.’ The reader lives with Tolstoi’s characters as with those of no other writer. All the 900 or so are sharply individualized and stand out clearly when they appear (even the dogs are differentiated). Albeit with a vast historical backcloth, War and Peace is based on the stories of three families: the Bolkonskiis—the old aristocratic Prince, a crusty ‘Voltairean,’ his daughter Maria, and son Andrei; the Moscow gentry Rostovs—the gentle, conservative Count, the motherly countess, and their children Nikolai and the utterly charming and delightful Natasha; and the wealthy Bezukhovs, especially the Tolstoian ‘seeker of the truth’ Pierre. There are also their numerous relations and friends. The lives of these families are shown in all their variety, at dinner parties and in conversation at home, at grand balls at the Imperial Court, at entertainments with mummers at Christmas, on country estates, at hunting parties, in intrigues, social climbing, drunken escapades of army officers, their births, marriages, and deaths, love affairs, financial matters and the endless complications, joys, and heartbreaks of everyday life. The world Tolstoi creates is bright, healthy, and happy. There are none of the grotesques of Gogol or the abnormalities of Dostoevski. His characters are generally likeable and even the horrors of war are treated with such an epic sweep and magisterial overview that death, injury, and even the futility of it all are lessened. The mood of War and Peace is largely serene. Tolstoi, although historically fatalistic, is optimistic about the human
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
TOLSTOY SUCCEEDED IN ACHIEVING WHAT HE TERMED . . . ‘‘THE AIM OF AN ARTIST’’: ‘‘TO MAKE PEOPLE LOVE LIFE IN ALL ITS COUNTLESS INEXHAUSTIBLE MANIFESTATIONS.’’ AN ASTONISHING MULTITUDE OF VIVIDLY INDIVIDUAL IZED CHARACTERS PROMOTES THIS END.’’
condition. His love of life shines through even its darkest pages and his praise of the value of family life is unstinting and unsurpassed. His acceptance of life in all its vicissitudes is contagious, yet it is accompanied by a search for meanings and his searing psychological analysis exposes everything false. His prejudices, however, are not disguised. He prefers the country to the town, Russia to the West, the submissive personality to the ambitious or pretentious, and ultimately peace to war. On finishing the book the reader, as an early admirer of Tolstoi put it, should have experienced not a work of fiction, but life itself. Source: A. V. Knowles, ‘‘War and Peace: Overview,’’ in Reference Guide to World Literature, edited by Lesley Henderson, St. James Press, 1995.
William W. Rowe In the following essay, Rowe discusses the major characters in War and Peace and themes connected with them. Tolstoy’s longest and perhaps greatest novel underwent several false starts and numerous revisions. Behind it lay two intentions. For many years Tolstoy had wished to write an accurate account of early nineteenth-century European history, and so decided to write about a man returning in 1856 from exile in Siberia after taking part in the abortive Decembrist uprising of 1825. As he explained in an unpublished foreword to the beginning of the novel, he soon found it necessary to trace his hero back to 1805, and the first thirty-eight chapters appeared in early 1865, in the Russian Messenger, under the title 1805. A year later, Tolstoy wrote Fet that he hoped to finish the work by 1867 and publish it under the title All’s Well That Ends Well. He made so many changes, though, that the last chapters appeared only in 1869.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
War and Peace is first of all a celebration of life. In this work more than any other, Tolstoy succeeded in achieving what he termed (in a famous unposted letter of July–August, 1865) ‘‘the aim of an artist’’: ‘‘to make people love life in all its countless inexhaustible manifestations.’’ An astonishing multitude of vividly individualized characters promotes this end; even the dogs, as the critic Nikolay Strakhov noted, are individualized. The novel also provides a patriotic view of Russian history beginning in 1805 and extending beyond Napoleon’s invasion of 1812, seen through a very special lens of Tolstoyan determinism. In some respects, it is a heroic epic in the tradition of Homer’s Iliad. Though the historical sections of War and Peace are successfully interrelated with the fictional ones, the work sprawls so idiosyncratically as to cause Henry James to label it a ‘‘loose baggy monster.’’ Tolstoy anticipated objections to the form of his work. ‘‘What is War and Peace?’’ he proleptically addressed its first readers. ‘‘It is not a novel, still less an epic poem, still less an historical chronicle. War and Peace is that which the author wished to and could express in that form in which it found expression. Tolstoy repeatedly insisted that the best works of Russian literature had their own unique and necessary form. And there was considerable truth in this: Pushkin’s masterpiece Eugene Onegin is subtitled ‘‘a novel in verse’’; Gogol’s great novel Dead Souls is subtitled ‘‘an epic poem’’; Lermontov’s novel A Hero of Our Time consists of five separate but interconnected stories; and so on. Who is the hero of War and Peace? Here too there can be no easy answer. A good case can be made for the Russian people, or for Russia itself. More narrowly, the hero of Tolstoy’s novel has been considered a combination of Prince Andrew and Pierre, as two sides of the author himself, or even tripartite person (including Nicholas). Yet we should not forget Natasha, a central figure intimately related to the other main characters. One critic has even seen War and Peace as ‘‘a gigantic novel of education, centering not on one protagonist but on five’’ (the above four plus Princess Mary). Another critic, after naming these five, contends that none of them is ‘‘the hero’’ of the novel, which is deliberately ‘‘decentralized’’ in order to create an illusion of the essence of life. However, if one looks for ‘‘a hero and a heroine,’’ Pierre and Natasha stand out for a variety of reasons.
V o l u m e
2
8 3 3
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
PIERRE AND NATASHA
The impishly enchanting Natasha was generally modeled upon Tolstoy’s younger sister-inlaw, and in many respects the kindly, bear-like Pierre recalls Tolstoy himself. It is they who celebrate life the most fully in War and Peace and most strikingly display a virtue that may be termed spontaneous altruism. Moreover, Pierre and Natasha are linked by numerous similar traits, attitudes, and circumstances long before they come together at the end of the novel. To begin with, each is disastrously involved with a Kuragin. Pierre’s marriage to Helene almost results in his death (in a duel with Dolokhov); Natasha’s infatuation with Anatole almost results in her death (by suicide). Both amorous involvements are officially ‘‘engineered’’ by Kuragins, Prince Vasily and Helene. Also, Dolokhov causes evil behind the scenes of both relationships, as Helene’s presumed lover and as Anatole’s resourceful accomplice. Both Pierre and Natasha initially wonder if their infatuations are somehow wrong, after which they rather strangely yield to the Kuragins: Pierre tells himself that his marriage to Helene is predestined; Natasha rationalizes that Helene’s good husband Pierre probably approves of her involvement with Anatole. Moreover, both amorous involvements are appropriately punctuated by exclamations in the French language. When Pierre submits to Helene, he rather awkwardly blurts out ‘‘Je vous aime!’’ When Anatole singles out Natasha, he exclaims ‘‘Mais charmante!’’ As R. F. Christian has observed, the use of French ‘‘of or by a Russian’’ in War and Peace ‘‘very often has a suggestion of sophistication, artificiality, even mendacity.’’ This falsity is appropriately reflected by the backgrounds of each episode. Helene’s parents wait impatiently for Pierre to propose, spying on him and finally pressuring him into it. Natasha and Anatole are attracted to each other against a backdrop of opera which travesties his intended abduction of her and which is deliberately rendered artificial by Tolstoy’s technique of ‘‘making strange.’’ This Gallicized falsity contrasts with the normally natural Russianness of both Natasha and Pierre. Natasha’s natural Russianness is repeatedly emphasized when she does a Russian dance; Pierre’s, when he decides that he is predestined to kill Napoleon. Pierre and Natasha succumb in similar ways: both are startled by the ‘‘terrible nearness’’ of the Kuragins, and both feel that protective ‘‘barriers’’ have been removed. After Pierre’s duel, when Helene viciously insults him, he is likened to ‘‘a
8 3 4
E p i c s
f o r
hare, surrounded by dogs, who lays back its ears and continues to crouch down before its enemies.’’ When Natasha, after failing to elope with Anatole, learns that he was already married, she is likened to ‘‘a wounded, cornered animal who looks at the approaching dogs and hunters.’’ The ‘‘natural, Russian’’ Natasha and Pierre thus give in to the ‘‘false, French’’ Kuragins, but after much suffering they both emerge somehow stronger and ready to rebuild their lives. This process recapitulates in miniature the abandonment of Moscow to the French Army, a decision so inevitable, Tolstoy insists, that ‘‘every Russian’’ might have predicted it. In all three cases, Tolstoy’s imagery is aptly similar. At great length, Tolstoy likens the burned, abandoned city of Moscow to a bee hive charred and cleansed by fire. At the end of the novel, Natasha declares that Pierre has been morally cleansed as if by a steam bath, and he too finds a great change in her, barely recognizing the woman in a black dress with dark eyes and a thin, pale, stern face. In all three cases, the imagery has a remarkably positive aspect. The stern woman in the black dress seems ‘‘dear, kind, marvelous’’ and even ‘‘kindred’’ to Pierre; Natasha finds Pierre ‘‘pure, smooth, fresh’’ after his moral steam bath; the charred ruins of Moscow ‘‘astonish’’ Pierre with their ‘‘beauty.’’ Natasha and Pierre are uniquely similar in their combination of sensitivity, spontaneity, altruism, and effectiveness. Indeed, the most significant similarity between them is their readiness to help people in distress. However, Pierre displays the quality of spontaneous altruism only after considerable Tolstoyan searching, whereas Natasha exhibits it from the very first. Early in the novel, for example, when Sonya bursts into tears because Vera has said unkind things about her, Natasha immediately embraces, comforts, and kisses her. Sonya brightens up with shining eyes, like a kitten ready to play again. Natasha displays the spontaneous ability to console others most fully when Petya dies and she quite literally comforts her mother back to life, supporting the almost insanely aggrieved woman with healing love and tenderness for three days and nights. Perhaps still more remarkable is the selfless efficiency with which Natasha works to help others. When her mother cruelly accuses Sonya of ingratitude and of scheming to catch Nicholas, relations between those three become almost unbearably strained. However, we learn from a one-sentence paragraph that Natasha set to
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
work to bring about a reconciliation and succeeded admirably. Most striking of all, though, is what Natasha accomplishes during the evacuation of Moscow. First, she arranges for some of the wounded soldiers to stay in the Rostovs’ house. Then it is Natasha alone who blocks the monstrous decision to cart away household goods when the wounded could be taken instead. The servants, we are told, crowd around Natasha, unable to believe her strange instructions, but soon they joyously and energetically work to transport the wounded soldiers, and it all seems not strange to them now, but inevitable. After Pierre becomes a Freemason, he gives large sums of money to their cause and tells Prince Andrew: ‘‘only now, when I live, at least, when I try to live (Pierre modestly corrected himself) for others, only now do I understand all the happiness of life.’’ This formulation resembles earlier ones to be found in Tolstoy’s works—for example, in A Landowner’s Morning and The Cossacks—with one qualification: Pierre’s modest correction suggests that his happiness in helping others is less self-centered than Nekhlyudov’s or Olenin’s. Pierre thus draws closer to answering the Tolstoyan question of how we should live. Though Prince Andrew replies, ‘‘Yes, if only it were so!’’—we then learn that he has now begun ‘‘a new inner life.’’ After Natasha, failing to elope with Anatole, has attempted suicide, Pierre talks with her, and she is suddenly struck by his ‘‘timid, tender, heartfelt’’ voice. He then warmly offers her his friendship and sympathy. Natasha declares herself unworthy, and Pierre is himself amazed at his next words: ‘‘If I were not myself, but the handsomest, most intelligent and best man in the world, and if I were free, I would this very moment ask on my knees for your hand and your love!’’ Natasha sheds ‘‘tears of gratitude and tenderness,’’ and it is clear that Pierre’s spontaneous generosity has set her recovery in motion. Pierre later saves an enemy officer, protects an Armenian girl, and rescues a child from the Moscow fire; these acts parallel Natasha’s efficient helping of the wounded soldiers. Together, Pierre and Natasha display a greater degree of spontaneous altruism than any other principal characters in Tolstoy’s works, with the possible exception of Kitty in Anna Karenina. From the very beginning of the novel, Pierre and Natasha are associated by suggestions of childhood and fairy tale—like pleasure. During
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
the opening soiree scene Pierre is likened to ‘‘a child in a toyshop,’’ and we first see as if under a cap of invisibility, Natasha at age thirteen when she rushes recklessly in with her doll. She then hides in the conservatory ‘‘as if under a cap of invisibility,’’ a Russian fairy-tale image; Pierre soon pretends to be Napoleon, piercing an ‘‘invisible’’ enemy with his sword. In their childlike enthusiasm, both are inspired to emulate others early in the novel. When Dolokhov, for a bet, drains an entire bottle of rum while precariously balanced on a window ledge, Pierre watches like a frightened child. His expression combines a faint smile of excitement with terror and fear: ‘‘Why is it so long?’’ he wonders. ‘‘It seemed to him that more than half an hour had gone by.’’ Pierre twice averts his eyes, the second time telling himself ‘‘that he would never open them again.’’ But when he does, and sees that Dolokhov has won, Pierre insists on emulating him, even without a bet. ‘‘I’ll do it! Bring me a bottle!’’ he repeatedly shouts. Also early in the novel, Natasha hides in the Rostovs’ conservatory, pleased that Boris is looking for her. At this point Nicholas and Sonya (who is jealous and upset at him) meet nearby, and Natasha excitedly eavesdrops upon their reconciliation. Sonya sobs, and Nicholas takes her hand: ‘‘Natasha, not stirring and not breathing, watched from her hiding place with shining eyes. ‘What will happen now?’ she wondered.’’ Nicholas asks Sonya’s forgiveness and kisses her: ‘‘Oh, how nice!’’ Natasha thinks. When they leave, she calls Boris to her ‘‘with a meaningful and sly expression’’ and proposes that he kiss her doll. He hesitates. Natasha’s flushed face expresses both triumph and fear: ‘‘‘And would you like to kiss me?’ she whispered almost inaudibly, looking up at him from under her eyebrows, smiling, and almost crying from excitement.’’ When Boris still hesitates Natasha jumps up on a tub and kisses him full upon the lips. As the scene ends, she counts on her fingers the years remaining until she will be sixteen and Boris can ask for her hand in marriage. During this entire episode, Natasha seems disarmingly innocent. Her conduct is hardly above reproach—she spies upon two lovers and makes bold advances to Boris—and yet the childlike wonder with which she looks on (‘‘What will happen now?’’) and her joy at the lovers’ reconciliation (‘‘Oh, how nice!’’) render her slyness forgivable, and even quite appealing. As in the
V o l u m e
2
8 3 5
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
episode with Pierre and Dolokhov, life is seen as an exciting game to play and to experience fully. Both Pierre and Natasha are anxious at whatever cost to experience the intensity of what they have just witnessed. Both display a compelling desire to plunge into the tide of life. The intensity of Natasha’s and Pierre’s experiences is indirectly—but all the more powerfully— conveyed by the momentary impairment of their sight and hearing. Thus after Pierre’s confrontation with Helene, he ‘‘did not hear and did not see anything’’; and when he tries to kill Napoleon, ‘‘he did not hear anything and did not see anything around himself.’’ When Natasha learns that Petya has been killed she ‘‘did not see, did not hear’’; as she enters the ballroom at her first ball, ‘‘the steady hum of voices, footsteps, and greetings deafened Natasha; the light and glitter blinded her still more.’’ The intensity of the immediate experience is irresistible: early in the novel both Pierre and Natasha give their ‘‘word of honor’’ only to break it later. First, Pierre emphatically gives Andrew his word not to go to Anatole Kuragin’s, then recalls that he had already promised Anatole. Besides, he reasons, ‘‘words of honor’’ are ‘‘conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if one considers that by tomorrow he may have died’’—and goes anyway. Natasha gives her ‘‘word of honor’’ not to tell anyone that Nicholas has been wounded—and immediately rushes to tell Sonya about it. Upon seeing Sonya’s reaction, however, Natasha embraces her, bursts into tears, and explains that Nicholas, only slightly wounded, writes that he is ‘‘now well’’ and promoted to the rank of officer. Especially as viewed against the backdrop of apparently predestined historical events in War and Peace, Natasha’s and Pierre’s parallel circumstances tend to suggest that they are fatefully related. Early in the novel Natasha, still aglow after kissing Boris, sits opposite Pierre at dinner. Her glance, filled with love for Boris, sometimes rests on Pierre: ‘‘and the look of this funny, animated girl made him want to laugh without knowing why.’’ Soon thereafter, Natasha herself exclaims: ‘‘that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!’’ ‘‘How happy I feel!’’ she adds. Much later, at the Bergs’ party, we learn that Pierre ‘‘happened to sit opposite Natasha’’ when she has just fallen in love with Prince Andrew. ‘‘What has happened to her?’’ Pierre wonders. These parallels seem still more fateful after Natasha becomes engaged to Prince Andrew: ‘‘Pierre was
8 3 6
E p i c s
f o r
avoiding Natasha. It seemed to him that his feeling for her was stronger than a married man’s should be for his friend’s fiance´e. And some kind of fate continually brought him together with her.’’ Long before Pierre realizes that he loves Natasha, he is uniquely sensitive to her feelings, and she to his. After Pierre’s duel with Dolokhov, everyone in the Rostov house likes Dolokhov except Natasha, who ‘‘insisted that he was an evil person, that in the duel with Bezukhov, Pierre was right and Dolokhov was guilty, that he was unpleasant and unnatural.’’ Talking with her mother at night, Natasha then reveals a deeper affection for Pierre than perhaps she consciously realizes. Having playfully dismissed Boris as ‘‘narrow’’ and ‘‘grey,’’ Natasha abruptly declares that Pierre is ‘‘dark blue with red.’’ Her mother, laughing, remarks that Natasha flirts with Pierre too, but Natasha denies it, insisting that Pierre is a ‘‘fine’’ person, ‘‘dark blue with red.’’ Since Pierre and Natasha are associated from the first in a separate dimension of childlike enthusiasm and imagination, it is appropriate that she here reveals a preference for him in what appears to be a rather silly game of childlike perception. Natasha’s ostensibly playful notion of ‘‘red with blue’’ is mysteriously echoed by Sonya in a game of predicting the future. First, Sonya pretends to see Prince Andrew ‘‘lying down’’ with a ‘‘happy’’ expression, thus unwittingly predicting the circumstances of his death. Asked what came afterwards, Sonya replies: ‘‘something blue and red.’’ She therefore becomes one of Tolstoy’s most remarkable unlikely prophets by also predicting Natasha’s marriage to Pierre. The ‘‘red and blue’’ prediction was obviously important to Tolstoy, for Natasha and Sonya discuss it much later, confusing the details but marveling at its accuracy. ANDREW
If Pierre and Natasha embody an intense celebration of life, Prince Andrew suggests by indirection a cyclical affirmation of the life force. From the beginning he is pointedly contrasted with his close friend Pierre. Andrew, we are told, ‘‘combined in the highest degree all those qualities which Pierre lacked and which can best be expressed by the concept, strength of will.’’ Pierre admires Andrew’s self-control and is astonished by his capacity for work and study. Later, we learn that Andrew’s stern father (modeled on Tolstoy’s maternal grandfather) recognizes only two virtues: activity and intellect. His sister Mary,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
however, accuses Andrew of ‘‘a kind of intellectual pride.’’ If we return to the distinction Tolstoy made when he was writing Childhood between ‘‘from the head’’ and ‘‘from the heart,’’ we will recall that he preferred the latter, despite its apparent crudeness. We may therefore suspect that Andrew’s cool intellect and strength of will, so generously envied by warm-hearted Pierre, are, in a sense, weaknesses masquerading as strengths. This is by no means clear at first: Pierre’s naivete and rather irresponsible naturalness seem to contrast quite unfavorably with Andrew’s sophisticated self-control. Yet for this very reason, Pierre is more open to personal development, especially since he lives more by the heart than by the head. Their attitudes toward Napoleon provide a revealing contrast: Pierre imagines himself to be Napoleon in a make-believe game; Andrew admires Napoleon as a master military strategist. Pierre’s character, Tolstoy suggests, is not yet formed, whereas Andrew’s, in taking shape, has acquired a hard surface crust; for most of his life he is enviably protected from other people, but also sadly isolated from them. Prince Andrew easily sees through others (at least, enough for his own purposes), but until he is mortally wounded he lacks the capacity for a full and open relationship with others that would necessarily render him somewhat vulnerable. Primarily for these reasons, Andrew, throughout the novel, remains oddly static. Each lesson he learns leaves him in need of another. Each time his protective surface crust is penetrated—whether by loss or by love—it seems to close over once again. John Hagan has observed that Prince Andrew goes through ‘‘five distinct cycles of death and rebirth,’’ arranged ‘‘so that what is metaphorical in the first four becomes literal reality in the fifth.’’ The first cycle, Hagan suggests, begins with Andrew’s fall at the battle of Austerlitz (his wound is described as if it were mortal, and Andrew’s father tells everyone that his son is dead). Andrew’s prior conceptions of Napoleon and military glory ‘‘die’’ at this point, yet he also discovers ‘‘peace’’ in the lofty, infinite sky, which suggests a ‘‘rebirth.’’ The second cycle commences with his wife Lise’s death, when Andrew’s guilt causes ‘‘a second spiritual death of his own.’’ This time, Hagan finds, the rebirth consists of two parts: Andrew’s brief turning to God (in his conversation with Pierre at the ferry) and his turning to Nature and Natasha (climaxed by the nocturnal
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
window scene at Otradnoe). The famous old oak mirrors Andrew’s feeling that life is over, and then his regeneration when he observes its transformation. Cycle three begins with Andrew’s ‘‘fatal’’ involvement with the rationalist Speransky and ends with a new, stronger feeling of love for Natasha and his proposal of marriage. She then begins cycle four by attempting to elope with Anatole; it ends with Andrew’s vigorous condemnation of war in conversation with Pierre before the battle of Borodino. In the fifth cycle Andrew literally dies, but does so with the conviction that ‘‘death is an awakening.’’ It should be noted that the first two cycles are composed of what Tolstoy terms at one point the ‘‘best moments’’ of Andrew’s life. Upon seeing that the bare old oak at Otradnoe has suddenly become gloriously green, Andrew recalls these ‘‘best’’ moments: ‘‘Austerlitz with that lofty sky, his wife’s dead, reproachful face, Pierre at the ferry, and that girl thrilled by the beauty of the night, and that night, and the moon.’’ The first of these four moments comprises the entire first cycle; the last three, the composite second one. How, we may wonder, can Lise’s dead reproachful face constitute a ‘‘best’’ moment? Moreover, would Tolstoy have considered the main elements of the last three cycles—including the painful blow of Natasha’s attempted elopement—to be Andrew’s best moments as well? In attempting to answer the first question, Edward Wasiolek has observed that Lise’s reproachful face causes Andrew to understand for the first time ‘‘that he has violated by his judgment the sacredness of her being.’’ Wasiolek notes that the other three moments involve the sky, which reminds Andrew that ‘‘life within him is infinite’’ as he ‘‘catches a glimpse of something that is not circumscribed by his understanding.’’ The connection is thus the fact that Andrew senses the limitations of his intellect during each moment. All this is helpful, but the crucial criterion of a ‘‘best’’ moment seems to be that a period of heightened consciousness—no matter how disillusioning or painful—leads to positive personal growth. Moreover, Prince Andrew’s four moments of growth seem still more unified if we return once again to Tolstoy’s distinction between the head and the heart. During the first two moments Andrew realizes, at least briefly, the danger of living ‘‘from the head.’’ He realizes that his intensely rational approach (to Napoleon, military glory, and his own wife) is inadequate and wrong.
V o l u m e
2
8 3 7
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
During the last two moments, Andrew recognizes the importance of living ‘‘from the heart.’’ His turning to God with Pierre at the ferry leads him to begin ‘‘a new inner life,’’ and his turning to Nature, inspired by Natasha’s joyful enthusiasm at the window, reinforces this internal rebirth. All four moments, however ostensibly disparate, form two halves of a consistent, unified process of personal growth. Andrew’s long-standing and allconsuming commitment to living from the head, however, renders this growth incomplete for most, if not all, of his life. We may now attempt to answer the question about Andrew’s other ‘‘best’’ moments. Cycle three (his disenchantment with the rationalist Speransky and his increased love for Natasha) clearly fits the pattern of movement from the head toward the heart. The end of the fourth cycle—Andrew’s condemnation of war—aptly echoes the end of cycle one. The beginning of cycle four, Natasha’s attempted elopement, is far less obviously a ‘‘best’’ moment, yet in a very real sense this echoes the beginning of cycle two: by agreeing to postpone his engagement to Natasha, Andrew treats her in much the same coldly rational way that he did Lise. Wasiolek goes so far as to insist that it is not Natasha who betrays Andrew, but he her, and there is some truth in this. Still, if Natasha’s attempted elopement is to be a ‘‘best’’ moment for Andrew, he must realize his error sufficiently to achieve significant personal growth—and this he never quite seems to do. Not long before his death, Andrew derives ‘‘comfort’’ from thinking that ‘‘love is God’’ and that as a particle of love, he will, at death, return to the eternal source. ‘‘But,’’ as Tolstoy rather pointedly remarks, ‘‘these were only thoughts.’’ Andrew, we may infer, still lives too much from the head. Finally, however, a ‘‘veil’’ that has obscured Andrew’s ‘‘spiritual vision’’ is lifted: his last days are ‘‘an awakening from life,’’ and he realizes that ‘‘death is an awakening.’’ Apart from the concepts of ‘‘cycles’’ and ‘‘best moments,’’ Andrew may be profitably seen also in terms of his relationship to Pierre. The goal of ‘‘living for oneself’’ that Andrew expounds to Pierre contrasts sharply with the latter’s answer about ‘‘living for others.’’ It is therefore rather ironic that Andrew in fact carries out with great efficiency all the reforms that Pierre vainly attempts on his estates. Andrew’s advice to Pierre (‘‘don’t marry, my friend, don’t marry!’’) is ironically echoed by Pierre’s advice to Andrew that he ‘‘marry, marry, marry’’ Natasha. And this is part of
8 3 8
E p i c s
f o r
another symmetry: each friend (with far-reaching results) directs the other toward Natasha. Pierre urges Andrew to ask Natasha to dance; Andrew brings Pierre to Natasha and tells her to rely on him alone. Prince Andrew is framed by a window or a door at several crucial moments of his life. Important episodes featuring doors and windows associate Andrew with life and death—and, symmetrically, with Pierre. Early in the novel, they are both excited by episodes at open windows: Pierre, by Dolokhov and the rum bottle; Andrew, by Natasha and the beautiful night. Whereas Pierre is inspired to defy death, Andrew is inspired to begin a new life. Tolstoy eventually uses the image of a shattering window to describe the exploding shell that fatally wounds Prince Andrew. Much earlier, when Andrew returns to his wife, Lise, a strong wind blows out a candle through a window, in a prefiguration of her death. Someone later holds a door shut against him as his son is born. Hagan has related this door, behind which struggle life and death, to the door through which Andrew’s own death later seems to force itself. That door, which exists only in a dream resembling a vision and admits Andrew’s death, may be linked to the metaphorical door that seems to open on rusty hinges when Pierre is finally united with Natasha to begin a new life. CONFLICT AND RESOLUTION WITH WOMEN
Anna Mikhailovna is said to ‘‘conquer’’ a position next to Prince Vasily as she fights for Boris’s advancement, and she literally engages in a tug of war with Catiche for the old Count Bezukhov’s portfolio. As Anna Pavlovna maneuvers Pierre into desiring Helene, she is said to be ‘‘in the excited condition of a commander on a battlefield.’’ And when Anatole arrives at Bald Hills, Andrew’s pregnant wife, Lise, ‘‘like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, unconsciously and forgetting her condition, prepared for the accustomed gallop of coquetry.’’ Tolstoy was not kind to women in War and Peace. ‘‘Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in every way— that’s women when you see them as they really are,’’ Andrew tells Pierre. ‘‘Women are especially harmful,’’ Dolokhov tells Nicholas, ‘‘countesses or cooks, it’s all the same—I have yet to meet a woman who was not a creature for sale.’’ Vera is spiteful; Helene is both superficial and predatory. Julie Karagina debases love through calculation: for example, there is something tendentiously despicable about the way Julie’s face gleams ‘‘with
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
triumph and self-satisfaction’’ as she forces her fiance´, Boris, to vow ‘‘that he loved her and had never loved any woman more than her. She knew that for the Penza estates and the Nizhegorod forests she could demand this, and she got what she demanded.’’ Natasha, on the other hand, is a truly delightful heroine, at least until the epilogue. Charmingly spontaneous and generous, she enlivens all those with whom she comes into contact. Her enthusiastic love of life helps others even when she is not aware of their presence: thus when Prince Andrew overhears her rapturous exclamations at the window about the beauty of the night, his despair gives way to a host of youthful thoughts and hopes arising in his soul. Natasha can melt the layers of pride and cynicism Andrew has built around himself. Even after her attempted elopement, he recalls ‘‘that spiritual force [of hers], that sincerity, that openness of soul.’’ Yet when we meet her in the epilogue, after seven years of marriage to Pierre, we find a very different Natasha. Now ‘‘stouter and broader,’’ she neglects her hair and her clothing. She has purposely abandoned all her enchanting ways, including her singing, precisely because they were seductive. Here one may cite from Family Happiness Sergey Mikhailich’s instructing Masha in the ‘‘undesirability’’ of coquettishness, and from Anna Karenina Levin’s squirming with painful embarrassment when he sits opposite a girl who wears a low-cut dress for his benefit. Having eradicated her sparkling charm, Natasha now centers her entire being upon her family: ‘‘her husband, whom she had to hold so that he would belong undividedly to her and to the home—and the children, who had to be carried, born, nursed, and brought up.’’ Natasha’s jealousy is a common object of family amusement. She strictly controls Pierre, who dares not even smile when he talks with another woman. In return, Natasha places herself ‘‘on a footing of slave to her husband.’’ She tries to anticipate his every wish, yet she uses his own words against him if he seems to be changing his mind. Pierre’s ‘‘joyous’’ sense of his own identity as ‘‘not a bad man’’ results from ‘‘seeing himself reflected in his wife.’’ Unattractive as this mutual absorption and mutual enslavement may appear, it is an almost inevitable development of what Tolstoy then considered a highly satisfactory marriage. For him, a good wife was nurturing and supportive, yet constraining and somehow sexless. Ruth
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
Benson puts it, ‘‘Tolstoy’s own and his heroes’ search for moral purity’’ were ‘‘constantly threatened’’ by ‘‘woman’s selfish interests and particularly her sexuality.’’ Only total absorption in marriage and family could disarm the dangerous weapon of female sexuality. The more earthy vitality a young girl radiated, the more necessary it was that she be quickly herded into the safe confines of family life. The young Natasha fairly bursts with undirected energy. Significantly, she is called ‘‘gunpowder’’ early in the novel. As her performance of a Russian peasant dance pointedly suggests, society had failed to squelch in her that primitive force of nature which is not separate from female sexual energy. Hence, grave danger: the same capacity for total abandonment makes Natasha susceptible to the depravity of the Kuragins—which in turn leads to her suicide attempt. As Barbara Monter has observed of Anna Karenina: ‘‘Anna’s vitality, the essence of her attractiveness, is made up in large part of sexuality, and with Tolstoy sexuality fulfills only itself and leads away from life. Thus we have the paradox of Anna who is so alive ending in suicide.’’ Natasha’s realization of her near doom and of the value of the man she has abandoned tames her sensuality, as does her association with that spiritually elevated, Tolstoyan wife and mother, Princess Mary. Nevertheless, her transformation in the epilogue is quite startling and rather tendentious. Tolstoy remarks that only the old countess understood the change: she ‘‘knew by her maternal insight that all Natasha’s bursts of impulsiveness had their origin merely in the need of having a family, of having a husband.’’ After Natasha’s marriage, her face has ‘‘none of the ever-burning fire of animation that had formerly constituted its charm,’’ and she withdraws from society, which finds her ‘‘neither attractive nor amiable.’’ Tolstoy’s treatment of Natasha reflects Russian religious and social tradition. Before Peter the Great initiated the custom of having upper class women appear at court and social functions, they were severely restricted, spending their entire lives in separate, prison-like quarters called the terem. Still earlier, Byzantine Christianity had brought to Russia a dual image of woman: Mary the Virgin Mother and Eve the temptress. The concept of sex as sin carried over into marriage. The icons had to be covered during marital relations, and ablutions had to be performed afterwards. The popular ‘‘Parable of Feminine Evil’’ by the Byzantine church
V o l u m e
2
8 3 9
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
father St. John Chrysostom described women as ‘‘insinuating, cunning, stealthy; slanderers, ensnarers, heretics, wolverines, serpents, scorpions, vipers,’’ words resembling the pronouncements of Prince Andrew and Dolokhov quoted above. Helene incorporates what Tolstoy most hated and feared in women: the combined power of beauty and sensual corruption. Her body seems covered by a veneer from all the glances that have passed over it, he writes, clearly implying that it has thus been greatly cheapened. Her ‘‘nakedness’’ is a dangerous weapon for evil: in the opening salon scene her ‘‘full shoulders, bosom and back’’ are ‘‘very much exposed,’’ and Pierre looks at her ‘‘with almost frightened, rapturous eyes.’’ In the novel Resurrection, the hero sees a shapely streetwalker who is quietly confident of her ‘‘vile power.’’ In ‘‘D’iavol’’ (‘‘The Devil’’), a married man is so tortured by desire for his former mistress that he commits suicide—or, in an alternate ending, kills the mistress. The hero of ‘‘Otets Sergii’’ (‘‘Father Sergius’’), in a feverish state, chops off one of his fingers in order to resist a woman who is trying to seduce him. At first Father Sergius suspects that ‘‘the devil has assumed a woman’s form,’’ as he has ‘‘read in the Lives of the Saints.’’ Then, as she undresses in the next room, ‘‘he heard everything. He heard the silk fabric rustling as she took off her dress, how she stepped on the floor with her bare feet; he heard her rubbing her legs with her hand.’’ In War and Peace, as Pierre decides that Helene is destined to be his wife, ‘‘he was conscious of the warmth of her body, the fragrance of perfume, and the creaking of her corset when she breathed . . . he saw and sensed the entire charm of her body, which was covered only by her garments.’’ At this point, Tolstoy says, she has ‘‘power over him already.’’ Princess Mary is in some ways Helene’s exact opposite. She is thrice removed from the prospect of causing or succumbing to moral corruption—by her life in the country, by her plainness, and by her spirituality. Her somber life consists of duties, prayer, and surreptitious communication with wandering pilgrims. She considers her longings for earthly love an inspiration of the devil. Conscious that she has suppressed her personal dreams, she achieves a sort of peace until fate intervenes in the person of Nicholas. The development of their relationship allows the fruit of her virtuous life, her inner beauty, to radiate from within her: ‘‘All her struggles to improve her inner being, her sufferings, her striving for goodness, her submissiveness, love, self-sacrifice—all this now shone in those radiant
8 4 0
E p i c s
f o r
eyes, in her delicate smile, and in every trait of her gentle face.’’ She becomes an ideal Tolstoyan woman—not only a devoted wife and mother, but an inspiration to her mate and the embodiment of high spirituality. She achieves greater happiness than she had thought possible, yet senses that there is ‘‘another sort of happiness, unattainable in this life.’’ OTHER FICTIONAL CHARACTERS
Nicholas Rostov, modeled upon Tolstoy’s father, also exhibits several of the author’s own traits: ‘‘his strength and health, his pagan love of nature, his exaggerated sense of honor and his passion for hunting,’’ as Henri Troyat writes. Yet as Dmitry Pisarev commented in 1868, Nicholas tends to prefer ‘‘not to think,’’ to escape from serious problems by ordering a second bottle of wine. Compared with Prince Andrew and Pierre, who engage in a more deeply Tolstoyan quest for truth, Nicholas seems less concerned by the question of how we should live. He is also more limited in his options, restricted by his early promise to Sonya and subsequently by his own and his father’s financial losses. Nicholas’s inability to aid Alexander at Austerlitz immediately precedes and pointedly parallels Andrew’s disenchantment with Napoleon. Tolstoy carefully prepares us for both episodes by stressing Andrew’s admiration for Napoleon in a conversation he has with his father at Bald Hills, and by emphasizing Nicholas’s fervent admiration of the emperor as he reviews Kutuzov’s army. Three days later, he even has the Tolstoyan feeling that the emperor can discern what is occurring inside his, Nicholas’s, own soul. After this, though, the two admired figures are rather didactically shown to have feet of clay. Nicholas sees the emperor alone and despondent; Andrew, wounded but inspired by the lofty sky of Austerlitz, hears the words of ‘‘his hero’’ Napoleon ‘‘as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly.’’ There is an important difference, however. Whereas Andrew seems to gain strength and serenity from the incident, Nicholas’s ‘‘despair’’ at having failed to aid Alexander is ‘‘all the greater as he felt that his own weakness was the cause of his grief.’’ Whereas Andrew gains spiritual inspiration from the sky, Nicholas is moved, in a similar moment of heightened consciousness, to love life more keenly but also to fear death. As he gazes at the waters of the Danube and the gloriously beautiful sky, Nicholas feels that death is both ‘‘above’’ and ‘‘around’’ him. Much later, when he captures
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
a young, blue-eyed French soldier almost by accident, Nicholas learns that he has earned the St. George Cross. ‘‘So others are even more afraid than I am!’’ he realizes in amazement. Nicholas, though good, is rather weak; Dolokhov is not a good man but a strong one. The climactic encounter in which Dolokhov assertively wins 43,000 roubles from Nicholas points up this symmetry. Dolokhov coldly and deliberately sets his goal at 43,000 because his and Sonya’s ages total 43, and she has refused him because of Nicholas. After Nicholas’s enormous loss, it becomes less likely that he will marry Sonya, who has no fortune of her own. Dolokhov, a dashing but faintly sinister figure, causes considerable harm to others throughout the novel, seemingly almost without trying. His feat of draining a bottle of rum in the window inspires Pierre, who has been drinking heavily, to insist upon similarly risking death. Much later Dolokhov’s daring quite literally inspires Petya Rostov to his death. And the fact that Petya is moved to kiss Dolokhov just before this may remind the reader that Dolokhov had vowed the very deepest friendship to Nicholas not long before depriving him of 43,000 roubles. Dolokhov indirectly brings both Pierre and Natasha close to death. As he goads Pierre into challenging him to a duel, his mocking smile seems to say: ‘‘Ah, this is what I like!’’ Later on, Dolokhov apparently also takes pleasure in masterminding Anatole’s furtive wooing and attempted abduction of Natasha, which leads to her near ruin and attempted suicide. The love letter which he composes for Anatole is so well done that Natasha, reading it ‘‘for the twentieth time,’’ thinks: ‘‘Yes, yes, I love him!’’ Dolokhov is a complex figure: his code of behavior, which seems to allow such dangerous sport, also requires honor of him. For example, after he is wounded in the duel with Pierre he bursts into tears because his ‘‘adored angel mother’’ may not survive the shock, and he later begs Pierre’s forgiveness, declaring that he is glad of the opportunity to do so. These incidents complicate Dolokhov’s character and obscure his sinister role in the novel. Bazdeev and Platon Karataev represent two symmetrically positive forces. However, the influence of Bazdeev is comparatively superficial and temporary, whereas Platon’s is more permanent and profound. Pierre meets them at two of the lowest points in his life; after his painful
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
confrontation with Helene and after he has watched in horror as the French execute prisoners. Each time, Pierre is struggling in despair with questions about the meaning of life and death. Bazdeev treats him paternally; Platon, maternally. Thus Bazdeev repeatedly accompanies his observations with a ‘‘gentle, fatherly’’ smile, and Pierre is several times likened to a child. Platon comforts Pierre ‘‘with the gentle singsong caressing tones that old Russian peasant women use,’’ and is ‘‘sad that Pierre has no parents, especially a mother.’’ There is no one ‘‘dearer than your own mother!’’ he says, and soon he sings in a ‘‘gentle, almost feminine’’ way. Pierre involuntarily submits to the comforting voices of Bazdeev and Karataev, both of whom suggest that God’s great plan is beyond our understanding. Bazdeev persuades Pierre to become a Freemason, after which he earnestly urges his new beliefs upon Andrew in their conversation at the ferry. Andrew realizes, however, that although Pierre’s concern is heartfelt his ideas have little practical wisdom. His initiation into the Society of Freemasons, moreover, is described in a tolerant but parodic manner. Tolstoy himself considered Freemasonry (a secret, philanthropical, and somewhat mystical movement that existed in Russia from the mid-eighteenth century until its suppression under Nicholas I) admirable enough in its aims but rather ridiculous in action. The peasant Platon Karataev’s first name is the Russian form of Plato, and it is tempting to associate him with the peasant Platon from whom the Tolstoyan figure Levin (in Anna Karenina) derives spiritual inspiration. Pierre finds comfort in Platon’s ‘‘roundness,’’ and he relates to Pierre one of Tolstoy’s favorite stories, ‘‘God Sees the Truth But Speaks Not Soon.’’ In this tale a merchant undergoes brutal torture and ten years of hard labor in Siberia for a murder he did not commit. When the man who had framed him confesses, the merchant responds: ‘‘God will forgive you. We are all sinners before God. I suffer for my own sins.’’ When a pardon and compensation finally arrive from the tsar, we are told that God had already forgiven the merchant: he had died. It was not ‘‘the story itself,’’ writes Tolstoy, but its ‘‘mysterious meaning’’ and the ‘‘rapturous joy’’ on Platon’s face as he told it that joyfully suffused Pierre’s soul. This statement becomes somewhat clearer if one recalls that Platon is described as ‘‘unable to understand the meaning of words apart from their context.’’ His life, as he
V o l u m e
2
8 4 1
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
saw it, ‘‘had meaning only as a particle of a whole that he continually sensed.’’ Just as the merchant in Platon’s story is ‘‘forgiven’’ by his return to the source of divine love, so Platon naturally feels that his own life is a particle of that source, as Pierre himself realizes at Platon Karataev’s death. Pierre’s vision-like dream of the ‘‘globe of drops’’ encapsulates this understanding: ‘‘In the center is God, and each drop tries to expand in order to reflect Him as widely as possible. It grows, merges, shrinks, is destroyed on the surface, sinks to the depths, and again floats forth. Here now it is Karataev who has spread out and disappeared.’’ Like Platon himself, Pierre intuitively grasps a concept that Prince Andrew had articulated, on his deathbed, but in a form Tolstoy had declared ‘‘only thoughts.’’ Two critics have persuasively related Pierre’s dream of the globe of drops to ‘‘the Taoist doctrine that at death one is re-absorbed into the total flow.’’ Pierre’s vision of his own immersion in water ‘‘so that it closed over his head,’’ they observe, is similarly associated with his realization that Platon has died. In a broader sense, they note, the ‘‘round’’ and ‘‘almost feminine’’ Platon may be likened to sages ‘‘in touch with the Tao that is the Mother of all and the stream of history.’’ It may thus accord with Tolstoy’s theory of historical causation that our limited ‘‘freedom is the ability to become coincident with this sensed flow.’’ Natasha, Pierre, and Kutuzov sense a current in their lives and flow with it; Prince Andrew resists; while Napoleon—in Tolstoy’s version of history— blindly bucks the tide. NAPOLEON AND TOLSTOYAN DETERMINISM
When Tolstoy wrote War and Peace, he had long been convinced that historians distort historical truth. The distortion, he believed, was most evident in treatments of famous people thought to have shaped the course of history. Characteristically pushing his view to extremes, Tolstoy decided that so-called great people actually have very little influence on historical events: ‘‘A tsar,’’ he insisted in War and Peace, ‘‘is the slave of history.’’ At another point he likens Napoleon to a carved figure on the bow of a ship, which, savages think, powers and directs the vessel—and to a child who, grasping the ribbons and braid that decorate the inside of a carriage, thinks he is driving it. These and similar extreme views are clustered in the second epilogue of the novel, where Tolstoy discusses ‘‘the will of historical persons.’’ He argues that such persons, as well as the orders
8 4 2
E p i c s
f o r
they give, depend on historical events rather than vice versa. An event will not take place, Tolstoy explains, no matter how many orders are given, without the existence of other causes; when an event does occur, we are too ready to seek out individuals whose orders seem in retrospect to have caused it. As Frank Seeley has observed, such reasoning blurs the distinction between ‘‘cause’’ in the sense of ‘‘sufficient condition’’ and ‘‘cause’’ in the sense of ‘‘necessary condition.’’ Tolstoy, however, was intent upon drawing another distinction: ‘‘Morally, the cause of an event appears to be those in power; physically, it is those who submit to the power.’’ He stubbornly adheres to this position throughout the novel. The military campaign of 1812, he claimed, appeared to depend upon ‘‘the will of Napoleon and Alexander,’’ but in order for their will to be carried out ‘‘it was necessary that millions of men, in whose hands was the real force, the soldiers who fired or transported provisions and cannons—it was necessary that they consent to carry out the will of these weak {sic} individuals and that they be led to do so by an innumerable quantity of complex, diverse causes.’’ Or, more simply put, ‘‘at the battle of Borodino Napoleon did not shoot at anyone or kill anyone. All that was done by the soldiers. Thus it was not he who killed people.’’ The evacuation and burning of Moscow (instead of its ceremonious surrender to the French) understandably evokes an emotional reaction from most Russians. In Pushkin’s famous phrase, Moscow prepared ‘‘not revelry, not a welcoming gift’’ but ‘‘a conflagration for the impatient hero.’’ Tolstoy himself carefully anticipates this moment by describing Napoleon as self-centered and supremely confident of his own power: ‘‘Everything outside of him,’’ Tolstoy writes, ‘‘had no meaning for him because everything in the world, it seemed to him, depended entirely on his will.’’ Then, as Napoleon is about to occupy Moscow, Tolstoy takes evident pleasure in having him dream of being magnanimous to its humble citizens as they surrender. As Tolstoy explains, the French generals faced a twofold problem: how to tell Napoleon the terrible news that the Russians would not surrender, but, still worse, how to keep him from appearing ridiculous. When the French army finally abandons Moscow and retreats in disarray, Tolstoy compares its movements to the reflexive spasms of a mortally wounded animal. It is then that he likens Napoleon to a child who,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
while playing with the decorations inside a carriage, is convinced that he is driving it. Tolstoy calls the evacuation and burning of Moscow ‘‘just as inevitable as the retreat of the army without fighting beyond Moscow after the battle of Borodino.’’ ‘‘Every Russian,’’ he adds, ‘‘could have predicted what happened, not by reasoning but by a feeling inside of us and in each of our fathers.’’ In an unpublished foreword to the first chapters of War and Peace, Tolstoy expressed the secret hope that Russia’s triumph of 1812 ‘‘was not accidental, but lay in the essence of the character of the Russian people and army.’’ Of the oneeyed Kutuzov—who is often called ‘‘blind’’ in the novel but whose patient strategy crucially contributes to Russia’s triumph—Tolstoy writes: ‘‘For the representative of the Russian people—after the enemy had been destroyed and Russia had been placed on the pinnacle of her glory—for this Russian there was nothing left to do as a Russian. For the representative of the people’s war, nothing remained except death. And he died.’’ The facts do not support the contrast between Tolstoy’s Kutuzov, a simple, unaffected, wise Russian general who passively submits to events, and his Napoleon, a stupid, arrogant French poseur who believes he can impose his will on history. However, this contrast illustrates Tolstoy’s views on the role of so-called great men in history, as well as his aggressively elaborated theory of determinism. This theory is painstakingly developed in the second epilogue. Our actions, Tolstoy contends, are far less free than we suppose. A person who commits a criminal act, he explains, may have been driven to do so for a variety of reasons. If, Tolstoy insists, we could understand the almost infinite chain of causes and circumstances leading up to and attending a particular action, it would be clear that the action was inevitable. As an illustration, he analyzes the simple action of moving one’s arm. Free as the action may seem, he argues, it is necessarily limited in three respects. First, there are physical limitations— the structure of one’s arm and any obstacles in its path. Second, the action is temporally limited: in retrospect, Tolstoy claims, we realize that no different action could have occurred at that exact same instant. (Even though the action seems free as we perform it, he suggests, it later appears less so in proportion to the time that has elapsed since then and the consequences stemming from it.) Finally, Tolstoy reasons, we are limited by causes (even the desire to perform an
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
a n d
P e a c e
action without a cause is itself a cause). He therefore declares: ‘‘In order to imagine a perfectly free person, one not subject to the law of necessity, we must imagine him alone, outside of space, outside of time, and outside of dependence upon causes. ’’ Tolstoy then differentiates between reason, which expresses the laws of necessity (though they in their totality are beyond our comprehension) and conscious awareness, which expresses what we perceive as the freedom of our actions. In his opinion, our consciousness ‘‘tells’’ us that we are not outside of space but are outside of time and outside of causes, since we ‘‘feel’’ that we ourselves are the cause of every manifestation of our lives. That which we term free will, he concludes, is actually a natural, predictable force, like electricity or gravity; it is similarly subject to laws, but in this case laws that we fail to discern. Just as we have had to admit that, despite appearances, the other planets do not orbit the earth, so ‘‘we must renounce our non-existent freedom and acknowledge a dependence that we do not perceive.’’ Though one can disagree with some of Tolstoy’s arguments, especially those on temporal limitation, it is virtually impossible to disprove his conclusion, with its self-substantiating emphasis upon the limited, illusory nature of human consciousness. A vastly superior, ‘‘infinite’’ consciousness, capable of perceiving literally all circumstances leading up to and surrounding an action, could perhaps indeed see the action as predictable, even inevitable. The creator of a literary work may be said to have a godlike perspective on the destinies of his characters. Of course, the author also controls these destinies—as invisibly or visibly as his intentions and abilities permit. Throughout War and Peace, Tolstoy adheres to his theory of determinism as convincingly and artistically as possible: he depicts both historical and fictional events as apparently inevitable while preserving for his characters their illusion of free will. The novel opens with the suggestion that Napoleon is the ‘‘Antichrist’’; within a few pages Lise asks Pierre, who is discussing Napoleon, if he believes that assassination shows greatness of soul. All of this ironically anticipates Pierre’s subsequent conviction that he is predestined to assassinate Napoleon, who, he has decided, is the Antichrist. Still later, however, Tolstoy suggests that Pierre was ‘‘destined’’ not to kill Napoleon.
V o l u m e
2
8 4 3
W a r
a n d
P e a c e
Other events are explicitly described as inevitable—the duel between Pierre and Dolokhov begins, for example: ‘‘It was evident that the affair so lightly begun could already not be prevented but was taking its own course independent of the will of men and had to happen.’’ Similar views permeate what one critic has termed ‘‘the novel’s crucial scene.’’ Captured in Moscow by the French, Pierre watches them execute prisoners in the belief that he too will be shot: ‘‘He had only one wish—that the frightful thing that had to happen should happen quickly.’’ The French soldiers do in fact hurry, ‘‘as if to finish an essential but unpleasant and incomprehensible task.’’ Having decided to shoot the prisoners in pairs, bound to a post, they begin. Pierre turns away, but upon hearing sounds ‘‘louder than the most terrible thunder claps,’’ he looks around to see smoke and soldiers with pale faces doing ‘‘something’’ beside a nearby pit. They position the next pair. ‘‘Pierre again did not want to look and turned away; but again a horrible explosion struck his ears.’’ Again he sees smoke and soldiers with pale, frightened faces doing ‘‘something’’ near the post. He also notices that all those present, even the French, seem to experience the very same horror as he. ‘‘But who is really doing this?’’ he wonders. ‘‘They are all suffering just the same as I. Who, then? Who?’’ Next a young factory worker is led to the post alone; Pierre, the sixth, is spared in order to witness the final execution, although he fails to realize this. No longer able to turn away, he cannot ‘‘take his eyes off’’ the young victim: ‘‘A command must have been heard; after the command, the shots of eight rifles must have resounded. But Pierre, much as he later tried to remember, did not hear the slightest sound of the shots.’’ This third execution resembles in its numbing horror a silent film strip. During the first two, Pierre could not look but was shocked by the sound of the shooting. This time, however, he watches in frozen silence: ‘‘He only saw the factory worker for some reason suddenly sinking down upon the ropes.’’ Here Tolstoy characteristically employs the technique of ‘‘making strange’’: for a brief but vivid moment, we wonder why, ‘‘for some reason,’’ the young worker’s body sinks down upon the ropes that bind him. Once again Pierre sees soldiers with pale, frightened faces doing ‘‘something’’—this time next to the factory worker, and the reader again envisions soldiers moving the dead from post to pit. Even
8 4 4
E p i c s
f o r
the smoke functions similarly, as one pictures what created it. Of course, this entire episode is also ‘‘made strange’’ by the fact that Pierre has never before witnessed such horrors, which seem the more terrible for their apparent inevitability. A grim note of inevitability also echoes in the memories that haunt him later: ‘‘Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see before him the factory worker’s face, especially dreadful in its simplicity, and, in their agitation, the still more dreadful faces of the involuntary murderers.’’ A revealing comparison between the artistic techniques and moral and philosophical concerns of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky may be obtained by juxtaposing this scene with the observations on executions made by Prince Myshkin in Idiot (The Idiot). (Whereas Dostoevsky, like Tolstoy’s Pierre, had fully expected to be executed himself on one occasion, Tolstoy had been horrified, like Dostoevsky’s Myshkin, by a guillotining he had witnessed in France.) Myshkin says he was particularly shocked that the victim, a strong, brave man, ‘‘cried, white as paper.’’ What causes a man ‘‘who has never cried,’’ he wonders, to cry from fright? ‘‘What happens at that minute to the soul, what causes it such convulsions?’’ It is ‘‘an outrage to the soul,’’ Myshkin concludes, to kill a person because he has killed. ‘‘I saw this a month ago, and it is still before my eyes. About five times I’ve dreamed of it.’’ Like Pierre, Myshkin is haunted by visions of the execution, but in his case they have also been internalized as dreams. A similar but more basic difference is that whereas Pierre watches in frozen horror, Myshkin probes the victim’s inner experience. Even the ‘‘pale, frightened’’ faces of Tolstoy’s executioner-soldiers are transferred in Dostoevsky to the victim (‘‘white as paper’’). Still more important, Pierre’s question ‘‘Who is doing this?’’ is formulated by Myshkin as ‘‘How can one person do this to another?’’ And this leads to the crucial comparison. Whereas Dostoevsky characteristically arraigns a world in which such atrocities can exist, Tolstoy sees them, in War and Peace, as grimly inevitable: beyond our control (‘‘the frightful thing that had to happen’’), beyond our comprehension (‘‘an essential but unpleasant and incomprehensible task’’), and even beyond our direct responsibility (‘‘the involuntary murderers’’). Source: William W. Rowe, ‘‘Leo Tolstoy,’’ in Twayne World Authors Series Online, Twayne, 1986, Chapter 4.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
W a r
SOURCES Arnold, Matthew, ‘‘Count Leo Tolstoy,’’ in Fortnightly Review, December 1887. Boyagoda, Randy, ‘‘Finding Faith in War and Peace,’’ in World and I, Vol. 19, May 2004. Christian, R. F., Tolstoy’s War and Peace: A Study, Clarendon Press, 1962. Fodor, Alexander, Tolstoy and the Russians: Reflections on a Relationship, Ardis Press, 1984. Hudspeth, Sarah, ‘‘Life in the Present: Time and Immor tality in the Works of Tolstoy,’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 101, 2006; originally published in December 1887. James, Henry, ‘‘Preface to The Tragic Muse,’’ in The Art of the Novel, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1934. Simmons, Ernest J., Tolstoy, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1973, p. 81. Tolstoy, Leo, War and Peace, Vintage Classics, trans lated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Valokhonsky, Vin tage, 2008. Wasiolek, Edward, Tolstoy’s Major Fiction, University of Chicago Press, 1978.
a n d
P e a c e
Bendavid Val. This book gives a personal and detailed look at the private life of the great Russian novelist. Lieven, Dominic, Russia against Napoleon: The True Story of the Campaigns of War and Peace, Viking Press, 2010. This book is the first history of the Napoleonic War told from the Russian perspective with the use of Russian military archives. Orwinn, Donna Tussing, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Tolstoy, Cambridge University Press, 2002. Key aspects of Tolstoy’s life and work are ana lyzed here in a collection of scholarly commis sioned essays. Trigos, Ludmilla A., The Decembrist Myth in Russian Culture, Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. This study examines how the Decembrist revo lution and its leaders were viewed in the years following their rebellion, how originally these failed aristocrats and their movement were understood to be against authority and how their work was used later to justify the Soviet regime. Wilson, N. K., Tolstoy, Norton, 2001. Wilson presents here a superlative portrait of the novelist, beautifully written, thoroughly researched.
FURTHER READING Bates, Catherine, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Epic, Cambridge University Press, 2010. This resource covers four thousand years of epics, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Omeros. Bendavid Val, Leah, Song without Words: The Photo graphs and Diaries of Countess Sophia Tolstoy, National Geographic, 2007. This beautiful book presents many photo graphs taken by Tolstoy’s wife and her diaries, all couched in the commentary by author
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
SUGGESTED SEARCH TERMS War and Peace Leo Tolstoy Tolstoy AND Natasha Tolstoy AND Pierre Napoleonic Wars AND Russia Decembrists
V o l u m e
2
8 4 5
Glossary of Literary Terms A Abstract: Used as a noun, the term refers to a short summary or outline of a longer work. As an adjective applied to writing or literary works, abstract refers to words or phrases that name things not knowable through the five senses. Accent: The emphasis or stress placed on a syllable in poetry. Traditional poetry commonly uses patterns of accented and unaccented syllables (known as feet) that create distinct rhythms. Much modern poetry uses less formal arrangements that create a sense of freedom and spontaneity. Aestheticism: A literary and artistic movement of the nineteenth century. Followers of the movement believed that art should not be mixed with social, political, or moral teaching. The statement ‘‘art for art’s sake’’ is a good summary of aestheticism. The movement had its roots in France, but it gained widespread importance in England in the last half of the nineteenth century, where it helped change the Victorian practice of including moral lessons in literature. Affective Fallacy: An error in judging the merits or faults of a work of literature. The ‘‘error’’ results from stressing the importance of the work’s effect upon the reader—that is, how it makes a reader ‘‘feel’’ emotionally, what it does as a literary work—instead of stressing its inner qualities as a created object, or what it ‘‘is.’’
Age of Johnson: The period in English literature between 1750 and 1798, named after the most prominent literary figure of the age, Samuel Johnson. Works written during this time are noted for their emphasis on ‘‘sensibility,’’ or emotional quality. These works formed a transition between the rational works of the Age of Reason, or Neoclassical period, and the emphasis on individual feelings and responses of the Romantic period. Age of Reason: See Neoclassicism Age of Sensibility: See Age of Johnson Agrarians: A group of Southern American writers of the 1930s and 1940s who fostered an economic and cultural program for the South based on agriculture, in opposition to the industrial society of the North. The term can refer to any group that promotes the value of farm life and agricultural society. Alexandrine Meter: See Meter Allegory: A narrative technique in which characters representing things or abstract ideas are used to convey a message or teach a lesson. Allegory is typically used to teach moral, ethical, or religious lessons but is sometimes used for satiric or political purposes. Alliteration: A poetic device where the first consonant sounds or any vowel sounds in words or syllables are repeated.
x x i x
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Allusion: A reference to a familiar literary or historical person or event, used to make an idea more easily understood. Amerind Literature: The writing and oral traditions of Native Americans. Native American literature was originally passed on by word of mouth, so it consisted largely of stories and events that were easily memorized. Amerind prose is often rhythmic like poetry because it was recited to the beat of a ceremonial drum. Analogy: A comparison of two things made to explain something unfamiliar through its similarities to something familiar, or to prove one point based on the acceptedness of another. Similes and metaphors are types of analogies. Anapest: See Foot Angry Young Men: A group of British writers of the 1950s whose work expressed bitterness and disillusionment with society. Common to their work is an anti-hero who rebels against a corrupt social order and strives for personal integrity. Antagonist: The major character in a narrative or drama who works against the hero or protagonist. An example of an evil antagonist is Richard Lovelace in Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, while a virtuous antagonist is Macduff in William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Anthropomorphism: The presentation of animals or objects in human shape or with human characteristics. The term is derived from the Greek word for ‘‘human form.’’ Anti-hero: A central character in a work of literature who lacks traditional heroic qualities such as courage, physical prowess, and fortitude. Anti-heros typically distrust conventional values and are unable to commit themselves to any ideals. They generally feel helpless in a world over which they have no control. Anti-heroes usually accept, and often celebrate, their positions as social outcasts. A well-known anti-hero is Yossarian in Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22.
x x x
Apocrypha: Writings tentatively attributed to an author but not proven or universally accepted to be their works. The term was originally applied to certain books of the Bible that were not considered inspired and so were not included in the ‘‘sacred canon.’’ Apollonian and Dionysian: The two impulses believed to guide authors of dramatic tragedy. The Apollonian impulse is named after Apollo, the Greek god of light and beauty and the symbol of intellectual order. The Dionysian impulse is named after Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and the symbol of the unrestrained forces of nature. The Apollonian impulse is to create a rational, harmonious world, while the Dionysian is to express the irrational forces of personality. Apostrophe: A statement, question, or request addressed to an inanimate object or concept or to a nonexistent or absent person. Archetype: The word archetype is commonly used to describe an original pattern or model from which all other things of the same kind are made. This term was introduced to literary criticism from the psychology of Carl Jung. It expresses Jung’s theory that behind every person’s ‘‘unconscious,’’ or repressed memories of the past, lies the ‘‘collective unconscious’’ of the human race: memories of the countless typical experiences of our ancestors. These memories are said to prompt illogical associations that trigger powerful emotions in the reader. Often, the emotional process is primitive, even primordial. Archetypes are the literary images that grow out of the ‘‘collective unconscious.’’ They appear in literature as incidents and plots that repeat basic patterns of life. They may also appear as stereotyped characters. Argument: The argument of a work is the author’s subject matter or principal idea. Art for Art’s Sake: See Aestheticism
Antimasque: See Masque
Assonance: The repetition of similar vowel sounds in poetry.
Antithesis: The antithesis of something is its direct opposite. In literature, the use of antithesis as a figure of speech results in two statements that show a contrast through the balancing of two opposite ideas. Technically, it is the second portion of the statement that is defined as the ‘‘antithesis’’; the first portion is the ‘‘thesis.’’
Audience: The people for whom a piece of literature is written. Authors usually write with a certain audience in mind, for example, children, members of a religious or ethnic group, or colleagues in a professional field. The term ‘‘audience’’ also applies to the people who gather to see or hear any performance,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
including plays, poetry readings, speeches, and concerts. Automatic Writing: Writing carried out without a preconceived plan in an effort to capture every random thought. Authors who engage in automatic writing typically do not revise their work, preferring instead to preserve the revealed truth and beauty of spontaneous expression. Avant-garde: A French term meaning ‘‘vanguard.’’ It is used in literary criticism to describe new writing that rejects traditional approaches to literature in favor of innovations in style or content.
B Ballad: A short poem that tells a simple story and has a repeated refrain. Ballads were originally intended to be sung. Early ballads, known as folk ballads, were passed down through generations, so their authors are often unknown. Later ballads composed by known authors are called literary ballads. Baroque: A term used in literary criticism to describe literature that is complex or ornate in style or diction. Baroque works typically express tension, anxiety, and violent emotion. The term ‘‘Baroque Age’’ designates a period in Western European literature beginning in the late sixteenth century and ending about one hundred years later. Works of this period often mirror the qualities of works more generally associated with the label ‘‘baroque’’ and sometimes feature elaborate conceits. Baroque Age: See Baroque Baroque Period: See Baroque Beat Generation: See Beat Movement Beat Movement: A period featuring a group of American poets and novelists of the 1950s and 1960s—including Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, William S. Burroughs, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti—who rejected established social and literary values. Using such techniques as stream of consciousness writing and jazz-influenced free verse and focusing on unusual or abnormal states of mind—generated by religious ecstasy or the use of drugs—the Beat writers aimed to create works that were unconventional in both form and subject matter. Beat Poets: See Beat Movement Beats, The: See Beat Movement
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Belles-lettres: A French term meaning ‘‘fine letters’’ or ‘‘beautiful writing.’’ It is often used as a synonym for literature, typically referring to imaginative and artistic rather than scientific or expository writing. Current usage sometimes restricts the meaning to light or humorous writing and appreciative essays about literature. Black Aesthetic Movement: A period of artistic and literary development among African Americans in the 1960s and early 1970s. This was the first major African-American artistic movement since the Harlem Renaissance and was closely paralleled by the civil rights and black power movements. The black aesthetic writers attempted to produce works of art that would be meaningful to the black masses. Key figures in black aesthetics included one of its founders, poet and playwright Amiri Baraka, formerly known as LeRoi Jones; poet and essayist Haki R. Madhubuti, formerly Don L. Lee; poet and playwright Sonia Sanchez; and dramatist Ed Bullins. Black Arts Movement: See Black Aesthetic Movement Black Comedy: See Black Humor Black Humor: Writing that places grotesque elements side by side with humorous ones in an attempt to shock the reader, forcing him or her to laugh at the horrifying reality of a disordered world. Black Mountain School: Black Mountain College and three of its instructors—Robert Creeley, Robert Duncan, and Charles Olson—were all influential in projective verse, so poets working in projective verse are now referred as members of the Black Mountain school. Blank Verse: Loosely, any unrhymed poetry, but more generally, unrhymed iambic pentameter verse (composed of lines of five twosyllable feet with the first syllable accented, the second unaccented). Blank verse has been used by poets since the Renaissance for its flexibility and its graceful, dignified tone. Bloomsbury Group: A group of English writers, artists, and intellectuals who held informal artistic and philosophical discussions in Bloomsbury, a district of London, from around 1907 to the early 1930s. The Bloomsbury Group held no uniform philosophical
V o l u m e
2
x x x i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
beliefs but did commonly express an aversion to moral prudery and a desire for greater social tolerance. Bon Mot: A French term meaning ‘‘good word.’’ A bon mot is a witty remark or clever observation. Breath Verse: See Projective Verse Burlesque: Any literary work that uses exaggeration to make its subject appear ridiculous, either by treating a trivial subject with profound seriousness or by treating a dignified subject frivolously. The word ‘‘burlesque’’ may also be used as an adjective, as in ‘‘burlesque show,’’ to mean ‘‘striptease act.’’
C Cadence: The natural rhythm of language caused by the alternation of accented and unaccented syllables. Much modern poetry— notably free verse—deliberately manipulates cadence to create complex rhythmic effects. Caesura: A pause in a line of poetry, usually occurring near the middle. It typically corresponds to a break in the natural rhythm or sense of the line but is sometimes shifted to create special meanings or rhythmic effects. Canzone: A short Italian or Provencal lyric poem, commonly about love and often set to music. The canzone has no set form but typically contains five or six stanzas made up of seven to twenty lines of eleven syllables each. A shorter, five- to ten-line ‘‘envoy,’’ or concluding stanza, completes the poem. Carpe Diem: A Latin term meaning ‘‘seize the day.’’ This is a traditional theme of poetry, especially lyrics. A carpe diem poem advises the reader or the person it addresses to live for today and enjoy the pleasures of the moment. Catharsis: The release or purging of unwanted emotions—specifically fear and pity— brought about by exposure to art. The term was first used by the Greek philosopher Aristotle in his Poetics to refer to the desired effect of tragedy on spectators. Celtic Renaissance: A period of Irish literary and cultural history at the end of the nineteenth century. Followers of the movement aimed to create a romantic vision of Celtic myth and legend. The most significant works of the Celtic Renaissance typically present a dreamy,
x x x i i
E p i c s
f o r
unreal world, usually in reaction against the reality of contemporary problems. Celtic Twilight: See Celtic Renaissance Character: Broadly speaking, a person in a literary work. The actions of characters are what constitute the plot of a story, novel, or poem. There are numerous types of characters, ranging from simple, stereotypical figures to intricate, multifaceted ones. In the techniques of anthropomorphism and personification, animals—and even places or things—can assume aspects of character. ‘‘Characterization’’ is the process by which an author creates vivid, believable characters in a work of art. This may be done in a variety of ways, including (1) direct description of the character by the narrator; (2) the direct presentation of the speech, thoughts, or actions of the character; and (3) the responses of other characters to the character. The term ‘‘character’’ also refers to a form originated by the ancient Greek writer Theophrastus that later became popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It is a short essay or sketch of a person who prominently displays a specific attribute or quality, such as miserliness or ambition. Characterization: See Character Chronicle: A record of events presented in chronological order. Although the scope and level of detail provided varies greatly among the chronicles surviving from ancient times, some, such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, feature vivid descriptions and a lively recounting of events. During the Elizabethan Age, many dramas— appropriately called ‘‘chronicle plays’’—were based on material from chronicles. Many of William Shakespeare’s dramas of English history as well as Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II are based in part on Raphael Holinshead’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Classical: In its strictest definition in literary criticism, classicism refers to works of ancient Greek or Roman literature. The term may also be used to describe a literary work of recognized importance (a ‘‘classic’’) from any time period or literature that exhibits the traits of classicism. Classicism: A term used in literary criticism to describe critical doctrines that have their roots in ancient Greek and Roman literature,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
philosophy, and art. Works associated with classicism typically exhibit restraint on the part of the author, unity of design and purpose, clarity, simplicity, logical organization, and respect for tradition. Climax: The turning point in a narrative, the moment when the conflict is at its most intense. Typically, the structure of stories, novels, and plays is one of rising action, in which tension builds to the climax, followed by falling action, in which tension lessens as the story moves to its conclusion. The climax in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans occurs when Magua and his captive Cora are pursued to the edge of a cliff by Uncas. Magua kills Uncas but is subsequently killed by Hawkeye. Colloquialism: A word, phrase, or form of pronunciation that is acceptable in casual conversation but not in formal, written communication. It is considered more acceptable than slang. Complaint:A lyric poem, popular in the Renaissance, in which the speaker expresses sorrow about his or her condition. Typically, the speaker’s sadness is caused by an unresponsive lover, but some complaints cite other sources of unhappiness, such as poverty or fate. Conceit: A clever and fanciful metaphor, usually expressed through elaborate and extended comparison, that presents a striking parallel between two seemingly dissimilar things— for example, elaborately comparing a beautiful woman to an object like a garden or the sun. The conceit was a popular device throughout the Elizabethan Age and Baroque Age and was the principal technique of the seventeenth-century English metaphysical poets. This usage of the word conceit is unrelated to the best-known definition of conceit as an arrogant attitude or behavior. Concrete: Concrete is the opposite of abstract, and refers to a thing that actually exists or a description that allows the reader to experience an object or concept with the senses. Concrete Poetry: Poetry in which visual elements play a large part in the poetic effect. Punctuation marks, letters, or words are arranged on a page to form a visual design: a cross, for example, or a bumblebee.
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Confessional Poetry: A form of poetry in which the poet reveals very personal, intimate, sometimes shocking information about himself or herself. Conflict: The conflict in a work of fiction is the issue to be resolved in the story. It usually occurs between two characters, the protagonist and the antagonist, or between the protagonist and society or the protagonist and himself or herself. Conflict in Theodore Dreiser’s novel Sister Carrie comes as a result of urban society, while Jack London’s short story ‘‘To Build a Fire’’ concerns the protagonist’s battle against the cold and himself. Connotation: The impression that a word gives beyond its defined meaning. Connotations may be universally understood or may be significant only to a certain group. Consonance: Consonance occurs in poetry when words appearing at the ends of two or more verses have similar final consonant sounds but have final vowel sounds that differ, as with ‘‘stuff’’ and ‘‘off.’’ Convention: Any widely accepted literary device, style, or form. Corrido: A Mexican ballad. Couplet: Two lines of poetry with the same rhyme and meter, often expressing a complete and self-contained thought. Criticism: The systematic study and evaluation of literary works, usually based on a specific method or set of principles. An important part of literary studies since ancient times, the practice of criticism has given rise to numerous theories, methods, and ‘‘schools,’’ sometimes producing conflicting, even contradictory, interpretations of literature in general as well as of individual works. Even such basic issues as what constitutes a poem or a novel have been the subject of much criticism over the centuries.
D Dactyl: See Foot Dadaism: A protest movement in art and literature founded by Tristan Tzara in 1916. Followers of the movement expressed their outrage at the destruction brought about by World War I by revolting against numerous forms of social convention. The Dadaists presented works marked by calculated
V o l u m e
2
x x x i i i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
madness and flamboyant nonsense. They stressed total freedom of expression, commonly through primitive displays of emotion and illogical, often senseless, poetry. The movement ended shortly after the war, when it was replaced by surrealism. Decadent: See Decadents Decadents: The followers of a nineteenth-century literary movement that had its beginnings in French aestheticism. Decadent literature displays a fascination with perverse and morbid states; a search for novelty and sensation—the ‘‘new thrill’’; a preoccupation with mysticism; and a belief in the senselessness of human existence. The movement is closely associated with the doctrine Art for Art’s Sake. The term ‘‘decadence’’ is sometimes used to denote a decline in the quality of art or literature following a period of greatness. Deconstruction: A method of literary criticism developed by Jacques Derrida and characterized by multiple conflicting interpretations of a given work. Deconstructionists consider the impact of the language of a work and suggest that the true meaning of the work is not necessarily the meaning that the author intended. Deduction: The process of reaching a conclusion through reasoning from general premises to a specific premise. Denotation: The definition of a word, apart from the impressions or feelings it creates in the reader. Denouement: A French word meaning ‘‘the unknotting.’’ In literary criticism, it denotes the resolution of conflict in fiction or drama. The denouement follows the climax and provides an outcome to the primary plot situation as well as an explanation of secondary plot complications. The denouement often involves a character’s recognition of his or her state of mind or moral condition. A wellknown example of denouement is the last scene of the play As You Like It by William Shakespeare, in which couples are married, an evildoer repents, the identities of two disguised characters are revealed, and a ruler is restored to power. Also known as Falling Action. Dialogue: In its widest sense, dialogue is simply conversation between people in a literary
x x x i v
E p i c s
f o r
work; in its most restricted sense, it refers specifically to the speech of characters in a drama. As a specific literary genre, a ‘‘dialogue’’ is a composition in which characters debate an issue or idea. The Greek philosopher Plato frequently expounded his theories in the form of dialogues. Diction: The selection and arrangement of words in a literary work. Either or both may vary depending on the desired effect. There are four general types of diction: ‘‘formal,’’ used in scholarly or lofty writing; ‘‘informal,’’ used in relaxed but educated conversation; ‘‘colloquial,’’ used in everyday speech; and ‘‘slang,’’ containing newly coined words and other terms not accepted in formal usage. Didactic: A term used to describe works of literature that aim to teach some moral, religious, political, or practical lesson. Although didactic elements are often found in artistically pleasing works, the term ‘‘didactic’’ usually refers to literature in which the message is more important than the form. The term may also be used to criticize a work that the critic finds ‘‘overly didactic,’’ that is, heavy-handed in its delivery of a lesson. Dimeter: See Meter Dionysian: See Apollonian and Dionysian Discordia concours: A Latin phrase meaning ‘‘discord in harmony.’’ The term was coined by the eighteenth-century English writer Samuel Johnson to describe ‘‘a combination of dissimilar images or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.’’ Johnson created the expression by reversing a phrase by the Latin poet Horace. Dissonance: A combination of harsh or jarring sounds, especially in poetry. Although such combinations may be accidental, poets sometimes intentionally make them to achieve particular effects. Dissonance is also sometimes used to refer to close but not identical rhymes. When this is the case, the word functions as a synonym for consonance. Double Entendre: A corruption of a French phrase meaning ‘‘double meaning.’’ The term is used to indicate a word or phrase that is deliberately ambiguous, especially when one of the meanings is risque or improper.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
Draft: Any preliminary version of a written work. An author may write dozens of drafts which are revised to form the final work, or he or she may write only one, with few or no revisions. Drama: In its widest sense, a drama is any work designed to be presented by actors on a stage. Similarly, ‘‘drama’’ denotes a broad literary genre that includes a variety of forms, from pageant and spectacle to tragedy and comedy, as well as countless types and subtypes. More commonly in modern usage, however, a drama is a work that treats serious subjects and themes but does not aim at the grandeur of tragedy. This use of the term originated with the eighteenthcentury French writer Denis Diderot, who used the word drame to designate his plays about middle- class life; thus ‘‘drama’’ typically features characters of a less exalted stature than those of tragedy. Examples of classical dramas include Menander’s comedy Dyscolus and Sophocles’ tragedy Oedipus Rex. Contemporary dramas include Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh, Lillian Hellman’s Little Foxes, and August Wilson’s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Dramatic Monologue: See Monologue Dramatic Poetry: Any lyric work that employs elements of drama such as dialogue, conflict, or characterization, but excluding works that are intended for stage presentation. Dream Allegory: See Dream Vision Dream Vision: A literary convention, chiefly of the Middle Ages. In a dream vision a story is presented as a literal dream of the narrator. This device was commonly used to teach moral and religious lessons.
E Eclogue: In classical literature, a poem featuring rural themes and structured as a dialogue among shepherds. Eclogues often took specific poetic forms, such as elegies or love poems. Some were written as the soliloquy of a shepherd. In later centuries, ‘‘eclogue’’ came to refer to any poem that was in the pastoral tradition or that had a dialogue or monologue structure. Edwardian: Describes cultural conventions identified with the period of the reign of Edward VII of England (1901-1910). Writers of the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Edwardian Age typically displayed a strong reaction against the propriety and conservatism of the Victorian Age. Their work often exhibits distrust of authority in religion, politics, and art and expresses strong doubts about the soundness of conventional values. Edwardian Age: See Edwardian Electra Complex: A daughter’s amorous obsession with her father. Elegy: A lyric poem that laments the death of a person or the eventual death of all people. In a conventional elegy, set in a classical world, the poet and subject are spoken of as shepherds. In modern criticism, the word elegy is often used to refer to a poem that is melancholy or mournfully contemplative. Elizabethan Age: A period of great economic growth, religious controversy, and nationalism closely associated with the reign of Elizabeth I of England (1558-1603). The Elizabethan Age is considered a part of the general renaissance—that is, the flowering of arts and literature—that took place in Europe during the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries. The era is considered the golden age of English literature. The most important dramas in English and a great deal of lyric poetry were produced during this period, and modern English criticism began around this time. Empathy: A sense of shared experience, including emotional and physical feelings, with someone or something other than oneself. Empathy is often used to describe the response of a reader to a literary character. English Sonnet: See Sonnet Enjambment: The running over of the sense and structure of a line of verse or a couplet into the following verse or couplet. Enlightenment, The: An eighteenth-century philosophical movement. It began in France but had a wide impact throughout Europe and America. Thinkers of the Enlightenment valued reason and believed that both the individual and society could achieve a state of perfection. Corresponding to this essentially humanist vision was a resistance to religious authority. Epic: A long narrative poem about the adventures of a hero of great historic or legendary importance. The setting is vast and the action is often given cosmic significance
V o l u m e
2
x x x v
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
through the intervention of supernatural forces such as gods, angels, or demons. Epics are typically written in a classical style of grand simplicity with elaborate metaphors and allusions that enhance the symbolic importance of a hero’s adventures.
individual is alone in a godless universe and that the basic human condition is one of suffering and loneliness. Nevertheless, because there are no fixed values, individuals can create their own characters—indeed, they can shape themselves—through the exercise of free will. The atheistic strain culminates in and is popularly associated with the works of Jean-Paul Sartre. The Christian existentialists, on the other hand, believe that only in God may people find freedom from life’s anguish. The two strains hold certain beliefs in common: that existence cannot be fully understood or described through empirical effort; that anguish is a universal element of life; that individuals must bear responsibility for their actions; and that there is no common standard of behavior or perception for religious and ethical matters.
Epic Simile: See Homeric Simile Epigram: A saying that makes the speaker’s point quickly and concisely. Epilogue: A concluding statement or section of a literary work. In dramas, particularly those of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the epilogue is a closing speech, often in verse, delivered by an actor at the end of a play and spoken directly to the audience. Epiphany: A sudden revelation of truth inspired by a seemingly trivial incident. Episode: An incident that forms part of a story and is significantly related to it. Episodes may be either self- contained narratives or events that depend on a larger context for their sense and importance. Examples of episodes include the founding of Wilmington, Delaware in Charles Reade’s The Disinherited Heir and the individual events comprising the picaresque novels and medieval romances. Epitaph: An inscription on a tomb or tombstone, or a verse written on the occasion of a person’s death. Epitaphs may be serious or humorous. Epithalamion: A song or poem written to honor and commemorate a marriage ceremony. Epithalamium: See Epithalamion Epithet: A word or phrase, often disparaging or abusive, that expresses a character trait of someone or something.
Expatriates: See Expatriatism Expatriatism: The practice of leaving one’s country to live for an extended period in another country. Exposition: Writing intended to explain the nature of an idea, thing, or theme. Expository writing is often combined with description, narration, or argument. In dramatic writing, the exposition is the introductory material which presents the characters, setting, and tone of the play. Expressionism: An indistinct literary term, originally used to describe an early twentiethcentury school of German painting. The term applies to almost any mode of unconventional, highly subjective writing that distorts reality in some way. Extended Monologue: See Monologue
Erziehungsroman: See Bildungsroman Essay: A prose composition with a focused subject of discussion. The term was coined by Michel de Montaigne to describe his 1580 collection of brief, informal reflections on himself and on various topics relating to human nature. An essay can also be a long, systematic discourse. Existentialism: A predominantly twentiethcentury philosophy concerned with the nature and perception of human existence. There are two major strains of existentialist thought: atheistic and Christian. Followers of atheistic existentialism believe that the
x x x v i
E p i c s
f o r
F Fable: A prose or verse narrative intended to convey a moral. Animals or inanimate objects with human characteristics often serve as characters in fables. A famous fable is Aesop’s ‘‘The Tortoise and the Hare.’’ Feet: See Foot Feminine Rhyme: See Rhyme Fiction: Any story that is the product of imagination rather than a documentation of fact. Characters and events in such narratives may be based in real life but their ultimate
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
form and configuration is a creation of the author. Figurative Language: A technique in writing in which the author temporarily interrupts the order, construction, or meaning of the writing for a particular effect. This interruption takes the form of one or more figures of speech such as hyperbole, irony, or simile. Figurative language is the opposite of literal language, in which every word is truthful, accurate, and free of exaggeration or embellishment. Figures of Speech: Writing that differs from customary conventions for construction, meaning, order, or significance for the purpose of a special meaning or effect. There are two major types of figures of speech: rhetorical figures, which do not make changes in the meaning of the words, and tropes, which do. Fin de siecle: A French term meaning ‘‘end of the century.’’ The term is used to denote the last decade of the nineteenth century, a transition period when writers and other artists abandoned old conventions and looked for new techniques and objectives. First Person: See Point of View Flashback: A device used in literature to present action that occurred before the beginning of the story. Flashbacks are often introduced as the dreams or recollections of one or more characters. Flashback techniques are often used in films, where they are typically set off by a gradual changing of one picture to another. Foil: A character in a work of literature whose physical or psychological qualities contrast strongly with, and therefore highlight, the corresponding qualities of another character. In his Sherlock Holmes stories, Arthur Conan Doyle portrayed Dr. Watson as a man of normal habits and intelligence, making him a foil for the eccentric and wonderfully perceptive Sherlock Holmes.
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
including legends, ghost stories, fairy tales, fables, and anecdotes based on historical figures and events. Foot: The smallest unit of rhythm in a line of poetry. In English-language poetry, a foot is typically one accented syllable combined with one or two unaccented syllables. Foreshadowing: A device used in literature to create expectation or to set up an explanation of later developments. In Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations, the graveyard encounter at the beginning of the novel between Pip and the escaped convict Magwitch foreshadows the baleful atmosphere and events that comprise much of the narrative. Form: The pattern or construction of a work which identifies its genre and distinguishes it from other genres. Formalism: In literary criticism, the belief that literature should follow prescribed rules of construction, such as those that govern the sonnet form. Fourteener Meter: See Meter Free Verse: Poetry that lacks regular metrical and rhyme patterns but that tries to capture the cadences of everyday speech. The form allows a poet to exploit a variety of rhythmical effects within a single poem. Futurism: A flamboyant literary and artistic movement that developed in France, Italy, and Russia from 1908 through the 1920s. Futurist theater and poetry abandoned traditional literary forms. In their place, followers of the movement attempted to achieve total freedom of expression through bizarre imagery and deformed or newly invented words. The Futurists were selfconsciously modern artists who attempted to incorporate the appearances and sounds of modern life into their work.
Folk Ballad: See Ballad
G
Folklore: Traditions and myths preserved in a culture or group of people. Typically, these are passed on by word of mouth in various forms—such as legends, songs, and proverbs—or preserved in customs and ceremonies. This term was first used by W. J. Thoms in 1846.
Genre: A category of literary work. In critical theory, genre may refer to both the content of a given work—tragedy, comedy, pastoral—and to its form, such as poetry, novel, or drama.
Folktale: A story originating in oral tradition. Folktales fall into a variety of categories,
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
Genteel Tradition: A term coined by critic George Santayana to describe the literary practice of certain late nineteenth-century American writers, especially New Englanders. Followers of
V o l u m e
2
x x x v i i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
the Genteel Tradition emphasized conventionality in social, religious, moral, and literary standards. Georgian Age: See Georgian Poets Georgian Period: See Georgian Poets Georgian Poets: A loose grouping of English poets during the years 1912-1922. The Georgians reacted against certain literary schools and practices, especially Victorian wordiness, turn-of-the-century aestheticism, and contemporary urban realism. In their place, the Georgians embraced the nineteenth-century poetic practices of William Wordsworth and the other Lake Poets. Georgic: A poem about farming and the farmer’s way of life, named from Virgil’s Georgics. Gilded Age: A period in American history during the 1870s characterized by political corruption and materialism. A number of important novels of social and political criticism were written during this time. Gothic: See Gothicism Gothicism: In literary criticism, works characterized by a taste for the medieval or morbidly attractive. A gothic novel prominently features elements of horror, the supernatural, gloom, and violence: clanking chains, terror, charnel houses, ghosts, medieval castles, and mysteriously slamming doors. The term ‘‘gothic novel’’ is also applied to novels that lack elements of the traditional Gothic setting but that create a similar atmosphere of terror or dread. Graveyard School: A group of eighteenthcentury English poets who wrote long, picturesque meditations on death. Their works were designed to cause the reader to ponder immortality. Great Chain of Being: The belief that all things and creatures in nature are organized in a hierarchy from inanimate objects at the bottom to God at the top. This system of belief was popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Grotesque: In literary criticism, the subject matter of a work or a style of expression characterized by exaggeration, deformity, freakishness, and disorder. The grotesque often includes an element of comic absurdity.
x x x v i i i
E p i c s
f o r
H Haiku: The shortest form of Japanese poetry, constructed in three lines of five, seven, and five syllables respectively. The message of a haiku poem usually centers on some aspect of spirituality and provokes an emotional response in the reader. Half Rhyme: See Consonance Hamartia: In tragedy, the event or act that leads to the hero’s or heroine’s downfall. This term is often incorrectly used as a synonym for tragic flaw. In Richard Wright’s Native Son, the act that seals Bigger Thomas’s fate is his first impulsive murder. Harlem Renaissance: The Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s is generally considered the first significant movement of black writers and artists in the United States. During this period, new and established black writers published more fiction and poetry than ever before, the first influential black literary journals were established, and black authors and artists received their first widespread recognition and serious critical appraisal. Among the major writers associated with this period are Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, Arna Bontemps, Nella Larsen, and Zora Neale Hurston. Hellenism: Imitation of ancient Greek thought or styles. Also, an approach to life that focuses on the growth and development of the intellect. ‘‘Hellenism’’ is sometimes used to refer to the belief that reason can be applied to examine all human experience. Heptameter: See Meter Hero/Heroine: The principal sympathetic character (male or female) in a literary work. Heroes and heroines typically exhibit admirable traits: idealism, courage, and integrity, for example. Heroic Couplet: A rhyming couplet written in iambic pentameter (a verse with five iambic feet). Heroic Line: The meter and length of a line of verse in epic or heroic poetry. This varies by language and time period. Heroine: See Hero/Heroine Hexameter: See Meter
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
Historical Criticism: The study of a work based on its impact on the world of the time period in which it was written. Hokku: See Haiku Holocaust: See Holocaust Literature Holocaust Literature: Literature influenced by or written about the Holocaust of World War II. Such literature includes true stories of survival in concentration camps, escape, and life after the war, as well as fictional works and poetry. Homeric Simile: An elaborate, detailed comparison written as a simile many lines in length. Horatian Satire: See Satire Humanism: A philosophy that places faith in the dignity of humankind and rejects the medieval perception of the individual as a weak, fallen creature. ‘‘Humanists’’ typically believe in the perfectibility of human nature and view reason and education as the means to that end. Humors: Mentions of the humors refer to the ancient Greek theory that a person’s health and personality were determined by the balance of four basic fluids in the body: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. A dominance of any fluid would cause extremes in behavior. An excess of blood created a sanguine person who was joyful, aggressive, and passionate; a phlegmatic person was shy, fearful, and sluggish; too much yellow bile led to a choleric temperament characterized by impatience, anger, bitterness, and stubbornness; and excessive black bile created melancholy, a state of laziness, gluttony, and lack of motivation. Humours: See Humors Hyperbole: In literary criticism, deliberate exaggeration used to achieve an effect.
I Iamb: See Foot Idiom: A word construction or verbal expression closely associated with a given language. Image: A concrete representation of an object or sensory experience. Typically, such a representation helps evoke the feelings associated with the object or experience itself. Images are either ‘‘literal’’ or ‘‘figurative.’’ Literal images are especially concrete and involve little or no extension of the obvious meaning
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
of the words used to express them. Figurative images do not follow the literal meaning of the words exactly. Images in literature are usually visual, but the term ‘‘image’’ can also refer to the representation of any sensory experience. Imagery: The array of images in a literary work. Also, figurative language. Imagism: An English and American poetry movement that flourished between 1908 and 1917. The Imagists used precise, clearly presented images in their works. They also used common, everyday speech and aimed for conciseness, concrete imagery, and the creation of new rhythms. In medias res: A Latin term meaning ‘‘in the middle of things.’’ It refers to the technique of beginning a story at its midpoint and then using various flashback devices to reveal previous action. Induction: The process of reaching a conclusion by reasoning from specific premises to form a general premise. Also, an introductory portion of a work of literature, especially a play. Intentional Fallacy: The belief that judgments of a literary work based solely on an author’s stated or implied intentions are false and misleading. Critics who believe in the concept of the intentional fallacy typically argue that the work itself is sufficient matter for interpretation, even though they may concede that an author’s statement of purpose can be useful. Interior Monologue: A narrative technique in which characters’ thoughts are revealed in a way that appears to be uncontrolled by the author. The interior monologue typically aims to reveal the inner self of a character. It portrays emotional experiences as they occur at both a conscious and unconscious level. Images are often used to represent sensations or emotions. Internal Rhyme: Rhyme that occurs within a single line of verse. Irish Literary Renaissance: A late nineteenthand early twentieth-century movement in Irish literature. Members of the movement aimed to reduce the influence of British culture in Ireland and create an Irish national literature.
V o l u m e
2
x x x i x
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Irony: In literary criticism, the effect of language in which the intended meaning is the opposite of what is stated. Italian Sonnet: See Sonnet
Literal Language: An author uses literal language when he or she writes without exaggerating or embellishing the subject matter and without any tools of figurative language. Literary Ballad: See Ballad
J Jacobean Age: The period of the reign of James I of England (1603-1625). The early literature of this period reflected the worldview of the Elizabethan Age, but a darker, more cynical attitude steadily grew in the art and literature of the Jacobean Age. This was an important time for English drama and poetry.
Lost Generation: A term first used by Gertrude Stein to describe the post-World War I generation of American writers: men and women haunted by a sense of betrayal and emptiness brought about by the destructiveness of the war.
Jargon: Language that is used or understood only by a select group of people. Jargon may refer to terminology used in a certain profession, such as computer jargon, or it may refer to any nonsensical language that is not understood by most people.
Lyric Poetry: A poem expressing the subjective feelings and personal emotions of the poet. Such poetry is melodic, since it was originally accompanied by a lyre in recitals. Most Western poetry in the twentieth century may be classified as lyrical.
Journalism: Writing intended for publication in a newspaper or magazine, or for broadcast on a radio or television program featuring news, sports, entertainment, or other timely material.
M
K Knickerbocker Group: A somewhat indistinct group of New York writers of the first half of the nineteenth century. Members of the group were linked only by location and a common theme: New York life. Kunstlerroman: See Bildungsroman
Lais: See Lay Lake Poets: See Lake School Lake School: These poets all lived in the Lake District of England at the turn of the nineteenth century. As a group, they followed no single ‘‘school’’ of thought or literary practice, although their works were uniformly disparaged by the Edinburgh Review. Lay: A song or simple narrative poem. The form originated in medieval France. Early French lais were often based on the Celtic legends and other tales sung by Breton minstrels— thus the name of the ‘‘Breton lay.’’ In fourteenth-century England, the term ‘‘lay’’ was used to describe short narratives written in imitation of the Breton lays. Leitmotiv: See Motif
E p i c s
Mannerism: Exaggerated, artificial adherence to a literary manner or style. Also, a popular style of the visual arts of late sixteenthcentury Europe that was marked by elongation of the human form and by intentional spatial distortion. Literary works that are self-consciously high-toned and artistic are often said to be ‘‘mannered.’’ Masculine Rhyme: See Rhyme Measure: The foot, verse, or time sequence used in a literary work, especially a poem. Measure is often used somewhat incorrectly as a synonym for meter.
L
x l
Literature: Literature is broadly defined as any written or spoken material, but the term most often refers to creative works.
f o r
Metaphor: A figure of speech that expresses an idea through the image of another object. Metaphors suggest the essence of the first object by identifying it with certain qualities of the second object. Metaphysical Conceit: See Conceit Metaphysical Poetry: The body of poetry produced by a group of seventeenth-century English writers called the ‘‘Metaphysical Poets.’’ The group includes John Donne and Andrew Marvell. The Metaphysical Poets made use of everyday speech, intellectual analysis, and unique imagery. They aimed to portray the ordinary conflicts and contradictions of life. Their poems often took the form of an argument, and many
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
of them emphasize physical and religious love as well as the fleeting nature of life. Elaborate conceits are typical in metaphysical poetry.
Modernism: Modern literary practices. Also, the principles of a literary school that lasted from roughly the beginning of the twentieth century until the end of World War II. Modernism is defined by its rejection of the literary conventions of the nineteenth century and by its opposition to conventional morality, taste, traditions, and economic values. Monologue: A composition, written or oral, by a single individual. More specifically, a speech given by a single individual in a drama or other public entertainment. It has no set length, although it is usually several or more lines long. Monometer: See Meter Mood: The prevailing emotions of a work or of the author in his or her creation of the work. The mood of a work is not always what might be expected based on its subject matter. Motif: A theme, character type, image, metaphor, or other verbal element that recurs throughout a single work of literature or occurs in a number of different works over a period of time. Motiv: See Motif Muckrakers: An early twentieth-century group of American writers. Typically, their works exposed the wrongdoings of big business and government in the United States. Muses: Nine Greek mythological goddesses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
(Memory). Each muse patronized a specific area of the liberal arts and sciences. Calliope presided over epic poetry, Clio over history, Erato over love poetry, Euterpe over music or lyric poetry, Melpomene over tragedy, Polyhymnia over hymns to the gods, Terpsichore over dance, Thalia over comedy, and Urania over astronomy. Poets and writers traditionally made appeals to the Muses for inspiration in their work.
Metaphysical Poets: See Metaphysical Poetry Meter: In literary criticism, the repetition of sound patterns that creates a rhythm in poetry. The patterns are based on the number of syllables and the presence and absence of accents. The unit of rhythm in a line is called a foot. Types of meter are classified according to the number of feet in a line. These are the standard English lines: Monometer, one foot; Dimeter, two feet; Trimeter, three feet; Tetrameter, four feet; Pentameter, five feet; Hexameter, six feet (also called the Alexandrine); Heptameter, seven feet (also called the ‘‘Fourteener’’ when the feet are iambic).
o f
Myth: An anonymous tale emerging from the traditional beliefs of a culture or social unit. Myths use supernatural explanations for natural phenomena. They may also explain cosmic issues like creation and death. Collections of myths, known as mythologies, are common to all cultures and nations, but the best-known myths belong to the Norse, Roman, and Greek mythologies.
N Narration: The telling of a series of events, real or invented. A narration may be either a simple narrative, in which the events are recounted chronologically, or a narrative with a plot, in which the account is given in a style reflecting the author’s artistic concept of the story. Narration is sometimes used as a synonym for ‘‘storyline.’’ Narrative: A verse or prose accounting of an event or sequence of events, real or invented. The term is also used as an adjective in the sense ‘‘method of narration.’’ For example, in literary criticism, the expression ‘‘narrative technique’’ usually refers to the way the author structures and presents his or her story. Narrative Poetry: A nondramatic poem in which the author tells a story. Such poems may be of any length or level of complexity. Narrator: The teller of a story. The narrator may be the author or a character in the story through whom the author speaks. Naturalism: A literary movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The movement’s major theorist, French novelist Emile Zola, envisioned a type of fiction that would examine human life with the objectivity of scientific inquiry. The Naturalists typically viewed human beings as either the products of ‘‘biological
V o l u m e
2
x l i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
determinism,’’ ruled by hereditary instincts and engaged in an endless struggle for survival, or as the products of ‘‘socioeconomic determinism,’’ ruled by social and economic forces beyond their control. In their works, the Naturalists generally ignored the highest levels of society and focused on degradation: poverty, alcoholism, prostitution, insanity, and disease.
New Criticism: A movement in literary criticism, dating from the late 1920s, that stressed close textual analysis in the interpretation of works of literature. The New Critics saw little merit in historical and biographical analysis. Rather, they aimed to examine the text alone, free from the question of how external events—biographical or otherwise—may have helped shape it.
Negritude: A literary movement based on the concept of a shared cultural bond on the part of black Africans, wherever they may be in the world. It traces its origins to the former French colonies of Africa and the Caribbean. Negritude poets, novelists, and essayists generally stress four points in their writings: One, black alienation from traditional African culture can lead to feelings of inferiority. Two, European colonialism and Western education should be resisted. Three, black Africans should seek to affirm and define their own identity. Four, African culture can and should be reclaimed. Many Negritude writers also claim that blacks can make unique contributions to the world, based on a heightened appreciation of nature, rhythm, and human emotions— aspects of life they say are not so highly valued in the materialistic and rationalistic West.
New Journalism: A type of writing in which the journalist presents factual information in a form usually used in fiction. New journalism emphasizes description, narration, and character development to bring readers closer to the human element of the story, and is often used in personality profiles and in-depth feature articles. It is not compatible with ‘‘straight’’ or ‘‘hard’’ newswriting, which is generally composed in a brief, fact-based style.
Negro Renaissance: See Harlem Renaissance Neoclassicism: In literary criticism, this term refers to the revival of the attitudes and styles of expression of classical literature. It is generally used to describe a period in European history beginning in the late seventeenth century and lasting until about 1800. In its purest form, Neoclassicism marked a return to order, proportion, restraint, logic, accuracy, and decorum. In England, where Neoclassicism perhaps was most popular, it reflected the influence of seventeenth- century French writers, especially dramatists. Neoclassical writers typically reacted against the intensity and enthusiasm of the Renaissance period. They wrote works that appealed to the intellect, using elevated language and classical literary forms such as satire and the ode. Neoclassical works were often governed by the classical goal of instruction.
x l i i
E p i c s
f o r
New Negro Movement: See Harlem Renaissance Noble Savage: The idea that primitive man is noble and good but becomes evil and corrupted as he becomes civilized. The concept of the noble savage originated in the Renaissance period but is more closely identified with such later writers as Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Aphra Behn.
O
Neoclassical Period: See Neoclassicism
Neoclassicists: See Neoclassicism
New Journalists: See New Journalism
Objective Correlative: An outward set of objects, a situation, or a chain of events corresponding to an inward experience and evoking this experience in the reader. The term frequently appears in modern criticism in discussions of authors’ intended effects on the emotional responses of readers. Objectivity: A quality in writing characterized by the absence of the author’s opinion or feeling about the subject matter. Objectivity is an important factor in criticism. Occasional Verse: poetry written on the occasion of a significant historical or personal event. Vers de societe is sometimes called occasional verse although it is of a less serious nature. Octave: A poem or stanza composed of eight lines. The term octave most often represents the first eight lines of a Petrarchan sonnet. Ode: Name given to an extended lyric poem characterized by exalted emotion and dignified style. An ode usually concerns a single, serious
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
theme. Most odes, but not all, are addressed to an object or individual. Odes are distinguished from other lyric poetic forms by their complex rhythmic and stanzaic patterns. Oedipus Complex: A son’s amorous obsession with his mother. The phrase is derived from the story of the ancient Theban hero Oedipus, who unknowingly killed his father and married his mother. Omniscience: See Point of View Onomatopoeia: The use of words whose sounds express or suggest their meaning. In its simplest sense, onomatopoeia may be represented by words that mimic the sounds they denote such as ‘‘hiss’’ or ‘‘meow.’’ At a more subtle level, the pattern and rhythm of sounds and rhymes of a line or poem may be onomatopoeic. Oral Tradition: See Oral Transmission Oral Transmission: A process by which songs, ballads, folklore, and other material are transmitted by word of mouth. The tradition of oral transmission predates the written record systems of literate society. Oral transmission preserves material sometimes over generations, although often with variations. Memory plays a large part in the recitation and preservation of orally transmitted material. Oration: Formal speaking intended to motivate the listeners to some action or feeling. Such public speaking was much more common before the development of timely printed communication such as newspapers. Famous examples of oration include Abraham Lincoln’s ‘‘Gettysburg Address’’ and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘‘I Have a Dream’’ speech. Ottava Rima: An eight-line stanza of poetry composed in iambic pentameter (a five-foot line in which each foot consists of an unaccented syllable followed by an accented syllable), following the abababcc rhyme scheme. Oxymoron: A phrase combining two contradictory terms. Oxymorons may be intentional or unintentional.
P Pantheism: The idea that all things are both a manifestation or revelation of God and a part of God at the same time. Pantheism
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
was a common attitude in the early societies of Egypt, India, and Greece—the term derives from the Greek pan meaning ‘‘all’’ and theos meaning ‘‘deity.’’ It later became a significant part of the Christian faith. Parable: A story intended to teach a moral lesson or answer an ethical question. Paradox: A statement that appears illogical or contradictory at first, but may actually point to an underlying truth. Parallelism: A method of comparison of two ideas in which each is developed in the same grammatical structure. Parnassianism: A mid nineteenth-century movement in French literature. Followers of the movement stressed adherence to welldefined artistic forms as a reaction against the often chaotic expression of the artist’s ego that dominated the work of the Romantics. The Parnassians also rejected the moral, ethical, and social themes exhibited in the works of French Romantics such as Victor Hugo. The aesthetic doctrines of the Parnassians strongly influenced the later symbolist and decadent movements. Parody: In literary criticism, this term refers to an imitation of a serious literary work or the signature style of a particular author in a ridiculous manner. A typical parody adopts the style of the original and applies it to an inappropriate subject for humorous effect. Parody is a form of satire and could be considered the literary equivalent of a caricature or cartoon. Pastoral: A term derived from the Latin word ‘‘pastor,’’ meaning shepherd. A pastoral is a literary composition on a rural theme. The conventions of the pastoral were originated by the third-century Greek poet Theocritus, who wrote about the experiences, love affairs, and pastimes of Sicilian shepherds. In a pastoral, characters and language of a courtly nature are often placed in a simple setting. The term pastoral is also used to classify dramas, elegies, and lyrics that exhibit the use of country settings and shepherd characters. Pathetic Fallacy: A term coined by English critic John Ruskin to identify writing that falsely endows nonhuman things with human intentions and feelings, such as ‘‘angry clouds’’ and ‘‘sad trees.’’
V o l u m e
2
x l i i i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Pen Name: See Pseudonym Pentameter: See Meter Persona: A Latin term meaning ‘‘mask.’’ Personae are the characters in a fictional work of literature. The persona generally functions as a mask through which the author tells a story in a voice other than his or her own. A persona is usually either a character in a story who acts as a narrator or an ‘‘implied author,’’ a voice created by the author to act as the narrator for himself or herself. Personae: See Persona Personal Point of View: See Point of View Personification: A figure of speech that gives human qualities to abstract ideas, animals, and inanimate objects. Petrarchan Sonnet: See Sonnet
Poet: An author who writes poetry or verse. The term is also used to refer to an artist or writer who has an exceptional gift for expression, imagination, and energy in the making of art in any form. Poete maudit: A term derived from Paul Verlaine’s Les poetes maudits (The Accursed Poets), a collection of essays on the French symbolist writers Stephane Mallarme, Arthur Rimbaud, and Tristan Corbiere. In the sense intended by Verlaine, the poet is ‘‘accursed’’ for choosing to explore extremes of human experience outside of middle-class society. Poetic Fallacy: See Pathetic Fallacy
Phenomenology: A method of literary criticism based on the belief that things have no existence outside of human consciousness or awareness. Proponents of this theory believe that art is a process that takes place in the mind of the observer as he or she contemplates an object rather than a quality of the object itself. Plagiarism: Claiming another person’s written material as one’s own. Plagiarism can take the form of direct, word-for-word copying or the theft of the substance or idea of the work. Platonic Criticism: A form of criticism that stresses an artistic work’s usefulness as an agent of social engineering rather than any quality or value of the work itself. Platonism: The embracing of the doctrines of the philosopher Plato, popular among the poets of the Renaissance and the Romantic period. Platonism is more flexible than Aristotelian Criticism and places more emphasis on the supernatural and unknown aspects of life. Plot: In literary criticism, this term refers to the pattern of events in a narrative or drama. In its simplest sense, the plot guides the author in composing the work and helps the reader follow the work. Typically, plots exhibit causality and unity and have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Sometimes, however, a plot may consist of a series of disconnected events, in which case it is known as an ‘‘episodic plot.’’
x l i v
Poem: In its broadest sense, a composition utilizing rhyme, meter, concrete detail, and expressive language to create a literary experience with emotional and aesthetic appeal.
E p i c s
f o r
Poetic Justice: An outcome in a literary work, not necessarily a poem, in which the good are rewarded and the evil are punished, especially in ways that particularly fit their virtues or crimes. Poetic License: Distortions of fact and literary convention made by a writer—not always a poet—for the sake of the effect gained. Poetic license is closely related to the concept of ‘‘artistic freedom.’’ Poetics: This term has two closely related meanings. It denotes (1) an aesthetic theory in literary criticism about the essence of poetry or (2) rules prescribing the proper methods, content, style, or diction of poetry. The term poetics may also refer to theories about literature in general, not just poetry. Poetry: In its broadest sense, writing that aims to present ideas and evoke an emotional experience in the reader through the use of meter, imagery, connotative and concrete words, and a carefully constructed structure based on rhythmic patterns. Poetry typically relies on words and expressions that have several layers of meaning. It also makes use of the effects of regular rhythm on the ear and may make a strong appeal to the senses through the use of imagery. Point of View: The narrative perspective from which a literary work is presented to the reader. There are four traditional points of view. The ‘‘third person omniscient’’ gives the reader a ‘‘godlike’’ perspective,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
unrestricted by time or place, from which to see actions and look into the minds of characters. This allows the author to comment openly on characters and events in the work. The ‘‘third person’’ point of view presents the events of the story from outside of any single character’s perception, much like the omniscient point of view, but the reader must understand the action as it takes place and without any special insight into characters’ minds or motivations. The ‘‘first person’’ or ‘‘personal’’ point of view relates events as they are perceived by a single character. The main character ‘‘tells’’ the story and may offer opinions about the action and characters which differ from those of the author. Much less common than omniscient, third person, and first person is the ‘‘second person’’ point of view, wherein the author tells the story as if it is happening to the reader. Polemic: A work in which the author takes a stand on a controversial subject, such as abortion or religion. Such works are often extremely argumentative or provocative. Pornography: Writing intended to provoke feelings of lust in the reader. Such works are often condemned by critics and teachers, but those which can be shown to have literary value are viewed less harshly. Post-Aesthetic Movement: An artistic response made by African Americans to the black aesthetic movement of the 1960s and early ’70s. Writers since that time have adopted a somewhat different tone in their work, with less emphasis placed on the disparity between black and white in the United States. In the words of post-aesthetic authors such as Toni Morrison, John Edgar Wideman, and Kristin Hunter, African Americans are portrayed as looking inward for answers to their own questions, rather than always looking to the outside world. Postmodernism: Writing from the 1960s forward characterized by experimentation and continuing to apply some of the fundamentals of modernism, which included existentialism and alienation. Postmodernists have gone a step further in the rejection of tradition begun with the modernists by also rejecting traditional forms, preferring the
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
anti-novel over the novel and the anti-hero over the hero. Pre-Raphaelites: A circle of writers and artists in mid nineteenth-century England. Valuing the pre-Renaissance artistic qualities of religious symbolism, lavish pictorialism, and natural sensuousness, the Pre-Raphaelites cultivated a sense of mystery and melancholy that influenced later writers associated with the Symbolist and Decadent movements. Primitivism: The belief that primitive peoples were nobler and less flawed than civilized peoples because they had not been subjected to the tainting influence of society. Projective Verse: A form of free verse in which the poet’s breathing pattern determines the lines of the poem. Poets who advocate projective verse are against all formal structures in writing, including meter and form. Prologue: An introductory section of a literary work. It often contains information establishing the situation of the characters or presents information about the setting, time period, or action. In drama, the prologue is spoken by a chorus or by one of the principal characters. Prose: A literary medium that attempts to mirror the language of everyday speech. It is distinguished from poetry by its use of unmetered, unrhymed language consisting of logically related sentences. Prose is usually grouped into paragraphs that form a cohesive whole such as an essay or a novel. Prosopopoeia: See Personification Protagonist: The central character of a story who serves as a focus for its themes and incidents and as the principal rationale for its development. The protagonist is sometimes referred to in discussions of modern literature as the hero or anti-hero. Proverb: A brief, sage saying that expresses a truth about life in a striking manner. Pseudonym: A name assumed by a writer, most often intended to prevent his or her identification as the author of a work. Two or more authors may work together under one pseudonym, or an author may use a different name for each genre he or she publishes in. Some publishing companies maintain ‘‘house pseudonyms,’’ under which any number of authors may write installations in a series. Some authors also
V o l u m e
2
x l v
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
choose a pseudonym over their real names the way an actor may use a stage name. Pun: A play on words that have similar sounds but different meanings. Pure Poetry: poetry written without instructional intent or moral purpose that aims only to please a reader by its imagery or musical flow. The term pure poetry is used as the antonym of the term ‘‘didacticism.’’
Q Quatrain: A four-line stanza of a poem or an entire poem consisting of four lines.
R Realism: A nineteenth-century European literary movement that sought to portray familiar characters, situations, and settings in a realistic manner. This was done primarily by using an objective narrative point of view and through the buildup of accurate detail. The standard for success of any realistic work depends on how faithfully it transfers common experience into fictional forms. The realistic method may be altered or extended, as in stream of consciousness writing, to record highly subjective experience. Refrain: A phrase repeated at intervals throughout a poem. A refrain may appear at the end of each stanza or at less regular intervals. It may be altered slightly at each appearance. Renaissance: The period in European history that marked the end of the Middle Ages. It began in Italy in the late fourteenth century. In broad terms, it is usually seen as spanning the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, although it did not reach Great Britain, for example, until the 1480s or so. The Renaissance saw an awakening in almost every sphere of human activity, especially science, philosophy, and the arts. The period is best defined by the emergence of a general philosophy that emphasized the importance of the intellect, the individual, and world affairs. It contrasts strongly with the medieval worldview, characterized by the dominant concerns of faith, the social collective, and spiritual salvation. Repartee: Conversation featuring snappy retorts and witticisms. Resolution: The portion of a story following the climax, in which the conflict is resolved. The
x l v i
E p i c s
f o r
resolution of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey is neatly summed up in the following sentence: ‘‘Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang and every body smiled.’’ Restoration: See Restoration Age Restoration Age: A period in English literature beginning with the crowning of Charles II in 1660 and running to about 1700. The era, which was characterized by a reaction against Puritanism, was the first great age of the comedy of manners. The finest literature of the era is typically witty and urbane, and often lewd. Rhetoric: In literary criticism, this term denotes the art of ethical persuasion. In its strictest sense, rhetoric adheres to various principles developed since classical times for arranging facts and ideas in a clear, persuasive, appealing manner. The term is also used to refer to effective prose in general and theories of or methods for composing effective prose. Rhetorical Question: A question intended to provoke thought, but not an expressed answer, in the reader. It is most commonly used in oratory and other persuasive genres. Rhyme: When used as a noun in literary criticism, this term generally refers to a poem in which words sound identical or very similar and appear in parallel positions in two or more lines. Rhymes are classified into different types according to where they fall in a line or stanza or according to the degree of similarity they exhibit in their spellings and sounds. Some major types of rhyme are ‘‘masculine’’ rhyme, ‘‘feminine’’ rhyme, and ‘‘triple’’ rhyme. In a masculine rhyme, the rhyming sound falls in a single accented syllable, as with ‘‘heat’’ and ‘‘eat.’’ Feminine rhyme is a rhyme of two syllables, one stressed and one unstressed, as with ‘‘merry’’ and ‘‘tarry.’’ Triple rhyme matches the sound of the accented syllable and the two unaccented syllables that follow: ‘‘narrative’’ and ‘‘declarative.’’ Rhyme Royal: A stanza of seven lines composed in iambic pentameter and rhymed ababbcc. The name is said to be a tribute to King James I of Scotland, who made much use of the form in his poetry. Rhyme Scheme: See Rhyme Rhythm: A regular pattern of sound, time intervals, or events occurring in writing, most
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
often and most discernably in poetry. Regular, reliable rhythm is known to be soothing to humans, while interrupted, unpredictable, or rapidly changing rhythm is disturbing. These effects are known to authors, who use them to produce a desired reaction in the reader. Rising Action: The part of a drama where the plot becomes increasingly complicated. Rising action leads up to the climax, or turning point, of a drama. The final ‘‘chase scene’’ of an action film is generally the rising action which culminates in the film’s climax. Rococo: A style of European architecture that flourished in the eighteenth century, especially in France. The most notable features of rococo are its extensive use of ornamentation and its themes of lightness, gaiety, and intimacy. In literary criticism, the term is often used disparagingly to refer to a decadent or over-ornamental style. Romance: A broad term, usually denoting a narrative with exotic, exaggerated, often idealized characters, scenes, and themes. Romantic Age: See Romanticism Romanticism: This term has two widely accepted meanings. In historical criticism, it refers to a European intellectual and artistic movement of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries that sought greater freedom of personal expression than that allowed by the strict rules of literary form and logic of the eighteenth-century neoclassicists. The Romantics preferred emotional and imaginative expression to rational analysis. They considered the individual to be at the center of all experience and so placed him or her at the center of their art. The Romantics believed that the creative imagination reveals nobler truths—unique feelings and attitudes—than those that could be discovered by logic or by scientific examination. Both the natural world and the state of childhood were important sources for revelations of ‘‘eternal truths.’’ ‘‘Romanticism’’ is also used as a general term to refer to a type of sensibility found in all periods of literary history and usually considered to be in opposition to the principles of classicism. In this sense, Romanticism signifies any work or philosophy in which the exotic or dreamlike figure strongly, or that is devoted to individualistic expression, self-
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
analysis, or a pursuit of a higher realm of knowledge than can be discovered by human reason. Romantics: See Romanticism Russian Symbolism: A Russian poetic movement, derived from French symbolism, that flourished between 1894 and 1910. While some Russian Symbolists continued in the French tradition, stressing aestheticism and the importance of suggestion above didactic intent, others saw their craft as a form of mystical worship, and themselves as mediators between the supernatural and the mundane.
S Satire: A work that uses ridicule, humor, and wit to criticize and provoke change in human nature and institutions. There are two major types of satire: ‘‘formal’’ or ‘‘direct’’ satire speaks directly to the reader or to a character in the work; ‘‘indirect’’ satire relies upon the ridiculous behavior of its characters to make its point. Formal satire is further divided into two manners: the ‘‘Horatian,’’ which ridicules gently, and the ‘‘Juvenalian,’’ which derides its subjects harshly and bitterly. Scansion: The analysis or ‘‘scanning’’ of a poem to determine its meter and often its rhyme scheme. The most common system of scansion uses accents (slanted lines drawn above syllables) to show stressed syllables, breves (curved lines drawn above syllables) to show unstressed syllables, and vertical lines to separate each foot. Second Person: See Point of View Semiotics: The study of how literary forms and conventions affect the meaning of language. Sestet: Any six-line poem or stanza. Setting: The time, place, and culture in which the action of a narrative takes place. The elements of setting may include geographic location, characters’ physical and mental environments, prevailing cultural attitudes, or the historical time in which the action takes place. Shakespearean Sonnet: See Sonnet Signifying Monkey: A popular trickster figure in black folklore, with hundreds of tales about this character documented since the 19th century.
V o l u m e
2
x l v i i
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Simile: A comparison, usually using ‘‘like’’ or ‘‘as,’’ of two essentially dissimilar things, as in ‘‘coffee as cold as ice’’ or ‘‘He sounded like a broken record.’’ Slang: A type of informal verbal communication that is generally unacceptable for formal writing. Slang words and phrases are often colorful exaggerations used to emphasize the speaker’s point; they may also be shortened versions of an often-used word or phrase. Slant Rhyme: See Consonance Slave Narrative: Autobiographical accounts of American slave life as told by escaped slaves. These works first appeared during the abolition movement of the 1830s through the 1850s. Social Realism: See Socialist Realism Socialist Realism: The Socialist Realism school of literary theory was proposed by Maxim Gorky and established as a dogma by the first Soviet Congress of Writers. It demanded adherence to a communist worldview in works of literature. Its doctrines required an objective viewpoint comprehensible to the working classes and themes of social struggle featuring strong proletarian heroes. Soliloquy: A monologue in a drama used to give the audience information and to develop the speaker’s character. It is typically a projection of the speaker’s innermost thoughts. Usually delivered while the speaker is alone on stage, a soliloquy is intended to present an illusion of unspoken reflection. Sonnet: A fourteen-line poem, usually composed in iambic pentameter, employing one of several rhyme schemes. There are three major types of sonnets, upon which all other variations of the form are based: the ‘‘Petrarchan’’ or ‘‘Italian’’ sonnet, the ‘‘Shakespearean’’ or ‘‘English’’ sonnet, and the ‘‘Spenserian’’ sonnet. A Petrarchan sonnet consists of an octave rhymed abbaabba and a ‘‘sestet’’ rhymed either cdecde, cdccdc, or cdedce. The octave poses a question or problem, relates a narrative, or puts forth a proposition; the sestet presents a solution to the problem, comments upon the narrative, or applies the proposition put forth in the octave. The Shakespearean sonnet is divided into three quatrains and a couplet rhymed abab cdcd efef gg. The couplet provides an epigrammatic comment on the narrative or
x l v i i i
E p i c s
f o r
problem put forth in the quatrains. The Spenserian sonnet uses three quatrains and a couplet like the Shakespearean, but links their three rhyme schemes in this way: abab bcbc cdcd ee. The Spenserian sonnet develops its theme in two parts like the Petrarchan, its final six lines resolving a problem, analyzing a narrative, or applying a proposition put forth in its first eight lines. Spenserian Sonnet: See Sonnet Spenserian Stanza: A nine-line stanza having eight verses in iambic pentameter, its ninth verse in iambic hexameter, and the rhyme scheme ababbcbcc. Spondee: In poetry meter, a foot consisting of two long or stressed syllables occurring together. This form is quite rare in English verse, and is usually composed of two monosyllabic words. Sprung Rhythm: Versification using a specific number of accented syllables per line but disregarding the number of unaccented syllables that fall in each line, producing an irregular rhythm in the poem. Stanza: A subdivision of a poem consisting of lines grouped together, often in recurring patterns of rhyme, line length, and meter. Stanzas may also serve as units of thought in a poem much like paragraphs in prose. Stereotype: A stereotype was originally the name for a duplication made during the printing process; this led to its modern definition as a person or thing that is (or is assumed to be) the same as all others of its type. Stream of Consciousness: A narrative technique for rendering the inward experience of a character. This technique is designed to give the impression of an ever-changing series of thoughts, emotions, images, and memories in the spontaneous and seemingly illogical order that they occur in life. Structuralism: A twentieth-century movement in literary criticism that examines how literary texts arrive at their meanings, rather than the meanings themselves. There are two major types of structuralist analysis: one examines the way patterns of linguistic structures unify a specific text and emphasize certain elements of that text, and the other interprets the way literary forms and conventions affect the meaning of language itself.
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
Structure: The form taken by a piece of literature. The structure may be made obvious for ease of understanding, as in nonfiction works, or may obscured for artistic purposes, as in some poetry or seemingly ‘‘unstructured’’ prose. Sturm und Drang: A German term meaning ‘‘storm and stress.’’ It refers to a German literary movement of the 1770s and 1780s that reacted against the order and rationalism of the enlightenment, focusing instead on the intense experience of extraordinary individuals. Style: A writer’s distinctive manner of arranging words to suit his or her ideas and purpose in writing. The unique imprint of the author’s personality upon his or her writing, style is the product of an author’s way of arranging ideas and his or her use of diction, different sentence structures, rhythm, figures of speech, rhetorical principles, and other elements of composition. Subject: The person, event, or theme at the center of a work of literature. A work may have one or more subjects of each type, with shorter works tending to have fewer and longer works tending to have more. Subjectivity: Writing that expresses the author’s personal feelings about his subject, and which may or may not include factual information about the subject. Subplot: A secondary story in a narrative. A subplot may serve as a motivating or complicating force for the main plot of the work, or it may provide emphasis for, or relief from, the main plot. The conflict between the Capulets and the Montagues in William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is an example of a subplot. Surrealism: A term introduced to criticism by Guillaume Apollinaire and later adopted by Andre Breton. It refers to a French literary and artistic movement founded in the 1920s. The Surrealists sought to express unconscious thoughts and feelings in their works. The best-known technique used for achieving this aim was automatic writing— transcriptions of spontaneous outpourings from the unconscious. The Surrealists proposed to unify the contrary levels of conscious and unconscious, dream and reality, objectivity and subjectivity into a new level of ‘‘super-realism.’’
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
Suspense: A literary device in which the author maintains the audience’s attention through the buildup of events, the outcome of which will soon be revealed. Syllogism: A method of presenting a logical argument. In its most basic form, the syllogism consists of a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion. Symbol: Something that suggests or stands for something else without losing its original identity. In literature, symbols combine their literal meaning with the suggestion of an abstract concept. Literary symbols are of two types: those that carry complex associations of meaning no matter what their contexts, and those that derive their suggestive meaning from their functions in specific literary works. Symbolism: This term has two widely accepted meanings. In historical criticism, it denotes an early modernist literary movement initiated in France during the nineteenth century that reacted against the prevailing standards of realism. Writers in this movement aimed to evoke, indirectly and symbolically, an order of being beyond the material world of the five senses. Poetic expression of personal emotion figured strongly in the movement, typically by means of a private set of symbols uniquely identifiable with the individual poet. The principal aim of the Symbolists was to express in words the highly complex feelings that grew out of everyday contact with the world. In a broader sense, the term ‘‘symbolism’’ refers to the use of one object to represent another. Symbolist: See Symbolism Symbolist Movement: See Symbolism Sympathetic Fallacy: See Affective Fallacy
T Tanka: A form of Japanese poetry similar to haiku. A tanka is five lines long, with the lines containing five, seven, five, seven, and seven syllables respectively. Terza Rima: A three-line stanza form in poetry in which the rhymes are made on the last word of each line in the following manner: the first and third lines of the first stanza, then the second line of the first stanza and the first and third lines of the second stanza, and so on with the middle line of any stanza
V o l u m e
2
x l i x
G l o s s a r y
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
rhyming with the first and third lines of the following stanza.
of modern society by drawing their heroes from the ranks of ordinary men and women and defining the nobility of these heroes in terms of spirit rather than exalted social standing.
Tetrameter: See Meter Textual Criticism: A branch of literary criticism that seeks to establish the authoritative text of a literary work. Textual critics typically compare all known manuscripts or printings of a single work in order to assess the meanings of differences and revisions. This procedure allows them to arrive at a definitive version that (supposedly) corresponds to the author’s original intention. Theme: The main point of a work of literature. The term is used interchangeably with thesis. Thesis: A thesis is both an essay and the point argued in the essay. Thesis novels and thesis plays share the quality of containing a thesis which is supported through the action of the story. Third Person: See Point of View Tone: The author’s attitude toward his or her audience may be deduced from the tone of the work. A formal tone may create distance or convey politeness, while an informal tone may encourage a friendly, intimate, or intrusive feeling in the reader. The author’s attitude toward his or her subject matter may also be deduced from the tone of the words he or she uses in discussing it. Tragedy: A drama in prose or poetry about a noble, courageous hero of excellent character who, because of some tragic character flaw or hamartia, brings ruin upon him-or herself. Tragedy treats its subjects in a dignified and serious manner, using poetic language to help evoke pity and fear and bring about catharsis, a purging of these emotions. The tragic form was practiced extensively by the ancient Greeks. In the Middle Ages, when classical works were virtually unknown, tragedy came to denote any works about the fall of persons from exalted to low conditions due to any reason: fate, vice, weakness, etc. According to the classical definition of tragedy, such works present the ‘‘pathetic’’—that which evokes pity— rather than the tragic. The classical form of tragedy was revived in the sixteenth century; it flourished especially on the Elizabethan stage. In modern times, dramatists have attempted to adapt the form to the needs
l
E p i c s
f o r
Tragic Flaw: In a tragedy, the quality within the hero or heroine which leads to his or her downfall. Transcendentalism: An American philosophical and religious movement, based in New England from around 1835 until the Civil War. Transcendentalism was a form of American romanticism that had its roots abroad in the works of Thomas Carlyle, Samuel Coleridge, and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The Transcendentalists stressed the importance of intuition and subjective experience in communication with God. They rejected religious dogma and texts in favor of mysticism and scientific naturalism. They pursued truths that lie beyond the ‘‘colorless’’ realms perceived by reason and the senses and were active social reformers in public education, women’s rights, and the abolition of slavery. Trickster: A character or figure common in Native American and African literature who uses his ingenuity to defeat enemies and escape difficult situations. Tricksters are most often animals, such as the spider, hare, or coyote, although they may take the form of humans as well. Trimeter: See Meter Triple Rhyme: See Rhyme Trochee: See Foot
U Understatement: See Irony Unities: Strict rules of dramatic structure, formulated by Italian and French critics of the Renaissance and based loosely on the principles of drama discussed by Aristotle in his Poetics. Foremost among these rules were the three unities of action, time, and place that compelled a dramatist to: (1) construct a single plot with a beginning, middle, and end that details the causal relationships of action and character; (2) restrict the action to the events of a single day; and (3) limit the scene to a single place or city. The unities were observed faithfully by continental European writers until the Romantic Age,
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
G l o s s a r y
but they were never regularly observed in English drama. Modern dramatists are typically more concerned with a unity of impression or emotional effect than with any of the classical unities. Urban Realism: A branch of realist writing that attempts to accurately reflect the often harsh facts of modern urban existence. Utopia: A fictional perfect place, such as ‘‘paradise’’ or ‘‘heaven.’’ Utopian: See Utopia Utopianism: See Utopia
V Verisimilitude: Literally, the appearance of truth. In literary criticism, the term refers to aspects of a work of literature that seem true to the reader. Vers de societe: See Occasional Verse Vers libre: See Free Verse Verse: A line of metered language, a line of a poem, or any work written in verse. Versification: The writing of verse. Versification may also refer to the meter, rhyme, and other mechanical components of a poem. Victorian: Refers broadly to the reign of Queen Victoria of England (1837-1901) and to anything with qualities typical of that era. For example, the qualities of smug
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
o f
L i t e r a r y
T e r m s
narrowmindedness, bourgeois materialism, faith in social progress, and priggish morality are often considered Victorian. This stereotype is contradicted by such dramatic intellectual developments as the theories of Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, and Sigmund Freud (which stirred strong debates in England) and the critical attitudes of serious Victorian writers like Charles Dickens and George Eliot. In literature, the Victorian Period was the great age of the English novel, and the latter part of the era saw the rise of movements such as decadence and symbolism. Victorian Age: See Victorian Victorian Period: See Victorian
W Weltanschauung: A German term referring to a person’s worldview or philosophy. Weltschmerz: A German term meaning ‘‘world pain.’’ It describes a sense of anguish about the nature of existence, usually associated with a melancholy, pessimistic attitude.
Z Zarzuela: A type of Spanish operetta. Zeitgeist: A German term meaning ‘‘spirit of the time.’’ It refers to the moral and intellectual trends of a given era.
V o l u m e
2
l i
Author/Title Index A Aeneid (Virgil): V1 Alighieri, Dante Divine Comedy: V1 Anonymous Beowulf: V1 El Cid: V1 Epic of Gilgamesh: V1 Mahabharata: V1 Nibelungenlied: V2 Poetic Edda: V2 Song of Igor’s Campaign: V2 Song of Roland: V2 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailgne: V2
B Beowulf (Anonymous): V1
C The Cantos (Pound): V1 El Cid (Anonymous): V1
D Divine Comedy (Alighieri): V1
E Epic of Gilgamesh (Anonymous): V1
F The Faerie Queen (Spenser): V1
G Gerusalemme Liberata (Tasso): V1
Hugo, Victor Les Mise´rables: V1
I Iliad (Homer): V1
K Kalevala (Lo¨nnrot): V1 Kouyate´, Djeli Mamoudou Sundiata: V2
L Lo¨nnrot, Elias Kalevala: V1 The Lord of the Rings (Tolkien): V1 Lucan, Marcus Annaeus Pharsalia: V2 Lucretius On the Nature of Things: V2
M Mahabharata (Anonymous, attributed to Vyasa): V1 Malory, Thomas Le Morte d’Arthur: V2 Milton, John Paradise Lost: V2 Les Mise´rables (Hugo): V1 Le Morte d’Arthur (Malory): V2 Murasaki Shikibu The Tale of Genji: V2
N
Omeros (Walcott): V2 On the Nature of Thing (Lucretius): V2
P Paradise Lost (Milton): V2 Pharsalia (Lucan): V2 Poetic Edda (Anonymous): V2 Pound, Ezra The Cantos: V1
S Song of Igor’s Campaign (Anonymous): V2 Song of Roland (Anonymous): V2 Spenser, Edmund The Faerie Queene: V1 Sundiata (Kouyate´): V2
T Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailgne (Anonymous): V2 The Tale of Genji (Murasaki Shikibu): V2 Tasso, Torquato Gerusalemme Liberata: V1 Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings: V1 Tolstoy, Leo War and Peace: V2
V Virgil Aeneid: V1
H
Nibelungenlied (Anonymous): V2
W
Homer Iliad: V1 Odyssey: V2
O
Walcott, Derek Omeros: V2 War and Peace (Tolstoy): V2
Odyssey (Homer): V2
l i i i
Nationality/Ethnicity Index American
French
Malian
Pound, Ezra The Cantos: V1
Hugo, Victor Les Mise´rables: V1
Kouyate´, Djeli Mamoudou Sundiata: V2
Greek
Roman
English Malory, Thomas Le Morte d’Arthur: V2 Milton, John Paradise Lost: V2 Spenser, Edmund The Faerie Queene V1 Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings: V1
Homer Iliad: V1 Odyssey: V2
Italian
Lucan, Marcus Annaeus Pharsalia: V2 Lucretius On the Nature of Things: V2 Virgil Aeneid: V1
Alighieri, Dante Divine Comedy: V1 Tasso, Torquato Gerusalemme Liberata: V1
Russian
Finnish
Japanese
West Indian
Lo¨nnrot, Elias Kalevala: V1
Murasaki Shikibu The Tale of Genji: V2
Walcott, Derek Omeros: V2
Tolstoy, Leo War and Peace: V2
l v
Subject/Theme Index 20th Century (BCE ) Epic of Gilgamesh: 165 10th Century (BCE ) Mahabharata: 368 1st Century (BCE ) Aeneid: 13 On the Nature of Things: 556 1st Century (CE ). See also Iron Age Pharsalia: 620 621 Poetic Edda: 660 Song of Roland: 713 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 757 The Tale of Genji: 785 2nd Century (CE ) El Cid: 96, 98 Song of Roland: 713 The Tale of Genji: 785 11th Century (CE ) The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 692 12th Century (CE ) El Cid: 97, 98 13th Century (CE ) El Cid: 97 Sundiata: 740 14th Century (CE ) Divine Comedy: 136 15th Century (CE ) Le Morte d’Arthur: 431 16th Century (CE ) The Faerie Queene: 197 Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 Omeros: 529 17th Century (CE ) Omeros: 529 Paradise Lost: 592 19th Century (CE ) Les Mise´rables: 387 War and Peace: 821 20th Century (CE ) The Cantos: 60, 64 The Lord of the Rings: 333 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 692
21st Century (CE ) Aeneid: 13 Beowulf: 37 The Cantos: 60, 63 Divine Comedy: 136 El Cid: 96 Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 Iliad: 262 Kalevala: 297 The Lord of the Rings: 333 Mahabharata: 368 Les Mise´rables: 387 Le Morte d’Arthur: 431 Nibelungenlied: 474 Odyssey: 498 Omeros: 529 On the Nature of Things: 556 Paradise Lost: 592 Poetic Edda: 660 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 692 Song of Roland: 713 Sundiata: 740 The Tale of Genji: 785 War and Peace: 821
A Adultery Le Morte d’Arthur: 443 448 Affliction Le Morte d’Arthur: 436 443 Omeros: 523 524 African history Omeros: 528, 529 Sundiata: 739 741, 744 African society Sundiata: 741, 744 Afterlife Poetic Edda: 665
Allegories Aeneid: 15 Divine Comedy: 149 151 The Faerie Queene: 187, 196, 201, 208, 209, 210, 212 Gerusalemme Liberata: 227, 236 Kalevala: 303 Mahabharata: 367 Pharsalia: 626 627, 630 Alliteration Beowulf: 35, 41 Epic of Gilgamesh: 154 Iliad: 260 Kalevala: 296 The Lord of the Rings: 351 Odyssey: 497 Poetic Edda: 659, 679, 680 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 Allusions The Cantos: 55 Omeros: 525, 527 Poetic Edda: 659, 662, 679 Amazons Gerusalemme Liberata: 228, 229, 230 Ambiguity Aeneid: 23 American culture The Cantos: 64 65 Analogies The Faerie Queene: 209 Gerusalemme Liberata: 235 On the Nature of Things: 555 Anger Gerusalemme Liberata: 229, 231 237 Iliad: 248, 257, 267 Anglo Saxon culture Beowulf: 35, 36, 41 Anglo Saxon history Beowulf: 36
l v i i
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
I n d e x
Anglo Saxon society Beowulf: 33, 36, 37 38, 42 47 Antagonists Aeneid: 11 Mahabharata: 362 Antifeminism Poetic Edda: 669 672 Anti quest The Lord of the Rings: 332 Anti Semitism The Cantos: 60 61, 62, 64 Aphorisms Les Mise´rables: 399 Archaeology Beowulf: 26, 44 45, 49 Epic of Gilgamesh: 154, 164, 166 Iliad: 261, 262, 263, 265 Odyssey: 499 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 757 Archetypes Les Mise´rables: 398, 400, 402 Poetic Edda: 667 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 695 Aristocracy. See also Class conflict; Nobility Odyssey: 506 509 Pharsalia: 632 633, 641 643 War and Peace: 818, 820 822 Art The Cantos: 64 Divine Comedy: 131 133 Kalevala: 297 Omeros: 525, 533, 534 Sundiata: 735 The Tale of Genji: 786 War and Peace: 819 Arthurian legend The Faerie Queene: 191, 200 Kalevala: 301 The Lord of the Rings: 340 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430, 431, 433, 434, 442 Paradise Lost: 578 Aryan culture Mahabharata: 368 369, 373 374 Assonance Iliad: 260 The Lord of the Rings: 351 Odyssey: 497 Song of Roland: 711 Atheism Les Mise´rables: 407 408, 416 On the Nature of Things: 549, 560 Attribution Kalevala: 300 Audience On the Nature of Things: 555 Authenticity Kalevala: 300 Authority Gerusalemme Liberata: 237 246 Omeros: 541
l v i i i
On the Nature of Things: 555 Paradise Lost: 596, 597 Avant garde movement The Cantos: 52
B Beatitudes Epic of Gilgamesh: 231 237 Beauty The Cantos: 54, 57 58 The Faerie Queene: 202 208, 211 Gerusalemme Liberata: 230 Sundiata: 735 The Tale of Genji: 770, 781, 788 War and Peace: 840 Betrayal Iliad: 257 258 Bravery El Cid: 93 Song of Roland: 715, 717 British culture The Lord of the Rings: 333 Bronze Age Iliad: 261, 262 Mahabharata: 368 Odyssey: 498 499 Buddhism The Tale of Genji: 786, 790, 807 808, 809, 811 Burials Iliad: 262
C Caribbean culture Omeros: 535 544 Caribbean history Omeros: 528 530 Chance Iliad: 258 Pharsalia: 618 Change (Philosophy) The Faerie Queene: 199 200, 213 215 Les Mise´rables: 383 Chaos Kalevala: 294 Characterization Aeneid: 18 Beowulf: 34 35, 41 El Cid: 95 The Faerie Queene: 195 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 Nibelungenlied: 471, 475 Paradise Lost: 590 The Tale of Genji: 784 Charity The Faerie Queene: 194 195, 196 The Lord of the Rings: 343 Chaste love The Faerie Queene: 208, 213
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Chastity The Faerie Queene: 190, 195, 204, 212 Childhood Epic of Gilgamesh: 180 Chivalry El Cid: 116 117 The Faerie Queene: 187, 195, 196, 199, 200 Le Morte d’Arthur: 437, 440, 442 Nibelungenlied: 469, 471, 480 Choice (Psychology) Divine Comedy: 131 The Lord of the Rings: 317 Paradise Lost: 587 588, 598 Christianity. See also Parables Aeneid: 1, 15, 17 Beowulf: 32, 33, 39, 42, 45 Divine Comedy: 134 El Cid: 96 98, 100, 106 The Faerie Queene: 187, 194 195, 203, 210 211 Gerusalemme Liberata: 218, 219 221, 230 237 The Lord of the Rings: 344, 345 348 Le Morte d’Arthur: 434, 436 Nibelungenlied: 473 474 Poetic Edda: 660, 662, 665, 672 681 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 692, 694, 699 Song of Roland: 709 711, 714 715 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756, 757 The Tale of Genji: 807, 809 War and Peace: 839 Cities The Cantos: 67 73 Epic of Gilgamesh: 165 Civic strife Divine Comedy: 135 137 Civil war Pharsalia: 633 635 Civility The Faerie Queene: 191 Class. See also Aristocracy; Class conflict; Nobility El Cid: 91 92 Class conflict. See also Aristocracy Les Mise´rables: 384 War and Peace: 817 818 Classical civilization Aeneid: 1 Classicism Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 Colonialism Omeros: 525, 529, 530 Paradise Lost: 598 603 Coming of age Sundiata: 735 Communism The Cantos: 64
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
D Dark Ages Aeneid: 17 Iliad: 261 262 Death. See also Mortality Beowulf: 41 Gerusalemme Liberata: 237 Iliad: 260 261, 278 282 Kalevala: 294 295 The Lord of the Rings: 330 331 Le Morte d’Arthur: 443 448 On the Nature of Things: 550, 553 554, 557 558, 560 561, 563, 564, 567 576 Paradise Lost: 598 Pharsalia: 617 618, 619 Poetic Edda: 665 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 695
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Deathlessness. See Immortality Deception The Faerie Queene: 193 194, 210 Nibelungenlied: 469 470 Odyssey: 494 Paradise Lost: 597 Deprivation Omeros: 523 524 Desire On the Nature of Things: 560 The Tale of Genji: 783 Despair Beowulf: 41 Destiny. See also Fate Le Morte d’Arthur: 429, 448 455 Nibelungenlied: 471 Destruction The Cantos: 54 Determinism War and Peace: 826 831, 833, 842 844 Devotion Aeneid: 11 Dharma Mahabharata: 354, 365 366, 370 373, 374 Diction. See also Language and languages Aeneid: 12, 18, 22 23 Beowulf: 41, 43 44 The Cantos: 76 77, 79 The Lord of the Rings: 350 351 Les Mise´rables: 400 401 Odyssey: 497 On the Nature of Things: 567, 574 Paradise Lost: 604 606 Poetic Edda: 659 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 700 701 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 766 Didacticism Divine Comedy: 139 Gerusalemme Liberata: 228 On the Nature of Things: 555 Digressions Beowulf: 26, 35, 41, 43 Mahabharata: 355, 367 Les Mise´rables: 392, 398 400, 407 Pharsalia: 619, 626, 627 Disorder Divine Comedy: 133 Mahabharata: 366 367 Odyssey: 496 497 Divine providence. See also Providence Aeneid: 11 12, 17 18 Beowulf: 32 33, 40 41 Divine Comedy: 131 The Faerie Queene: 211 Gerusalemme Liberata: 220 Iliad: 267 276 Les Mise´rables: 396
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Odyssey: 511 On the Nature of Things: 554, 555, 559 Divinity. See also Supernatural Epic of Gilgamesh: 161, 162, 171 172 Gerusalemme Liberata: 219, 232, 234, 235, 237 246 Kalevala: 300 Mahabharata: 375 Odyssey: 511 513 Omeros: 541 On the Nature of Things: 554, 556 557, 570, 572, 573 Dreams Epic of Gilgamesh: 183 Kalevala: 313 Nibelungenlied: 470 471 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 697 700 Duty Aeneid: 8 The Faerie Queene: 193, 209 The Lord of the Rings: 337 Mahabharata: 365 366 Poetic Edda: 656 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 688 690, 696 Song of Roland: 709, 715 War and Peace: 818 819
E Economics. See also Gift giving; Propaganda The Cantos: 54, 57, 59 60, 71 72 El Cid: 96 Iliad: 262 The Lord of the Rings: 333 Les Mise´rables: 387 Poetic Edda: 660 Sundiata: 741 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 War and Peace: 821 822 Education Aeneid: 17, 19 Beowulf: 36 The Cantos: 60 Divine Comedy: 131 The Faerie Queene: 196, 200 201 Paradise Lost: 597 Pharsalia: 623 626 Emotions. See also specific entries, e.g., :Anger Les Mise´rables: 409 410 Empathy Gerusalemme Liberata: 234 English culture The Faerie Queene: 196 Paradise Lost: 599 600 Poetic Edda: 662 663
l i x
Subject/Theme Index
Community Le Morte d’Arthur: 440, 442 Pharsalia: 632 643 Compassion Les Mise´rables: 394 Compilation Kalevala: 295 Conflict Beowulf: 33 34 Song of Roland: 715 Confucianism The Cantos: 56, 82 The Tale of Genji: 786 Consequences Divine Comedy: 131 Paradise Lost: 587 588 Contradiction Pharsalia: 632 643 Courage El Cid: 112 Courtly love Gerusalemme Liberata: 218 Le Morte d’Arthur: 419, 428 Nibelungenlied: 469 Cowardice El Cid: 93 Craftmanship Beowulf: 36 Creativity Odyssey: 494 The Crusades Gerusalemme Liberata: 227 Song of Roland: 714 Culture. See also specific entries, e.g., :Finnish culture Epic of Gilgamesh: 160 161, 164, 169 170, 177 178 Gerusalemme Liberata: 230 Iliad: 264 267 Odyssey: 498 Song of Roland: 709
I n d e x
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
I n d e x
English history The Faerie Queene: 197 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 432 Paradise Lost: 591, 592 English society The Faerie Queene: 201 Envy El Cid: 122 Epic features Aeneid: 15 16 Beowulf: 35, 39 42 Divine Comedy: 133 134 Epic of Gilgamesh: 162, 164 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 Le Morte d’Arthur: 434 435 Nibelungenlied: 472, 476 477, 479 Omeros: 515 516, 523, 525, 526, 531 535 On the Nature of Things: 555 Paradise Lost: 589 590, 591 Pharsalia: 618 Poetic Edda: 659, 663 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 690 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755, 756 The Tale of Genji: 783 Epicureanism Aeneid: 10 On the Nature of Things: 549, 550, 552 554, 556, 557 561, 561 562, 567 571, 576 Epithets El Cid: 95 Epic of Gilgamesh: 163 Iliad: 248, 277 278 Kalevala: 313 Erotic love Gerusalemme Liberata: 227, 233 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 699 700 Escapism The Lord of the Rings: 334 335, 345 Ethics. See also Morality Aeneid: 10 Pharsalia: 632 643 Poetic Edda: 676 European culture Aeneid: 11 European history Divine Comedy: 135 Evanescence The Tale of Genji: 781 Evil Beowulf: 34, 39, 40 The Cantos: 81 82 Mahabharata: 367 368 Song of Roland: 709 Excessive desire The Tale of Genji: 783 Exile Divine Comedy: 124, 126, 133, 137 El Cid: 93 94
l x
Experience War and Peace: 819
F Faith Les Mise´rables: 409 411 Fall of man Paradise Lost: 578, 595 598 Family honor El Cid: 86 Family relationships Aeneid: 10 11 Beowulf: 41 Sundiata: 737 Fantasy fiction The Lord of the Rings: 332, 334, 345 Fate. See also Destiny Beowulf: 32 33 Iliad: 248, 258 The Lord of the Rings: 343 344 Le Morte d’Arthur: 429, 448 455 Nibelungenlied: 471 On the Nature of Things: 554 Paradise Lost: 590 Pharsalia: 618, 622 Fear Epic of Gilgamesh: 171 On the Nature of Things: 554 555, 558, 563, 564 Pharsalia: 619 Femininity Le Morte d’Arthur: 437 438, 441 Feudalism El Cid: 95, 96, 97, 110 Nibelungenlied: 471 Feuds Beowulf: 33 34 Fidelity The Faerie Queene: 201 Figurative language Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 226 Finnish culture Kalevala: 299 300, 301 304 Finnish mythology Kalevala: 294, 301 304 Finnish society Kalevala: 296 297 Poetic Edda: 662 Flashbacks Iliad: 261 Foil characters El Cid: 95 Folk culture. See also Monsters Kalevala: 298, 300 301, 313 Poetic Edda: 676 The Tale of Genji: 808 809 Foolishness The Lord of the Rings: 343 344 Foreshadow Beowulf: 26 The Cantos: 68 69 Iliad: 260 261, 273
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Les Mise´rables: 399 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 Nibelungenlied: 470, 472, 477 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 696 Song of Roland: 712 Sundiata: 738 739 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 Formulas. See also Epithets Beowulf: 35 Kalevala: 296 Fortitude Beowulf: 32 Fortune Pharsalia: 618 Frame stories Mahabharata: 368 Fratricide Pharsalia: 617 618, 619 Free will Divine Comedy: 131, 149 Les Mise´rables: 402 403 Le Morte d’Arthur: 448 455 Paradise Lost: 597, 598 War and Peace: 820, 828, 829, 830, 843 Freedom Paradise Lost: 587 French history Les Mise´rables: 387 389, 394, 395, 411 415 War and Peace: 820 821 French society Les Mise´rables: 387, 393 394 Friendship The Faerie Queene: 190, 194, 196 On the Nature of Things: 552 554, 556, 560 Song of Roland: 709 Fugitive Group The Cantos: 64 Fugues The Cantos: 54, 59 Furor Gerusalemme Liberata: 231 237 Futility Beowulf: 42
G Gender roles. See also Women Aeneid: 20 22 Beowulf: 42 47, 48 The Lord of the Rings: 337 338 Le Morte d’Arthur: 436 443 Omeros: 542 547 Poetic Edda: 669 672 The Tale of Genji: 792 Generosity El Cid: 92 93, 116 Poetic Edda: 656 German culture Poetic Edda: 662 663 Germanic culture Nibelungenlied: 473 474
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
H Halls Beowulf: 36 Hatred The Tale of Genji: 809 Heaven. See Paradise Hegemony Omeros: 523 Heian Era The Tale of Genji: 784 785, 789 790, 792, 794, 799, 801 806
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Heiti Poetic Edda: 659 Hell Divine Comedy: 127 128, 131 Gerusalemme Liberata: 231 Heroism Aeneid: 11, 17, 19 20 Beowulf: 39 The Cantos: 81 82 Divine Comedy: 133 El Cid: 85, 93, 115 122 Epic of Gilgamesh: 159 160, 162, 168, 170, 171, 176, 180 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225, 227, 236 The Lord of the Rings: 345 346 Nibelungenlied: 471, 478 Odyssey: 494 495, 502 Paradise Lost: 590 Poetic Edda: 656 657, 672 Song of Roland: 717 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 754 The Tale of Genji: 783 War and Peace: 820, 833 Hinduism Mahabharata: 355, 366 367, 368, 370, 371 374, 375 376 History. See also specific entries, e.g., :Spanish history The Cantos: 54, 58 59, 66 68, 71 74 Epic of Gilgamesh: 164, 166 167 Gerusalemme Liberata: 219, 228, 231 Iliad: 264 267 Kalevala: 300 301 Pharsalia: 622 War and Peace: 832 Holiness The Faerie Queene: 189 Honesty The Faerie Queene: 191 Honor El Cid: 93, 112 Gerusalemme Liberata: 223 Iliad: 248, 258 259 Le Morte d’Arthur: 419, 428 429, 437, 442 Nibelungenlied: 458, 476 Song of Roland: 709 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 754 Hospitality Nibelungenlied: 471 472 Poetic Edda: 656 Sundiata: 729 Human condition Aeneid: 22 Odyssey: 495 496 On the Nature of Things: 561 Paradise Lost: 589, 590, 595 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 760 The Tale of Genji: 783, 787 War and Peace: 812
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Human nature Aeneid: 17 Human rights Les Mise´rables: 383 384 Humanism The Faerie Queene: 194 195, 196, 200 Mahabharata: 370 Paradise Lost: 594 Song of Roland: 719, 721, 722 Humanity Epic of Gilgamesh: 161, 171 172 Hyperbole The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 691
I Icelandic culture. See also Vikings Poetic Edda: 660, 661, 662, 663, 672 681 Idealism Les Mise´rables: 401 403 Pharsalia: 623 626 Ideals Aeneid: 10 Identity El Cid: 86 Epic of Gilgamesh: 161, 167 173 The Lord of the Rings: 341 Le Morte d’Arthur: 441 Odyssey: 506 507 Omeros: 523, 540 Sundiata: 729 Ideology Pharsalia: 632, 641 643 Ignorance On the Nature of Things: 554 555 Paradise Lost: 589 Illegitimacy El Cid: 100 101, 113 114 Imagery (Literature) Aeneid: 12, 18 The Cantos: 55, 57, 58, 80 The Faerie Queene: 208 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 226 Iliad: 266 The Lord of the Rings: 331 332 Les Mise´rables: 408 Omeros: 527 On the Nature of Things: 553 Paradise Lost: 604, 605, 606 Pharsalia: 619 Poetic Edda: 667 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 683, 696 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 756 The Tale of Genji: 792 War and Peace: 838 Imagination Divine Comedy: 142 Gerusalemme Liberata: 231, 234, 235, 236 Iliad: 266
l x i
Subject/Theme Index
Germanic history Song of Roland: 712 715 Germanic society Nibelungenlied: 480 Gift giving El Cid: 110 111, 112 Nibelungenlied: 471 472 Poetic Edda: 656 Glory Beowulf: 32, 41 Iliad: 248 God. See also Divine providence; Divinity Beowulf: 34 Divine Comedy: 133 134 The Faerie Queene: 211 Gerusalemme Liberata: 232, 236, 237 246 Les Mise´rables: 406, 409 411 Le Morte d’Arthur: 428 429 Paradise Lost: 593, 595 598 God like Iliad: 276 282 Good and evil The Cantos: 67 Mahabharata: 367 Song of Roland: 709 Goodness Mahabharata: 367 368 Grave goods Beowulf: 44 45 The Great Depression The Cantos: 64 Greed El Cid: 92 93 Greek culture Aeneid: 11 12 Iliad: 261 263, 265 266 Odyssey: 488 500 Greek mythology Iliad: 276 Grief Epic of Gilgamesh: 172, 176 177, 178 Grotesque Sundiata: 739 Guilt (Psychology) The Tale of Genji: 809, 810, 811
I n d e x
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
I n d e x
Les Mise´rables: 399 Odyssey: 494 Imitation Aeneid: 11, 12 Immortality Epic of Gilgamesh: 161 162, 179 180, 182 The Lord of the Rings: 330 331 On the Nature of Things: 558 Incest Kalevala: 295 Independence Kalevala: 298, 299 Omeros: 525, 529, 530, 541 Indian culture Mahabharata: 368 Indian society Mahabharata: 368 Individualism Odyssey: 513 Indus Valley culture Mahabharata: 368 Industrialization The Lord of the Rings: 333 334 Les Mise´rables: 389 390 Injustice Les Mise´rables: 384 385 Innocence Paradise Lost: 603 608 Integrity Pharsalia: 626 Intelligence The Cantos: 78, 79, 80 Irish culture Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 767 768 Irish history Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 758, 762 768 Irish society Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 757 Iron Age Iliad: 262 263 Odyssey: 498, 499 500 Poetic Edda: 662 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 757 Irony Beowulf: 35, 48 El Cid: 85 Epic of Gilgamesh: 182 185 The Lord of the Rings: 346 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 698 Islam El Cid: 96 98, 104 108 Gerusalemme Liberata: 219, 220 221, 230 231, 234 Song of Roland: 713, 714 715, 717 718 Sundiata: 739, 740 Italian history Divine Comedy: 135 137 Italian Renaissance
l x i i
Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 227, 228, 229, 230
J Japanese culture The Tale of Genji: 785 Japanese history The Tale of Genji: 784 786 Japanese society The Tale of Genji: 785 786 Jealousy The Tale of Genji: 781, 802, 805, 808, 809, 811 War and Peace: 839 Jewish persecution The Cantos: 60 61, 62, 64 Judaism El Cid: 96 98 Justice The Cantos: 71 The Faerie Queene: 190 191, 195, 204, 212 214 Les Mise´rables: 384 385 Odyssey: 512 Paradise Lost: 587
K Kennings Poetic Edda: 659, 679 Kinship. See Family relationships Knowledge The Cantos: 78, 79 The Lord of the Rings: 318 Omeros: 546 Paradise Lost: 589, 595 598 Song of Roland: 722
Life (Philosophy) Divine Comedy: 131 133 Kalevala: 294 295 Les Mise´rables: 385 War and Peace: 833, 834 838 Life and death Iliad: 277 282 War and Peace: 838 Limitations Sundiata: 735 Love. See also Courtly love; Erotic love; Romantic love The Faerie Queene: 212 Gerusalemme Liberata: 224, 229, 230, 232 233 Iliad: 259, 268 271, 273, 278 279 Les Mise´rables: 385, 396 397 Le Morte d’Arthur: 444, 452 Nibelungenlied: 483 Odyssey: 496 On the Nature of Things: 558, 566 567 Poetic Edda: 663 666 The Tale of Genji: 781, 783 Loyalty Beowulf: 33, 36 El Cid: 115 116 The Faerie Queene: 190 Nibelungenlied: 458 Odyssey: 496, 513 Poetic Edda: 656 Lust Gerusalemme Liberata: 235 Lyric poetry The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 697 700
M L Language and languages. See also Diction; Philology; Translations The Cantos: 72, 74, 82 Divine Comedy: 124, 131, 134 The Faerie Queene: 199 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 226, 228 Kalevala: 296 297, 298, 301 The Lord of the Rings: 333 Mahabharata: 368 Omeros: 536 Paradise Lost: 603 608 Pharsalia: 624, 626 632 Song of Roland: 711, 713 Sundiata: 738 Lays Beowulf: 26, 28 Kalevala: 315 Poetic Edda: 645 646, 659, 663 Libertas Pharsalia: 616 617, 625
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Madness Gerusalemme Liberata: 232, 233, 234, 235 Magic Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 Kalevala: 292, 294, 314, 315 Le Morte d’Arthur: 419 Sundiata: 736 Man and nature Kalevala: 294 Marriage The Tale of Genji: 785 786 Masculinity Le Morte d’Arthur: 436 443 Meaning of life Les Mise´rables: 386 In medias rebus: On the Nature of Things: 568 In medias res: Divine Comedy: 133 Epic of Gilgamesh: 163 The Faerie Queene: 202 Paradise Lost: 590
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
El Cid: 96, 111 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 692 The Tale of Genji: 785 Modernism (Literature) The Cantos: 51, 52, 62, 63 Monomyth The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 695 696 Monsters Beowulf: 34, 39, 40, 41 Morality. See also Ethics; Parables The Cantos: 82 The Faerie Queene: 189, 195, 204 Gerusalemme Liberata: 217, 218, 227 228 The Lord of the Rings: 317, 331, 336, 342 Mahabharata: 375 Les Mise´rables: 377, 394, 397, 403 404, 407, 409 411, 416 Le Morte d’Arthur: 433 On the Nature of Things: 559 560 Paradise Lost: 597 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 699, 700 Song of Roland: 709 711 Mortality Epic of Gilgamesh: 161 162, 171 172 The Faerie Queene: 209 Les Mise´rables: 409 Murder Nibelungenlied: 477 478 Music Beowulf: 36 On the Nature of Things: 564 565 Mythology Aeneid: 11 12, 23 24 The Cantos: 70 Epic of Gilgamesh: 164 Iliad: 276 Kalevala: 294, 300 304 Mahabharata: 370 Nibelungenlied: 482, 483 Paradise Lost: 591, 595 Poetic Edda: 662, 676, 677 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 694 696
N Narrative technique. See Point of view (Literature) National identity Kalevala: 295, 296 297, 298, 301, 312, 314 Odyssey: 500 Poetic Edda: 662 Nationalism. See also Patriotism Nibelungenlied: 474 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 758, 762 768
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
Naturalism (Literature) Les Mise´rables: 395 Nature Epic of Gilgamesh: 160 161, 169, 177 178 The Faerie Queene: 191, 200, 209, 211 215 Kalevala: 294, 313, 314 On the Nature of Things: 550, 554, 564, 572 573 Pharsalia: 619 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 683, 690, 696 Neoplatonism The Faerie Queene: 209, 210 211 New Criticism The Cantos: 62 New Critics The Cantos: 64 65, 66 New York Intellectuals The Cantos: 64 65, 66 Nobility. See also Aristocracy; Class conflict El Cid: 91 92, 93, 105, 111 112 Norwegian culture Poetic Edda: 678 Numerology Divine Comedy: 127
O Obedience Le Morte d’Arthur: 429 Paradise Lost: 588 589, 597 598 Opportunities Sundiata: 735 Oral (literature). See also Rhetoric Beowulf: 36 El Cid: 86, 94 95, 99, 110 Epic of Gilgamesh: 154, 162 163, 166 Kalevala: 295, 296, 301 Poetic Edda: 645 646, 681 Song of Roland: 711, 715, 721 Sundiata: 728, 735, 738, 740, 741, 742 744 Orality Epic of Gilgamesh: 162 163 Order Divine Comedy: 127, 128, 133 Kalevala: 294 Mahabharata: 366 367 Odyssey: 496 497 Orientalism El Cid: 103 109
P Palimpsest The Cantos: 53, 54, 56 57 Papacy and empire Divine Comedy: 135
2
l x i i i
Subject/Theme Index
Medieval life Le Morte d’Arthur: 431 432 Medieval romance Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 Mediterranean culture. See Greek culture; Roman culture Mediterranean history. See Roman history Melancholy Gerusalemme Liberata: 232 The Tale of Genji: 781, 784 Memory Song of Roland: 711 Mental disorders. See also Madness The Cantos: 53, 55, 60, 61, 65, 73 Gerusalemme Liberata: 218 Poetic Edda: 669 Mercy The Lord of the Rings: 329 330, 343, 347 Metamorphosis (Literature) Pharsalia: 628 631 Metaphors. See also Allegories Beowulf: 35 Divine Comedy: 134, 139, 140 The Faerie Queene: 206 207 Gerusalemme Liberata: 236 The Lord of the Rings: 338, 341 On the Nature of Things: 555 Paradise Lost: 605 Pharsalia: 628, 630 Poetic Edda: 662, 679 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 683, 691, 696, 700 The Tale of Genji: 804, 808 809 War and Peace: 838 Metaphysics Epic of Gilgamesh: 153 Meter Aeneid: 12, 18, 20, 21 El Cid: 94 95 Iliad: 260 Kalevala: 313 Mahabharata: 368 Nibelungenlied: 484 Odyssey: 497 Omeros: 528 On the Nature of Things: 550, 557 Paradise Lost: 590, 594 Metonyms El Cid: 104 105, 107 Metrics Poetic Edda: 680, 681 Middle ages Divine Comedy: 135 El Cid: 85, 103 109, 110 Nibelungenlied: 471, 474 Might makes right Gerusalemme Liberata: 224 225 Military Aeneid: 13 The Cantos: 60
I n d e x
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
I n d e x
Parables The Faerie Queene: 195 Paradise Divine Comedy: 129 130, 131 Parallelism Kalevala: 296 Poetic Edda: 679 680 Song of Roland: 718 Passion. See also Anger; Love Paradise Lost: 597 Past The Cantos: 56 57 Patriotism. See also Nationalism Iliad: 259 260 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 688 War and Peace: 833 Patronage Aeneid: 13, 14 15, 19 The Faerie Queene: 198 199 Sundiata: 728 Peace Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 Peer pressure Iliad: 260 Performance Epic of Gilgamesh: 162 163 Philology. See also Language and languages Beowulf: 25 Kalevala: 295, 296, 298, 301, 313 The Lord of the Rings: 318, 332 333 Poetic Edda: 646, 662, 675 Philosophy. See also Epicureanism Aeneid: 10 The Cantos: 55 On the Nature of Things: 556 557, 563, 575 Paradise Lost: 593 Pilgrimages El Cid: 102 Pity The Lord of the Rings: 329 330, 343, 347 Place names Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 754 755, 759 761 Pleasure On the Nature of Things: 560 Plots Kalevala: 295 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 Omeros: 517 The Tale of Genji: 784 Poetics Beowulf: 36 Kalevala: 296 Poetic Edda: 657, 659 Song of Roland: 711 Poetry Aeneid: 13 Gerusalemme Liberata: 236
l x i v
Pharsalia: 627 The Tale of Genji: 784 Point of view (Literature). See also Epic features Aeneid: 11, 15 16 Beowulf: 26, 34, 47 49 Epic of Gilgamesh: 173 179 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225, 237 246 The Lord of the Rings: 332, 349 353 Mahabharata: 368 Les Mise´rables: 386 387 Omeros: 526 527 Pharsalia: 618 619, 639 641 Song of Roland: 712 Sundiata: 738 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 The Tale of Genji: 783 784 War and Peace: 820 Political allegories Gerusalemme Liberata: 227 Political turmoil On the Nature of Things: 555 556 Politics. See also Aristocracy; Propaganda The Cantos: 52 55, 58 60, 62, 64, 69, 72 73 Divine Comedy: 135, 136 137 El Cid: 96, 97 Epic of Gilgamesh: 170 171, 227 The Faerie Queene: 197 Iliad: 262 Kalevala: 303 Les Mise´rables: 387 388, 392, 404 406, 411 415 On the Nature of Things: 555 556 Paradise Lost: 591, 592, 593 594 Pharsalia: 620 621, 623 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 694 Song of Roland: 713 The Tale of Genji: 785, 786 Postcolonial theory El Cid: 103 109 Postcolonialism Sundiata: 741 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 767 Postmodernism Song of Roland: 715 716 Power (Philosophy) The Lord of the Rings: 317, 328 329, 336, 338, 339, 343 Sundiata: 739 Pride Epic of Gilgamesh: 168 169 Kalevala: 304 Les Mise´rables: 396 Song of Roland: 709, 715, 717 Progress The Lord of the Rings: 333 334 Propaganda El Cid: 99 103 Song of Roland: 716 718
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Prophecy Aeneid: 12 Nibelungenlied: 470 471 Poetic Edda: 657 Sundiata: 738 739 Prosody. See also Meter; Versification Omeros: 527 528 Poetic Edda: 659 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 Protagonists Aeneid: 11 Divine Comedy: 143 148 El Cid: 114 Epic of Gilgamesh: 157 Gerusalemme Liberata: 232 The Lord of the Rings: 348 Les Mise´rables: 408, 410 Le Morte d’Arthur: 435 Nibelungenlied: 457 Omeros: 526 Song of Roland: 723 Provenance Kalevala: 300 Poetic Edda: 645 Providence. See also Divine providence The Lord of the Rings: 317, 329, 337 Les Mise´rables: 402 403, 405 Prowess El Cid: 86, 111, 113 Prudence The Faerie Queene: 190 Purgatory Divine Comedy: 128 129, 131
Q Quests The Lord of the Rings: 332
R Race relations El Cid: 85, 93 Racism El Cid: 106 Rage. See Anger; Furor Realism (Cultural movement). See also Socialist realism Les Mise´rables: 403 404 Reality The Lord of the Rings: 348 Les Mise´rables: 392 Omeros: 525 On the Nature of Things: 559 War and Peace: 819 Reason Paradise Lost: 595, 596, 597 Rebirth The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 695, 696 War and Peace: 838
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 688 690 Song of Roland: 709 The Tale of Genji: 811 War and Peace: 818 819 Revenge. See also Vengeance Le Morte d’Arthur: 429, 452 453 Revolution Les Mise´rables: 377, 384, 387 389 Rhetoric Aeneid: 12 Pharsalia: 619 620, 625 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 Rhyme Song of Roland: 711 Right and wrong Song of Roland: 709 711, 717, 718, 724, 725 Ring composition El Cid: 95 Iliad: 261 Rituals El Cid: 116 Kalevala: 292, 294 Roman culture Aeneid: 11 12, 15 Iliad: 261 On the Nature of Things: 556 557 Pharsalia: 621 622, 623 626, 632 633 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 756 Roman history Aeneid: 11, 12 14 On the Nature of Things: 555 556, 561 562 Pharsalia: 620 622 Roman society Aeneid: 8 9, 10, 14 15, 17 Romance The Tale of Genji: 789 Romance (literature) Gerusalemme Liberata: 218, 227, 228 Le Morte d’Arthur: 434 Nibelungenlied: 458, 472, 476 477, 479 Poetic Edda: 663 666 Romantic love On the Nature of Things: 556, 558, 563, 566 Romanticism Aeneid: 15 16 Kalevala: 297 298, 300 Les Mise´rables: 377, 386 387, 393 Paradise Lost: 594 595 Poetic Edda: 662, 674 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 758 Runes Beowulf: 36 Russian history The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 682 683, 691 693
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
Russian society War and Peace: 821 822, 839 840 Russification Kalevala: 298 299, 303
S Sacred duty Mahabharata: 354, 365 366, 370 373, 374 Sacrifice The Lord of the Rings: 343 344 Les Mise´rables: 397 Salvation Divine Comedy: 131 Satan Paradise Lost: 600 601, 604 605 Satire Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 759 Scandinavian culture Poetic Edda: 679 Scandinavian society. See also Vikings Poetic Edda: 660 661 Science Divine Comedy: 136 Gerusalemme Liberata: 226 Kalevala: 297 Les Mise´rables: 409 On the Nature of Things: 549 550, 554, 556, 557, 558, 559 Paradise Lost: 592 593 Poetic Edda: 660 Secularism Pharsalia: 610 Self esteem Omeros: 523 524 Setting (Literature) Epic of Gilgamesh: 162 The Faerie Queene: 195 Gerusalemme Liberata: 225 The Lord of the Rings: 331 Les Mise´rables: 386 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 Omeros: 527 Paradise Lost: 590 Pharsalia: 619 Sundiata: 738 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 754, 759 761 Sex Gerusalemme Liberata: 220 Kalevala: 295 The Tale of Genji: 789 790, 795 800, 810 Sexuality Gerusalemme Liberata: 222, 230 War and Peace: 839, 840 Shame Iliad: 260 The Tale of Genji: 809, 810 Shintoism The Tale of Genji: 786, 807 808, 811
l x v
Subject/Theme Index
The Reconquista` (Reconquest) El Cid: 93, 95, 97 98, 106, 118 Song of Roland: 714 Redemption Les Mise´rables: 377, 403, 410 Song of Roland: 715 Reincarnation Poetic Edda: 665 Relationships. See also Patronage Aeneid: 10 11, 21 Beowulf: 41 Epic of Gilgamesh: 161, 167 173, 175, 182 The Faerie Queene: 209 Gerusalemme Liberata: 233 Iliad: 267 276 Song of Roland: 716 The Tale of Genji: 770, 784 Relativism El Cid: 85, 93 Religion. See also specific entries, e.g., :Christianity Aeneid: 14 Divine Comedy: 135, 136 El Cid: 96 98, 101 102 The Faerie Queene: 187, 189, 193 194, 196 198, 201 Gerusalemme Liberata: 217, 223 224, 226, 231 237 Iliad: 263, 265 Kalevala: 297, 299 The Lord of the Rings: 333, 339 340 Les Mise´rables: 406 410 Odyssey: 500 On the Nature of Things: 554, 556 557 Paradise Lost: 591 592, 593 Song of Roland: 709, 714, 715 The Tale of Genji: 786 787, 806 811 War and Peace: 839 840 Religious termoil The Faerie Queene: 196, 198 Religious truth as justification Gerusalemme Liberata: 223 224 Renaissance Paradise Lost: 593, 600, 601, 602 Poetic Edda: 662, 677 Repetition. See also Alliteration; Assonance; Parallelism Aeneid: 12 Epic of Gilgamesh: 163 164, 172 The Faerie Queene: 210 Kalevala: 296 On the Nature of Things: 555 Poetic Edda: 680 Resistance Kalevala: 298 299 Responsibility The Faerie Queene: 193 Mahabharata: 365 366
I n d e x
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
I n d e x
Similies Aeneid: 18 Iliad: 248, 260 Odyssey: 497 498 Poetic Edda: 667 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 683, 691, 696 Sin Divine Comedy: 134 The Faerie Queene: 214 215 Social decline The Tale of Genji: 782 783 Social order Aeneid: 8 10, 13 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 753 Socialist realism The Cantos: 64 Society. See also specific entries, e.g., :Japanese society Beowulf: 36 Epic of Gilgamesh: 165 Iliad: 262 Kalevala: 296 297 The Lord of the Rings: 332, 339 Nibelungenlied: 474 Odyssey: 498 Omeros: 529 Paradise Lost: 592 Poetic Edda: 662 Sundiata: 735 Sorrow. See also Melancholy Aeneid: 10 Spanish history El Cid: 98, 99, 100, 109 110, 114 122 Spanish society El Cid: 95 97 Spenserian stanza The Faerie Queene: 195, 198 Spirituality The Cantos: 69 Stereotypes (Psychology) The Faerie Queene: 200 Poetic Edda: 679 Stoicism Aeneid: 10 Pharsalia: 611, 621, 641, 643 Strength Sundiata: 737 Structure Aeneid: 12 Les Mise´rables: 385 Nibelungenlied: 472 473 Odyssey: 497 War and Peace: 820 Subjectivity Aeneid: 23 Substitution The Tale of Genji: 781, 795 Suicide Pharsalia: 617 618
l x v i
Supernatural. See also Divinity Beowulf: 48 49 Divine Comedy: 134 Gerusalemme Liberata: 227 Le Morte d’Arthur: 434 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 696 Sundiata: 736 The Tale of Genji: 770, 781 782, 784, 801 806, 808, 811 Superstition El Cid: 116 Syllepsis Les Mise´rables: 400 401 Symbolism Divine Comedy: 150 151 The Faerie Queene: 208 215 Kalevala: 303 The Lord of the Rings: 338 343, 351 352 Mahabharata: 370, 372 Les Mise´rables: 386, 399, 405 Omeros: 527 On the Nature of Things: 569 Paradise Lost: 591, 603 608 Pharsalia: 642 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 696, 697, 699 Song of Roland: 712 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 756 The Tale of Genji: 804
T Technology and civilization The Lord of the Rings: 332, 334 Temperance The Faerie Queene: 190 Time Beowulf: 42 43 The Cantos: 56 57, 58, 67, 69 El Cid: 110 Tone The Tale of Genji: 784 Topography Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 754 755, 759 761 Tragedies (Drama) Nibelungenlied: 458, 471, 477 478 On the Nature of Things: 575 Song of Roland: 717 Transcendence of love Gerusalemme Liberata: 224 Transformation Les Mise´rables: 383 Translations Aeneid: 2, 16, 18, 19, 20 23 Beowulf: 26, 44 The Cantos: 53, 56 Divine Comedy: 138 Epic of Gilgamesh: 154, 164, 166 Gerusalemme Liberata: 218, 225 226
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
Iliad: 249 Kalevala: 299 Mahabharata: 355 Les Mise´rables: 377 Nibelungenlied: 458 Odyssey: 485 On the Nature of Things: 557 Pharsalia: 610 Poetic Edda: 646, 663 The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 694 Sundiata: 728, 729, 738, 741 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 747, 759, 762 768 The Tale of Genji: 770, 788, 791 800 Travel Epic of Gilgamesh: 175 176 Treasure Beowulf: 32, 41, 42 Poetic Edda: 661 Trickery Poetic Edda: 657 658 Trojan War Aeneid: 12, 24 The Cantos: 75 El Cid: 114 Iliad: 261, 263, 276 Odyssey: 490, 498 Omeros: 527 On the Nature of Things: 553 Truth. See also Aphorisms The Faerie Queene: 191, 209, 213 Gerusalemme Liberata: 223 Mahabharata: 366 Song of Roland: 719, 720 The Tale of Genji: 792 War and Peace: 840
U Unity The Song of Igor’s Campaign: 683, 694 Utopianism The Cantos: 68 74 On the Nature of Things: 561 567
V Valor Iliad: 251 Variation Poetic Edda: 679 680 Vengeance. See also Revenge Beowulf: 33 34 Nibelungenlied: 474, 477 Poetic Edda: 666 672 Versification Mahabharata: 368 Vikings Poetic Edda: 659 662, 665, 672 681
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
S u b j e c t / T h e m e
W Wars. See also Trojan War Aeneid: 13 14, 19 20 Gerusalemme Liberata: 229, 230, 231 237 Iliad: 266 267 Le Morte d’Arthur: 430 431 Odyssey: 498
E p i c s
f o r
S t u d e n t s ,
On the Nature of Things: 552 554, 566 Paradise Lost: 591, 592 Pharsalia: 633 635 Poetic Edda: 664 665 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge: 755 War and Peace: 820 821 Weakness Sundiata: 737 Wealth El Cid: 110 112, 116 The Faerie Queene: 187 Weapons Beowulf: 38, 45 The Lord of the Rings: 338 343 Western culture Aeneid: 1, 11, 17 Divine Comedy: 125 Epic of Gilgamesh: 184 Iliad: 248, 263, 264 Odyssey: 500, 504 510 Omeros: 519 Paradise Lost: 579, 595 Sundiata: 738, 744 Wisdom Beowulf: 32 Divine Comedy: 139 143
S e c o n d
E d i t i o n ,
V o l u m e
2
The Lord of the Rings: 344 Poetic Edda: 656 657 Women. See also Gender roles Beowulf: 37 38 El Cid: 93 The Faerie Queene: 198 Gerusalemme Liberata: 226, 228 231 Kalevala: 297 The Lord of the Rings: 335 338 Le Morte d’Arthur: 435 436, 442 443 Nibelungenlied: 458, 469, 471, 474, 477 Omeros: 531, 542 547 On the Nature of Things: 559 Poetic Edda: 666 672 Song of Roland: 713 714, 716, 717, 723 726 The Tale of Genji: 781, 785 786, 792 793, 801 806 War and Peace: 838 840 Work The Cantos: 60 Wrath. See Furor
l x v i i
Subject/Theme Index
Violence The Cantos: 54 Virtue The Faerie Queene: 190, 195, 196, 200 201, 209 210, 212 214 Gerusalemme Liberata: 236 The Lord of the Rings: 339 Mahabharata: 366 Les Mise´rables: 396 Le Morte d’Arthur: 419 Paradise Lost: 598 Virtus: Pharsalia: 618, 619, 633, 634, 635, 637, 638 639 Vulnerability Le Morte d’Arthur: 437, 442 443
I n d e x
