Andreas Schmidt, Daniela Hahn (eds.) Unwanted Neglected Approaches, Characters, and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies Münchner Nordistische Studien herausgegeben von Wilhelm Heizmann und Joachim Schiedermair Band 50 Coverabbildung: © Romance of Alexander, Alexander and Dindimus, Li Livres du Graunt Caam; Bodleian Library MS. Bodl. 264; 1400. (CC-BY-NC 4.0). Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Das Werk ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Sämtliche, auch auszugsweise Verwertungen bleiben vorbehalten. Copyright © utzverlag GmbH · 2021 ISBN 978-3-8316-4855-9 Printed in EU utzverlag GmbH, München 089-277791-00 · www.utzverlag.de Contents Preface ............................................................................................................. 5 Andreas Schmidt & Daniela Hahn: Unwanted: An Introduction .......................................................................... 6 Alexander J. Wilson: Let the Right Skald In: Unwanted Guests in Sagas of Poets .................... 28 Sebastian Thoma: A Friend in níð: On the Narrative Display of Gender and níð in Njáls saga ..................................................................................................57 Anita Sauckel: Skarpheðinn Njálsson: An Agent of Transgression or a Youth gone Wild? ........................................................................................ 87 Lucie Korecká: Unwanted Hero, Praised Outcast: The Outlaw Motif in Arons saga Hjörleifssonar and Sturlunga saga ......................................... 107 Rebecca Merkelbach: Outlawed Bears and Trollish Foster-Parents: Exploring the Social Dimension of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders ...................143 Zuzana Stankovitsová: ›Tasteless Additions‹: Post-Medieval Textual Variation in Króka-Refs saga as Audience Reception ................................................ 180 Yoav Tirosh: Tearing a Text Apart – Audience Participation and Authorial Intent in Ljósvetninga saga and Tommy Wiseau’s The Room..............................206 Mathias Kruse: How to Scare Away the Devil. A Frenchman, the Devil, a Jew, and a Cunning Disguise in an Icelandic ævintýr known as Callinius saga .......................................................................................... 243 Jan Alexander van Nahl: »A waste of effort«? Towards a Reassessment of the Old Norse Kings’ Sagas (With a Comment on a ›Living Handbook of Old Norse Studies‹) .................................................................................... 272 The Authors ............................................................................................... 308 Index ............................................................................................................ 311 Preface This volume is the result of »Unwanted … by Literature and Scholarship. A Workshop on the Fringes of Saga Literature«, which was held in Munich on the 8th and 9th of December 2018, following and connecting to Bad Boys and Wicked Women, our first gathering in 2015. Again, we want to thank our teacher Prof. Dr. Wilhelm Heizmann. All this could not have been possible without his continuing support, guidance, and confidence in us and our ideas and work. Thank you so much for all your trust and enthusiasm, we could never have felt more at home and encouraged! While you gave us the ›nudge through the door‹, we are also thankful to our faithful companions on the roads to these two adventures and beyond, Marion Poilvez, Yoav Tirosh, and Florian Deichl. Who could have wished for any better fellowship! Once more, we are deeply grateful to the Institute for Nordic Philology (LMU) for all their support, especially to Johanna Schreiber, who helped us a second time with all of the organisation. We’re very lucky to have someone on our side who knows how to fight the multi-headed serpent of travel expense accounting! We’re equally thankful to the Institute and the utzverlag for accepting our volume into this series. We owe special thanks to the helping hands of Sophie Heier and Johann Levin during the workshop and Sophia Hermann and Hilkea Blomeyer during the editing of this volume. We are much indebted to Alex Wilson and again Johann for their diligent proofreading, smart suggestions, and patience in the help with our English. Finally, we thank all contributors for their patience and for not only writing and re-writing their own chapters, but also reviewing the contributions of the others. This volume is dedicated to all of you for never losing faith in this project. The world may have changed since we met in Munich in 2018 or 2015, but we are still proud and thankful to be part of this unique group of scholars and friends! Andreas Schmidt & Daniela Hahn 5 Andreas Schmidt & Daniela Hahn Unwanted: An Introduction #IchbinHanna, »I am Hanna«. Under this hashtag, in the summer of 2021, an uproar amongst ›young‹ members of academia could be heard on German Twitter, connected to a video that had been published by the German Federal Ministry of Education and Research. This promotional film portrayed the so-called »Wissenschaftszeitvertragsgesetz«, a law that forbids academic staff from being employed on temporary contracts for longer than twelve years in total, as a necessary measure to ensure flexibility and innovation in universities. Unlike »Hanna«, the fictional protagonist of the short film, most doctoral students and postdoctoral researchers using the hashtag were unable to appreciate the alleged benefits of this system.1 Instead, they wrote thousands of short narratives describing their harsh working conditions: contrary to its supposed purpose, the law resulted in universities being reluctant to grant permanent contracts beneath the level of professorship to anyone, instead opting to contract varying personnel for short periods – in quick succession, if necessary. Young academics must therefore often occupy position after position on fixed-term contracts, which results in turn in permanent social and perspective instability as to where and on what research – if indeed at all – one might be able to work during the next year or academic term. The discussion focused around the hashtag therefore served to highlight how, contrary to the Federal Ministry’s claims, insecurity, precarious employment, and poor working conditions had developed in academic environments, resulting in pervasive anxiety amongst early-career researchers and a feeling of their being unwanted by politics, universities, and even society as a whole. Of course, the academic system as it has developed in Germany is symptomatic of a much more widespread problem, with circumstances not much different elsewhere in the world. While short-term contracts and the __________________________ 1 In addition to #IchbinHanna, a second hashtag was developed to foreground the perspectives of People of Colour, coined by linguist Reyhan Şahin [https://twitter.com/LadyBitchRay1/status/1403238905051332609; 29/10/2021]: #IchbinReyhan (»I am Reyhan«), see also Djahangard 2021, for example. 6 rapid change of working places seem to be a universal feature of contemporary academia, the fields of humanities and arts in particular are notoriously endangered, with many so-called ›small disciplines‹ often facing threats of closure. In fact, some of the few German departments of Scandinavian and Old Norse Studies have recently been forced to downsize, not least because of financial restrictions following the recent pandemic.2 Despite engagement with the Scandinavian Middle Ages being abundantly popular in contemporary culture,3 as a scholar of Old Norse literature it is not unusual to have to defend oneself from questions about the value of one’s research. As a member of an arts faculty, it is therefore easy to feel ›unwanted‹, both within the university as an institutional body and in light of the apparent political disinterest in the work that one does one’s best to produce. It is heartening to see, however, that the above mentioned hashtag and related debate have since managed to cross the boundaries of academic social media to generate nationwide interest in the problems discussed here.4 While it is not the aim of the present volume to engage politically in this discussion, its coming into being and its editing process testify to the issues raised there. When we convened the workshop that resulted in this collection of essays, our entire group was in high spirits: we were gathering for a second time, convening as a follow-up to the workshop Bad Boys and Wicked Women (2015), which first brought us together as a group and which resulted in the publication of a collection of essays the following __________________________ 2 An online-petition started in April 2021 resulted in an assurance that the Scandinavian departments in Tübingen and Göttingen would remain open, albeit with loss of staff and positions, see Schützen Sie die Skandinavistik vor Streichungen [https://www.open petition.de/petition/online/schuetzen-sie-die-skandinavistik-vor-streichungen; 29/10/2021]. This is testified by the numerous television adaptations, such as Vikings (History Television, 2013–2020), and films, such as the Thor franchise within the Marvel Cinematic Universe, alongside medieval markets, heavy metal music, and diverse novels and comics, that make use of historical Scandinavian material or are influenced by Old Norse literature and mythology. On this topic, see, e.g., NORDEUROPAforum 2020. 4 Numerous articles in news portals, incorporating both mainstream media and independent outlets, have been published on matters raised under the hashtag; see, for example, #IchBinHanna – Machen Zeitverträge die Wissenschaft in Deutschland kaputt? [https://www.swr.de/swr2/wissen/ichbinhanna-kritik-an-zeitvertraegen-in-derforschung-100.html; 29/10/2021]; Barbutev 2021. A comprehensive website about the campaign and its media reception is run under #IchBinHanna [https://ichbinhanna. wordpress.com; 29/10/2021]. 3 7 year.5 Consequently, the joy of seeing each other again was reflective of our being young researchers invested in our respective projects and gathering together with a like-minded group of people once more. Most of us were finishing or had just finished our respective theses, were taking up new postdoctoral positions and starting new research projects. Evidently, we did not gather together as a matter of protest against the previously discussed feelings of our research being somehow ›unwanted‹ in any way – quite the contrary. Indeed, for us as editors, the workshop marked a new stage of a long and productive collaboration begun during our doctoral research at LMU’s Institute for Nordic Philology. Our theses both centred on ›unwanted‹ texts and characters, namely Færeyinga saga and thieves respectively, and were engaged in narratological analyses of literary phenomena that could be subsumed under the monikers of transgression, deviance, and inversion.6 Although we were still working closely together, our time as co-workers in the same institution was coming to a temporary end, with our paths heading in different directions. Against this background, we are both proud and thankful to have been able to provide a platform for our group to meet on two occasions, and to have profited from these workshops as a most fruitful expansion of our collaborative efforts. When we began collecting essays for publication after the workshop, however, the realities of contemporary employment in the academic field soon came to the fore. Two papers from the workshop were unable to be developed into articles due to existential reorientations that became necessary for the respective authors in light of said realities – we miss both of them sorely. The production process of this volume was also prolonged far beyond our original plans and hopes. In the period between the workshop in December 2018 and the publication of this volume in December 2021, nearly every member of the young group of academics that contributed to it in one way or another have had to wrestle not only with the recent pandemic, but also with the conditions that the academic system imposes onto most of its members, including several of us working at the endangered department of Scandinavian Studies in Tübingen. The ›unwantedness‹ that we chose as a promising topic back in 2018 has thus also become an element of the editorial process behind this subsequent __________________________ 5 Hahn/Schmidt 6 (eds.) 2016. Hahn 2020; Schmidt [forthcoming]. 8 volume, both because many of us share in the sentiments brought to light under the previously discussed hashtag and because, among the numerous tasks of day-to-day academic work with which early-career scholars must contend, time is increasingly becoming a factor of scarcity. In itself, this volume aims to provide its readers with a hopefully stimulating platform of ideas and approaches by bringing together several young scholars engaging in saga studies. All focus on aspects of deviance and transgression in the Old Norse corpus in their respective works, be it in the matters on which they work or the approaches that they take in contrast to older readings in scholarship. As a group, we mean to draw attention to aspects of saga literature and its study that, in our view, have often been overlooked, neglected, marginalised, or even dismissed, and that therefore deserve new or renewed attention. To this end, we return to the approach that we used in Bad Boys and Wicked Women with a fresh perspective, now investigating not only matters of deviance and transgression within the diegetic elements of certain sagas, but also texts, scenes, and structural elements overlooked by previous scholars, in order to develop new readings of saga literature on the basis of theoretical and methodological considerations that, we believe, have not yet been brought to full fruition in our field. Unwanted: Considerations about a Universal Issue and Some of its Forms of Appearance in Saga Studies As the »social animals« that we are, 7 human beings inevitably form various groupings, seeking for places where they feel that they can belong. 8 In order to differentiate between those who belong to a group and those who do not, however, it is necessary for each group to construct an out-group that is marginalised and ›othered‹ in order for the privileged in-group to remain stable. Similarly, in defining a ›self‹ it is necessary to construct an ›alter‹, which in some form is a secondary mental image or model of the __________________________ 7 See, for example, Aronson 2018; Tomasello 2014. The idea of human beings as »social animals« is at least as old as Aristotle; on this topic, see also the introductory section in Rebecca Merkelbach’s contribution, Merkelbach 2021 (this volume), pp. 143–7. 8 See Merkelbach 2020a, esp. pp. 105–6 and the references there. 9 ›self‹.9 That secondary entity, then, is ascribed characteristics, natures and/or properties that are not desired to be part of the ›self‹ that is being constructed. In other words, someone or something must become ›unwanted‹, at least to some extent, for a given human society or group to establish and maintain itself: Othering is the simultaneous construction of the self or ingroup and the other or out-group in mutual and unequal opposition through identification of some desirable characteristic that the self/in-group has and the other/out-group lacks and/or some undesirable characteristic the other/out-group has and the self/in-group lacks. Othering thus sets up a superior self/in-group in contrast to an inferior other/out-group.10 From the perspective of a ›self‹ or an in-group, the ›othering‹ of ›unwanted‹ persons, characteristics, or things is an inclusive, and therefore positive and productive, effort. Yet experiencing oneself as being ›unwanted‹ by another group is a challenging experience for any human being. In general, such experiences can lead to depression or anxiety on the parts of individuals or groups;11 in more extreme (yet all too common) cases, the creation of in- and out-groups has resulted in the systematic oppression of those perceived not to belong, as is apparent from any study of sexist, homophobic, ableist, racist, and other discriminatory hierarchies across societies. In such cases, language usage becomes a key component of exclusion and stigmatisation of the thusly constructed ›minorities‹ or outgroups against what is perceived to be the norm of in-groups, ranging from the use of denigrating terms as group-signifiers to the suppression of minority languages and pertaining abilities of cultural expressions of identity. As Zosky and Alberts summarise: »The language and words we use to describe ourselves are not just detached descriptors, they become internalized and shape whom we begin to think of as the essence of the __________________________ See the seminal work of Emmanuel Levinas, esp. Levinas 1993; Levinas 1995. 2015, p. 70. As Brons demonstrates, the concept of ›othering‹ has dominated various aspects of modern Western thought and philosophy since at least the writings of Hegel and de Beauvoir. 11 Any quick search of »Unwanted« on Google images will be able to testify to this sad and perilous potential. 9 10 Brons 10 self.«12 In cases in which the suppression of ethnically or otherwise defined groups by larger states or societies has become a systematic component of national and state structures, the labels and identities imposed onto the out-groups may in turn even become elements in the formation of resistance: »To the degree that [an] identity is stigmatized by the larger state or society, it is likely to become for many a resistant and defiant identity.«13 On the basis of this social mechanism, some subcultures have used their being styled as ›unwanted‹, or even styling themselves as such, to their advantage: they generate their appeal from the rejection of the groups by which they feel ›unwanted‹, framing those in-groups in turn as ›unwanted‹ themselves. Thus, they construct new in-groups to which they can recruit their followers as ›outsiders‹, as is the case with punk culture, notoriously alongside the heavy metal scene, whose members even revel in their ›bad boy‹-imagery.14 In more dire circumstances, the same mechanism of language reclamation, which lead to the recalibration of the insult »punk« as a positive term within that subculture, can be also seen at play among African diaspora communities or LGBTQ+ groups.15 Against this background of ›unwantedness‹ as being an essential part of human group-making, for better or worse, it is worth exploring more deeply the ways and the circumstances in which ›unwanted‹ phenomena are produced and used in human culture. Literature can be an especially rewarding area of investigation in this context, since, as a form of art, it enables human culture to enter into a dialogue with itself and to explore the foundations, limitations, conditions, and requirements of what makes one person, characteristic, or thing ›unwanted‹ in comparison to another. __________________________ Zosky/Alberts 2016, p. 597. 2009, p. xiii. Scott is analysing the ways in which ethnic groups in the Zomia region of Southeast Asia use their constructions of identity as a means of resistance against integration into national states, showcasing how systematic suppression can lead to the emergence of ethno-nationalism amongst minority groups themselves. Analogous principles may be observed, albeit to a less extreme degree, in the Black Lives Matter movement, which serves as a platform to unify various traditionally oppressed groups, »those on margins of traditional black freedom movements, including women, the working poor, the disabled, undocumented immigrants, atheists and agnostics, and those who identify as queer and transgender« (Ruffin 2015, para. 3) under a common category of identification as »black«. 14 On the sociology of the heavy metal scene, see, amongst others, Weinstein 2000; KahnHarris 2007. 15 See, for example, Brontsema 2004; Motley/Craig-Henderson 2007; Coles 2016. 12 13 Scott 11 Indeed, since humans are not only social animals, but also »story-telling animals«,16 their literature and other art can form a powerful means of building in- and out-groups, telling stories about ›who we are‹ and, conversely, who ›they are‹.17 Turning to the sagas as the dominant Old Icelandic form of storytelling, such a discourse on Icelandic self-identification has most often been judged as the primary reason why the sagas were composed. By means of these texts, medieval Icelanders could identify themselves and their culture in contrast to others, such as the Norwegians and their institution of centralised kingship, which the Icelanders, according to their national founding myth, originally fled for the sake of their freedom. 18 In much the same way, medieval Icelanders wrote about their own society in times gone-by, which were often interpreted as representing a more glorious age of Icelandic history in the eyes of the medieval writers themselves.19 In this view, the sagas represent the glorification of a greater past for medieval audiences, all the while exploring and explaining the foundations of their contemporary society.20 In that light, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen’s famous 1993 study Fortælling og ære offers an account of the Íslendingasögur that sees their value as literature as arising from the creation of an Icelandic __________________________ 16 MacIntire 17 1984, p. 216; Dunbar 2004; see also Koschorke 2013, pp. 9–25 as an overview. Koschorke 2013, pp. 90–106 assembles various examples of such narratives, ranging from Western movies in which North-American indigenous people are shot by the dozens, only to tell the fate of a single white ranger who may have lost his family, to the events of September 11 2001, soon after which it would have been (and for some still may be) unthinkable in Western culture to muse about the motivations and rationale of the suicide terrorists, who were seen as antagonists attacking ›our‹ way of living. Kreutzer 1994; Andersson 1999, p. 932; Weber 2001, p. 101 (fn. 9). For an overview of the narrative traditions concerning the original settlement of Iceland through close readings of exemplary sagas, see Hahn 2020, pp. 262–81. 19 It is thus a commonplace to read statements such as the following in scholarship on the Icelandic sagas: »The past was constructed in a way to work as a model for the present« (Jørgensen 2010, p. 30). 20 This view of the sagas can indeed be seen as a consequence of the conceptions of the Icelandic school of scholarship, whose members held the same view that the ›Free State‹ period was foundational for their own times, and a more glorious period to which their national contemporaries should aspire in spirit. On the background of this critical approach, see fn. 33 below. As to the mirroring of what the Icelandic school saw in the texts and their own times, see Ármann Jakobsson 1995, pp. 167–71, who illustrates the drastically negative views of Norwegian kingship in Iceland at the beginning of the twentieth century and their reflection in scholarship. 18 12 sense of communality, through their depiction of a society governed by rules and normsets differing from those of Norway, while also analysing how this society came to be the one that itself produced these texts. 21 The sagas, especially the Íslendingasögur, have therefore come to be regarded as foundational documents for medieval Icelandic discourses on identity. Recent decades have seen a surge of investigations dedicated to the processes of inclusion and exclusion that can be found in the sagas on the basis of this understanding. To give just a few examples: many studies have been made of saga depictions of places outside Iceland, such as Norway, the Scandinavian East, and even more fantastical locales;22 the writing of medieval Icelanders of their own history into the framework of Christian Europe;23 and, on an intradiegetic level, the roles played by social ›others‹ such as outlaws,24 as well as recent work into proto-racial ideas.25 The focus of this research on saga genres that have been thought of as foundational to specifically Icelandic (and, to a lesser degree, Norse) identity, however, has left other saga genres largely uncharted in this regard, including the notoriously understudied indigenous riddarasögur, which are only recently being integrated into scholarly discourse, 26 and the literary aspects of the translated riddarasögur, the samtíðarsögur, or indeed the konungasögur and even most fornaldarsögur.27 Equally, the focus of __________________________ 21 See Meulengracht Sørensen 1993. for example, the overarching themes of the tenth, thirteenth, and fourteenth International Saga Conferences in 1997, 2006 and 2009, Hagland (ed.) 1997, McKinnell et al. (eds.) 2006, and Ney at al. (eds.) 2009, respectively. 23 See the foundational position of, for example, Harris 1986, or the papers in Simek/Meurer (eds.) 2005. 24 See Amory 1992; Poilvez 2012; Ahola 2014; Poilvez 2016; Wilson 2017; Poilvez 2018; Merkelbach 2019, pp. 51–99. 25 See Jochens 1999; Cole 2015; Price 2020; Vídalín 2020. 26 See especially Glauser 1983 and Kalinke 1990 as pioneering studies, only recently being followed, for example by Lambertus 2013; Kruse 2016; McDonald Werronen 2016; Kalinke 2017; Matyushina/New 2020. 22 See, 27 While the riddarasögur have received most attention as documents of cultural transfer from the European continent to Scandinavia (see, for example, Johansson/Mundal (eds.) 2014), the samtíðarsögur and konungasögur have mostly been studied as historiographical writing, see in detail Korecká 2021 and van Nahl 2021 (both this volume). The fornaldarsögur have become a more productive area of research recently; see, for example, Driscoll et al. (eds.) 2018; Lavender 2018; Lassen et al. (eds.) 2012; Lassen et al. (eds.) 2009; Ármann Jakobsson et al. (eds.) 2003, yet there are few studies of their narrative aspects, with only occasional exceptions, such as Deichl 2019. 13 scholars in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries on particular texts in the genre of Íslendingasögur has led these texts still to be privileged in studies over various others.28 Thus, both individual texts and entire groupings of saga literature seem to have been treated as ›unwanted‹ within the research into Old Norse saga literature produced over the last two hundred years. Rather than only confirming the boundaries of group-identities, however, literature can, and often does, question the mechanisms of ›othering‹ current to the society that produced it, giving voice and agency to characters belonging to ›out-groups‹ in the diegetic worlds it creates.29 In Old Icelandic literature, such characters prominently include outlaws and women, who were traditionally assigned a subordinate role in medieval societies.30 Drawing attention to these voices and agencies was one of the aims of our first enterprise in Bad Boys and Wicked Women, and this line of research is continued in some of the chapters of the present volume. However, these approaches are now also accompanied by studies focusing on the previously mentioned marginalisation of certain texts or subgenres, which investigate the reasons and mechanisms that led to their exclusion by scholars, and by thoughts about methodological reconsiderations in certain areas of research. The chapters of this volume thus touch upon what has been called »the central paradox of science« by Ram Roy Bhaskar, meaning that people »in their social activity produce knowledge which is a social product much like any other«.31 This means that while scholarship is produced about preexisting entities, such as the sagas, what is and can be known about these __________________________ This, too, can be seen as a consequence of the Icelandic school’s agenda, in that they privileged texts that they deemed especially worthy of reading for their compatriots because of their being seen as being exemplary in spirit. On the background of this practice, see also fn. 33 below. 29 This is especially the case for narratives created in times of social conflict or upheaval. According to Koschorke 2013, pp. 237–8, there is a special »need of meaning« that is produced by such narratives when there is no a priori of ›us‹ vs. ›them‹, but when the narratives themselves are the engine that can create such categories. In such cases, the questions of who the narratives address, how far their range of group-building is, and who is made to empathise with whom in each narrative, gain the utmost importance, see further pp. 236–58. 30 On the agencies of women in Old Norse literature, see Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir 2013; on traditional modes and models of gender in the Middle Ages, see Schaus (ed.) 2006. 31 Bhaskar 2008, p. 21. 28 14 entities depends on social, and thus also historical, circumstances. What is at play here is a kind of what Michel Foucault terms »discourse« proper, 32 that is, a socially produced set of rules and regulations that determines what can be said and thus be known. That which is not vouched for by the discourse cannot be acceptably said, and therefore may become an ›unwanted‹ opinion, even though it may produce just as much knowledge about a thing. As social constructs, however, such discourses are themselves subject to change over time, which allows for previously ›unwanted‹ propositions and ideas to become accepted into the discourse. Different historical contexts have therefore influenced the ways in which Old Icelandic literature has been viewed and evaluated in preceding generations of scholarship.33 It is in this aspect that we hope the following chapters will contribute. We propose to investigate ›unwanted‹ aspects in the field of saga literature and its study, whether they be elements of the worlds described in the texts, ideas and approaches that have been dismissed until now, or texts __________________________ 32 See 33 Foucault 1966; Foucault 1969; Foucault 1972. The already mentioned Icelandic school, for example, was hugely conditioned by the nationalist agendas current at their time of working; see, for example, Gunnar Karlsson 1980; Byock 1994; Guðmundur Hálfdanarson 2010; Gylfi Gunnlaugsson/Glad (eds.) [forthcoming]. Their own nationalistic view seems also to have been a reaction to the appropriation of Old Norse texts and culture in other European nationalist agendas of the nineteenth century. For an overview of specifically German appropriations of Old Norse artefacts during the ›völkisch‹ and national-socialist movements, see von See 1970; von See 1994. Spray 2019 offers a study of British material; for a broader international perspective, see Lassen (ed.) 2008. After the collective experiences of World War II, however, the very concept of the ›Germanic‹ had become practically ›unspeakable‹ in intellectual culture; on the resulting question of the possibility of identifying ›peoples‹ in the early medieval period, see, for example, Meier 2019; Friedrich/Harland (eds.) 2020. The views of the Icelandic school and their ›Bookprose‹ theory therefore fell on fertile grounds in international scholarship, as the predominant structuralist perspective on saga literature current from the 1960s to the 1980s necessarily entailed a view of the texts that granted them the status of works of literature. This also meant the perpetuation of the preconceptions underlying the works of the Icelandic school, however, such as the marginalisation of certain groups of texts. Previous nationalist discourse did not allow for texts like the riddarasögur to have their voice heard, as they were seen as less genuinely ›Icelandic‹ and dependent on ›foreign‹ models; on this problem in the context of the so-called ›post-classical‹ sagas, see Merkelbach 2020b. The new focus on ›laws‹ of narrative inherent to structuralist thought did not alter the foundations of this exclusion: instead, now such texts were excluded on the grounds that they did not fit the mental image of how a saga ought to be told as well as did other texts. 15 and genres that have been neglected in some form by previous research. 34 It is not, however, the aim of our critiques simply to prove wrong previous scholarly readings, views, and opinions or to expose their faultiness, but rather to expand the existing discourse. Our shared starting point is to endeavour to let the texts speak for themselves as texts, giving them their own voice and hoping that those voices will find an audience. We mean to study the sagas on a narratological basis that primarily focuses on their literacy and textuality as such, selecting as our main interest literarily induced deviance from what seems ›right‹ or ›proper‹. Only by giving space to what previously may not have been heard can discourses shift and attest to their worth not as tools of suppression, but as gateways to broaden the range of knowledge. As editors we purposefully decided not to specify or define in a rigid sense what we count as an ›unwanted‹ phenomenon, instead giving the participants of our workshop a free hand to some extent. We hope that the result testifies to the broad range of understudied aspects of saga literature just as much as our contributions enrich each other’s perspectives. The broadness of the aspects and approaches studied in this volume ought therefore not to be seen as arbitrary, but as a showcase of the variety of textual, social, and epistemic contexts in which the ›othering‹ necessary for human discourses plays an integral part in the production of knowledge and meaning. __________________________ 34 The fact that all of us share an interest in aspects of ›otherness‹, hybridity, and transgression is, of course, just as much a product of current discourse and historical circumstance as it has been in times before us. In light of our experiences connected to the realities of academic work, it may indeed be small wonder that young academics focus on what has been dismissed as ›unwanted‹ and show interest in the justification of deviance for which our academic field is constantly pressured. Beyond academia, we are living in times of the resurgence of political nationalism and massive refugee crises. Processes of marginalisation and self-identification are omnipresent, and it is therefore only appropriate for scholars to reflect on the mechanisms of exclusion and its effects if academia wants to prove its societal worth. And, far more than only political matters, we live in times in which the natures of ›truths‹ and realities seem themselves to have become negotiable. This should indeed inspire academics to analyse the ways in which ›realities‹ are socially constructed and used, the epistemological thinking behind it, and what mechanisms of exclusion this entails. 16 Unwanted: Lines of Research The first section of the following chapters builds a bridge back to Bad Boys and Wicked Women by continuing the line of argument developed there in its focus on ›unwantedness‹ as an intra-literary aspect. While these chapters are mainly concerned with phenomena of the narrated worlds within the sagas, the articles progress from stricter textual analyses towards a secondary focus on the neglect that the sagas under scrutiny have experienced in the analyses devoted to them up to this point and the reasons behind this rejection. Alexander Wilson (pp. 28–56) focuses on certain traits of unwanted characters in the subgroup of the skáldasögur. He argues that their protagonists have an interest in styling themselves as adversaries in the love-triangles around which their plots revolve, welcoming the developing conflicts with their lover’s male relatives and using their professed romantic feelings as a means of prolonging conflict. The desired effect of the skalds’ making themselves unwanted by other men seems to be the continued composition of poetry, but its price is the jeopardising of social conventions and mechanisms – and, it seems, at times even the love that they claim to hold for the women about whom they compose. In his argument, Wilson is able to clearly point out the discrepancies between each saga’s prose and the verses contained in it, thus showing that the prosimetrical form of these texts serves to introduce a multiplicity of voices into the narrative discourse. It becomes apparent that rather than simply expanding on pre-given skaldic verse, as has often been assumed in older research, the prose of these sagas at times actively seems to subvert the self-image of the poet as conveyed in the stanzas with a contradicting outline of his course of action in the narrative plot. The next two chapters focus on a saga that can hardly be considered ›unwanted‹ by scholarship, but which has seen numerous studies, namely Njáls saga. Sebastian Thoma’s contribution (pp. 57–86) focuses on the intradiegetic representation of Njáll and Gunnarr’s friendship as strongly unwanted by Gunnarr’s wife Hallgerðr and her long-standing attempts to break it by reverting to perhaps the most unwanted mechanism of saga society, namely the accusation of ergi. In an in-depth analysis of the narrative around the scene in Hallgerðr’s dyngja, in which the shaming of Njáll as beardless and his sons as »dung-beardlings« emerges, Thoma points out not only how the narrative mechanism of telling sequences containing the social tool of níð-insults is purposefully riddled with gaps and blind spots, but also the extent to which typical categories of gender are made flexible in saga narratives and how much agency women are 17 shown to be able to gain as a result. Additionally, Thoma provides a new reading for the key phrase stritaðisk Njáll við at sitja, which sits at the root of the níð composed about Njáll. The narrative structure of Njáls saga also forms the backbone of Anita Sauckel’s study (pp. 87–106). In her analysis, however, she crosses the boundaries of that text by looking at scholars’ puzzled interpretations of Skarpheðinn Njálsson as opposed to his role in the narrative, arguing that while Skarpheðinn may be a troublesome character as regards scholarly interpretations, his transgressive behaviour is necessary in the framework of the unfolding plot as dictated by the literary patterns used in Njáls saga. The unsettlement that most interpreters have felt towards Skarpheðinn is thus an effect of his transgressive characterisation, which is in turn necessitated by the literary qualities of the saga in which he features. As with Wilson’s and Thoma’s contributions, Sauckel’s chapter illustrates the extent to which the inversion of apparent literary conventions and narrative and audience expectations can be seen as a governing principle of the ways in which especially the Íslendingasögur are told. Lucie Korecká’s article (pp. 107–142) leaves behind the Íslendingasögur subgenre to analyse the samtíðarsögur. As in Sauckel’s reading of the tripartite structure of Njáls saga, literary patterning plays a major role in Korecká’s argument, which treats the corpus as literary texts in contrast with their usual treatment as historiographical sources. While structuralist readings have been criticised, Korecká attests to some of the ways in which they can be useful through her analysis of the combination of the outlaw and travel patterns in the literary descriptions of the lives of Aron Hjörleifarson and Þórðr Sighvatsson. She reveals these narrative structures and their adaptations in distinct texts to be key mechanisms by which the sagas she studies create meaning – a meaning, to be precise, that does not conform to scholarly claims of general negative views of Norwegian monarchy in medieval Iceland. Instead, in her two case studies, Korecká shows how the travel pattern and the resulting presence of the king serve as means to subvert the expected tragic outcome of the outlaw pattern and to advocate an ideal of moderation. Korecká’s readings prove that the samtíðarsögur could (and should) be more readily incorporated into research about the literary properties of the saga corpus, expanding beyond the traditional focus on the Íslendingasögur. Broadening approaches and research into that latter corpus is the aim of Rebecca Merkelbach’s contribution (pp. 143–179), who focuses on the ›post-classical‹ sagas and their repeated rejection in saga research. Countering the claims that these texts are not interested in social mechanisms of saga society, but only in exceptional heroes and their fights 18 with non-human antagonists (as moulded by the fornaldarsögur), Merkelbach shows that these texts in fact share the social focus of the more prominent ›classical‹ sagas. Through a survey of the social mechanisms of outlawry, community discourse, and fosterage as depicted in these texts, she also reveals how, just as in the more famous specimens of this genre, these social concerns intertwine with the dimension of the paranormal. On the basis of Merkelbach’s study, it is made apparent that these ›post-classical‹ texts show a pointed interest in certain common themes, such as kinship and sexual relations; that these issues are mostly portrayed from a negative perspective shows again how subversion is a key component of saga narration. Merkelbach’s chapter therefore stands as a reminder that scholars would do well not to make themselves critics, in the sense of passing judgement over texts for their perceived lack of certain characteristics, but should instead accept the texts they study in the form in which they find them. The same reminder also characterises Zuzana Stankovitsová’s contribution (pp. 180–205), which analyses one text from the ›postclassical‹ corpus in its post-medieval manuscript context. Her study opens the second section of chapters, which focus mainly on manuscripts and take a shared approach towards the aspect of ›unwantedness‹ for specific texts or textual phenomena in the history of scholarship. Indeed, Stankovitsová’s object of study, namely post-medieval textual variance, could hardly be more ›unwanted‹, as it has been widely neglected even in the appropriate area of philological research. In line with the demands of New Philology, however, Stankovitsová devotes her study to changes in the textual body of Króka-Refs saga. Reviewing the manuscript-evidence, she rejects assessments that have only addressed the saga’s late textwitnesses in order to characterise them by their alleged ›tastelessness‹. Instead, she analyses the C-branch of transmitted texts to demonstrate how their textual additions serve specific purposes in modifying the saga’s underlying narrative. Through these additions, characterisations are intensified, dramatic verbal exchanges increased, and more extensive context is provided. Stankovitsová’s contribution makes it clear that, although ›late‹ in their dating, the manuscripts she studies testify to a living tradition of saga narration beyond the Middle Ages themselves. Yoav Tirosh (pp. 206–242) then focuses on Ljósvetninga saga in a review of its scholarship and an extended comparison to what may at first seem a strange bedfellow indeed, namely Tommy Wiseau’s film The Room, often referred to as the ›worst film of all time‹. Drawing both on film studies and on theories of authorship and notions of intentionality, Tirosh opens up an intriguing view of scholars’ interaction with Ljósvetninga saga, 19 which he compares to the ways in which audiences receive The Room as a cult film. Such audiences recast the film’s missing quality, logical gaps, and strange narrative structure as appealing characteristics through participatory engagement with it, not least in the form of ridicule. The same, Tirosh argues, could be said of scholars working on Ljósvetninga saga, a text that has given rise to the idea that sagas were made up of originally independent short narratives; yet, in contrast to audiences of The Room, scholars have failed to appreciate the text of the saga as it stands due to their traditional notions of single authorship, therefore immensely emending the text on the grounds that they are unable to see a consistent authorial intent in its existing witnesses. Such intentionality must necessarily be inferred into any work of art in order to construct meaning and sense in any act of reception, but Tirosh argues that if we take the saga at face value, it is in fact possible to study its existing versions as meaningful – a fact that has been overlooked in most scholarship. Mathias Kruse’s chapter (pp. 243–271) examines an unusual text from a genre hardly ever studied in contemporary Old Norse studies, namely exempla. His analysis is devoted to a short narrative from the manuscript AM 657 a-b 4°, in which a Jewish character uses a bailiff threatened with being sent to hell, a result of an unwitting pact with the devil, to allow himself to play witness to the power of Christian symbols. In tracing the possible roots and parallels of this particular story, Kruse articulates how many of its remarkable details seem to be purposeful adaptations of broader traditions, with nearly all of the tale’s motifs working in unexpected ways. This is particularly evident in the depiction of the Jewish figure, who, in contrast with the unfortunately prevalent use of antisemitism in many cultural works throughout continental and Scandinavian medieval Europe, is not portrayed as a negative character. In elucidating the distinct aspects of this particular text, Kruse points out clearly the insufficiency of the tale’s previous classification as a simple variant of a tale-type known from the continent, a further reminder that as scholars we ought not to judge prematurely, but to allow the texts we research to speak for themselves. Jan van Nahl’s contribution (pp. 272–307) ends our collection of essays with a thorough review of the views held about the konungasögur in scholarship from the early nineteenth century to the present day, and asks the question as to why their literary properties have often been noted, even stressed, but rarely studied in much detail. Van Nahl focuses on the scholarship of the 1980s and onward in an attempt to tie the views of scholars to their historical circumstances and motivations, in order to explain researchers’ tendency to privilege Heimskringla over other texts of 20 the genre. In concluding his comprehensive Forschungsgeschichte, van Nahl highlights the importance of understanding both one’s own historical and social context as a scholar and the views of previous scholarly generations, calling for international co-operations in the field that are conscious of the traditions of scholarship, as well as including a basis in modern technologies, as a possible future direction to make it clear that studies in the arts and humanities cannot be ›unwanted‹. In the collection of studies gathered here, we hope to show that looking into what others may have dismissed and what may not at first seem ›right‹ in or about the texts we research can be a productive enterprise, and to enrich the scholarly field by providing perspectives that charter new ways forward for further research. As a group of scholars, despite our having to face harsh conditions in academia, we hope to have found here our very own place to belong: at the very least to each other. 21 Bibliography Ahola, Joonas 2014: Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Helsinki. Amory, Frederic 1992: »The Medieval Icelandic Outlaw: Life-style, Saga, and Legend«, in: Gísli Pálsson (ed.), From Sagas to Society. Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, Enfield Lock, pp. 189–203. Andersson, Theodore M. 1999: »The King of Iceland«, in: Speculum 74, pp. 923–934. Ármann Jakobsson 1995: »Hákon Hákonarson: Friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?«, in: Saga 33, pp. 167–185. Ármann Jakobsson et al. (eds.) 2003: Fornaldarsagornas struktur och ideologi: Handlingar från ett symposium i Uppsala 31.8–2.9 2001, Uppsala. Aronson, Elliot 2018: The Social Animal. 12th edition, New York. 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Wilson Let the Right Skald In: Unwanted Guests in Sagas of Poets The protagonists of the skáldasögur are depicted as ›unwanted‹ figures in the sense that their continued insistence on the primacy of their own desires, at least in their native Iceland, is shown to lead to long-lasting hostilities with their neighbours.1 These conflicts generally have their origins in the skald’s unsuccessful pursuit of a woman, which fails either because of the socially unacceptable way in which he makes his desires known or in his risky decision to travel abroad to win fame before getting married. Kormákr and Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld (»troublesome poet«) fall into the former category; neither skald shows much commitment to marry the woman that he courts, which undermines the relationship from the outset for her male kinsmen. By contrast, Gunnlaugr ormstunga (»snaketongue«) appears genuinely to desire a marriage with Helga in fagra (»the fair«), but his inability to return in a timely manner from travelling abroad leads her father, Þorsteinn, to cancel their marriage arrangements. Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi (»champion of the Hítardalr people«) plays a less direct role in the downfall of his relationship with Oddný Eykindill (»island-candle«), as their betrothal is broken off after his rival Þórðr lies about Bjǫrn having died abroad, yet, as with Gunnlaugr, it is his decision to go abroad before the marriage that allows the chain of events to occur. 2 The subsequent __________________________ The texts usually referred to under the modern Icelandic term skáldasögur (»sagas of skalds«) are Kormáks saga, Hallfreðar saga vandræðaskálds, Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu and Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa. Other Íslendingasögur (»Sagas of Icelanders«), notably Fóstbrœðra saga and Egils saga Skallagrímssonar, have been characterised as skáldasögur, see Clunies Ross 2001, pp. 35–40; Bjarni Einarsson 1993, p. 589. Yet Margaret Clunies Ross 2001, p. 40 argues that the »core group« of four texts are most closely related »on grounds of form, structure, and theme«, and that other Íslendingasögur with poets as protagonists should be viewed as outliers to the genre, because »even though they treat similar themes to the core group, they do not handle them in the same way«. This article uses the term to refer principally to the core group listed above. It uses »skald«, the anglicised form of Old Norse skáld, interchangeably with »poet«. All translations from Old Norse sources are my own. 2 Clunies Ross 2001, p. 48 argues that »the very desire to become a court poet was, in an Icelandic context, in a sense anti-social«, in that it delayed the conventional processes of 1 28 feuds that dominate these narratives can each be traced in some fashion back to the skald’s behaviour in his romantic pursuits. It is notable that when Russell Poole suggests the skalds can be seen as »individuals at the margin of the Icelandic social order«, his justification for characterising them as such is that they »do not succeed in perpetuating their family line«, implying that it is the poets’ failure to establish acceptable long-term relationships with women that leads them to be viewed as outsiders. 3 Regardless of how each conflict originates, the consequence is consistent across the texts: the skald does not abandon the failed relationship, but instead pursues further conflict with the kinsmen of his former lover. Indeed, Margaret Clunies Ross argues that the skalds appear to enjoy the conflict that results from their relationships with women, a trait that she associates with the tragic elements that modern readers tend to identify in these sagas: Unlike other men, they [the skáldasögur] seem to be saying, poets gain greatest gratification, not from the untroubled enjoyment of a woman, but from the ceaseless longing for her that impels them to fantasize about their woman when they are away from her and, when they are near, to engage in dangerous and reckless provocation of the men who ›own‹ her. [...] If the skald sagas represent tragic love, as most modern readers have agreed, the tragic element lies in this incompatibility between the poet’s desire for access to his woman and his maladroit way of promoting it, along with society’s impulse to keep him away from her.4 This characterisation of the skalds, as men who relish the opportunities for confrontation and hostility engendered by their kind of romantic pursuit as much as they do being with women, is broadly persuasive. Admittedly, the __________________________ marriage-arrangement between young Icelandic men and women. Notably, when Gunnlaugr tries to have Helga betrothed to him despite his plans to travel abroad, the criticism made by his father Illugi and his prospective father-in-law Þorsteinn is that he is óráðinn (Gunnlaugs saga, pp. 65–7; »unsettled/undecided/ill-advised«). Whilst pursuing either course of action would be socially acceptable, the saga implies that Gunnlaugr’s desire to pursue both simultaneously would hinder him from carrying out his husbandly duties. 3 Poole 2001, p. 5. 4 Clunies Ross 2001, p. 49. 29 extent to which it applies to the skalds across the subgenre varies, as the notion that skalds »gain greatest gratification, not from the untroubled enjoyment of a woman, but from the ceaseless longing for her« applies more consistently to Kormákr and Hallfreðr than to Bjǫrn and Gunnlaugr. The latter pair seem genuinely intent on marrying their lovers; Bjǫrn arranges for Oddný to be betrothed to him, and Gunnlaugr persuades Þorsteinn to make Helga his heitkona despite his refusing for her to be formally made his festarkona.5 By contrast, Hallfreðr disdains the idea of marrying Kolfinna, and Kormákr is implied to be ambivalent about Steingerðr becoming his wife, despite arranging to marry her; both cases are discussed later in this article. In all cases, however, it is accurate to suggest that the skald is implied to value the conflict that arises once a rival for his lover’s affections emerges, even though these rivalries develop at a later stage in Bjarnar saga and Gunnlaugs saga. In those two sagas, the poet’s enjoyment of conflict is made apparent after the marriagearrangements that he desires are dissolved; for Kormákr and Hallfreðr, their disruptive traits are highlighted earlier in their refusals to abide by the conventional process of obtaining a wife. Yet it is worth reconsidering Clunies Ross’s suggestion that such conflict results from the poets having a »maladroit way of promoting« their romantic affections, a phrasing that implies they are simply clumsy or unlucky in how they approach women. This article argues conversely that the feuding resulting from a skald’s romantic affairs is not always unexpected, but is often implied to be the desired outcome of his actions. Its purpose is not to suggest that the poets lack genuine romantic feelings for the women that they pursue, but to highlight the degree to which they are shown to instrumentalise the women that they claim to love as a means of provoking conflict with other men. In doing so, the skald is often implied to become an unwanted presence not only for the men he seeks to upset, but also for the woman that he claims to love. 6 The article suggests __________________________ 5 Bjarnar saga, p. 114; Gunnlaugs saga, p. 67; »promised woman«; »betrothed woman«. 6 Gunnlaugs saga is a notable exception in this respect, as Helga is implied to love Gunnlaugr continuously up until her death. After Gunnlaugr is killed in a duel by Hrafn, Helga’s husband and his rival, the saga says that hon verðr aldri afhuga Gunnlaugi, þótt hann væri dauðr (Gunnlaugs saga, pp. 106–7; »she was never able to take her mind off Gunnlaugr, even though he was dead«). Nor does Helga develop any love for Hrafn before Gunnlaugr’s death; after Gunnlaugr returns to Iceland, she gerðisk þá svá stirð við Hrafn, at hann fekk eigi haldit henni heima þar […] ok nýtti Hrafn líti af samvistum við hana 30 that these men’s romantic desires are often not satisfied simply by being with a woman: they also require rivals against whom they can strive to prove their love. The tendencies outlined above are especially pronounced in episodes that depict the skald as an unwelcome guest in the home of his lover’s father or husband, a situation that presents opportunities for conflict with other men. This article focuses on three episodes from Kormáks saga, Hallfreðar saga, and Bjarnar saga that depict unwanted visits by a skald. Kormákr and Hallfreðr instigate these incidents by visiting women without the permission of their kinsmen or husbands, thereby creating an opportunity for conflict with other men. By contrast, Bjǫrn is invited by his rival Þórðr, now married to Bjǫrn’s former lover Oddný, to spend the winter with him at his farm, which results unsurprisingly in increased tensions between the men. Despite Bjǫrn being an invited guest, the outcome is similar: the poet uses the opportunity afforded by the situation to exacerbate the underlying conflict with his host. The article explores how the interplay between skaldic verse and the prose narration in these episodes is used to highlight a discrepancy between, on the one hand, the creative power that a skilled poet can gain over others through his use of verse and, on the other, the destructive effects that this can have on his relationship with his lover. Love-Poetry and Conflict Before analysing the skáldasögur episodes in more detail, it will be useful to foreground the idea that medieval Icelandic society made a connection more generally between love-poetry and conflict between men. Jenny Jochens suggests that verse composed in medieval Iceland by a man about a woman, referred to in Old Norse as mansǫngr, constituted a form of »erotic libel« as much as it did love-poetry.7 She argues that such poetry is __________________________ (Gunnlaugs saga, p. 89; »became so severe then with Hrafn that he could not keep her at home there [...] and Hrafn enjoyed little sex with her«). 7 Jochens 2001, p. 311. Mansǫngr is more conventionally translated as »love-song«, as recommended in Richard Cleasby and Guðbrandur Vigfússon’s Old Norse–English dictionary and Geir T. Zoëga’s abridged version, see Zoëga 1910, p. 286; Cleasby / 31 motivated not only by romantic feeling for a woman, but by a desire to engender conflict with men associated with a woman, and posits that the focus of mansǫngr »was not a woman but the man responsible for her«, which »introduce[d] an element of hostility into the discourse of love«. 8 There seems to have been a broad cultural understanding in Iceland that mansǫngr was a dangerous form of poetry, presumably because public declarations of love, made by a man of a woman whom he had not (yet) married, could ward off potential suitors for the woman in question. Such concerns are represented in extant versions of the law-code Grágás, which prescribe the harshest available punishment of skóggangr (»full outlawry«) for recitation of mansǫngr, alongside similarly insulting forms of poetry like níð (»slander«).9 Whether these versions of Grágás reflect how mansǫngr was viewed in Iceland’s earlier legal culture is debateable, but they suggest that the connection between love-poetry and the potential for social disruption existed at least in the late thirteenth century during the period of saga-writing.10 Yet it is notable that despite the implicitly negative characterisation of this connection in the law-codes, both Kormákr and Hallfreðr depict a more positive relationship between love and conflict in their poetry. 11 Each __________________________ Vigfusson 1874, p. 409. Cleasby and Guðbrandur also suggest the translation »love libel«, however, which reflects the aspects of mansǫngr that Jochens highlights. 8 Jochens 2001, p. 311. 9 See Grágás (Konungsbók) § 238, pp. 183–5; Grágás (Staðarhólsbók) §§ 377–8, pp. 392–5. For an overview of skóggangr and other forms of outlawry detailed in Grágás, see Byock 1993. Skalds are also frequently shown to compose níð in the skáldasögur, see Finlay 1990–1993, pp. 159–65. For an analysis of the dimensions of níð and associated concepts, see Finlay 2001, pp. 21–8; Meulengracht Sørensen 1983; Ström 1974. 10 It is worth emphasising that the extant versions of Grágás may not be fully representative of earlier written or oral versions that existed in the Icelandic commonwealth itself (c. 930–1264). They were recorded in a period of turbulent social change around the end of the commonwealth’s independence, and therefore likely reflect the cultural upheaval of the period, as well as thirteenth-century views of the commonwealth, as much as the earlier legal culture itself. For example, Kari Ellen Gade 1986, p. 125 notes that Grágás was recorded in Staðarhólsbók (c. 1271) around the time that the Norwegian Crown was enforcing the superseding law-code Járnsíða in Iceland, and suggests that its recording may be »the result of an attempt by the Icelanders to maintain a national legal tradition in protest against Norwegian sovereignty«. The argument could also be applied to the Konungsbók version (c. 1270–1280; see Einar G. Pétursson 1993, p. 100). 11 Whether the verses in the skáldasögur were composed by the historical figures with whom they are associated is unclear. The dating of these verses has not been consistent across 32 man claims to experience an increase in the strength of his desire because of the hostility that he faces from others over the relationship, with Hallfreðr going so far as to declare that his lover being betrothed to another man causes him to love her almost more than if she were betrothed to him: Fúss emk enn, þótt ósa aflvǫll drepi stalli, mjǫk skýtr Mǫrnar vakri, minnask við Kolfinnu, þvít álgrundar endis áttgóðrar mér tróðu betr unnum nú nytja nær an heitin væri.12 (I am yet eager, even though the perch [= the ship’s prow] strikes the violent-field of river-mouths [= the rough sea] – the hawk of Mǫrn [Mǫrn = river; its hawk = ship] pushes out very swiftly – to kiss Kolfinna, because now we [I] love to enjoy the well-born stave of the eel-ground’s end [eel-ground = sea; its end = shoreline; its stave = a woman, Kolfinna] almost better than if she were promised to me.) Kormákr similarly links the strength of his love for Steingerðr to the anger that her kinsmen feel at his unwanted visits: __________________________ the genre; for example, Gade 2001, pp. 71–4, suggests that the verses in Kormáks saga and Hallfreðar saga »bear all the marks of having been composed prior to 1014«, but that those in Bjarnar saga and Gunnlaugs saga may have been composed later because many seem to allude to earlier verses. Because this article focuses on the function of skalds as narrative, rather than historical, figures, it attributes the verses according to their presentation in the sagas, to reflect the literary decision to associate particular verses with certain narrative figures. 12 Hallfreðar saga, p. 150. The Íslenzk fornrit edition from which this quotation is taken favours the version of the verse in Flateyjarbók. The Möðruvallabók version differs considerably in its imagery: cf. Flateyjarbók’s ósa aflvǫll drepi stalli (»the perch strikes the violent-field of river-mouths«) with Möðruvallabók’s ossu áfǫll drepi stáli (»heavy seas strike us on the prow«), see Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939, p. 150 (note to st. 4). Despite the differences in wording, the central conceit of the verse, that an increase in the poet’s desire for a woman is connected to his being apart from her, is similar in both versions. 33 Sitja menn ok meina mér eina Gnǫ́ steina, þeir hafa víl at vinna, er mér varða Gnǫ́ borða; því meira skalk þeiri es þeir ala meira ǫfund of órar gǫngur unna sǫlva Gunni.13 (Men sit and forbid me the only Gnǫ́ of gems [Gnǫ́ = goddess; goddess of gems = woman, Steingerðr]; they will have to cause misery if they are to defend the Gnǫ́ of embroidery [goddess of embroidery = woman, Steingerðr] from me; if they beget more envy about our visits, the more shall I love that Gunnr of dulse [Gunnr = valkyrie; valkyrie of dulse = woman, Steingerðr].) If we were to read these verses as distinct texts in themselves, it would be reasonable to interpret the poet’s positive association of romance and conflict as necessary for his making a heroic declaration of love in the face of injustice, the implication being that his love for that woman is strong enough not to be hindered by other men’s jealousy. For Kormákr especially, making the connection between romance and conflict enables him to play the role of a heroic warrior who must fight off envious men to uphold his relationship with a woman – a role that he could not embody were he on good terms with her family. That the men express such feelings through poetry suggests that this confrontation is desirable as a source of poetic inspiration. As Jochens puts it, »it may be argued that the ensuing unrequited love [from the hero losing out to his rival] is the frustration required to enable the poet to compose«.14 To understand the narrative significance that such verses have within their sagas, however, the relationship of the poetry to its prose context must be taken into account. These verses are juxtaposed with prose narration about the speakers of the poems and the context in which they recite them, which necessarily informs interpretation of the poetry’s significance within the wider narrative. In the cases of Kormákr and __________________________ 13 14 Kormáks saga, p. 221. Jochens 2001, p. 310. 34 Hallfreðr, the verses would surely have been read in light of each man’s reluctance to marry his lover. When Kolfinna’s father asks that Hallfreðr commit to marrying his daughter, the narrator says that Hallfreðr vildi eigi kvænask.15 Kormákr is not so explicitly opposed to marriage, but his conflict with Steingerðr’s family derives from his perceived ambivalence about marrying her despite his visits; the saga says of Steingerðr’s father that þykkir sér horfa til óvirðingar ok dóttur sinni, ef Kormákr vill þetta eigi meir festa.16 Even though Steingerðr persuades Kormákr to reconcile himself with her father so that he can arrange to marry her, Kormákr fails to attend the wedding, infuriating Steingerðr and her family. That Kormákr and Hallfreðr are depicted as being averse to marriage may have prompted medieval audiences to question the claims in their verses that the conflict they face is caused solely by other men. Because each skald is implied in the prose narration to be unwilling to take serious action towards securing his romantic relationship, his poetic declaration that he has been kept apart from his lover by envious rivals is made to seem suspect. That each also claims to have his romantic feelings heightened by conflict implies further that the disruption these men cause is not simply an unfortunate hindrance in their pursuit of love, but a desired outcome of their romantic worldview. It is notable in these cases that the depiction of the poet’s romantic relationship is not consistent across the verse and prose elements of the narrative. There is a dissonance between the poet’s presentation of himself, as a heroic figure struggling against jealous rivals, and how he is depicted by the events of the prose, which imply that his __________________________ 15 Hallfreðar saga, p. 144; »Hallfreðr did not want to take a wife«. Hallfreðr later marries a woman named Ingibjǫrg during his travels in Scandinavia (chs. 8–9), who dies before his return to Iceland. This implies that Hallfreðr is not opposed to marriage entirely, even though he does not want to marry Kolfinna. Torfi Tulinius 2001, pp. 201–5, argues that the apparent change in Hallfreðr’s attitude is explained by a supposed hierarchy between his and Kolfinna’s fathers; this causes Hallfreðr to behave as if Kolfinna were his mistress, an arrangement that was more acceptable when pursued by a man thought to be the social superior of the woman’s kinsmen. Ávaldi’s anger at the situation, however, suggests that he does not accept the supposed distinction in social status. By contrast, Hallfreðr sees Ingibjǫrg, a wealthy widow, as more suitable for a marriage-match that will enhance his social position. 16 Kormáks saga, p. 216; »it seems to him that there would be the prospect of dishonour to him and his daughter if Kormákr does not want to make this more definite«. The verb festa can refer to a man arranging for a woman to be betrothed to him or to someone else, but the syntax of the line does not specify that outcome, see Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 152. 35 behaviour is a major cause of the hostilities. To explore whether such skalds are shown by their sagas to play an active role in creating conflict with others, it will be useful to give particular attention to the effects that the prosimetrical form of the sagas has on their characterisation of the poets, especially as regards its capacity to undermine their poetic claims for audiences.17 Kormáks saga: Prolonging Conflict The early stages of Kormáks saga make clear that Kormákr enjoys the conflict caused by his visiting Steingerðr against her father’s wishes, as he continues his visits there despite Þorkell’s attempts to have him killed. As mentioned above, Þorkell thinks the relationship will dishonour him and his daughter if Kormákr has no interest in making things more definite with Steingerðr, but whilst Kormákr seems interested in developing a romantic connection with her – the saga says that he bað móður sína gera sér góð klæði, at Steingerði mætti sem bezt á hann lítask – he does not initially seek to marry her.18 Instead, he composes poetry that celebrates his conflict with Steingerðr’s kinsmen, which implies that he is slow to formalise his relationship with her because he enjoys the hostilities that his actions cause. During one visit, Kormákr recites a poem to Steingerðr that emphasises the steadfastness of his love for her, but in which he seems also to relish the possibility of further confrontations: Sitja menn ok meina mér ásjǫ́nu þína; þeir hafa lǫgðis loddu __________________________ 17 Judy Quinn 1997, pp. 61–2, argues that this capacity is common to prosimetrum in which poetry is quoted by a prose narrator, as this necessarily introduces a change in the narratorial voice of the text that results in a contest for authority between the voices of the poetic and prose narrators: »The [prose] narrator’s voice is at once in competition with another voice, which through its poetic form is graced with significance and authority. [...] Even so, poetic evidence can be orchestrated in such a way as to draw attention to the saga-narrator’s presence and to play down the presence of the reciting poet.« 18 Kormáks saga, p. 215; »asked his mother to make good clothing for him, so that he might appear in the best way to Steingerðr«. 36 linna fœtr at vinna, því at upp skulu allar, ǫlstafns, áðr ek þér hafna, lýsigrund, í landi, linns, þjóðáar rinna.19 (Men sit and forbid me your appearance; they will have to cause harm to the serpent of the island of the sword [= a shield; its serpent = sword], because all the great rivers in the land should run upwards before I abandon you, bright-ground of the aleprow’s serpent [ale-prow = ale-vessel; serpent = here: heiti for fire;20 fire of ale-vessel = its decorative gold ornaments; their bright-ground = bearer of the vessel, i.e. a woman, Steingerðr].) The first helmingr parallels the stanza of Kormákr’s cited previously, which precedes it in the saga, suggesting a thematic association between the verses. The connection between romance and hostility is less explicit in this verse, with Kormákr not speaking directly to how conflict with others increases his love for Steingerðr, but there is an implicit continuation of the idea in the suggestion that men will need to harm him to stop his relationship with her. Yet there is a key difference between the verses: whilst Kormákr claims in the first verse only that his love for Steingerðr grows because of other men being envious of him, in the second he seems to envision such confrontation as being a perpetual factor in their relationship. He combines the idea that he must fight to uphold his love for Steingerðr with the claim that upp skulu allar [...] í landi [...] þjóðáar rinna (»all the great rivers in the land should run upwards«) before he would alter his course of action. Whilst the verse primarily conveys that Kormákr’s love for Steingerðr cannot be altered by other men’s jealousy, it also implies that he views the conflict as something that will be ended only by impossible occurrences. The poem suggests that Kormákr does not regard confrontation with others as a temporary obstacle to his being with Steingerðr, but rather as a potentially continuous part of their relationship. __________________________ 19 Kormáks saga, p. 222. 20 The idea that in this context linnr (»serpent«) is a poetic name for fire (eldsheiti) is derived from Einar Ól. Sveinsson’s note to the Íslenzk fornrit edition of the verse, see Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939, p. 222 (note to st. 19). 37 Notably, it is this implication of the verse to which the prose context responds. Steingerðr reacts to the poem by cautioning Kormákr against making such declarations: ›Mæl þú eigi svá mikit um [...] mart má því bregða‹.21 It is telling that her objection to the poem is that things may be more changeable than Kormákr is willing to entertain. Whilst the poet portrays the hostilities faced by the pair as ceasing only in the case of impossible events like rivers running upwards, his lover stresses that their situation is not so fixed as that imagery implies. Steingerðr’s reply can be seen both as a warning to Kormákr not to assume that his feelings for her will remain unchanged – a salient concern, as it happens – and as a suggestion that the conflict need not be prolonged indefinitely. This latter reading is supported by her subsequently asking Kormákr to reconcile himself with her father so that he can arrange to marry her, a socially acceptable alternative to perpetuating the quarrel that would allow them to continue the relationship. Whilst Steingerðr evidently enjoys that Kormákr acts dangerously in courting her – the narrator says that when she and Kormákr discussed the events surrounding his visits, lætr hon ekki illa yfir – she also seems to want the conflict to culminate in marriage.22 Yet Kormákr almost never mentions marriage in his poetry, the only such instance being a short verse spoken after Steingerðr’s objection to the above stanza.23 His poetry more often conveys an underlying assumption that confrontation will continue to play a key role in his relationship with Steingerðr. This is evident in an earlier episode in which Þorkell and his companions set up an elaborate trap to kill Kormákr as he enters the house at Tunga, which involves their placing a drawn sword on one side of a doorway and a scythe on the other in the hopes that they should strike Kormákr as he enters the room. The plot fails, however, as the sword and scythe collide with each other. On witnessing the failure of the plan, __________________________ 21 Kormáks saga, p. 222; »›Don’t speak so much about it [...] many things could alter that‹«. 22 Kormáks saga, p. 222; »she does not act displeased about it«. 23 After Steingerðr objects to his poetry, Kormákr speaks a helmingr that asks her whom she would choose to marry; she replies with a helmingr apparently referring to Kormákr, see Kormáks saga, pp. 222–3. The verse precedes Steingerðr’s urging of Kormákr to arrange their marriage, so is not a direct response on Kormákr’s part to her raising the subject. Nevertheless, it is notable that Kormákr does not otherwise compose about marrying Steingerðr, and the context in which the verse is spoken, of Steingerðr criticising Kormákr’s previous verse, may imply that Kormákr is responding to Steingerðr’s critique by shifting the focus of his poetry to marriage. 38 Kormákr notices the armed men awaiting him and recites a verse: Hneit við Hrungnis fóta hallvitjǫndum stalli, inn vask Ilmi at finna, engisax, of genginn; vita skal hitt ef hœtir handviðris mér grandi né Yggs fyr lið leggjum lítils meira vítis.24 (A meadow-sword [= scythe] cut against the pedestal of Hrungnir’s foot [= a shield, on which Hrungnir stood when fighting Þórr] belonging to the hall-visitor [= the poet, Kormákr] – I had entered to meet Ilmr [a goddess = a woman, Steingerðr]; if that one is threatening me with harm, that one must know more punishment; we [I] will not leave off the hand-weather of Yggr [= Óðinn; his hand-weather = poetic composition and/or warfare25] a little for that host.) Similarly, to the previous verse, Kormákr’s apparent declaration that he will not stop performing deeds associated with Óðinn, perhaps referring partly to battle, suggests that he is eager for his conflict with Þorkell to continue. That he connects poetry with battle through the context of his __________________________ 24 Kormáks saga, p. 218. There is a discrepancy between verse and prose over whether the scythe strikes against the sword or Kormákr’s shield. Perhaps Kormákr’s verse overly heroicises his situation by contrast with the events of the prose; whilst he gives himself a more active role in stopping the attack with his shield, the prose implies that the trap was poorly thought out in the first place. 25 The second helmingr of the verse is difficult to translate, as from the reading in the manuscript it is not immediately clear how all the constituent elements are related, with Einar Ól. Sveinsson suggesting that it »verður varla skýrður óbreyttur« (Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939, p. 219 (note to st. 15); »can hardly be explained unchanged [i.e. without emendation]«). Einar suggests that the element Yggs (»of Yggr [i.e. Óðinn]«) as used here »virðist viðliður í kenningu, sem eðlilegast er að búast við að þýddi skáldskapur (eða bardagi)« (»seems to be the second part of a compound word, which likely is to be expected to mean the composition of poetry [or battle]«), but provides no suggestion for the full syntax of the second helmingr in his notes. In this translation, Yggs has been tentatively taken to be connected to the element handviðris (genitive), which could produce a kenning referring either to warfare or to poetic composition, but this reading is far from certain; see the footnote below. 39 being inspired to recite a verse in response to an attempt on his life – as well as perhaps through the interpretative possibilities of the phrase Yggs [...] handviðris, which may be understood as a kenning referring to battle and/or to poetic composition (assuming that this syntactical suggestion is accurate26) – suggests that this conflict is useful for the poet, as it gives him the justification to frame himself as a heroic figure in his verse. Kormákr’s enjoyment in confronting others may explain his failure to attend his wedding to Steingerðr, at least in part. The saga gives two explicit reasons for Kormákr’s decision not to go through with the marriage arrangements, namely financial disagreements with Þorkell and a previously unmentioned curse placed on by Kormákr by Þórveig, a magicuser whose sons he killed: Nú fara orð á milli þeira, ok verða í nǫkkurar greinir um fjárfar, ok svá veik við breytiliga, at síðan þessum ráðum var ráðit, fannsk Kormáki fátt um, en þat var fyrir þá sǫk, at Þórveig seiddi til, at þau skyldi eigi njótask mega.27 (Now words pass between them, and there arise in them some disagreements about matters concerning money, and it came to pass strangely that after these plans were discussed, Kormákr was little pleased about it, and that happened for this reason, that Þórveig worked magic so that they [Kormákr and Steingerðr] should not be able to enjoy one another.) Yet we may consider another implicit reason for why Kormákr does not attend the wedding related to his romantic worldview. In his poetry, Kormákr envisages his conflict with Steingerðr’s kinsmen as continuing __________________________ 26 The Íslenzk fornrit version of the stanza, which transcribes the readings in Möðruvallabók and AM 162 F fol., gives the noun handviðris (genitive). The term presumably stands in relation with the term Yggs (see above note), but it is difficult to translate. The element -viðri typically refers to »weather« in such compounds, see Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 704. »Hand-weather« could refer to battle, with the imagery being of hands violently striking at each other as if in a metaphorical storm; notably, a common kenning for »battle« is a variation on »storm of Óðinn«. It is possible, however, that the term is meant to be read as hand Viðris (»the handiwork of Viðrir«), with the name Viðrir being a name of Óðinn, see Gylfaginning, p. 8. This could then refer to battle and/or to the composition of poetry, given the association of Óðinn with both, but it is unclear how Yggs would then fit into the syntax of the helmingr. 27 Kormáks saga, p. 223. 40 without end, to the benefit of his heroic stature. Within this mindset, the conventional progression towards marriage is unlikely to seem appealing; that socially proscribed process, meant to establish positive relationships with a woman’s kinsmen as much as with the bride herself, diverges from the confrontational romantic impulse valued by the skald. Kormákr seems more eager to play the role of unwanted guest than that of husband. Kormákr continues to pursue Steingerðr as before, mocking her later husbands Bersi and Þorvaldr while composing love-poetry about her, but Steingerðr comes to resent Kormákr’s being unwilling to marry her. When he later declares his love for her, she tells him that she considers his previous actions to have completely ended their relationship: ›Skilðisk þú svá at eins við þau mál, at þess er þér engi ván‹.28 Yet even this does not stop Kormákr’s pursuit of her, and Steingerðr endures the skald’s continued presence for the rest of the narrative despite his earlier rejection of her. For Kormákr, it seems the most desirable thing is to prolong his playing the role of the heroic lover, struggling against rivals, even when this involves sabotaging the romantic relationship itself. Hallfreðar saga: Provocation and Humiliation Hallfreðar saga contains two instances early on of poets making themselves unwanted guests in the households of their lovers’ fathers, in which the skalds instigate romantic relationships with women apparently to reinforce their social superiority, whether actual or perceived, over other men. The first incident involves the affair between Hallfreðr’s sister Valgerðr and her lover Ingólfr, the son of the local chieftain Þorsteinn. Hallfreðr’s father Óttarr offers Ingólfr the option of marrying Valgerðr to prevent dishonour to his daughter, but Ingólfr refuses. He stops visiting Valgerðr after Þorsteinn scolds him for his behaviour, but composes mansǫngr about her afterwards, resulting in Óttarr bringing a legal case against him. Whilst Þorsteinn awards compensation to Óttarr for Ingólfr’s actions, he also forces Óttarr to leave the district, which Torfi Tulinius suggests is the consequence of Óttarr’s having brought a suit against the family of his social superior: »Engaging in a lawsuit against your chieftain is perceived __________________________ 28 Kormáks saga, p. 275; »›You alone forsook that affair, so that there is no expectation of that for you [their rekindling the relationship]‹«. 41 as an attempt to compete with him, a refusal to acknowledge his own authority«.29 This reading is persuasive, but it is worth highlighting also that Óttarr’s rejection of the difference in status between him and Þorsteinn stems from Ingólfr’s refusal to recognise Óttarr’s authority over his daughter. The episode ends ironically with conventional power structures being reinforced more firmly than before, but the saga nevertheless establishes early on the potential that such unwanted romantic visits have for causing social disruption: these intrusions can lead men to disregard established patterns of authority, and to assert their own desires at the expense of societal cohesion. This episode lays the foundations for the depiction of Hallfreðr’s visits to Kolfinna, which follows a similar narrative pattern. Hallfreðr also refuses to marry Kolfinna despite her father giving him the opportunity; there is not the same difference in social status between Hallfreðr and Ávaldi as there is between Óttarr and Ingólfr, but Torfi argues that Hallfreðr nevertheless views himself in a similar light as Ávaldi’s social superior, even if Ávaldi does not recognise this distinction himself. 30 Like Ingólfr, Hallfreðr attempts to shame the other men involved in the situation. Where Ingólfr provokes Óttarr by reciting mansǫngr about Valgerðr, Hallfreðr sits Kolfinna on his lap and kisses her in view of Gríss, another of her suitors, while Gríss is arranging for Kolfinna to be betrothed to him. Hallfreðr’s actions naturally anger Gríss, who identifies them as an attempt to goad him into conflict: ›Auðsætt er þat, at við mik vill hann nú illt eiga, ok er slíkt til hrœsni gǫrt‹.31 Notably, both conflicts are resolved by the young man and woman being separated as a result of the man’s father deciding it – although Hallfreðr’s separation is more substantial, as he is forced by his father to travel to Norway. The capacity of Óttarr and Ávaldi to resist Ingólfr and Kormákr’s attempts to subvert their authority prevents the visits from spiralling into prolonged sequences of conflict comparable to Kormákr’s continuous provocation of Steingerðr’s kinsmen. Whilst Ingólfr and Hallfreðr both behave disruptively, their attempts to ignore established authorities are easily quashed by society. Yet there is a marked difference in the long-term __________________________ 29 Tulinius 2001, p. 201. 30 See Tulinius 2001, pp. 201–5. 31 Hallfreðar saga, p. 146; »›It is obvious that he now wants to be on bad terms with me, and such a thing is done out of boasting‹«. 42 success of the efforts to contain them; whilst Ingólfr stops visiting Valgerðr and is not said to recite further poetry about her, Hallfreðr returns to confront Gríss over his relationship with Kolfinna. After spending several years abroad, during which time he marries another woman and becomes a follower of Óláfr Tryggvason, Hallfreðr returns to Iceland, ostensibly to visit his father. His first calling-point, however, is at the shielings above Gríss’s farm, where he finds Kolfinna and several other women from her household. Hallfreðr persuades Kolfinna to allow him and his companions to stay at the shielings, despite her apprehensions: Nú koma þeir til seljanna. Kolfinna fagnar vel Hallfreði ok frétti tíðenda. Hann segir: ›Tíðendi eru fá, en í tómi munu sǫgð vera, ok vilju vér hér í nótt vera.‹ Hon svarar: ›Þat vilda ek, at þú riðir til vetrhúsa, ok mun ek fá þér leiðsǫgumann.‹ Hann kvazk þar vera vilja. ›Gefa munu vér yðr mat,‹ sagði hon, ›ef þér vilið þetta eitt.‹32 (Now they come to the shielings. Kolfinna warmly greets Hallfreðr and asked for news. He says, ›There is little news, but it will be told at length, and we want to stay the night here.‹ She replies, ›I want you to ride to the winter-houses [as opposed to the summer-houses of the shielings], and I will get a guide for you.‹ He said he wanted to stay there. ›We will give you food,‹ she said, ›if that alone is what you want.‹) Hallfreðr makes it clear to his men that he intends also to have sex with Kolfinna: ›Þat ætla ek mér, at liggja hjá Kolfinnu‹.33 On getting into bed with her, however, Hallfreðr begins weaving a series of obscene, complex insults about her and Gríss that seem designed to upset her. He asks Kolfinna about her relationship with Gríss; when she replies that things are going well between them, Hallfreðr claims to have heard some mocking verses about Gríss composed by her. When she denies this, Hallfreðr recites two verses denigrating Gríss’s sexual ability, and attributes both to Kolfinna: Leggr at lýsibrekku leggjar íss af Grísi, kvǫl þolir hón hjá hǫ́num, __________________________ 32 Hallfreðar saga, p. 180. 33 Hallfreðar saga, pp. 180–1; »›I intend to sleep with Kolfinna‹«. 43 heitr ofremmðar sveiti: en dreypilig drúpir dýnu Rǫ́n hjá hǫ́num, leyfik ljóssa vífa lund, sem ǫlpt á sundi.34 (There drops from Gríss onto the bright-slope of the arm’s ice [= silver; its bright-slope = a woman, Kolfinna] hot, very bitter sweat; she suffers torment beside him; but the Rǫ́n of the downbed [Rǫ́n = goddess; goddess of down-bed = woman, Kolfinna] droops sadly beside him like a swan swimming; I praise the mind of the bright lady.) Þrammar, svá sem svimmi sílafullr, til hvílu fúrskerðandi fjarðar, fúlmǫ́r á trǫð bǫ́ru, áðr an orfa stríðir ófríðr þorir skríða, hann esa hlaðs við Gunni hvílubráðr, und váðir.35 (The fire-diminisher of the fjord [fire of the fjord = gold; its diminisher = wealth-spender, a man, Gríss] trudges, like a herring-full fulmar swimming on the home-path of the wave [= sea], before the ugly harmer of the scythe-handle [= farmer, i.e. Gríss], dares to crawl under the sheets; he is not hasty to bed __________________________ 34 Hallfreðar saga, p. 181. 35 Hallfreðar saga, p. 182. It may be that the following verse, which continues the focus on Gríss’s sexual preferences by implying that he has sex with his livestock, is meant to be understood as another verse composed by Kolfinna, but Hallfreðr is not said to attribute it directly to her. Kolfinna is shown to be offended by all three verses, but responds verbally only to the first two, whilst the narrator notes her shocked silence at the third verse. The third stanza is also distinct in its content: whilst it develops the idea that Gríss is sexually repulsive, it introduces the idea of his being sexually deviant, in his having sex with animals. This diverges significantly from the subject-matter of the first two verses, which focus on the disappointing nature of the sexual relationship between Kolfinna and Gríss. It is therefore unclear whether this verse is meant also to be attributed to Kolfinna by Hallfreðr. 44 with the Gunnr of lace-work [Gunnr = valkyrie; valkyrie of lacework = woman, Kolfinna].) Audiences would probably have presumed these verses to have been composed by Hallfreðr himself; the tension in the scene is created by the push and pull of his insisting that Kolfinna had composed these verses and her flatly denying his accusations, and the first verse also contains an intercalary clause in the first person – leyfik ljóssa vífa lund (»I praise the mind of the bright lady«) – which is presumably in Hallfreðr’s voice, given that it speaks about Kolfinna from an external yet individuated perspective. In the narrative context, however, the composer of the verses is less important than Hallfreðr’s insistence that Kolfinna had composed them. Hallfreðr’s purpose in speaking the poems in this context is not only to slander Gríss, but also to make Kolfinna complicit in the process of degrading her husband. It is notable that the verses are composed around the idea that it is disgusting for Kolfinna to have sex with Gríss in different ways; he is figured in the first verse to inflict torment on Kolfinna by his physical repulsiveness during sex, yet in the second he insults her by being slow to join her in bed, the implication being that he is sexually uninterested in her. In both cases, there is a disjuncture between the intimate subject material of the poetry and its supposedly public recitation by Kolfinna, who would hardly gain from such rumours abounding. Yet the dissonance seems to reflect Hallfreðr’s purpose in speaking the verses to her while they share a bed in the shieling. By choosing such an intimate location in which to recite the verses, which insult the married couple on sexual grounds but are allegedly public knowledge, Hallfreðr blurs the distinctions between the public realm and that which should be kept private. In this context, his recitation of these verses functions as an implicit threat against Kolfinna, who has been placed in a compromising, potentially sexual situation by a vindictive ex-lover given to reciting insulting verse in public. Hallfreðr’s attempts to make Kolfinna complicit in insulting Gríss suggests that he is less interested in winning her over than he is in alienating her. The specific interpretation of his behaviour is affected by the ambiguity as to whether the pair have sex during this scene. If no sex is involved, it would appear that Hallfreðr primarily wants to insult Kolfinna while she is in a compromised position, sharing a bed with a man other than her husband. If we assume that they have sex, it seems likely that Hallfreðr’s intention is to craft a situation in which he can punish Kolfinna through sex – that is, to rape her. Both interpretative possibilities involve a perverse desire on Hallfreðr’s part to humiliate Kolfinna in a sexual 45 capacity, a reading that is supported by a verse later in the scene in which Hallfreðr implies that he finds pleasure and poetic inspiration in having alienated Kolfinna: Kolfinna lézk kenna, kveðk enn of hlut þenna, hvat kveða vífi vitru valda, fúlt af skaldi; enn af ungum svanna auðhnykkjanda þykkir, óð emk gjarn at greiða, ganga dýrligr angi.36 (Kolfinna said she felt foulness from the skald; I still compose about this thing, what they say rules over the wife of wisdom [Kolfinna]; it seems still to the wealth-snatcher [= man, Hallfreðr] that from the young woman goes a glorious fragrance; I am frantically eager to arrange poetry.) The verse associates the skald being »frantically eager« to compose poetry with the hostility of others, yet in this instance such enmity is figured to emanate from the woman that the poet claims to praise. The stanza emphasises the destructive effect that the form of love valued by the skald has on the object of his desires. Hallfreðr’s status as a guest, albeit an unexpected one, enables him to make Kolfinna complicit in his punishment of her: he uses the hospitality that she offers him as an opportunity to craft an intimate situation with her, before abusing her generosity by threatening and humiliating her as a means of provoking further conflict not only with Gríss, but with Kolfinna herself. __________________________ 36 Hallfreðar saga, p. 183. This verse and the preceding three stanzas exist only in the Möðruvallabók and Flateyjarbók versions of the saga. In the version of the saga associated with Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta, the narrator says it is unnecessary to record the verses: En er Hallfreðr stóð upp um morgininn, kvað hann nǫkkurar vísur, þær er eigi er þǫrf á at rita, bæði með mansǫng til Kolfinnu ok ósœmðarorðum við Grís (Hallfreðar saga, pp. 183–4; »And when Hallfreðr got up in the morning, he spoke some verses, those for which there is no need to write them down, with both erotic libel towards Kolfinna and insulting language towards Gríss«). This version is notable in assigning more narrative agency to Kolfinna, who scolds Hallfreðr at length for composing about her husband and compares him unfavourably to Gríss, see Hallfreðar saga, p. 184. 46 Bjarnar saga: Supplanting One’s Host Bjǫrn’s winter-stay at his rival Þórðr’s farm represents a turning-point in the saga, in which he demonstrates at length his ability to compose slanderous verse. Whilst other skáldasögur mention the poetic skill of their protagonist soon after introducing him to the narrative, Bjǫrn is not mentioned as having a propensity for speaking poetry, libellous or otherwise, when young. He recites a single verse before he hears that Þórðr has betrayed his trust and married Oddný; he then recites a further verse insulting Þórðr before his stay with him, but does so while abroad rather than in Þórðr’s presence.37 By contrast, Þórðr is introduced as the more renowned poet and confrontational figure: Hann var skáld mikit ok helt sér mjǫk fram til virðingar; var hann jafnan útanlands vel virðr af meira háttar mǫnnum sakar menntanar sinnar [...]. Ekki var Þórðr mjǫk vinsæll af alþýðu, því at hann þótti vera spottsamr ok grár við alla þá, er honum þótti dælt við.38 (He was a great skald and held himself in great worth; he was always well esteemed abroad by more cultured people because of his artistic skills. […] Þórðr was not very popular with people in general, because he was thought to be malicious and spiteful to all those who had cause to deal with him.) Yet during his stay with Þórðr and Oddný, Bjǫrn is shown to recite ten insulting verses to Þórðr’s four, and his desire to humiliate Þórðr through such poetic insults dominates the rest of his life in Icelandic society. Diana Whaley explains the shift in Bjǫrn’s portrayal by suggesting that this element of his character may have required unusual pressure to develop: __________________________ 37 See Bjarnar saga, pp. 121–3. 38 Bjarnar saga, p. 112. It may be that this apparent difference between the depiction of Bjǫrn and of other skalds in the skáldasögur is a result of Bjarnar saga’s difficult transmission. The first four-and-a-half chapters of the saga are lost from the primary manuscript; modern editions take these sections from the expanded version of Óláfs saga helga in the manuscript Bæjarbók, but that version is likely to be less detailed than its source, see Finlay 1990–1993, p. 167. 47 [t]he capacity for making acerbic poetry is, as it were, at first displaced [on a narrative level] on to his enemy Þórðr Kolbeinsson and only emerges later under pressure of circumstances. 39 This is an accurate characterisation, given that Bjǫrn is placed in a deeply compromising position by Þórðr’s invitation, but it is also notable that Bjǫrn plays a role in creating those difficult circumstances by using the visit as an opportunity to provoke conflict with his host. Whilst there is good reason to think that Þórðr’s invitation to Bjǫrn is meant as »a challenge [...] to renew their feud«, as Fredrik Heinemann argues, 40 the saga implies that he is initially a welcoming host: Þórðr tók vel við honum ok setti hann it næsta sér ok bað menn nú einkum, at vel skulu þeir á meðal ganga, ok hétu menn um þat góðu, en flestum þótti þarvist Bjarnar kynlig, ok þó líðr nú stund, ok horfisk vænliga á með þeim.41 (Þórðr received him [Bjǫrn] warmly and sat him nearest to him, and then asked people especially that they should act well towards each other, and people promised that with good-will, but Bjǫrn’s visit there seemed strange to many of them; and yet time passed, and things looked promising between them.) Instead, it is Bjǫrn who initiates the conflict by composing a verse about Þórðr after he and Oddný argue about the allocation of household tasks. When Þórðr suggests that Oddný milk the sheep, a task beneath her as the manager of the household, she insults him by saying that he should undertake the lowly chore of shovelling dung out of the sheep-pens. Þórðr strikes Oddný, at which point Bjǫrn speaks a poem denigrating Þórðr’s manliness: __________________________ 39 40 41 Whaley 2001, p. 288. Heinemann 1990–1993, p. 422. Bjarnar saga, p. 139. Heinemann 1990–1993, p. 422, argues that the various motivations that Þórðr gives for inviting Bjǫrn to stay with him, including a desire to please Oddný and a wish to prevent other people’s slander from leading to conflict between him and Bjǫrn, are unconvincing, and suggests that the details of the scene in which Þórðr invites Bjǫrn to stay with him would have been understood by medieval audiences as indicating Þórðr’s intention to create a situation in which the pair can »conduct the feud without outside interference«. 48 Snót biðr svein enn hvíta svinn at kvíar innan, reið esa Rínar glóðar ranglǫ́t, moka ganga; harðla nýt, sús heitir, Hlǫkk miðs vita Rǫkkva, sprund biðr út at andar, Eykindill, mik skynda.42 (The wise lady bids the white lad to go muck out the pens from within – the chariot of the Rhine’s ember [fire of the Rhine = gold; its chariot = a woman, Oddný] is not unjust; the very useful woman, the Hlǫkk of the beacon of Rǫkkvi’s fishing-bank [Rǫkkvi = a sea-king; his fishing-bank = the sea; beacon of the sea = gold; goddess (Hlǫkk) of gold = a woman, Oddný], who is called Isle-Candle, bids me quickly out to the porch.) The verse is insulting not only in reinforcing Oddný’s suggestion that Þórðr is fit to muck out the sheep-pens, but also because it positions Þórðr as an immature boy. This move enables Bjǫrn to insert himself in Þórðr’s place as the man of the house, whom Oddný would rather have standing beside her on the porch than undertaking menial chores. The contrast between the men is emphasised in the imagery of Þórðr mucking out the pens innan (»from within«) and of Bjǫrn being invited út (»out«), reflecting the gendered division of labour that took place within and outside the house in Old Icelandic culture. As Jochens notes, the law-codes distinguish tasks that occur fyrir innan stokk (»within the threshold«), typically undertaken by women, from those that take place fyrir útan stokk (»outside the threshold«), which were the preserve of men: »A wife was to manage the couple’s affairs that pertained within the house […] and it was understood that the husband was in charge of everything outside«. 43 The juxtaposition of the men’s locations within the stanza therefore suggests that Þórðr, unlike Bjǫrn, does not occupy a properly manly position within his own home. __________________________ 42 43 Bjarnar saga, p. 140. Jochens 1995, p. 117. 49 Notably, many of Bjǫrn’s insults during his visit seem intended to shift the balance of power between the two men by framing Bjǫrn in conventional positions of power and Þórðr as an intrusive figure, which enables Bjǫrn to supplant the host’s position of authority within the household. He repeatedly refers to Þórðr using the phrases lítill sveinn and sveinn enn hvíti in these verses, suggesting that Þórðr is an immature outsider to the primary relationship underpinning the household, that of husband and wife.44 The repetition of these insults works to reverse the hierarchy of masculinities in the men’s relationships to Oddný: Bjǫrn frames himself as a suitably manly figure desired by Oddný, with Þórðr, by contrast, depicted as an overeager, boyish interloper. The imagery is especially vivid in a verse that Bjǫrn recites on becoming aware of Þórðr spying on a conversation he is having with Oddný: Eykyndill verpr ǫndu orðsæll ok vill mæla, brúðr hefr baztar rœður breksǫm, við mik nekkvat; en til Jarðar orða ǫlreyrar gengr heyra lítill sveinn ok leynisk launkárr ok sezk fjarri.45 (The well spoken-of Isle-Candle [Oddný] sighs deeply and wants to talk with me about something; the affectionate bride has the best speeches; but a little lad goes to hear the words of the Jǫrð of the ale-horn [= woman, Oddný], and the one dealing in secrets hides himself and seats himself far away.) Bjǫrn casting Þórðr as a young lad in these verses not only functions as an insult to Þórðr by figuring him as insufficiently manly, but also implies that he is incapable of fulfilling the role of husband because of his supposed immaturity. Notably, the stanza casts Þórðr as an outsider to the relationship between Bjǫrn and Oddný, despite his position as head of the household. In poetically reframing the men’s relationships to Oddný, Bjǫrn alters their apparent standing within the household itself, portraying __________________________ 44 See Bjarnar saga, pp. 142–4, stt. 6; 9; 11; »little lad«; »the white lad«. 45 Bjarnar saga, pp. 141–2. 50 himself as a desirable figure with whom Oddný wishes to speak – imagery that almost certainly implies a sexual subtext – but relegating Þórðr to the role of a secretive, voyeuristic boy, whose attempts to hear Oddný’s words from afar imply an unbecoming desire for vicarious sexual fulfilment. Whatever the intentions behind Þórðr’s invitation, Bjǫrn uses his status as a guest as an opportunity to insult and undermine his host, similarly to how Kormákr and Hallfreðr use their more obviously unwanted visits as a means of stirring up conflict. In depicting his development into a man obsessed with humiliating his rivals through deeply insulting verse, the sequence has a narrative function of aligning Bjǫrn with the archetypal skald of the genre. Yet whereas those skalds seem to revel in their role as disruptive intruders, Bjǫrn uses his verse to frame Þórðr as an unwanted outsider and himself as the man of the house, thereby supplanting his host’s position. As with Kormákr and Hallfreðr, Bjǫrn’s desire to create conflict with his rival also affects his relationship with his lover, despite the saga heavily implying that Bjǫrn and Oddný have sex during his stay.46 When Oddný is late to join Þórðr in their bed-closet and he refuses to allow her into bed, Bjǫrn composes a verse that portrays her as a tragic figure unwanted by her husband, leading Oddný to rebuke both men: Oddný bað þá, at þeir skulu eigi yrkja um hana, ok talði eigi þetta vera sín orð.47 Although Bjǫrn has composed many verses about Oddný by this point, it makes sense for her to react here: Þórðr humiliates her by symbolically rejecting her, but Bjǫrn’s attempt to concretise that rejection in poetic form only exacerbates matters. The saga suggests here the toll that the dispute between the men takes on Oddný, whose response highlights how both men have treated her as material for composing poetry about each other. Her declaration about the words attributed to her by Bjǫrn not being her own emphasises the unfairness of her situation; it is not just that she is not afforded an authoritative voice by the men, but also that their poetic conflict has the effect of claiming to speak on her behalf, of attributing to her emotions and thoughts that are unlikely to represent accurately her own desires. __________________________ 46 If Bjǫrn is accurate in his claim to be Kolli’s father, of course, the implication is given more concrete form for the audience through his existence, see Bjarnar saga, p. 145. 47 Bjarnar saga, p. 150; »Oddný then demanded that they should not make verses about her, and said these were not her words«. 51 Oddný’s protest is given prominence by its proximity to the conclusion of Bjǫrn’s stay, and it is significant that he composes only one further verse before leaving the farm, in which he praises the beauty of Oddný and her daughters. Bjǫrn differs somewhat from Kormákr and Hallfreðr here in showing restraint after his lover makes it known that he has demeaned her, especially by contrast with Hallfreðr’s attempts to humiliate Kolfinna. Whilst Bjǫrn continues to insult Þórðr in verse after his visit, he does not invoke their relationships with Oddný in his later poetry, apart from a verse implying that he fathered her son Kolli during his stay and his naming Þórðr as a kvenna kneytir, which does not explicitly name Oddný. 48 Bjǫrn persists in placing himself in hostile situations where he can enact his feud with Þórðr, but his insults become less contingent on his fantasising about Oddný’s situation on her behalf. Conclusions This article has highlighted how skalds can be motivated to view disruption and confrontation as a desirable means to composing certain kinds of illicit poetry, namely those relating to women they are not supposed to pursue and men they are not supposed to insult. The skalds appear actively to seek out or to create confrontational situations, at least in episodes in which they make themselves unwanted in the homes of others. Their purposes in making the types of house-visit discussed above are seldom to do with any practical way of obtaining an acceptable relationship with a woman, but __________________________ 48 Bjarnar saga, p. 159; pp. 171–2; »presser of women«, a man who has sex with women. The insulting aspect of the phrase kvenna kneytir in the context of this verse is the suggestion that Þórðr would rather stay at home and have sex with his wife than take part in battle, unlike the combative and therefore ›properly‹ manly Bjǫrn, who has just killed the men sent by Þórðr to ambush him. Bjǫrn uses a similar insult earlier in the saga to contrast his hardship at sea with Þórðr’s having sex with his wife at home, but specifically mentions Oddný via her nickname Eykindill: Hristi handar fasta / hefr drengr gamans fengit; / hrynja hart á dýnu / hlǫð Eykyndils vǫðva, / meðan vel stinna vinnum, / veldr nǫkkvat því, klǫkkva, / skíð verðk skriðar beiða / skorðu, ǫ́r á borði (Bjarnar saga, p. 123; »The fellow [Þórðr] has received enjoyment from the Hrist of the hand’s fire [= gold; Hrist = valkyrie; valkyrie of gold = woman, Oddný]; the bunched muscles of IsleCandle [Oddný] beat hard on the bed, while we work the stiff, supple oar – something is the cause of that; I will ask the ski of the boat-prop for forward-movement – on the ship’s side«). 52 function as a means of antagonising other men and even their lovers. For these poets, confrontation seems to be less an incidental outcome of their romantic worldview than a key component of it. Furthermore, these sagas imply that a significant part of the skalds’ interest in women lies in what those women can be made to represent outside themselves, namely a means by which the poet can frame himself as being unjustly opposed by others. The willingness of the skalds to instrumentalise their lovers to provoke conflict suggests that their romantic desires reach beyond those women and require the presence of male rivals. Their relationships with women are not sufficient in themselves, but seem to require a third figure to be present who, in practice, takes precedence over their actual lover. As Joseph Harris points out, »in all these sagas the couple that should have come into being but did not, the absent couple [of the skald and his lover], haunts long texts that deal with the rivalry of two men«.49 The audiences of the skáldasögur would probably have viewed the poets as having a level of genuine romantic or sexual feeling for their lovers, but we may reasonably suppose that they would also have remarked on how such men embrace confrontation even when it eliminates the possibility of their forging sustainable relationships with women. The problem is not that the skalds lack desire for their lovers; rather, it is that their desire takes a notably dangerous and destructive form. That their kind of romantic pursuit leads to the skalds instrumentalising their lovers should be given emphasis when considering the extent to which the characters in these sagas could be reasonably characterised as ›unwanted‹. Whatever the initial intentions of the skalds, their willingness to use their lovers as a medium for perpetuating a particular romantic worldview leads those women to end up unwanted themselves by the men who publicly claim to want them. The sagas imply that this process harms those women by contrasting the poetic declarations made by the skalds with the depictions in the prose of their apparent apathy towards the pain that they inflict on their lovers, and it is unsurprising that these women, in turn, come to resent the men who once courted them. In a sense, these texts suggest that those who would continuously seek to frame themselves as unwanted for personal gain, as these poets do, risk becoming more deeply unwanted than they had first intended. __________________________ 49 Harris 2008, p. 280. 53 Bibliography Primary Sources Bjarnar saga Æ Nordal, Sigurður / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1938, pp. 109– 211. Grágás (Konungsbók) Æ Finsen, Vilhjálmur (ed.) 1852. Grágás (Staðarhólsbók) Æ Finsen, Vilhjálmur (ed.) 1879. Gunnlaugs saga Æ Nordal, Sigurður / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1938, pp. 49– 107. Gylfaginning Æ Faulkes, Anthony (ed.) 2005, pp. 7–55. Hallfreðar saga Æ Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939, pp. 133–200. Kormáks saga Æ Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939, pp. 201–302. Secondary Sources Bjarni Einarsson 1993: »Skáldasögur«, in: Philip Pulsiano / Kirsten Wolf (eds.), Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia (Garland Encyclopedias of the Middle Ages 1 / Garland reference library of the humanities 934), Oxford/New York, pp. 589–590. Byock, Jesse L. 1993: »Outlawry«, in: Philip Pulsiano / Kirsten Wolf (eds.), Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia (Garland Encyclopedias of the Middle Ages 1 / Garland reference library of the humanities 934), Oxford/New York, pp. 460–461. Cleasby, Richard / Gudbrand Vigfusson 1874: An Icelandic–English Dictionary. Based on the MS. Collections of the late Richard Cleasby. Enlarged and completed by Gudbrand Vigfusson, Oxford. Clunies Ross, Margaret 2001: »The Skald Sagas as a Genre: Definitions and Typical Features«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 25–49. Einar G. Pétursson 1993: »Codex Regius«, in: Philip Pulsiano / Kirsten Wolf (eds.), Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia (Garland Encyclopedias of the Middle Ages 1 / Garland reference library of the humanities 934), Oxford/New York, pp. 100–101. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1939: Vatnsdœla saga. Hallfreðar saga. Kormáks saga. Hrómundar þáttr halta. Hrafns þáttr Guðrúnarsonar (Íslenzk fornrit 8), Reykjavík. Faulkes, Anthony (ed.) 2005: Snorri Sturluson. Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning. 2nd edition, London. Finlay, Alison 1990–1993: »Níð, Adultery and Feud in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa«, in: Saga-Book 23, pp. 158–178. 54 Finlay, Alison 2001: »Monstrous allegations: An Exchange of ýki in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa«, in: Alvíssmál 10, pp. 21–44. Finsen, Vilhjálmur (ed.) 1852: Grágás. Islændernes Lovbog i Fristatens Tid 1: Text 1, Copenhagen. Finsen, Vilhjálmur (ed.) 1879: Grágás efter det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift Nr. 334 fol., Staðarhólsbók, Copenhagen. Gade, Kari Ellen 1986: »Homosexuality and Rape of Males in Old Norse Law and Literature«, in: Scandinavian Studies 58, pp. 124–141. Gade, Kari Ellen 2001: »The Dating and Attributions of Verses in the Skald Sagas«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 50–74. Harris, Joseph 2008: »Gender and Genre: Short and Long Forms in the Saga Literature«, in: Joseph Harris et al. (eds.), Speak Useful Words or Say Nothing: Old Norse Studies (Islandica 53), Ithaca, pp. 261–286. Heinemann, Fredrik J. 1990–1993: »Intertextuality in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa«, in: Saga-Book 23, pp. 419–432. Jochens, Jenny 1995: Women in Old Norse Society, Ithaca. Jochens, Jenny 2001: »Representations of Skalds in the Sagas 2: Gender Relations«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 309– 332. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben 1983: The Unmanly Man: Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-Petre (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 1), Odense. Nordal, Sigurður / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1938: Borgfirðinga sǫgur. HœnsaÞóris saga. Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu. Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa. Heiðarvíga saga. Gísls þáttr Illugasonar (Íslenzk fornrit 3), Reykjavík. Poole, Russell G. 2001: »Introduction«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 1–24. Quinn, Judy 1997: »›Ok er þetta upphaf‹—First Stanza Quotation in Old Norse Prosimetrum«, in: Alvíssmál 7, pp. 61–80. Ström, Folke 1974: Níð, ergi, and Old Norse Moral Attitudes. The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies delivered at University College London, 10 May 1973, London. 55 Tulinius, Torfi 2001: »The Prosimetrum Form 2: Verses as an Influence in Saga Composition and Interpretation«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 191–217. Whaley, Diana 2001: »Representations of Skalds in the Sagas 1: Social and Professional Relations«, in: Russell G. Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 27), Berlin/New York, pp. 285–308. Zoëga, Geir T. 1910: A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic, Oxford. 56 Sebastian Thoma A Friend in níð: On the Narrative Display of Gender and níð in Njáls saga One day, during the long feud raging between the farms of Hlíðarendi and Bergþórshvóll, Hallgerðr hosts several travelling beggar-women, farandkonur, who spent the previous night at Njáll’s homestead. As the friendship between her husband and Njáll is unwanted by Hallgerðr, she invites the beggar-women to her room where they take a seat among a few other women and start gossiping. Their conversation in Hallgerðr’s dyngja is followed by an episode that contains defamations usually described with the Old Norse word níð. One of Gunnarr’s relatives, Sigmundr, who is skilled in skaldic poetry, is present, and Hallgerðr asks him to compose several stanzas that mock Njáll for the unmanliness she accuses him of. It is a striking scene, and many scholars have paid attention to it.1 What is most remarkable about this scene in my opinion is that Hallgerðr, being a woman, is by default deemed unfit to utilise the homosocial concept of níð to set things in motion according to her will, as she could be expected to resort to the female form of incitement, a frýja or hvǫt: »hvor níð er mænds sprog, dér er frýja kvinders«.2 This article aims at showing how Hallgerðr bypasses the social rules of saga society3 to be able to use níð, and how this potential transgression of gender boundaries is followed and framed by certain narrative strategies. I will argue that it is indeed Hallgerðr who pulls the strings behind Sigmundr’s níð and that this fact demands for several narrative tweaks to make the male same-sex discourse of níð work for a woman within the diegesis of the saga. __________________________ 1 For example, most recently, Sauckel 2016, p. 111, and Ármann Jakobsson 2007. Dronke 1981 and Kress 2000; Kress 2004 draw attention to the general thematizing of sexuality and gender within this saga. 2 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 239; »if níð is men’s language, then frýja [=hvǫt] is the language of women« (my translation). 3 The term »saga society« in this article refers to the literary society depicted within the saga, which is considered fundamentally different from both the historical society of the söguöld and the time when the sagas were written down. 57 In doing so, I will begin with an overview of some concepts that are closely connected to the very image of masculinity 4 in Old Norse society and are deeply rooted within the Sagas of Icelanders: the concepts of ergi, níð and hvǫt/frýja.5 It will be followed by a survey of the scene in Hallgerðr’s dyngja from different perspectives and in its context within the saga. This part consists of three components: A survey of the general tendencies in the narrative display of níðvísur within the Sagas of Icelanders, an overview of Hallgerðr’s steps that enable her to use níð, and a closer look on the very content of her dialogue with the beggar-women. This will be accompanied by a brief look at a later episode, in which her behaviour is mirrored, namely Hildigunnr’s incitement of Flosi. In conclusion, I will argue that Hallgerðr resorts to the masculine discourse of níð and integrates it into a hvǫt sequence that spans many chapters in the saga. This is made possible through the narrator of the saga using certain narrative devices that help her transgress and subvert the boundaries of gender roles. Endangered Masculinities in Saga Society When talking about ›manliness‹ in the context of the sagas, it seems to be a good starting point to state that the core of being ›manly‹ was to be a drengr, or drengiligr (the adjective).6 The opposite of drengiligr can be seen in the word argr. The adjective argr belongs to the substantive ergi, a word __________________________ The word »masculinity« being used here in singular might give the impression of it being universal terminology. It should, however, be pointed out that the idea of masculinity as a spectrum is more accurate when it comes to describing the many factors that influence the male gender role(s) in saga society. For a recent survey of masculinities within the sagas see Evans 2019, pp. 10–26. 5 By the term »Sagas of Icelanders« or »family sagas« within this article I refer to the corpus of texts edited in the volumes 2 to 14 of the Íslenzk fornrit edition, acknowledging that this selection might be considered problematic especially because of past-medieval scholarly genre choices that are implied with such an edition. 6 Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 105, name »a bold, valiant, worthy man« as the »usual sense« of the word drengr. It has been highlighted that this word can also be ascribed to women, thus it does not seem to be an exclusively masculine phenomenon, Clover 1986, p. 372. 4 58 which is often translated as »lewdness, lust«, 7 although it has a lot of different connotations. One of those is that a man has been used by another man sexually – this is in the view of saga society probably the most shameful aspect of ergi. It is also what the word sorðinn (past participle of serða) implies, or rather: explicates. Carol Clover translates it as »fucked«.8 What is remarkable about all those terms is that their use is often subject to a metathesis, i.e. the forms we read are ragr, regi and streða, with the past participle stroðinn. These metatheses can probably be seen as the expression of a deeply rooted taboo, as they provide the speaker with the opportunity to mention a word without actually saying it. 9 This is maybe comparable to the effect that the term ›f-word‹ has in English – everyone knows that it refers to a word I already quoted, although it could be considered inappropriate to write it out a second time in an academic paper. The need for expressing a taboo in a way like this can be seen if we look at the other meanings of the word ergi. Ergi can take on many forms. Its semantic spectrum ranges from the sexual implications to meanings like cowardice and amorality. It seems, however, that the semantic spectrum of ergi is even larger than that. Ármann Jakobsson writes in his 2007 study on »Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga« that ergi works like the English word queer, as it »indicate[s] characteristics or behavior that are considered inappropriate for the gender in question, sexually or otherwise.« 10 In a society as obsessed with masculinity as the one of the sagas, several things potentially induce ergi in an individual: Amongst them are age, cowardice, loss of hair, certain physical features, especially regarding the man’s penis, cross-dressing, and even emotions. Níð is the accusation that a man is argr. As such, it is closely linked to the idea of ergi and a form of social interaction that is severely punished by Norwegian and Icelandic law.11 The laws seem to divide mostly between a verbal and a sculptural form, namely tunguníð (»tongue-níð«) and tréníð (»wood-níð«). Whatever the form is – and regardless of the question if the __________________________ 7 Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 133. Clover 1993, p. 374. 9 De Vries 2000, p. 104; Markey 1972, p. 7. Noreen 1922, pp. 60–4 lists several other words with an obscene connotation that are subject to metathesis. 10 Ármann Jakobsson 2007, p. 192 (fn. 6). 11 Ström 1974, p. 6–7. 8 59 utterances declared as ýki are part of the níð discourse12 –, in my opinion, the best general definition of níð thus far is the one given by Preben Meulengracht Sørensen when he writes that a man who subjects himself to another in sexual affairs will do the same in other respects; a fusion between the notions of sexual unmanliness and unmanliness in a moral sense stands at the heart of níð.13 To be charged with ergi was among the worst things that could happen to a man. The social circumstances of the effect of ergi may also explain the grave punishments prescribed by law. As for the results of níð, it aims at marking a man as a social outcast, someone with a nature so morally abject that he is not worthy of being a member of society: to make him a níðingr. Declared as such, everyone knows that he must have committed an extraordinarily abhorrent deed and is not a worthy member of society anymore. This effect touches upon questions of belonging, which are highlighted in several sagas.14 As a logical consequence of these preliminaries, and according to Thorvaldsen and Meulengracht Sørensen also due to the wrath of the gods for such people, the níðingr’s social status must be seen as as low as it could possibly get.15 In later times, the term níðingr seems to have been adapted in other contexts, for example in the compound word guðsníðingr for someone who does not live in Christian faith.16 Thomas Markey stresses the ritualistic effect of supernatural beings such as landvættir, especially in the context of níðstengr, which could be used for opponent-shaming.17 This, however, is an aspect of níð which is of no relevance for the argumentation at hand, but it is a noteworthy aspect of the concept of níð. __________________________ This has for example been doubted by Alison Finlay 2011 (see esp. p. 21–2), who sees ýki as a more differentiated kind of insult due to the way both phenomena are displayed in the Icelandic laws of Grágás. 13 Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, p. 20. 12 For instance, in Króka-Refs saga and Finnboga saga the discussion of masculinity and belonging is one of the main topics. See Merkelbach 2020 as well as Merkelbach 2021 (this volume). 15 See Thorvaldsen 2011, pp. 191–3 and Meulengracht Sørensen 2000. 16 Thorvaldsen 2011, p. 171. 17 Markey 1972, p. 18. 14 60 Another form of accusation against an individual’s masculinity is linked to one of the most dominant narrative appearances of women in the Sagas of Icelanders, as Rolf Heller noted: »Die auffallendste Erscheinungsform der Frau in den Sagas ist die ›Hetzerin‹; sie ist zugleich die häufigste.« 18 During a hvǫt – or frýja – female relatives accuse a man of being unmanly. In this formal respect there is a huge similarity between hvǫt and níð. Thus, the two forms of social expression prove to be useful narrative devices for the description of conflicts.19 When it comes to the gender roles in saga society, they are often described as two separate spheres with the threshold of the farm doors as a border marker, which is in accordance with the historical law texts. The management of the farm and duties within the household were usually the women’s responsibilities, also known as the sphere fyrir innan stokk (»within the threshold«), whereas men were responsible for external representation, fyrir útan stokk (»outside the threshold«).20 A social device that allowed women to take some influence on the male sphere was hvǫt, as it enabled them to interfere with men’s interactions: »Providing women direct access to the otherwise exclusively male world of revenge and feud, female whetting was basically a political tool.«21 And indeed, hvǫt can be discussed as a matter of female agency, giving women the opportunity to incite feuds or urge their husbands to keep peace.22 Frequently, the desired effect of such accusations is for the man to seek a revenge that the whetting person is incapable of due to their physical constitution. There are incitements in the sagas which are strongly connected to the mourning of relatives killed in a feud. 23 By reminding the man of importance of being manly within society he is demanded to behave in a ›masculine‹ way – which in most cases means to assault someone who has dealt shame to the family. Meulengracht Sørensen identifies the different targets as the major structural difference between __________________________ Heller 1958, p. 98; »The most striking form of appearance of women in the sagas is the ›whetter‹; it is also the most common« (my translation). 19 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 239; Hahn 2016, p. 146 with a reference to Mundal 1993, p. 724. 20 Jochens 1995, p. 117. 21 Jochens 1995, p. 175. 22 Jóhanna Katrín Friðríksdóttir 2013, p. 15–6. 23 Clover 1986, pp. 152–3. 18 61 hvǫt and níð (the latter of which he interestingly also attributes to women), stating that mens níð er en ritualisieret udfordring, der implicit kræver hævn over den, som udsiger fornærmelserne (eller, hvis det er en kvinde, over hendes mand eller husstand), så er hensigten med frýja at rette hævnen mod en tredje part.24 (while níð is a ritualized challenge which implicitly demands revenge against the one who utters the insults (or, if it is a woman, her husband or members of her household), the intention with frýja is to direct the revenge against a third party.25) To illustrate the structural difference regarding the reaction to each of these forms of social interaction we may abstract their context of the acting and reacting figures into a chart. Interactions between the individuals A and B (and C, where affected) are depicted with arrows that indicate the kind of interaction between the two subjects linked by them in superscription. Subscript m and f indicate if the individual is male or female. A chart based on these preliminaries might look like this: Am Bm Am Af Bm Cm Am and Af in the first position are hardly interchangeable: níð is usually reserved for men, whereas hvǫt is mostly limited to women.26 This is exactly why the episode at Hlíðarendi is special: we can observe Hallgerðr attempting to blur the lines in this social system when she urges Sigmundr to compose níð, making her one of the most intriguing female characters in __________________________ Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 239. My translation. 26 I am writing »usually« because there are instances in the sagas where elder men who lost the physical ability to fight seem to take the role of a whetter, see Ármann Jakobsson 2005, p. 312, where he discusses the case of Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, which is a perfect example for this phenomenon. 24 25 62 saga literature, along with several others in Njáls saga.27 But before we take a closer look at how this happens, it seems useful to survey how Njáls saga and saga literature in general deal with the display of something as grotesque as níðvísur. A ›Narrative Blind Spot‹? Embedding níðvísur in Saga Literature There seems to be a huge discrepancy between the number of episodes that revolve around the topic of níð and the actual display of níð stanzas that are identified as such in the text. Within the corpus of the Sagas of Icelanders there are – as far as I am aware – only two instances where quoted stanzas are directly marked as níð by the surrounding prose: one is in Grettis saga and the other in Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds.28 Both examples do avoid too close a connection between níð and the actual content of the quoted stanzas, while their authors are in fact known to the audience. It seems that níðvísur and their poets were difficult to display coexistent within saga narration. Let us have a look at Grettis saga: after a troublesome childhood,29 Grettir leaves Iceland and embarks with the merchant Hafliði and his men. Soon, problems arise when Grettir starts to insult the other men on board – the two lines quoted in this context (Happ ‘s þat, ef hér skal kroppna / hverr fingr __________________________ 27 Jóhanna Katrín Friðríksdóttir 2013, p. 15. In Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla I, which is not part of the corpus mentioned, however, a níðvísa is quoted and named as such: upset with the ongoing Christianization as it is described in Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla, a group of local heathens bribe some skálds to compose níð about Þorvaldr and the missionary bishop Friðrekr. One stanza is cited, whereas the identities of its composers remain unknown; the text only states that Þorvaldr kills them both, while the bishop does not seem too concerned about their níð, see Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla I, pp. 78–81. Due to this display the recipients are provided with only half of the information: they know the exact content of the stanza, but not its authors. While this information might be unnecessary in this text – both nameless poets are killed anyway –, it seems that the leaving out of details is a general tendency in the narrative display of níðvísur in the family sagas, as will also be seen in the example of Njáls saga. I also have argued for this narrative tendency – with a broader scope than is possible here – in my dissertation, see Thoma 2021. 29 On Grettir’s childhood and the aspect of abusive fathers in saga literature, see Merkelbach 2016. 28 63 á kyrpingum30) can hardly be understood in a sexual way, instead they seem merely insulting.31 The quarrels between Grettir and the crew lead to an odd attempt to deescalate the situation: Hafliði asks Grettir to compose níð about him, too, so that everyone could see Grettir’s insults being directed against the captain and the men’s attitude towards him might improve. As Grettir refuses to do so, Hafliði changes his mind and suggests a slightly different approach: ›Kveða má svá, at fegri sé vísan, ef grafin er, þótt fyrst sé eigi allfǫgr.‹32 Grettir consents and soon recites a stanza, which has the desired effect upon Hafliði’s men: ›Hvat mun oss heldr bíta níð hans en þik?‹,33 they say and settle their dispute with him. The already mentioned stanza, however, poses severe problems for a modern interpreter (and maybe even the medieval recipient), as it is hard to discern how it could possibly be connected to the (often sexual) topic of níð.34 Þorleifs þáttr confronts us with ›real‹ níð, other than Grettis saga, where the stanzas are said to be ambiguous at first but pretty at second sight. Here, the quoted stanzas – magic verses directed against the guðníðingr Hákon35 – are explicitly linked to the níð discourse by the narrator. Hákon, __________________________ Grettis saga, p. 51; »What luck if every layabout’s finger / would shrivel up and drop off« (Scudder (transl.) 1997, p. 71). 31 See Almqvist 1965, p. 69. 30 32 Grettis saga, p. 52; »›You could make a verse that sounds better if you look closely at it, but is none too pretty on first impression‹« (Scudder (transl.) 1997, p. 72). 33 Grettis saga, p. 53; »›Why should lampoons hurt us more than you?‹« (Scudder (transl.) 1997, p. 73). 34 The stanza is Annat vás, þás inni / át Hafliði drafla, / hann þóttisk þá heima, / hvellr at Reyðarfelli; / en dagverðar darra / dóms skreytandi neytir / tysvar Tveggja nesja / takhreins degi einum (Grettis saga, p. 52–3); »Life has changed for loud-mouthed / Haflidi since he supped on curds at Reydarfell; / he felt at home then. / See the proud spearhead / of battle breakfast now / day and night on the elk / that rides the land-hugging seas« (Scudder (transl.) 1997, p. 72). See Almqvist 1965, p. 68–70 for a discussion and alternative translation of the quoted stanza ending in the statement that accusations of sexual ergi might not be needed to form níð. In addition to the interpretation given there I would like to highlight the passage inni / át Hafliði drafla, which might draw attention to two topics which are potentially problematic to men: being within the mostly female sphere of a farm, fyrir innan stokk, and getting in contact with dairy products, see Clover 1993, p. 365; for examples of potentially shameful contact with dairy products, see Tirosh 2016, pp. 263–5. Taking this into consideration, one could probably see why Grettir’s stanza is connected to níð. I admit, however, that this connection here is very vague; but it should be that way, according to the saga’s prose. 35 The Norwegian jarl is introduced as such right at the beginning of the þáttr. 64 who is described as a brutal ruler with no measure, burns down Þorleifr’s ship while the Icelander comes to Norway on a trading voyage. Adding another layer of ambiguity and indirectness, Þorleifr disguises himself as stafkarl, an old vagrant, who is later granted admission to the jarl’s hall, where he seeks to avenge the injustice that he himself has experienced. 36 He starts to recite níðvísur, but only their beginning is quoted (Þoku dregr upp it ytra, / él festit it vestra, / mǫkkr mun náms, af nǫkkvi, / naðrbings kominn hingat37) – lines in which a direct link to the discourse of ergi cannot be seen, even though they have a heavy impact on the story and are interpreted as níð in the þáttr.38 They are, however, an impressive example for the power that the sagas attribute to the voices of their poets and poetry itself.39 An instance where the implicit sexual insinuation of a quoted stanza might be extremely grotesque can probably be found in Fóstbrœðra saga.40 However, this stanza is not cited explicitly within the context of níð and is directed at an adversary who is already dead – something that is unusual for níðvísur. As stated above (fn. 27), examples of níð being used and told about in the Sagas of Icelanders make, as a rule, use of such narrative blind spots as in the mentioned examples – either the perpetrator remains unnamed, or what exactly should qualify as níð in a skaldic verse remains unclear. This narrative practice of ambiguation around episodes of níð is also in line with the above-named tendency for metathesis when using the words that describe some of the possible contents of níð. Overall, the narrative display of the insulting verses in the sagas is somewhat distorted, providing only an indirect view on their relationship to the exact content and the individual creators behind them, where one of those factors must remain blurred. It may not come as a surprise that Njáls saga also sticks to that tendency of a ›narrative blind spot‹ when the recipients are confronted with the information that níðvísur are being recited. Thus, the saga does not show __________________________ 36 It is interesting that Þorleifr’s use of an acting substitute is mirrored in the jarl’s actions when he uses a trémaðr to get Þorleifr killed. Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds, p. 223; »Fog spreads up the outside,/ the blizzard grips the west,/ the theft of the dragon’s bed/ has caused this cloud to come.« (Jesch (transl.) 1997, p. 336). 38 Almqvist 1965, p. 196–7. 39 On this, see Sauckel 2017. 40 On the stanza and its interpretation see Meulengracht Sørensen 2000, p. 83. 37 65 the reader the stanzas in the dyngja scene, but only states that [Sigmundr] kvað þegar vísur þrjár eða fjórar, ok váru allar illar.41 Even though it might leave no doubt about the fact that these verses are indeed níð, they are not referred to as such at this point of the narration. Instead, Sigmundr’s verses are embedded in a scene that is so full of detail that it conforms with the definition of what Theodore Andersson in his survey of the family sagas calls »staging«. He sees »staging« as a narrative technique which is used when the plot is running towards a climax, usually before someone gets killed. His definition reads as follows: There is a deceleration of pace, a magnifying of detail, and a dwelling on incidentals in order to focus the central event one last time and enhance its importance in relation to the rest of the story.42 As stated above, everything is put on display here, in Hallgerðr’s dyngja, except for one detail, as we do not get to hear the níðvísur. All we get to know about them is that it is said that they were ugly. This leaves us with the impression we get when watching a key scene in a movie which is displayed in slow motion and where voices become so blurred that conversations become indiscernible, so that the focus lies on what is shown rather than what is said. The omission of a central detail that could be expected on a narrative level corresponds with the ambiguity that is inherent to níð: even though it consists of allegations that are partly ›supernatural‹ in a sense that they ›cannot be‹, there is always the possibility that the defamation becomes at least a social fact. Níð can turn something that is not there into reality. Hallgerðr Jumping into Action: A ›Roadmap to Female níð‹ We get to know that Hallgerðr is a complex and troublesome figure already when she is introduced as a child. Asked about her by her father, her uncle Hrútr says: ›Œrit fǫgr er mær sjá, ok munu margir þess gjalda; en hitt __________________________ Njáls saga, p. 113; »[Sigmundr] came up with three or four verses, all of them malicious« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 52). 42 Andersson 1967, p. 57. 41 66 veit ek eigi, hvaðan þjófsaugu eru komin í ættir várar.‹43 The uncle’s statement is widely seen as an indicator that she is up to no good. Daniela Hahn has discussed this scene in her article about theft as a means of female whetting, as Hallgerðr’s »thief’s eyes« hint at the acts of theft she is going to commit.44 Regarding her consequent development later on in the saga, it has been remarked that Hallgerðr becomes a »femme fatale«,45 a »vamp«,46 as she is even responsible for the deaths of two husbands before she marries Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi. Her description in the saga is perceived as extremely sexualized, a fact at which her nickname langbrók hints as well.47 Her marriage with Gunnarr is unwanted by Njáll, as he sees his friendship with her husband endangered. And indeed, it is soon overshadowed by an argument about the seating order at the feast with Njáll’s wife Bergþóra. In the course of this argument, Hallgerðr taunts Njáll for his beardlessness. She says: ›Ekki er þó kosta munr með ykkr Njáli: þú hefir kartnagl á hverjum fingri, en hann er skegglauss.‹48 According to her assumption, Njáll and Bergþóra are a perfect couple, because Bergþóra is not »ladylike« 49 in her eyes – the disfigured fingernails might also be a hint at the nymphomania Hallgerðr seems to attest her: »Kartneglurnar tíu á sennilega ekki að skilja einvörðungu sem móðgandi eða spottandi ummæli um stórfellt lýti, heldur sem ærumeiðingu eða níð, sem undan sviði – sem lýsingu á taumlausri léttúð Bergþóru«.50 Looking back at the formal contents of níð, we might thus interpret this comment – as far as it is directed against Njáll – as an implied instance of níð even at this early stage of the conflict. Still, this must be viewed with caution, as Hallgerðr is a woman, and usually níð is a __________________________ Njáls saga, p. 7; »›The girl is very beautiful, and many will pay for that. But what I don’t know is how thief’s eyes have come into our family‹« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 2). 44 Hahn 2016, p. 150. 45 Kress 2004, p. 279. 46 Teichert 2014, p. 189. 47 Kress 2004, p. 281. 43 Njáls saga, p. 91; »›There’s not much to choose between you and Njal: you have diseased nails on every finger, and he is beardless‹« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 40). 49 Ármann Jakobsson 2007, p. 197. 50 Matthiesen 1965, p. 128; »The ten disfigured fingernails probably are not only to be understood as insulting or taunting chatter on carelessness, but rather as dishonour or níð, which lies beneath it – as a token of Bergþóra‘s untamed behaviour« (my translation). According to Matthiesen there was an association in popular belief between damaged fingernails and sexual deviance at least in the late Middle Ages. 48 67 form of shaming that is taken out between men. The main object of her taunt seems to be Njáll’s wife, with whom she is also quarrelling about the seating order. Thus, an assumed níð against Njáll is not the central aspect of her utterance, but it is a severe insult to both of them nevertheless. 51 After Bergþóra’s reaction to her statement, she starts inciting Gunnarr to take revenge on the couple, which he, unusually for a man being goaded, tries to ignore at first.52 It is here that we can see the beginning of a long sequence of hvǫt episodes. Overall, this seems to be the key scene that explains the life-long enmity between Njáll’s and Gunnarr’s wives and paves the way for further conflicts. Subsequently, Hallgerðr is rather an active whetter. Another occasion for her taunts is the settlement of the conflict around the slaying of Njáll’s thrall Atli. Instead of starting a blood feud, the men consent on settling the issue with the paying of a wergild. Hallgerðr, who was hoping for Gunnarr to launch a severe attack on her declared enemy, is furious about his reaction. In her wrath, she raises her voice against her husband, saying about him and his friend Njáll: ›Jafnkomit mun á með ykkr, […] er hvarrtveggi er blauðr.‹53 The word blauðr is somewhat difficult to translate, as it originally seems to mean something like »coward«, but can also mean »soft« or »weak« in the context of taunts about men.54 Even though Hallgerðr’s anger might be directed mostly against her foe Njáll, she includes Gunnarr in her taunt and places the stigma of unmanliness upon him, too – at this point of the narration, this is exactly what the usual hvǫt looks like. But this is not yet where the preparation of Hallgerðr’s ›female níð‹ comes to a halt. We know about her motive to harm her husband’s unwanted friend, but she still needs to find a way – one that is accessible to women within the strict gender confinements of saga society. Furthermore, she needs someone to act a sort of executive agent who helps her carry out the distinct part of her hvǫt which is not accessible for her as a woman: her use of níð must be carried out by a man. When Gunnarr’s relative Sigmundr comes to Hlíðarendi, she senses her chance and starts to come close to him, presumably using her attractive __________________________ 51 52 Kress 2004, p. 284. Kress 2004, p. 284; Jóhanna Katrín Friðríksdóttir 2013, p. 21. Njáls saga, p. 102; »›You two are a real match for each other […], both of you are soft‹« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 46). 54 Clover 1993, p. 363–4; Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 67. 53 68 appearance to impress him. This is anticipated by her husband Gunnarr, who warns Sigmundr beforehand: ›Vilda ek ráða yðr ráð, frændum mínum, at þér hlypið eigi upp við frameggjan Hallgerðar, konu minnar, því at hon tekr þat mart upp, er fjarri er mínum vilja.‹55 However, Gunnarr’s advice seems to be useless, as it is said that Hallgerðr var vel til Sigmundar, ok þar kom, at þar gerðisk svá mikit ákafi, at hon bar fé á hann ok þjónaði honum eigi minnr en bónda sínum; ok lǫgðu margir þat til orðs ok þóttusk eigi vita, hvat undir myndi búa.56 (Hallgerd was pleasant to Sigmund, and in time things were so warm that she gave him money and waited on him no less than she did her husband. Many talked about this and wondered what lay behind it.57) The narrator does not provide us with any information about what is happening between the two, but he describes the public opinion towards their behaviour, which strongly indicates that something is ›behind it‹. On her behalf, Sigmundr takes part in the killing of Þórðr Leysingjason, the Njálssynir’s foster-father, and overall, he is described like a fly caught in a spider’s web. When Gunnarr learns of Þórðr’s killing, he reprimands Sigmundr harshly for his closeness to Hallgerðr: ›Ert þú mér ekki skaplíkr; þú ferr með spott ok háð, en þat er ekki mitt skap; kemr þú vel við Hallgerði, at þit eiguð meir skap saman‹,58 he says. With the reprimand coincides a negative moral valuation of Sigmundr (and Hallgerðr). 59 Before he is made to compose his verses, Hallgerðr invites him to her dyngja, an exclusive space of femaleness, moving him down on the spectrum of masculinities. 60 __________________________ 55 Njáls saga, p. 106; »›My advice to you and all my kinsmen is that you don’t spring into action at the prompting of my wife Hallgerd, for she takes on many things that are far from my will‹« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 48). 56 Njáls saga, p. 106. Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 48. 57 58 Njáls saga, p. 111; »›You’re not at all like me: you are given to mockery and sarcasm, while I am not. You get along well with Hallgerd, because you have more in common with her‹« (Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 51). 59 Lönnroth 2011, p. 95. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1954, p. 112 (fn. 1) points this out: »Dyngjur voru vinnustofur kvenna«; »Dyngjur were working-rooms for women« (my translation). Kress 2004, 60 69 ›Stritaðisk Njáll við at sitja‹: níð as Part of a hvǫt Sequence But what is it that makes the situation at Hlíðarendi escalate to the point where níðvísur are brought into play? How could gossiping about the chores on Njáll’s farm end up in such verses and what can be said about their content? To attempt an answer to this, we must turn our attention towards the very dialogue between Hallgerðr and the beggar-women that precedes Sigmundr’s verses. The passage reads as follows: Sá atburðr varð, at farandkonur kómu til Hlíðarenda frá Bergþórshváli. Þær váru málgar ok heldr orðillar. Hallgerðr átti dyngju, ok sat hon þar optliga í; þar var þá Þorgerðr, dóttir hennar, ok Þráinn; þar var ok Sigmundr ok fjǫldi kvenna. Gunnarr var eigi þar né Kolskeggr. Farandkonur þessar gengu inn í dyngjuna; Hallgerðr heilsaði þeim ok lét gefa þeim rúm ok spurði at tíðendum, en þær kváðusk engi segja. Hallgerðr spurði, hvar þær hefði verit um nóttina. Þær sǫgðusk verit hafa at Bergþórshváli. ›Hvat hafðisk Njáll at?‹ segir hon. ›Stritaðisk hann við at sitja,‹ sǫgðu þær. ›Hvat gerðu synir Njáls?‹ sagði hon; ›þeir þykkjask nú helzt menn.‹61 (It happened one day that some beggar-women came to Hlidarendi from Bergthorshvol. They were talkative and quite malicious. Hallgerd had a room in which she often sat, and her daughter Thorgerd and Thrain were there, as well as Sigmund and a number of women. Gunnar was not there, nor Kolskegg. The beggar-women went into the room. Hallgerd greeted them and found seats for them and asked them for news, but they said they had none to report. Hallgerd asked where they had been that night, and they said they had been at Bergthorshvol. ›What was Njal up to?‹ she said. ›He was working hard at sitting still,‹ they said. ›What were Njal’s sons doing?‹ she said. ›They think of themselves as real men.‹62) __________________________ p. 289 also pays attention to these circumstances: she points out that the absence of several men – especially Gunnarr – is explicitly marked within the text. 61 62 Njáls saga, p. 112. Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 51. 70 This is followed by a description of the chores everyone except Njáll seems to be busy with. When the beggar-women talk about Njáll’s servants who carry out dung, Hallgerðr uses this chance for further mocking remarks and finally urges Sigmundr to compose verses: ›[Njáll] ók eigi í skegg sér, at hann væri sem aðrir karlmenn, ok kǫllum hann nú karl inn skegglausa, en sonu hans taðskegglinga, ok kveð þú um nǫkkut, Sigmundr, ok lát oss njóta þess, er þú ert skáld.‹ Hann kvezk þess vera albúinn ok kvað þegar vísur þrjár eða fjórar, ok váru allar illar. ›Gersimi ert þú,‹ sagði Hallgerðr, ›hversu þú ert mér eptirlátr.‹63 (›[Njál] didn’t cart dung to his beard so that he would be like other men. Let’s call him ›Old Beardless,‹ and his sons ›Dungbeardlings‹ and you, Sigmund, make up a poem about this and give us the benefit of your being a poet.‹ Sigmund said he was up to this and came up with three or four verses, all of them malicious. ›You’re a treasure,‹ said Hallgerd, ›the way you do just what I want.‹64) With her last sentence, she probably makes Sigmundr – who is not granted the privilege of direct speech – seem like a mere lap-dog: »In this context, Hallgerðr’s praise of Sigmundr as gersimi (›pet‹) stands out as deeply ironic.«65 The whole episode starts with Hallgerðr’s simple question about the things the women saw when visiting Njáll’s farm. Hallgerðr asks about Njáll, his sons, and everyone else in the household. During their conversation, the farandkonur answer all her questions. According to the women, everyone is busy with chores and repair work – and among all the others Njáll is just sitting there. The farandkonur answer Hallgerðr’s first question about Njáll with the words ›stritaðisk hann við at sitja‹. This sentence has, until recently, been interpreted as an ironic remark. __________________________ Njáls saga, pp. 112–3. Cook (transl.) 1997, pp. 51–2. 65 Lönnroth 2011, p. 96. As fitting as his reading as »pet« is for his argumentation, it seems necessary to point out that the word gersimi has some more meanings and usually refers to costly parts of jewellery, hence Cook’s translation reads »treasure«; see Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 226. 63 64 71 Cleasby / Vigfusson translate it as such: »he strove hard to sit«,66 meaning that while everyone else is occupied with work, Njáll just sits there doing nothing. Ursula Dronke follows this reading, adding that the women know exactly about Hallgerðr’s grudge against Njáll.67 Translating the sentence as »Oh, Njáll was working hard at sitting«, in fact, she emphasises the women’s irony even more. She sees this as a remark to mock Njáll »for aged impotence.«68 With this remark, the women feed Hallgerðr’s grudge and give her a reason to go on mocking Njáll and his sons with the following utterings about the taðskegglingar – to which Hallgerðr sticks until the very end, when we meet her for the last time in the saga. 69 The most recent German translation is »er hatte Mühe, stillzusitzen«, 70 which lays the focus more on the effort that Njáll has with sitting still. Helga Kress stresses the fact that farandkonur, like those who come to Hallgerðr’s and Gunnarr’s house, are quite frequent in the Sagas of Icelanders, where they often spread gossip for money. 71 This social aspect and the side-effect that vagrants can appear and disappear without the need for further explanations makes them a highly functional and useful plot device in the Sagas of Icelanders.72 Hallgerðr uses their ironic remarks for her allegations against the beardless and thus unmanly Njáll. Though, as we have observed, she is probably not to be seen as a »muse« for the poet Sigmundr,73 but rather the one who pulls the strings behind the scene. According to these readings, what eventually makes Hallgerðr tell Sigmundr to compose níð about Njáll is the fact that he, as head of the household, wields no power over it. Instead of doing hard, manly work like his sons, who repair their weapons, he just sits as a spectator watching the work being completed. This is considered cowardly, unmanly, and thus shameful for a man who already bears this mark for not having a beard. But does this alone explain the shocked reactions towards Gunnarr’s __________________________ 66 Cleasby / Vigfusson 1874, p. 598. Dronke 1980, p. 11. 68 Dronke 1980, p. 12. 69 Kress 2004, pp. 290–1. 70 Wetzig (transl.) 2011, p. 539. 71 Kress 2000, p. 196. 72 Cochrane 2012, pp. 54–6. 73 Cf. Kress 2000, p. 197. 67 72 appearance that indicate that there might be more to those stanzas? Right after Hallgerðr’s praise for Sigmundr’s stanzas, her husband enters the scene: Þar kom Gunnarr at í því; hann hafði staðit fyrir framan dyngjuna ok heyrt ǫll orðtœkin. Ǫllum brá við mjǫk, er hann sá inn ganga; þǫgnuðu þá allir, en áðr hafði þar verit hlátr mikill. Gunnar var reiðr mjǫk [...].74 (At that moment Gunnar came in. He had been standing outside the room and had heard all the words that had passed. They were all shocked when they saw him come in and they fell silent, but before there had been loud laughter. Gunnar was very angry [...].75) Taking the whole context of the scene into consideration and the fact that we hear some beggar-women gossiping about a man’s unmanliness in exchange for money, I would suggest that their insinuations go further than provided in the suggested translations. Their remark could not only be an ironic one, mocking Njáll for his age and passivity in the household, but it could also contain a sexual allusion. Then, the sentence would read something like »Njáll struggled to sit«. The reason for his struggle in a context of sexual defamation then is that the women insinuate that Njáll had been penetrated by another man before, and he thus is somewhat unsettled, and even in pain. Accusations and allusions of that kind could lead to the impression of someone being argr. There are several hints in the saga text that support this reading. The meaning of the verbum strita »to struggle« is mainly based on the nonreflexive form which Fritzner translates as »anstrænge sig for eller med noget«.76 The use of the reflexive form gives the impression of a hard struggle with oneself, as if Njáll was uneasy or even in pain because he had to sit. Allegations that allude to an opponent’s behind and thus insinuate anal intercourse are well known from other sagas. In Ljósvetninga saga, for example, Guðmundr inn ríki is greeted by his opponent Þorkell hákr with the words ›[þ]ú hafðir bratta leið ok erfiða, ok trautt kann ek at ætla, hversu __________________________ Njáls saga, p. 113. Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 52. 76 Fritzner 1886–1896, vol. 3, p. 579. 74 75 73 rassinn myndi sveitask ok erfitt hafa orðit í þessa ferð.‹77 Even more grotesque is one line uttered against him in Ǫlkofra þáttr by his opponent Broddi. When trying to prevent him from riding on the route he intended, Guðmundr is confronted with a remark hinting at his alleged ergi: ›Efna skal þat, eða ætlar þú, Guðmundr, at verja mér skarðit? Allmjǫk eru þér þá mislagðar hendr, ef þú varðar mér Ljósavatnsskarð, svá at ek mega þar eigi fara með fǫrunautum mínum, en þú varðar þat eigi it litla skarðit, sem er í milli þjóa þér, svá at ámælislaust sé.‹78 (›I will keep [my word], but do you mean, Gudmund, to close the pass to me? It would be a serious mistake on your part if you close Ljosavatn pass to me so that I may not travel there with my companions, yet you couldn’t keep the little ›pass‹ between your own buttocks decently closed.‹79) These are only two of many times that Guðmundr is being mocked both in Ljósvetninga saga and Ǫlkofra þáttr, with both texts leaving no doubts about his unmanliness.80 A good example for restlessness from insinuated anal intercourse can be found in the already mentioned Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds, where some – obviously magical – stanzas cause the jarl to feel uneasy due to an itch in his behind: þá bregðr jarli nǫkkut undarliga við, at óværi ok kláði hleypr svá mikill um allan búkinn á honum ok einna mest um þjóinn, at hann mátti hvergi kyrr þola.81 The uneasiness becomes so strong that he even has his behind scratched with a comb to ease the itch, and, towards the end of the episode, the jarl loses his facial hair as an ultimate sign of the loss of his manhood: sá þá ok vegsummerki, at af var rotnat skegg allt af jarli ok hárit __________________________ 77 Ljósvetninga saga, p. 52; »›[y]ou had a steep and arduous trip […], and I can imagine how sweaty your arse must be from such exertion on that way!‹« (Andersson / Miller (transl.) 1997, p. 227). Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 94. Tucker (transl.) 1997, p. 237 80 See Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, p. 37 and Tirosh 2016. Guðmundr appears also in other texts, where he is also often described in a ridiculing way. 78 79 81 Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds, p. 222; »the earl was very startled to feel a great itching uneasiness creep all the way around his body and especially around his thighs so that he could hardly sit still« (Jesch (transl.) 1997, pp. 365–6). 74 ǫðrum megin reikar ok kom aldri upp síðan.82 The aspect of the lack of hair as an indicator for the lack of masculinity is of course a strong intertextual parallel to the beardless Njáll. But allusions of that kind are not only found in other texts. In fact, Njáls saga itself contains several episodes with allusions made against its figures; for example, when Sigmundr falls on his back just before he is killed by Skarpheðinn: Skarpheðinn snaraði svá fast skjǫldinn, at Sigmundr lét laust sverðit. Skarðheðinn høggr þá til Sigmundar með øxinni; Sigmundr var í panzara; øxin kom á ǫxlina; hann klauf ofan herðarblaðit ok hnykkir at sér øxinni, ok fell Sigmundr á kné bæði ok spratt upp þegar. ›Lauztú mér nú,‹ segir Skarpheðinn, ›en þó skaltu í móðurætt falla, áðr vit skiljum.‹ ›Þat er illa þá,‹ segir Sigmundr […]. Skarpheðinn sá smalamann Hallgerðar; þá hafði hann hǫggivit hǫfuð af Sigmundi; hann seldi smalamanni í hendi hǫfuðit ok bað hann fœra Hallgerði ok kvað hana kenna mundu, hvárt þat hǫfuð hefði kveðit níð um þá.83 (Then Skarphedin swung at Sigmund with his axe; Sigmund was wearing a corselet, and the axe came down on his shoulder and cut through the shoulder blade. Skarphedin then pulled the axe toward himself, so that Sigmund fell forward on both his knees, and at once he jumped up. ›You bowed to me just now,‹ said Skarphedin, ›and you’ll fall on mother earth before we’re through.‹ ›That’s bad,‹ said Sigmund […]. Skarphedin saw one of Hallgerd’s shepherds. He had by this time cut off Sigmund’s head; he placed it in the man’s hands and told him to take it to Hallgerd and said that she would know whether this head had made lampoons about them.84) This scene is interesting for several reasons: First, this is the only time within the saga that Sigmundr’s stanzas are explicitly called níð. Another interesting observation is that we hear Sigmundr’s only utterance in direct __________________________ 82 Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds, p. 223; »There was further evidence in that his beard had fallen out, along with the hair on the side of his parting, and they never grew again« (Jesch (transl.) 1997, p. 366). 83 Njáls saga, p. 117. Cook (transl.) 1997, p. 54. 84 75 speech – and it is a ridiculously cheap comeback for someone as skilled with words as a skáld.85 In addition to that, we hear Skarpheðinn mock his enemy Sigmundr for alleged unmanliness and, by doing so, take revenge for his níð.86 He alludes to the passive and helpless position his enemy is in and shows a clearly sexual undertone. Overall, the episode in Hallgerðr’s dyngja might not be as explicit as the ones in Ljósvetninga saga or Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds, but the wider context surely is. As Njáll is accused of being unmanly throughout his whole story, it is very likely that his enemies mock him in every possible way for this. Also, what follows the women’s remark about him sitting still could hint at another insult in their statement: the níðvísur possibly deal with faecal matter, too, as William Sayers stated. According to him, both Njáll and his sons are accused of ergi: Njáll because of his incapability of fertilizing his face with dung and thus growing a beard, and his sons because they actually did fertilize their faces, becoming dung-eaters, and thus guilty of coprophagy.87 The connection between the women’s gossip and Hallgerðr’s request for stanzas with this kind of content may be that anal intercourse (which is one aspect of ergi) is considered dirty and allusions in that direction are connoted with faeces from the very beginning.88 Sigmundr takes to a new level what hitherto had been uttered as an allusion, making it níð, which would be logical as a next step of escalation: as Gunnarr did not react to her verbal incitements until now, Hallgerðr seems to anticipate a killing in revenge for her níð, probably hoping that Gunnarr would have to react to this. __________________________ That Sigmundr is not quoted directly in chapter 44 of the saga is a fact that Lönnroth 2011, p. 96 draws attention to. 86 Ármann Jakobsson 2007, p. 193. For more on the reading of Skarpheðinn’s character see Sauckel 2021 (this volume). 85 87 Sayers 1994, p. 15–6. When Hallgerðr suggests calling Njáll and his sons taðskegglingar, this implies that they have used the dung usually used to fertilize fields to grow beards, i.e. to ›fertilize‹ their faces by smearing the dung on them, see also Miller 2014, p. 105 and Louis-Jensen 1979, p. 107, who states that the prompt to consume faeces is among the worst defamations in later Icelandic. 88 See Miller 2014, p. 105. Yoav Tirosh (personal comment) has suggested to read Njáll’s restlessness in the sentence stritaðisk hann við at sitja also in the context of »producing faeces«, which would lead to an even grosser imagery behind this quote. I will not discuss this suggestion to a fuller extent here; while the association might be there, I think that the whole context and the term taðskegglingar refer to animal dung rather than to human faeces. 76 Problems might arise when it comes to the question of Njálls alleged lover, as from the text the next guess would be that it must be Gunnarr – Hallgerðr’s own husband. The role that Gunnarr supposedly plays implicated by my reading of stritaðisk hann við at sitja (that Njáll has been penetrated by another man), is the active one. Both from the laws and the sagas, we know that the active role in homosexual intercourse was not considered as shameful as the passive role. In the Norwegian Gulaþingslǫg from the fourteenth century, there is a section about fullréttisorð, which pose severe crimes. Among the listed crimes it is mentioned that it is a fullréttisorð ef maðr kveðr hann væra sannsorðenn;89 however, the law text mentions no such thing regarding the active participant. Besides, Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa tells more about how the passive role in such an intercourse was perceived. When a sculpture is found that displays one man standing behind another in an unambiguous pose, the thoughts and rumours among the people present are summarized as follows: Þat þótti illr fundr, ok mæltu menn, at hvárskis hlutr væri góðr, þeira er þar stóðu, ok enn verri þess, er fyrir stóð.90 The same is the case with the allegations that the farandkonur make about Gunnarr and Njáll: Hallgerðr must be aware that it could only be Gunnarr in the active role, but as Njáll’s shame is in the foreground, she seems to be willing to ignore that, if not even to accept it as she did before when she insulted her husband. The discourse of níð is also used later in the saga, where it introduces the events that finally lead to the brenna. In an extremely staged and seemingly ritualised episode, Hildigunnr welcomes her relative Flosi at home and incites him to take revenge for the killing of her husband Hǫskuldr. Here, she is depicted as a grieving widow, staging a whole climatic sequence of acts within a lamenting ritual that includes weeping, the throwing of her husband’s bloody cloak as a sign of her widowhood, and verbal attacks.91 When everything else seems effectless, she concludes her hvǫt by referring to the discourse of níð as she not only incites him to __________________________ 89 Ældre Gulathings-Lov § 196, p. 70; »if a man says about another that he has been demonstrably fucked« (my translation). For the translation of the already mentioned word sannsorðinn, see Clover 1993, p. 374. This is a legal term with the prefix sann- meaning that the accusation can be proven true in trial. For this, see von See 1964, pp. 222–35. Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, p. 155; »It seemed to be an indecent encounter, and people said that the position of neither standing figure was good, and yet that of the one in front was worse« (Finlay (transl.) 1997, p. 276). 91 For a thorough discussion of this episode, see Clover 1986. 90 77 action but also threatens him with the social status of a níðingr, a word she actually uses: ›Skýt ek því til guðs ok góðra manna, at ek sœri þik fyrir alla krapta Krists þíns ok fyrir manndóm ok karlmennsku þína, at þú hefnir allra sára þeira, er hann hafði á sér dauðum, eða heit hvers manns níðingr ella.‹92 (›In the name of God and all good men, I charge you by all the powers of your Christ, and by your manhood and your valor, to avenge all the wounds on Hǫskuldr‘s body in death – or else be held in contempt by all men.‹93) After these words, Hildigunnr reaches her aim, as Flosi is infuriated and sets out with several men to exact the demanded revenge. Thus, Hallgerðr’s using of the male discourse of níð is mirrored in Hildigunnr’s hvǫt. As could be seen from the preceding analysis, many possible connotations and meanings come together in the women’s remark, giving them a certain ambiguity that seems perfect to use them in the context of níð, even more when it is embedded in another context. Conclusion Women do not usually take part in the discourse of níð directly, which demands several strategic measures on a narrative level when a female user of níð is about to be displayed in action. First, the overall structure of the text must be fit to admit a woman to the exclusively homosocial space that is occupied by the concept of níð. Speaking with the chart introduced above: it must be made sure that the individual who is uttering níð (the Am in the chart) is male. It has been shown that Njáls saga takes care of that problem on several levels, which leads to heavy impacts on the way it is told. The first important aspect that helps to integrate Hallgerðr into the narrative context of níð is the general way níð itself is displayed in saga __________________________ 92 93 Njáls saga, p. 291. Clover 1986, p. 143. 78 literature. Due to their gross content, níðvísur do not seem suitable to be directly quoted, which leads to what I called a ›narrative blind spot‹: like a black hole, they cannot be ›seen‹ directly in the narration, as their existence can only be derived from their effect on what surrounds them. To stay with that metaphor, from a narrative perspective, Hallgerðr is situated somewhere on the event horizon– where things start to vanish from sight and cannot be recorded properly. When it comes to the intradiegetic figure constellations it is remarkable that Hallgerðr is introduced into the saga narrative as a very complex and troublesome figure, inciting her husband on many occasions. These outlines of her character make it plausible that she, who had two husbands killed before, is setting out to harm her third husband’s unwanted friend, too, and uses all means possible to achieve this. When Sigmundr stays at Hlíðarendi, it seems only consistent to start a relationship with him. For the recipient, it is absolutely within the possible that Hallgerðr would do that, even though it is only strongly hinted at and not made explicit. Then, clearly in the function of a mere plot device, the beggar-women show up at Hlíðarendi, eager to earn some money. They are invited to the dyngja, a women’s place, into which Sigmundr is dragged by Hallgerðr. As soon as he has entered this female space, she makes him compose níð, using him as some sort of shield against its outcome. It is him, not her, who must suffer the ultimate consequences of the níð, as he is the one who is killed. 94 From what could be observed, the chart of a typical hvǫt introduced in the beginning must be extended to suit the structure of Hallgerðr’s hvǫt, which expands throughout many chapters of the saga and probably already starts when she sees her honour violated at the feast at Hlíðarendi. Overall, the most noteworthy steps in her incitement against Gunnarr, replacing the first arrow in the above-mentioned chart, are these: __________________________ 94 He dies alongside his buddy Skjǫldr, whose name, and that might be an ironic sidenote in this constellation, means »shield«. 79 Figure: Hallgerðr's hvǫt All these actions are directed against Gunnarr with the aim of him acting against Njáll, along with the running feud between the two farmsteads. The three sequences before the theft are running towards a climax: the theft of the cheese, which is the only time that Gunnarr slaps his wife, like her first two husbands did before they were killed. 95 Within the preceding three scenes, which are verbal, the dyngja scene with its involvement of Sigmundr and his níð has to be considered the worst. Thus, the climactic structure of Hallgerðr’s hvǫt is intersected in another climactic structure, that of the verbal incitements. Additionally, this whole hvǫt sequence is embedded in a much larger context of hvǫt within the saga: Hallgerðr resembles Hildigunnr, who also resorts to níð during her incitement of Flosi, when the display of a hvǫt sequence is once more made the central topic by the narrator. Thus, in Njáls saga the whole concept of hvǫt and níð along with their implicit gender boundaries are being told in several variants and constellations. There may be several questions which arise at this point: Why all the effort? What is the point in such an intricately staged show as the one we witness in Hallgerðr’s ›female níð‹? An attempt at an answer would be: this whole episode in the first part of Njáls saga is about the friendship between Njáll and Gunnarr, which may seem ›too deep‹ for others and is thus unwanted by their wives. In today’s terms, we would probably call this kind of friendship a ›bromance‹, indicating that it is a very deep and almost relationship-like looking friendship between two men. Putting modern terms aside, depicted in Njáls saga is a friendship which can endure the __________________________ 95 Hahn 2016, pp. 154–5. 80 worst of all social defamations that saga society has to offer to those who are unwanted. At times, it seems strong enough to withstand the whetting of Gunnarr’s wife Hallgerðr – and even níð. But on closer look, this is only the story told on the surface. On a second layer behind this, Njáls saga does not only present us with some of the most enigmatic female characters the sagas have to offer, but these characters also have an enormous impact on the plot. While the men are trying to establish peace between the two farms, their wives, and especially Hallgerðr, actively blur the lines between saga society’s gender roles. 96 She is not confined to the women’s social tool of hvǫt, but, taking things to a new level, claims more agency and progresses further into the field of male interactions. Accompanied by intriguing and elaborate storytelling woven around the social taboos of the níð complex, her actions lead to a serious disruption of the gender system of saga society. __________________________ 96 See also Andersson 2006, p. 202. 81 Bibliography Primary sources Ældre Gulathings-Lov Æ Keyser, Roland / Munch, Peter Andreas (eds.) 1846, pp. 1–118. Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa Æ Nordal, Sigurður / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1938, pp. 109–211. 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In 1989, American hard rock band Skid Row performed a song which fits the impression scholars reading Brennu-Njáls saga had of one of the saga’s most notorious characters, the »troll-ugly homicidal«1 Skarpheðinn Njálsson: Since I was born they couldn’t hold me down / Another misfit kid, another burned-out town / I never played by the rules, I never really cared / My nasty reputation takes me everywhere […] They call us problem child / We spend our lives on trial / We walk an endless mile / We are the youth gone wild.2 The eldest of the Njálssons has not only been famous for causing trouble within the saga plot, but also to anyone aiming at interpreting his character and its literary significance within Brennu-Njáls saga: he is depicted as a character who is frequently needed to support his family in power struggles and matters of sustaining the family honour, however, on the saga’s intradiegetic level, he also appears to be a rather ›unwanted‹, in the sense of ›unpopular‹, figure. The scholarly audience’s response to Skarpheðinn could not have been more ambiguous, either. 3 Furthermore, in German scholarship even the saga itself seems to have been an unwanted research object within the last four decades: publications analysing specific themes and motives in Íslendingasögur have included particular scenes of __________________________ 1 2 3 Jones 1955, p. 162. Bolan / Sabo 1989 (my emphasis). Interpretations of Skarpheðinn range from the problematic hero to the misunderstood child, who finally emancipates himself from his father’s influence. In a psychological reading of the saga, Skarpheðinn has been connected to the Freudian death drive. See, e.g., Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1971, p. 150; p. 154; Lönnroth 1976, p. 65; Hamer 2014, p. 168; Torfi Tulinius 2015, p. 112. 87 Njáls saga, however, extensive German literary studies on Njála are rather an exception.4 In my current project, I am reading Brennu-Njáls saga as a thirteenth century trickster discourse.5 In her 1981 article on sexual themes in Njáls saga, Ursula Dronke already expressed the saga’s wily nature: »[f]or the critic, Njáls saga seems as slippery as an eel the size of Miðgarðsormr. Its skin glistens with a myriad themes, all familiar, yet all precisely different from any seen elsewhere.«6 The trickster, known from divine myth and religious studies, is a deity, a liminal character, that is in a constant state of transition and travels back and forth across all borders, be they cultural or religious. Neither social norms nor values of human (or divine) societies are sacrosanct to him. Myths and stories of tricksters frequently negotiate these norms and values. However, the phenomenon of the trickster has also served as a model to analyse narratives outside the mythological context in modern literary studies and film studies.7 Njáls saga both provides narrative elements and (inverted) patterns negotiating the saga society’s norms as well as a trickster protagonist, Njáll Þorgeirsson, and the trickster story’s typical circular structure. 8 In the following, I compare different scholarly approaches of interpreting Njáll’s son Skarpheðinn. Furthermore, I suggest an additional way of reading Skarpheðinn by focusing on certain narrative principles: these include the subject of female power hidden in the subtext as well as the character’s permanent transgression of stereotypical norms and values, which are typical characteristics inherent in trickster stories.9 __________________________ 4 Within the last four decades, only three German monographs have dealt specifically with Njáls saga, see Gottzmann 1982; Ravizza 2010; Wolf 2014. For the interpretation of Brennu-Njáls saga as a trickster discourse, see also Sauckel 2016b. Dronke 1981, p. 3 (emphasis in original). 7 For an overview of scholarly literature on the model of the trickster used in my research, see Sauckel 2016a; Sauckel 2016b. 5 6 8 See Schüttpelz 2005, p. 64; pp. 71–5. 9 On interpreting Íslendingasögur and -þættir as trickster stories, see Sauckel 2016a. On interpreting specific characters as tricksters, see, e.g., Lindow 1989. 88 Interpreting Skarpheðinn – from Hermann Jónasson to Torfi Tulinius Skarpheðinn Njálsson has puzzled scholars and saga enthusiasts alike since the beginning of saga scholarship. In 1912, a certain Hermann Jónasson gave a lecture in Reykjavík in which he refers to a remarkable event that took place at the turn of the year 1892: while Hermann slept, a nightly visitor suddenly walked into his bedroom. A good-looking fifty-year-old man dressed in an old-fashioned way, with dark hair and a full beard stepped in front of Hermann’s bed and asked him if he was fully awake. As Hermann answered in the affirmative, the visitor informed him about the purpose of his visit: he had come to unveil the truth about Brennu-Njáls saga because he knew of Hermann’s deep interest in the story. The visitor then started his report on the saga and corrected whole episodes and scenes of the saga plot that he claimed to be historically inaccurate but had found their way from the Middle Ages into the present age. He also informed his host about the saga’s origins and its transmission. Before he left, he made his host promise to write every single word of his report down and reveal the truth about Brennu-Njáls saga to the world. Finally, the nightly visitor’s identity is revealed: no less a figure than Ketill Sigfússon í Mǫrk, Njáll Þorgeirsson’s son-in-law, had appeared in Hermann’s dream. It may come as no surprise that the very same Hermann Jónasson had already built up a reputation as a seer in certain parts of Iceland. Thanks to Hermann’s prescience, lost sheep could be located during the winter, for instance.10 At first appearance, Hermann Jónasson’s dream about Njála may seem useless for the work of modern saga scholarship. It shows, however, the fascination with the saga at the beginning of the twentieth century, and the need to explain and to readjust certain scenes and episodes, that could not easily be understood by the saga audience. First and foremost, it was the episode of Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði’s death at the hands of Skarpheðinn and his brothers that Hermann Jónasson struggled to interpret and to understand from a psychological perspective: his visitor Ketill revealed that some parts of the saga had been forgotten. Moreover, a *Hǫskuldar saga Hvítanessgoða had been lost, that would have provided more detailed information about this vile crime. __________________________ 10 See Hermann Jónasson 1912, pp. 40–97. 89 The killing of Hǫskuldr Þráinsson, and especially the role Skarpheðinn plays, has mystified generations of saga scholars. In his 1971 monograph Njáls saga: A Literary Masterpiece, Einar Ólafur Sveinsson describes Skarpheðinn as a character of importance that both conceals and reveals his feelings through his permanent scoffing. His words never fail to hit their mark and his appearance is unusually clear and memorable, and at the same time his behaviour is frequently enigmatic. Skarpheðinn desires to make his own decisions and live his own life; he chafes from the bonds which his father’s will has placed upon him. Finally, he rebels against his father’s authority and power, craving independence, and behaves like a ›youth gone wild‹, despite being an adult and married man. However, according to Einar Ólafur, Skarpheðinn not only begins to envy Hǫskuldr’s popularity and power, but also suspects his father of passing him over in favour of his foster-brother.11 Because of this, the antagonist Mǫrðr Valgarðsson has an easy job of tricking Skarpheðinn into slaying the innocent and goodnatured Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði. Moreover, his conduct at the Alþingi following the slaying is anything but judicious. Eventually, he becomes »a saga hero […] who does many things which are far from honorable, a nobleminded man who commits an almost incredibly atrocious crime.« 12 Einar Ólafur even goes so far as to blame the saga writer for his narrative technique, since he chose not to depict the secret conversation between the Njálssons and Mǫrðr Valgarðsson at Bergþórshváll before they finally leave for the slaying of Hǫskuldr. 13 In the end, Einar Ólafur Sveinsson characterises Skarpheðinn as willing to burn to death with his father, a fact that proves that he has become a free man: »[h]e has attained the freedom which he had not gained by rebelling against his father.« 14 Torfi Tulinius, too, holds the opinion that Skarpheðinn is willing to die; in his 2015 article »Seeking Death in Njáls saga«, he uses Sigmund Freud’s __________________________ See Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1971, p. 148; Lönnroth 1976, pp. 28–9; Miller 2014, p. 201; Tirosh 2014, pp. 211–3; pp. 217–9. 12 Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1971, p. 138. 11 Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 110, p. 280: Bergþóra spurði Njál: ›Hvat tala þeir úti?‹ ›Ekki em ek í ráðagerð með þeim,‹ segir Njáll; ›sjáldan var ek þá frá kvaddr, er in góðu váru ráðin‹; »Bergthora asked Njal, ›What are they discussing out there?‹ ›I’m not in on their planning,‹ said Njal, ›but I was seldom left out when their plans were good‹« (Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 187). 14 Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1971, p. 154. 13 90 ›death drive‹-theory as an approach to interpret Njála and even interprets Skarpheðinn as the active embodiment of this psychological mechanism.15 In her reading of Njáls saga, Carola Gottzmann states that families’ actions concerning honour and vengeance depend on silent contracts between their members: she hereby refers to Njáll, who assures his fosterson Hǫskuldr that his sons would never break a settlement arranged by him. Njáll, however, also admits that his sons would not always agree upon these settlements if they were present. 16 According to Gottzmann, these silent contracts between family members are not binding; the individual can indeed decide to act differently.17 Peter Hallberg, Richard Allen, and Lars Lönnroth have commented on the character of Skarpheðinn and the murder of Hǫskuldr in a similar way: they call the slaying »an unheard of deed of infamy«, »an evil deed« as well as »senseless« and »a revolting display of brutality«. 18 All the scholars mentioned so far argue that Skarpheðinn lets himself be tricked into the killing by Mǫrðr.19 A completely different approach of interpreting the eldest son of Njáll is provided by William Ian Miller: in his 1983 article »Justifying Skarphedinn« as well as in more recent works he focuses primarily on law and sociology and claims community politics and the phenomenon of blood feud to be the key to the interpretation of this colourful character. 20 __________________________ 15 See Torfi Tulinius 2015, p. 107; pp. 112–3. Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 99, p. 254: ›Villtú nǫkkut‹, segir Hǫskuldr, ›at sýnir þínir sé við?‹ Njáll segir: ›Ekki mun þá nær sættum, en halda munu þeir þat, sem ek geri‹; »›Do you want your sons to be present?‹ said Hoskuld. Njal said, ›In that case we would not get close to a settlement, but they’ll keep to whatever I decide‹« (Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 172). 17 See Gottzmann 1982, pp. 274–7. 18 Hallberg 1962, p. 134; Allen 1971, p. 111; Lönnroth 1976, p. 95; p. 96. 16 Jamie Cochrane 2016, p. 116–43, here p. 135, recently analysed the audience’s response to antagonist Mǫrðr Valgarðsson and the narrator’s careful manipulation of it. However, he does not question Mǫrðr’s role in leading Njáll’s sons astray. 20 See Miller 1983, pp. 316–44; Miller 2014, pp. 194–8. Lars Lönnroth 2017, p. 110 criticises Miller’s latest interpretation of Njála and its characters heavily: »In spite of my objections to Miller’s way of reading the saga I would like to recommend his [2014] book, since it is very entertaining, particularly when he defends unconvincing readings of the text. It is also very instructive to read his book as a radical experiment in interpreting the text of Njála as a rational piece of modern fiction. The result of this experiment, however, is obvious: it just does not work«. 19 91 Miller neither focuses much on psychology nor on (Christian) theology to explain the Njálsson’s deeds and reputation within society: first of all, he refers to the fact that after the killing, no one calls it a níðingsverk, nor is Skarpheðinn ever called a níðingr.21 Killing a fóstbróðir would qualify as a níðingsverk, but whatever the Njálssons are to Hǫskuldr, they are never said to be fóstbræðir. It would have not only been inappropriate to become the foster-brother of his father’s killer for Hǫskuldr, it would be a níðingsverk itself to become a foster-brother to Skarpheðinn.22 So Skarpheðinn simply kills his father’s foster-son, not his foster-brother. This difference does not justify the killing of Hǫskuldr, but it may explain why, although many members of the community express horror at the deed, no one except Ketill Sigfússon really alters his existing alliances because of it. To a certain extent, this event is even predictable. Moreover, Skarpheðinn’s bloody deed does not seem to be as unpopular within the saga community as it first appears; the Njálssons even manage to gather substantial support to defend their case at the Alþingi. Moreover, even Skarpheðinn’s warlike outer appearance and fiery temperament do not prevent Snorri goði from staying neutral and these features even impress the powerful chieftain Guðmundr inn ríki, who promises his personal support in the future.23 For Miller, the causes that lead to the slaying of Hǫskuldr are to be found in the killings of two of Skarpheðinn’s ›relatives‹: first of all, his foster-father Þórðr leysingjason is slain by the slanderer Sigmundr Lambason as a result of Hallgerðr’s incitement. Gunnarr Hámundarson’s uncle, Þráinn Sigfússon, gets involved in the crime and makes himself liable by being present when Sigmundr slays Þórðr. After this, Njáll refuses his sons to be part of the ensuing settlement with Gunnarr in this case. Nevertheless, Skarpheðinn agrees to honour his father’s request not to break the settlement. However, he is far from happy with it. Yet, he makes clear that his willingness to comply with the settlement is to be very narrowly construed. Finally, Skarpheðinn only takes action when __________________________ Miller’s argument concerning the term níðingr is, however, problematic: the expression may not be mentioned directly, but Skarpheðinn could still be understood to be a níðingr by other characters and the audience. On narrative techniques and audience response in Njáls saga, see Lönnroth 1989. 22 See Miller 1983, p. 319. 23 See Miller 1983, p. 318. 21 92 Sigmundr composes the verses libelling both Njáll and his sons: the Njálssons are called »Dungbeardlings«, their father »Old Beardless«, and Njáll’s wife Bergþóra eggs them to repay the names they were given by Hallgerðr and her household.24 The slaying of Hǫskuldr Njálsson is the second incident where Njáll makes a settlement without consulting his sons. In this case, again, Bergþóra and Njáll’s concubine Hróðný egg Skarpheðinn and his brothers to take revenge. Unfortunately, the killer escapes and urges Njáll’s fosterson Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði to arrange a settlement between him and Njáll’s family. This unsuccessful prior attempt of conducting blood revenge can be interpreted to be the final straw that makes Skarpheðinn kill Hǫskuldr. Furthermore, Miller draws attention to one of Njáls saga’s common patterns – namely the feud for district power: Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði simply becomes too powerful, as for the Njálssons, it is impossible to become chieftains of the area. And their father never makes the same effort to provide his sons with a chieftain’s position. Female Power and Transgression as Narrative Principles of BrennuNjáls saga As has been discussed in earlier works, narrative patterns common in Íslendingasögur as well as social norms and values are frequently inverted in Njála.25 This also holds true for gender roles: 26 at first glance, women seem to stick to their traditional role as being responsible for the household fyrir innan stokk. However, female characters dominate major parts of the plot, __________________________ 24 Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 44, p. 114: Bergþóra mælti [...]: ›Gjafir eru yðr gefnar feðgum, ok verðið þér litlir drengir af, nema þér launið.‹ ›Hvernig eru gjafir þær?‹ segir Skarpheðinn. ›Þér synir mínir eiguð allir eina gjǫf saman: þér eruð kallaðir taðskegglingar, en bóndi minn karl inn skegglausi‹; »Bergthora spoke [...]: ›Gifts have been given to you all, father and sons, and you’re not real men unless you repay them.‹ ›What gifts are these?‹ said Skarphedin. ›You, my sons, have all received the same gift: you have been called ›Dung-beardlings‹, and my husband has been called ›Old Beardless‹« (Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 74). Among these inverted patterns, the útanferð motif has been mentioned as well as the marriage pattern, see Andersson 2006, pp. 183–9; Dronke 1981, p. 24; Sauckel 2016b, pp. 107–8; concerning the saga’s specific treatment of gender roles and sexuality see Ármann Jakobsson 2013. 26 See Thoma 2021 (this volume); Ármann Jakobsson 2013, pp. 210–2. 25 93 decide on men’s sphere of influence, and even take part in shaping their social (and political) environment.27 As early as chapter 3, Queen Gunnhildr (mis-)uses her power on Hrútr Herjólfsson, making him her personal sex slave; in fact, her famous curse on Hrútr’s future marriage with Unnr results in the conflict between Gunnarr Hámundarson and Hrútr’s kin. Bergþóra’s and Hallgerðr’s power struggle involves mutual killings of the two families’ household workers and relatives, which result in a major feud. Taking into consideration not only the diegetic level, but having a closer look on the narrative’s scope, it becomes clear that as many as ten whole chapters (35–45) are given over to the women’s quarrel. However, female power does not only become visible in the characters’ particularised actions. Matrilineality, for example, plays a major role in the saga’s genealogies. This also represents a transgression of social ›saga conventions‹: male descendants of the most outstanding families are frequently named after a member of the female lineage, like, for instance, the sons of the great warrior Gunnarr Hámundarson. His wife Hallgerðr Hǫskuldsdóttir names her sons after the Nibelungs Grani and Hǫgni, claiming that she is descended from Sigurðr fáfnisbani herself.28 Hallgerðr’s grandson Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði bears the name of his maternal grandfather Hǫskuldr Dala-Kollsson; yet another member of Gunnarr’s family, the villain Mǫrðr Valgarðsson, receives the name of his maternal grandfather, Mǫrðr gígja Sighvatsson. The same pattern of naming children after members of maternal lineage applies to the protagonist’s descendants.29 As a result, Skarpheðinn, who was named after his maternal grandfather, becomes a highly interesting character: unlike his father Njáll, who derives from a landnámskona, lacks facial hair, and seems to have never touched any weapons himself, Skarpheðinn is depicted as the strongest, most warlike, __________________________ 27 Daniela Hahn 2016, p. 151, demonstrates how Gunnar’s wife Hallgerðr takes action and secures her household’s social status by stealing cheese. 28 See Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 14, p. 46. None of the Njálssons bears the name of their paternal ancestry. Even the secondary character Hǫskuldr Njálsson, Njáll’s illegitimate son, is named after his maternal grandfather. 29 94 and ›manliest‹30 of all Njálssons. However, these ambiguities of ›inheriting‹ his mother’s ancestry and extraordinary male skills make him a transgressive figure, like his father.31 One specific liminal feature is reflected in his outer appearance, as delineated in chapter 25: [Skarpheðinn] var mikill maðr vexti ok styrkr, vígr vel, syndr sem selr, manna fóthvatastr, skjótráðr ok øruggr, gagnorðr ok skjótorðr, en þó lǫngum vel stilltr. Hann var jarpr á hár ok sveipr í hárinu, eygðr vel, fǫlleitr ok skarpleitr, liðr á nefi ok lá hátt tanngarðrinn, munnljótr nǫkkut ok þó manna hermannligastr.32 ([Skarphedin] was […] a big and strong man and a good fighter. He swam like a seal and was swift of foot, quick to make up his mind and sure of himself; he spoke to the point and was quick to do so, though mostly he was even-tempered. His hair was reddish-brown and curled and he had fine eyes; his face was pale and sharp-featured, with a bent nose, a broad row of upper teeth and an ugly mouth, and yet he was very like a warrior. 33) The saga audience is frequently reminded of Skarpheðinn’s ugly region of the mouth by the many times Njáll’s son is described to be grinning or laughing.34 Furthermore, this unique anatomical feature differentiates Skarpheðinn from the highly conventional saga hero Gunnarr Hámundarson and adds to his liminal, or transgressive character. 35 __________________________ I am referring to the traditional concept of ›manliness‹ as presented in many Íslendingasögur; see Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, pp. 24–32. 31 On Njáll as a transgressive character see Ellis Davidson 1979, p. 3; Sauckel 2016b, pp. 100–4. 30 Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 25, p. 70. Cook (transl.) 2001, pp. 43–4. 34 Skarpheðinn is depicted grinning or laughing at least thirteen times; see Lönnroth 1989, p. 89–91. 35 Gunnarr Hámundarson’s characterisation is more detailed but similar to Skarpheðinn’s, see Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 19, pp. 52–3. 32 33 95 Skarpheðinn and Njáls saga’s Circular Structure However, not only physical features and his descent from a strong female lineage make Skarpheðinn a transgressive figure, but also the way this character is integrated and used in the narrative’s structure. In 1988, anthropologist Hilda R. Ellis Davidson compared the story of Njáll and his family to the Ragnarǫk-myth: after the slaying of Baldr, there is nothing that can stop the gods’ evil fate. According to Ellis Davidson, the killing of Hǫskuldr, whom Ellis Davidson compares to Baldr, seems to have the same impact on Njálls’s family: in the end, after the brenna, a ›new world‹ rises like a phoenix from the ashes: In Njáls saga where many parallels can be seen to the Ragnarok myth, the same final pattern unfolds; after Njáll and his sons perished, their friend and avenger Kári survived and in the last chapter was reconciled with Flosi.36 Brennu-Njáls saga is narrated in cycles, which is not extraordinary for premodern literatures.37 Njála is – in my opinion – narrated in three such cycles of rise and fall: following the prelude about Hrútr and his kin, the first cycle includes the rise and fall of Gunnarr and the relationship between the two families at Hlíðarendi and Bergþorshváll. After Gunnarr Hámundarson’s death, a second cycle emerges – the cycle that puts Njáll and his family even more into the centre of attention with one of its protagonists being Skarpheðinn Njálsson. I call this cycle the ›Ragnarǫkcycle‹. This second cycle is ended by the death of Njáll and his kin in the flames at Bergþórshváll. Finally, the third cycle starts out with Kári having escaped the burning. After having conducted his unparalleled revenge campaign, that costs the lives of at least 15 men, Kári is reconciled with Flosi Þórðarson. Here, both the third cycle and the saga plot come to an end. Within the ›Ragnarǫk-cycle‹, Skarpheðinn has been acting as Njáll’s executive body since the slaying of Sigmundr Lambason: his task, it seems, is to ensure the family’s honour. Because of this, he stays behind with his father at Bergþorshváll when his brothers make themselves ready for their __________________________ 36 37 Ellis Davidson 1988, p. 194. See, e.g., Schulz 2015, pp. 162–6. 96 journey to Norway. It is not until chapter 79, however, which involves the aforementioned revenge on Gunnarr’s slayers, that Skarpheðinn’s actions are depicted in greater detail and start becoming more important for the outcome of the plot. Moreover, the Njálsson’s strength as well as his brothers’ and family’s power does not go unnoticed by other characters: in chapter 92, Runólfr Úlfsson warns his friend Þráinn Sigfússon of risking an encounter with the Njálssons. Þráinn has already made them his enemies by humiliating Skarpheðinn’s brothers Grímr and Helgi at the jarl’s court in Norway; back in Iceland he refuses to compensate them for their troubles. However, Þráinn replies sharply, saying that he would never be unprepared to take on the Njálssons, no matter where they met. Runólfr is not convinced: ›[E]n hina skilning hefi ek, at engi sé þeira maki, síz Gunnarr at Hlíðarenda lézk, ok er þat líkara, at hér dragi ǫðrum hvárum til bana.‹38 (›But my understanding is quite different, that no one, since Gunnar of Hliðarendi died, is a match for them, and it is more likely that this will lead to death on one side or the other.‹ 39) After all, Skarpheðinn strikes down Þráinn Sigfússon in the famous battlescene on the frozen Markarfljót river: Skarpheðinn hefr sik á lopt ok hleypr yfir fljótit meðal hǫfuðísa ok stǫðvar sik ok rennir þegar af fram fótskriðu. Svellit var hált mjǫk, ok fór hann svá hart sem fogl flygi. Þráinn ætlaði þá at setja á sik hjálminn. Skarpheðin berr nú at fyrri, ok høggr til Þráins með øxinni, ok kom í hǫfuðit ok klauf ofan í jaxlana, svá at þeir fellu niðr á ísinn.40 (Skarphedin took off into the air and leaped across the river from one ice ledge to the other and made a steady landing and shot on in glide. The ice slab was very smooth, and Skarphedin went along as fast as a bird in flight. Thrain was about to put on his helmet, but Skarphedin came at him first and swung his axe __________________________ 38 39 40 Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 92, p. 230. Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 157. Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 92, p. 233. 97 at him and hit him on his head and split it down to the jaw, so that the molars fell out on the ice. 41) The following episodes refer to the settlement between Njáll and Þráinn’s family as well as his clever move to make Þráinn’s son Hǫskuldr his fosterson. Skarpheðinn’s senna and the Njálssons’ Struggle for Support at the Alþingi42 As a result of the slaying of Njáll’s foster-son, Skarpheðinn and his brothers are facing trial at the Alþingi. In chapter 119, Njáll advises his sons and Kári to find supporters among the powerful chieftains. The Njálssons’ visit to these powerful lawyers and chieftains is depicted in the following way: Ásgrímr Elliða-Grímsson, one of Njáll’s close friends and supporters, accompanies the brothers to the single booths of every chieftain, where they ask for help. After Ásgrímr has stated their concern, the addressed person responds in an either positive or negative way. Whereas the first possible supporter, Gizzurr hvíti, promises immediate support, the situation becomes delicate when approaching other chieftains and lawyers: Skarpheðinn, who walks quietly behind his brothers and Kári, suddenly finds himself to be at the centre of attention, as Lawspeaker Skapti Þóroddsson, Snorri goði, Hafr inn auðgi, and Þorkell hákr all comment on his outer appearance in a disrespectful way.43 Njáll’s son, however, has the proper reply to their insults: he reveals compromising details concerning unmanliness and cowardice about every single chieftain. Þorkell hákr, the last of their potential supporters, shows the worst behaviour, so that Skarpheðinn and the chieftain threaten each other with death. Finally, the Njálssons and Ásgrímr return to their booth. Due to this detailed delineation of mutual slander and the constant repetition of accusing each other of effeminacy, the saga audience keeps Skarpheðinn in mind as serious troublemaker. __________________________ 41 42 43 Cook (transl.) 2001, pp. 159–60. On this episode, see also Sauckel 2018, pp. 232–4. See Brennu-Njáls saga chs. 119–20, pp. 297–306; see also Poilvez 2016, pp. 27–30; pp. 37–9. 98 The Njálsson’s contention with almost the whole country’s chieftaincy can justifiably be described as senna.44 Parallels between the most notorious verbal fight of Old Norse literature, Lokasenna, and ›Skarpheðins senna‹ regarding narrative framework, contents, and style can be detected. First of all, both sennur take place at sacred sites, namely Ægir’s hall in Lokasenna,45 respectively the Alþingi in Njáls saga. In the Eddic poem, the divine pantheon is assembled, when Loki first kills Ægir’s servant Fimafengr and after that enters the hall clamouring to be seated amongst the gods. Following this, he demands to be served and starts insulting Bragi. The god of poetry has offered Loki precious gifts in advance in order to make sure the trickster will show peaceful behaviour.46 In the following, Loki offends every single one of the renowned Æsir by confronting them with compromising stories and details about their own lives. Most of the secrets revealed by Loki belong to the concept of ergi (›cowardice‹, ›perversion‹, and ›effeminacy‹). In Brennu-Njáls saga, Skarpheðinn and his companions do not find themselves inside a hall of gods, but inside the booths of Iceland’s mighty chieftains; there, they not only hope to be provided with mead, but with substantial support for their case. In contrast to Loki, however, Skarpheðinn only makes use of slanderous insults and threats in the need of self-defence. He even adjusts intensity and length of his replies to the counterpart’s behaviour: the more intense one chieftain’s insult, the fiercer Skarpheðinn’s reaction.47 Concerning style, frequent repetition of certain formulas is present both in Lokasenna and in the senna of Njál’s saga.48 __________________________ 44 See von See / La Farge et al. 1997, pp. 368–9. 45 Lokasenna (prose introduction), p. 385: Ægir, er ǫðro nafni hét Gymir, hann hafði búit ásom ǫl, þá er hann hafði fengit ketil inn mikla, sem nú er sagt [...] Loki var þar ok þjónustomenn Freys [...] Mart var þar ása ok álfa [...] Þar var griðastaðr mikill; »Ægir, who is also called Gymir, had brewed ale for the Æsir, when he got the great cauldron which has just been told about [...] Loki was there and the servants of Freyr [...] Many of the Æsir and elves were there [...] that was a great place of peace« (Larrington (transl.) 2014, p. 80). 46 See Lokasenna st. 12, p. 407. Skarpheðinn tolerates being called ógæfusamligr (»luckless«) by Guðmundr ríki. However, he takes immediate (and mandatory!) revenge on being called a »troll« by two of the chieftains; see Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 119, p. 302 (Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 202) as well as Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 119, p. 298; p. 301. On Skarpheðinn’s heroic behaviour, see Deichl 2019, pp. 389–93. 48 On repetitions in chapters 119 and 120, see, e.g., Torfi Tulinius 2015, p. 112. 47 99 Eventually, another feature marks Skarpheðinn as a liminal or transgressive character comparable to the god Loki in Lokasenna; in chapter 120, before entering Þorkell hákr’s booth, his outer appearance and clothing are depicted in detail: Skarpheðinn glotti við ok var svá búinn, at hann var í blám kyrtli ok í blárendum brókum, ok uppháva svarta skúa; hann hafði silfrbelti um sik ok øxi þá í hendi, er hann hafði drepit Þráin með ok kallaði Rimmugýgi, ok tǫrgubuklara ok silkihlað um hǫfuð ok greitt hárit aptr um eyrun.49 (Skarphedin grinned. He was dressed in a [dark blue] tunic and blue-striped trousers and high black boots; he had a silver belt around his waist and in his hand the axe with which he had killed Thrain – he called it Battle-hag – and a small shield, and around his head he had a silk band, with his hair combed back over his ears.50) The most exciting feature of this depiction is neither Skarpheðinn’s glotting, nor the dark colours of his tunic, nor the silken braid around his head, but the pattern of his trousers: striped clothing’s highly ambiguous symbolism has been present throughout the Middle Ages and must certainly have been known in Iceland, especially in the late thirteenth century – the time when Brennu-Njáls saga was written.51 According to historian Michel Pastoureau, Germanic customary law as well as the famous law book and custumal Sachsenspiegel (c. 1220–1235) imposed striped garments on social out-groups such as bastards, fools, serfs, and the condemned. In continental European literature from the Middle Ages, stripes were also referred to as worn by traitors, such as the character Ganelon of Middle High German Rolandslied. In visual arts towards the end of the Middle Ages, jugglers, prostitutes, and hangmen were displayed __________________________ 49 Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 120, p. 304. Cook (transl.) 2001, p. 203. Oddabók (AM 466 4to) depicts Skarpheðinn as wearing blue trousers while killing Þráinn Sigfússon, see Brennu-Njáls saga ch. 92, p. 231 (fn. 4). 51 On the perception of stripes in the courtly environment of Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II. (c. 1194–1250) see, e.g., Keupp 2014, p. 76. An early ban of striped clothing for the secular clergy was enacted at a synod in Milan in 1311, see Keupp 2014, p. 76 (fn. 2). 50 100 wearing stripes.52 However, at the same time, striped clothing was also highly fashionable and worn by young aristocrats and rich burghers. 53 Even so, it can be claimed that the vestimentary code of striped as well as of parti-coloured garments remains ambiguous in medieval art and literature. This also holds true for Íslendingasögur and Íslendingaþættir: above all, transgressive or liminal characters like Þormóðr kolbrúnarskáld in Fóstbrœðra saga as well as the protagonist of Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts and Gunnars helmings are depicted wearing this kind of colourful garments. 54 The same applies to Skarpheðinn and his striped trousers. He is depicted by the saga writer(s) in this scene as a boundary-breaker, who will bring about an end to Njála’s second narrative cycle. Concluding Remarks Here, I have suggested an alternative reading of the character Skarpheðinn Njálsson, which has puzzled scholars throughout the years. Instead of approaching the character solely in either a psychological or sociological way, I concentrated both on the saga’s narrative principles, such as female power and lineage, and its structure: Brennu-Njáls saga consists of three narrative cycles of rise and fall. The first circle telling the story of Gunnarr’s rise and fall, his friendship with Njáll and the relationship between the families at Hlíðarendi and Bergþorshváll, is preceded by the episode about Hrútr and Unnr. A second cycle, the one I named the ›Ragnarǫk cycle‹, emerges after Gunnarr Hámundarson’s death; the final, third cycle, is about Kári’s revenge and the final reconciliation. From the beginning of the second cycle, the saga writer makes use of the character Skarpheðinn as an agent of transgression in order to start off the saga’s climax, the burning of Njáll and his whole family at Bergþórshváll. Moreover, the specific way Skarpheðinn insults the chieftains and reveals some of their most delicate secrets until they threaten __________________________ See Pastoureau 2001, pp. 13–7. Pastoureau’s monograph The Devil’s Cloth. A History of Stripes and Striped Fabric has fascinated both scholars and the general public alike. It has to be pointed out, however, that the symbolism of striped clothing in the Middle Ages is not as evident as the author has claimed. 53 See Hüpper 1993, pp. 176–8. 54 See Sauckel 2014, p. 11 (fn. 40); p. 34–5; p. 82. 52 101 him with severe consequences is modelled on the most famous of boundary-breaking texts of Old Norse literature, namely Lokasenna. In the end, the creation of this often confusing, but intriguing saga character matches Brennu-Njáls saga’s inverted narrative patterns, that make the saga an Old Icelandic trickster discourse. 102 Bibliography Primary sources Brennu-Njáls saga Æ Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1954. Lokasenna Æ von See, Klaus et al (eds.) 1997, pp. 363–507. Secondary sources Allen, Richard F. 1971: Fire and Iron: Critical Approaches to Njáls saga, Pittsburgh. Andersson, Theodore M. 2006: The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280), Ithaca/London. Ármann Jakobsson 2013: »Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga«, in: Ármann Jakobsson (ed.), Nine Saga Studies. The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas, Reykjavík, pp. 207–237. Bolan, Rachel/Sabo, David M. 1989: »Youth Gone Wild« [http://www.metrolyrics.com/youth-gone-wild-lyrics-skid-row.html; 04/04/2019]. Cook, Robert (transl.) 2001: Njals saga (Penguin Classics), London. Cochrane, Jamie 2016: »›…svá slœgr maðr sem þú ert kallaðr‹: Mǫrðr Valgarðsson, A Monster and his critics«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 116–143. Deichl, Florian 2019: Die Welt der Völsungen. Figuren- und Weltentwurf der altnordischen Nibelungendichtung (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 112), Berlin/Boston. Dronke, Ursula 1981: The Role of Sexual Themes in Njáls saga. The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies. University College London, 27 May 1980, London. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1954: Brennu-Njáls saga (Íslenzk fornrit 12), Reykjavík. Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1971: Njáls saga. A Literary Masterpiece. Translated by Paul Schach, Lincoln. Ellis Davidson, Hilda R. 1979: »Loki and Saxos Hamlet«, in: Paul V. A. Williams (ed.), The Fool and the Trickster. Studies in Honor of Enid Welsford, Cambridge et al., pp. 3–17. Ellis Davidson, Hilda R. 1988: Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe. Early Scandinavian and Celtic Religions, Manchester. 103 Gottzmann, Carola L. 1982: Njáls saga. Rechtsproblematik im Dienste soziokultureller Deutung (Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe 1: Deutsche Sprache und Literatur 577), Frankfurt. Hahn, Daniela 2016: »Expanding the Repertoire. Theft as a Means of Whetting in the Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 144–171. Hallberg, Peter 1962: The Icelandic Saga. Translated with an Introduction and Notes by Paul Schach, Lincoln. Hamer, Andrew J. 2014: Njáls saga and its Christian Background: A Study of Narrative Method (Mediaevalia Groningana New Series 20), Leuven et al. Hermann Jónasson 1912: Draumar. Erindi flutt í Reykjavík í febrúar 1912, Reykjavík. Hüpper, Dagmar 1993: »Kleidung«, in: Ruth Schmidt-Wiegand (ed.), Die Wolfenbütteler Bilderhandschrift des Sachsenspiegels. Aufsätze und Untersuchungen: Kommentarband zur Faksimile-Ausgabe, Berlin, pp. 163– 183. Jones, Gwyn 1955: »Njála, the Greatest of Sagas«, in: The AmericanScandinavian Review 43, pp. 160–164. Keupp, Jan 2014: Die Wahl des Gewandes. Mode, Macht und Möglichkeitssinn in Gesellschaft und Politik des Mittelalters (MittelalterForschungen 33), Ostfildern. Larrington, Carolyne (transl.) 2014: The Poetic Edda. Revised Edition (Oxford World’s Classics), Oxford. Lindow, John 1989: »A Mythic Model in Bandamanna saga and its Significance«, in: John Tucker (ed.), Sagas of the Icelanders. A Book of Essays (Garland Reference Library of the Humanities 758), New York/London, pp. 241–256. Lönnroth, Lars 1976: Njáls saga: A Critical Introduction, Berkeley et al. Lönnroth, Lars 1989: »Rhetorical persuasion in the Sagas«, in: John Tucker (ed.), Sagas of the Icelanders. A Book of Essays (Garland Reference Library of the Humanities 758), New York/London, pp. 71–98. Lönnroth, Lars 2017: »New and Old Interpretations of Njáls saga«, in: Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 13, pp. 101–114. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben 1983: The Unmanly Man. Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-Petre (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 1), Odense. 104 Miller, William Ian 1983: »Justifying Skarpheðinn. Of Pretext and Politics in the Icelandic Bloodfeud«, in: Scandinavian Studies 55, pp. 316–344. Miller, William Ian 2014: ›Why is Your Axe Bloody?‹ A Reading of Njáls saga, Oxford. Pastoureau, Michel 2001: The Devil’s Cloth. A History of Stripes and Striped Fabric. Translated by Jody Gladding, New York. Poilvez, Marion 2016: »Those Who Kill: Wrong Undone in the Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich pp. 21–58. Ravizza, Isabelle 2010: KörperSprache. Formen nonverbaler Kommunikation im Spiegel der ›Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar‹ und der ›Njáls saga‹, Vienna. Sauckel, Anita 2014: Die literarische Funktion von Kleidung in den Íslendingasǫgur und Íslendingaþættir (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 83), Berlin/Boston. Sauckel, Anita 2016a: »›Von unberechenbarem Wesen‹? Der literarische Trickster in den Isländersagas«, in: Nordeuropaforum 2016, pp. 56–73. Sauckel, Anita 2016b: »Brennu-Njáls saga: A Thirteenth Century Icelandic Trickster (Discourse)?«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 94– 116. Sauckel, Anita 2018: »Brennu-Njáll als scheiternder Trickster oder: Warum ein Seidengewand keinen Vergleich bricht«, in: Alessia Bauer / Alexandra Pesch (eds.), Hvanndalir – Beiträge zur europäischen Altertumskunde und mediävistischen Literaturwissenschaft. Festschrift für Wilhelm Heizmann (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 106), Berlin/Boston, pp. 223–237. Schüttpelz, Erhard 2005: Die Moderne im Spiegel des Primitiven. Weltliteratur und Ethnologie (1870–1960), Munich. Schulz, Armin 2015: Erzähltheorie in mediävistischer Perspektive. Studienausgabe. 2nd reviewed edition, ed. by Manuel Braun et al., Berlin/Boston. Thoma, Sebastian 2021: »A Friend in níð: On the Narrative Display of Gender and níð in Njáls saga«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted. Neglected Approaches, Characters and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies (Münchner Nordistische Studien 50), Munich, pp. 57–86. Tirosh, Yoav 2014: »Víga-Njáll: A New Approach Toward Njáls saga«, in: Scandinavian Studies 86, pp. 208–216. 105 Torfi H. Tulinius 2015: »Seeking Death in Njáls saga«, in: Jeffrey Turco (ed.), New Norse Studies: Essays on the Literature and Culture of Medieval Scandinavia (Islandica 58), Ithaca, pp. 99–115. von See, Klaus et al (eds.) 1997: Kommentar zu den Liedern der Edda 2: Götterlieder (Skírnismál, Hárbarðsljóð, Hymiskviða, Lokasenna, Þrymskviða), Heidelberg. Wolf, Alois 2014: Die Saga von der Njálsbrenna und die Frage nach dem Epos im europäischen Mittelalter (Beiträge zur nordischen Philologie 53), Tübingen. 106 Lucie Korecká Unwanted Hero, Praised Outcast: The Outlaw Motif in Arons saga Hjörleifssonar and Sturlunga saga1 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar and Sturlunga saga: Manuscript Context and Synopsis The so-called contemporary sagas are saga narratives depicting historical events from twelfth- and thirteenth-century Iceland. Of the contemporary sagas with a secular subject matter, two, namely Arons saga Hjörleifssonar and Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, are extant as distinct texts. The rest are found in a compilation known as Sturlunga saga, which was composed around 1300 and is extant in two incomplete vellum manuscripts from the second half of the fourteenth century – AM 122 a fol., known as Króksfjarðarbók, and AM 122 b fol., known as Reykjarfjarðarbók – and a number of seventeenth-century paper copies, which also contain the parts now lost in the manuscripts.2 Arons saga is extant in an early fifteenthcentury vellum fragment (AM 55 Id 5 4to) and two seventeenth-century paper copies (AM 212 fol. and AM 426 fol.); some sections of the modern editions are reconstructed from Elzta saga Guðmundar biskups in Codex Resenianus (AM 399 4to).3 Scholars have disagreed about its dating, but the most recent findings imply that Arons saga was written around 1320 or 1330.4 Apart from being the protagonist of Arons saga, Aron Hjörleifsson is also mentioned in other extant written narrative sources, namely Íslendinga saga and Þorgils saga skarða, both of which are part of Sturlunga saga, and __________________________ This research was supported by the Charles University project Progres 3 (Q07), Centre for the Study of the Middle Ages. I am grateful to Daniela Hahn, Anita Sauckel, and Alexander Wilson for their comments and suggestions that helped considerably to improve both the language and the content of this article. All remaining imperfections are entirely my own. 2 Örnólfur Thorsson 1988, p. xxii; pp. xci–iii. 3 Porter 1993, p. 21. 4 Úlfar Bragason 2013, p. 128; Porter 1971, pp. 143–4. 1 107 Elzta saga Guðmundar biskups, which is believed to be younger than Arons saga and partly derived from it.5 Íslendinga saga, on the other hand, is definitely older than Arons saga, and the two texts contain similarities but also incongruities in their account of Aron’s life.6 The relationship between the two sagas has been the subject of ongoing debates. According to Björn M. Ólsen, they are independent of each other and based on oral traditions. 7 John Porter conversely assumes that both were based on the same written sources, which are mentioned in the preface to Sturlunga saga,8 whereas Jón Jóhannesson suggests that some subject matter in Arons saga can be derived from Íslendinga saga.9 Úlfar Bragason believes that the author of Arons saga must have known most of the stories in Sturlunga saga, for he apparently expected his audience’s knowledge of them, but suggests that Arons saga must also have built on oral tradition to a certain extent. 10 This debate is not central to the present study but is relevant nonetheless, as the chapter will return to the question of how the structure and meaning of Aron’s story in Arons saga and Sturlunga saga may be connected to the narrative account of another significant contemporary chieftain’s life. The main topic of Sturlunga saga is the gradual concentration of power in Iceland in the hands of a few mighty families and the subsequent power struggles among them, which culminate in the bloody fights of the socalled Sturlung Age (c. 1220–1264) up until the point that Iceland accepts Norwegian royal rule. The saga depicts these fights and their political background in detail, with a focus on the most significant secular leaders of the time. Arons saga Hjörleifssonar concentrates on a particular section of this complex history. It tells the story of a man who from his early youth supports Bishop Guðmundr Arason in his disputes with secular leaders, of whom the Sturlungs play a dominant role in this part of the conflict. After the battle of Grímsey in 1222, in which the bishop’s men are heavily outnumbered and defeated by the Sturlungs, the wounded Aron flees and hides from Sturla Sighvatsson, who has him outlawed. Aron then manages to flee to Norway, from where he undertakes a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. __________________________ Úlfar Bragason 2013, p. 127. Porter 1993, pp. 21–2. 7 Ólsen 1897, pp. 254–72. 8 Porter 1971, pp. 144–61. 9 Jón Jóhannesson 1946, p. l. 10 Úlfar Bragason 2013, pp. 130–2. 5 6 108 After his return to Norway, he enjoys respect and honour at the royal court and stays there for most of his life, but he is reconciled in the meantime with the surviving Sturlungs and his other Icelandic opponents. Trends in Previous Research The contemporary sagas have generally attracted little critical attention compared to most other groups of Old Norse texts. In earlier saga research they were mostly regarded as unsuitable for or even unworthy of literary analysis due to their allegedly non-literary form. For example, in Finnur Jónsson’s opinion Sturlunga saga follows a mechanical chronological principle of composition, lacking both a storyline and a consistent view of history.11 Almost a hundred years later, Jónas Kristjánsson still claimed that the structure of Sturlunga saga was formed by chronology, not by literary conventions of narration, even though he was not opposed to the study of the contemporary sagas as literature.12 Throughout the twentieth century, the majority of scholars have reduced the contemporary sagas to sources of information about the historical background of the writing of the Sagas of Icelanders, mostly ignoring their own literary value. 13 The contemporary sagas’ structure and style were sometimes studied only in order to determine their possible authorship.14 Some studies of specific literary aspects of individual parts of the Sturlunga compilation appeared in the second half of the twentieth century,15 and some successfully analysed the Sagas of Icelanders and the contemporary sagas together from a literary perspective,16 but more extensive narratological analyses of the contemporary sagas appeared only in the second half of the 1980s, when Sturlunga saga became the subject of several studies with a focus on its __________________________ Finnur Jónsson 1901, pp. 726–7. Jónas Kristjánsson 1988, p. 107. 13 For an overview of the research history see Úlfar Bragason 1986, pp. 3–10; Úlfar Bragason 2005, pp. 433–4. 14 Hallberg 1968. 15 Foote 1951; Glendinning 1974. 16 Byock 1982. 11 12 109 narrative structure and on the principles that govern its composition. 17 Nevertheless, while these studies were groundbreaking in terms of the narratological approach to the contemporary sagas, their interpretations of the sagas are based on the assumption that they depict the downfall of Icelandic society, in which the gradually increasing violence was not restricted by any moral concerns, and that the Norwegian king’s interventions had a negative impact on the Icelanders. 18 While the moral evaluation of the Sturlung Age in Sturlunga saga, especially in Íslendinga saga, its longest and most complex part, has been re-assessed in some recent studies, the political aspect has not been in the centre of these studies, as they have focused on moral attitudes and social norms instead. 19 Contributive as they have been, they have not inspired much further interest in their subject; since Guðrún Nordal’s 1998 book there has been only one significant monograph focused primarily on the contemporary sagas.20 The relationship between medieval Iceland and Norway has recently been the subject of several extensive studies, but these have focused on other sources, such as the Sagas of Icelanders, the kings’ sagas, legal texts, or Íslendingabók and Landnámabók, while the contemporary sagas have mostly been ignored or used only as a source of factual information, not of political attitudes, or analysed superficially, with little focus on the principles of their construction of meaning. Some of these studies are still based on the assumption that the medieval Icelanders perceived Iceland’s union with Norway negatively.21 I believe that this assumption is misleading, and that it is mostly caused by the lack of attention given to the contemporary sagas. Other studies have suggested a more balanced view of the relationship between Icelanders and kings, 22 and these findings need to be supported by evidence from the contemporary sagas, in which the thirteenth-century Icelanders wrote about their own situation. In the present study it will be attempted to show how a detailed analysis of the contemporary sagas as narratives can reveal a more complex view of the __________________________ Úlfar Bragason 1986; Tranter 1987. Úlfar Bragason 1986, pp. 170–81; Úlfar Bragason 2000, pp. 481–2; Tranter 1987. 19 Ciklamini 1983; Ármann Jakobsson 1994; Nordal 1998. 20 Úlfar Bragason 2010. 21 Meylan 2014; Long 2017; Coroban 2018. 22 Ármann Jakobsson 1995; Ármann Jakobsson 2014; Boulhosa 2005. 17 18 110 Sturlung Age and help in the re-assessment of the medieval Icelanders’ attitude toward the Norwegian monarchy. The resulting new perspectives can be valuable for a better appreciation of the contemporary sagas’ literary value, for further historical research, as well as for the study of other saga genres, which must always be viewed in context of the social and political environment in which they were created. The theme of outlawry in the sagas has, on the other hand, received considerable attention in research. Old Norse outlawry has been studied from the perspective of social and legal history by Vilhjálmur Finsen, Konrad Maurer, or Andreas Heusler, and more recently by William Ian Miller or Frederic Amory.23 The role of the outlaw theme in the sagas as narratives has recently been studied by Joonas Ahola, who has attempted »to construct an overall picture of outlawry and especially of its collective meanings and cultural significance as reflected in the depictions of outlawry in the [...] literary sources«, 24 and by Marion Poilvez, who focuses on the themes of otherness, liminality, marginality, exile, and isolation in the outlaw stories and on the metaphors and other narrative strategies employed in the sagas that reflect these themes, especially in terms of geographical, social, and narrative space.25 The only contemporary saga focused on outlawry, Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, has nevertheless received minimal scholarly interest even in comparison with other texts in this group. The lack of interest in this text has been pointed out by Úlfar Bragason, among others: »Ef til vill hafa lesendur aldrei heyrt Arons sögu Hjörleifssonar nefnda. Hennar er sjaldan getið og fáir fræðimenn hafa fengist við hana.« 26 The few articles that have been written about the saga deal mostly with its dating and its relation to the shorter accounts of Aron Hjörleifsson’s life that are incorporated in other contemporary sagas, but their focus is only on textual borrowings and possible derivations, rather than the meaning of the texts. 27 The saga __________________________ Finsen 1873; Maurer 1910; Heusler 1911; Miller 1988; Amory 1992. Ahola 2014, p. 14. 25 Poilvez 2012; Poilvez 2016a, pp. 31–9; Poilvez 2017. Other recent research on the theme of outlawry in saga literature includes Merkelbach 2019, pp. 51–100; Wilson 2017. 26 Úlfar Bragason 2013, p. 125; »The readers [of this article] have probably never heard of Arons saga Hjörleifssonar. It is seldom mentioned and few scholars have dealt with it« (my translation). 27 Glendinning 1969; Porter 1971. 23 24 111 has also been mentioned in connection with Gísla saga Súrssonar, with which it shares some motifs and episodes. These discussions have primarily focused on the direction of influence between the two sagas, with cases being made for each saga being a major influence on the other, as well as on the relationship between oral tradition and writing in the texts.28 These studies do not concentrate on the narrative principles that have formed Arons saga, nor do they locate the text’s significance in its cultural and historical context. Joonas Ahola has dealt with the theme of outlawry from a literary perspective, but in his comments on Arons saga he has also focused on its relationship to the outlaw sagas set in the Saga Age and on the development of a historical character into a narrative character whose biography applies elements of traditional narration.29 Even Marlene Ciklamini’s discussion of Aron’s personality and Robert Glendinning’s detailed analysis of Aron’s dream focus only on individual motifs or scenes in Arons saga and Íslendinga saga, rather than interpreting the text as a whole.30 These studies therefore cast only limited light on the saga’s role as a literary text that presents a specific interpretation of historical events, and that reflects some of the social concerns that were of importance to the cultural environment in which the text was created. The exception to this trend is the study by Úlfar Bragason, quoted above, which analyses Arons saga from the perspective of memory studies and gives attention to some of its narrative principles. Nevertheless, Úlfar’s article also focuses on the construction of individual scenes, on selected motifs, and on the relationship between oral tradition and writing, rather than on an in-depth discussion of the relationship between the saga’s narrative structure and its meaning. As a case study illustrating the possibilities of narratological research of the contemporary sagas, the present article will attempt to complement Úlfar’s findings by providing a more thorough analysis of Arons saga as an overall narrative, with a focus on the text’s meanings and on the ways in which these meanings are constructed through the text’s structure and narrative patterns. __________________________ Foote 1963; Aðalgeir Kristjánsson 1965; Heller 1966; Danielsson 2008. Ahola 2014, pp. 379–91. 30 Ciklamini 1988; Glendinning 1969. 28 29 112 The Structure of the Sagas: Narrative Patterns The contemporary sagas are based on historical events that would presumably still have been fresh in people’s memory at the initial time of writing. Some were remembered by the writers themselves from their own experience, some by eyewitnesses or by their direct descendants or acquaintances. It is also likely that even the Sagas of Icelanders build on stories about the settlement period of the commonwealth (c. 870–930), which were preserved orally in tales, stanzas, and genealogies memorized by the families. The sagas in their written form, however, are shaped by the narrative conventions of saga literature, many of which are shared by the Sagas of Icelanders and the contemporary sagas. The events that form the stories are fitted into particular narrative patterns, which create the structure and meaning of the texts. This section outlines three such patterns: the feud pattern, the travel pattern, and the outlaw pattern. The feud pattern is the most common narrative pattern in both the Sagas of Icelanders and the contemporary sagas. Its structure has been described by Theodore Andersson, who defines six stages of the pattern: (1) introduction of the protagonists, (2) development of a conflict, (3) violent climax of the conflict, (4) revenge, (5) reconciliation, and (6) aftermath.31 Thus the pattern reflects the circular principle of the reestablishment of social equilibrium – conflict is inevitable, and whilst internal social mechanisms often cannot prevent it, they can ensure that balance will be renewed at the end. Joseph Harris has similarly established the travel pattern in saga scholarship, arguing that the pattern also consists of six stages: (1) introduction of the protagonist, (2) a journey to the continent and a visit to the king, (3) alienation from the king, often because of the Icelander’s peculiar behaviour or discords between the Icelander and jealous Norwegian courtiers, (4) reconciliation with the king, after which the Icelander gains the king’s favour due to his eloquence, cleverness, bravery, or other skills, (5) a journey out of the king’s sphere of authority, and (6) a conclusion.32 The travel pattern can be found in some of the Sagas of Icelanders and in the sagas of skalds, and it also plays a significant role in the contemporary sagas, but it is most typical for the so-called útanferðar þættir, short stories embedded within the kings’ sagas, especially in the __________________________ 31 32 Andersson 1967, pp. 6–29. Harris 1972, p. 7. 113 Morkinskinna compilation and Flateyjarbók, that tell of Icelanders’ journeys to the Norwegian royal court. The útanferðar þættir tend to focus on the king’s goodwill and tolerance, and they always end well for the newcomer as he manages to win the king’s favour and respect.33 The structural approach to the sagas has not been accepted without discussion, and its shortcomings have been pointed out.34 Some of the objections are fully justified – for example, Jesse Byock and Jónas Kristjánsson are right in stating that Andersson’s feud pattern does not always reflect the structure of a whole saga. I do not, however, agree with Byock’s opinion that »this proposed structure, which is ill-fitting in many cases, serves only to summarize the action rather than to tell us anything about the particular nature of Icelandic narrative.« 35 I believe that the structural approach does not »isolate characters and events from their social context«,36 but rather helps reveal the processes by which the narrative creates a meaning that enables the text to not only tell a story, but also reflect social concerns. After all, Byock, similarly to Andersson, believes that »the society engaged in an insular type of feud which channelled most violence into a socially stabilizing process. This vital process, in turn, provided the formal model for saga narratives about Iceland.« 37 The structural model alone cannot produce complete interpretations of saga texts, but it can be a helpful tool in combination with other methods. 38 As Úlfar Bragason has shown, the feud and travel patterns are useful in the study of the contemporary sagas, both for showing their structural relatedness to the Sagas of Icelanders and for revealing the processes of the construction of meaning in texts so rich in detail that it can be difficult to see their themes without undertaking a deeper structural analysis. 39 __________________________ On the travel pattern in the Sagas of Icelanders, see Lönnroth 1976, pp. 71–2, and Boulhosa 2005, pp. 182–3; on the travel pattern in the sagas of skalds, see Clunies Ross 2001, pp. 43–4; on the focus on the king’s goodwill in the útanferðar þættir, see Ármann Jakobsson 2003, pp. 48–9. 34 Byock 1982, pp. 49–54; Jónas Kristjánsson 1988, pp. 98–9; p. 107. 33 Byock 1982, p. 50; see also Jónas Kristjánsson 1988, p. 98. Byock 1982, p. 50. 37 Byock 1982, p. 2. 38 For a systematic overview of formalist and structuralist approaches to sagas and other narratives at the time when they were most influential in literary studies, see Vésteinn Ólason 1978. 39 Úlfar Bragason 1986, pp. 56–68. 35 36 114 Similarly, Joonas Ahola has shown that the narrative patterns, in combination with other methods, can serve as a helpful tool in the study of the outlaw theme in saga texts.40 Some scholars may dismiss such structural analysis as an outdated method, but I believe that in combination with a careful consideration of the texts’ historical background and context it can play a crucial role in the re-evaluation of the contemporary sagas’ meaning, the necessity of which has been outlined above. This will be attempted in the present study, although the length of the article does not allow an extensive analysis, only a case study of two structurally related narratives. What these narratives have in common is that they are partly structured by what can be called the outlaw pattern. The outlaw pattern has been defined by Joonas Ahola, who distinguishes between two possible models for the biographies of outlaws: the tragic and the fortunate.41 The tragic outlaw pattern, in Ahola’s model, consists of (1) the offense, (2) an attempt at an arbitration, (3) the sentence, (4) fleeing, (5) death, and frequently – although not always – (6) revenge.42 A typical feature of the outlaw pattern is that, unlike in the feud pattern, the narrative focus does not shift regularly between two parties; rather, a majority of the action is depicted with a focus on one individual protagonist, and the narrative creates sympathy with the outlaw. Ahola has defined two narrative strategies for creating sympathy. Firstly, the outlawed protagonist is usually portrayed with a focus on his positive qualities, such as strength, resourcefulness, cleverness, or poetic skills. 43 Secondly, the protagonist’s violent acts are presented in a way that shows them as morally – though not legally – justified, either by explaining them in terms of a discrepancy between the sense of justice and the legal judgement, or by stating that they were committed unintentionally, or by attributing them to fate.44 Such elements, however, are not specific to the narrative depiction of outlaws – they are common in depictions of heroic protagonists in general. A saga protagonist’s positive qualities are always __________________________ Ahola 2014, pp. 165–90. Ahola 2014, p. 189. 42 Ahola 2014, p. 189. 43 Ahola 2009, p. 23. 44 Ahola 2014, pp. 167–73. 40 41 115 described, whether directly or indirectly, and his violent acts are often justified by various narrative devices.45 Two other narrative devices that are specific to the outlaw stories, on the other hand, have not been discussed in previous scholarship as characteristic features of the outlaw pattern, although they have to some degree been discussed in connection with the individual outlaw sagas. Firstly, the outlaw pattern emphasises the protagonist’s suffering, both mental and physical, unlike the heroic mode typical for the feud story, which tends to imply that the hero is not affected by pain, fear, or grief. Secondly, the outlaw pattern employs dreams and supernatural elements in a specific way, using them as a literary device that helps create sympathy with the protagonist. Whereas dreams usually serve as foreshadowing in the heroic mode, in the outlaw pattern they are more closely connected to the protagonist’s mental state. In Gísla saga Súrssonar, Gísli claims in his verse to be visited by ominous dream-women, and this verse provides the audience with an insight into the protagonist’s mind and into the insecurities that lurk behind his seemingly unshakeable courage. 46 Similarly, in the heroic mode narrative accounts of sorcery normally serve as explanations of events for which no natural causes can be found, but in the outlaw pattern they emphasise the protagonist’s tragedy. Gísli is affected by a sorcerer’s spell that prevents him from receiving aid anywhere in mainland Iceland; in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar and Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, the curse is uttered by a revenant whom the protagonist fights before he is outlawed. The spell or curse underlines the tragic aspects of the outlaw’s fate and the fact that the protagonist is expelled from society despite being a courageous and capable man; the narrative device thus creates sympathy with the outlaw. Apart from the tragic outlaw pattern, Ahola also defines the schematic model of a fortunate biography of an outlaw, consisting of (1) offence, (2) attempt at arbitration, (3) sentence, (4) avoiding the pursuers, and (5) reestablishment.47 However, as this pattern is, with the exception of the last element, identical with its tragic counterpart, it is questionable whether it __________________________ As Poilvez 2016a has pointed out, one of such narrative devices is a distancing of the character from the violent act, which can be achieved when the character takes up an ambiguous or alternative identity while performing the act, refuses to speak about the act, or chooses to speak about it only in cryptic allusions or verses. 46 See also Poilvez 2012, pp. 126–9. 47 Ahola 2014, p. 190. 45 116 makes sense to define it as a specific structure. Furthermore, some of the sagas that Ahola mentions as examples of the fortunate biography of an outlaw, notably Þórðar saga hreðu, lack the two narrative devices that have been defined here as central elements of the outlaw pattern – the focus on the protagonist’s suffering, and the supernatural signs emphasising the protagonist’s specific situation. Þórðr hreða is forced by circumstances to leave his home, but he spends most of his ›exile‹ with other farmers, and he seems to enjoy fighting his opponents. No narrative devices are employed in the text to imply that Þórðr suffered from any inner insecurities or any extreme physical discomfort, and no supernatural elements add new layers of meaning to Þórðr’s story. The outlaw pattern is thus not fully developed in the narrative – Þórðr’s exile is only a circumstance on the story level, not a structural element on the level of narration. Þórðar saga hreðu is also one of the few fortunate biographies of outlaws in which the protagonist’s reintegration into society takes place in Iceland. In other examples mentioned by Ahola, where the outlaw pattern is fully developed in the narrative, such as Fóstbrœðra saga or Hrafns þáttr Guðrúnarsonar, the outlaw pattern forms the first part of the story and changes into the travel pattern towards the end, when the outlaw escapes from Iceland and is socially reintegrated abroad. Analysing the narrative with such a combination of patterns in mind makes better sense than defining a separate fortunate outlaw pattern, because each of the patterns has completely different emphases and central themes. The story of Þormóðr in Fóstbrœðra saga can serve as an illustrative example from a ›classical‹ Saga of Icelanders. Þormóðr avenges his foster-brother by killing an influential chieftain in Greenland, and he is outlawed for this act. After a long period of hiding from his enemies, he closely escapes his pursuers by hiding on an island, and his pursuers take away his boat, so he has to swim back to land. He is wounded and extremely exhausted, unable to reach the shore; he stays on a skerry and is close to death. His suffering is strongly emphasised in this scene, which is immediately followed by a paranormal intervention: King Óláfr appears to a farmer in a dream and instructs him to save Þormóðr, which he does. Þormóðr then manages to escape from Greenland to Norway, where is greatly honoured by King Óláfr for the bravery and skill that he demonstrated in Greenland, as the expedition was also a kind of test of Þormóðr’s prowess. Þormóðr then stays at the king’s court until 117 they both die in battle together. In each of the two patterns the central theme is different: the outlaw pattern emphasises the protagonist’s struggles, and King Óláfr is depicted in it as a supernatural protector; in the travel pattern the Icelander is tested by the king and rewarded by honour and by the king’s respect and friendship. 48 Each pattern thus constructs a different meaning, and their combination transforms their meanings and, importantly, draws attention to them by distorting the horizon of expectation created by the first pattern. Whereas the feud pattern is circular, as outlined above, the latter two patterns appear to accord with the principles of comedy and tragedy as they are defined by Northrop Frye. 49 According to Frye’s theory, the principle of comedy is based on the hero being isolated from society at first and gradually being integrated into it in the course of the story. The overarching dynamic is useful for describing the travel pattern, in which the protagonist, at first an outsider to the continental society he visits, manages to stake out a place for himself within that society.50 Frye sees the principle of tragedy conversely as being based on the hero being socially successful at first before being gradually distanced, and sometimes even expelled, from his society: this narrative dynamic fits well with the outlaw pattern. The two patterns can therefore be seen in some sense as opposites, and if they are combined, it transforms their meanings without disrupting the patterns as such. The following analysis will discuss two such cases from the contemporary sagas in detail – but first it is crucial to address the fact that the outlaw pattern, unlike the other two, is comparatively scarce in the contemporary sagas, despite there being no shortage of outlaws in these texts. __________________________ The journey to the royal court is of central importance also in the story of Fóstbrœðra saga’s other protagonist Þorgeirr, in whose case the outlaw pattern is not fully developed. The king’s importance for the meaning of Fóstbrœðra saga has been discussed by Arnold 2003, pp. 154–79. 49 Frye 2000, pp. 35–52. 48 50 For a detailed study of the thematic and narrative structure of the útanferðar þættir in the Morkinskinna compilation see Ármann Jakobsson 2014, pp. 275–92. 118 Outlaws in Sturlunga saga: An Unwanted Motif? The Sagas of Icelanders show that outlaw stories were popular material for saga narratives. There are three such sagas in which the protagonist’s outlawry forms a major part of the plot – Gísla saga Súrssonar, Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, and Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar – and the theme of outlawry also plays a significant role in a number of other saga stories. 51 It is therefore surprising that the contemporary sagas, by contrast, contain so few fully developed outlaw stories: outlawry is frequently mentioned in passing, but as a rule it does not receive much narrative attention. This section attempts to provide some possible reasons for this difference between the two groups of sagas. The contemporary sagas show that when a chieftain in this period was outlawed, he was usually able to disregard the judgement because he had a sufficient power base and could expect that he would not be overthrown from his position. This is also the case in several Sagas of Icelanders, the best-known example being Gunnarr in Njáls saga, who becomes an outlaw after refusing a three-year exile, but he ignores his outlawry and stays at home. Only in the contemporary sagas, however, does such a situation become the norm. Furthermore, Gunnarr is finally killed like most other Saga Age outlaws, which does not usually happen to outlawed chieftains in the contemporary sagas. Out of the many examples mentioned in Sturlunga saga, it is worth considering some of the more significant ones from different periods. In the earliest section of Sturlunga saga, the chieftain Þorgils in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða is outlawed by his opponent at the Alþingi, but he returns home, gathers four hundred men, and continues to live as if nothing significant had happened (chs. 18–23).52 His opponent Hafliði then wants to prevent him from attending the next assembly, because outlaws are not allowed to enter assemblies; both men have numerous troops supporting them, and only the mediation by good-willed men prevents a fight. Þorgils enters the assembly, where many mediators become involved in the case, and the conflict then ends with a reconciliation (chs. 28–32). The outlawry __________________________ For a complete overview of the theme of outlawry in the Sagas of Icelanders see Ahola 2014, pp. 107–29. 52 All references to the contemporary sagas follow the edition by Jón Jóhannesson et al. (eds.) 1946. 51 119 is annulled, but it has arguably never even taken effect. Similarly, in Sturlu saga the protagonist and his opponent sentence each other to outlawry at the assembly, but before the end of the assembly they are forced by the public to reconcile because people are afraid of potential hostilities (ch. 19). They reconcile formally, but do not fulfil the conditions of the settlement, so the sentence of outlawry is technically still valid; however, the chieftains’ status as outlaws never really comes into effect, as both men keep large companies with them during the winter and are ready to use force against each other. Comparably, Guðmundar saga dýra depicts two chieftains being outlawed at the Alþingi by their adversary; their response is to gather followers and prepare for a fight (ch. 3). The battle is prevented by Guðmundr, who is more powerful than the other chieftains, but the matter remains unresolved and the chieftains are forced to maintain large followings and to steal food. Guðmundr finally manages to mediate a settlement, which is confirmed by a marriage; the outlawry is thus lifted, but practically it has always remained only a formal sentencing. In Íslendinga saga (ch. 11; 1199–1200) Snorri Sturluson summons Sigurðr Ormsson to a spring assembly in a dispute about a farmer’s inheritance and has him outlawed. Both parties gather men and prepare to fight before Bishop Páll and Þorvaldr Gizurarson advocate a settlement. These examples illustrate the fact that even before the Sturlung Age proper, the power relations and principles of justice in Iceland had become different from the Saga Age. In the Saga Age, a sentenced wrongdoer was outlawed by the whole community and its collective legal institutions. Thus, although some influential chieftains could defy their sentence of outlawry for some time, the outlawry always took effect and significantly changed the sentenced man’s situation. From the late twelfth century, on the other hand, the community became less involved in conflicts among the most powerful chieftains (stórhöfðingjar), whose power became increasingly territorial and aristocratic in nature, though not in name. Law and legal institutions were still formally public and collective, but in practice the chieftains’ mutual power struggles took place almost exclusively among them, so a sentenced man was – in practice, though not in theory – only his opponent’s outlaw, not the community’s. 53 If any two __________________________ 53 This has been discussed by Poilvez 2017, pp. 106–7 in connection with Norway and Orkney: in the course of its political development, Iceland became increasingly more similar to these societies; consequently, outlawry became a tool in the struggle for power. 120 opponents understood that their forces were equal and that there was no point in trying to enforce the sentence, they could decide to ignore the sentence. Understandably, this applied only to the chieftains, not to commoners. This development continued throughout the Sturlung Age. As an example from the later period, Svínfellinga saga describes a conflict between Sæmundr Ormsson and Ögmundr Helgason around 1250. Sæmundr has Ögmundr outlawed and confiscates his property (ch. 8), but soon afterwards, after a false and fragile reconciliation, Ögmundr assumes the role of attacker and has Sæmundr and his brother killed, completely disregarding his own status as an outlaw (ch. 11). Another case from the final years of the Sturlung Age is that of Eyjólfr Þorsteinsson, who is outlawed at the assembly in 1254 for the attempted burning of Gizurr Þorvaldsson at his farm Flugumýri (Íslendinga saga, ch. 180). After he is outlawed, however, Eyjólfr continues to participate in the power struggle in the same manner as before until he is killed in the battle of Þverá in 1255; his death is unrelated to his previous state of outlawry. Even those few men of higher social standing who are killed by enemies who first had them outlawed do not behave like typical outlaws in the meantime. A good example is Hrani Koðránsson, who is outlawed by Oddr Þórarinsson for his participation in a certain attack in 1252 (Íslendinga saga, ch. 163). Hrani is later attacked by Oddr and killed in a fierce fight (ch. 179), yet he does not withdraw from the power struggle in the intervening period, as demonstrated by his participation in the attempted burning of Gizurr Þorvaldsson (chs. 170–174). When a man of lower social standing was outlawed, it seems that he could seek the protection of a mighty chieftain in return for doing some dirty work, such as performing revenge-killings, for him.54 Such practices were not socially approved, but it seems that by this point in time the chieftains had become powerful enough to get away with them. A prominent example is the outlaw Ketill in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða, who is hired by the chieftain Þorgils to kill one of the followers of his opponent in return for Þorgils’ protection (chs. 13–15). Similarly, in Sturlu saga, the chieftain Einarr is said to have several outlawed killers in his company, but he is so powerful that nobody dares to interfere (ch. 16). __________________________ 54 This has been discussed by Amory 1992, pp. 198–203, who mentions some examples from the Sagas of Icelanders, but they must be viewed as exceptions, whereas in the contemporary sagas such cases had become fairly regular. The situation in the Sturlung Age has been discussed by Poilvez 2016b. 121 The best solution for outlawed men who were not chieftains was to leave Iceland as soon as they could. It seems that many managed to get abroad quicker than Aron Hjörleifsson was able to, which meant that there was little to tell of their outlawry within Iceland. As a rule, these men are rather insignificant in a narrative sense in that they are not the focus of the texts in which they appear, from which we may assume that their careers after leaving Iceland were, in all probability, less glorious than Aron’s own, as there are no stories of such careers abroad either for these men. A notable example is that of a certain Þorgeirr in Sturlu saga, who kills a farmer in a petty dispute and turns for help to the chieftain Sturla. Sturla denounces the killing, but he cannot refuse to protect his þingmaðr; the victim’s chieftain prosecutes the case at the assembly and sentences Þorgeirr to full outlawry, but Sturla helps him leave the land (ch. 23). Nothing more is said about Þorgeirr in the saga. Similarly, in Guðmundar saga dýra a man named Brandr kills another commoner in a petty conflict. Brandr is outlawed at the assembly, but he has already left the land in the meantime, never to return; the text mentions only that he later died on a pilgrimage (ch. 8). If a man was not lucky enough to escape from Iceland, it could lead to a typical outlaw story of pursuit, seeking and gaining the support of benevolent people, and a violent death. Such stories could have made for exciting outlaw sagas, but it appears that the men in question were not significant enough to have this kind of stories told exclusively about them. Yet the stories about these men were still told in considerable detail as secondary episodes in existing sagas, where they are always connected to the main storyline but are narrated in more detail than the main storyline requires. This implies that to a contemporary medieval audience the stories about such men were of interest in themselves, even though modern scholars have mostly ignored them and focused on the central characters. The best example is the story of Óláfr in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða. Óláfr is a dispossessed young man who earns his living by working for the powerful farmer Már, but a dispute arises between them on account of Már treating Óláfr unfairly. Óláfr wounds Már, but it is only a shallow wound; he is nevertheless outlawed at the assembly, but he is allowed to leave the land, and in the meantime to stay with the chieftain Þorgils. The merchants who own the ship refuse to take the outlawed man on board, however, which is when the true outlaw-story begins: Óláfr has to seek shelter at Þorgils’ farm, his opponent attempts to attack him there, and the saga carefully shows how Óláfr and Þorgils prevent the attack by a clever trick. The narrative perspective is on the side of Óláfr and Þorgils, while Már is presented as immoderate and troublesome. Óláfr is finally killed after he is 122 tricked into going out to fetch horses together with a follower of Már’s kinsman and Þorgils’ opponent Hafliði. The story is told along with other events in chapters 4–15, a large portion of the short saga. The main purpose of this long episode is not to portray Óláfr as a heroic figure, but rather to show how his situation caused conflict between the central chieftains Þorgils and Hafliði. Nevertheless, his story is still told in greater detail than most of the other accounts of minor causes of disputes in the contemporary sagas. Perhaps this was because the outlaw story was more interesting in itself than, for example, disagreements about inheritance, a frequent cause of conflicts. Gradual developments of disputes are common in the early parts of Sturlunga saga,55 whereas the sagas of the Sturlung Age proper appear to show less interest in such episodes, presumably because the central conflicts among the chieftains had become power-centred and were no longer caused by minor local disagreements of the sort that motivates Óláfr’s story. The shift in how the sagas set in the Sturlung Age depict the development of conflicts may explain why the outlaw motif subsided in the contemporary sagas despite its popularity in the Sagas of Icelanders, in some sense being an unwanted motif in light of the focus of the central sections of Sturlunga saga. Narrative Patterns in Arons saga Arons saga is the only contemporary saga in which the plot is dominated by an outlaw story and in which the narrative is predominantly structured by the outlaw pattern. Whereas most other contemporary sagas and Sagas of Icelanders are structured by the feud pattern, in which the perspective usually shifts between both parties in a dispute, the outlaw pattern allows more focus on one individual protagonist. In the Sagas of Icelanders, the outlaw pattern typically forms the second half of the narrative and ends with the protagonist’s heroic last stand and death; in Arons saga, however, it forms the middle part of the story, its central position in the narrative __________________________ 55 Þorgils saga ok Hafliða is a perfect example of a story in which enmity develops between two chieftains who originally have no intention of becoming opponents; their conflict is caused by the reckless behaviour of other individuals and by the chieftains’ sense of duty to protect their kinsmen and þingmenn. This is similar to the development of conflict in the Sagas of Icelanders. 123 placing emphasis on it despite the absence of a dramatic death-scene at its conclusion. The first part of the saga contains a feud pattern that depicts the conflict between Bishop Guðmundr Arason and the Sturlungs, in which the bishop remains in the background and is represented mostly by his two champions, Aron Hjörleifsson and Eyjólfr Kársson (chs. 2–8). The feud pattern has the typical structure described by Andersson, featuring an introduction of the protagonists, a description of gradually increasing enmity, a killing, and a retaliation. The early competitiveness between Aron and Sturla Sighvatsson is mentioned (ch. 2), and the unrest between Guðmundr and Sighvatr Sturluson and his sons is briefly outlined before Guðmundr flees from the bishopric and Tumi Sighvatsson settles there (ch. 3). The enmity between the parties culminates with the killing of Tumi Sighvatsson, followed by the revenge-battle of Grímsey in which Eyjólfr is killed and Aron is seriously wounded. This initial section is followed by the outlaw pattern, in which Aron must hide and run away from his pursuers after the lost battle (chs. 9–15). This part of the narrative focuses primarily on the individual outlaw, with emphasis being placed not only on the bravery of the protagonist as a defender, but also on the courage of those who help him during his escape and hiding. The selflessness of those who give Aron aid is underlined, as opposed to the pragmatic causes that usually lead to supporting somebody in the feud patterns. Although Aron’s helpers have little to gain, apart from a good conscience, in helping a young, wounded man who in their view is unjustly pursued, they do not hesitate to help him anyway, and some are even willing to face the anger of their kinsmen or chieftains as a result. When Aron is captured and imprisoned by Ormr Jónsson of Svínafell soon after the battle, Ormr’s brother Þórarinn reproaches Ormr for mistreating a man who came to his farm in hope of shelter, is only a boy in age, and whose wounds have not yet healed, meaning it is a dishonourable act to capture him. Þórarinn even proclaims himself willing to defend Aron with weapons if necessary: Þá svarar Þórarinn: ›Birta mun ek mitt skaplyndi ok felast eigi lengr, at hér skal frá fleirum tíðindum at segja í dag en lífláti Arons, því at vér munum allir saman standa ok veita nökkura vörn, ef þér vilið at sækja. Ok vænti ek, at nökkurir klái sárt síður, áðr vit Aron látimst báðir.‹ Ormr svarar: ›Ofrkapp leggr þú á þetta, bróðir, sem jafnan endranær, ok mun ek ekki þat til vinna til lífláts eins manns nauðsynjalaust at berjast við þik. Takið hann nú á yðvart vald ok farið með sem yðr líkar.‹ Þá þakkaði Þórarinn Ormi bróður sínum, 124 ok er ekki getit, at þá skildi á um þetta síðan. Fekk Þórarinn af þessu góðan orðróm ok mun lengi uppi vera.56 (Then Thorarin says: ›I must make clear what I have in mind, and hide it no longer, that there will be more news to tell of here today than about Aron’s death, for we will all stand together. It may be, if you want to attack, that some men will be rubbing sore sides before both Aron and I are dead.‹ Orm answers: ›You put great stubbornness into this, brother, as always, and I will not fight with you unnecessarily in order to gain one man’s death. Take the man in your charge now, and do as you like with him.‹ Then Thorarin thanks his brother, and it is not told that this caused any discord between them. Thorarin was well thought of for this, and it will long be remembered. 57) The narrative expresses a positive evaluation of Þórarinn’s selfless help in the formulation that Þórarinn gained lasting good reputation (orðróm) by this deed, as well as in three stanzas that subsequently praise his actions (ch. 10). Although Aron only finds out after these events that he has been formally outlawed at the assembly (ch. 11), this episode suggests that the outlaw pattern of the narrative begins immediately after the lost battle. Aron then hides with various kinsmen and with his friends, the sons of Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson (chs. 11–12). At this point he is again helped by selfless strangers, in this case two followers of Þorvaldr of Vatnsfjörðr, an enemy of Hrafn’s sons. The men help Aron in a fight when he is attacked by three of Sturla Sighvatsson’s followers, despite not knowing Aron and having no obligations toward him. They state that they help Aron in order to retain their honour, because it would be a shame not to assist a defenceless man: Þóttist Aron þá vita, at þeir vildu ekki svíkja hann. Forvitnar hann nú, hvárt þeir vildu veita honum vígsgengi eða vildu þeir fara í brott, – ›en ek [mun] í stað bíða.‹ ›Egill skal ráða,‹ segir Sigurðr. ›Ámæli mun til okkar falla,‹ sagði Egill, ›ef vit skiljumst báðir við hann svá __________________________ 56 57 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 256. Porter (transl.) 1975, p. 12. 125 búit.‹ ›Vel líka mér orð þín,‹ segir Sigurðr, ›en þó mun þetta meðallagi forsjáligt.‹58 (Then Aron thought he knew that they would not trick him. Now he asks whether they wanted to give him backing in the fight, or go away, ›but I shall stay on this spot.‹ ›Egil shall decide,‹ says Sigurd. ›Reproach will fall on us,‹ said Egil, ›if we both leave him like this.‹ ›Your words please me,‹ says Sigurd, ›but this is only half-prudent.‹59) This defence is praised in stanzas included in the narrative, as Þórarinn’s earlier actions were, and the men’s chieftain Þorvaldr is even said later to approve of the honourable behaviour of the defenders, despite his personal enmity toward Aron’s allies. The narrative also refers to supernatural signs, which, as mentioned above, are typical for the outlaw pattern. In the outlaw sagas set in the Saga Age, such elements – that is, the curses and ominous dream-women – often have negative implications, in that they underline the tragedy of the outlaw’s fate. In Arons saga, however, the dreams and supernatural signs are positive for the protagonist. The tone is set at the beginning of the outlaw pattern by a miraculous event in which Aron’s wounds are treated with no medicine other than water consecrated by Bishop Guðmundr, yet they heal quickly and well (ch. 9). Bishop Guðmundr then appears to Aron in a dream and makes room for him under his cloak (ch. 12): ›Greiddi hann þá til kápuna, en ek þóttumst í fara, ok í því vaknaða ek, at ek þóttumst kenna manninn, ok þótti mér [sem] væri Guðmundr byskup.‹ Þeir kalla góðan drauminn ok eigi örvænt, at viti nökkurs.60 The most openly supernatural event occurs during one of the dramatic peaks of the outlaw pattern, in which Aron is outnumbered and surrounded by Sturla and his followers (ch. 14). Aron throws away his shield and strikes a two-handed blow at a man, causing him to fall over; Aron then flees, leaping out of the ring of men surrounding him, and is saved by a snowstorm that conceals him from __________________________ 58 59 60 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 261. Porter (transl.) 1975, p. 15. Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 261; »›He made the cloak ready and I seemed to go inside it, and just when I awoke I seemed to recognize the man, and I thought it was Bishop Guðmund.‹ They call it a good dream and not unlikely to mean something« (Porter (transl.) 1975, p. 15). 126 his pursuers. The narrator implies that Aron freed himself due to his own courage, but suggests that the snowstorm itself may have been caused by a miraculous divine intervention: Aron hleypr þegar á hann upp ok út ór mannhringinum. Ok er þat allra manna mál, at Aron þykkir manna sköruligast hafa undan komizt, við slíka garpa sem eiga var. [...] Aron veit nú ógerla, hvar hann ferr. Veðrit tekr at harðna, ok gerir á fjúk. Sér hann stundum ateins leið sína. Kennist hann við sik, at hann er kominn á heiði þá, er Flötur heita. Aron hefir nú harða útivist, vötn öll ill yfirferðar, ok kemr frost í sárit. [...] Má þat sýnast skipat með guðs miskunn, at þegar Aron komst ór mannhringinum, rak á kafahríð svá sterka, at þegar skildi með þeim. Höfðu menn þá hríð lengi í minnum.61 (Aron runs over him at once and out of the ring of men. And it is common opinion that Aron seemed the boldest of men to have escaped from such fierce fighters as there were to deal with there. [...] Aron does not know exactly where he is going. The weather begins to worsen, and a snowstorm comes on. He can see his way only at intervals. He realizes that he has come on to the heath called Flötur. Aron now has a hard journey; the rivers are all difficult to cross, and frost gets into his wound [...] It may seem arranged by God’s grace that as soon as Aron broke out of the ring of men, such a thick and fierce storm drove down that they were immediately separated. Men remembered that storm for a long time.62) This scene clearly illustrates Aron’s physical suffering when he wanders through the wilderness in the storm with no certainty of shelter, severely wounded and exhausted. When he finally finds shelter on a friend’s farm, the narrative attention turns to his mental state. Aron entrusts his further destiny to God: he lies down, spreads his arms and sings prayers in the manner that Guðmundr has taught him to pray when in danger (ch. 14). This motif emphasises Aron’s mental suffering, as he is completely helpless and cannot expect any other relief than God’s mercy; at the same time, however, his hope for God’s mercy makes his mental suffering more __________________________ 61 62 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, pp. 267–8. Porter (transl.) 1975, p. 19. 127 bearable. At this point, the horizon of expectation created by the outlaw pattern leads the audience to awaiting Aron’s death, but soon after this dramatic culmination of the outlaw pattern the narrative shifts into the travel pattern instead. The outlaw story thus does not end with the protagonist’s death, but with his journey out of Iceland in 1225 (ch. 15). The saga then continues with two intertwined travel patterns: Aron’s journey to Norway (chs. 15–22), and his pilgrimage to Jerusalem (ch. 15). In the Norwegian episodes the travel pattern reflects the tone of the útanferðar þættir, in which the king acts as the Icelander’s protector. Aron first arrives in Norway as a young man in trouble, albeit already renowned for his courage, so he is comparable to the archetype of inexperienced newcomers as they are depicted in the útanferðar þættir, such as Hreiðarr heimski, Auðunn vestfirzki, or Sneglu-Halli. Aron joins the retinue of Jarl Skúli, who treats Aron with respect on account of the hardships he has suffered and the courage he has shown, yet when Aron wishes to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem as he has promised, Skúli does not want to give him leave. Aron feels that he must obey Skúli, but he is eager to fulfil the important promise to God and ultimately decides to make the pilgrimage despite Skúli’s prohibition. He visits Jerusalem and then returns to Norway and meets King Hákon, who welcomes him kindly. Hákon asks Skúli to forgive Aron’s disobedience since he made the pilgrimage for the salvation of his soul, but Skúli refuses to accept Aron again. Hákon then accepts Aron into his own retinue, arranges a good marriage for him, and provides him with land and a source of income. Aron is a retainer for almost thirty years, and when he falls ill the king visits him, which hefir mönnum þótt in mesta sæmð.63 When Aron dies, the king himself follows his body to the church and gives a speech honouring him (sæmðarorð). The king’s speech underlines Aron’s worldly qualities, such as the fact that he was well-travelled and renowned for his deeds, and is immediately followed by a direct comment from the narrator, which focuses on Aron’s spiritual merits: __________________________ 63 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 278; »seemed to men to be the greatest honour« (my translation). 128 Ok er þat væntanda, at sál hans hafi gott heimili fengit, bæði fyrir meðalgöngu vinar síns, ins góða Guðmundar biskups Arasonar, ok einkanliga fyrir mjúkustu várs lausnara miskunn, hvers pílagrímr hann má réttliga kallast fyrir þat, er hann heimsótti hans helgustu gröf ok marga aðra heilaga staði.64 (And it is expected that his soul has found a good resting place, both through the intercession of his friend, the good Bishop Guðmund Arason, and especially through the grace of our most gentle redeemer, whose pilgrim he may justly be called, because he visited his most holy grave, and many other holy places. 65) Apart from the travel pattern, this section also contains an aftermath of the outlaw pattern – an account of Aron Hjörleifsson’s dealings with Þórðr kakali Sighvatsson, the brother of his former arch-enemy Sturla Sighvatsson. Despite his previous enmity with the Sturlungs and his initial dislike of Þórðr in Norway, Aron helps Þórðr when news reaches them of the death of Þórðr’s nearest kinsmen in the battle of Örlygsstaðir (chs. 19– 21). The narrative emphasises the importance of reconciliation for a person’s honour by stating that Aron helped Þórðr because he was urged by his brother and his wife to show that he was nökkuru betri drengr en alþýða manna, svá sem margir mæltu.66 It appears that the hero is able to gain more honour by helping his former enemy, thereby entering into a relation of mutual obligation with him, than he would by killing him. This, the saga’s final statement about honour, is further illustrated by the account of Þórðr’s and Aron’s journey to Iceland, where Þórðr repays Aron for his magnanimity by helping him reach a settlement with his former adversaries (ch. 21). Bishop Heinrekr, together with Abbot Brandr and the most powerful chieftains, mediates between Aron and the sons of Sigmundr, whom he had attacked and killed during his outlawry. The narrative emphasises that Aron is then reconciled with everybody in Iceland (ch. 22), with the presence of the aforementioned ecclesiastical and political authorities illustrating the dignity and seriousness of the reconciliation. __________________________ 64 65 66 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 278. Porter (transl.) 1975, p. 28. Arons saga Hjörleifssonar, p. 275; »a somewhat more honourable man than most others, as many people said« (my translation). 129 The structure of the saga transforms the meaning of the narrative patterns that it uses. By connecting the outlaw pattern and the travel pattern together, the narrative creates a circular structure that begins in the mode of tragedy before shifting into the mode of comedy. The protagonist is initially socially successful, then he is alienated from the society and expelled into a marginal position; yet from this position he travels to Norway, where he wins favour, first from Jarl Skúli and then from King Hákon, and re-establishes his high social status. By the end of the saga, Aron is finally reintegrated into Icelandic society by reconciling with his former enemies. The structure of conflict and reconciliation resembles the feud pattern, but the essential features of the outlaw pattern and the travel pattern – that is, the focus on an individual protagonist’s struggles and the emphasis on the Norwegian king’s role as the Icelander’s benefactor respectively – are retained. Aron Hjörleifsson and Þórðr Sighvatsson The narrative structure described above is not arbitrary in its combination of the outlaw and travel patterns, as it creates a specific meaning, which will be discussed in the following. First it is necessary to look at this structure’s significant, though perhaps unexpected, parallel elsewhere in the contemporary sagas. Whilst this chapter has thus far discussed Arons saga as a distinct text, it is crucial also to consider how the saga’s structure and meaning can be perceived in relation to other texts. The story of Aron Hjörleifsson as known from Arons saga is not found in Sturlunga saga in its entirety, but most of Aron’s adventures in Iceland are included in the compilation, although in noticeably less detail than in Arons saga. Íslendinga saga includes depictions of the killing of Tumi Sighvatsson and the crucial battle of Grímsey (chs. 42–45), as well as of Aron’s outlawry, his pursuit by Sturla Sighvatsson’s men, and his journey to Norway, followed by his pilgrimage to Jerusalem and his stay at the royal court, although this latter episode is mentioned only briefly (ch. 55). Aron’s reconciliation with Þórðr Sighvatsson is followed by his support of Þorgils Böðvarsson in Þorgils saga skarða, where it is stated that Aron, by that point an influential royal retainer, helps the young Þorgils gain the king’s favour on account of Þorgils’ father Böðvarr having helped him while he was an outlaw (chs. 4– 5). Aron is also briefly shown later to support Þorgils in the power struggle in Iceland (ch. 21). Despite the brevity of the account in Sturlunga saga, its depiction of Aron’s story includes elements of the three patterns outlined 130 above: the feud pattern at the beginning, the outlaw pattern in the central part, and the travel pattern towards the end, followed by the final reconciliation. Aron’s reconciliation with Þórðr Sighvatsson is, however, not the only connection between the two men as depicted in their sagas. Their stories also share many structural similarities in that both feature a combination of the three narrative patterns, with both especially drawing a connection between the outlaw pattern and the travel pattern in a way that transforms the meaning of those patterns to place a particular focus on the element of reconciliation and on the king’s role as a benefactor. In the extant versions of Sturlunga saga, Þórðar saga begins with events following Þórðr’s return from Norway in 1242; the original, separate Þórðar saga may also have depicted some events prior to this date, but nothing is known about it with any certainty. The extant version dives straight into the outlaw pattern, which, as in Arons saga, begins with a lost battle. Þórðr’s father and brothers have been killed in the decisive battle of Örlygsstaðir in the late summer of 1238, and power has been seized by their arch-enemy Kolbeinn ungi Arnórsson. Those farmers who were reluctant to support Kolbeinn have been subdued by threats of violence (ch. 1); Þórðr himself is exposed to his opponents’ aggression and pursuit, as Kolbeinn oppresses the kinsmen and adherents of the Sturlungs so that Þórðr’s potential allies are afraid to help him (ch. 2). The narrative focus on Þórðr is underlined by an unusually direct depiction of feelings and fear: Kemr þá til hans Halldóra, móðir hans, ok aðrir frændr hans. Ok urðu allir honum fegnir í fyrstunni. En er þeir hugsuðu um ríki Kolbeins unga, hversu mikit orðit var, þá þótti þeim náliga sem Þórðr væri látinn. Ok vöktust þá upp af nýju þeir harmar, er Halldóra hafði beðit, því at engi hans frænda treystist at veita honum, en alþýða var svá hrædd, at ekki þorði við hann at mæla, þat er eigi var at allra manna viti.67 (His mother Halldóra and other relatives also came to meet him. At first everyone was happy for him, but when they thought about Kolbein ungi’s power, and how great it had grown, it seemed to them that Þórð was as good as dead. And those sorrows which had abated for Halldóra were newly awakened; __________________________ 67 Þórðar saga kakala, p. 4. 131 none of Þórð’s kinsmen dared help him, for everyone was so terrified that no one risked telling him anything not already public knowledge.68) This is one of the motifs that typically form the outlaw pattern: the disadvantaged protagonist asks his kinsmen or friends for support, but they dare not provide it and seek excuses, even though they know that the only honourable decision would be to fulfil the request. They are simply too afraid to act, because they are aware of the man’s extremely unfavourable situation and low chance of success. The contrast between fear and honour is further emphasised by a dialogue between Þórðr, his sister Steinvör, and her husband Hálfdan Sæmundarson, in which Steinvör urges Hálfdan to help Þórðr and does not hesitate to accuse him of unmanliness: ›Hefi ek hann ok sjaldan eggjat at ganga í stórmæli, en nú mun ek þat bert gera, at lítit mun verða okkart samþykki, ef þú veitir eigi Þórði, bróður mínum. Mun þá svá fara, sem minnr er at sköpuðu, at ek mun taka vápnin ok vita, ef nökkurir menn vili fylgja mér, en ek mun fá þér af hendi búrluklana‹.69 (›I have seldom urged him to concern himself in dangerous matters; but now I want to make it plain that our happiness with each other will not continue, Hálfdan, if you do not help my brother Þórð. Otherwise, it might be that though it is against my nature, I would take up weapons myself and see if men would follow me, and then I would hand over to you the key to the pantry.‹70) Her speech resembles the goading scenes from the Sagas of Icelanders, but Steinvör’s goading is clearly not an instigation to raise unnecessary violence or to break the peace without good reason; it is obvious that Þórðr needs support to defend himself in order to save his life. The scene thus implies that courage is necessary in defending oneself against an aggressor, and that it is disgraceful to refuse to help the defender. __________________________ 68 McGrew (transl.) 1974, p. 232. 69 Þórðar saga kakala, p. 6. McGrew (transl.) 1974, pp. 234–5. 70 132 Another typical feature of the outlaw pattern is that the protagonist is pursued by his adversaries, who outnumber him, and must hide in hollows and literally run for his life. Þórðr’s and his companions’ suffering is emphasised, as well as the faithfulness of his men. The weather is harsh, some of the men are forced to run beside their fellows’ horses when their own are too exhausted, and later they all hide from their pursuers by covering themselves with snow (ch. 10). Such a focus on the hardship endured by the protagonist contributes to creating sympathy with him. The second narrative means of creating sympathy with the protagonist of the outlaw pattern is the inclusion of supernatural signs, as has already been discussed in relation to the ›classical‹ outlaw sagas and Arons saga. The depiction of those signs in Þórðar saga is not as direct as in those other texts, but the saga nevertheless contains scenes that depict events on the verge of the natural, with the narratorial comments suggesting that they should be interpreted as wonders if not necessarily as miracles. When Þórðr escapes from his pursuers by riding for a day and a half with almost no rest (ch. 10), the narrator remarks that his journey was viewed as wondrous by many of his contemporaries: Þótti þat öllum mikil furða ok varla dæmi til finnast, at menn hefði riðit inum sömum hestum i einni reið af Þingvelli ok til Helgafells í svá miklum ófærðum sem þá váru. [...] Þóttust þá allir þegar vita, at Þórð myndi til nökkurra stórra hluta undan rekit hafa. 71 (It seemed to everyone very remarkable and indeed almost unheard-of that men should have ridden the same horses in one journey all the way from Þingvellir to Helgafell over such bad roads as those were. [...] At once men thought they knew that Þórð must have been saved for some great destiny. 72) This is immediately followed by an account of one of Þórðr’s men escaping his pursuers by almost supernatural luck: Reið hann þá undan sem ákafast, en þeir eftir ok kvíuðu hann fram á hamri nökkurum. Hann hratt þar fram af hestinum ok hljóp þar sjálfr eftir. Þat var hár hamarr, en hvárki sakaði hann né hestinn, því __________________________ 71 72 Þórðar saga kakala, p. 24. McGrew (transl.) 1974, p. 254. 133 at mikill lausasnjór var borinn undir hamarinn. En engi þeira vildi þar eftir fara. Riðu Kolbeins menn þá leið sína.73 (He rode off as fast as possible, but the others pursued him and cornered him out on a projecting crag. He pushed his horse over the edge and himself leapt quickly after him; it was a high crag, but neither he nor his horse was injured, because much loose snow had piled up beneath the crag. But no one else wanted to pursue him further, and Kolbein’s men rode back on their way.74) Despite the rational explanation, which leaves less room for speculation about miracles, a careful audience may well have been struck by a feeling that the survival of Þórðr’s follower had to do with more than ordinary luck and courage, and that the proximity of the scene to Þórðr’s own escape may imply a similarly wondrous explanation for his escape. Around this point in the narrative Þórðr’s support begins to grow stronger, and the outlaw pattern of the story gradually develops into a feud pattern as the two parties’ forces become more evenly matched. Ironically, it is only at this juncture that Þórðr is formally outlawed for an alleged attack on Kolbeinn’s mother, even though he has only taken a small amount of food from her (ch. 15). Nevertheless, the absence of formal outlawry in the previous section makes little difference to Þórðr’s depiction in the text;75 the outlaw pattern is complete without it, except for the final stage in which the protagonist would typically die in a heroic fight, which is not present here. Instead, the saga displays a feud pattern built around various clashes and threats between the two groups, culminating in the killing of Þórðr’s brother, which is then avenged by a fierce battle (chs. 24, 26–30). The first feud pattern ends when Þórðr’s opponent Kolbeinn dies of illness in 1245 (ch. 36), but it is followed immediately by another feud pattern that depicts Þórðr’s conflict with Brandr Kolbeinsson and Gizurr Þorvaldsson. Brandr is killed in a battle (ch. 42), but Þórðr and Gizurr eventually agree to travel to Norway and let the king judge their case (ch. __________________________ 73 74 Þórðar saga kakala, pp. 24–5. McGrew (transl.) 1974, p. 255. 75 A similar case can be found in Þórðar saga hreðu, which is set in the Saga Age. Its protagonist is never formally outlawed, but he is forced to stay away from home because of his opponents’ hostility. 134 44). Through these latter events, the story shifts into a version of the travel pattern, as Þórðr is at first not favoured by the king, mainly on account of the recent conflict between the king and Snorri Sturluson, Þórðr’s kinsman (ch. 45). Þórðr is finally able to gain the king’s trust, however, as a result of his eloquence and the support of both the Icelandic bishop Heinrekr and the foreign cardinal Vilhjálmr, who is visiting Norway in connection with King Hákon’s coronation (ch. 47). The king decides to send Þórðr back to Iceland as a royal representative, with Þórðr thereby overcoming the king’s initial enmity and winning the power struggle against his opponent. It appears that Þórðar saga connects the outlaw pattern with the travel pattern in a way similar to the combination of those narrative structures in Arons saga, although it differs in its depiction of a feud pattern between the sections characterised by the other patterns. The tragic mode of the outlaw pattern continues in a sense in the feud pattern, however, as the end of one conflict is immediately followed by another, with there being little chance of a lasting reconciliation without external intervention. The combination of the patterns therefore creates a similarly circular structure to that found in Arons saga, with the story beginning in the mode of tragedy through the use of the outlaw pattern before shifting into the mode of comedy in the travel pattern. The structural similarity between the sagas is striking enough that it is difficult to view it as a coincidence based only on the similarities between the historical events, as those events are in themselves not as similar as the narrative structure of the texts. Instead, it is reasonable to suppose that these structural similarities indicate a deliberate effort to add new layers of meaning to the texts, focusing on peaceful conflict resolution and on the king’s role in this process – a purpose for which the combination of the outlaw and travel patterns is well suited, as their juxtaposition draws attention to the positive development and good ending for the protagonist by subverting the expectation that his story will end tragically. Whilst the outlaw pattern creates sympathy with its protagonist at the outset, the use of the travel pattern to avoid the expected tragic ending and instead depict the reintegration of the protagonist into society emphasises the renewal of equilibrium. In the stories of Aron and Þórðr, this theme is underlined not only by the actual depiction of reconciliation between the former enemies, but also by the structural parallel that implies, despite the two men’s initial mutual hostility, that they share the same fate. Whilst the absence of the fuller story about Aron from Sturlunga saga and the considerable distance between his and Þórðr’s stories in the compilation mean that the parallels between Arons saga and Þórðar saga are not immediately apparent, there are 135 undeniable similarities in how these narratives use the outlaw and travel patterns to structure the experience of their protagonists. Conclusion Outlaw stories are rare in the contemporary sagas not because they became unpopular as literary structures, but because the legal function of outlawry had been weakened by social developments in twelfth- and thirteenthcentury Iceland. As the political climate in Iceland changed and created a destabilising power-struggle, in which a victory for one side could turn into a defeat for them within weeks, there was little space for heroic outlaws, as the emboldened chieftains were able to disregard outlawry and to protect their followers of lower social standing from pursuit if they so wished. Nevertheless, the outlaw pattern as a narrative structure continued to fascinate Icelanders throughout the Sturlung Age and beyond, as we can see in the outlaw sagas set in the Saga Age. The interest in outlaws lasted much longer, with stories of outlaws found in many Icelandic folktales from the early modern period. In such tales the outlaw pattern is not typically present, as these texts tend to portray outlaws as villains and to focus instead on those who pursue and defeat them, yet some, notably the famous tale of Fjalla-Eyvindur,76 still reflect some of the sympathy for the outlaw and the fascination with his heroically tragic fate that is characteristic of the outlaw pattern of the sagas. Although the outlaw pattern is not frequent in the contemporary sagas, there are two stories, that of Aron Hjörleifsson and that of Þórðr Sighvatsson, in which this narrative structure is fully developed and forms the texts’ meaning. Significantly, however, the pattern does not end with the protagonist’s death like in the typical outlaw sagas; instead, it is combined with the travel pattern that ends with the protagonist’s reintegration into society with the help of the Norwegian king. This structure also exists in the Sagas of Icelanders, for example in Fóstbrœðra saga, but the fact that it forms the only two fully developed outlaw stories in the contemporary sagas creates a specific connection between these two __________________________ 76 Fjalla-Eyvindur is the most famous outlaw from post-medieval Icelandic oral narratives. He is believed to have lived in the eighteenth century and to have survived in the wilderness for twenty years. 136 stories. Both of them use the dramatic intensity associated with the outlaw pattern, but then distort the horizon of expectation created by this pattern by ending the story with a renewal of equilibrium. The structural parallel between the narratives of Aron Hjörleifsson and Þórðr Sighvatsson highlights that the two men were similar in spite of the initial hostility between their families, and it underlines the fact that such enemies were able to find common ground and reach agreement eventually despite their conflicts. These ideas counterbalance the depictions of widespread social violence of the Sturlung Age, thereby creating a less one-sided image of the period than has been offered by traditional interpretations of the contemporary sagas. Whilst these texts suggest that a certain degree of instability was inevitable during the transformation of Iceland’s social order leading to its integration into the Norwegian kingdom, they focus on the renewal of balance through reconciliation, showing that the Sturlung Age was not perceived as a period of social downfall and disintegration, but rather as a period of transformation that brought new methods of resolving conflicts. These methods were rooted in centralized power, which had become necessary to the thirteenth-century Icelandic society. The role of the king in the stories discussed here is therefore not arbitrary, but is in fact the essential element in confirming the narrative shift away from the outlaw pattern, as the king is presented as a powerful figure capable of reestablishing social balance and unity when the Icelandic social system is unable to do so. The connotations of the travel pattern, with its long tradition in the útanferðar þættir in which kings are often characterised by their goodwill and tolerance, would probably have emphasised for a careful audience the king’s tolerance toward the Icelander’s imperfections, his appreciation of the Icelander’s abilities, and his tendency to protect the Icelander and to further his interests. In some sense, then, the individual Icelander would also have symbolised the people of Iceland more broadly, and thereby the hope of many Icelanders for harmonious and beneficial royal rule in the first decades of Iceland’s union with Norway. That is not to say that the contemporary sagas do not contain any critical or even negative attitudes to certain elements of the monarchy. Royal rule, just like all other political matters, was a complex and manysided phenomenon, the individual aspects of which were viewed with varying opinions by different people at different times, and this variety of attitudes is also reflected in the contemporary sagas. The texts thus show that the thirteenth-century Icelanders’ relationship with Norway was neither one of hostility and rejection, nor one of unconditional acceptance, but rather one in which the Icelanders redefined their specific cultural and 137 political identity, while also welcoming some degree of integration into the kingdom and into the broader European cultural and political space. This idea, which is most clearly expressed in the contemporary sagas, should also be taken into account in the interpretation of all other medieval Icelandic texts, which were based on the same mental framework. 138 Bibliography Primary sources Arons saga Hjörleifssonar Æ Jón Jóhannesson et al. (eds.) 1946, vol. 2, pp. 237–278. Þórðar saga kakala Æ Jón Jóhannesson et al. (eds.) 1946, vol. 2, pp. 1–86. Secondary material Aðalgeir Kristjánsson 1965: »Gísla saga og samtíð höfundar«, in: Skírnir 139, pp. 148–158. Ahola, Joonas 2009: »Outlaws, Women and Violence. In the Social Margins of Saga Literature«, in: Agneta Ney et al. (eds.), Á austrvega. Saga and East Scandinavia. Preprint Papers of 14th International Saga Conference, Uppsala, 9th–15th August 2009, Gävle, pp. 21–28. Ahola, Joonas 2014: Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Helsinki. Amory, Frederic 1992: »The Medieval Icelandic Outlaw: Life-style, Saga, and Legend«, in: Gísli Pálsson (ed.), From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, London, pp. 189–203. Andersson, Theodore M. 1967: The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading (Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 28), Cambridge (Mass.). Arnold, Martin 2003: The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga (Scandinavian Studies 9), Lampeter. Ármann Jakobsson 1994: »Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar«, in: Skáldskaparmál 3, pp. 42–78. Ármann Jakobsson 1995: »Hákon Hákonarson: Friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?«, in: Saga 33, pp. 166–185. Ármann Jakobsson 2003: »Konungurinn og ég: Sjálfsmynd Íslendings frá 13. öld«, in: Jón Yngvi Jóhansson et al. (eds.), Þjóðerni í þúsund ár?, Reykjavík, pp. 39–55. Ármann Jakobsson 2014: A Sense of Belonging: Morkinskinna and Icelandic Identity, c. 1220. Translated by Fredrik Heinemann (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 22), Odense. Boulhosa, Patricia Pires 2005: Icelanders and the Kings of Norway: Medieval Sagas and Legal Texts (The Northern World. North Europe and the Baltic c. 400–1700 AD. Peoples, Economies and Cultures 17), Leiden. Byock, Jesse 1982: Feud in the Icelandic Saga, Berkeley et al. Ciklamini, Marlene 1983: »Biographical Reflections in Íslendinga saga: A Mirror of Personal Values«, in: Scandinavian Studies 55, pp. 205–221. 139 Ciklamini, Marlene 1988: »The Christian Champion in Íslendinga saga: Eyjólfr Kársson and Aron Hjörleifsson«, in: Euphorion: Zeitschrift für Literaturgeschichte 82, pp. 226–237. Clunies Ross, Margaret 2001: »The Skald Sagas as a Genre: Definitions and Typical Features«, in: Russell Poole (ed.), Skaldsagas: Text, Vocation, and Desire in the Icelandic Sagas of Poets, Berlin, pp. 25–49. Coroban, Costel 2018: Ideology and Power in Norway and Iceland, 11501250, Newcastle upon Tyne. Danielsson, Tommy 2008: »On the Possibility of an Oral Background for Gísla saga Súrssonar«, in: Else Mundal / Jonas Wellendorf (eds.), Oral Art Forms and Their Passage into Writing, Copenhagen, pp. 29–42. Finnur Jónsson 1901: Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie 2, Copenhagen. Finsen, Vilhjálmur 1873: »Om de islandske love i fristatstiden«, in: Aarbøger for nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie 1873, pp. 101–250. Foote, Peter 1951: »Sturlusaga and its Background«, in: Saga-Book 13, pp. 207–237. Foote, Peter 1963: »An Essay on the Saga of Gisli and its Icelandic Background«, in: George Johnston (transl.), The Saga of Gisli the Outlaw, Toronto, pp. 93–134. Frye, Northrop 2000: Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. 15th printing with a new foreword, Princeton. Glendinning, Robert 1969: »Arons saga and Íslendinga saga: A Problem in Parallel Transmission«, in: Scandinavian Studies 41, pp. 41–51. Glendinning, Robert 1974: Träume und Vorbedeutung in der Islendinga Saga Sturla Thordarsons: Eine Form- und Stiluntersuchung (Kanadische Studien zur deutschen Sprache und Literatur 8), Bern. Hallberg, Peter 1968: »Stilsignalement och författarskap i norrön sagalitteratur: Synpunkter och eksempel«, in: Nordistica Gothoburgensia 3, pp. 97–104. Harris, Joseph 1972: »Genre and Narrative Structure in Some Íslendinga þættir«, in: Scandinavian Studies 44, pp. 1–27. Heller, Rolf 1966: »Aron Hjörleifssohn und Gisli Surssohn«, in: Arkiv för nordisk filologi 81, pp. 57–63. Heusler, Andreas 1911: Das Strafrecht der Isländersagas, Leipzig. Jón Jóhannesson et al. (eds.) 1946: Sturlunga saga, 2 vols., Reykjavík. Jón Jóhannesson 1946: »Um Sturlunga sögu«, in: Jón Jóhannesson et al. (eds.), Sturlunga saga, vol. 2, Reykjavík, pp. vii–lx. 140 Jónas Kristjánsson 1988: »Íslendingasögur og Sturlunga. Samanburður nokkurra einkenna og efnisatriða«, in: Gudrún Ása Grímsdóttir / Jónas Kristjánsson (eds.), Sturlustefna: Ráðstefna haldin á sjö alda ártíð Sturlu Þórðarsonar sagnaritara 1984, Reykjavík, pp. 94–111. Long, Ann-Marie 2017: Iceland’s Relationship with Norway c. 870–c. 1100: Memory, History and Identity, Leiden. Lönnroth, Lars 1976: Njáls saga: A Critical Introduction, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Maurer, Konrad 1910: Altisländisches Strafrecht und Gerichtswesen (Vorlesungen über altnordische Rechtsgeschichte 5), Leipzig. McGrew, Julia (transl.) 1974: Sturlunga saga, vol. 2, New York. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2019: Monsters in Society: Alterity, Transgression, and the Use of the Past in Medieval Iceland (The Northern Medieval World), Berlin/Boston. Meylan, Nicolas 2014: Magic and Kingship in Medieval Iceland: The Construction of a Discourse of Political Resistance (Studies in Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 3), Turnhout. Miller, William Ian 1988: »Beating Up on Women and Old Men and Other Enormities: A Social Historical Inquiry into Literary Sources«, in: Mercer Law Review 39, pp. 753–766. Nordal, Guðrún 1998: Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-Century Iceland (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 11), Odense. Ólsen, Björn M. 1897: »Um Sturlungu«, in: Safn til sögu Íslands og íslenzkra bókmennta 3, pp. 193–510. Örnólfur Thorsson 1988: Sturlunga saga. Skýringar og fræði. Íslendingabók. Ynglingatal. Veraldar saga. Leiðarvísir Nikuláss Bergssonar. Samþykktir og sáttmálar. Ættir og átök. Kort. Töflur. Orðasafn. Nafnaskrá. Staðanafnaskrá, Reykjavík. Poilvez, Marion 2012: »Access to the Margins: Outlawry and Narrative Spaces in Medieval Icelandic Outlaw Sagas«, in: Brathair 12, pp. 115– 136. Poilvez, Marion 2016a: »Those Who Kill: Wrong Undone in the Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), München, pp. 21–58. Poilvez, Marion 2016b: »Skógarmaðr minn: Function and Dynamics of Outlawry in the Age of the Sturlungs« [paper delivered at Miðaldastofa 2016; https://www.academia.edu/32269309/Sk%C3%B3garma%C3% B0r_minn_Function_and_dynamics_of_outlawry_in_the_Age_of_t he_Sturlungs_Mi%C3%B0aldastofa_2016; 13/03/2020]. 141 Poilvez, Marion 2017: »Outlaws of the Northern Seas: A Comparison in the Norse Corpus«, in: Andrew Jennings et al. (eds.), Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes, Newcastle upon Tyne, pp. 97–112. Porter, John 1970–1971: »Some Aspects of Arons saga Hjörleifssonar«, in: Saga-Book 18, pp. 136–166. Porter, John (transl.) 1975: The Saga of Aron Hjörleifsson, London. Porter, John 1993: »Arons saga Hjörleifssonar«, in: Phillip Pulsiano / Kirsten Wolf (eds.), Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopaedia (Garland Encyclopedias of the Middle Ages 1 / Garland reference library of the humanities 934), New York/London, pp. 21–22. Tranter, Stephen Norman 1987: Sturlunga saga: The Role of the Creative Compiler (Europäische Hochschulschriften 941), Frankfurt. Úlfar Bragason 1986: On the Poetics of Sturlunga, Ann Arbor. Úlfar Bragason 2000: »In the Scriptorium of Sturlunga’s Compiler«, in: Michael Dallapiazza (ed.), International Scandinavian and Medieval Studies in Memory of Gerd Wolfgang Weber, Trieste, pp. 471–482. Úlfar Bragason 2005: »Sagas of Contemporary History (Sturlunga saga): Texts and Research«, in: Rory McTurk (ed.), A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture (Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31), Oxford, pp. 427–446. Úlfar Bragason 2010: Ætt og saga: Um frásagnarfræði Sturlungu eða Íslendinga sögu hinnar miklu, Reykjavík. Úlfar Bragason 2013: »Arons saga: Minningar, mýtur og sagnaminni«, in: Ritið: Tímarit Hugvísindastofnunar Háskóla Íslands 13.3, pp. 125–145. Vésteinn Ólason 1978: »Frásagnarlist í fornum sögum«, in: Skírnir 152, pp. 166–202. Wilson, Alexander 2017: Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Individual Agency and the Communal Creation of Outsiders in Íslendingasögur Outlaw Narratives. Unpublished doctoral thesis, Durham University. 142 Rebecca Merkelbach Outlawed Bears and Trollish Foster-Parents: Exploring the Social Dimension of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders That human beings are »social animals« has been acknowledged at least since the time of Aristotle, and it has since been confirmed by social scientists from various fields. Social psychologist Susan Fiske states that »we are social creatures, even when alone«,1 and French anthropologist Maurice Godelier even goes so far as to say that »human beings, in contrast to other social animals, do not just live in society, they produce society in order to live.«2 Thus, it is impossible for human beings to exist without society, and, I would argue, it is equally impossible for humans to envisage storyworlds that have no interest in society, its formation and reproduction, or in the issues that arise out of each individual human’s membership in it.3 This is perhaps especially true of medieval literatures. As Jennifer Neville notes, in Old English poetry, »[h]uman beings exist only in social places like the hall, where their roles, responsibilities, and relationships to each other are clearly defined.« 4 Similarly, Kirsten Hastrup has argued that, in Old Norse literature, only those who belong to society, and thus to the law, are truly and fully human, whereas those who cross outside of the boundaries of social places become associated with the wild that lies beyond.5 While this is a very simplistic conceptualisation of the complex dynamics that exist between social and extra-social, nature and culture, the human and the non-human, especially in medieval Icelandic literature,6 it nonetheless shows that the social is a fundamental dimension __________________________ 1 Fiske 2014, p. 5. Godelier 1986, p. 1. 3 This is true of the storyworlds of fantasy and science fiction in particular, if one considers for example the political focus of George R. R. Martin’s novels, the trade negotiations in the Star Wars prequels, or the way Ursula LeGuin’s works of both genres reflect on various forms of society. 4 Neville 2001, p. 119. 5 Hastrup 1990, pp. 25–43. 6 I argue against this way of thinking about the nature/culture divide in saga literature in Merkelbach 2019. Also see Merkelbach 2020a, a study of belonging in the late 2 143 of human life, not just in history, but also in the medieval literatures of northern Europe. This is especially true of the Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendingasögur), whose complex plots revolve around conflict and its resolution, the formation of Icelandic society and its establishment in law, and the foundations of later Icelandic and European history in the conversion to Christianity and the relationships with other countries. However, not all sagas belonging to this genre have been credited with a strong focus on the social:7 indeed, the so-called ›post-classical‹, or late,8 Íslendingasögur have been denied this social dimension almost entirely. Instead, they have been argued to be structured around a binary opposition between an exaggerated superhero and the paranormal opponents he fights in episode after episode.9 This plot structure and its supposed reliance on the paranormal is __________________________ Íslendingasögur that aims to add nuance to the issue of belonging in space and in society as it has been understood so far. 7 The notion of genre, as it relates to medieval Icelandic saga literature, is of course a problematic one. Most genre categorisations and terminology, such as Íslendingasögur or fornaldarsögur, are modern scholarly inventions, and in many cases, the line between, e.g. the fornaldarsögur and the indigenous riddarasögur is a thin and transgressible one. Additionally, generic hybridity is an important albeit underresearched issue; see Rowe 1993; Bampi 2017. 8 Among these, I consider the fourteen sagas that have traditionally been dated to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries: Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, Finnboga saga ramma, Fljótsdæla saga, Flóamanna saga, Grettis saga, Gull-Þóris saga (or Þorskfirðinga saga), Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls, Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, Kjalnesinga saga, Króka-Refs saga, Svarfdæla saga, Víglundar saga and Þórðar saga hreðu. Not all of these can be discussed in detail in this survey, but I attempt to include as many of them as possible to give an overview of the issues they raise. All quotes are taken from the Íslenzk fornrit editions of these sagas, all translations are my own. The dating of these text is, however, just as problematic and arbitrary as the dating of all sagas: some are argued to be redactions of narratives that already existed in the thirteenth century, in which case late medieval writers added paranormal flourishes and ›exaggerations‹ to the apparently realist ›classical‹ narratives, while others are late medieval inventions. None of this, however, can be proven with any certainty. For a critique of the dating-based approach to these sagas, see Sävborg 2012. 9 See, e.g., Vésteinn Ólason 2005, p. 108. I follow Ármann Jakobsson 2017, p. 22 in the use of this term rather than the more conventional ›supernatural‹, »since the focus here is fixed upon human experience, and on human society, rather than nature if it is envisioned […] as all that is distinct from humanity. This term also draws attention to the idea of the norms of human existence.« I define the paranormal as that which exceeds ordinary human experience. In terms of terminology, I use English translations where available 144 then contrasted with the serious concern for social matters in earlier Íslendingasögur, for example by Vésteinn Ólason, who writes, [a] significant interest in social values and norms can be identified in several sagas […]. In the fourteenth century, the sagas changed in a number of ways, becoming more exaggerated and fantastic.10 Similar views have also been expressed by other scholars, 11 and for decades, this was the dominant attitude to the ›post-classical‹ sagas: that they are vapid, inferior, and purely escapist. The question might therefore arise as to whether the social dimension so typical for the rest of this saga genre was indeed unwanted by saga writers of the late medieval period, or whether it was instead unwanted by scholars of later centuries. I would argue that acknowledging the presence of a social dimension in these late sagas would not have fitted previous agendas of saga scholarship – agendas of nationalism, most prominently.12 In this view, the late, ›postclassical‹ Íslendingasögur came to be regarded as produced by people who were no longer independent and thus free from foreign influence. The sagas themselves, much like the indigenous riddarasögur, were considered inferior hybrids that used Icelandic storytelling conventions as a frame for their plots but which were also shaped by foreign, even colonial, sensibilities, and therefore, they were effectively written out of the canon of saga literature.13 Acknowledging that these unwanted texts could hold any interest in social concerns – the very core of the ›classical‹ literature that was elevated to a national origin myth14 – would go against this unwriting of late medieval saga literature. __________________________ (e.g. in the case of troll), but leave terms that are difficult to translate, like blámaðr, in the original. 10 Vésteinn Ólason 2005, p. 111. e.g., Jónas Kristjánsson 2007; Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1958. 12 It is therefore perhaps not surprising that most of the scholars who have held strongly negative views of these sagas are in fact Icelanders. 13 The impact of nationalism on saga scholarship was discussed in detail by Arnold 2003. See also Merkelbach 2020b. 14 Guðmundur Hálfdanarson 2010, p. 53. 11 See, 145 For that these sagas do in fact possess a social dimension can, in my opinion, not be disputed. If the Íslendingasögur do indeed revolve around farmers’ conflicts, as Jón Ólafsson’s famous phrase »bændur flugust á« suggests, this focus should also find its reflection in the late medieval members of this genre. The conflicts at the centre of the ›post-classical‹ sagas may not be the kinds of feuds found in ›classical‹ sagas. This particular form of conflict, or social mechanism, is arguably not always as prominent in the late-medieval Íslendingasögur as it is in those that have been argued to originate in the thirteenth century. 15 But feud is not the only kind of conflict the sagas explore, nor is it the only social mechanism they focus on. Instead, conflicts also originate from paranormal incursions into human society, or revolve around the individual’s role within their community. In addition to conflict, issues like kinship, marriage, inheritance, and other ways in which people structure the way in which they relate to each other, are a central concern since they are the key foundations on which society is built. Moreover, public opinion, the way it is expressed, and the impact it has on people’s status in society – their honour – is a social mechanism that is intimately tied up with conflicts of all kinds, and that therefore plays a vital role in many Íslendingasögur, ›classical‹ or otherwise. Thus, when considering the social dimension of these sagas as a whole, we have to look beyond feud and investigate all of these other facets that, taken together, comprise the socially ›realist‹ world the Íslendingasögur are renowned for. In addition to taking this broader view of social mechanisms and concerns that enables the recognition of a social dimension in all Íslendingasögur, there is another reason specific to the ›post-classical‹ sagas that would explain the necessity of this dimension: the paranormal. My previous work has shown that the monstrous in the Íslendingasögur – as an aspect of the paranormal – is of a decidedly social nature, that is, that only what is socially disruptive and in turn perceived as such to an extreme __________________________ 15 See Vésteinn Ólason 2007, p. 10. This does not mean, however, that feud is not an aspect of the ›post-classical‹ sagas at all. In fact, sagas like Gull-Þóris saga and Flóamanna saga are dominated by feuds whenever their protagonists are in Iceland. Likewise, Þórðar saga hreðu is, as Hans Kuhn 2006, p. 524 noted, »a pure feud saga«, and even Hávarðar saga follows what is essentially a feuding plot. A more detailed analysis of how these feuds operate, and whether or how they differ from feuds depicted in so-called ›classical‹ sagas is therefore needed. 146 degree can be considered monstrous.16 If, however, the ›post-classical‹ Íslendingasögur are more concerned with the paranormal (and/or the monstrous) for its own sake than ›classical‹ sagas are, 17 this focus would in turn necessitate the presence of a social dimension that is impacted by the paranormal. Only in the context of those affected by it can the paranormal be distinguished from the ordinary, and the monstrous from the human, only in the context of society can incursions by the paranormal be seen for what they are. The aim of this article is therefore to explore some of the facets of the social dimension underlying these supposedly inferior late medieval sagas. To do so, social mechanisms such as outlawry, the operation of community discourse and its effect on personal honour, as well as fosterage will be explored. I intend to present these aspects purely as they are depicted in the ›post-classical‹ sagas, rather than to compare them to the way similar issues may appear in more frequently studied texts. Comparison with ›classical‹ Íslendingasögur and fornaldarsögur has so far been the main approach to the ›post-classical‹ sagas, and it has yielded limited results. Moreover, little is known about these sagas in general, beyond the stereotypes and preconceptions formulated by previous generations of scholars. The aim is therefore to let these neglected texts speak for themselves in the hope to achieve a better understanding of the way in which they operate. __________________________ 16 See Merkelbach 2019. Also cf. Mittman 2012, p. 6. is debatable, since several of these sagas do not contain any paranormal elements at all. However, Vésteinn Ólason 2007, p. 15 argued that the paranormal elements have a different function in the ›classical‹ sagas, where they »do not play a crucial role in the action of the saga«. Thus, the paranormal is considered to be more integral to the plots of the ›post-classical‹ sagas. Whether this is actually the case remains to be seen. 17 This 147 Outlawry The aspect of medieval Icelandic social life that may first come to mind as depicted in or explored by the ›post-classical‹ sagas is outlawry,18 as two of the three sagas of major outlaws are also conventionally dated to the late medieval period: both Harðar saga and Grettis saga follow the lives of men whose fate leads them into outlawry, and both sagas have been considered late in their extant versions.19 They both follow their protagonist’s marginalisation process that originates within complex, often fragmented, family structures and which culminates in a crime so severe it warrants exclusion from society. For this is what outlawry is: the ultimate punishment, the threat of utter separation, of non-belonging,20 but all while being caught within Iceland with nowhere to go.21 As Ahola notes: Outlawry was defined in the law as a separation from all human contacts, which was connected to the fact that outlawry was a legal consequence of a person breaking social norms. This means that the social circumstances surrounding outlawry also provide information about the social system as a sphere of action.22 Obviously, there can be no outlaw without a law, and thus a society, 23 from which he is outlawed, and therefore, outlaw sagas tell us as much about the __________________________ 18 Recent work on this topic has been extensive. See especially Ahola 2014, the work done by Marion Poilvez, Alexander Wilson, and Keith Ruiter, as well as Merkelbach 2017a and 2019, among others. 19 How late is of course debatable; Grettis saga has been dated variously to anything between the early fourteenth to late fifteenth century. With both sagas, it has also been assumed that the extant texts are based on earlier, thirteenth-century versions that were then added to (›corrupted‹?) by later redactors. Sävborg 2012, however, draws attention to the fact that we simply cannot know when ›late‹ elements (like haugbrot-episodes) entered these narratives, and that therefore the circular approach that assumes that sagas with these elements are late, and that late sagas have these elements, is flawed. That outlaws still had »a place within Icelandic society, and not just outside it« (Amory 1992, p. 193, emphasis original) is evident from the sagas, but not part of the ideal social mechanism of control as envisaged in legal texts. 21 Turville-Petre 1977, p. 770. 22 Ahola 2014, p. 192. 23 Which, according to Hastrup 1990, p. 34, are »coterminous«. 20 148 society on whose fringes saga outlaws move as they tell us about the outlaw himself. One could therefore suggest that society is ultimately the main focus of these sagas that deal with men who commit a crime against it, who are therefore excluded from it, and who, for the rest of their lives, are trying to negotiate their relationship with it. As Frederic Amory notes, the outlaw is »stripped of social dimensions«,24 but this throws into even sharper relief all those social dimensions he no longer has access to. This can be observed in Grettis saga and Harðar saga, in which social gatherings at assemblies and churches happen without the outlaw because he is banned from these places, and where elaborate truce formulae have to be spoken for him to be able to attend games. Social life goes on in his absence, and that is often to his detriment. Grettir cannot live outside of human society for long and leaves the idyllic and safe Þórisdalr because he finds it dauflegt without the company of human beings.25 Hörðr instead tries to establish a community of his own to mitigate the worst effects of outlaw isolation, but since the Hólmverjar are ultimately an inversion of ordinary society, a »Krebsgeschwür der Gesellschaft, das beseitigt werden muss«, he fails. 26 Nonetheless, this absence of society, or in Hörðr’s case of a functioning, self-sustaining community in which the outlaw is embedded, therefore foregrounds how much we take its presence for granted, and what happens to us – to the outlaws – when we are cast out, robbed of the social dimension so fundamental to human life. Moreover, as Joonas Ahola has observed, [t]here would not have been much to recount about outlaws who disappeared completely from the people’s consciousness. Examples diverging from the principle of total separation in particular reflect the social structures and impact that outlawry had upon an individual in relation to his society.27 Outlaw narratives are thus ultimately about the tension that arises between the individual and society – tensions that can only be explored if a social __________________________ 24 Amory 1992, p. 194. Grettis saga, p. 201; »boring«. 26 Schottmann 2000, p. 231; »tumour on society that has to be removed«. 27 Ahola 2014, p. 192. 25 149 dimension is present in the text. This social dimension is explored in various ways by the relationships Grettir and Hörðr have with individual members of society, as well as with groups who come to represent wider society as a whole. In both sagas, family – the foundation of all other social bonds – assumes a prime importance, not just as a force that drives the outlaw away from society,28 but also as a bond that keeps him close: Grettir’s mother and brothers as well as Hörðr’s sister are constantly working to ensure that the outlaws are still connected, and after their deaths, they see to it that vengeance is carried out in order to posthumously reintegrate them into society.29 On the other hand, both outlaws encounter groups of farmers who are negatively impacted by their presence, and who plot to kill them (with varying degrees of success). 30 These groups of farmers not only provide a sense of a wider society to which the outlaws, in their very existence, are opposed, they also physically embody this society and its lower strata, allowing us a glimpse into the realities of being part of this social class, and into what it means to be preyed on by a violent criminal that lives on your doorstep. These farmers show us a perspective that goes against that of the sagas’ respective narrator who wants to depict ›his‹ outlaw as a hero, for in their eyes, the outlaw is a vargr, dólgr, and vágestr – a monster.31 Thus, outlawry is as much a social mechanism as it is a narrative device that allows us to assume a different point of view – one not usually the focus of sagas that mostly deal with rich farmers and aristocrats. While Grettis saga and Harðar saga are thus the two narratives that most prominently deal with outlawry as both a social mechanism and a theme, this does not mean that they are the only ›post-classical‹ sagas to explore it. A number of other texts, among them Kjalnesinga saga, KrókaRefs saga and, one could argue, Þórðar saga hreðu, also focus on various aspects of outlawry and the way it impacts both the outlaw himself as well as those around him. The first of these three is the closest to an outlaw __________________________ 28 See Merkelbach 2016. Schottmann 2000, p. 252. 30 The farmers of Hvalfjörðr eventually manage to destroy the outlaw colony on Geirshólmr and kill all its members, while the farmers of Vatnsfjörðr can capture Grettir but he is saved by the appearance of Þorbjörg digra. In Skagafjörðr, the group of farmers eventually sell their responsibility to Þorbjörn öngull, but their presence and expectation that Þorbjörn remove the outlaw is felt throughout the episode. 29 Cf. 31 Merkelbach 2017a, p. 113. These appellations are all taken from Grettis saga. 150 saga as it takes several of the motifs found in the sagas of this group and works with or subverts them: Búi Andríðsson, the protagonist, is called einrænn as a youth,32 a word that means »singular« but carries connotations of peculiarity or antisociality.33 He refuses to participate in social customs by not wanting to sacrifice and spurning normal weapons, and this weirdly antisocial, singular nature resembles Grettir and Hörðr who, in their youth, are also often »singular« in their behaviour towards others. Búi’s disdain for religious customs eventually leads to his outlawry when the local goði Þorgrímr and his son summon and convict him for having rangan átrúnað.34 It is only after the sentence that Búi burns down Þorgrímr’s temple and kills his son Þorsteinn, thus committing a crime that might more usually warrant outlawry. Afterwards, Búi does not change his usual behaviour, attending games as before, and abducting the best match of the area, Ólof, to his cave. Eventually, however, his foster-mother Esja arranges for him to leave the country. But this is not the end of the religious theme, since King Haraldr hárfagri has heard of Búi’s burning of the temple and calls it a níðingsverk.35 Búi has to fetch a chess board from the giant Dofri and wrestle a blámaðr before the king forgives him and lets him go. Religion is thus an important theme, or feature of a social dimension, explored through Búi’s outlawry, but it does not play a role afterwards, and the saga does not seem to have a clear Christian agenda. 36 Búi does not reject paganism for another religion, but because kveðst þat þykja lítilmannliga at hokra þar at.37 Instead of pursuing this theme, the saga raises another important social concern: that of women and sexuality. During his life, Búi is not particularly affected by relationships with his blood family, unlike the other major outlaws of the Íslendingasögur.38 __________________________ 32 Kjalnesinga saga, 33 p. 9. See Dictionary of Old Norse Prose Online [https://onp.ku.dk/onp/onp.php?o17126; 27/08/2019]. 34 Kjalnesinga saga, p. 10; »the wrong faith«. 35 Kjalnesinga saga, pp. 27–8; »extremely shameful deed«. 36 Like, for example, Flóamanna saga does; here, Þórr appears like a revenant whom the protagonist Þorgils has to wrestle at night, and Þorgils himself is associated with hagiographic tropes. 37 Kjalnesinga saga, p. 9; »he said he considered it unmanly to crouch on the ground«. 38 For example, when his father dies, Búi is completely unaffected: Ekki brá Búi sér við þat, kvað falls ván at fornu tré (Kjalnesinga saga, p. 16; »Búi did not respond much to this; he said that an old tree was expected to fall«). 151 Instead, his relationships with women (Esja his foster-mother, as well as his sexual partners Ólof and Friðr, but interestingly not his wife Helga) are explored in detail. Kjalnesinga saga thus uses some of the concerns that are prominent in the outlaw sagas – in this case the focus on the importance of family ties and tensions – and subverts them for its own purposes. 39 I will return to this below. Unlike Búi, who starts his career as an outlaw, Króka-Refr is only formally outlawed at the end of his saga when King Haraldr Sigurðarson declares him exiled from all of Norway. But even before that, Refr has to leave first his district, then Iceland, and finally Greenland. In all four cases, Refr’s exile and eventual outlawry is a direct consequence of his actions and closely tied up with ideas of personal honour,40 an important social mechanism that I will discuss below. Króka-Refs saga explores the merging of these issues, exile or outlawry and honour, the way in which they can intersect and the effect both have on a man’s life. Interestingly, Refr’s exile leads him from one country central to the Íslendingasögur genre to the next, until he finally moves outside of this centre and arrives in Denmark – the only place where he can find a home. This search for belonging, the failure to find it in the places that were once the heartland of the sagas’ storyworld, and the eventual arrival in a home outside it, may shed light on the growing importance of Denmark around the time of the saga’s composition: the oldest manuscript in which the saga was transmitted was Vatnshyrna, copied in the 1390s and thus shortly before the formation of the Kalmar Union under Danish leadership. Króka-Refs saga’s story of exile and outlawry may thus allow an insight into contemporary social concerns current at the time of its composition. Þórðr, too, is not an outlaw in the legal sense but much like Refr he behaves like one when he flees into the mountains after killing a man who threatened to rape his sister. The following stories of flight, pursuit, fight, and escape strongly resemble similar episodes in the outlaw sagas, and I would therefore argue that Þórðar saga hreðu is also told in what I term the ›outlaw mode‹.41 In this saga, the focus rests entirely on Þórðr and his __________________________ Another saga in which outlawry intersects with issues surrounding marriage and sexuality is Víglundar saga: Víglundr is outlawed for killing his beloved Ketilríðr’s brother, but the saga is also very much a meditation on changing marriage customs and gender roles as the importance for consent in marriage grew. On this, see below. 40 And thus also with masculinity; see Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, pp. 42–4. 41 See also Korecká 2021 (this volume). 39 152 conflict with Miðfjarðar-Skeggi, and on Skeggi’s son Eiðr who is caught between his biological and foster family. Ahola notes that the saga »ignor[es] the societal reality« because none of its conflicts are settled in a formal court;42 instead, Eiðr, who – according to the fragmentary version of the saga – is manna vitrastr til lögmáls,43 settles the conflict after the climactic fight between Þórðr and Skeggi. This lack of a focus on social institutions like courts of law is, for Ahola, a sign that the saga »approaches the Taleworld [sic]« of the fornaldarsögur.44 However, while it is true that the saga does not focus on court scenes and does not include the voice of public opinion that frequently influences conflicts in other sagas, as will be shown below, one could argue that Þórðar saga simply uses a different strategy of creating a sense of society behind the two men involved in the conflict: a seemingly endless number of otherwise unknown farmers help Þórðr escape his opponent, while others hire him to build houses for them. Thus, society is condensed, given shape in individual minor characters who provide us with a sense of a wider world, and who give Þórðr a context for his feats of heroism and hall-building. Finally, another uniquely interesting case of outlawry is mentioned in Finnboga saga ramma, in which a bear is outlawed for his attack on Norwegian society. The bear goes around during the winter, killing fé manna,45 which immediately highlights that it is the social, economic, disruption caused by the bear that is the problem here. Indeed, the bear acts like an outlaw in his depredations, and Bárðr, the local leader, stefnir þing ok gerir björn sekan ok leggr fé til höfuðs honum.46 This is an interesting case in which a human, societal mechanism is applied to a non-human, extra-societal being, and this is done in a way that resembles the agenda pursued by Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir when she declares Helgi Harðbeinsson a berserkr.47 For her, Helgi becomes more than the murderer of her husband: he turns into a monstrous berserkr whose survival would have consequences __________________________ 42 Ahola 2014, p. 126. 43 Brot af Þórðar sögu hreðu, p. 241; »the wisest of men in matters of law«. 44 Ahola 2014, p. 126. 45 Finnboga saga, p. 273; »people’s cattle«. 46 Finnboga saga, p. 273; »holds an assembly and has the bear outlawed and puts money on its head«. 47 ›[Þ]eir sveinarnir ætla at stefna at Helga Harðbeinssyni, berserkinum‹ (Laxdæla saga, p. 180; »›The boys intend to attack Helgi Harðbeinsson, the berserkr‹«). 153 for wider society – even though Helgi has never displayed features of berserkism. Thus, it is Guðrún’s personal perception that declares him a monster in order to manipulate public discourse for her own agenda. Similarly, declaring the bear an outlaw adds urgency to the situation by adding a social dimension not usually present when an animal attacks. Finnbogi utilises a comparable mechanism when he calls the bear ragr,48 thus attacking the masculine honour of an animal that – despite Lena Rohrbach’s claims to the contrary49 – is clearly anthropomorphised. For the bear reacts to this social shaming, gets angry and attacks Finnbogi as soon as níð, the shaming of his masculine honour,50 has been threatened. In this case, therefore, outlawry serves the purpose of heightening the sense of threat embodied by the bear beyond that of other similar bear fights we encounter in Grettis saga or Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls, and by combining it with the added social mechanism of shaming, of insulting the bear’s honour, Finnbogi further raises the stakes. Even in these extraordinary circumstances, then, societal mechanisms of ›Othering‹ are still an essential feature in the world of the saga, and for that to be the case, a social dimension has to be present, however differently it is conceptualised. Public Opinion For an outlaw, a societal mechanism that impacts his status relative to society greatly is public opinion and its expression in what Miller has termed »community discourse«.51 I have argued that, when it comes to deciding if an outlaw (or indeed any paranormally connoted, socially disruptive person) is monstrous, public opinion is key: it is this aspect that decides whether the outlaw’s actions are disruptive on a human scale, or whether the disruption goes beyond that and leads him into the monstrous. Thus, it is public opinion, the voice of the people, that declares Grettir a __________________________ 48 49 Finnboga saga, p. 274; »effeminate/cowardly/›gay‹ in the pejorative sense«. Rohrbach 2009, p. 134. 50 On 51 recent approaches to níð, see Thoma 2021a (this volume). Miller 1986, p. 115. 154 vargr or dólgr, as described above.52 Similarly, however, public opinion also impacts those within society. According to Meulengracht Sørensen, it has a social function in saga society as a tool to assess a person’s actions and assign them social status on the basis of those actions. 53 Saga society is built on the notion that everything has to be public: laws are recited and sentences declared publicly, and acts like the performance of magic and stealing are shameful because they are conducted in secret. This results from the lack of an (executive) institution with the power to regulate behaviour.54 Therefore, regulation is placed into the hands of the collective, and public opinion, the voice of the collective, becomes the »arbiter [which can] ratify or condemn a decision and action taken by an individual.«55 Thus, the reason why secrecy is shameful, and therefore taboo, is because it is societally destabilising: actions not performed in public can also not be judged by the public, and this makes it impossible to regulate such behaviour. Public opinion is therefore an important institution in the society depicted by the Íslendingasögur – a society based on honour and reputation.56 As noted above in the case of Þórðar saga hreðu, the voice of the public is not always present in the ›post-classical‹ sagas. The same applies for example to Víglundar saga or Svarfdæla saga: in both cases, the þóttiphrases, usually employed to convey public opinion,57 appear mostly in the context of the perception of individuals (honum þótti) rather than as the voice of the people (þeim þótti). That this is the case both in sagas that are said to be redactions of ›classical‹ texts, like Svarfdæla saga, as well as in »original« late Íslendingasögur shows that this is not a trend exclusive to late medieval narratives. Moreover, sagas as disparate as Grettis saga, Hávarðar saga, and Fljótsdæla saga make frequent use of public opinion to evaluate individuals and situations. Thus, in Grettis saga, it is not just Grettir whose actions are perceived by the public, but also Þorbjörn öngull, Grettir’s __________________________ 52 Also see Merkelbach 2017b for a detailed discussion of public opinion and monstrosity in the Íslendingasögur. 53 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 208. 54 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, pp. 207–8. 55 Foote 1984, p. 51. 56 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 208. 57 See Merkelbach 2017b, p. 253. 155 opponent.58 In Hávarðar saga, especially Þorbjörn’s ójöfnuðr, ódrengskapr, and illmennska59 are assessed at the beginning of the saga, as well as the harm caused by Óláfr’s death and the improbability of Hávarðr getting compensation for it,60 and similar assessments and comments on the spreading of news run through this saga like a thread. Fljótsdæla saga picks up on such currents and, in addition to offering frequent public evaluations of people as well as their emotional bonds, 61 it gives an explicit comment on the way in which rumours spread: after people promise not to talk about the contents of a certain conversation, bar hinn veg raun á, at enn vóru eigi allir svó þagmælskir, at þegði yfir með, ok kemr opt at því, sem mælt er, at ferr orð, er um munn líðr.62 Rumours often lead to action, as in this case, where the shameful words of Þorgrímr tordýfill have to be avenged. Public opinion, the voice of the gossiping people, therefore has an immediate effect on events. It is also interesting to explore who, i.e. which group, has public opinion. In Harðar saga, for example, the Hólmverjar seem to be a big enough community to have a ›community discourse‹, which finds its expression in the saga for example in the statement, [ó]tti var mönnum í Hólmi at þessu.63 This conveys the perception of the Hólmverjar community, as opposed to the perception of the landsmenn, the farmers troubled by the outlaws’ presence. Similarly, in Bárðar saga, the giant and troll community in Norway has as much of a public opinion as Icelandic society does later in the saga.64 Thus, public opinion can be expressed by human and non-human, societal and extra-societal communities. __________________________ 58 E.g. Grettis saga, p. 243; p. 249. 59 Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, p. 300; p. 309; »injustice«; »meanness«; »cruelty«. 60 Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, pp. 307–8. 61 E.g.: Fundu menn þat, at hvórri þeirra systra var yndi at annarri (Fljótsdæla saga, p. 237; »People found that each of the sisters loved the other one«). p. 242; »it turned out that not everyone was so discreet as to keep quiet about this, and it often happens, as it is said, that the word travels that passes the mouth«. 62 Fljótsdæla saga, 63 Harðar saga, 64 p. 66; »the people of Hólmr were afraid at this«. See Bárðar saga, p. 102; p. 105 vs. p. 113. 156 Honour The direct effect of public opinion is so significant because the way one is perceived by others intersects closely with each person’s status in society, and thus with their honour; it is ultimately through the combination of honourable behaviour and the (positive) public perception of this behaviour that high social status is generated.65 Honour, according to Meulengracht Sørensen, is a social norm that, »sammen med sin modpol, skammen, definerer […] samfundets sociale ideal«.66 It is not a system of rules, men en ideal fordring, som samfundet eller gruppen stiller individet over for, og som samtidig er nedlagt i individet selv som en stræben. Æren er den værdi, en person har både i sine egne øjene og i samfundets.67 (but an ideal claim that society or the group confronts the individual with, and which at the same time is laid down in the individual themselves as a pursuit. Honour is the value that a person has both in their own eyes and in those of society.) Honour is therefore the social mechanism that regulates the relationship between individual and society, as well as between individuals, and as such, it is perhaps uniquely important for the ›post-classical‹ sagas that have been argued to only revolve around idealised individuals with no interest in their relationships to either other individuals or to society as a whole. 68 That honour retains its central function in the storyworld of these late sagas has already been seen in the case of Finnbogi goading the bear into a fight by shaming him, and its pivotal role in Króka-Refr’s exile and outlawry has been noted. I want to discuss this case in more detail and also examine another saga in which honour and níð are fundamental to the development of characters and plot, Svarfdæla saga. __________________________ This is obviously in addition to various other factors, such as wealth. However, with Bourdieu, one can read honour as a form of social capital (since it is the foundation of social bonds in medieval Icelandic society) that is then compounded by especially economic capital. See Tulinius 2002, p. 5; Bourdieu 1997, p. 51. 66 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 187; »together with its opposite, shame, defines society’s social ideals«. 67 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 187. 68 Cf. Vésteinn Ólason 2005, p. 108. 65 157 An important concept related to the idea of honour, and one that is particularly noteworthy in the context of Króka-Refs saga, is that of personal integrity. It is again Meulengracht Sørensen’s work that highlights the significance of personal integrity in relation to both societal equality (everyone in Icelandic society was equal because their personal integrity was inviolable),69 as well as to honour: »Den personlige ukrænkelighed, som loven forsøgte at sætte regler for, er det fundamentale grundlag for ære. Krænkes et menneskes helgi, krænkes også personens ære«.70 Such violation can occur in the form of various physical as well as verbal attacks that opened the attacker up to vengeance, making them óheilagr – the state an outlaw also finds himself in. Personal integrity is thus one of the glues that bind a person to society; it is where the social mechanisms of honour and outlawry merge, and this intersection is what Króka-Refs saga explores. From the very beginning, Refr needs an honour-based incentive to act. After the family’s shepherd Barði has been killed by Þorbjörn, Refr’s mother Þorgerðr calls him frændaskömm and lydda and says it would be better if she had had a daughter whom she could have married off to a man capable of supporting her against her enemy.71 Only after these insults,72 after his integrity has been violated by this verbal attack, Refr gets up, grabs a spear and proceeds to kill Þorbjörn in vengeance. Þorgerðr then sends Refr to her brother Gestr Oddleifsson, where Refr first shows his talent as a craftsman and shipwright. However, he also encounters Gellir, a noisy fellow who wants to wrestle with Refr. When Refr refuses, Gellir attacks but cannot overcome Refr, who uses his superior strength to throw Gellir, injuring him severely. Gellir hits Refr with a spear before running away, but instead of leaving the matter, he proceeds to spread rumours that he had dealt Refr two great blows, ok segir Ref eigi munu hefna.73 He thus violates Refr both physically as well as verbally, insinuating that Refr is too __________________________ 69 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, pp. 180–1. Sørensen 1993, p. 191; »Personal inviolability, which law tried to provide rules for, is the fundamental basis of honour. If a person’s helgi is violated, their honour is also violated«. 70 Meulengracht 71 Króka-Refs saga, pp. 123–4; »disgrace of his family«; »lazy coward«. 72 A case of women’s incitement, or hvǫt. On this, see Hahn 2016, and Thoma 2021a (this volume). 73 Króka-Refs saga, p. 130; »and said that Refr would not avenge himself«. 158 much of a coward to avenge the insult. Refr’s honour is thus affected on three levels: physically by being hit with the spear, verbally by the suggestion of cowardice, and publicly because of the spread of rumours that would affect public opinion of Refr. Although he at first pretends not to know about this gossip, Refr eventually kills Gellir and thus restores his honour, but has to leave for Greenland as a consequence. In Greenland, Refr gets married to a woman named Helga, has three sons, and lives honourably for eight years until the quarrelsome farmer Þorgils and his sons start spreading malicious rumours. In addition to calling him Refr inn ragi, Þorgils also claims that, in Iceland, Refr var […] ekki í æði sem aðrir karlar, heldr var hann kona ina níunda hverju nótt ok þurfti þá karlmanns.74 His sons then go around spreading this illmæli (»slander«). Refr again pretends not to know about the malicious gossip, but secretly prepares for his departure. He then kills Þorgils and all of his sons before removing himself into the unsettled parts of Greenland. What Þorgils and his sons claim to know about Refr is a severe form of níð, sexual slander, and it seems to have an effect on Refr’s standing in society: Þormóðr, Helga’s foster-father, says that he thought he gave Helga to an honourable man, but these rumours suggest otherwise. Ultimately, it is this goading, the fact that other people do not ignore the slander in the same way Refr himself does, that prompts his decisive and brutal vengeance. After a lengthy feud and some astonishing feats of engineering, Refr escapes to Norway, only to run into the next person who violates his honour and integrity. This time, however, the violation is not directed against Refr himself. Instead, it is his wife Helga who is subject to an attempted rape by Grani, one of the Norwegian king’s retainers. Grani is described as kvensamr,75 and he comes to the place in which Refr and his people are staying specifically to buy a woman for sexual services. However, that this is not exclusively about Helga is revealed by his comment that it is ósæmiligt, at gamall maðr ætti unga konu:76 Refr is very much the intended target of this attack that is meant to shame his aging, failing, masculinity. This is especially clear since sexual violence is as much an issue of control as it is one of sexual gratification, and in medieval __________________________ 74 Króka-Refs saga, p. 134; »the effeminate/cowardly/›queer‹«; »he was not in his nature like other men, rather he was a woman every ninth night and needed a man then«. 75 Króka-Refs saga, 76 p. 151; »prone to sexually harassing women«. Króka-Refs saga, p. 152; »unseemly that an old man was married to a young woman«. 159 Iceland, this control extends to the men to whose household the raped woman belongs. For personal integrity, and thus honour, includes all those things and people a man ›owns‹, and thus his female relatives. 77 Rape, then, is ultimately a way of symbolically violating a man’s honour by physically violating his wife’s, daughter’s, or sister’s bodies. 78 Again, this violation spurs Refr into action – despite his wife’s insistence to let Grani go ›því at hann hefir öngri eigu þinni spillt‹79 – and he follows and kills Grani. This killing then leads to Refr being outlawed from Norway, as discussed above. Martin Arnold, who regards Króka-Refs saga as »paradigmatic« for the entire group of ›post-classical‹ sagas,80 has argued that the saga’s use of honour is part of its conscious strategy of parodying or even satirising the Íslendingasögur genre. According to him, the saga is not interested in conveying a sense of community, and Refr’s honour is only important to himself.81 The way the various scenes are constructed, then, only serves to establish Refr as a kind of superhero with no regard for others, 82 and the narrative’s entire purpose is to ridicule the tradition on which Refr’s portrayal draws »as [an exaggerated response] to the mores of the narrative traditions of independent Iceland«. 83 However, reading Króka-Refs saga, or indeed any or all of the other ›post-classical‹ Íslendingasögur, merely as parody or satire is highly problematic and does not do them justice. Instead, they are complex narratives that consciously subvert narrative expectations, and, rather than existing in a »social void«, as Patricia Wolfe calls it,84 they engage with various social concerns that are often of contemporary relevance, as we will see below. Moreover, by exploring the many different ways in which a man’s personal integrity and honour can be __________________________ 77 See 78 Meulengracht Sørensen 1993, p. 181. Similarly, as Ruth Karras 1992, p. 300–1 (fn. 13) has noted, Yngvildr in Svarfdæla saga is »emblematic of the way men in the sagas use sex to exercise power over each other«. p. 152; »›because he has not spoiled any of your possessions‹«. 2003, p. 232. 81 Arnold 2003, pp. 189–90. 82 Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, p. 42, also argues that the exploration of honour is »aimed at building up an image of Refr as a hero«, but he does not assume that this is done in a parodistic or satirical way. 83 Arnold 2003, p. 217. 84 Wolfe 1973, p. 7. 79 Króka-Refs saga, 80 Arnold 160 attacked, and the consequences of exile and outlawry to which these attacks and the retaliation against them can lead, Króka-Refs saga ultimately becomes a reflection on the price of honour. But unlike some ›classical‹ sagas that focus on the tragic aspects of honour culture and its effects on the individual in society, this saga, in its subversiveness, depicts the price every man pays for maintaining his integrity as a chance for development, and for finally finding belonging. What is important to note for the purposes of the present argument, however, is that this focus on honour would not work in a saga that has no consideration for society, or which exists in Wolfe’s »social void«. If Refr’s status within the community (his family and household as well as wider society) were not severely impacted by slanderous gossip, there would be no need for him to react to it, and the saga would have no plot. A similar argument can be made about Svarfdæla saga as in this saga, too, níð and honour are important motivations for the protagonists. In the saga’s first part, before the big lacuna that splits it in half,85 Þorsteinn uses níð in his fights against vikings and berserkir to egg them on. This establishes a theme of violations of honour in the narrative that, as Sebastian Thoma argues, is mirrored on both sides of the lacuna: 86 for, as he notes, these first two instances of níð being used by Þorsteinn later find their inversion in the scene in which Klaufi’s disruptiveness first becomes apparent.87 At the age of eleven, Klaufi is challenged to a wrestling match by a man called Þórðr fangari með ragmæli.88 After consulting with his uncle Þorsteinn svörfuðr, Klaufi agrees to a match, specifically because he does not want to put up with Þórðr’s slander. They wrestle for a while without a clear winner, and it at this point that things escalate: a servant __________________________ 85 This lacuna also makes genealogies difficult to trace. Later variants supply the missing information in various ways: in AM 161 fol., Þorsteinn is Klaufi’s uncle, in Rask 37 he is his maternal grandfather. However, it may well be that Þorsteinn Þorgnýsson is in fact the father or grandfather of Þorsteinn svörfuðr rather than that they are the same person as Rask 37 suggests; see Jónas Kristjánsson 1956, p. lxxv. 86 Thoma 2021b, pp. 274–82. 87 Importantly, Klaufi is Ljótr inn bleiki’s grandson: Snækollr Ljótsson abducts Þórarna, Klaufi’s mother, potentially to avenge his father’s death; see Jónas Kristjánsson 1956, p. lxxvi; Merkelbach 2019, p. 108. As Sebastian Thoma pointed out to me (personal communication), these viking berserkir form a family of níðingar around which the saga is structured. 88 Svarfdæla saga, p. 157; »with insinuations of cowardice/›queerness‹«. 161 woman comes in and kallar þetta ambáttafang, er hvárrgi fell, ok bað þá kyssast ok hætta síðan.89 Following this further insult, Klaufi reiddist (»became angry«) to such an extent that he smashes Þórðr into the ground and starts hitting him. Eventually he lets off and wants to leave, but on his way out Klaufi turns around, considers that he has left his work unfinished, and kills Þórðr with an axe. This scene is significant for several reasons. Not only does it mark the occasion on which Klaufi receives his nickname böggvir (»damage-dealer«), which proves accurate, but it is also the first time he kills a man. These killings start to happen frequently from the following chapter onwards, and Klaufi becomes more and more intimidating: Klaufi var nú miklu verri viðreignar en áðr ok helt þá Grísi hræddum.90 Honour here is therefore not just something that allows us to see a society whose evaluation matters, it also provides a catalyst for Klaufi’s behaviour that later culminates in fullon berserksgangr and revenancy. Moreover, this focus on níð and honour shows the saga engaging with a narrative device also found in other sagas: that the prologue, regardless of its apparent fictionality and fornaldarsagastyle plot, foreshadows important motifs and themes that recur in the main part of the story.91 This again reveals the complexity of both the social mechanisms depicted in the ›post-classical‹ sagas, as well as of the way in which they are used for narrative purposes and character development. Fosterage I finally want to turn to a social mechanism, or institution, that moves outside the field of exile, honour, and public perception, because in this case, the way in which the ›post-classical‹ sagas make use of their interest in the paranormal to address the social is particularly evident. Fosterage is one form of fictive kinship explored in the sagas; another one, sworn brotherhood, will not be discussed here but was conceptually related: after __________________________ 89 Svarfdæla saga, p. 157; »said it was a girls’ fight as neither fell, and told them to kiss and make up«. p. 159; »Klaufi was much more difficult to deal with than before and kept Gríss and his household afraid«. 90 Svarfdæla saga, 91 A similar argument has been made about Grettis saga, see, e.g., Hume 1974, pp. 478–9. 162 all, both are denoted in medieval Icelandic by fóst- compounds such as fóstri (»foster-father«, »foster-son«) or fóstbróðir (»foster-brother«, »sworn brother«) and fóstbrœðralag (»foster-brotherhood«, »sworn brotherhood«). Sworn brotherhood, just like the fostering of children, created lasting kinship bonds whose emergence, mutual influence on those involved, and fragmentation is explored in many sagas both ›classical‹ and ›postclassical‹.92 However, it is especially in the context of the fostering of children that the paranormal emerges as a significant factor, which is why the focus of the present discussion will remain with this kind of fictive bond. Fosterage seems to have been so common that, as William Ian Miller notes, »some saga writers thought it noteworthy to record that a boy or girl ›was raised at home‹«.93 It was used to create or strengthen kinship bonds between families, or even between members of the same family, and these bonds in turn led to »expectations of political and military support«. 94 Different kinds of fosterage existed which, according to Anna Hansen, »makes it difficult to define precisely«, adding a level of ambiguity to the bonds described. Some foster-arrangements contributed positively to the social status of both parties involved,95 while others reaffirmed differences in social status when the child was from a poor family.96 A third type involved the child staying with their biological family but being fostered by a servant, as is the case in Egils saga. Hansen concludes that, in the sagas, »fosterage was considered to be any type of parenting relationship that did not involve a biological parent.« 97 Fosterage therefore emerges as an important social institution as it complements and in some cases replaces biological kin – and the exploration of kinship bonds is naturally at the heart of a genre that truly deserves its English appellation »family sagas«. However, fosterage creates not only bonds of obligation but also affective ties: in some cases, foster-parents treat their fictive children better __________________________ 92 See Larrington 2015, esp. pp. 210–6. 1990, p. 122. 93 Miller 94 Larrington 2015, p. 42. 95 Hansen 2008, p. 75, cites the case of Ingimundr being fostered by Ingjaldr in Vatnsdæla saga. 96 See Miller 1990, p. 123. 97 Hansen 2008, p. 76. Legal regulations define fosterage differently, but for the present discussion, the saga perspective is key. 163 than the biological parents can or want to, as has been shown by Ármann Jakobsson.98 One of the examples he cites is Harðar saga.99 Here, Hörðr is rejected by his biological parents Signý and Grímkell – who, it seems, love neither each other nor their children – and taken to be fostered by Grímr, who in turn was fostered by Signý. Later, Hörðr’s sister Þorbjörg joins Hörðr and Grímr’s son Geirr and the three grow up together. Ármann notes that Grímkell og Signý reynast ófær um að sýna afkvæmum sínum ástúð. Grímur litli reynist aftur á móti góður og ástríkur fóstri. Signý hefur sjálf átt góða fóstru og verður hugsjúk við lát hennar og hún reynist eigin fóstra betur en Herði syni sínum.100 (Grímkell and Signý prove unable to show their offspring love. Grímur litli on the other hand proves to be a good and loving foster-father. Signý herself has had a good foster-mother and becomes depressed at her death, and she proves to be better for her own foster-son than for her biological son Hörðr.) The saga thus explores the importance of the affective bonds between foster-parents and the children they raise, as well as the bonds of fictive siblinghood formed by fosterage. At first, these bonds seem to be beneficial – more beneficial, in fact, than ties of blood. Towards the end, however, when the relationship between Hörðr and Geirr starts to fracture, even these bonds are called into question. However, as I have noted elsewhere, the presence of an outlaw heightens »the loyalties, duties and conflicts inside their families«,101 and for this reason, Harðar saga may not be the best example for the exploration of the complex bonds established by fosterage. But Harðar saga is by no means the only saga among the ›post-classical‹ sagas in which this social mechanism plays a key role, as it also appears prominently elsewhere, and for instance in Fljótsdæla saga, fosterrelationships play a key role throughout the narrative. However, among the ›post-classical‹ sagas, the clearest, and most complex, example of the __________________________ 98 Ármann Jakobsson 2005. On family bonds in this saga, also see Merkelbach 2016; Merkelbach 2017a. 100 Ármann Jakobsson 2005, pp. 75–6. 101 Merkelbach 2017a, p. 130. 99 164 negotiation of foster-bonds is Þórðar saga hreðu. This saga not only explores the conflicting loyalties towards blood and fictive kin that a young man has to navigate, it also addresses the question of what a good fosterfather has to be like. Eiðr is at first fostered by Þorkell, a rich but not very honourable farmer and friend of Skeggi’s. However, when travelling to Skeggi’s for Yule, Þorkell ignores Þórðr’s warning about the thawing river and endangers Eiðr’s life. Þórðr saves Þorkell, his wife, and Eiðr, and this makes a lasting impression on the boy who afterwards stays with Þórðr. In the very next chapter, and without a formal agreement having been entered upon, the two already call each other fóstri – an affective bond has been established, as the text notes: Eiðr var Þórði jafnan fylgjusamr, enda var Þórðr alltillátssamr við hann.102 This bond lasts throughout the saga. When they next see each other, Skeggi asks Eiðr, ›[h]ví þótti þér þat fóstr betra at vera með Þórði en þat fóstr, er ek fekk þér með Þorkeli?‹ 103 To this, Eiðr replies that Þórðr is a good man while Þorkell is stupid and of mean character; also, while Þorkell endangered his life, Þórðr saved it. Thus, Eiðr recognises that there is more honour in being fostered by Þórðr, a brave and noble man, than by someone whose social status is low because of his flawed character. A good foster-arrangement, for Eiðr, therefore adds to the honour of all involved – and it can save lives. The relationship is sealed by the gift Þórðr gives Eiðr, the good sax he himself got from King Gamli for his service. Skeggi is suspicious and wishes Eiðr had not accepted the gift, and this seems to offend Eiðr: the saga states that varð fátt af kveðjum með þeim feðgum í því sinni.104 Thus, the main conflict of the saga is established early on. For even though the relationship between Þórðr and Skeggi is explored in detail, the saga’s main focus lies on the way Eiðr is constantly torn between the two men who are his fathers. Unlike in Harðar saga, neither is more caring than the other, and it is stressed several times that they do not want Eiðr to come to harm in their fights. Thus, Þórðr does not want Eiðr to endanger himself for his sake, and Skeggi can be convinced not to fight against Þórðr, and once even to help him, out of consideration for his son. __________________________ 102 Þórðar saga hreðu, with him«. p. 174; »Eiðr was very attached to Þórðr, and Þórðr was very indulgent p. 175; »›why did the foster-arrangement with Þórðr seem better to you than the arrangement that I got you with Þorkell?‹«. 103 Þórðar saga hreðu, 104 Þórðar saga hreðu, p. 175; »they did not part on good terms this time«. 165 Eventually, however, a situation arises in which Eiðr has to take sides, and he chooses Þórðr’s. Skeggi wonders why Eiðr values his fosterage higher than their kinship, but also declares that he would never fight his own son.105 Fittingly, it is ultimately Eiðr who arbitrates the settlement between his fictive and biological fathers. Þórðar saga hreðu is thus an exploration of the tensions and conflicting loyalties caused by the fosterage system, even if things go well and both biological and foster family are supportive and caring towards the individual that finds themselves caught between the two. The anxieties surrounding this key social mechanism are therefore still productive in late medieval Iceland, giving rise to this most poignant exploration of the relationship between foster-father and fostered son that can be found in the genre as a whole. Two things are significant here: firstly, that Eiðr does not form any fictive sibling bonds, as Þórðr is unmarried and childless at this point, which means that the focus rests entirely on the parental bond, leaving the exploration of sibling bonds to other stories. And secondly, that once again this complex and conflict-ridden relationship is explored in the context of outlawry and exile. Similar to Króka-Refs saga investigating the convergence between outlawry and honour, therefore, Þórðar saga revolves around the intersection of outlawry and fosterage. Fosterage as a social mechanism is productive elsewhere in the subgroup, too, however, and as mentioned above, it can frequently be found in the context of the paranormal. Bárðar saga is the most obvious example, as the entire saga revolves around trolls and the community they live in. Early on in the story, Bárðr himself is sent to be fostered by Dofri, a good friend of his father’s, who proceeds to teach Bárðr alls kyns íþróttir ok ættvísi ok vígfimi, ok eigi var traust, at hann næmi eigi galdr ok forneskju, svá at bæði var hann forspár ok margvíss, því at Dofri var við þetta slunginn.106 The skills Bárðr learns are as mixed as his own ancestry, blending aspects of human social interest, like genealogy, with the paranormal feats of galdr and forneskja. Being fostered by Dofri ensures he is part of the community of trolls and giants, and this will be important when he is later faced with the decision of leaving humankind behind and following his trollish nature. It __________________________ 105 Þórðar saga hreðu, p. 214. p. 103; »all kinds of feats as well as genealogy and skill at arms, and it is not certain that he did not also learn magic and the old arts, so that he had both foresight and much knowledge, because Dofri was that way inclined«. 106 Bárðar saga, 166 is also interesting to note that Dofri not only fosters fictional giants, but also Haraldr hárfagri, so that the paranormal fosterer, the non-human figure who fulfils a human social function, is an integral part of the biography of a foundational Norwegian king. Later in the saga, Bárðr himself becomes a fosterer when he lagði […] ástfóstr við Odd ok kenndi honum lögspeki um vetrinn; var hann síðan kallaðr lögvitrari maðr en aðrir menn.107 This is of course not a formal fosterage arrangement and seems to be based largely on the affective bond between Bárðr and Oddr, who also becomes his son-in-law. As well as emphasising this emotional aspect of their relationship, however, we again find the same blending of paranormal and social: Bárðr, the troll who lives outside of human, social, spaces in a cave, teaches a human man law, the foundation of Icelandic society. So again, just as with Dofri, this doubled intersection of paranormal and social is visible in this scene, for here, Bárðr becomes the paranormal foster-father of a human hero as well.108 A second informal fosterage arrangement occurs later, after Þórdís Skeggjadóttir has given birth to Bárðr’s son, Gestr: Annan dag eptir kom kona æði stór í selit ok bauð at taka við sveininum ok fóstra. Þórdís lét þat eptir henni. Litlu síðar hvarf hon burt ok sveinninn; var þetta reyndar Helga Bárðardóttir. 109 (The next day, an exceedingly big woman came to the shieling and offered to take the boy with her and foster-him. Þórdís agreed to this. Shortly afterwards she disappeared with the boy; this was actually Helga Bárðardóttir.) Gestr spends the next twelve years of his life wandering Iceland with his half sister and foster-mother, before Bárðr takes him in. This story is an interesting variant of the giantess-foster-mother trope that is found widely in the fornaldarsögur,110 and which is also explored in two other of the late Íslendingasögur: Kjalnesinga saga and, to some extent, Finnboga saga. __________________________ p. 135; »fostered Oddr with love and taught him jurisprudence over the winter; he was afterwards called more knowledgeable about law than other men«. 107 Bárðar saga, 108 Bárðr later also teaches Eiðr lögspeki ok mannfræði (Bárðar saga, p. 139; »jurisprudence and genealogy«); but since fosterage is not mentioned here, I have excluded this scene from the discussion. It does, however, explain why Eiðr is considered so skilled at law. p. 140. Ellis 1941; Lozzi Gallo 2006. 109 Bárðar saga, 110 See 167 Syrpa in the latter saga, has been compared to the giantesses who foster heroes in a legendary context, notably because her name appears in Allra flagða þula.111 She already fostered Þorgerðr, Finnbogi’s mother, and the saga notes that she was vel kunnandi allt þat, er hon skyldi gera.112 This may imply that Syrpa has some kind of magical knowledge, since women who ›kunnu sér enn nökkut‹,113 who are marg- or fjölkunnig (»knowledgeable about many things«), are usually recognisable as magic-users. Syrpa is never seen practising magic, however, so this connection may well be tenuous. But her bond with Þorgerðr is so strong that Þorgerðr’s husband Ásbjörn objects and has her sent away. Given these strong affective ties, it is not surprising that Syrpa immediately takes in the new-born Finnbogi (who at this point is called Urðarköttr) and raises him together with her husband. Again, the emotional bond of fosterage is stressed: Þau höfðu mikla ást á honum.114 When Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði recognises who this gifted boy really is and holds a family intervention, however, Syrpa and Gestr let Urðarköttr go willingly. Having saved the boy’s life and given him the best upbringing possible for a family of very low social status, they are simply written out of the saga. Even the name they gave the boy is eventually overwritten when Urðarköttr becomes Finnbogi. Syrpa is thus the fosterer needed in these particular circumstances, but her resemblance to giantess foster-mothers is slight at best. Esja in Kjalnesinga saga has considerably more in common with giantess foster-mothers than Syrpa. She is a wealthy Irish widow who settles at Esjuberg, and the saga notes, [a]llir þessir men váru kallaðir skírðir, en þó var þat margra manna mál, at Esja væri forn í brögðum.115 Esja’s magic skills and the association with the mountain that shares her name thus moves her towards the trollish, and even though she is a human woman, her depiction thus partakes of the same trope as that of many giantess foster-mothers in the fornaldarsögur. Indeed, she is referred to as tröll twice by her enemies.116 She also uses her magic to protect Búi several times, by __________________________ 111 Lozzi Gallo 2006, p. 15. 112 Finnboga saga, p. 255; »very knowing about everything she was supposed to do«. 113 Eyrbyggja saga, p. 28; »›still know a thing or two‹«. 114 Finnboga saga, p. 258; »They loved him [Urðarköttr] greatly«. p. 5; »all these people were said to be baptised, but many people said that Esja kept the old customs«. 115 Kjalnesinga saga, 116 Kjalnesinga saga, p. 11; p. 38. 168 causing a darkness to descend against his enemies, by giving him enchanted clothing, and by causing him debilitating pain that prohibits him from fighting against overwhelming odds, and she hides him in a cave, thus again showing her mountainous associations. But Esja also arranges both Búi’s ›relationship‹ with Ólof as well as fostering the daughter that results from it.117 Her role is thus both similar to and different from that of legendary paranormal foster-mothers: she protects the hero, but since she herself is not fit for the role of the hero’s giantess lover, 118 she instead arranges for another woman to fill it. Interestingly, while Búi remains loyal to her until she dies, the kind of close emotional bonds described in other fosterrelationships are never explicitly mentioned here. Fosterage, much like the other social mechanisms I have discussed, thus emerges as a complex and varied institution that fulfils various functions in the ›post-classical‹ sagas. Foster parents can be human, non-human, or perhaps somewhere in between, and while the hero is the most common foster-child, other fosterage arrangements are often mentioned. It is perhaps significant that only one of the most prominent fosterrelationships explored is formally agreed upon: Hörðr and his sister simply end up at Grímr’s because their parents reject them, Eiðr chooses his own foster-father, Bárðr’s fosterage seems to be based entirely on affective bonds, and Syrpa does not have much choice but to save Urðarköttr/Finnbogi’s life. Only Esja officially requests to foster Búi. Thus, these sagas explore different ways in which fosterage can come about, and in this, special emphasis is laid on the affective bonds formed by these relationships. The social thus intersects with the emotional: an institution that is supposed to form bonds of kinship and allegiance goes much further and establishes ties of love and friendship. I also find it significant that, in most cases, these bonds are entirely free from conflict. Eiðr certainly has to find ways to navigate the fraught relationship between his biological and foster-fathers, but he succeeds in reconciling them; it is only Hörðr’s bond with Geirr that turns into a fetter in the end. But __________________________ 117 Relationship is certainly the wrong word here: Búi abducts Ólof against her father’s will (and thus probably also against her own) and holds her captive in his cave. This relationship is therefore based on abuse and has to be acknowledged as such. Too many scholars have in the past sugar-coated or euphemised stories of rape and violence in saga literature by referring to them as seductions or affairs, and I find it important to put an end to this. 118 This form of relationship is depicted later when Búi meets Fríðr Dofradóttir. 169 otherwise, positive emotions and effects predominate in stories in which non-biological parents protect and teach the young people who find themselves in their care, providing them with new skills and a good start in life. Conclusions Several themes emerge from this discussion of some of the social mechanisms at work in the ›post-classical‹ Íslendingasögur. First of all, it has become obvious that these late sagas do not operate in a »social void«; instead, they engage with complex ideas about societal roles, exclusion and belonging, public perception, and the creation of kinship ties. The social mechanisms at work largely concern the ways in which the individual relates to society, and the ways in which they are used in the texts (e.g. by neglecting the use of court or assembly scenes, going into exile without being officially outlawed, or even by not using public opinion to comment on a situation) to some extent reinforce the idea that the ›post-classical‹ sagas are more interested in individuals rather than groups. However, these individuals are, as we have seen, still very much embedded in a social context dependent on status and the perception of others, and this social context, represented by mechanisms like honour or outlawry, motivates the actions of these individuals to a large extent: two of the three major outlaw sagas are ›post-classical‹ while many more are told in the ›outlaw mode‹ of narration, and honour and family bonds are the source of conflicts – as well as their resolution – in several other sagas. Moreover, the social dimension of these late sagas is not limited to the use of social mechanisms for plot development. Instead, many of these narratives engage with concerns that were either current at the time, or which are of enduring importance. Thus, we have seen that the theme of women, marriage, and sexual violence has been mentioned frequently, and in different contexts: Króka-Refr’s outlawry from Norway is the consequence of killing the man who attempted to rape his wife, while Þórðr’s exile results from a similar situation with his sister’s attempted rapist.119 I have elsewhere discussed how central sexual violation is to __________________________ 119 Also see Bensberg 2008. 170 Svarfdæla saga,120 and as noted above, Víglundar saga essentially revolves around the themes of consent in sex and marriage, exploring both consensual and non-consensual relationships and the effects they have especially on the women involved. Búi, too, abducts a woman and then rejects her after another man has ›spoiled‹ her, adding a different dimension to the exploration of this concern. Finally, Geirr abducts a woman to live on Geirshólmr with the Hólmverjar, and Grettis saga has three scenes in which sexual violence is central: the two berserk attacks in Norway, and the ambiguously told scene with the servant girl that can only be read as rape by a modern audience. That consent in sex and marriage should be a major theme in late medieval Icelandic literature is not surprising: as has been discussed by Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir and Bjørn Bandlien,121 among others, late medieval genres like the riddarasögur reflect the growing importance of consent as enforced by Church legislation, and it is only natural that other sagas that originate around the same time engage with the same concerns.122 Interestingly, however, the way in which the ›post-classical‹ sagas deal with this issue is largely through its negation. Positive marital bonds that are established with the consent of both parties do appear, especially in Víglundar saga, but also for instance in Þórðr’s relationship with Ólof. However, these are easily drowned out by the sheer amount of violations of such consent. Furthermore, this exploration ex negativo also extends to some of the other themes observed in this discussion. For example, the importance of belonging, one of the key social needs of every human being,123 is investigated largely through people who do not belong, such as outlaws, exiles, or non-human creatures like Bárðr and his children.124 These characters never completely lose touch with society, but they also do not have a place within it, constantly wandering on the margins of communal spaces. This is probably embodied most clearly by Helga Bárðardóttir, a woman rejected by society, and who rejects society __________________________ 120 See 121 Merkelbach 2018; Merkelbach 2020b. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir 2013; Bandlien 2005. 122 That this is a particular concern of Víglundar saga has been noted by Kalinke 1994 in a footnote, p. 135 (fn. 28), but a detailed exploration of this concern is still needed. 123 See Baumeister / Leary 1995. 124 On belonging in the ›post-classical‹ sagas, see Merkelbach 2020a. 171 because it only causes her harm.125 Similarly, relationships between parents and children, and thus one of the kinship ties that dominate, structure, and motivate many of the Íslendingasögur, are rarely found to be something positive and lasting. Beyond the abusive parents of the outlaw sagas, child loss is a major theme that appears in most of the late Íslendingasögur: to name only a few examples, Finnbogi, Þorgils from Flóamanna saga, and Hávarðr all lose sons, while Grettir and Hörðr have sons who die as teenagers after their fathers have been killed. Bárðr kills his nephews because he thinks his oldest daughter lost, and in Svarfdæla saga, Yngvildr’s three sons are killed in front of her eyes to beat her into submission. Finally, Kjalnesinga saga subverts this theme by having a son kill his father who would not recognise him. Engaging with such fundamental issues of human, social, familial experience is therefore a crucial concern of the ›post-classical‹ sagas, but the question why they do so in a manner that approaches these central themes only through their negation warrants further investigation. Some of the ›post-classical‹ sagas do feature the outlawed bears and trollish foster-parents that I somewhat provocatively referred to in the title, but, as we have seen, neither this reduction of social matters to the paranormal sphere, nor the rather simplistic idea that they either lack a social dimension entirely, or that it is exclusively formulated around the individual, is an accurate representation of the complex ways in which these narratives interact with the tradition within which they are situated. Instead of focusing on the individual and/or the paranormal exclusively, then, these late medieval Íslendingasögur interrogate not only the ways in which the individual relates to society, but they also explore the intersection between the social and the paranormal. This is done both by having the paranormal intrude on society, and by allowing it to make use of, and to subvert, societal structures and mechanisms such as fosterage. Thus, outlaws become associated with the paranormal and monstrous; public opinion is something both human as well as non-human or extrasocial communities have; honour affects both normal men as well as bears and berserkir; and both humans and trolls as well as women who operate somewhere between the two can make good foster-parents. This not only __________________________ 125 It is mostly men who harm her: Skeggi, by making her his mistress without being able to marry her, her father, by separating her from Skeggi, and a Norwegian called Hrafn by attempting to rape her. 172 supports my idea of the Íslendingasögur, all Íslendingasögur regardless of whether they are early, ›classical‹, or ›post-classical‹, being structured around a triangulation of the individual, the social, and the paranormal – a triangulation in which all three aspects intersect and interact with one another, and which can play varying roles and appear in various kinds of quality and quantity.126 It also shows that the world created by these supposedly inferior sagas is infinitely more complex and multifaceted than scholars have allowed for, and that it is time to change their status within scholarship. If we want to understand the Íslendingasögur and the culture that gave rise to them, the ›post-classical‹ sagas can no longer be unwanted. __________________________ 126 Thus, some sagas will have hardly any or no paranormal features, while again others focus on them, and the same can be said about the other aspects too: some sagas focus on the biographies of individuals whereas others tell the story of a district or family; and some have a stronger social focus than others. 173 Bibliography Primary Texts Bárðar saga Æ Þórhallur Vilmundarson / Bjarni Vilhjálmsson (eds.) 1991, pp. 99–172. Brot af Þórðar sögu hreðu Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 227–247. Eyrbyggja saga Æ Einar Ól. Sveinsson / Matthías Þórðarson (eds.) 1935, pp. 1–184. Finnboga saga Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 251–340. Fljótsdæla saga Æ Jón Jóhannesson (ed.) 1950, pp. 213–296. Flóamanna saga Æ Þórhallur Vilmundarson / Bjarni Vilhjálmsson (eds.) 1991, pp. 229–328. Grettis saga Æ Guðni Jónsson (ed.) 1936, pp. 1–290. Gull-Þóris saga = Þorskfirðinga saga Æ Þórhallur Vilmundarson / Bjarni Vilhjálmsson (eds.) 1991, pp. 173–227. Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 341– 379. Harðar saga Æ Bjarni Vilhjálmsson / Þórhallur Vilmundarson (eds.) 1991, pp. 1–97. Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings Æ Björn K. Þórólfsson / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1943, pp. 289–358. Kjalnesinga saga Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 1–44. Króka-Refs saga Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 117–160. Laxdœla saga Æ Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1934, pp. 1–248. Svarfdæla saga Æ Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.) 1956, pp. 127–212. Víglundar saga Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 61–116. Þórðar saga hreðu Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 161–226. Secondary Works Ahola, Joonas 2014: Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Helsinki. Amory, Frederic 1992: »The Medieval Icelandic Outlaw. Life-style, Saga, and Legend«, in: Gísli Pálsson (ed.), From Sagas to Society. Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, Enfield Lock, pp. 189–203. Arnold, Martin 2003: The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga (Scandinavian Studies 9), Lampeter. Ármann Jakobsson 2005: »Ástin á tímum þjóðveldisins. Fóstur í íslenskum míðaldasögum«, in: Ármann Jakobsson / Tulinius, Torfi (eds.), Miðaldabörn, Reykjavík, pp. 63–85. Ármann Jakobsson 2017: The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North [no place of publication]. 174 Bandlien, Bjørn 2005: Strategies of Passion: Love and Marriage in Medieval Iceland and Norway. Translated by Betsy van der Hoek (Medieval Texts and Cultures of Northern Europe 6), Turnhout. Bampi, Massimiliano 2017: »Genre«, in: Ármann Jakobsson / Sverrir Jakobsson (eds.), The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Saga, London/New York, pp. 4–14. Baumeister, Roy F. / Leary, Mark R. 1995: »The Need to Belong: Desire for Interpersonal Attachments as a Fundamental Human Motivation«, in: Psychological Bulletin 117, pp. 497–529. Bensberg, Gabriele 2008: »Christlich-mittelalterliches Eheverständnis in der Þórðar saga hreðu?«, in: Petra Hörner / Roswitha Wisniewski (eds.), Begegnungen mit Literaturen: Festschrift für Carola L. Gottzmann zum 65. Geburtstag, Berlin, pp. 199–213. Bjarni Vilhjálmsson / Þórhallur Vilmundarson (eds.) 1991: Harðar saga. Bárðar saga. Þorskfirðinga saga. Flóamanna saga (Íslenzk fornrit 13), Reykjavík. Björn K. Þórólfsson / Guðni Jónsson (eds.) 1943: Vestfirðinga sǫgur. Gísla saga Súrssonar. Fóstbrœðra saga. Þáttr Þormóðar. Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings. Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka. Þorvarðar þáttr Krákunefs (Íslenzk fornrit 6), Reykjavík. Bourdieu, Pierre 1997: »The Forms of Capital«, in: Albert H. Halsey et al. (eds.), Education: Culture, Economy, Society. 3rd edition, Oxford, pp. 46– 58. Dictionary of Old Norse Prose Online [https://onp.ku.dk/onp/onp.php; 27/08/2019]. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (ed.) 1934: Laxdœla saga. Halldórs þættir Snorrasonar. Stúfs þáttr (Íslenzk fornrit 5), Reykjavík. Einar Ól. Sveinsson / Matthías Þórðarson (eds.) 1935: Eyrbyggja saga. Brands þáttr ǫrva. Eiríks saga rauða. Grœnlendinga saga. Grœnlendinga þáttr (Íslenzk fornrit 4), Reykjavík. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson 1958: Dating the Icelandic Sagas: An Essay in Method (Viking Society for Northern Research: Text Series 3), London. Ellis, Hilda R. 1941: »Fostering by Giants in Old Norse Literature«, in: Medium Ævum 10, pp. 70–85. Fiske, Susan T. 2014: Social Beings: Core Motives in Social Psychology. 3rd edition, Hoboken. 175 Foote, Peter 1984: »The Audience and Vogue of the Sagas of Icelanders – Some Talking Points«, in: Michael Barnes et al. (eds.), Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 2), Odense, pp. 47–56. Godelier, Maurice 1986: The Mental and the Material: Thought, Economy and Society. Translated by Martin Thom, London. Guðmundur Hálfdanarson 2010: »Interpreting the Nordic Past: Icelandic Medieval Manuscripts and the Construction of a Modern Nation«, in: Robert. J. W. Evans / Guy P. Marchal (eds.), The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European States: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins (Writing the Nation), London, pp. 52–71. Guðni Jónsson (ed.) 1936: Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Bandamanna saga. Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar (Íslenzk fornrit 7), Reykjavík. Hahn, Daniela 2016: »Expanding the Repertoire: Theft as a Means of Whetting in the Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women. Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 144–171. Hansen, Anna 2008: »Fosterage and Dependency in Medieval Iceland and its Significance in Gísla saga«, in: Shannon Lewis-Simpson (ed.), Youth and Age in the Medieval North (The Northern World: North Europe and the Baltic c. 400–1700 AD. Peoples, Economies and Cultures 42), Leiden, pp. 73–86. Hastrup, Kirsten 1990: Island of Anthropology. Studies in Past and Present Iceland (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 5), Odense. Hume, Kathryn 1974: »The Thematic Design of Grettis saga«, in: Journal of English and Germanic Philology 73, pp. 469–486. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir 2013: Women in Old Norse Literature. Bodies, Words, and Power (The New Middle Ages Series), New York. Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959: Kjalnesinga saga. Jökuls þáttr Búasonar. Víglundar saga. Króka-Refs saga. Þórðar saga Hreðu. Finnboga saga. Gunnars þáttr Keldugnúpsfífls (Íslenzk fornrit 14), Reykjavík. Jón Jóhannesson (ed.) 1950: Austfirðinga sǫgur (Íslenzk fornrit 11), Reykjavík. Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.) 1956: Eyfirðinga sǫgur. Víga-Glúms saga. Ǫgmundar þáttr dýtts. Þorvalds þáttr tasalda. Svarfdœla saga. Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds. Valla-Ljóts saga. Sneglu-Halla þáttr. Þorgríms þáttr Hallasonar (Íslenzk fornrit 9), Reykjavík. 176 Jónas Kristjánsson 1956: »Formáli« in: Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.): Eyfirðinga sǫgur. Víga-Glúms saga. Ǫgmundar þáttr dýtts. Þorvalds þáttr tasalda. Svarfdœla saga. Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds. Valla-Ljóts saga. Sneglu-Halla þáttr. Þorgríms þáttr Hallasonar (Íslenzk fornrit 9), Reykjavík, pp. v– cxix. Jónas Kristjánsson 2007: Eddas and Sagas. Iceland’s Medieval Literature. Translated by Peter Foote. 4th edition, Reykjavík. Kalinke, Marianne 1994: »Víglundar saga: An Icelandic Bridle-Quest Romance«, in: Skáldskaparmál 3, pp. 119–143. Karras, Ruth Mazo 1992: »Servitude and Sexuality in Medieval Iceland«, in: Gísli Pálsson (ed.), From Sagas to Society. Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland, Enfield Lock, pp. 289–304. Korecká, Lucie 2021: »Unwanted Hero, Praised Outcast: The Outlaw Motif in Arons saga Hjörleifssonar and Sturlunga saga«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted. Neglected Approaches, Characters and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies (Münchner Nordistische Studien 50), Munich, pp. 107–142. Kuhn, Hans 2006: »Þórður hreða in Saga and Rímur«, in John McKinnell et al. (eds.), The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature: Sagas and the British Isles. Preprint Papers from the 13th International Saga Conference, Durham and York 6th-12th August 2006, Durham, pp. 524–532. Larrington, Carolyne 2015: Brothers and Sisters in Medieval European Literature, York. Lozzi Gallo, Lorenzo 2006: »The Giantess as Foster-Mother in Old Norse Literature«, in: Scandinavian Studies 78, pp. 1–20. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2016: »Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Fathers, Abuse and Monstrosity in the Outlaw Sagas«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women. Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 59–93. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2017a: »›He has long forfeited all kinship ties‹: Monstrosity, Familial Disruption, and the Cultural Relevance of the Outlaw Sagas«, in: Gripla 28, pp. 103–137. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2017b: »Volkes Stimme: Interaktion als Dialog in der Konstruktion sozialer Monstrosität in den Isländersagas«, in: Monika Unzeitig et al. (eds.), Stimme und Performanz in der mittelalterlichen Literatur (Historische Dialogforschung 3), Berlin, pp. 251–275. 177 Merkelbach, Rebecca 2018: »Eigi í mannlegu eðli: Shape, Monstrosity and Berserkism in the Íslendingasögur«, in: Santiago Barreiro / Luciana Cordo Russo (eds.), Shapeshifters in Medieval North Atlantic Literatures (The Early Medieval North Atlantic), Amsterdam, pp. 83–105. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2019: Monsters in Society. Alterity, Transgression, and the Use of the Past in Medieval Iceland (The Northern Medieval World: On the Margins of Europe), Kalamazoo/Berlin. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2020a: »›I had to be somewhere‹: Spaces of Belonging in the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 16, pp. 103–135. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2020b: »›The coarsest and worst of the Íslendinga Sagas‹: Approaching the Alterity of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Rebecca Merkelbach / Gwendolyne Knight (eds.), Margins, Monsters, Deviants. Alterities in Old Norse Literature and Culture, Turnhout, pp. 101–127. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben 1983: The Unmanly Man. Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-Petre (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 1), Odense. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben 1993: Fortælling og ære. Studier i islændingesagaerne, Aarhus. Miller, William Ian 1986: »Dreams, Prophecy and Sorcery: Blaming the Secret Offender in Medieval Iceland«, in: Scandinavian Studies 58, pp. 101–123. Miller, William Ian 1990: Bloodtaking and Peacemaking. Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland, Chicago/London. Mittman, Asa Simon 2012: »Introduction: The Impact of Monsters and Monster Studies«, in: Asa Simon Mittman/ Peter J. Dendle (eds.), The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous, Farnham, pp. 1–14. Neville, Jennifer 2001: »Monsters and Criminals. Defining Humanity in Old English Poetry«, in: Karin E. Olsen / Luuk A. J. R. Houwen (eds.), Monsters and the Monstrous in Medieval Northwest Europe (Mediaevalia Groningana 3), Leuven, pp. 103–122. Rohrbach, Lena 2009: Der tierische Blick. Mensch-Tier-Relationen in der Sagaliteratur (Beiträge zur Nordischen Philologie 43), Tübingen/Basel. Rowe, Elizabeth Ashman 1993: »Generic Hybrids: Norwegian ›Family‹ Sagas and Icelandic ›Mythic Heroic‹ Sagas«, in: Scandinavian Studies 65, pp. 539–554. 178 Schottmann, Hans 2000: »Die Harðar saga Grímkelssonar«, in: Heinrich Beck / Else Ebel (eds.), Studien zur Isländersaga. Festschrift für Rolf Heller (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde), Berlin, pp. 231–254. Sävborg, Daniel 2012: »Den ›efterklassiska‹ islänningasagan og dess ålder«, in: Arkiv för Nordisk Filologi 107, pp. 19–57. Thoma, Sebastian 2021a: »A Friend in níð: On the Narrative Display of Gender and níð in Njáls saga«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted. Neglected Approaches, Characters and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies (Münchner Nordistische Studien 50), Munich, pp. 57–86. Thoma, Sebastian 2021b: Unmännlichkeit in den Isländersagas. Zur narrativen Funktion von ergi und níð (Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 128), Berlin/Boston. Tulinius, Torfi 2002: »Capital, Field, Illusio. Can Bourdieu’s sociology help us understand the development of literature in medieval Iceland?«, in: Stefanie Würth et al. (eds.) Sagas and Societies — Conference at Borgarnes, Iceland, 2002 [https://publikationen.unituebingen.de/xmlui/handle/10900/46218; 13/03/2020]. Turville-Petre, Gabriel 1977: »Outlawry«, in: Einar G. Pétursson et al. (ed.) Sjötíu Ritgerðir Helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni, 20. Júlí 1977 (Stofnun Árna Magnússonar á Ísland rit 12), Reykjavík, pp. 769–778. Vésteinn Ólason 2005: »Family Sagas«, in: Rory McTurk (ed.), A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture (Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31), Oxford/Victoria, pp. 101– 118. Vésteinn Ólason 2007: »The Fantastic Element in Fourteenth Century Íslendingasögur: A Survey«, in: Gripla 18, pp. 7–22. Wolfe, Patricia M. 1973: »The Later Sagas: Literature of Transition«, in: Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.), Alþjóðlegt Fornsagnaþing, Reykjavík 2.-8. Ágúst 1973, Fyrirlestrar 2, Reykjavík [without pagecount]. 179 Zuzana Stankovitsová ›Tasteless Additions‹: Post-Medieval Textual Variation in Króka-Refs saga as Audience Reception1 Introduction In his essay Éloge de la variante, Bernard Cerquiglini declared that »variance is the main characteristic of a work in the medieval vernacular«.2 Cerquiglini was drawing on Paul Zumthor’s concept of ›mouvance‹ introduced in his seminal Essai de poétique médiévale.3 Central to both is the emphasis on the instability of medieval literature, and particularly Cerquiglini’s work had a profound impact, leading to the emergence of New and Material Philology with its focus on variation and the material aspects of texts as they are preserved in the physical space of the manuscript.4 The introduction of changes is inevitable in a manuscript culture where texts are copied by hand. The reasons behind this are numerous. Much of the variation is introduced into the text accidentally due to the scribe’s inattentiveness, carelessness or misunderstanding: words are omitted, swapped, lines skipped, letters misread which leads to a change in the meaning of the word, or a word difficult to interpret is replaced. 5 __________________________ I would like to express my gratitude to Rebecca Merkelbach, Yoav Tirosh and the editors of the volume, Andreas Schmidt and Daniela Hahn, for their insightful comments, helpful suggestions and corrections. 2 Cerquiglini 1999, p. 37. The essay was originally published in 1989. 1 3 Zumthor 1972. The thematic vol. 65 of Speculum with an introduction by Stephen Nichols 1990 is traditionally regarded as the manifesto of New Philology. For a more recent discussion see Driscoll 2010. For contemporary critical responses, cf. Busby (ed.) 1993, and from an Old Norse perspective Wolf 1993 and more recently Sverrir Tómasson 2002. The terms New Philology and Material Philology are used interchangeably by most authors, however, see Westra 2014 and Kapitan 2018, pp. 12–4 for a discussion of the differences. 5 See Haugen 2013, pp. 108–10 and Conti 2012, pp. 276–7 for an overview of the most common scribal errors. 4 180 However, scribes did not always treat the text they were copying as an authoritative unit that could not be altered. Scribal practices would range from verbatim copying, through editing the text to rewriting it. Some changes would thus be introduced intentionally, with the scribe actively altering and shaping the text, for instance out of aesthetic concerns or to suit a new context or intended audience.6 Within traditional philology, the resulting variance has been regarded as a form of deterioration, every change being understood as a corruption that distances the text – and us as its readers and scholars – further from a supposed ›original‹.7 Underlying is the idea of the text as an immutable entity, which the philologist should ideally be able to recreate by eliminating the errors and corruptions introduced into it by the scribes who copied it. As a consequence, manuscripts have been evaluated based on their ability to contribute to this endeavour. Particularly post-medieval witnesses, the majority of which lack a text-critical value, have therefore long been devalued and ignored. The post-structuralist questioning of the author within literary studies8 led to a shift in the approaches to medieval authorship and the problematizing of the concept.9 Within philology, the scope of interest widened to include individual manuscript witnesses, their scribes and audiences. Inspired by the framework of New and Material Philology, recent years saw an increase in studies focusing on the transmission of Old Norse literature and the variance found in the manuscript witnesses of individual texts.10 As Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir put it, __________________________ For a discussion of scribal practices see, e.g., Kleivane 2010, particularly pp. 30–3; 101–7. See also Quinn 2010, as well as the contributions in Quinn / Lethbridge (eds.) 2010 and in part four of Ranković et al. (eds.) 2012. 7 The often posited ›original‹ is a problematic term in and of itself, particularly for saga literature (see, e.g., the discussion in Lethbridge 2013, pp. 77–84). From a text-critical perspective, it is theoretically possible to reconstruct the archetype, i.e. the text of the manuscript from which all extant witnesses descended, see Maas 1960, pp. 5–6. However, such a reconstruction is virtually impossible to perform in practice, see Louis-Jensen 2013, pp. 134–5. 8 For an overview see Kittang 2012. 9 On medieval authorship see Minnis 1988, and for some recent approaches see the contributions in Ranković et al. (eds.) 2012. 10 Among some of the more recent publications are Driscoll 1997; Quinn / Lethbridge (eds.) 2010; Margrét Eggertsdóttir / Driscoll (eds.) 2017; Lethbridge / Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir (eds.) 2018. 6 181 instead of travelling backwards in time towards an archetype that antedates any surviving text witness, our interest is now in following the changes and modifications that a text undergoes. 11 Looking past the text-critical value of manuscripts and shifting the focus to their value as cultural objects, »they can tell us about the processes of literary production, dissemination and reception to which they are witnesses«.12 Examining the variance therefore provides us insights into how audiences understood, interacted with and adapted saga narratives. However, not all texts are equally popular research subjects. Sagas conventionally labelled as ›post-classical‹ have long remained on the periphery of scholarship.13 Even more unwanted than the sagas themselves is the variance found in their ›valueless‹ post-medieval manuscripts.14 The aim of this article is, therefore, to serve as an excursus into the variance found in the post-medieval manuscripts of Króka-Refs saga, which belongs to the youngest Íslendingasögur. The discussion will focus on one branch of the stemma where the nature of many of the changes indicates a deliberate shaping of the text by scribes and can thus be understood as audience response. Contrasting the post-medieval readings with the medieval ones, the article will explore how these changes function in the saga narrative. The Saga and its Manuscripts Króka-Refs saga narrates the life story of the Icelander Refr Steinsson. Faced with repeated attacks against his honour, he is forced to take action and kill his offenders. As a consequence, he flees multiple times and lives the life of a fugitive and an outlaw, until he finds refuge with the Danish king, through whom he is reintegrated into society. Refr is a skilled craftsman, who delivers such impressive feats of craftsmanship as building __________________________ Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir 2012, p. 326. Driscoll 2010, pp. 91–2. 13 See Merkelbach 2020. 11 12 14 One notable exception is Sture Hast 1960, particularly pp. 1–13, who conducted an examination of the paper manuscripts of Harðar saga, all of which are without textcritical value. 182 a seafaring vessel without previous instruction, constructing a fortress with an inbuilt irrigation system, or a ship on wheels. He survives thanks to his resourcefulness and cleverness, which enables him to outwit even the wise King Haraldr harðráði. The saga is conventionally dated to the second quarter or the middle of the fourteenth century. A terminus ante quem for the dating of the saga is provided by the fact that the text was present in the now-lost manuscript Vatnshyrna, written between 1391 and 1395.15 A terminus post quem is more difficult to determine. The dating into the middle of the fourteenth century is based mainly on the saga’s fictionality and its literary properties. 16 The text of Króka-Refs saga is preserved in 45 manuscripts.17 The oldest extant witnesses are three parchment manuscripts dated to the second half of the fifteenth century (AM 471 4to, AM 586 4to and Holm Perg 4to n.8), and a one-leaf parchment fragment dated to the sixteenth century (JS fragm 6). As is the case with all Íslendingasögur, the bulk of the extant manuscripts was produced from the seventeenth century onwards. 18 The manuscript tradition of Króka-Refs saga has previously only been examined in detail by Pálmi Pálsson in preparation of his 1883 edition. He establishes that all the extant witnesses go back to a common ancestor, and the medieval witnesses contain the best version of the saga. 19 Although he lists the post-medieval witnesses known to him, these mostly just receive a __________________________ Vatnshyrna burnt in the Copenhagen fire of 1728. The sagas contained in the manuscript survive in seventeenth-century copies, with the exception of Króka-Refs saga (Stefán Karlsson 1970). Suggestions have been made about a possible reconstruction of the saga’s text contained in Vatnshyrna (Maurer 1867, pp. 482–3; cf. Pálmi Pálsson 1883, pp. ix–x), but, ultimately, these remain speculations. 16 Maurer 1867, p. 485. He notes particularly the historical inconsistencies, which according to him could not have been committed in the thirteenth century, and the adventurous character of the saga which he considers having been influenced by riddarasögur and thus a sign of declining literary tastes. Maurer connects the reference to the Archbishop Absalon at the end of the saga to a story attributed to Jón Halldórsson, bishop of Skálholt between 1322 and 1336. See also Pálmi Pálsson 1883, p. xxxii–iii. 15 This number only includes manuscripts in Icelandic that contain – or at one point contained, but now remain fragmentary – the full text of the saga. Not considered are a Latin translation and numerous excerpts and summaries of varying length. 18 On the revival of manuscript production in Iceland in the seventeenth century, see Springborg 1977, and for a general overview of Icelandic manuscript culture in postmedieval times, see Driscoll 2013. 19 Pálmi Pálsson 1883, pp. i–xi. 17 183 brief mention, since they »på grund af deres forvanskninger, meningsløse tilsætninger og misforståelser ingen som helst betydning have i tekstkritisk henseende«.20 Finally, he concludes that the differences between individual manuscripts »ere for störste delen begrænsede til enkelte ord og udtryk, der ved deres smagløshed røbe deres sildige tilblivelse som blotte afskriverforandringer eller senere tilföjelser«.21 The handful of examples that Pálmi Pálsson provides to illustrate the variation mostly underline his already clearly stated point that the manuscripts are of no further interest. With the exception of AM 471 4to, the oldest witnesses are fragmentary and there is relatively little overlap among all of them. This poses some challenges for the textual comparison. Nevertheless, the available material suggests that the medieval tradition was stable. 22 The post-medieval manuscripts show a greater amount of variation, both in relation to the oldest witnesses as well as among each other. One of the branches of the stemma, the C-branch,23 stands out from the rest for two reasons. Firstly, the manuscripts share a considerable amount of common innovations, and particularly additions that cannot be merely a result of scribal error but must have been added to the text on purpose. Secondly, several of the manuscripts from this branch belong to the socially and culturally most prominent witnesses, having been created in the learned milieus of seventeenth century Iceland and mainland Scandinavia. __________________________ Pálmi Pálsson 1883, p. vii; »because of their distortions, meaningless additions and misunderstandings they are of no importance whatsoever from a text-critical perspective«. Unless otherwise specified, all English translations are my own. 21 Pálmi Pálsson 1883, p. x; »are for the most part limited to individual words and expressions, the tastelessness of which reveals their late origin as mere copyist changes or later additions«. 20 The variance is in general of a minor nature, such as differences in prepositions, the use of adverbs vs. their omission, the use of a personal pronoun vs. a proper name, minor inversions in word order, grammatical variation. Among the significant variants, we find synonymous expressions as well as some omissions and changes that seem to stem from scribal error. 23 The branch goes back to a lost manuscript and is distinct from the branches A and B which comprise manuscripts related to AM 471 4to and Holm Perg 4to n. 8 respectively. 22 184 Figure 1: A partial stemma of the Króka-Refs saga manuscripts, illustrating the relationships between the manuscripts of the C-branch. The vertex (C) represents the common ancestor of the branch (my figure). The C-branch splits into two sub-groups. The core of the first sub-group (C1’’) includes the following manuscripts: GKS 1006 fol. and AM 160 fol., two sister manuscripts likely written for Brynjólfur Sveinsson, bishop of Skálholt. In both manuscripts, Króka-Refs saga is written in the hand of Jón Erlendsson, one of the bishop’s main scribes, around the middle of the 17th century. GKS 1006 fol. was likely written between 1641–1656,24 and AM 160 fol. between 1641–1648.25 Árni Magnússon had two copies made from AM 160 fol., namely AM 506 4to, written in Copenhagen c. 1690– __________________________ 24 Kålund (ed.) 1900, p. 16. Kålund only dates the manuscript generally to the seventeenth century, but the period of writing can be narrowed down based on external information. Jón Erlendsson likely first started writing folio manuscripts for the bishop in the years 1641–1642 (Helgi Ívarsson 2007, 162) and the manuscript was gifted to the Danish king and exported from Iceland no later than 1656 (Jón Helgason 1985, 11). 25 handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM02-0160; 15/03/2019]. 185 1710 by his scribe Jón Torfason,26 and AM 553 c 4to, written in Copenhagen c. 1700–1725 by Jón Sigurðsson í Víðidalstungu.27 A direct copy of GKS 1006 fol. is AM 157 d fol., written for Þormóður Torfason in Norway c. 1690–1697 by his scribe Ásgeir Jónsson,28 which in turn served as the exemplar for Kall 239 fol., written by a further not specified »[v]elkendt isl. skriverhånd« in the second half of the eighteenth century. 29 All of these manuscripts are high-profile paper manuscripts, mostly in large folio formats, with a neat script and wide margins. They were all copied with the utmost precision, with only minute deviations from their respective exemplars. Closely related to the exemplar of GKS 1006 fol. and AM 160 fol. (C1’’) is Holm Papp 4to n. 5, written around 1650 by an unknown scribe.30 Finally, AM 163 f fol., written in Iceland c. 1675–1700 by the scribe Þórður Þórðarson,31 contains some changes and unique wordings, whereas the text of ÍB 45 fol., written in Iceland in the years 1735–1736 by an unidentified scribe,32 adheres more closely to the rest of the group. The second sub-group (C2) consists of three manuscripts. The most conservative of them is AM 568 4to, a fragmentary and heavily damaged manuscript written by an unidentified scribe and dated to the first half of the seventeenth century.33 Descending from a sibling of AM 568 4to are two manuscripts currently housed in the Royal Library in Stockholm: Holm Papp 8vo n. 6 is a small manuscript consisting of two parts bound into one codex. The first part, containing Króka-Refs saga and three other texts, was written in Iceland in 1681 by a certain G. G. S.34 The small format as well as the dense and uneven script suggest a manuscript of a lower status. Holm Papp fol. n. 50, dated to c. 1680–1690, on the other __________________________ 26 handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM04-0506; 15/03/2019]. See also the slip in Árni Magnússon’s hand accompanying AM 160 fol., handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM02-0160; 15/03/2019]. 27 handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM04-0553c; 15/03/2019]. handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM02-0157d; 15/03/2019]. Kålund (ed.) 1900, p. 373; »a well-known Icelandic hand«. 30 Gödel 1897–1900, pp. 264–6. 28 29 31 handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM02-0163f; 15/03/2019]. 32 handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/IB02-0045; 15/03/2019]. handrit.is [https://handrit.is/en/manuscript/view/is/AM04-0568-I-II; 15/03/2019]. 34 Gödel 1897–1900, pp. 363–4. 33 186 hand, is a large folio manuscript that appears to have been copied for the Swedish Antikvitetskollegiet. The various texts in the manuscript are written by four different scribes, three of which are known, but the fourth hand, the scribe of Króka-Refs saga and Víglundar saga, remains unidentified.35 Except for the last text, the layout of the pages has two columns, the Icelandic text written on the left, but the right column left blank, likely for a parallel translation that was never executed. As the appearance suggests, the two manuscripts were produced in different social milieus. Holm Papp fol. n. 50 contains some unique innovations, but several shared readings unmistakeably confirm that the two manuscripts go back to a common ancestor. Character Description The text of Króka-Refs saga as preserved in the manuscripts of the Cbranch has undergone some considerable changes in comparison with the medieval text. Many of the innovations are shared across the whole branch and thus go back to the common ancestor, and several of them seem to have been made purposefully as they are too extensive to be the result of a mistake. With the top of the branch missing, it is difficult to postulate when exactly the changes were introduced, and whether this happened in one single manuscript or whether they are a result of multiple stages of adaptation. However, the earliest of the witnesses – AM 160 fol., GKS 1006 fol., and AM 568 4to – are dated to the first half of the seventeenth century, so the common changes must have been introduced into the tradition at the latest by the early seventeenth century. One of the most distinctive innovations in the whole group are amplifications and additions that appear in various contexts and serve different purposes. An interesting example is the character portrayal of the eponymous hero of the saga, Refr Steinsson. Refr is introduced as a kolbítr type of character: __________________________ 35 Gödel 1897–1900, pp. 161–2. 187 Hann var mikill vexti á unga aldri, vænn at yfirliti ok ódælligr; engi maðr vissi afl hans. Hann var eldsetinn, ok önga hafði hann aðra iðn fyrir starfi en veltast fyrir fótum mönnum, er þar gengu. […] Hann var af flestum mönnum fífl kallaðr.36 (He was of big stature at a young age, good-looking and difficult to manage; no one knew how strong he was. He was always sitting by the fire, and had nothing better to do than be in the way of the people who walked there. […] Most people considered him a fool.) After the death of Refr’s father, his mother suffers increasing property infringement by the neighbour, which culminates in the killing of the farmstead’s hired shepherd. At this point, Refr’s mother loses patience with her son’s inactivity and shames him into action against the neighbour, thus turning the kolbítr into a hero.37 The description of the main character is somewhat expanded in the seventeenth-century manuscripts:38 hann var mykill þegar a vnga alldre vænn ath ÿferlite oc odælligur. einginn visse afl hans. Hann var j æskú elldsætinn oc ongva hafde hann idiú fyrer stafni enn velltist fyrer fótumm manna nær þeir geingú j elldahvs laa hann þar nott ok dag. […] hann var af morgumm kalladúr fífl.39 (He was big already at a young age, good-looking and difficult to manage. No one knew how strong he was. In his youth, he was always sitting by the fire, and had nothing better to do than be in the way of people when they walked into the kitchen. He lay there night and day. […] Many people considered him a fool.) The revised text makes a point of stressing Refr’s kolbítr qualities. More attention is drawn to the location – the kitchen – and the fact that Refr __________________________ 36 Króka-Refs saga, p. 119. On the kolbítr character type, see Ásdís Egilsdóttir 2005. 38 In instances where the text is similar within the discussed group, the text of AM 160 fol. will be used for reference. Citations from manuscripts are provided in diplomatic transcription with expanded abbreviations marked by underlining. 39 AM 160 fol., 115r. 37 188 does not leave the fireplace. Later in the text, just before the mother delivers her shaming speech that prods Refr into action against the neighbour, we get an even more colourful description: Hun geingur þa jnn j elldaskaalann, oc sier Ref som sinn röa aframm, oc gÿtúr aúgunum oc lætur allheimskuliga.40 In contrast to the medieval version that has the mother simply walk into the kitchen and notice her son, the image of Refr glancing around and behaving in an unintelligent manner reinforces and exaggerates the initial description, making the scene appear comical. 41 Overall, in the medieval text, the young Refr emerges as a lazy and uninspired youth, but the text insinuates that he has hidden talents and the general opinion of the public may yet prove to be wrong. The revised version, on the other hand, draws his unflattering character traits into focus. The wording explicitly confirms the public assessment of Refr as a fífl, a description which is immediately subverted when Refr proves himself by taking revenge on the overbearing neighbour. The additions amplify the contrast between the kolbítr on the one hand, and the full-fledged hero that emerges from the narrative after he has passed the first test of manhood on the other. It is reasonable to assume that the audiences were familiar both with this specific narrative, as well as similar stories where the young kolbítr turns into an impressive hero.42 As such, they would anticipate the further turn of events as well as the character development the main hero would soon undergo. Unlike Refr’s opponents, who constantly underestimate him, the audience would know better. The altered description could thus function to enforce the audience’s experience of underdog turned successful hero. 43 Another character whose portrayal slightly changes is Rannveig, the wife of the overbearing neighbour Þorbjörn. In the medieval version, she is introduced into the text as follows: Rannveig hét kona hans; hon var heimsk __________________________ 40 AM 160 fol., 118v; »She then walks into the kitchen and sees her son Refr, still relaxing, casting looks and behaving very stupidly«. 41 Comedy and satire are notoriously difficult to identify in medieval and early modern literature (see, e.g., the discussion in Willson 2009). The validity of such a reading can therefore be questioned. 42 Other sagas with the same character type are, e.g., Víga-Glúms saga, Áns saga bogsveigis or Ketils saga hængs. 43 According to Kendra Willson 2009, p. 1045, Króka-Refs saga shows »parody of traditional elements and scenes and generic consciousness«. Another possible interpretation would therefore be an effort to enhance these features with driving the kolbítr trope into a parodic extreme. 189 ok harðráð, ok þat var kallat, at Þorbjörn mundi hafa unnit nökkurum óhöppum færa, ef hon hefði hann eigi fram æstan.44 In the two Stockholm-manuscripts, Holm Papp 8vo n. 6 and Holm Papp 4to n. 50,45 her explicit characterisation changes to hún var heimsk og Jllgiørnn, og hädsøm,46 stressing her maliciousness. In the other branch, descending from C1, Rannveig is ascribed a bad reputation that exceeds that of her husband. Whilst the medieval text informs us that [m]argir menn kvíddu mjök við kvámu hans, þeir er áðr höfðu spurt til Þorbjarnar,47 this later changed to marger menn kuidu þui þar komu hanz þeir er aadur haufdu spurt til hennar.48 In this reading, the people in the region were worried about the couple’s arrival because of the reputation of the wife, Rannveig, rather than her husband. This change is likely to have originated in a scribal error. The usage of the pronoun and the proper name alternates in the medieval witnesses. The standard Íslenzk fornrit edition – as cited above – follows the wording of Holm Perg 4to n. 8. However, AM 471 4to has the proper name first, followed by the pronoun, whereas AM 586 4to only uses the pronoun in both positions.49 As pronouns would often be abbreviated, it is conceivable that a scribe misread the masculine hans for the feminine hennar. Nevertheless, for the audience of the saga, this change seems to have fit well with the portrayal of Rannveig as a commanding wife, who only a few moments later eggs her husband into killing the shepherd of Refr’s mother to gain access to their pastures. At the same time, the euphemistic expression nökkurum óhöppum færa – that perhaps leaves some room for interpretation as to the nature and seriousness of the offences, is __________________________ p. 119; »His wife was called Rannveig. She was stupid and hard in counsel, and it was said that Þorbjörn would have committed somewhat fewer mishaps, had she not egged him on«. 45 It is possible that the change was introduced into the tradition at an earlier stage, corresponding to C3 in Figure 1, but since the passage is missing from AM 568 4to, this cannot be confirmed. 46 Holm Papp 8vo n. 6, 47r; »she was stupid and malicious, and mocking«. 44 Króka-Refs saga, p. 119–20; »many people who had previously heard about him, were very worried about Þorbjörn’s arrival«. 48 AM 160 fol., 115v; »many people who had previously heard about her, were very worried about Þorbjörn’s arrival«. 49 Indeed, my stemmatic analysis indicates that the entire group is descended from a lost manuscript closely related to AM 586 4to – either a common ancestor or a sister manuscript of it. 47 Króka-Refs saga, 190 replaced with the unambiguous þorbiorn múnde hafa vnned færre vijg.50 Explicitly stating the nature of the transgressions strengthens the negative portrayal of the couple, and particularly Rannveig emerges even more clearly as the more malicious character. Þorbjörn is the one executing the deeds, but Rannveig is the mind behind them. A similar development can also be seen in AM 163 f fol., the wording of which differs somewhat from the other witnesses in the group. There, the passage reads as follows: þad var talad ad þorbiorn múndj eÿ hafa giortt So morg illskú verk hefdj hon ecki uppæst hann […] marger menn qvyddú vit þarkomu hanz þeir ädur hofdú Spurtt af konu hanz ok illskú þeirra beggia.51 (it was said that Þorbjörn would not have committed so many evil deeds, had she not egged him on […] many people were worried about his arrival there, who had previously heard about his wife and the wickedness of them both.) Whilst the concrete wording is different, the pattern of amplifying the negative portrayal remains, stressed through the double use of the word illska. Likewise, the couple’s bad reputation that arouses concern is again ascribed to the wife, Rannveig. Dialogue A typical narrative device in the Íslendingasögur is the manipulation of the narrative pace. Before a climax, the narrative is typically retarded and details enhanced in order to heighten narrative tension, for instance through the employment of dialogue. 52 One of the most memorable scenes in Króka-Refs saga is the second attempt to capture Refr in the fortress that he built in the uninhabited parts of Greenland. Refr flees there after he takes revenge on his neighbour Þorgils and his sons for spreading defamatory rumours about him. Eventually Refr’s whereabouts are __________________________ 50 AM 160 fol., 115v; »Þorbjörn would have committed fewer killings«. 163 f fol., 1v. 52 See particularly Andersson 1967, pp. 40–3; pp. 54–7 as well as Vésteinn Ólason 1998, pp. 99–100. 51 AM 191 discovered by Bárðr, a retainer of King Haraldr harðráði, who decides to aid Gunnarr, Þorgils’s son-in-law, in pursuing Refr. During the first encounter, their intent to burn down Refr’s fortress is corrupted by an inbuilt irrigation system that puts out the fire, one of Refr’s impressive feats of engineering. After receiving advice from King Haraldr on how to disable the system, they return for another attempt. Naturally, a verbal exchange occurs between the two parties: Í því kemr maðr gangandi á virkit. Þenna mann kenna þeir; var þar Refr. Hann heilsar þeim ok spyrr tíðinda. Bárðr kveðst honum engi mundu segja, – ›önnur en þú stendr þar feigum fótum á virkinu. Eru þat,‹ sagði hann, ›lítil tíðindi‹.53 (At that moment, a man comes out walking on the fortress. They recognise this man, it was Refr. He greets them and asks the news. Bárðr says he would not tell him any – ›except that you stand on the fortress fated to die. That is,‹ he said, ›little news‹.) In the manuscripts from the seventeenth century, the scene is enhanced by added detail and responses by Refr. In AM 160 fol., the passage reads: J þui kemr madr framm aa virkit gänganndi. Þennan mann kienna þeir. ok var þar kominn Refúr. hann heilsar þeim. ok er hinn kaataste ok spyr þa tiþinda. Bardr kuadzt honum einginn seigia munde ỏnnur, enn þú stenndur feïgum fötumm aa virkinú. ok eru þat allitil tiþindi sagdi Refur Hokinn ertú j hnialidunum Bardur suo miott sem þu stendur aa mỏlinne. ok er þier betra ath hokra heim aptur aa meþan vel er. Ad hinu skal þier verda sagdi Bardur.54 (In that moment, a man comes out walking on the fortress. They recognise this man and it was Refr55 who came there. He greets them and he is the most cheerful and he asks the news. Bárðr said he would not tell him any news –, ›except that you stand on the fortress fated to die.‹ ›And that is hardly any news,‹ __________________________ p. 147. 160 fol., 136v–137r. 55 In order to maintain consistency, the name Refr is rendered in the Old Norse form in all the translations, despite the modern spelling in the cited manuscripts. 53 Króka-Refs saga, 54 AM 192 said Refr, ›your knees are bent, Bárðr, as narrowly as you are standing on the ground, and you would do better to creep back home whilst matters are still good.‹ ›You will face the opposite,‹ replied Bárðr.) After this exchange, equipped with the king’s advice, the attackers disable the irrigation system and succeed in setting the fortress on fire. Refr emerges again and another dialogue occurs. The passage reads as follows in the medieval text: Refr gekk þá fram á virkit ok spurði, hverr þessi ráð hefði til lagt með þeim. Bárðr kvað hann þat öngu varða. Refr mælti: ›Ek veit ok,‹ segir hann, ›at engi yðar mundi þetta ráð fundit hafa, nema þér nytið yðr hyggnari manna við.‹ Bárðr segir: ›Hverr sem oss kenndi þessi ráð, þá skulu vér þér nú drottna í dag ok þínum fjárhlut ok hengja þik þar, er þú megir líta yfir þenna þinn bólstað, eða skaltu brenna.‹56 (Refr then went out onto the fortress and asked, who gave them this advice. Bárðr said that it was none of his business. Refr said: ›I know,‹ he says, ›that none of you would have come up with this advice, unless you received counsel from more intelligent men.‹ Bárðr says: ›Whoever gave us this advice, today we will rule over you and your property and hang you where you will be able to see this homestead of yours, or else you will burn.‹) As a response to the threat, Refr recites a verse, proclaiming that he has a trick up his sleeve, which will defeat Bárðr. Refr’s poetic response may have at some point been perceived as too obscure, so that a prose sentence was inserted before the skaldic stanza: þa broste Refur oc mællte fyrr munntú hreppa þat þier er makligt,57 or with the variant fyrre múntú drepast er þier þad maklegt58 in the two Stockholm manuscripts. The second dialogue between Refr and Bárðr mirrors the first one earlier in the text, both in structure and word choice. However, the __________________________ Króka-Refs saga, p. 147. 160 fol., 137r; »then Refr smiled and said: ›Sooner than that, you will get what you deserve‹«. 58 Holm Papp fol. n. 50, 91r; »sooner than that you will die [and] that is what you deserve«. 56 57 AM 193 dialogue in the second scene is somewhat shorter, which may have prompted the post-medieval expansion of the text. The verbal duel that ensues between the two adversaries prolongs this important scene in the saga, making it more dramatic and increasing the tension in the narrative. Each threat uttered by Bárðr is matched with a response from Refr, who thus receives more lines of direct speech. 59 Additionally, Refr’s nonchalant attitude is highlighted by drawing attention to his cheerfulness and smile, a detail added to both dialogues, which further marks him as the superior party who will maintain the upper hand. Context and Setting of Scene Some of the other additions provide context, explanations, or strengthen the anchoring of the narrative in a distant past. Innovations of this kind are particularly common in the two Stockholm manuscripts from the end of the seventeenth century, sometimes expanding on earlier additions. For instance, when Refr’s father Steinn is introduced, the information that he was an old man is expanded in the Stockholm manuscripts with þá saga þessi giordist.60 Later on, as Steinn dies, we are told that var bued vmm hann epter sidvenniu,61 and slightly more elaborated in the Stockholm manuscripts: var büit úm lik hans ad sidveniú eptir þvi sem þä tïdkadist. 62 Both innovations seem to underline the distance between the time of the narrative and that of the contemporary audience. This is particularly evident in the reference to Steinn’s funeral. The sentence var bued vmm hann epter sidvenniu, which fills out a perceived gap in the narrative, already __________________________ In this context it is important to note that the speaker of the sentence ›Eru þat,‹ sagði hann, ›lítil tíðindi‹ is ambiguous in AM 471 4to, the only medieval witness containing the passage. Since direct speech is not indicated by punctuation in the manuscript, either interpretation is possible, i.e. that the speaker is still Bárðr – the editorial choice made both by Jóhannes Halldórsson in the Íslenzk fornrit edition and Pálmi Pálsson, or that this is a response by Refr – the interpretation of a later scribe as reflected in the wording of the post-medieval witnesses. 60 Holm Papp 8vo n. 6, 47r; »when this saga took place«. 61 AM 160 fol., 116v; »he was laid to rest according to custom«. 62 Holm Papp fol. n. 50, 64r; »his body was laid to rest according to the custom that was practiced at that time«. 59 194 conveys the meaning that the saga takes place in a past with different customs. This aspect is then reinforced by the elaboration eptir þvi sem þä tïdkadist. Towards the end of the saga, Refr must flee from Norway and takes refuge in Denmark. At this point, an information on the political situation at the time of the narrative is inserted into the text of the post-medieval witnesses: þa riede þar fyrer Sveinn kongur Vlfsson. var þa ofridur mykill aa mille Noregs ok Danmerkur.63 The information is implicit in the medieval text, as King Sveinn praises Refr for bringing valuable goods from Greenland ›sem oss er nú ekki um hríð mjök auðfengr sakir várra fjandmanna‹.64 With the greater distance in time, the historical context may not have been immediate general knowledge, which may have prompted this inclusion right before the audience is introduced to the Danish king, to provide necessary context for understanding the narrative. Besides supplying information that was perceived to be lacking, the innovations also set the scene, for instance by adding a detail about the weather. In the scene where Refr is being reprimanded for his passivity by the foster-father of his wife Helga, the medieval version simply states that [þ]at var einn dag, at Þormóðr kom at máli við Ref.65 The wording was later adapted to þath var eitt sinn ath þormödur leïdde Ref aa einmæle einn blydann vedúrdag.66 The change of the phrasing to incorporate the word einmæli (»private conversation«), emphasises the weight of the situation and the seriousness of the conversation that ensues: that by ignoring the slander being spread about him, it is not only Refr’s honour and reputation that suffers, but also Helga’s. The added information about the weather is, on the other hand, circumstantial. It has no function in the narrative, 67 and appears here rather as a stock phrase from the Icelandic narrative __________________________ 63 AM 160 fol., 99v; »at the time, King Sveinn Úlfsson ruled there, and there was great animosity between Norway and Denmark«. 64 Króka-Refs saga, enemies‹«. p. 156; »›which has not been easy for us to obtain recently because of our p. 135; »it happened one day that Þormóðr addressed Refr«. 160 fol., 127v; »it happened once that Þormóðr took Refr for a private conversation on a nice day«. 65 Króka-Refs saga, 66 AM 67 On the way weather can be employed in the Íslendingasögur as a narrative device, see Ogilvie / Gísli Pálsson 2003, pp. 264–6. 195 repertoire.68 Similarly, when [h]öfðingjar ok öll alþýða höfðu þenna mann [Þorbjörn] brutt gervan,69 changes to í brott reked,70 which in the two Stockholm manuscripts subsequently developed into burt rekid og rÿmdann,71 the amplification does not serve any narrative purpose. The amplification merely makes the sentence more expressive and adds a stylistic feature in the form of alliteration. Changes Across the Corpus One interesting innovation, although not exclusive to the C-branch of the stemma, is the addition of various terms of endearment or familiarity in conflict situations. These do not seem to have been part of the medieval version of Króka-Refs saga. However, various instances appear across the corpus of the post-medieval manuscripts, although not always in the same scenes or in the same form, which suggests a wider trend rather than a direct connection through copying.72 With one exception,73 the terms of familiarity seem to be bound to Refr’s two conflicts with his neighbours, first against Þorbjörn, and later against Þorgils Víkarskalli and his sons. In the manuscripts of the C-branch, we find the following exchange during the confrontation with Þorgils: __________________________ 68 The same phrasing also appears in Viktors saga ok Blávus (p. 10), and the analogous þat var einn fagran veðrdag in Magnússona saga in Heimskringla (p. 269). Both are attested also in later folk tales and folk songs, see Ritmálssafn Orðabókar Háskólans. Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum [http://ritmalssafn.arnastofnun.is/; 15/10/2019]. p. 119; »the chieftains and all the people banished this man [Þorbjörn]«. AM 160 fol., 115v; »drove [him] away«. 71 Holm Papp fol. n. 50, 62v; »drove [him] away and cleared him away«. 69 Króka-Refs saga, 70 72 An interesting parallel is found in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. When Þorsteinn goes to confront Þórðr about the blows he was given, he addresses him as Þórðr minn (see Þosteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, p. 71). Contrary to most instances in Króka-Refs saga, here it is the hero addressing the transgressor in a familiar manner. It is noteworthy that this part of the þáttr is only preserved in post-medieval manuscripts, although according to Jón Jóhannesson (ed.) 1950, p. xii, AM 156 fol. is copied from one or more parchment manuscripts. 73 This exception occurs in Holm Papp 8vo n. 6, 65r in the exchange between Refr and Bárðr cited above, where Refr addresses Bárðr as Bárðr minn. The reading is unique to this one manuscript. 196 Þorgïls var ath Sodninge j elldahvse. Refur gieck þängad. þorgïls spyr hvur þar fære? Refur seiger til syn. miok leggur reïk j augu mÿn er ek kienne þig eigi. ok kom heill oc vel. Refur sagdi: þad vil eg þiggia huad er nv ath eyrindumm vinur? Refur sagdi ek er kominn til þess hingath ath beidazt böta fyrer illmæle þau er þier fedgar hefed til mÿn haft. Þorgils mællte: nær hofumm vier [illa] til þÿn talad oc trv ecke slyku Refur fielage eda hvort er þad maal er þu kienner oss? Refur seiger þad framm þorgils mællte oc broste ad: eigi dÿl eg ath margt verde rædt j gamne: enn þo mun ecke þetta loged, þui eg hygg þad mune hvort ord satt j þessú. Refur hoggur nv til hans med spiötinú.74 (Þorgils was boiling food in the kitchen. Refr went there. Þorgils asks who goes there. Refr made himself known. ›I have a lot of smoke in my eyes since I do not recognise you, and welcome.‹ Refr said: ›I will accept that.‹ – ›What is your business here, my friend?‹ Refr said: ›I came here to ask for compensation for the slander that you and your sons have said about me.‹ Þorgils said: ›When have we talked [badly] to you and do not believe such things, Refr, my friend, or what is it that you accuse us of?‹ Refr said it. Þorgils said and smiled: ›I do not conceal that much is dicussed out of fun, but this will not have been a lie, because I think that every word of it is true.‹ Refr then struck at him with the spear.) The corresponding passage reads as follows in the medieval text: Þorgils var at soðningu í eldahúsi. Refr snýr þangat. Þorgils spurði, hverr þar færi. Refr segir til sín. Þorgils mælti: ›Mjök leggr reyk í augu mér, er ek kenni þik eigi, ok kom þú heill ok vel.‹ Refr segir: ›Þat vil ek þiggja.‹ Þorgils mælti: ›Hvat er at erindum?‹ Refr segir: ›Ek er kominn at beiða bóta fyrir illmæli þat, er þér hafið til mín haft.‹ Þorgils mælti: ›Nær höfum vér illa til þín talat, eða hvert er þat mál, er þú kennir oss?‹ Refr sagði þá fram orðin. Þorgils mælti þá: ›Eigi dyl ek þess, at vér mælum mart í gamni, en þó mun þetta eigi logit, því at ek ætla hér hvert orð satt í vera.‹ Refr höggr þá til hans með spjótinu.75 __________________________ 74 AM 75 160 fol., 128r–v. Króka-Refs saga, p. 136. 197 (Þorgils was boiling food in the kitchen. Refr went there. Þorgils asked who went there. Refr made himself known. Þorgils said: ›I have a lot of smoke in my eyes since I do not recognise you, and welcome.‹ Refr says: ›I will accept that.‹ Þorgils said: ›What is your business here?‹ Refr says: ›I came here to ask for compensation for the slander that you have said about me.‹ Þorgils said: ›When have we talked badly to you or what is it that you accuse us of?‹ Refr then said the words. Þorgils said then: ›I do not conceal that we say much out of fun, but this will not have been a lie, because I think that every word of it is true.‹ Refr then struck at him with the spear.) Apart from rewordings that do not change either the meaning or the style of the text, the significant changes between the medieval and the postmedieval text include the repeated familiar addressing of Refr as vinur and félagi,76 Þorgils’ request that Refr should not believe the rumours, and the smile before the final insult. Several other manuscripts 77 have a parallel usage of terms of endearment in Refr’s first conflict with his neighbour Þorbjörn, as Þorbjörn welcomes him with the words komþú heill oc vel Reffúr minn,78 some of them employing it simultaneously in both scenes.79 The two scenes share several similarities. The conflicts are connected to places where Refr is settled down in an established household, first at his birth farm Kvennabrekka in Iceland, then at the farm Hlíð that he takes over from his father-in-law in Greenland. They arise because a neighbour transgresses against Refr – Þorbjörn lets his cattle graze on Refr’s family property and kills his shepherd, whereas Þorgils Víkarskalli and his sons __________________________ 76 AM 163 f fol., 4r tripples down on this by adding a third address when Refr is welcomed by Þorgils with the words kom heÿll ok vel Refur minn. Another slight modification within the same group is to be found in the two Stockholm manuscripts, where vinur is adjusted to Refúr vinur in Holm Papp fol. n. 50, 80r and Refur minn in Holm Papp 8vo n. 6, 58r. manuscripts in question are AM 554 b 4to, AM 165 i fol., AM 554 h α 4to, AM 554 a γ 4to, Add MS 4846, AM 456 4to, AM 552 f 4to, Thott 977 fol., and Thott 984 fol., which belong to the branch descending from Holm Perg 4to n. 8. 78 AM 165 i fol., 2v. 79 The usage in both scenes is the case in witnesses Add MS 4846, AM 456 4to, AM 552 f 4to, Thott 977 fol., and Thott 984 fol. In these manuscripts, some form of contamination is possible. 77 The 198 spread rumours about Refr’s lack of manliness. In both cases, Refr pays the transgressing neighbour a visit. He enters the farmhouse, but the other man does not recognise him and asks who goes there. In both cases, the neighbour engages in a somewhat untypical activity, which is the reason why he is unable to identify the visitor: Þorbjörn is lying down taking a nap, whereas Þorgils is cooking food in a smoke-filled kitchen. As Refr reveals his identity, he is welcomed and greeted. In both cases, Refr demands compensation for the harm done against him, but he is met with mockery, which leads to the violent escalation of the situation. Both neighbours clearly undervalue Refr’s manliness and thus do not see him as a threat. Despite their own vulnerable positions – Þorbjörn having to first dress in his bed-closet, Þorgils blinded by smoke from the fire – no attempt is made on their part to manoeuvre out of the situation without escalating it. On the contrary, they not only refuse to pay the requested compensation, but further insult Refr by drawing his masculinity into question. In this context, the familiarities directed at Refr by both Þorbjörn and Þorgils can be read as a further sign of arrogance towards an underestimated adversary, or even as further humiliation, since the joviality implies a clear power hierarchy. At the same time, however, this joviality enters a dialogue with the audience and their expectations. As discussed above, awareness of the saga narrative and genre conventions would mean that the audience would anticipate the progress of the narrative and the outcome of the conflicts. Adding joviality to Þorbjörn’s and Þorgils’s responses to Refr amplifies the disregard they hold against him. This, in turn, increases the contrast and tension between Refr’s reputation in the eyes of his opponents on the one hand, and Refr’s character portrayal as perceived by the audience on the other. A red thread throughout the saga are the repeated challenges to Refr’s honour and masculinity.80 The resulting conflicts can therefore be viewed as reiterations of the initial challenge, which the kolbítr must pass in order to assert his manliness. Despite the difference in the employed devices, the arrogance added to the words of Refr’s opponents has a similar effect to the exaggerated character description of Refr in his youth as discussed above. __________________________ 80 See Merkelbach 2021 (this volume) for a discussion of the social implications of the attacks on Refr’s honour. 199 Conclusion The purpose of this article was to provide a survey into the variance in some of the post-medieval manuscripts of Króka-Refs saga and to explore how some of the changes work in the narrative and what effect they have. The focus has been on the C-branch of the manuscript stemma, which contains a number of innovations that are likely to have been introduced into the text intentionally. The examined examples constitute only a fraction of the overall variance found in the post-medieval witnesses of Króka-Refs saga; minor scribal errors constitute the bulk of variation but are not indicative of audience responses to the narrative. Likewise left out from the present discussion were omissions, as these constitute ambiguous cases and their intentionality is questionable. The examined manuscripts of Króka-Refs saga indicate that a common type of change was scribal amplification. Certain aspects in the text that were perceived to be interesting or significant for the narrative were amplified or extended, both through adjustments to the existing text as well as additions. This is the case for instance with Refr’s portrayal and the dialogues between Refr and Bárðr. Furthermore, the additions fill out perceived gaps in the narrative, add information that was regarded as lacking or stylistic elements, which may be reflecting changing literary tastes. Pálmi Pálsson’s words about the tastelessness of the variance found in post-medieval manuscripts, quoted at the beginning of the article, easily raise expectations of dramatic plot changes, outrageous formulations or perhaps the addition of some scandalous scenes. However, as became evident from the examples explored in this article, this is not the case. Rather than a comment on the actual nature of the introduced changes, his remark is to be understood in terms of a textual critic’s viewpoint, which sees any change as a negative development that leads to the corruption of the text. However, new perspectives are opened when we start looking at manuscripts not only as vehicles that convey the text, which is perceived as a fixed entity that gets corrupted during its transmission, but also as cultural objects that were created for specific purposes and used over time. As such, many of the changes to the text testify about the reception of the saga by later audiences that continued to copy and use it. In the case of Króka-Refs saga, it is particularly interesting in this context that several high-profile manuscripts created for prominent Icelandic antiquarians preserved a text with so many innovations, suggesting that the text was deemed worthwhile to be copied. 200 Bibliography Manuscripts Add MS 4846 AM 157 d fol. AM 160 fol. AM 163 f fol. AM 165 i fol. AM 456 4to AM 471 4to AM 506 fol. AM 552 f 4to AM 553 c 4to AM 554 a γ 4to AM 554 b 4to AM 554 h α 4to AM 568 4to AM 586 4to GKS 1006 fol. Holm Papp fol. n. 50 Holm Papp 4to n. 5 Holm Papp 8vo n. 6 Holm Perg 4to n. 8 ÍB 45 fol. JS fragm 6 Kall 239 fol. Thott 977 fol. Thott 984 fol. Primary Sources Áns saga bogsveigis Æ Rafn, Carl Christian (ed.) 1829–1830, vol. 2 pp. 323– 362. Magnússona saga Æ Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.) 1979, pp. 238–277. Ketils saga hængs Æ Rafn, Carl Christian (ed.) 1829–1830, vol. 2, pp. 107– 140. Króka-Refs saga Æ Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959, pp. 117–160. 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Conti, Aidan 2012: »Scribes as Authors, Transmission as Composition: Towards a Science of Copying«, in: Slavica Ranković et al. (eds.), Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages. Presented at the Conference »Tradition and the Individual Talent: Modes of the Authorship in the Middle Ages« Organized by the University of Bergen, Centre for Medieval Studies, Nov. 17–19, 2008 (Papers in Mediaeval Studies 22), Toronto, pp. 267–288. Driscoll, Matthew J. 1997: The Unwashed Children of Eve: The Production, Dissemination and Reception of Popular Literature in Post-Reformation Iceland, Enfield Lock. Driscoll, Matthew J. 2010: »The Words on the Page: Thoughts on Philology, Old and New«, in: Judy Quinn / Emily Lethbridge (eds.), Creating the Medieval Saga: Versions, Variability, and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 18), Odense, pp. 87–104. Driscoll, Matthew J. 2013: »The Long and Winding Road: Manuscript Culture in Late Pre-Modern Iceland«, in: Anna Kuismin / Matthew J. Driscoll (eds.), White Field Black Seeds. Nordic Literacy Practices in the Long Nineteenth Century (Studia Fennica Litteraria 7), Helsinki, pp. 5063. Gödel, Vilhelm 1897–1900: Katalog öfver Kongl. bibliotekets fornisländska och fornnorska handskrifter (Kungl. Bibliotekets handlingar / Kungliga Biblioteket Stockholm 19–22), 4 vols., Stockholm. Hast, Sture 1960: Pappershandskrifterna till Harðar Saga (Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 23), Copenhagen. Haugen, Odd Einar 2013: »Tekstkritikk og tekstfilologi«, in: Odd Einar Haugen (ed.), Handbok i norrøn filologi. 2nd edition, Bergen, pp. 76–126. 202 Helgi Ívarsson 2007: »Sr. Jón Erlendsson handritaskrifari í Villingaholti«, in: Árnesingur 8, pp. 157–170. Jóhannes Halldórsson (ed.) 1959: Kjalnesinga saga. Jökuls þáttr Búasonar. Víglundar saga. Króka-Refs saga. Þórðar saga Hreðu. Finnboga saga. Gunnars þáttr Keldugnúpsfífls (Íslenzk fornrit 14), Reykjavík. Jón Helgason 1985: »Sylloge Sagarum. Resenii Bibliotheca. Vatnshyrna«, in: Opuscula 8, pp. 9–53. Jón Jóhannesson (ed.) 1950: Austfirðinga sǫgur (Íslenzk fornrit 11), Reykjavík. Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.) 1956: Eyfirðinga sǫgur. Víga-Glúms saga. Ǫgmundar þáttr dýtts. Þorvalds þáttr tasalda. Svarfdœla saga. Þorleifs þáttr jarlsskálds. Valla-Ljóts saga. Sneglu-Halla þáttr. Þorgríms þáttr Hallasonar (Íslenzk fornrit 9), Reykjavík. Jónas Kristjánsson (ed.) 1964: Viktors saga ok Blávus (Riddarasögur 2), Reykjavík. Kålund, Kristian 1900: Katalog over de oldnorsk-islandske håndskrifter i Det store kongelige bibliotek og i Universitetsbiblioteket, Copenhagen. Kapitan Katarzyna A. 2018: Studies in the Transmission History of Hrómundar saga Greipssonar. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Copenhagen. Kittang, Atle 2012: »Authors, Authorship, and Work: A Brief Theoretical Survey«, in: Slavica Ranković et al. (eds.), Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages. Presented at the Conference »Tradition and the Individual Talent: Modes of the Authorship in the Middle Ages« organized by the University of Bergen, Centre for Medieval Studies, Nov. 17–19, 2008 (Papers in Mediaeval Studies 22), Toronto, pp. 17–29. Kleivane, Elise 2010: Reproduksjon av Norrøne Tekstar i Seinmellomalderen: Variasjon i Eiríks Saga Viðfǫrla. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Oslo. Lethbridge, Emily 2013: »Dating the Sagas and Gísla saga Súrssonar«, in: Else Mundal (ed.), Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revision, Copenhagen, pp. 77–114. Lethbridge, Emily / Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir (eds.) 2018: New Studies in the Manuscript Tradition of Njáls saga: The Historia Mutila of Njála (The Northern Medieval World. On the Margins of Europe), Kalamazoo. Louis-Jensen, Jonna 2013: »Dating the Archetype: Eyrbyggja saga and Egils saga Skallagrímssonar«, in: Else Mundal (ed.), Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revision, Copenhagen, pp. 133–148. Maas, Paul 1960: Textkritik. 4th edition, Leipzig. 203 Margrét Eggertsdóttir / Driscoll, Matthew James (eds.) 2017: Mirrors of Virtue: Manuscript and Print in Late Pre-Modern Iceland (Opuscula 15 / Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 49), Copenhagen. Maurer, Konrad 1867: »Krókarefssaga, Gunnarssaga Keldlugnúpsfífls og Ölkofra þáttr. Kaupmannahöfn. Prentað á kostnað Páls Sveinssonar. 1866. (VIII u. 76. SS. 8o.)«, in: Germania 12, pp. 479–490. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2019: »Outlawed Bears and Trollish Foster-Parents: Exploring the Social Dimension of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted, pp. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2020: »›The Coarsest and Worst of the Íslendinga Sagas‹: Approaching the Alterity of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Rebecca Merkelbach / Gwendolyne Knight (eds.), Margins, Monsters, Deviants. Alterities in Old Norse Literature and Culture, Turnhout, pp. 101–127. Merkelbach, Rebecca 2021: »Outlawed Bears and Trollish Foster-Parents: Exploring the Social Dimension of the ›Post-Classical‹ Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted. Neglected Approaches, Characters and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies (Münchner Nordistische Studien 50), Munich, pp. 143–179. Minnis, Alastair J. 1988: Medieval Theory of Authorship. Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages. 2nd edition, Philadelphia. Nichols, Stephen 1990: »Introduction: Philology in a Manuscript Culture«, in: Speculum 65, pp. 1–10. Ogilvie, Astrid / Gísli Pálsson 2003: »Mood, Magic, and Metaphor: Allusions to Weather and Climate in the Sagas of Icelanders«, in: Sarah Strauss / Benjamin S. Orlove (eds.), Weather, Climate, Culture, Oxford/New York, pp. 251–274. Pálmi Pálsson 1883: Króka-Refs saga og Króka-Refs rímur (Samfund til Udgivelse af Gammel Nordisk Litteratur 10), Copenhagen. Quinn, Judy 2010: »Introduction«, in: Judy Quinn / Emily Lethbridge (eds.), Creating the Medieval Saga: Versions, Variability, and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 18), Odense, pp. 13–37. Quinn, Judy / Lethbridge, Emily (eds.) 2010: Creating the Medieval Saga: Versions, Variability and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 18), Odense. Rafn, Carl Christian (ed.) 1829–1830: Fornaldar sögur Norðrlanda, 3 vols., Copenhagen. 204 Ranković, Slavica et al. (eds.) 2012: Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages. Presented at the Conference »Tradition and the Individual Talent: Modes of the Authorship in the Middle Ages« organized by the University of Bergen, Centre for Medieval Studies, Nov. 17–19, 2008 (Papers in Mediaeval Studies 22), Toronto. Springborg, Peter 1977: »Antiqvæ Historiæ Lepores – om renæssancen i den islandske håndskrift produktion i 1600-tallet«, in: Gardar 8, pp. 53–89. Stefán Karlsson 1970: »Um Vatnshyrnu«, in: Opuscula 4, pp. 279–303. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir 2012: »The Resourceful Scribe: Some Aspects of the Development of Reynistaðarbók (AM 764 4to)«, in: Slavica Ranković et al. (eds.), Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages. Presented at the Conference »Tradition and the Individual Talent: Modes of the Authorship in the Middle Ages« organized by the University of Bergen, Centre for Medieval Studies, Nov. 17–19, 2008 (Papers in Mediaeval Studies 22), Toronto, pp. 325–342. Sverrir Tómasson 2002: »Er ný textafræðin ný? Þankar um gamla fræðigrein«, in: Gripla 13, pp. 199–216. Vésteinn Ólason 1998: Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of the Icelanders. Translated by Andrew Wawn, Reykjavík. Westra, Haijo J. 2014: »What's in a Name: Old, New, and Material Philology«, in: Marc van der Poel (ed.), Neo-Latin Philology: Old Tradition, New Approaches. Proceedings of a conference held at the Radboud University, Nijmegen, 26–27.October 2010 (Supplementa Humanistica Lovaniensia 35), Leuven, pp. 13–24. Willson, Kendra 2009: »Parody and genre in sagas of Icelanders«, in: Agneta Ney et al. (eds.), Á austrvega. Saga and East Scandinavia. Preprint Papers of the 14th International Saga Conference Uppsala, 9th–15th August 2009, Gävle, pp. 1039–1046. Wolf, Kirsten 1993: »Old Norse – New philology«, in: Scandinavian Studies 65, pp. 338–348. Zumthor, Paul 1972: Essai de poétique médiévale (Collection Poétique), Paris. Online Resources https://handrit.is [15/03/2019]. Ritmálssafn Orðabókar Háskólans. Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum [http://ritmalssafn.arnastofnun.is/; 15/10/2019]. 205 Yoav Tirosh Tearing a Text Apart – Audience Participation and Authorial Intent in Ljósvetninga saga and Tommy Wiseau’s The Room ›Oh my God,‹ one of them said, laughing. ›This looks so terrible.‹ Another one, looking back so as not to be overheard by anyone, said, ›Seriously, Greg. Does he think this is serious? This is real?‹ ›Completely,‹ I said. ›Tommy thinks this is the next Streetcar Named Desire.‹ ›What’s he planning to do with this movie?‹ ›Submit it to the Academy Awards.‹ Everyone laughed, but I wasn’t kidding. That was Tommy’s stated goal.1 What makes one text wanted and another unwanted? Many elements play out in this question, and it is hard to determine a single cause for the popularity of one piece of art over another. It is this article’s contention, however, that the notion of intentionality plays much into it; despite recent (and not so recent) dismissals of the role of the author, our image of a work’s creators and our belief that we can attain their original intent are of much import in the modern artistic experience. The following discussion will pair two unlikely companions: Tommy Wiseau’s 2003 film The Room – widely considered the »Citizen Kane of Bad Movies« 2 – and the thirteenth-century Icelandic saga Ljósvetninga saga, which has become a neglected saga, barely addressed in today’s scholarship. Our illusionary ability to obtain Wiseau’s intentions is contrasted with our inability to __________________________ I would like to thank the participants of the Unwanted workshop in December 2018, who sat through my avant-garde presentation that resulted in this much more coherent, I should hope, book chapter. In particular, I would like to thank Zuzana Stankovitsová and Alexander J. Wilson for pointing out resources that further inspired my research and chuckles. In addition, thank yous are in order to the comments from this book’s editors Andreas Schmidt and Daniela Hahn, as well as Christopher Crocker, Ármann Jakobsson and Yaron Baruch. Werner Schäfke-Zell also deserves a note of gratitude for being the first to make me consider The Room through scholarly lenses. Finally, a note of gratitude to the advice in all things Tommy Wiseau provided by Ólafur Björn Tómasson. Any faults that remain in the chapter are by my own design and intention. 1 Sestero et al. 2017, p. 163. 2 This term is attributed to Ross Morin; see Collins 2008, referenced in Pavlounis 2012, p. 24. 206 reach the Ljósvetninga saga author’s intent when putting words to parchment. Both the film and the saga, it will be shown, suffered a disconnect in their transmission from the original intent of their authors. While Wiseau was involved in most of the film’s process as its stated writer, director, producer, and main actor, the different stages of medial transmission from book to play to film cause a natural disconnect between intention and result, made worse by Wiseau’s failure to transfer his cinematic vision to the screen. In the case of Ljósvetninga saga, the particular nature of manuscript transmission, as well as editorial practices, caused a situation where the authorial intent of a supposed original author became irretrievable. It will be shown that despite the relatively unique situation where one voice is involved in most stages of the creation process, a true understanding of Wiseau’s intentions is unattainable because of the nature of film production. With The Room, the audience misreads faulty transmission as intention, which causes the film to be considered true to a single author’s intent, while with Ljósvetninga saga, this faulty transmission is understood as intentional where it is not, and as non-intentional where it actually is. What makes the twenty-first century movie The Room particularly interesting to compare with the thirteenth century Ljósvetninga saga is the cult that has been established around the film, and the resulting audience participation during its screenings. The audience shouting slurs, corrections and responses to the characters, filmmakers and writing of The Room will be compared with the editorial practices employed with Ljósvetninga saga from medieval times to the twentieth century. Both will be considered forms of audience participation, and both will be shown to be a reaction to the gap between the irretrievable authorial intent and the audience expectations for narrative coherence. Ljósvetninga saga is a member of the Íslendingasögur corpus charting the feud between the Möðruvellingar and Ljósvetningar – two prominent North-Icelandic families – between the late tenth up until the mideleventh century. The saga’s focus is on the Möðruvellingr Guðmundr inn ríki Eyjólfsson, and his son Eyjólfr, who takes over district leadership after his father’s passing. Despite this focus, the saga seems very much biased towards the Ljósvetningar, and Guðmundr inn ríki is especially derided, the saga and other characters’ insults focusing mostly on his masculinity. 3 __________________________ 3 Tirosh 2016. 207 The narrative introduces the feud between Guðmundr inn ríki and the Ljósvetningar, before moving on to describe Guðmundr’s attempt at expanding his control over the North-East of Iceland, in the three episodes usually called þættir; Sörla þáttr, Ófeigs þáttr and Vöðu-Brands þáttr. After the prominent East-fjords chieftain Þorkell Geitisson and his allies reign in this attempt at expansion, Guðmundr turns his eyes back towards establishing his power closest to home, in the Eyjafjörðr region and its surrounding areas, by contending with local chieftain Þórir Helgason, and killing the Ljósvetningr Þorkell hákr. The saga then describes the aftermath of that killing and Guðmundr’s death by paranormal means, and charts the continued feud between the Ljósvetningar and Möðruvellingar until it subsides with what seems to be Eyjólfr’s victory. Ljósvetninga saga is currently preserved in two medieval manuscripts, AM 561 4to, which is dated to sometime between the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century, 4 and AM 162 c fol., which is dated to c. 1420–1450 based on Stefán Karlsson’s identification of its scribe, Ólafur Loftsson.5 These two manuscripts represent two significantly differing versions of Ljósvetninga saga, AM 561 4to commonly referred to as the A-redaction, while the highly fragmented AM 162 c fol. (only three leaves are preserved of this manuscript) and its numerous – around 50 – paper manuscripts are commonly referred to as the Credaction. The differences between the redactions are thus: x chapters 1–4 are highly similar, beyond variances one finds in many manuscripts of the same redaction of a text.6 x chapters 5–12, three þættir (episodes) – Sörla þáttr, Ófeigs þáttr, and Vödu-Brands þáttr – which are only extant in the C-redaction, and would not have been in the A-redaction.7 x chapters 13–18 offer heavily divergent versions of a similar story. Page 37v of the A-redaction manuscript AM 561 4to is a seventeenth century summary of the nearly-illegible medieval script that was worn down, __________________________ Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007, p. 67. Stefán Karlsson 1970, pp. 137–8 and Stefán Karlsson 1998, p. 291. 6 See the discussion in MacPherson / Tirosh 2020. 7 This is the current undisputed scholarly consensus; see, e.g. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007, pp. 78–9. 4 5 208 after which a manuscript leaf was lost. 37v therefore constitutes a 210word summary of what would have been ca. 1200 words. 8 x chapters 19–21, again very similar to each other, like chapters 1-4.9 Ch. 21 ends abruptly towards the end in the extant A-redaction manuscript. x chapters 22–32 would not have appeared in the extant A-redaction, according to an analysis by Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson. 10 Chapter 32 is a story about the killing of Þorgeirr in Fóstbrœðra saga, ending abruptly and added out of its chronological logic (this story is commonly titled Þórarins þáttr ofsa). To call Ljósvetninga saga an unwanted saga would, perhaps, be considered an overstatement. This saga belongs to the popular Íslendingasögur corpus, and as such is better researched than, say, most indigenous riddarasögur. And yet, compared to the attention awarded to its more famous sisters such as Gísla saga Súrssonar, Egils saga Skallagrímssonar, Eyrbyggja saga or Laxdæla saga, little research nowadays is dedicated to Ljósvetninga saga, especially as a main study case, beyond the occasional brief mention or even rarer paragraph-length discussion.11 This was not always the case; Guðmundur Þorláksson’s 1880 edition of Ljósvetninga saga sparked an interest in the saga well into the mid-twentieth century, when Björn Sigfússon’s quarrelsome Íslenzk fornrit edition of the saga was released, most fittingly, in the midst of World War II. 12 Besides Hallvard Magerøy’s 1957 Sertekstproblemet i Ljósvetninga saga, Andersson and Miller’s 1989 translation of the saga, alongside Valla-Ljóts saga, constituted the last book- __________________________ 8 Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007, pp. 75–6. See also Tirosh 2019, pp. 21–6. See the discussion in MacPherson / Tirosh 2020. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007. 11 Notable exceptions to this include Gísli Sigurðsson 2004, as well as Theodore Andersson’s continued work on contextualizing Ljósvetninga saga within his scheme of Íslendingasögur development (e.g. Andersson 2012, pp. 166–70), and most recently Sefcikova 2019. 12 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880; Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940. The edition, and Björn Sigfússon’s monograph on Ljósvetninga saga that anticipated it, were seen as a significant step in the Bookprose-Freeprose debate; see, e.g., Hamre 1959, p. 469 and Stefán Einarsson 1942, p. 64. 9 10 209 length research dedicated to the saga.13 The reason research and interest in the saga has waned in the last few decades is tied to the very fact why this interest was sparked in the first place: the saga’s complex manuscript transmission. The existence of two redactions created a disagreement over which of them was closer to a supposed original. The Freeprose scholars argued for an oral background that accounted for the differences between the significantly different Ljósvetninga saga accounts, while the Bookprose scholars argued that these differences stem from a literary relationship between these redactions. Furthermore, in 1885 Swedish poet Albert Ulrik Bååth brought forth the idea that Ljósvetninga saga is the clearest case where one can detect the composition of the sagas as a group of þættir – strands – put together, but not seamlessly.14 Despite Andreas Heusler’s takedown of Bååth’s theories,15 all further discussion of the so-called þættir was of these as interpolated texts. Andersson offered one of the few interpretations of the þættir as inherent to the text, suggesting that the structure of Ljósvetninga saga »is episodic with or without the þættir«;16 these texts connect with the main story thematically, and thus belong in the saga. Andersson’s opinion, though, remains the minority; most recently, Ellert B. Magnússon described Ljósvetninga saga thus in his book meant for the popular audience Quotes and passages from the Icelandic sagas, reflecting the learned consensus: The Saga of the People of Ljosavatn was written late in the thirteenth century and takes place around the Eyjafjord district, North Iceland, from about 990-1060. Dealing with the common theme of regional feuds and disputes, the saga contains a number of memorable scenes, characters, and dialogues. The saga contains three independent tales (short accounts of Icelanders): The Tale of Sorli, The Tale of Ofeig and The Tale of Vodu-Brand, which were later added to the saga. As a whole, __________________________ 13 Magerøy 1957b; Andersson/Miller (eds. and transl.) 1989. Though several MA and PhD theses have been dedicated to the saga between 1989 and now (that is, the time of writing, December 2020), none of these manifested into a published monograph. Bååth 1885. On þættir see, e.g., Ashman Rowe 2017 and Ármann Jakobsson 2013. Heusler 1914, pp. 74–9. See also Andersson 1964, p. 62. 16 Andersson / Miller 1989, p. 73. 14 15 210 the saga itself appears more as a collection of a number of independent oral tales than a fully constructed saga.17 Together, the issues of contested origins and textual interpolations made the saga somewhat impenetrable for the scholar wishing to research the Íslendingasögur corpus – as well as the general reader who has to grapple with complex (and, to some, uninteresting) philological debates when approaching this text – and when the hullabaloo regarding the saga’s origins subsided, so did the interest in it. If Ljósvetninga saga is seen as impenetrable, The Room’s very claim to fame is the audience’s belief that it offers them unmediated access to its author’s intentions. The Room is – according to the consensus – a terriblymade film by a terrible film maker, who envisioned he was making a masterpiece. A Quixotic effort. The plot of the movie is quite simple: Johnny, a well-to-do San Francisco banker on the brink of a promotion, is betrayed by his fiancée (or, as the movie has it, »future wife«) Lisa and his best friend Mark, who venture on an affair. The climax of the movie has Johnny reveal his knowledge of the affair during his birthday party, and his subsequent suicide. A notorious scene that takes place at the rooftop of the apartment building where Johnny, Mark, Lisa and Denny live could help to illustrate the film’s absurdities. After a scene of relative suspense where a drugdealer holds a character at gun point – an event that is never again mentioned in the film – Lisa and Mark have a telephone conversation where she proclaims her love and desire, with Mark responding coldly to her overtures of emotions. There is, therefore, an immediate discontinuity when the following scene starts with Johnny being distressed over an accusation of domestic violence. This reaction to what he claims are false accusations comes out of nowhere, since any hint of domestic violence was only first voiced in a private conversation between Lisa and her mother a few scenes prior; Johnny should not even be aware of these allegations at this point. Johnny: I did not hit her! It’s not true! It’s bullshit! I did not hit her! I did not! Oh, hi Mark. Mark: Oh, hey, Johnny, what’s up? __________________________ 17 Ellert B. Magnússon 2016, p. 79. 211 Johnny: I have a problem with Lisa. She says that I hit her. Mark: What? Well did you? Johnny: No, it’s not true! Don’t even ask! What’s new with you? Mark: Well I’m just sitting up here thinking, you know? I got a question for you. Johnny: Yeah. Mark: You think girls like to cheat like guys do? Johnny: What makes you say that? Mark: I dunno. I dunno, I’m just, I’m just thinking. Johnny: I don’t have to worry about that because Lisa is loyal to me. Mark: Yeah man, you never know. People are very strange these days. I used to know a girl, she had a dozen guys. One of them found out about it, beat her up so bad she ended up in a hospital on Guerrero Street. Johnny: Ha ha ha! What a story, Mark! Mark: Yeah, you can say that again. Johnny: I’m so happy I have you as my best friend, and I love Lisa so much. Mark: Yeah, man. Yeah, you are very lucky. Johnny: Well maybe you should have a girl, Mark. Mark: Yeah. Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe I have one already. I don’t know yet. Johnny: Well, what happened? Remember Betty? That’s her name? Mark: Betty? Johnny: Yeah. Mark: Yeah, we don’t see each other anymore. You know, she wasn’t any good in bed. She was beautiful, but we had too many arguments. 212 Johnny: That’s too bad. My Lisa is great when I can get it. Mark: Oh, man, I just can’t figure women out. Sometimes they’re just too smart, sometimes they’re just flat-out stupid, other times they’re just evil. Johnny: It seems to me like you’re the expert, Mark! Mark: No. Definitely not an expert, Johnny. Johnny: What’s bothering you, Mark? Mark: Nothing, man. Johnny: Do you, do you have some secrets? Why don’t you tell me? Mark: Forget it! Forget it, dude! Johnny: Is there some secret, tell me. Mark: No, forget it, I’ll talk to you later! Johnny: Well, whatever. 18 The idiosyncrasy of this dialogue is immediately apparent. The explicitly misogynistic sentiments uttered by Greg Sestero’s character Mark were already out of place in the early 2000s when the film was made. Mark’s specificity with the »hospital on Guerrero Street« seems awkward even without the knowledge that there is in fact no hospital on San Francisco’s Guerrero Street.19 This is made even more disturbing by Tommy Wiseau’s character Johnny responding by laughing to this harsh tale of abuse. 20 The __________________________ The Room. In fact, this was an improvisation done by the actor Greg Sestero who was trying, according to himself, to get Tommy Wiseau to »approach [the scene] more playfully«, by naming the street in San Francisco in which the director owned a flat, see Sestero et al. 2017, pp. 66–7. Cf. Wiseau 2001, p. 23. 20 Cf. Sestero et al. 2017, pp. 65–6. This could perhaps be compared with the ominous, murderous laughter in the Íslendingasögur, where characters bursting in laughter is a sign of violent intent rather than humor, see, e.g., Crocker 2017, p. 242; pp. 244–5. The laughter in the sagas puts the characters and readers ill-at-ease, as does Tommy Wiseau’s laughter in response to a tale of domestic violence. The viewers cannot help but ask themselves what is it that makes the character Johnny, or the actor Tommy, laugh when he is told this story. 18 19 213 irony of Johnny reminding Mark that he is his »best friend« and that Lisa is his »future wife« is overdone. In addition, the moments where the protagonist gives hint of a suspicion of the affair (»What makes you say that?« »Is there some secret?«) are placed at a point of the narrative where no such suspicion has yet developed, and remain unaddressed. These problematic textual elements are enhanced by the movie’s sheer goofiness. In the scene’s first line, the oddness of Johnny’s movement from being devastated by a claim that he hit Lisa to cheerfully greeting his friend Mark is amplified by Tommy Wiseau’s acting, which moves from beat to beat without transition.21 The background is clearly a green screen and it gives the roof scene an amateurish atmosphere. The focus of the camera is also somewhat off, creating unexpected power dynamics. 22 Appearing in 2003 in a very limited release, the movie initially received little attention, its fan base growing slowly from a cult following of select individuals ›in-the-know‹, to frequent nightly screenings around the world. More recently, the film has received worldwide notoriety, thanks mostly to the 2017 James Franco film The Disaster Artist, which relates The Room’s production and initial reception.23 In The Room’s usually well-attended nightly screenings, fans shout at the screen in various scenes with sometimes ready-made and sometimes improvised responses, somewhat reminiscent of Rocky Horror Picture Show.24 For example, whenever a misogynistic statement is made towards Lisa, such as her mother stating that she cannot provide for herself, it is common to shout »Because you’re __________________________ 21 22 The making of this scene was chronicled in Sestero et al. 2017, pp. 62–71. This observation was made in the tongue-in-cheek video analysing how Wiseau arranges movement and the place of individuals within a scene, but the observation is nevertheless a relevant one, see This Guy Edits 2017 [https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=BD-YZbeajeY; 16/06/2019]. 23 On the developing reception of The Room, see Middlemost 2018. 24 For a discussion of the The Room screening event, see McCulloch 2011. The term ›fan‹ in the context of a badfilm is problematic, but could be seen as a shorthand denoting those who engage with the film on a somewhat regular basis, either in private or cinematic screenings. Cf. McCulloch’s use of the term »›fans‹« with a single quotation mark throughout his article. See also A Viewer’s Guide to the Room [https://www.avclub.com/ a-viewers-guide-to-the-room-1798215944; 28/03/2019], and Screening Tommy Wiseau’s THE ROOM [https://judgmentalobserver.com/2009/11/19/screening-tommywiseaus-the-room/; 28/03/2019]. On the concept of ›badfilm‹ see Sconce 1995. Writing before The Room’s production and release, he declared Ed Wood’s infamous Plan 9 from Outer Space »badfilm’s equivalent of Citizen Kane« (Sconce 1995, p. 388). 214 a woman!« In another scene, when Johnny places an awkward-looking recording device to catch Lisa’s conversations with her lover, audience members hum the theme song of the Mission Impossible franchise. The most famous feature of these screenings is the throwing of spoons whenever a stock photo of a spoon appears on screen, thus emphasizing the very little attention paid to the film’s production value; the absurdity of using the stock photo with which the frame was bought, rather than planting fake family or friend photos, becomes a sign of the laziness involved the film’s making.25 Almost every moment of the film is full of plot-holes, inconsistent acting, ill-conceived camera work, and poor production choices. So much so that the movie’s flaws are obvious even to those not trained in filmmaking or film studies. As MacDowell and Zborowski point out, badfilms such as The Room’s effect is the »democratisation of the pleasures involved in being a critic«, due to the film’s blatant breaking of the most simple rules of coherent cinematic narrative.26 Both Ljósvetninga saga and The Room leave gaps that need filling, and the audience – the scribes and editors in the case of the saga and the filmgoers in the case of the film – fill this up by responding to it, changing the text, finishing the thoughts. Together they problematize the notion of authorship and intent, and raise the question of who is the author of a piece of art; the artist, or the audience? Ironically, the audience becomes the author in exactly those moments where they try to recreate the intent of the saga or movie’s creator; the moments that frustrate their expectations of narrative coherence and conformity to their notions of how art is supposed to work are the moments where they take the mantle of authorship and try to do a better job than the authors themselves managed. __________________________ It should be noted that upon examination of the stock photos, only one can be definitely ascertained as containing a spoon. 26 MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, p. 16; p. 19. 25 215 Authorial Intentions MacDowell and Zborowski contend that the key to enjoying The Room lies in the acknowledgement of Tommy Wiseau as the film’s author, and his intentions to make a coherent film, that relates his worldview. 27 As they point out, this focus on intentions is so important that when The Room’s script supervisor Sandy Schklair’s argued that he directed a large portion of the film and »intentionally played up its badness«, this failed to make a lasting impression.28 »It seems very possible«, they conclude, that interpretive processes central to badfilm appreciation are frequently not only in significant ways fundamentally traditional, but even in interesting senses positively Romantic – relying, for instance, on an imagined closeness to the mental processes of flesh-and-blood authors.29 Tommy Wiseau’s identity as the oblivious author of the film is critical for audience enjoyment and interaction with The Room’s franchise.30 As MacDowell and Zborowski have it: »If we cannot assume that a film intended to achieve certain aims, then we cannot deem it ›bad‹ for failing in those aims, and cannot then recast this badness as ›so bad it’s good‹.« 31 The key here, then, is authorship and intent; if we cannot establish that the filmmaker failed to convey his intention – or that such intention even exists, at that – we cannot truly enjoy the film. It is important to note a distinction between the medieval notion of authorship and a modern one, as well as the difference between a modern literary author and the concept of authorship in filmmaking. While __________________________ MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, pp. 21–2. MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, p. 30 (fn. 19). 29 MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, p. 23. 27 28 Middlemost 2018, pp. 3–5. It should be noted that the documentary A Room Full of Spoons, which is trumpeted as an exposé of Tommy Wiseau, is still under legal straits that postpone its release. As of the time this article is being written it is still undetermined what revelations are held in the documentary and if and how its release will influence the reception of the film. If Wiseau’s authorship or the nature of the film are questioned, this documentary release will matter a great deal. Otherwise it might end up being another paratextual element building up the discourse about The Room, as discussed at length in Middlemost 2018. 31 MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, p. 5. 30 216 medieval Icelandic ties to the continental writings were stronger than scholars of the Bookprose approach believed, there is a lack of research in medieval Icelandic literary theory in general, and particularly on their approach to concepts such as auctor.32 Steblin-Kamenskij’s work, for example, is perhaps almost notoriously opposed to the notion of any similarity between modern authorship and Old Norse literature saga composition.33 Slavica Ranković’s notion of distributed authorship is also important to bear in mind:34 these were oral texts constantly developing and reacting to each other, even after they were first put to parchment. 35 However, even if inspired by their oral material, the saga authors had an obvious great degree of control over what to include and not include in their texts, and thus established their authority. 36 Yet this dynamic medieval authorship is constantly meant to be commented upon and revised.37 Film studies’ use of the term ›author‹ is no less contested and problematized, which makes it a surprisingly fruitful field of comparison with medieval literature in general and sagas in particular. Auteur theory was introduced in the mid-twentieth century and received much popularity, focusing on the individual voice and influence of a director on a film. However, it has been challenged as problematic from a political as well as theoretical standpoint.38 In a collaborative medium such as cinema, it is indeed difficult to speak of the voice of only one individual; could the screenwriter not be considered a film’s author on an equal standing with the director?39 __________________________ On the meaning of continental medieval authorship, see Minnis 2010. See also Clunies Ross 2005. 33 See Steblin-Kamenskij 1973, esp. pp. 49–68. 34 Ranković 2007. See also Steblin-Kamenskij 1973, p. 57. 35 Cf. Liestøl 1930, p. 43. 32 Hermann 2013, p. 346. While the assumption in scholarship is more often than not that the author of a particular piece is male, we should not forget the role of women as female scribes (and perhaps authors), see Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir 2006, pp. 148–50 and Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir 2013, pp. 385–9. 38 Naremore 1999; Kipen 2006. 39 Kipen 2006, p. 18. While Kipen’s work indeed puts the spotlight on the importance of screenwriters in filmmaking, it is somewhat disingenuous in that it takes little to no account of the audio-visual element involved in adapting a screenplay to a finished film. By Kipen’s own attestations, however, his book was a reaction to auteurism, with the 36 37 217 A productive model for authorship is offered by Jason Mittell, who differentiates between the (perceived) single authorship of a literary piece, which he terms »authorship by origination«; the cinematic authorship which does not make every creative decision but has a (perceived) final say over the finished product, which he terms as »authorship by responsibility«;40 and the serial nature of television authorship, where the important voice is not of an individual episode’s specific director or writer, but rather the show’s producer/s or showrunner/s, which he terms »authorship by management«.41 In Old Norse literature the lines between origination, responsibility and management are often confused, due to a lack of context and paratext; often we cannot ascertain if a certain aspect of the extant text stems from the person designated as its originator – nor, as the FreeproseBookprose discourse showed, can we agree on whether this originator is a text’s oral or literary author –, from the responsible scribe/s, or from the project’s managing compiler and/or patron. These lines are further blurred by the fact that sometimes a manuscript’s scribe can also be its compiler, and sometimes even the originator of the literary text. It is unclear, therefore, whose intent is reflected in any medieval text, let alone one with as complex a transmission as Ljósvetninga saga. When discussing the author of a medieval text such as this, then, it is important to remember that it is, in fact, always changing. At times this refers to the actual persons – possibly from the thirteenth century – who wrote down the saga’s two redactions based on oral traditions and their own interpretation of the material. And at times we refer to an idolized and hypothetical – and thus intangible – figure who would have written down a now lost original, that probably never existed. In cinema, Mittell’s concept of authorship by responsibility does open the door for a multiplicity of voices; a multiplicity __________________________ aim to »debunk it – and occasionally, with varying degrees of intentionality, to parody its excesses« (Kipen 2006, p. 18). 40 Paisley Livingston 1999, p. 144 offers a definition of cinematic authorship that gives the title »author« to the person who has control throughout the production and over the final product: »For example, when we hear bits of J. S. Bach’s music in a Bergman film, we know that Bergman did not compose or perform this music, but we can still recognize him as the author of the film as a whole, as well as of this particular utilization of music in film. He has made the decision about whether to use music at all, and where to put it in the film«. Livingston’s discussion of authorship, however, is somewhat narrow, as it does not allow for multiple agencies; the impression is given that a film can either have a single author, or none. 41 Mittell 2015, pp. 87–9. 218 that the audience mitigates by considering Tommy Wiseau’s multiple credits as The Room’s screenwriter, producer, director and main character, as well as the small-scale production of the film. This involvement in many aspects of the filmmaking help to ascertain Wiseau’s image as The Room’s author, at least from an audience standpoint,42 to the degree that the variety of voices involved in the filmmaking process are all but forgotten. As far as the audience is considered when watching The Room, it is only Wiseau’s intent that counts. The concept of the »Intentional Fallacy« warns against confusing what the author had intended when they put their work to words and the final meaning the audience can derive from it.43 Even Shakespeare, according to Northrop Frye, would be unable (or unwilling) to explain why he included certain scenes in Hamlet.44 Knapp and Michaels, on the other hand, warned against separating intention from meaning, claiming that the two concepts are indivisible.45 If there is no intention, how can we seek to understand a text’s meaning? A literary interpretation transfixed by the audience and its reaction to a piece of literature ignores the fact that this audience is guided by its understanding of the author’s intentions, and adjusts its reaction accordingly.46 An audience needs the concept of the (single?) author in order to read a text as a coherent piece of art, where all parts put together convey a consistent idea. Without situating an author in a particular time and place, much of a text’s meaning is lost. As Umberto Eco points out with a simple discussion of the Woodsworth sentence »A poet could not but be gay«, an interpretation stripped of its context would posit that this sentence discusses the poet’s sexual orientation rather than mood.47 Wayne Booth ties intention and meaning even more intensely together, and states that »wherever there are intentions, however obscure or unconventional, there are invitations to interpret.«48 __________________________ Naremore 1999, p. 22. See also Mittell 2015, pp. 105–17; Livingston 1999, p. 141. Wimsatt / Beardsley 1946. As Wayne Booth 1975, p. 126 (fn. 13) points out, the farreaching cries to completely disconnect the author from the literary piece were never Wimsatt and Beardsley’s intention. 44 Frye 1971, p. 86. 45 Knapp / Michaels 1982. See also Burke 1998, pp. 138–9. 46 Close 1972. See also Bevir 2002. 47 Eco 1992, p. 68. 48 Booth 1975, p. 245. 42 43 219 It is my contention that while what attracts audiences to The Room is the disconnect between its author’s intention and the cinematic result, what deters scholars – and therefore readers – from Ljósvetninga saga is both its perceived lack of intentionality and, at times, mistakenly identified intentionality. As discussed above, since Bååth’s research into the saga, scholars focused on its composition and origins. Björn Sigfússon’s Íslenzk fornrit edition of the saga removed four episodes from it,49 arguing that these are interpolated. This assertion was by no means unique: Adolfine Erichsen, the first researcher to dedicate a monograph to Ljósvetninga saga, suggested that the þættir were interpolated,50 that the four opening chapters were an abbreviation of a now-lost introductory episode, and that the differences between the two redactions stem from one using an exemplar with a lacuna.51 Björn M. Ólsen, following Bååth, suggested a separate composition time for these parts of the saga in his posthumously published lecture series.52 Björn Sigfússon’s follower Hallvard Magerøy also agreed that the þættir were interpolated.53 This attitude towards the saga’s þættir gives the impression that these texts were simply placed into the saga without much or any revision, and without these texts being integrated into the work.54 Magerøy actually suggested that chapters 13–18 in the Credaction were written by the same person who incorporated the þættir, and that he wished to integrate these two texts better by changing details. 55 Much of the attention awarded to Ljósvetninga saga involved the attempt at tracing the saga’s original version: which of the saga’s two redactions reflect better the text as it was originally put down to writing? Björn Sigfússon assumed that this would be the A-redaction, currently available to us only in fragmentary form, and therefore rejected the three __________________________ These are Sörla þáttr, Ófeigs þáttr, and Vödu-Brands þáttr, which constitute the C-redaction’s chapters 5–12, and Þórarins þáttr ofsa, the C-redaction’s chapter 32, which ends with a lacuna. See Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, pp. 107–13; pp. 115–21; pp. 123–39 and pp. 141– 7 respectively. 50 Erichsen 1919, p. 11; pp. 79–85. 49 Erichsen 1919, pp. 45–61. Björn M. Ólsen 1937–1939, pp. 369–72. 53 Magerøy 1957a, p. 263. 54 For a discussion on intentionality in compilation, see Nichols / Wenzel 1999 and Orning 2017, pp. 62–7. 55 Magerøy 1957b, p. 89. Andersson 1964, pp. 158–9 found these arguments untenable. See also MacPherson / Tirosh 2020. 51 52 220 þættir, which could not have fitted into the A-redaction manuscript’s missing leaves, and considered what was left of the C-redaction an attempt at historical fiction.56 Magerøy – following Björn Sigfússon’s lead57 – wrote a detailed analysis of the differences between the two redactions where he argued that in most cases the A-redaction is a better representative of the original Ljósvetninga saga. The C-redaction þættir, according to Magerøy, were interpolations aimed at expanding the story. 58 Theodore Andersson, however, countering Björn Sigfússon and Magerøy, suggested that it was rather the C-redaction that was closest to the original, while the A-redaction’s redactor »is an abridger in the worst sense, either bereft of any literary sense (including a sense of drama and a sense of humor) or too precipitate to take heed.«59 But what is it about Ljósvetninga saga’s C-redaction that creates the impression that this was simply a group of texts strung together without the revision required from integrating different parts into one coherent piece? Or, as is the case of the A-redaction, why was it perceived as a unified piece of text, when in actuality, a significant portion of the fourteenth-fifteenth century text of AM 561 4to was worn down and only partially recreated by a seventeenth century hand? And what is it about The Room that invites such confidence in the author’s intentions being represented in the final product? I argue that the key to this is in the manuscript transmission; in the case of Ljósvetninga saga, in its intermedia movement between oral text, manuscript, and eventually the printed edition.60 In the case of The Room, the fact that Wiseau himself took a key position in the entire process of transmission means that the end result should present us with a piece that is coherent and accords with his authorial intentions; however, as will be shown, the process of __________________________ Björn Sigfússon 1937, p. 38. In the English summary of his monograph Björn says about the C-redactor: »Much more than an historian, he is an author, who rewrites chapters of Ljósvetninga saga as an historical novel« (Björn Sigfússon 1937, p. 42). 57 See Andersson 1964, p. 155; pp. 158–9. 56 Magerøy 1957b. Andersson 1964, p. 165. Borggreve 1970 offers a somewhat more positive view of the Aredactor, though she agrees with Andersson that the C-redaction was the original. Most recently, Michael MacPherson and myself utilized advancements in stylometry to argue for the priority of the C-redaction (MacPherson / Tirosh 2020), at least in the parts of the saga where the narrative offers divergent tellings of the same plot. 60 On meditality in Old Norse literature, see Heslop / Glauser (eds.) 2018. 58 59 221 transmission from original script to film loses much in translation, as is wont to happen in a multi-authored process that involves an intermedia adaptation. Problematic Transmissions As mentioned above, much of the early discussions on the Íslendingasögur in general, and of Ljósvetninga saga in particular, revolved around the issue of orality vs. literary sources for these texts. While the debate has reached a stalemate in recent years, research into the oral origins of the Íslendingasögur has much developed, especially due to Carol Clover’s advancement of a comparative approach. 61 One productive theory developed by Slavica Ranković is that of the ›distributed author‹. This concept emphasizes that the Íslendingasögur that we have before us are »narratives arrested in their development«,62 capturing a specific moment of the oral tradition, which every performance would have changed and developed.63 Many moments of Ljósvetninga saga, despite their arguable literary function, could be seen as a result of the movement from oral to written media, as well as the changes that naturally take place during the manuscript transmission. In the opening chapters of the saga, Guðmundr inn ríki, who is to later become the main character, enters Ljósvetninga saga with no introduction.64 Other characters are, likewise, not introduced, or appear out of place. This, among other reasons, caused Erichsen to suggest that the opening chapters 1-4 were a deficient abbreviation of a no longer extant narrative.65 In another case in the saga’s A-redaction, the prominent Northeastern medieval Icelander Þorkell Geitisson appears abruptly in an effort to settle matters between Guðmundr inn ríki and his rival Þórir Helgason.66 Despite few scholars addressing this matter directly, it would certainly appear that this kind of abruptness encouraged Andersson to __________________________ Clover 1986. See also Callow 2017, pp. 18–9. Ranković 2007, p. 303. 63 Glauser 2013 expressed similar sentiments, see esp. p. 28. 64 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880, p. 117. 65 Erichsen 1919, pp. 73–8. 66 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880, p. 266. 61 62 222 declare the A-redactor an abridger.67 Finally, the much discussed þættir have caused the impression for some that these texts were clumsily incorporated into the saga’s C-redaction, and that removing them would not affect Ljósvetninga saga’s plot.68 Guðmundr inn ríki’s abrupt entry into the saga could be easily accounted for when one considers that this is one of the best-known late tenth and early eleventh century Icelanders, a follower of both Hákon jarl and Ólafr helgi. His presence in various Íslendingasögur is so far-reaching that Gísli Sigurðsson has constructed much of the chieftain’s life based on these appearances,69 utilizing the concept of the immanent saga, which supposes that medieval Icelanders would have had a repository of tales about certain individuals. They could conjure up these various stories in different tellings and different contexts.70 Even without this specific oral storytelling mechanic it is clear that some individuals – Snorri goði, Grettir Ásmundarson, Ásgrímr Elliða-Grímsson or Þorsteinn inn hvíti, for example – needed no introduction in the Íslendingasögur, and from his many appearances in the corpus, it is safe to assume that Guðmundr inn ríki was one of these. Ironically, when Gísli Sigurðsson discusses Þorkell Geitisson’s appearance in Ljósvetninga saga’s A-redaction, it reveals the general problem that stems from the state of the text. Despite Gísli acknowledging the fragmentary nature of the only extant medieval A-redaction manuscript, AM 561 4to, he nevertheless treats Þorkell’s abrupt appearance as a feature of the text rather than a result of problematic transmission: A text could, apparently, be trusted to know who Þorkell Geitisson was [...] and could rely on the audience to work out for themselves how Þorkell came to be involved in the affairs of Guðmundr ríki and Einarr Þveræingr.71 __________________________ 67 See above. Though see Magerøy’s thoughts on the þættir’s influence on the C-redaction, discussed above. 69 Gísli Sigurðsson 2007. 70 Clover 1986; Foley 1991. 71 Gísli Sigurðsson 2007, p. 171. 68 223 This statement does not acknowledge that the 210 words extant in AM 561 4to’s 37v, in which Þorkell Geitisson appears, are in fact an abridgement of the ca. 1200 words that would have been in the following three lost manuscript pages (one damaged and two lost, according to Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson’s calculations).72 Thus, while Gísli’s statement can very well be true in regards to the post-medieval 37v abridger, there is a high possibility that it does not reflect Ljósvetninga saga’s no longer extant narrative and how it would have introduced this character’s involvement in the scene.73 With their attempt at creating definitive texts for use in scholarship and the general public, editors of normalized saga texts make choices that influence the way a certain saga is perceived.74 Emily Lethbridge has shown for the case of Gísla saga Súrssonar how an edition’s choice to prioritize a certain redaction over another, as well as stylistic editorial choices of prioritizing different readings when the base-text does not match the editors’ expectations, can skew our understanding of a saga. 75 The same is true for Ljósvetninga saga. Guðmundur Þorláksson’s edition from 1880,76 meant for the general public, was the first critical edition of the text since Þorgeir Guðmundsson and Þorsteinn Helgason’s 1830 edition that was based mostly on the post-medieval manuscript AM 485 4to.77 Despite it being a reliable edition in that it marks most significant manuscript variants, this edition has been criticized for its creating of a composite text, combining the A-redaction and C-redaction manuscripts, as well as providing chapter headings that influenced readers into thinking of the saga in parts/þættir.78 Björn Sigfússon’s Íslenzk fornrit edition __________________________ Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007, pp. 75–6. This is not to say that Þorkell Geitisson would have necessarily been introduced with a genealogy, but rather that his appearance in the saga would have been somewhat less abrupt. 74 See Ármann Jakobsson 2018 on Guðni Jónsson‘s editorial practices. 75 Lethbridge 2010. 76 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880. 77 Þorgeir Guðmundsson / Þorsteinn Helgason (eds.) 1830. 78 In chapters 1–4 and 19–21, where both redactions of the saga agree, Guðmundur used the A-redaction rather than the post-medieval C-redaction manuscripts. But in chapters 5– 18 he used the medieval C-redaction manuscript when possible, and the post-medieval ones when not. The same goes for the end of chapter 21 that is not in the A-redaction, until the end of the saga. Therefore, the most useful edition of Ljósvetninga saga that 72 73 224 prioritizes the A-redaction over the C-redaction. In the variant chapters 13–18, the A-redaction is printed in large letters, while the C-redaction text is printed below it and in a smaller font.79 Once the story breaks off in the A-redaction manuscript’s final lacuna, we have no way of knowing what followed, or if anything followed at all. 80 Therefore, when Björn Sigfússon keeps the large letters after the break, 81 he makes it seem like the Aredaction’s inclusion of chapters 22-31 was a fact. As mentioned, Björn Sigfússon also removes Sörla þáttr, Ófeigs þáttr and Vöðu-Brands þáttr from the main body of the saga and presents them separately. The final, fragmentary Þórarins þáttr ofsa is also removed and placed after the saga in the edition, with only a footnote that indicates that there is any connection at all with Ljósvetninga saga.82 Guðmundur Þorláksson’s edition gives the reader the impression that the text is a patchwork of sorts, an assortment of stories put together. Björn Sigfússon’s edition gives a similar impression for the saga’s C-redaction, that the saga’s þættir were added unnecessarily by the redactor. In addition, he minimizes the breaks in the A-redaction, thus not properly reflecting how damaged and lacking the transmission of this version of the text actually is. All these factors of inter- and intramedia transmission and adaptation, then, caused a situation where a hypothetical author’s intentionality was unattainable. The debate around which redaction of the saga took precedence reached an obvious stalemate, and as such a paralysis when it came to theorizing on what was actually meant by this supposed author; how can you tell what was meant by an original text’s author when you cannot even agree what the original text actually is? In addition, both redactions of the saga were misrepresented; the C-redaction þættir’s importance within the text’s logic were downplayed, and the significantly __________________________ was in use for the next 60 years or so, was also, in fact, a composite text. Guðmundur also divided the saga into *Guðmundar saga and *Eyjólfs saga, and further divided the Guðmundr part into þættir. See Bååth 1885, pp. 1–2; Erichsen 1919, p. 70; Björn Sigfússon 1937, pp. 4–5; Björn M. Ólsen 1880; Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, p. xxiii (fn. 1). Note that Björn Sigfússon criticizes Erichsen because of her basing her conclusions on Guðmundur Þorláksson’s division. See also Magerøy 1957b, p. 10; p. 13. 79 Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, pp. 16–51. 80 See the discussion of the extant AM 561 4to in Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007. 81 Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, p. 60 (fn. 2) is the only indication that this is the end of the extant A-redaction. 82 Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, p. 143 (unnumbered footnote). 225 different scope of the A-redaction text, most likely ending at Guðmundr inn ríki’s death, was similarly not acknowledged. If the saga was an assortment of loosely connected stories, a unified intentionality could not be detected. With lack of intentionality came a lack of interest, and the saga became unwanted. Initially, it would appear that The Room presents a completely opposite situation to that of Ljósvetninga saga, since Tommy Wiseau was – reportedly, at any rate – in charge of the entire process of transmission from play to film script. In addition, as Wiseau functions as the director, producer and main actor of the film, as well as screenwriter, one would expect a unique access to the intentions of this specific individual. This explanation, however, does not take into account that of the original intention is lost in the process of textual and medial transmission and cinematic editing. The Room, therefore, like any other cinematic release, exhibits a gap between the original authorial intention and the intention that lies behind the final product. While the complex process of transmission that is involved in the production of a film is inherent to the medium, the gap between the intention and final product is exacerbated by Wiseau’s unique personality; in his work on the film, and despite his statements otherwise, Wiseau simply did not manage to communicate his intentions to the audience. This is manifest in several interviews in which the director defined his film as a »black comedy«. 83 Black comedy, or dark humor, requires irony as a key component, 84 an irony that is either missing or not conveyed properly in the film. The process of transmission and the contrary statements provided by Wiseau creates a situation where the audience’s belief that they can obtain the film’s intention requires them to actually ignore what the filmmaker has to say about his own movie. Much like with Ljósvetninga saga – the way that the editions handled the various parts of the saga and the fragmented preservation of the Aversion and Þórarins þáttr ofsa – the process of The Room’s transmission creates a situation where characters and scenes seem superfluous and interpolated to the film’s audience. MacDowell and Zborowski description of The Room’s narrative could easily be applied to Ljósvetninga saga as well: __________________________ See, e.g. an interview with Tommy Wiseau where he described the film as a »black comedy« and also goes into the generic definitions of this category, Terefenko 2009. See also Lannamann 2009. 84 Bloom 2010, p. xv. 83 226 »Narrative superfluity – the inclusion of significant portions of material that has no discernable place in any overall narrative scheme – is a major feature of The Room.«85 Examples of this are found in abundance. One of the oddest characters in the film is Denny, who Greg Sestero and Tom Bissell describe as »a man-child Peeping Tom neighbor who has no purpose in the story other than to ambiguously propose a threesome and be saved from a drug dealer.« 86 Denny’s function within the plot is more significant than Sestero and Bissell give him credit; his inclusion both attests to Johnny’s magnanimous nature, and offers a softer side to Lisa, otherwise devilishly depicted in the film’s narrative. However, the awkward casting choice of the 26-year-old Phillip Haldiman as a teenage college student, as well as having Denny proclaim his love towards Johnny’s fiancée Lisa and then quickly stating that he intends to marry his own girlfriend, with whom he states he is in love, creates an unsettling tension with regard to his character’s integrity. This is enhanced by the unexplored drug-abuse plotline he is involved in, as well as an air of suspense that accompanies the character with no clear pay-off. Another example can be found in one of the film’s most often quoted scenes, where Lisa’s mother, Claudette, mentions to her daughter her fear of death and reports that she has breast cancer. Her daughter glances off the statement by stating: »Look, don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine. They’re curing lots of people every day«,87 quickly diverting the conversation back to her own emotional drama. The brushing off of the serious medical issue is made even worse by the fact that it is never again mentioned in the film. In another non sequitur, Bennett Dunn’s unnamed character stares at Lisa in the middle of Johnny’s birthday party, and states to his conversation partner – in the film’s heteronormative world this would presumably be his girlfriend or wife – »Lisa looks hot tonight.«88 This comment is an example of the general tendency of the film to interject dialogue and scenes that are seemingly unrelated to the plot. These abrupt characters and scenes would have been more natural if the author had intended to create a __________________________ 85 86 MacDowell / Zborowski 2013, p. 11. Sestero et al. 2017, p. 33. 87 The Room. 88 The Room. 227 feeling of confusion or of the uncanny for the audience, but not in a naturalistic melodrama.89 Much of these oddities are not present in what is touted as The Room’s ›original script‹ from 2001.90 The exact nature of this script is unclear. According to Wiseau, the movie script started out as a lengthy book, which was then transformed into a play and a movie script. 91 A movie script that has been peddled by Greg Sestero and Tommy Wiseau in their public appearances is referred to as a »play« within the text itself, 92 and therefore increases the confusion in regards to the actual nature of this text. The truth about the transmission of the text therefore requires further research, but at present it seems that ›original script‹ is the agreed upon term when referring to the play.93 In this play many of the unexplained elements of the film are not present; the character Denny, for example, does not appear,94 nor does Bennett Dunn’s unnamed character. The way that the cancer statement is treated is also noteworthy: The dialogue between Lisa and her mother – where the daughter dismisses the mother’s ailment – is kept. But an additional dialogue appears later, after Lisa talks to her lover Mark on the phone while Johnny is in the shower. As Johnny leaves the shower he hears her finish the conversation: Johnny: Who were you talking to? Lisa: My mother. Johnny: Is she okay? Lisa: Oh, she tested for breast cancer, and now she is talking about dying. Johnny: It’s no big deal these days, is it? __________________________ 89 Cf. Woloch 2003, pp. 134–6. Wiseau 2001. Lannamann 2009; Sloan 2011. 92 Wiseau 2001, p. 1. 93 See for example Rabin 2015. 94 It is possible that the character of Denny, for example, would have been in Tommy Wiseau’s original massive novel on which he claims the movie is based, but it can only be assumed that there his presence would be somewhat better explained. 90 91 228 Lisa: No, I’m not worried.95 While this conversation does not add much, it makes this odd scene a bit better knitted into the plot; Claudette’s manipulative behavior throughout can be explained by the emotional distress she is under. Like with other film productions, the intra- and intermedia transmission of The Room, then, creates logical gaps that separate between what had been originally intended and the end result. While this is not the film’s only flaw, it reflects a larger pattern of Wiseau’s inability to transfer his cinematic vision to the screen in a manner that would seem coherent to an audience. Wiseau’s insistence that everything in the final film was intended creates a cognitive dissonance for the audience, 96 which urges them to act when viewing the film, to actively participate in a way that reconciles the clear logical gaps. Similarly, Ljósvetninga saga’s editors and researchers have been convinced for centuries that the existing material does not operate as a unit logically. Therefore, they intervened in the form of editorial manipulation to reconcile the perceived gaps between an original authorial intent and the extant manuscript text. Audience Participation As argued by Richard McCulloch, one of the chief functions of the audience participation element in The Room screenings is that it »[a]ffirms the interpretive competence of other viewers by appearing to remove some of the text’s ambiguities.« 97 By shouting at the screen, the audience is given an opportunity to point out flaws in the film, and even to ›rewrite‹ the gaps left in the narrative. One such rewrite is the habit of shouting »I put my cancer inside you!« whenever Claudette touches her daughter Lisa’s nose. 98 With this, the audience addresses the absence of any further mention of the mother’s breast cancer and turns it into a sinister theme lurking in the film’s subtext. When a new character enters the scene without any __________________________ Wiseau 2001, pp. 20–1. Woloch 2003, pp. 134–5. 97 McCulloch 2011, p. 212. 98 McCulloch 2011, pp. 208–9. 95 96 229 introduction, audience members shout »Who the fuck are you?!« By doing this they are putting a focus on the notion that these scenes are interpolated. Similarly, when Phillip Haldiman’s character Denny appears, fans regularly shout »Hi Denny!« and »Bye Denny!« when he leaves. This is done due to the character’s abrupt manner of entering and leaving a scene, as well as his unclear function in the narrative. This kind of interaction, which BBC’s Nicholas Barber frames as cruel,99 cannot be possible if there is any indication of Wiseau’s intention to create a bad, rather than a good, film. When Reddit User SquiggleDrama suggested Harold Pinter’s 1957 short play The Room as the inspiration for the film due to its absurdist nature in the subreddit Fan Theories & Speculation, other users dismissed this, invoking rather Wiseau’s self-stated influence from naturalist playwright Tennessee Williams.100 The possibility that Wiseau was influenced by Pinter is not beyond probability; besides the shared title, one can point out, for example, the Kitra Williams song »You’re My Rose«, which repeats the lines »You are my rose« several times during the first sex scene between Lisa and Mark in Wiseau’s The Room. In Pinter’s The Room, Rose is revealed to be the pseudonym of the main character, Sal. This closing off to alternative intertextual connections by the film’s regular viewers or fans and the insistence on Tennessee Williams rather than Harold Pinter as an influence is telling: as an absurdist piece of art, The Room is unexceptional, and its attraction to the badfilm audience is lessened due to its oddities becoming intentional rather than fortuitous. As an attempt at a naturalist melodrama, however, The Room’s failure is made more significant, and easier to enjoy. This is why Wiseau’s intent is such a critical consideration in the audience’s experience: to admit that the film’s failings are intentional means, in fact, to admit that these are not failings at all. 101 If these are not failings, the whole point of watching the film and shouting at the screen breaks down. The audience is no longer correcting the filmmaker, but rather playing along with his joke. Audience participation is a feature of saga literature as well. As Ralph O’Connor shows in his extensive research into truth-claims in Old Norse __________________________ 99 Barber 2016, referenced in Middlemost 2018, p. 7. Reddit.com: Fan Theories & Speculation [https://www.reddit.com/r/FanTheories/ comments/2q6ara/the_room_2003_is_based_on_harold_pinters_1957/; 28/03/2019]. 101 On this see Pavlounis 2012, esp. pp. 24–5. 100 230 literature, to address the audience was common practice in medieval – as well as post-medieval – times.102 But other forms of intervention exist for the audience keen to influence the scene. As O’Connor stresses, »each manuscript, or family of manuscripts, can be seen as bearing witness to a separate performance – whether or not we choose to see this performance as ›scribal‹ or ›actual‹.«103 Such interventions could take place in manuscript margins,104 or in various alterations that take place in the regular manuscript transmission.105 In one post-medieval manuscript of Ljósvetninga saga, for example, the scribe took an alliterative passage and wrote it in verse form, thus emphasizing its poetic qualities. 106 In an earlier Ljósvetninga saga manuscript, the scribe decided to skip everything that takes place in the plot after Guðmundr inn ríki’s death, and write a summary instead.107 The nineteenth century scholar Hallgrímur Scheving added emendations and clarifications to his own manuscript of Ljósvetninga saga, JS 428 4to. For example, he provided an ending to Þórarins þáttr ofsa.108 As illustrated above, the most invasive way the Íslendingasögur audience participates is through editing the saga and influencing the saga’s reception. This last form of audience participation is done with the aim of creating a coherent text, usually with the explicit agenda of retrieving what is closest to the saga’s original form. Guðmundur Þorláksson and Björn Sigfússon’s intervention in the text is a silent parallel to The Room’s audiences shouting at the screen in order to amend the movie’s text. This is inherent in their manuscript choices: Guðmundur’s Kall 616 4to and Björn Sigfússon’s JS 624 4to were chosen by them to represent Ljósvetninga saga’s C-redaction precisely because they amend certain clauses and replace unclear readings,109 thereby ›fixing‹ the text. But, ironically, all this emendation __________________________ O’Connor 2005. O’Connor 2005, p. 123. 104 See, e.g., Arthur 2012. 102 103 See, e.g., Stankovitsová 2021 (this volume). NKS 1785 4to, 139r [marked as p. 275] 107 AM 514 4to, 23v–24r. See also Tirosh 2019, pp. 43–5. 108 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880, pp. 255–6. 109 Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880, pp. xxix–xxx and Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940, p. lviii (fn. 2). The eighteenth century paper manuscript Kall 616 4to is, according to Björn, a copy of the seventeenth century JS 624 4to, and upon examination of the text, the two 105 106 231 does is to further the distance between their editions and the no longer extant text, essentially turning the audience members Guðmundur Þorláksson and Björn Sigfússon into the saga’s new authors. The version of Ljósvetninga saga presented to subsequent audiences now blends the intention of the saga’s author/s with that of its editors. Conclusion The audience never stops to ask ›why are scenes constantly repeated? why does Lisa lie about being pregnant? why is there such an emphasis on drugs?‹ Questions that, if there was a better writer, better director, better actors, we would be forced to ask. I think that once we move past thinking that the only thing this movie has to offer is funny lines and bad acting, we can see a film that’s fundamentally in conflict with itself on every level. A movie that is incredibly dense with meaning because of, and not in spite of, the fact that Tommy Wiseau clearly has no idea what he’s doing.110 In a tongue-in-cheek yet insightful video, YouTube user Big Joel – ignoring expectations cultivated by paratextual means regarding the film director Tommy Wiseau111 – provides a compelling analysis of The Room. There, he reveals an inner contradiction between the film’s attempt at realism and its surreal use of repetition and change in mood, which in turn reflect on Lisa’s attempt to take control of her life in face of a sexist, materialistic world. The fact is, then, that meaning can be found in Tommy __________________________ manuscripts certainly fit within the same tradition. JS 624 4to has a tendency to remove, add and amend readings that are not present in AM 162 c fol. For example, in Vöðu-Brands þáttr, AM 162 c fol., 2r reads ok tala nu um málið ok urðu á allt sattir. JS 624 4to, 44v reads this as og tala um málid urded þeir á allt vel sátter, while the AM 485 4to seventeenth century copy reads in 19r: og tala um málid, og urdu á allt sætter. Notice that both paper manuscripts remove the nu – but this is common to all C-redaction manuscripts I have examined – but while JS 624 4to changes the form of verða and adds a þeir and vel that are not to be found in AM 162 c fol., AM 485 4to remains relatively faithful. This trend is consistent upon further comparison of these two manuscripts. 110 Big Joel 2017 [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmI5qqIhEtY; 27/03/2019]. 111 Middlemost 2018 convincingly surveys these paratextual elements and their implications. 232 Wiseau’s The Room as it stands, though most likely not the meaning that its creator intended. With regards to Ljósvetninga saga, Andersson has shown that beyond the structural debate, the episodes designated as þættir fit with the larger saga in terms of its themes. 112 Like Big Joel, Andersson shifted the attention from the author and his intention to the final product, the extant C-redaction of Ljósvetninga saga. The origins of Ljósvetninga saga’s þættir matter less than their conformity with the saga’s general meaning. Nowhere is the contradiction between the intent of the author and the final product in both Ljósvetninga saga and The Room – and how these texts’ transmission influenced this disconnect – more apparent than in their names. Despite Björn Sigfússon’s claims otherwise, 113 in both of Ljósvetninga saga’s redactions, the focal point is Guðmundr inn ríki and the Möðruvellingar rather than the Ljósvetningar, to the extent that Bååth suggested that the saga should have been called »Möðruvellingasaga«. 114 Nevertheless, the earliest extant title of the saga – which is also the basis for its modern name – is found in the medieval AM 561 4to, 32v, in faded red ink: lioſuetninga·ſ·, Ljósvetninga saga. The earliest post medieval manuscripts of the C-redaction are variations of Ljósvetninga saga eður Reykdæla,115 hier hefur søgu af þorgeyr goþa, Gudmunde rijka, ⁊ þorkel hák,116 Ljósvetninga saga117 and even hier biriast saga sá er Reikdæla heiter.118 With these name changes, various scribes tried to deal with the unclear focality, and shifted it to the main actors – Guðmundr, Þorgeirr and Þorkell – or __________________________ 112 Andersson / Miller 1989, p. 73. Björn Sigfússon 1937, p. 5. 114 Bååth 1885, p. 2. Björn M. Ólsen 1937–1939, p. 371 solved this by suggesting that the first part where Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði’s sons do battle with Guðmundr inn ríki should be called Ljósvetninga saga, while the part that focuses on Guðmundr should be called Möðruvellinga saga. The various parts of the saga were later put together. See also Magerøy (transl.) 1950, p. 9. 115 E.g. Isl papp 35 fol., AM 554 e 4to, JS 624 4to, BL ADD 4867 4to, NKS 1714 4to, Kall 616 4to, Kall 621 4to, Lbs 1629 4to, Thott 984 I–III fol., AM 395 fol. 116 E.g. AM 514 4to, NKS 1704 4to (second copy), and NKS 1798 4to. Note that these three manuscripts are part of the branch marked as the B-redaction because of their different ending, but otherwise seem to stem from the same copy of AM 162 c fol. as all other Credaction manuscripts. 117 E.g. AM 485 4to and NKS 1785 4to. 118 NKS 1704 4to (first copy). 113 233 expand the field of action to include a larger segment of the Northeast – Ljósavatn and Reykjadalr. The earliest extant text witness we possess, then, already hosts a discrepancy between the intent of a hypothetical author, which we might expect to be manifested in the saga’s name, and the actual content of the saga. From the very first attestation of Ljósvetninga saga, then, the transmission process has already blurred the authorial intent beyond recognition; either the focus of the content had changed dramatically in the ca. 150 years between the saga’s composition and its first extant manuscript, or the title itself had changed in this process. Or perhaps both. In The Room’s original script, the directions make it clear that most of the action is to take place in a single room flat, rather than the two-story flat of the film version. In its very title, The Room embodies the discrepancy between intention and result that is manifest in the cult appeal of the film. In its very title, Ljósvetninga saga embodies the unattainable intentionality that makes it, perhaps in perpetuity, an unwanted saga in the Íslendingasögur corpus. As Ljósvetninga saga and The Room show us, each in their own way, authorial intent is intangible, elusive, and impossible to prove. In the case of a medieval saga, it is unattainable because of the nature of manuscript transmission, which changes, omits, and adds text with time. AM 561 4to, the earliest extant manuscript of Ljósvetninga saga, in itself fragmented, offers only a glimpse into what is certainly not a perfect copy of the text composed possibly in the thirteenth century. AM 162 c fol., which, beyond the three leaf fragments, is only truly preserved in post-medieval form, poses a similar problem, and cannot be said to help us understand the intent of Ljósvetninga saga’s original author (if there ever was one such single author). With The Room, despite us having unmediated access to a living author, the nature of cinematic authorship, as well as this specific filmmaker’s elusive nature, create a situation where we cannot truly determine what Wiseau intended in the film in any complete way. We can tell that he wanted to create a powerful drama, with strong male and manipulative female leads, but this in itself does not explain many of the film’s quirks and oddities, stemming from Wiseau’s own writing as well as the changes brought about by the transmission from book, to film script/play, to film. But beyond teaching us a lesson about authorial intent, The Room and Ljósvetninga saga also show us how in cases where the authors are not truly attainable but their existence is critical for understanding the piece, the audience takes the mantle of authorship upon themselves. People who attend The Room screenings do so to watch the film, but also to enjoy the cultic experience of hearing others shout at the screen and, if they opt to, to shout at it themselves. Ljósvetninga saga is 234 only available to us through the mediation of other audience members; be it through the paper manuscript copyists, or the modern editors, both changing, adding and removing parts of the text to suit their own interpretation of it. In experiencing The Room and Ljósvetninga saga, the audience matters as much as the author. In fact, through their participation, the audience becomes the author. 235 Bibliography Manuscripts AM 485 4to AM 514 4to AM 554 e 4to AM 162 c fol. AM 395 fol. BL ADD 4867 4to Isl papp 35 fol. JS 428 4to JS 624 4to Kall 616 4to Kall 621 4to Lbs 1629 4to NKS 1704 4to NKS 1714 4to NKS 1785 4to NKS 1798 4to Thott 984 I–III fol. Sources Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir 2013: »Cultural Memory and Gender in Iceland from Medieval to Early Modern Times«, in: Scandinavian Studies 85, pp. 378–399. Andersson, Theodore M. 1964: The Problem of Icelandic Saga Origins: A Historical Survey (Yale Germanic Studies 1), New Haven. Andersson, Theodore M. 2012: »Domestic Politics in Northern Iceland«, in: Theodore M. Andersson (ed.), The Partisan Muse in the Early Icelandic Sagas (1200–1250) (Islandica 55), Ithaca, pp. 143–170. Andersson, Theodore M. / Miller, William Ian (eds. and transl.) 1989: Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland: Ljósvetninga saga and VallaLjóts saga, Stanford. Arthur, Susanne M. 2012: »The Devil in Disguise? Scribal Remarks on Valgarðr inn grái in Njáls saga«, in: Leeds Studies in English New Series 43, pp. 1–7. Ashman Rowe, Elizabeth 2017: »The Long and the Short of It«, in: Ármann Jakobsson / Sverrir Jakobsson (eds.), The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, London/New York, pp. 151– 163. 236 Ármann Jakobsson 2013: »The Life and Death of the Medieval Icelandic Short Story«, in: Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112, pp. 257– 291. Ármann Jakobsson 2018: »Sögurnar hans Guðna: Um »lýðveldisútgáfu« Íslendingasagnanna, hugmyndafræði hennar og áhrif«, in: Skírnir 192, pp. 105–117. Barber, N. 2016: »The Room: Why so many love ›the worst film ever made‹«, in: BBC Culture [online] March 4, 2016 [http://www.bbc.com/ culture/story/20160212-the-room-why-so-many-love-the-worst-filmever-made; 28/03/2019]. Bååth, Albert Ulrik 1885: Studier öfver Kompositionen i Några Isländska Ättsagor, Lund. Bevir, Mark 2002: »How to Be an Intentionalist«, in: History and Theory 41, pp. 209–217. Björn M. Ólsen 1880: »Íslenzkar fornsögur gefnar út af hinu íslenzka bókmenntafélagi: I. Glúma- og Ljósvetningasaga. Khöfn 1880«, in: Tímarit Hins Íslenzka Bókmentafélags 25, pp. 261–269. Björn M. Ólsen 1937–1939: Um Íslendingasögur. Kaflar úr Háskólafyrirlestum (Safn til Sögu Íslands og Íslenzkra Bókmennta að Fornu og Nýju 6, 3), Reykjavik. Björn Sigfússon 1937: Um Ljósvetninga sögu. With a Summary in English (Studia Islandica 3), Reykjavík. Björn Sigfússon (ed.) 1940: Ljósvetninga saga með þáttum, Reykdœla saga ok Víga-Skútu. Hreiðars þáttr (Íslenzk fornrit 10), Reykjavík. Bloom, Harold, 2010: »Volume Introduction by Harold Bloom«, in: Harold Bloom (ed.), Dark Humor (Bloom’s Literary Themes), New York, pp. xv–xvi. Booth, Wayne C. 1975: A Rhetoric of Irony. 2nd edition, Chicago. Borggreve, Cecilia 1970: »Der Handlungsaufbau in den zwei Versionen der Ljósvetninga saga«, in: Arkiv for nordisk filologi 85, pp. 238–246. Burke, Seán 1998: The Death and Return of the Author: Criticism and Subjectivity in Barthes, Foucault and Derrida. 2nd edition, Edinburgh. Callow, Chris 2017: »Dating and Origins«, in: Ármann Jakobsson / Sverrir Jakobsson (eds.), The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, London/New York, pp. 15–33. Close, Anthony J. 1972: »Don Quixote and the ›Intentionalist Fallacy‹«, in: British Journal of Aesthetics 12, pp. 19–39. Clover, Carol J. 1986: »The Long Prose Form«, in: Arkiv för nordisk filologi 101, pp. 10–39. 237 Clunies Ross, Margaret 2005: »Criticism and Literary Theory in Old Norse-Icelandic«, in: Alastair J. Minnis et al. (eds.), The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism 2: The Middle Ages, Cambridge, pp. 345–360. Collins, Clark 2008: »The crazy cult of The Room«, in: Entertainment Weekly, December 12, 2008 [https://ew.com/article/2008/12/12/ crazy-cult-room/; 16/10/2019]. Crocker, Chris 2017: »Emotions«, in: Ármann Jakobsson / Sverrir Jakobsson (eds.), The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, London/New York, pp. 240–252. Eco, Umberto 1992: »Between Author and Text«, in: Stefan Collini (ed.), Interpretation and Overinterpretation, Cambridge, pp. 67–88. Ellert B. Magnússon 2016: Quotes and Passages from the Icelandic Sagas, Reykjavík. Erichsen, Adolfine 1919: Untersuchungen zur Liósvetninga Saga, Berlin. Foley, John Miles 1991: Immanent Art: From Structure to Meaning in Traditional Oral Epic, Bloomington. Frye, Northrop 1971: Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays, Princeton. Gísli Sigurðsson 2004: The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition. A Discourse on Method. Translated by Nicholas Jones (Milman Parry Collection of Oral Literature 2), Cambridge (Mass.). Gísli Sigurðsson 2007: »*The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki«. Translated by Nicholas Jones, in: Judy Quinn et al. (eds.), Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World. Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross (Medieval Texts and Cultures of Northern Europe 18), Turnhout, pp. 201–218. Glauser, Jürg 2013: »What Is Dated, and Why?«, in: Else Mundal (ed.), Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, Copenhagen, pp. 9–30. Guðmundur Þorláksson (ed.) 1880: Íslenzkar fornsögur 1. Glúma og Ljósvetninga saga. Copenhagen. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson 2007: »AM 561 4to og Ljósvetninga saga«, in: Gripla 28, pp. 67–88. Hamre, Haakon 1959: »Reviewed Work: Sertekstproblemet i Ljósvetninga Saga by Hallvard Mageröy«, in: The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 58, pp. 469–470. Hermann, Pernille 2013: »Saga Literature, Cultural Memory, and Storage«, in: Scandinavian Studies 85, pp. 332–354. Heslop, Kate / Glauser, Jürg (eds.) 2018: RE:writing: Medial Perspectives on Textual Culture in the Icelandic Middle Ages, Zurich. 238 Heusler, Andreas 1914: Die Anfänge der isländischen Saga (Abhandlungen der Königlich Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 1913. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 9), Berlin. Kipen, David 2006: The Schreiber Theory: A Radical Rewrite of American Film History (Melville Manifestos), New York. Knapp, Steven / Michaels, Walter B. 1982: »Against theory«, in: Critical Inquiry 8, pp. 723–742. Lannamann, Ned 2009: »Tommy Wiseau: The Complete Interview(s)«, in: Portland Mercury, August 13, 2009 [https://www.portland mercury.com/portland/interview-with-tommywiseau/Content?oid=1573119; 19/10/2019]. Lethbridge, Emily 2010: »Gísla Saga Súrssonar: Textual Variation, Editorial Constructions and Critical Interpretations« in: Judy Quinn / Emily Lethbridge (eds.), Creating the Medieval Saga: Versions, Variability and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 18), Odense, pp. 123–152. Liestøl, Knut 1930: The Origin of the Icelandic Family Saga. Translated by Arthur Garland Jayne (Instituttet for Sammenlignende Kulturforskning A, 10), Oslo et al. Livingston, Paisley 1999: »Cinematic Authorship«, in: Richard Allen / Murray Smith (eds.), Film Theory and Philosophy, Oxford, pp. 132–148. MacDowell, James / Zborowski, James 2013: »The Aesthetics of ›So Bad it’s Good‹: Value, Intention, and The Room«, in: Intensities: The Journal of Cult Media 6, pp. 1–30. MacPherson, Michael / Tirosh, Yoav 2020: »A Stylometric Analysis of Ljósvetninga saga«, in: Gripla 31, pp. 7–41. Magerøy, Hallvard (transl.) 1950: Soga om Ljosvetningane (Norrøne Bokverk 37), Oslo. Magerøy, Hallvard 1957a: Studiar i Bandamanna saga: Kring GjerdProblemet (Bibliotheca Arnamagnaeana 18), Copenhagen. Magerøy, Hallvard 1957b: Sertekstproblemet i Ljósvetninga saga (Avhandlinger. Det Norske Videnskaps-Akademi. Historisk-Filosofisk Klasse 1956, 2), Oslo. McCulloch, Richard 2011: »›Most People Bring Their Own Spoons‹: THE ROOM's Participatory Audiences as Comedy Mediators«, in: Participations: Journal of Audience & Reception Studies 8, pp. 189–218. Middlemost, Renee 2018: »Renovating The Room: Audience Reception and Paratextual Intervention«, in: Celebrity Studies, pp. 1–18. Minnis, Alastair 2010: Medieval Theory of Authorship, Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages (The Middle Ages Series). 2nd edition, Philadelphia. 239 Mittell, Jason 2015: Complex TV: the Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling, New York. Naremore, James 1999: »Authorship«, in: Toby Miller / Robert Stam (eds.), A Companion to Film Theory (Blackwell Companions in Cultural Studies 1), Oxford, pp. 9–24. Nichols, Stephen G. / Wenzel, Siegfried 1999: The Whole Book: Cultural Perspectives on the Medieval Miscellany (Recentiores: Later Latin Texts & Contexts), Ann Arbor. O’Connor, Ralph 2005: »History or Fiction? Truth-Claims and Defensive Narrators in Icelandic Romance-Sagas«, in: Mediaeval Scandinavia 15, pp. 101–169. Orning, Hans Jacob 2017: The Reality of the Fantastic, the Magical, Political and Social Universe of Late Medieval Saga Manuscripts (The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilisation 23), Odense. Pavlounis, Dimitrios 2012: »Sincerely Celebrating Failure: Tommy Wiseau’s The Room and the Search for Sincerity«, in: Spectator 32, pp. 24–30. Rabin, Nathan 2015: »›The Room‹ Before ›The Room‹: Inside an Early, Even More Insane Draft of Tommy Wiseau’s Cult Classic«, Vulture, November 17, 2015 [https://www.vulture.com/2015/11/the-roombefore-the-room-inside-an-early-even-more-insane-draft-of-tommywiseaus-cult-classic.html; 03/01/2021]. Ranković, Slavica 2007: »Who Is Speaking in Traditional Texts? On the Distributed Author of the Sagas of Icelanders and Serbian Epic Poetry«, in: New Literary History: A Journal of Theory and Interpretation 38, pp. 293–307. Sconce, Jeffrey 1995: »›Trashing‹ the academy: taste, excess, and an emerging politics of cinematic style«, in: Screen 36, pp. 371–393. Sefcikova, Ela 2019: »The Women of Ljósvetninga saga«, in: Kyngervi 1, pp. 57–74. Sestero, Greg et al. 2017: The Disaster Artist: My Life inside The Room, The Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made, New York. Sloan, Will 2011: »The Varsity Interview: Tommy Wiseau«, in: The Varsity, April 27, 2011 (modified 12 April, 2013) [https://thevarsity.ca/ 2011/04/27/the-varsity-interview-tommy-wiseau/; 27/03/2019]. Stankovitsová, Zuzana 2021: »›Tasteless Additions‹: Post-Medieval Textual Variation in Króka-Refs saga as Audience Reception«, in: Andreas Schmidt / Daniela Hahn (eds.), Unwanted. Neglected Approaches, Characters, and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies (Münchner Nordistische Studien 50), Munich, pp. 180–205. 240 Steblin-Kamenskij, Michail I. 1973: The Saga Mind. Tranlated by Kenneth H. Ober, Odense. Stefán Einarsson 1942: »Publications in Old Icelandic Literature and Language 1939–1940«, in: Scandinavian Studies 17, pp. 45–65. Stefán Karlsson 1970: »Ritun Reykjarfjarðarbókar. Excursus: Bókagerð bænda«, in: Opuscula 4 (Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana 30), pp. 120–140. Stefán Karlsson 1998: »Íslensk bókagerð á miðöldum«, in: Guðmundur J. Guðmundsson et al. (eds.) Íslenska Söguþingið 28.–31. Maí 1997: Ráðstefnurit, Reykjavík, pp. 281–295. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir 2006: »Genbrug í Skagafjörður: Arbejdsmetoder hos skrivere i klostret på Reynistaður«, in: Else Mundal (ed.), Reykholt som Makt- og Lærdomssenter i den Islandske og Nordiske Kontekst (Rit / Snorrastofa 3), Reykholt, p. 141–154. Terefenko, Paul 2009: »Interview: Tommy Wiseau«, in: NOW, July 24, 2009 [https://nowtoronto.com/movies/interview-tommy-wiseau/; 19/10/2019]. The Room, Wiseau-Films, Directed, Produced and Written by Tommy Wiseau, Los Angeles 2003. Tirosh, Yoav 2016: »Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga«, in: Daniela Hahn / Andreas Schmidt (eds.), Bad Boys and Wicked Women. Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature (Münchner Nordistische Studien 27), Munich, pp. 240–272. Tirosh, Yoav 2019: On the Receiving End: The Role of Scholarship, Memory, and Genre in Constructing Ljósvetninga saga. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Iceland. Wimsatt, William K. / Beardsley, Monroe C. 1946: »The Intentional Fallacy«, in: The Sewanee Review 54, pp. 468–488. Wiseau, Tommy P. 2001: The Room. Unpublished film script. Woloch, Alex 2003: The One vs. the Many: Minor Characters and the Space of the Protagonist in the Novel, Princeton. Þorgeir Guðmundsson / Þorsteinn Helgason (eds.) 1830: Íslendínga sögur 2: Eptir Gömlum Handritum Útgefnar at Tilhlutun Hins Konúngliga Norræna Fornfræða Fèlags. Ljósvetnínga saga, Svarfdæla saga, Valla-Ljóts saga, Vemundar saga ok Vígaskútu, Vígaglúms saga, Copenhagen. Online sources A Viewer’s Guide to the Room [https://www.avclub.com/a-viewers-guideto-the-room-1798215944; 28/03/2019]. Big Joel 2017: »The Room | Big Joel« (13/07/2017) [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmI5qqIhEtY; 27/03/2019]. 241 Reddit.com: Fan Theories & Speculation [https://www.reddit.com/r/ FanTheories/comments/2q6ara/the_room_2003_is_based_on_harol d_pinters_1957/; 28/03/2019]. Screening Tommy Wiseau’s THE ROOM [https://judgmental observer.com/2009/11/19/screening-tommy-wiseaus-the-room/; 28/03/2019]. This Guy Edits 2017: »How Tommy Wiseau Blocks A Scene« (30/03/2017) [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BD-YZbeajeY; 16/06/2019]. 242 Mathias Kruse How to Scare Away the Devil. A Frenchman, the Devil, a Jew, and a Cunning Disguise in an Icelandic ævintýr known as Callinius saga AM 657 a-b 4°, a mid-fourteenth century Icelandic vellum manuscript from the Arnamagnæan collection in Copenhagen, offers a treasury of sagas, miracles, and edifying and entertaining short stories known as dœmisǫgur or ævintýr, which range from legend and fairy-tale to droll story and novella and which for the most part may be labelled as exempla.1 Amongst them is preserved a story that in the manuscript itself is called Af kaupmanni ok fjánda. This caption, written in red in line 20 on folio 53r at the beginning of the story, is somehow distorted, however, as the kaupmaðr (»salesman«) and the fjándi (»fiend, devil«) are in fact one and the same in the tale that follows. This led Hugo Gering to adjust the title in his 1882 edition of the tale to Af sýslumanni ok fjánda – or Der pakt mit dem teufel, in his German retelling of the story – in which Gering discards the kaupmaðr from the title and includes the ›real‹ main character, a sýslumaðr or ballivus (»bailiff«).2 The story tells of a nameless representative of a nameless French king. He is presented as »that kind of ruler that some people call an official (sýslumaðr) or legal practitioner in the affairs of the king«, 3 and is repeatedly referred to as »bailiff« using the Latin term ballivus, which corresponds to the function of the French bailli, a privileged royal __________________________ The manuscript starts with Bergr Sokkason’s († 1345) Mikjáls saga and adds about seventy short narratives of different origins and contents, the most well-known being Leizla Drycthelms, Drauma-Jóns saga, Hákonar saga Hárekssonar, Kláruss saga and Jóns þáttr biskups Halldórssonar. In its present state, the manuscript consists of one hundred leaves, including several lacunae, see Kålund 1888–1894, vol. 2, pp. 68–70; Gering (ed.) 1882, pp. x–xii; pp. xxiv–vi. 2 Gering (ed.) 1882, No. 48, p. 154, in which the original title is given in the footnotes. The German retelling is found in Gering (ed.) 1883, pp. 133–8. In AM 657 a-b 4°, the text is written on folios 53r–55v. 1 3 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 154: þann stjórnara er sumir menn kalla sýslumann eða rèttara kóngsins lögligra framferða. BLAdd 4859 adds the typically Icelandic term goðorðsmaðr to the description (Callinius saga, p. 80). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. 243 commissioner in medieval French administration. 4 A later Icelandic copyist, who does not appear to have been as proficient in Latin as the writer of the text he had at hand, seems to have been confused by the abrupt appearance of a word he did not understand, and interpreted it as a personal name. Thus, in a seventeenth-century paper manuscript kept in the library of the British Museum in London, BLAdd 4859, which offers a secondary version of the tale, the previously unnamed bailiff is now called Callinius, a name derived from the Latin noun.5 In the paper manuscript, which was compiled by Magnús Jónsson from Vigur († 1702) and written by Jón Þórðarson and Magnús Ketilsson between 1693 and 1697, the narrative is surrounded by fornaldarsögur, riddarasögur, and romantic tales translated from Latin, German, Dutch, French, and even Italian sources. 6 Apart from a seventeenth-century adaptation in rímur, no other attestation of the tale is known.7 With only some minor divergences in diction, elaborateness, and style, Callinius saga and Af sýslumanni ok fjánda tell exactly the same story. For the sake of convenience, it can be referred to as »the bailiff’s tale« and may __________________________ 4 5 See Bautier 1980. See Davíð Erlingson 1977, p. 88: »Um leið skýrir sig sjálft, hvernig sérstök Callinius saga hefur orðið til: Einhver afritari miðaldatextans hefur ekki áttað sig á latínuorðinu betur en svo, að hann gerði úr því nafn á sýslumanninn. Hér fara saman skilningsbrestur og mislestur, sbr. ritmyndarlíkingu orðanna ballivus: Callin(i)us«; »At the same time it becomes obvious how a separate Callinius saga emerged: some copyist of the medieval text was not able to deal with the Latin term any better than making it the name of the official. It is a misunderstanding combined with a misreading, as there is a similarity in the writing of the words ballivus and Callin(i)us«. Davíð suggests that the version in BLAdd 4859, which must be secondary as far as the reinterpretation of the term ballivus is concerned, appears to offer some readings that more closely match the original (see pp. 88–90); this could be explained with the existence of a lost archetype from which both versions originated independently. BLAdd 4859 contains Hrómundar saga Gripssonar, Bragða-Ölvis saga, Valdimars saga, Mírmants saga, Ívents saga, Parcivals saga, Valvens þáttr, Erex saga, Mǫttuls saga, Virgilíus saga, Illuga saga Gríðarfóstra, Hálfdanar saga svarta, Gǫngu-Hrólfs saga, Ármanns saga, Bǫðvars þáttr bjarka, Callinius saga (on folios 142v–145v), Heiðreks saga, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Lykla-Péturs saga, Knýtlinga saga (fragm.), a certain Sniðúlfs þáttr bónda ok konu hans (Af Sindulfo ok hans frú; Gering (ed.) 1882, No. 9, pp. 28–30), Rémundar saga keisarasonar, Kirjalax saga and Titos saga ok Gisippos, see Ayscough 1782, p. 891; Ward / Herbert 1883–1910, vol. 1, pp. 196–7; pp. 394–7; pp. 403–5; pp. 843–5; Jón Þorkelsson 1892, pp. 201–3; Skeat et al. 1977, No. 4859; Davíð Erlingsson 1977, pp. 79– 80. 7 Jón Þorkelsson 1888, No. 67, pp. 172–4; Davíð Erlingsson 1977, pp. 92–119. 6 244 be summarized as follows. The bailiff, a wealthy man in charge of royal funds and who is literally »swimming« in money,8 lives in the lap of luxury until the king dies and his successor, checking his finances, finds him guilty of trousering money, deposes him from his office, and confiscates his belongings. Spoiled by his life in luxury and greed, the bailiff abandons himself to despair until, one fine day, a travelling salesman worried about his pale complexion approaches him and asks about his troubles. He offers a tempting bargain: in exchange for the instant relief of his sorrows and a return to his former office, which the salesman promises to bring about by unknown means, he must agree to follow the man on his travels in a far-off future and to become his servant. The bailiff greedily accepts at once, and the deal is sealed með handsölum ok váttum.9 Within no more than a couple of days, he sees himself restored to his office and his old lifestyle by the new king. Some time later, however, the bailiff realises that the wheel of fortune (hjólit hamingjunnar10) that brought him down before has now been reversed suspiciously and implausibly quickly, and that the salesman who seemed to be so very »splendid« must belong to the hounds of hell. 11 In his despair – he has only seven days remaining before he must keep his promise to become the devil’s servant – he seeks out a particularly wise man that lives in town, a Jew, tells him his story, and begs him for help. Initially puzzled by the request, the Jew is ultimately willing to give the bailiff advice, yet his advice stands out as unusual given his Jewishness. It starts with an important condition, namely a test of faith: En þat vil ek at þú vitir, at ráð mitt verðr ekki annat með þèr, en sú trúa er þú hefir til Jesum Nazarenum hon prófar sik. Er hon góð, þá dugir hon þèr, er hon ok annan veg, þá fær þú mið á þèr.12 __________________________ 8 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 154: svimandi í kóngsins gózi; »swimming in the wealth of the king« (Callinius saga, p. 81: sveimande j kongsins götze). 9 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 156; »by handshake and attested by witnesses« (Callinius saga, p. 83: med vottumm og handsølum). 10 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 156; Callinius saga, p. 83. 11 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, pp. 156–7: at kaupmaðr sá er fagr sýndiz man vera einn af helvízkri hirðsveit; »that the salesman who appeared to be splendid must be one of the hellish retinue« (Callinius saga, p. 83: ad kaupmadur sä, er honum so miøg fagur sijndest, mune vera eirn af helvijtskumm herskara). 12 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, pp. 157–8. The defective reading of undir in Gering’s edition has been replaced by mið. It is not the only instance of defectiveness of Gering’s 245 (And I want you to know, that my advice to you is nothing else but this: that the faith that you have in Jesus of Nazareth should turn out to be true. If it is good, then it will help you; but if it is different, then it will be revealed to you.) The Jew suggests that the bailiff must have faith in his Redeemer – in other words, that he must pin his hopes on the Lord and meet with the devil. He suggests further, however, that the bailiff should go to the meeting in a certain disguise; he should find a crown of thorns and a wooden cross that would fit his own size, all reddened in blood, and position the cross in an easily visible place in the chamber where he plans to meet the devil. At the stipulated date he should undress, put on the crown of thorns and a waistcloth, place himself on the cross in the right position, and excruciate himself to complete the image, smearing his blood on the five wounds of Christ.13 In other words, the bailiff must perform a simulated crucifixion scene with himself playing the role of martyr; by performing as Christ and confronting the devil with this meticulously arranged view, he might frighten the devil away. The implementation of this plan is, of course, markedly successful, as the devil – who is at once reminded of the harrowing of hell, which brings back dark memories on his part – falls for the deceit. As he enters the room with »burning eyes«,14 accompanied by his retinue, he assumes that he is being confronted by »the blood-red cross of our lord Jesus Christ with the hanging body and all signs of his magnificent pain«. 15 Reeling __________________________ transcription, as is shown by Davíð Erlingsson 1977, p. 90. The citation corresponds to Callinius saga, p. 84: Enn eg vil ad þu viter, þad raad mitt er ecki annad, sem eg legg til med þier, enn þetta, ad su tru er þu hefur til Jesum af Nazaret, hun mun pröfa sig siälf, ad ef hann er gvud, þä duger hun þier. 13 Although Gering reads pínustöðum (Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 158; »pain spots, wounds«), the correct transcription is fimm stöðum (Davíð Erlingsson 1977, p. 90; »five places«). 14 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 159: með brennöndum augum. In Callinius saga, p. 86, it is the sight that burns the eyes of the devil (og þöttest ødlast sijn bæde augu brennd; »and he seemed to burn both his eyes«). 15 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 159: skínn þvers mót honum blóðroðinn kross várs drottins Jesu Christi með hanganda líkam ok öllum líkendum hans háleitrar pínu (Callinius saga, p. 86: skijn nu beint i möte honum blödrodinn kross vors herra Jesu Christi, med hängande lijkama, og øllumm lijkindum hannz heiløgu pijnu). 246 back as if »the blaze of hell was pitched into his eyes«, 16 a phrasing that has a certain irony in it being applied to him, the devil believes that the bailiff has disappeared and been replaced by the Lord himself: Vei, vei, sagði hann, brott hèðan sem harðaz!17 The demon is conned out of his pay, and the baillif’s soul is saved; now remorseful and humble-minded, he locks himself away in a tower and lives the rest of his life in bliss and charity. Yet the Jew is also enlightened by the staging of the scene. In fact, it appears that he had a personal intention in giving his advice; when the day comes, the Jew is hiding in the chamber to witness all of it for himself. What he sees there convinces him of the greatness, truthfulness, and power of the Christian faith in the Redeemer, with the result that he and his kinsmen convert to Christianity. The Bailiff and his Devil-Consorting ›Cousins‹ The tale, which is not assumed to be indigenously Icelandic – it is stated at the beginning of both versions that the story was found »in beautiful letters written in Latin«, although no such original is known of18 –, is one of a kind. Yet the tale has predecessors and parallels as far as its subject, its themes, and some of its motifs are concerned. In order to reach a fuller understanding of this story, its literary background must be examined more closely, as it is essential to get to grips with its peculiarities. In doing so, it will be possible to highlight how it is distinct from some close ›cousins‹ with which it has been mixed up. __________________________ 16 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 159: sem sjálfum bruna helvítis væri varpat framan í augun á honum (Callinius saga, p. 86: sem siälfum helvijtess bruna være kastad j bæde augu ä honum). 17 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 159; »›Oh no‹, he said, ›let’s get away from here as fast as can be!‹« (Callinius saga, p. 86: Sve, sve, sagde hann, burt, burt, hiedan aller fiendur, þier hafed giort allilla ferd; »›Fie, fie‹, he said, ›away, away from here all fiends, you have made a really bad trip!‹«). 18 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 154: Svá finnz í fögru letri skrifat á latinu (Callinius saga, p. 83: Svo finnst j fornumm saugnumm ä lätinst mal ritad). Even if the statement might be explained as adding authority to an indigenously Icelandic story, the theme, tone and the localisation of the tale, as well as the use of words in Latin like ballivus and solarium, suggest the prior existence of a Latin original, see Gering (ed.) 1883, p. 138; Davíð Erlingsson 1977, p. 88. 247 Whilst there is good reason to view the tale as unique in its specifics, it is first and foremost a tale about a pact with the devil – a common narrative-type, with its most popular and most elaborately treated counterpart being the legend of Saint Theophilus of Adana.19 The legend of Theophilus was one of the most well-known and popular stories about a miracle of the Virgin Mary in the Middle Ages – it is also well-attested in Old Norse sources in the correspondent collections of Maríu saga20 – and therefore set standards in the depiction of the pact with the devil. It tells the story of a cleric, Saint Theophilus, who is elected to be a bishop, turns down the offer out of humility, and is defamed afterwards. After losing his position, he contacts a mage, usually depicted as a Jew, who arranges a meeting between Theophilus and the devil. They sign a contract and Theophilus is promoted to bishop, but soon regrets the deal and prays for his soul. It is the Virgin Mary who finally intercedes to retrieve the contract from the depths of hell, to dissolve it and to save him. The closeness of the legend of Theophilus and the story of the bailiff has already been remarked on by Hugo Gering. In his comment on the bailiff’s tale, he qualifies the legend of Theophilus as an »utterly curious parallel« and argues that there is an »unmistakable« similarity between the two stories, but he also admits to the great difference between them. 21 Frederic Tubach’s misleading categorisation of the Icelandic tale as a version of the Saints’ legend in his Index exemplorum may then have led to the assumption __________________________ Different accounts treating pacts with the devil in the Middle Ages are collected in Nuffel 1966, Habiger-Tuczay 1995, Neumann 1997, D’Agostino 2004, and Schnyder 2010. For detailed research into the legend of Theophilus, see Lundgren 1913, Plenzat 1926, Gier 1977, Gier 2010, Koll 2001, D’Agostino 2004, pp. 709–10, and Root 2017. On the visual aspects of the legend, see Böhm 1976; Schnyder (ed. and transl.) 2009, pp. 335– 44; Root 2017. 20 Kupferschmied lists five similar versions of the legend (Kupferschmied 2017, No. 1, p. 6), all of which are published in Unger (ed.) 1871, pp. xxxi–ii; pp. 65–9; pp. 402–21; pp. 1080–90; pp. 1090–104. See also Dasent 1845, pp. xxxi–iii, Kölbing 1876, pp. 7–8; pp. 40–1, and Piebenga 1988. The collection of Maríu saga includes a further offshoot of the legend, likewise published in Unger (ed.) 1871, pp. 708–10; this version is listed by Kupferschmied 2017, No. 121, p. 61 as Bischof mit Hilfe des Teufels; »Bishop with the aid of the devil«. 21 Gering (ed.) 1883, pp. 137–8: »äusserst merkwürdige parallele [der Theophiluslegende] […]. Die verwandtschaft [...] ist unverkenbar [...]. Freilich sind auch die abweichungen sehr gross«; »utterly curious parallel [to the legend of Theophilus] […]. The relatedness [...] is unmistakable [...]. Though admittedly the differences are great, too«. See also Pálmi Pálsson / Nyrop 1885–1887, p. 63 and Davíð Erlingsson 1977, pp. 90–2. 19 248 that the story was simply a »short Old Norse version of the legend of Theophilus«, as Rudolf Simek and Hermann Pálsson have it. 22 This assumption, however, is wrong: the bailiff’s tale may well be indebted to and influenced by the legend of Theophilus, but any detailed comparison of the narratives will show that they are not identical. What the tales have in common is the central conflict of the protagonist, whether the bailiff or Theophilus, losing their privileged position and retrieving it with the help of the devil. Both end up repenting and their souls are saved, although this happens in reversed order in the case of the bailiff. Yet there are also notable differences that render them distinct texts. Of the two, only Theophilus is a religious figure, specifically a cleric. The significance of this difference, however, is weakened by the tendency of the legend to secularise its protagonist, as is the case in twelfth- and thirteenth-century German versions of the tale, in which his ecclesiastical background is dropped altogether,23 and in the thirteenth century French miracle play Le miracle de Théophile by Rutebeuf, in which he appears as a bailli (»bailiff«).24 More significant are the facts that Theophilus’s downfall is unjust because he is defamed, whilst the bailiff is rightly accused of fraud; that the bailiff does not approach the devil, but is himself approached;25 and that the third-party negotiator of the pact in the legend of Theophilus, the (malicious) Jew, is missing from the bailiff’s tale – as paralleled, admittedly, by the digest version of the Alphabetum narrationum and a miracle play about Theophilus from Helmstedt in northern Germany.26 In addition, Mary is completely absent from the bailiff’s tale, although she sometimes takes a back seat in the legend as well,27 and the (helpful) Jew plays a role that is fundamentally different __________________________ Simek / Pálsson 2007, p. 53: »kurze altnord. Fassung der Theophilus-Legende«; see Tubach 1969, No. 3572, p. 277; see also Piebenga 1988, p. 184. All research on the legend of Theophilus, however, seems to neglect the Icelandic tale completely. 23 See Neumann 1997, p. 171; Koll 2001, pp. 918–9. 22 24 Le miracle de Théophile, p. 4; see also Gering (ed.) 1883, p. 138. Paul the Deacon’s († 799) depiction of the cleric even reflects the idea that he is an administrator unjustly accused of malpractice, see Neumann 1997, p. 155. This is also the case in the Historia Theophili by Marbode of Rennes († 1123), in which the Jewish mage seeks out Theophilus, see Koll 2001, p. 916. 26 Schnyder (ed. and transl.) 2009, pp. 192–3; pp. 313–4; Gier 1977, pp. 254–5. 27 See Neumann 1997, p. 174; Koll 2001, p. 919. Gier 1977, p. 74 similarly argues the following: »Auffallend ist die geringe Bedeutung der Gottesmutter [...]. Vom breit 25 249 from that which he plays in every version of the legend of Theophilus28 – a role that differs from almost every other depiction of Jews in medieval literature, for that matter. Davíð Erlingsson suggests that there is a logical connection between the absence of Mary and the role played by the Jew, because the writer intends to »improve« the depiction of the Jew by allowing him to take the role of saviour, which in turn would necessitate the »suppression« of the somehow unwanted figure of Mary. 29 Davíð’s argument, however, is questionable, as it depends on two uncertain assumptions: that the bailiff’s tale is in fact based on the legend of Theophilus, and that its writer actively wished to modify the depiction of the Jew and subsequently succeeded in reversing both the legend’s antisemitic notions and the mariological origins of its primary material. As the uncertainty of these assumptions renders this interpretation rather doubtful, it would be advisable to consider whether other literary relatives of the bailiff’s tale can be of more use in explaining its derivation and meaning. The secularisation process of the legend of Theophilus itself seems to be partly indebted to the influence of another tale, the so-called legend of Militarius, in which the protagonist who deals with the devil is a knight who lives in luxury and squanders his belongings.30 In despair, the knight __________________________ ausgeführten Marienlob mancher Fassungen dürfen wir uns nicht täuschen lassen: Die Bedeutung der Gottesmutter für das Geschehen der Legende ist äußerst begrenzt«; »The minor significance of the Mother of God [in the legend] is striking [...]. We must not allow ourselves to be fooled by the broadly explained praise of Mary in some versions: the significance of the Mother of God for the events of the legend is extremely limited«. See Gering (ed.) 1883, p. 138; Davíð Erlingsson 1977, pp. 91–2. Davíð Erlingsson 1977, p. 92: »Augljós tengsl eru hér á milli, því að bjargvættir hafa varla getað orðið tvær í þessari sögu. Gyðingurinn er eiginlega kominn í sess sjálfrar Maríu [...]. Vilji nokkur spyrja um tilgang höfundar sýslumannssögu, hlýtur svarið að vera hér, einrætt og afdráttarlaust. Hann hefur viljað snúa Theophilussögu á þann veg, að gyðingsmyndin yrði jákvæð og góð«; »There is a distinct connection, insofar as there could hardly have been two saviours in this story. The Jew actually took over Mary’s position [...]. If someone wanted to know more about the intention of the writer of the bailiff’s tale, the answer must be found there, unmistakably and without doubt. He wanted to alter the legend of Theophilus in a way that the image of the Jew became positive and favourable«. 30 See Neumann 1997, pp. 225–9, especially p. 227. The ways in which this legend may have influenced other tales about pacts with the devil, however, are complex, as Rubel 2009, pp. 191–7 underlines in his remarks on the legend. 28 29 250 calls upon a Jewish mage to find a way for him to become wealthy again. The Jew conveys him to the devil, who appears as a black raven; even though he is willing to renounce Christ, the knight is not willing to renounce the Virgin, and departs with the pact not having been made. In a nearby church, he confesses his sins in front of an image of the Infant Jesus and his mother; a bystander, who witnesses the image of the Virgin look down and ask her son for forgiveness, offers the knight help and even the hand of his daughter. The oldest and most influential version of this tale is that written by Caesarius of Heisterbach († c. 1240); its roots seem to be found in the older legend of Theophilus and the so-called Legende vom Frommen, the legend of a pious man who refused to renounce Mary. 31 The common thread is again the devil offering to help an impoverished nobleman regain his wealth, but the theme is by no means limited to the legends of Theophilus and Militarius and is also found in the tale of a knight called Eudo, told by Walter Map († c. 1210) in his Courtiers’ trifles. In this tale, the devil appears to Eudo in the disguise of an ugly old man and makes a pact with him; the knight then becomes a robber and, after several failed attempts at repentance, is finally burnt to death at his own instigation.32 A comparison of these tales indicates that depictions of the pact with the devil commonly involve not only guilt and the possibility of repentance, but also apostasy on the part of the protagonist. As far as ›our‹ bailiff is concerned, however, and despite his guilt in bringing about his own downfall, there is no real apostasy in his tale. The bailiff renounces neither Christ nor the Virgin; at first, he does not even realise that he has sold his soul to the devil. What is so peculiar about the tale is not simply that the figure of Mary is missing, but rather that the tale itself does not prominently engage with the idea of apostasy and that it deals with repentance only superficially. The pact with the devil, the impact of which is lessened by not directly featuring apostasy on the part of the tale’s __________________________ 31 Dialogus miraculorum, Book ii, ch. 12; see Neumann 1997, pp. 184–92, Rubel 2009, p. 19; pp. 133–8, and Gier 1977, pp. 327–9. Rubel 2009, pp. 113–27 addresses the connection between the legend of Militarius and the Legende vom Frommen which is also part of the miracle collection of Maríu saga (pp. 934–8; Kupferschmied 2017, No. 190, p. 89). 32 De nugis curialium, Dist. iv, ch. 6, pp. 314–41; see also Habiger-Tuczay 1995, p. 233. In the version of the legend of Theophilus found in Aelfric’s Homilies, it is the Jewish negotiator who is fated to die in the fire, which is the reason for Theophilus himself to repent, see Koll 2001, p. 920. 251 protagonist, is arguably not itself the focal point of the story, but merely a necessary event for the crux of the plot – namely, the staging of the simulated crucifixion – to unfold later. In other words, the tale is not as much about the bailiff and his pact with the devil as it is about the Jew, who is able to use the situation to his own means in order to stage a test of faith. The Jew In corresponding narratives, the roles that Jews play fall into two categories. They can be pure evil – the devil’s henchman, a sorcerer and heretic, ›demonic‹, ugly, obnoxious, greedy and vile – or they can play a more ›favourable‹ role, namely that of the pagan who witnesses and can testify to the truth of a Christian miracle by their conversion to Christianity.33 Originally the latter option seems to have been more common, but the deterioration of the typical image of the Jew throughout the course of the Middle Ages resulted more often in the demonisation of Jews, where the objective was no longer their conversion but rather their penalisation. This was not only the case in the depiction of Jews in medieval Passion plays, as Florian Rommel points out, but also in medieval exempla and miracle collections.34 Whilst ›our‹ Jew belongs to the second __________________________ On general depictions of Jews in Christian medieval literature, see Trachtenberg 1943, Erb 1993, Yuval 2007, and Steinberg 2008. For distinct aspects and corpora of this tradition, see Bremer 1986 (medieval Passion plays and iconography), Marcus 1997 (the image of the Jew in the exempla of Caesarius of Heisterbach), and Rommel 2002 (Passion plays, as well as general remarks on the development of depictions of Jews and the deterioration of their image). Rommel 2002, p. 196 also notes the variability of depictions of Jewishness within Passion plays themselves: »In den Passionsspielen des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts gibt es nicht nur ein Judenbild, sondern zwei. Im ›St. Galler Passionsspiel‹ existiert neben dem ›hässlichen‹ Juden Rufus, auch der ›gute‹ Jude Malchus. [...] Erst die Heilung seines Ohres, [...] also der körperliche Kontakt zu einem Wunder Christi, öffnet Malchus die Augen«; »In the Passion plays of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, there is not only one image of the Jews, but two. In the ›St Galler Passion play‹, besides the ›ugly‹ Jew Rufus there exists also the ›good‹ Jew Malchus. [...] Only the healing of his ear, [...] i.e. the physical contact with a miracle of Christ, opens the eyes of Malchus [to the power of Christian faith]«. 34 See Erb 1993, col. 680: »Während das Motiv der Bekehrung bis in die Spätantike zurückreicht, tritt es in den ma. und folgenden Überlieferungen ganz zurück«; »As the conversion motif reaches back to Late Antiquity, it fades completely in medieval and 33 252 category, however, he seems to ›exceed‹ it in terms of his positive features. He is the wise counsellor, who appears to give advice without even asking for anything in return – unless we posit that the staging of the test of faith is his ultimate aim, in which case we may consider the outcome of events as a kind of payment for the advice. Presuming this uniqueness in the depiction of the Jew, however, some circumstances must yet be taken into account. The question arises as to whether this depiction could be reasonably thought to be an Icelandic phenomenon, assuming that, as mentioned above, the narrative was indeed indigenously Icelandic or was at least heavily altered in the course of its translation to Icelandic from a supposed Latin original. As it seems that no Jews ever lived in Iceland in the Middle Ages, their image was heavily affected by ›imported‹ stereotypes.35 Jews appear most frequently in Icelandic texts in the miracle collections of Maríu saga, and are usually depicted in the context of dealing with the devil, lending money, mistreating hosts, mocking and befouling Christian icons, and kidnapping and even murdering clerics – especially those who are gifted in singing – while disguised as priests.36 If the Jews in these texts are innocent and open-minded about Christian doctrine, however, they may receive help from the Mother of God herself, as is the case for an English Jew who escapes his kidnappers; a Jewish woman in labour; and a Jewish boy who, after attending mass with Christian friends, is thrown into the oven by his own father, but is saved by the Virgin, who keeps him alive under her cloak.37 About 1200, Icelanders were praying for Jews’ souls, as the __________________________ later tradition«. See also Rommel 2002, p. 197; p. 204 (regarding the late medieval ›Frankfurter Passionsspiel‹): »Nicht einmal das am eigenen Körper erfahrene Wunder führt mehr zur Umkehr«; »Not even the miracle experienced by one’s own body is leading to a turnaround«. 35 Berulfsen 1958; Gad et al. 1963. Things were no different in Norway, see Cole 2015 and Friedman 2018. 36 Kupferschmied 2017, No. 1 (Theophilus, p. 6); No. 15 (Jude leiht einem Christen, p. 12); No. 27 (Toledo, pp. 16–7); No. 43 (Marienbild entehrt, pp. 22–3); No. 63 (Geistlicher von Juden aus Kirche entführt, p. 30); No. 139 (Erubescat. Geistlicher von Juden erschlagen, p. 69); No. 234 (Frau bringt Juden Hostie, p. 105). See also Kölbing 1876, pp. 18–9, Berulfsen 1958, pp. 128–30; pp. 136–40, and Cole 2015, pp. 245–51. 37 Kupferschmied 2017, No. 4 (Judenknabe im Ofen, p. 7); No. 196 (Maria befreit Juden, p. 92); No. 206 (Maria hilft Jüdin bei Geburt, p. 95). See also Berulfsen 1958, pp. 130–2. 253 Icelandic Homily Book (Holm perg 15 4°) indicates. 38 In general, the Icelandic depiction of the Jews thus corresponds to those images known from the continent, and there is little to indicate that a particularly idiosyncratic ›aberration‹ in the literary depiction of Jews should have originated in Iceland. Such an assumption remains difficult to prove, in much the same way as Hugo Gering’s proposal that the difference in the depiction of the Jew in the bailiff’s tale, along with the supposed ›disappearance‹ of the Virgin Mary from the text, may indicate Albigensian provenance.39 Without further evidence, such readings can only be conjectural. Several aspects of the portrayal of the Jew in the tale also have parallels to other texts. It is a typical feature of conversion stories that a pagan testifies to the effectiveness of the sign of the cross by his willingness to convert to Christianity upon witnessing it. Much like the figure of Doubting Thomas (Vulgata, John 20:29), the Jew must experience and see for himself that in which others simply believe. One example is a wellknown story from the Dialogues of Gregory the Great, which is known to have influenced the beginning of Norna-Gests þáttr, but which had also been translated en bloc into Old Norse as early as the twelfth century.40 The story tells of a Jew who takes shelter in an abandoned temple of the god Apollo, and who is disturbed by haunting devils boasting about their misdoings. One of them approaches him but is repelled, because the Jew, as an auxiliary precaution, made the sign of the cross.41 The next day he seeks out a bishop whom the devils had mentioned and warns him about __________________________ Íslensk Hómilíubók, 33v, ll. 28–30: Biþiom ver fyr ótrúm gyþingom. at goþ ov váʀ drotten take otru myrkr af hiortom þeirra. ſva at þeir keɴe ſiɴ dominuſ vera ieſum criſt várn drotten; »Let us pray for the unbelief of the Jews, that God and our Lord remove the darkness of unbelief from their hearts, so that they recognise their ›dominus‹ to be our Lord Jesus Christ«. 39 This conjecture is made by Gering (ed.) 1883, p. 138. 38 40 Dialogi de vita et miraculis patrum Italicorum, Book iii, ch. 7, 3–9; Díalógar Gregors páfa, pp. 91–2; Unger (ed.) 1877, vol. 1, pp. 222–4. The likeliness of there being a connection between Gregory’s Dialogues and the beginning of Norna-Gests þáttr (p. 15) has been pointed out by Þorvaldur Bjarnarson (ed.) 1878, p. xv; see also Harris / Hill 1989, pp. 112–7. Jacques de Vitry († 1240) offers a shortened version of the tale, see Sermones vulgares, No. 131, p. 59. Tubach 1969, No. 1663, p. 136 includes different tales about the overhearing of a devilish assembly, two of which are combined by Jacobus da Varagine († 1298) in his Legenda aurea, ch. 137. 41 Dialogi de vita et miraculis patrum Italicorum, Book iii, ch. 7, 3; Díalógar Gregors páfa, p. 91. 254 their approach; he then converts to Christianity, as he has seen what the sign of the cross is able to achieve. As in the bailiff’s tale, it is the sign of the cross that keeps the devil at bay; similarly, the texts also include both a Christian whose soul is at stake and a benevolent Jew, who appears sceptical of his own faith and who converts to Christianity after witnessing the power of the cross. As far as literary images of Jews are concerned, however, the Christian cross and especially the crucifix do not always function only as apotropaic emblems that ward off devils that tempt or come to collect human souls,42 but can also be the ultimate target against which to direct blasphemous atrocities, desecration, and mockery. Some stories of »anti-Jewish and image-friendly tendency«43, about Jews who stuck blades into a crucifix that started bleeding, indicate that there can be forgiveness and hope even for those who commit such an outrage. Similarly, in these tales the Jews and their kinsmen convert by the narrative’s conclusion.44 The prevalence of tales about host-desecration demonstrates that Jews were often depicted as malicious figures eager to re-enact the killing of Christ in every possible way, motivated by a desire for mockery and by sheer malignity. 45 If this were the case for the Jew in the bailiff’s tale, if mockery were his only aim and he was flouting the bailiff who he wanted to humiliate (so that, in the tale’s logic, the bailiff had to endure this, as Christ did before his killing), he would surely appear in a different light – that is, in a less exceptional light –, yet there seems to be no intention on his part to mock. As he is presented as well versed in Christian theology, citing the Chalcedonian creed on the two natures of Christ, who is »both God and man at once« (bæði guð ok maðr),46 and referring to Christian book lore, his genuine interest in Christianity seems to be accentuated. Again and again, the Jew states that the condition for the ruse to work is a substantial and true belief in the Redeemer and the willingness to surrender. 47 Accordingly, the Jew’s __________________________ 42 43 See Schneider 1996, cols. 389–92 and Drašček 1996. Häuptli (ed. and transl.) 2014, p. 1785 (fn.). See Erb 1993, cols. 681–2, Tubach 1969, No. 1373, p. 110, e.g. Legenda aurea, ch. 137, Maríu saga, p. 254, and Kupferschmied 2017, No. 75, pp. 35–6. 45 Erb 1993, cols. 679–82; Marcus 1996, pp. 249–53. 44 46 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 158; Callinius saga, pp. 84–5. 47 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, pp. 157–8 (see above); p. 158: hefir þú traust á þínum herra Jesu Christo er þú kallar, þá far til á sama dag sem ykkart mót skal vera ok set þína ván í drottni þínum. [...] því er þat mitt ráð, ef trúan bilar þèr eigi; »if you have faith in your Lord Jesus 255 scheme is unlikely to be seen as mockery. The staging of the fauxcrucifixion is more accurately understood as a test of faith that the Jew, who seems curious to see the outcome, arranges for the bailiff. Of course, it would be possible to accuse this Jew of abusing the situation of the poor Christian in a selfish way in order to gain knowledge himself. The (selfevident) success of the arranged performance, however, which depends not only on the assumed truth and rightfulness of the Christian belief in itself, but also on the willingness of the bailiff to rely on his faith, might exculpate him (in the eyes of a Christian audience, that is). Playing Christ What remains, then, is to take a look at the exact nature of the ruse and the bailiff’s costume. Why is it not simply the case that a cross or crucifix in itself repels the devil; why must the bailiff himself dress up as Christ? It could be supposed that the bailiff’s willingness to rely on the Christian symbol could have been tested by his holding a wooden cross in his hand, yet there is good reason for the tale to include the added complexity of the bailiff’s disguise and performance. We can see in this narrative the influence of medieval miracle and passion plays, as well as perhaps the influence of a certain droll story, a French fabliau in which it is an adulterer who plays Christ. Not only are there bleeding and ›living‹ crosses, icons, and statues that are animated by the power of God,48 it is also quite common for a saint or the Virgin to appear and temporarily to replace any Christian who is worthy of divine support. To be accurate, the devil who seeks the bailiff’s soul is not repelled by the mere sight of the Cross or a crucified individual; rather, it is because he thinks that it is Christ himself who has made an appearance.49 A miracle from the collection of Maríu saga adopted from one of the most widespread and most extensive hagiographic collections of __________________________ Christ who you pray to, go there the day it is time to meet and pin your hopes on your Lord. [...] [B]ecause this is my advice, if there is no lack of faith on your part« (Callinius saga, p. 84 (see above); pp. 85–6). 48 See Kretzenbacher 1977; Uther 1989. 49 Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 159; Callinius saga, p. 86 (see above). 256 the Middle Ages, Jacobus da Varagine’s († 1298) Legenda aurea, offers a striking parallel. It tells of how the devil approaches a man who has forfeited his fortune and makes him promise to hand over his pious wife in exchange for the immediate retrieval of his lost wealth. On the verge of his pay-day, the man seems willing to do his part, but the Virgin takes the place of the wife as they approach the devil. It is only the devil himself who is immediately aware of the true nature of the woman that confronts him; scared stiff, he waives his claim to the woman on the condition that they stay away from him.50 Many of the key aspects of the bailiff’s tale are present here. There is a pact with the devil – who this time reveals himself, although it is worth noting that the bailiff needs only a little longer to ascertain the truth in his tale – the motivation behind which is the retrieval of lost wealth; there is a duped devil, albeit he is here scared away by the Mother rather than the Son; and there is a kind of disguise or deception involved, only this time it is the husband, rather than the devil, who is deceived. There is, however, a key difference between the texts, in that the Maríu saga episode features a miracle in the sense that the divine powers actually intervene. By contrast, the bailiff’s tale contains no such miracle – given that the bailiff’s replication of the Crucifixion, the (highly effective) re-enactment of an instance of divine intervention on his part, that appears like a miracle to the devil, is only a ruse, and nothing divine. As far as the masquerade element of the tale is concerned, a closer parallel may be found in a similar fairy-tale in which it is the devil, not the husband, who is deceived by the disguise. Remarkably enough, there are significant similarities between the aforementioned tale of the man who »sold his wife to the devil«, as it is called in one of the manuscripts, 51 and some versions of a fairy-tale whose tale type in the Aarne-ThompsonUther Index is called Bringing an Unknown Animal (ATU 1091). It usually starts with a contest between a man and a supernatural foe – variously death, the devil, a dragon, or a bear – to see who can impress the other by presenting them with an animal of which no one has ever heard. The man wins this contest by bringing to his opponent his own wife dressed up in a __________________________ 50 Maríu saga, pp. 282–91; pp. 291–7; pp. 577–8; pp. 1185–7 (different versions of the tale); Kupferschmied 2017, No. 86, p. 40; Legenda aurea, ch. 119; see also Piebenga 1987, p. 212. 51 The manuscript in question is Holm perg 11 4° (c. 1325–1375), 69ra, see Kupferschmied 2017, p. 163; Maríu saga, p. 282: Fra einvm avðgvm manni, er selldi hvsfrv sina pvkanum; »Of a wealthy man who sold his wife to the devil«. 257 strange costume, in which she is naked, tarred and feathered, and walking either head-first or backwards with her hair combed over her face and presenting her buttocks as her head.52 What might originally have been the reason for this strange kind of exposure – now hidden in a threatening remark about the ›animal‹ being only a chick with the mighty adult animals lurking nearby53 – is the widely attested belief in the deterrent effect that could be had in a woman exposing her genitals, with a similar effect as a Christian religious icon.54 Accordingly, the foe is not only defeated in the game, but is banished and scared away. In two sixteenth-century versions of the tale – namely Hans Sachs’s († 1576) Der arm kremer, from 1531, and the thirty-third tale, titled D’ung jeune compaignon, of Nicolas de Troyes’ Grand Parangon des cent nouvelles nouvelles (c. 1535) – the contest is replaced by a pact with the devil, made to gain riches and to win the hand of a woman, that can be undone only if the devil is presented with an unknown animal.55 In both versions of the tale, this condition is settled beforehand, and it is the main female character who acts as a wise counsellor, resorts to trickery, and dresses herself as the animal for the occasion. In the French version, the woman does not inform her husband about the exact nature of the ruse, but tells him to trust in God, to attend mass, and then to return to his chamber, where the ›animal‹ will be waiting for him. The result is that the husband must simply trust his wife, with the emphasis on the protagonist’s faith suggesting a certain similarity with the testing of the bailiff.56 In a similar tale told by François Rabelais († 1553), which connects a similar scene with the motif of The Crop Division (ATU 1030), involving __________________________ Uther 2004, vol. 2, pp. 34–5; Wehse 1987. Wehse 1987, col. 195. 54 See Motz 1993, pp. 15–30; p. 22: »The tales and customs [...] are clear and unequivocal in presenting the impact of the female form: namely, that it acts to shock, shatter, and dispel danger and aggression [...].« I am grateful to Anita Sauckel for pointing out to me the connection of the scene to ATU 1091. 52 53 55 Bolte / Polívka 1913, pp. 411–2; Wehse 1987, cols. 194–5. In its entirety, the caption reads as follows: D’ung jeune compaignon qui se donna au diable pour avoir une jeune fille en mariage et comee il fut rescous du diable en luy monstrant à l’adveu de sa femme une beste qu’il ne cognoissoit point; »Of a young fellow who devoted himself to the devil to get married to a young girl, and how he got saved from the devil by showing him, upon the advice of his wife, an animal which he did not know«, see Grand Parangon, p. 134. 56 Der arm kremer, p. 83, ll. 6–10; p. 84, ll. 18–48; Grand Parangon, p. 135; p. 136: The advice is sought one week (huit jours) ahead of time, as is the case in the bailiff’s tale; see Af sýslumanni ok fjánda, p. 157 and Callinius saga, p. 84. 258 a bet about which of the participants can make a bigger impact in scratching the other, the devil is threatened away by a farmer’s wife exposing her genitals; she claims that this is where her husband scratched her, thus presenting a significant ›wound‹.57 In all these tales, both a counsellor or saviour is present in both the tale and the final scene, where he or she may be hidden or disguised, and the devil is repelled by a ruse involving a feint or a masquerade. The key differences between these stories and the bailiff’s tale are the missing theme of the conversion of a Jew in the former and the lack of an unusual ›animal‹ in the bailiff’s tale, there instead being a re-enactment of the Passion of the Christ. Playing Christ was not uncommon in the Middle Ages, and the inspiration for including such a scene into a tale featuring a pact with the devil and the conversion of a Jew may well stem from the influence of contemporary miracle- and passion-plays. Such plays presented explicit displays of crucifixion scenes using fake blood and other implements, and were themselves inspired by late medieval devotional images that prominently displayed the wounds of Christ, such as the Man of Sorrows.58 The legend of Theophilus had also been performed on stage as early as the thirteenth century, as attested by Le miracle de Théophile, and there exist three versions of a similar play in Middle Low German from the fifteenth century.59 The visceral impact that the sight of such performances would probably have had on spectators can hardly be underestimated, as Ulrich Barton indicates: Die Folter- und Geißelungsszenen dürfen wohl als die berüchtigsten und meistdiskutierten Szenen der spätmittelalterlichen Passionsspiele angesehen werden. Sie sind in einer solchen Breite, Detailliertheit und Grausamkeit ausgestaltet, __________________________ Gargantua et Pantagruel, Book iv, ch. 45–7, pp. 170–8; Wehse 1987, col. 196. The foes in these tales, in a similar manner to the devil in the bailiff’s tale, are not only defeated by the ruse but frightened away, not by the sight of the ruse itself but rather by the deceit that accompanies it. 58 Stage directions indicating the use of fake blood are mentioned in Rommel 2002, p. 196. The Man of Sorrows is treated most comprehensively in Zimmermann 1997. 59 Grace (ed.) 1949; Schnyder (ed. and transl.) 2009. See also Neumann 1997, pp. 230–1; pp. 234–43, Koll 2001, pp. 922–4, and Gier 2010, col. 485. 57 259 dass man kaum umhin kann, sie als Kernstücke der Spiele zu betrachten.60 (The scenes of torture and flagellation may well be regarded as the most infamous and most widely discussed scenes of the late medieval Passion plays. They are developed in such breadth, detail, and gruesomeness that one can hardly do otherwise but view them as centrepieces of the plays.) In addition to the Passion plays, there appear to be literary sources for the masquerade as it is presented in the bailiff’s tale. In particular, a French fabliau called Le prestre crucefié and its German counterpart, known as the tale of the Herrgottschnitzer, must be taken into account, as a version of this story appears to have been known in Iceland, as is discussed below. The corresponding tale type (ATU 1359C) is called Husband Prepares to Castrate the Crucifix and consists of an amusing narrative in which an adulterous clergyman sleeps with the wife of an icon-maker or sculptor. As he is confronted by the unexpected return of the husband, the clergyman hides himself, arms spread, in front of a wooden cross, thereby mimicking a crucifix. The sculptor, however, spies the clergyman; feigning ignorance, he takes a knife and approaches the living ›crucifix‹ in order to ›correct‹ its inadequately protruding genitals. The clergyman dashes off, naked and sometimes mutilated, as in the French version of the tale. 61 Such a provocative and apparently blasphemous treatment of Christian symbols is not uncommon for fabliaux.62 A version of this narrative is found in the fourteenth-century Icelandic lygisaga (»lying saga«) Sigurðar saga turnara, where it is the splendid hero himself that must hide in the chamber of a princess he has seduced. 63 In this case, however, as in the bailiff’s tale, his peculiar kind of camouflage is effective, and the nightly intruders leave empty-handed despite their target in fact standing immediately beside them – a fact that even led Jürg __________________________ Barton 2016, p. 285. See also Rommel 2002, p. 207. Uther 2004, vol. 2, pp. 164–5. See also Bartsch / Köhler 1873, Frosch-Freiburg 1972, pp. 105–18, and Sobczyk 2013, pp. 19–20. ATU 1829 (Living Person Acts as Image of Saint) offers another version of the tale, see Uther 1990. 62 See Sobczyk 2013. Other parodies of the Passion of Christ are described in Wachinger 1993. 60 61 63 Sigurðar saga turnara, pp. 220–9, esp. p. 227. 260 Glauser to claim that the Icelandic creator of the tale had »nur unzureichend adaptiert« the French original.64 What this view neglects, however, is the necessity for the Icelandic writer to adapt the original material in order to make the episode fit the demands of his fully developed romance, rather than to present it as a stand-alone version of the tale. The scene in the Icelandic bailiff’s tale is similarly adapted to its novel setting; it is less about the idea of genuine camouflage than it is about the trickery of its protagonists providing a means to display the supremacy of Christ over the devil. It is also notable that in both the saga and the bailiff’s tale, the man who plays Christ is undoubtedly guilty of his sins, yet he is successful nonetheless.65 In much the same way as the maiden’s father has been betrayed by Sigurðr and is right in pursuing him, the devil legally has the right to prosecute his claim – unless, that is, we were to argue that the devil had initially concealed his true nature to the poor bailiff, who may then have the right to adopt the same tactic in disguising his own identity from the devil in turn. In doing so, the bailiff would ›re-enact‹ Christ in a different manner, as according to Christian authorities like Gregory the Great, Christ himself duped the devil in a similar way when he descended to his realms, an aspect of Christ thought to be possible of inspiring his followers to similar behaviour.66 Of course, the text also leaves open the possibility that it is not the masquerade alone that helps the bailiff, but also his own faith in God, his devotedness and his willingness to surrender; after all, the Jew explicitly tells the bailiff to pin his hopes on the Lord. 67 In this reading, as I argued before, we may suppose that the text does indeed __________________________ Glauser 1983, p. 298; »only insufficiently adapted«. Glauser refers to Margaret Schlauch’s earlier suggestion that the original material is »not [...] successfully assimilated« in the Icelandic version: »In the Sigurðar saga Turnara [...] all this is quite pointless, since the searchers are not led by an angry husband (as must have been the case in the original fabliau) but by the girl’s father, who really has no serious objection to a marriage between his daughter and her lover« (Schlauch 1934, p. 86). 65 See Schlauch 1934, p. 156; Glauser 1983, p. 298. 64 See Homiliae in Evangelia 25.8, pp. 462–3. Wünsche 1905, p. 9 notes the similar mirroring of the devil’s own deceit in how this event pans out: »Ebenso wie der Teufel die Menschen mit Überlistung durch die erste Sünde in seinen Besitz gebracht hatte, ebenso wurden sie ihm mit Überlistung auch wieder entzogen. Sein Betrug wurde ihm mit einem gleichen Betrug erwidert«; »Just as the devil duped mankind by the first sin to gain control, it was taken from him by a ruse. What he got for his cheating was a payback in his own coin«. 67 See fn. 47 above. 66 261 depict a kind of miracle, albeit one that, unusually for such texts, goes unmentioned by the narrator of the tale. Conclusion Despite the bailiff’s tale having been neglected by scholarship as regards its significance for depictions in medieval literature of Jews, pacts with the devil, Christianity, masquerades, and iconodulism, as well as on exempla in general, it would be inaccurate to describe it as a mere offspring of the legend of Theophilus. In fact, the bailiff’s tale is best viewed as a distinct tale, albeit with a wide range of relatives. Those relatives can be found among such tale types as the story of the man who sells his wife to the devil, with the Mother of God being replaced by (a re-enactment of) her Son; the fairy tale about the Unknown Animal, in which it is a masquerade that repels and outwits the adversary via the advice of a wise counsellor; and even droll tales like the French fabliaux, which may well have served as inspiration for the specific kind of masquerade depicted. Of course, in addition to these elements the tale includes a conversion episode in its story of a Jew who, when confronted with a demonstration of the power of the Christian faith, chooses the Christian faith and is subsequently baptised. That the tale features a Jew, then, may be due to influence from the legend of Theophilus, even if the Jew appears in a rather different, much more favourable light in the bailiff’s tale. This story has no single template or framework that would explain its contents; rather, it has a vast range of parallels and relationships to multiple other texts and motifs. Whilst this chapter has been able to address gaps in the scholarship about the textual relations of the bailiff’s tale, it cannot provide a definite answer to the question about the origins of the tale in regard to its sources or its point of origin, whether that be the shores of Iceland or the emporia of France. Even if most of the parallels mentioned above can be located in Iceland, it is still most likely that a version of the tale was imported to Iceland. The similar narratives found in the collection of Maríu saga and in other Icelandic sources do not indicate that the tale should be thought of as an indigenously Icelandic story; rather, they simply support the idea that similar tales were widespread across medieval Europe, even as far as Iceland, and that the presence of the tale in Iceland is not an unusual, isolated case, but one that can be located in relationship to close analogues in Icelandic literature. Yet there remains the question not of from where the text originates, but of what it is and what it represents. Of course, there is 262 no unambiguous reply to this question either. First of all, it is the story of a duped devil who is gulled by the quick wit of a theologian – a Jewish theologian, that is.68 What is presented and attested to, is the stupidity and inferiority of the creatures of hell, of the unwanted debt collector, who is outwitted and easily disposed of, as already the sight of a simple image, a portrayal of Christ and a copycat proves successful against him. In this regard, what at first seems to be the story about a pact with the devil and a curious guide on how to get rid of the beneficiary’s unwanted obligations, turns out to be a story about a test of faith, the story of a (pagan) counselor dealing with a relevant case – to his own benefit (as seen from a Christian perspective). What is not presented and attested to, at least not directly and not as precondition to salvation, is the necessity to confess and to repent or to trust in the mercy of the Mother of God or Christ himself, to save one’s soul, as it is crucial to the legend of Theophilus and its counterparts. 69 As it stands, then, the bailiff’s tale is not best thought of as an »example of the importance of genuine repentance«, as Bragi Halldórsson puts it, because the questions of guilt, repentance, and absolution appear to be subordinate to the text’s other themes. 70 That the banishment of the devil is presented as being brought about not by repentance and devotion but by a ruse sets the text apart from its connections to its more edifying, legendary counterparts, whilst also aligning it more closely with a droll fabliau or fairy-tale. What is legendary about the tale, however, is the conversion motif and the test of faith that it presents, despite the artificial construction of that test. The story is still built on the idea of the power of God, specifically the power held not only in an image of God, but also in a simple reconstruction of that image, a ›fake‹ rebuilding of the divine. Accordingly, the text stands out as a curious example of how Christian writers engaged with the veneration of icons. The bailiff’s tale deserves attention not only as a peculiar example of how a single tale can feature the __________________________ 68 69 70 Similar tales are addressed in Wünsche 1905, pp. 99–107; pp. 116–7; pp. 122–3. See Schnyder 2010, cols. 448–9 and Koll 2001, p. 917. Bragi Halldórsson (ed.) 2016, p. 267: »Ráð Gyðingsins reynast svo vel að hann snýst sjálfur til kristinnar trúar ásamt öllum hjúum sínum. Þannig verður ævintýrið dæmisaga um mikilvægi sannrar iðrunar og opnar um leið augu Gyðingsins fyrir yfirburðum kristninnar yfir gyðingdómi«; »The Jew’s advice succeeds to such an extent that he and his kinsmen convert to Christianity; hence the tale becomes an example of the importance of genuine repentance and finally opens the eyes of the Jew for the superiority of Christianity over Judaism«. Cf. Davíð Erlingsson 1977, p. 91. 263 blending-together in a single tale of different genres – being both a witty fabliau-esque story and something of an Christian exemplum – and narrative motifs, but also as a tale with an unusual Jewish protagonist. The lessons taught by the text are many: On the one hand, it is meant for the unbelievers, to assure them, along with all doubting Christians, of the power of God. 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Female Figures of Germanic Faith and Myth (Philologica Germanica 15), Vienna. Neumann, Almut 1997: Verträge und Pakte mit dem Teufel. Antike und mittelalterliche Vorstellungen im ›Malleus maleficarum‹ (Saarbrücker Hochschulschriften 30), St. Ingbert. Noomen, Willem / Boogaard, Nico van den (eds.) 1988: Nouveau Recueil Complet des Fabliaux (NRCF) 4, Maastricht. Nuffel, Herman van 1966: »Le pacte avec le diable dans la littérature médiévale«, in: Anciens Pays et Assemblées d‘Etats / Standen en Landen 39, pp. 29–43. Ólafur Halldórsson (ed.) 1958–2000: Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta (Editiones Arnamagnæanæ. Series A, 1–3), 3 vols., Copenhagen. Pálmi Pálsson / Nyrop, Kristoffer 1885–1887: »Anm. af Hugo Gering, Islendzk æventyri«, in: Nordisk Tidsskrift for Filologi. Ny Række 7, pp. 50–66. Piebenga, Gryte 1987: »›Einn ungr maðr tok nunnu or klaustri‹ – en norrøn legende?«, in: Arkiv för nordisk filologi 102, pp. 207–215. Piebenga, Gryte 1988: »De Theophiluslegende in Scandinavië«, in: Tijdschrift voor skandinavistiek 9, pp. 177–185. Plenzat, Karl 1926: Die Theophiluslegende in den Dichtungen des Mittelalters (Germanistische Studien 43), Berlin. Rommel, Florian 2002: »›ob mann jm vnrehtt thutt, so wollenn wir doch habenn sein blutt‹. Judenfeindliche Vorstellungen im Passionsspiel des Mittelalters«, in: Ursula Schulze (ed.), Juden in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters. Religiöse Konzepte, Feindbilder, Rechtfertigungen, Tübingen, pp. 183–207. Root, Jerry 2017: The Theophilus Legend in Medieval Text and Image, Cambridge. Rubel, Thomas 2009: Der ›Sünder‹ als Stilmodell. Schullektüre im 13. Jahrhundert am Beispiel des ›Militarius‹ (Studium litteratum. Studien und Texte zur deutschen Literaturgeschichte 18), Berlin. Schlauch, Margaret 1934: Romance in Iceland, London. Schneider, Horst / Nösges, Nikolaus (ed. and transl.) 2009: Caesarius von Heisterbach. Dialogus miraculorum. Dialog über die Wunder (Fontes Christiani 86), 5 vols., Turnhout. 269 Schneider, Wolfgang 1996: »Kreuz, Kreuzzeichen«, in: Rolf Wilhelm Brednich et al. (eds.), Enzyklopädie des Märchens 8, Berlin/New York, cols. 387–398. Schnyder, André (ed. and transl.) 2009: Das mittelniederdeutsche Theophilus-Spiel. Text, Übersetzung, Stellenkommentar (Quellen und Forschungen zur Literatur- und Kulturgeschichte 58 (292)), Berlin/New York. Schnyder, André 2010: »Teufelspakt«, in: Rolf Wilhelm Brednich et al. (eds.), Enzyklopädie des Märchens 13, Berlin et al., cols. 447–455. Simek, Rudolf / Hermann Pálsson 2007: Lexikon der altnordischen Literatur. Die mittelalterliche Literatur Norwegens und Islands (Kröners Taschenausgaben 490). 2nd ed., Stuttgart. Skeat et al. 1977: The British Library. Catalogue of Additions to the Manuscripts 1756–1782. Additional Manuscripts 4101–5017, London. Sobczyk, Agata 2013: »Les crucifix comiques dans quelques textes du Moyen Age français«, in: Quêtes littéraires 3, pp. 16–23. Steinberg, Theodore 2008: Jews and Judaism in the Middle Ages, Westport. Trachtenberg, Joshua 1943: The Devil and the Jews. The Medieval Conception of the Jew and its Relation to Modern Antisemitism, New Haven. Tubach, Frederic C. 1969: Index exemplorum. A Handbook of Medieval Religious Tales (Folklore Fellows Communications 204 (86)), Helsinki. Unger, Carl Rikard (ed.) 1871: Mariu saga. Legender om jomfru Maria og hendes jertegn (Det norske Oldskriftselskabs Samlinger 11–16), Christiania. Unger, Carl Rikard (ed.) 1877: Heilagra Manna Søgur. Fortællinger og legender om hellige mænd og kvinder, 2 vols., Christiania. Uther, Hans-Jörg 1989: »Das sprechende und handelnde Heiligenbild. Ein Beitrag zum genrespezifischen Funktionswandel von Motiven«, in: Leander Petzoldt / Siegfried de Rachewiltz (eds.), Der Dämon und sein Bild. Berichte und Referate des dritten und vierten Symposions zur Volkserzählung Brunnenberg / Südtirol 1986/87 (Beiträge zur Europäischen Ethnologie und Folklore, Reihe B 2), Frankfurt et al., pp. 187–201. Uther, Hans-Jörg 1990: »Heiligenbild: Das lebendige H.«, in: Rolf Wilhelm Brednich et al. (eds.), Enzyklopädie des Märchens 6, Berlin/New York, cols. 682–686. 270 Uther, Hans-Jörg 2004: The Types of International Folktales. A Classification and Bibliography. Based on the System of Antti Aarne and Stith Thompson, 3 Vols. (Folklore Fellows Communications 284–286 (133–135)), Helsinki. Vogüé, Adalbert de / Antin, Paul (ed. and transl.) 1978–1980: Grégoire le Grand. Dialogues (Sources chrétiennes 251, 260, and 265), 3 vols., Paris. Wachinger, Burghart 1993: »Die Passion Christi und die Literatur. Beobachtungen an den Rändern der Passionsliteratur«, in: Walter Haug / Burghart Wachinger (eds.), Die Passion Christi in Literatur und Kunst des Spätmittelalters (Fortuna vitrea 12), Tübingen, pp. 1–20. Ward, Harry Leigh Douglas / Herbert, John Alexander 1883–1910: Catalogue of Romances in the Department of Manuscripts in the British Museum, 3 vols., London. Weber, Robert / Gryson, Roger (eds.) 2007: Biblia sacra, iuxta Vulgatam versionem. 5th edition, Stuttgart. Wehse, Rainer 1987: »Frau als unbekanntes Tier«, in: Rolf Wilhelm Brednich et al. (eds.), Enzyklopädie des Märchens 5, Berlin/New York, cols. 192–199. Wünsche, August 1905: Der Sagenkreis vom geprellten Teufel, Leipzig. Yuval, Israel 2007: Zwei Völker in deinem Leib. Gegenseitige Wahrnehmung von Juden und Christen in Spätantike und Mittelalter (Jüdische Religion, Geschichte und Kultur 4), Göttingen. Zimmermann, Andrea 1997: Jesus Christus als ›Schmerzensmann‹ in hochund spätmittelalterlichen Darstellungen der bildenden Kunst. Eine Analyse ihres Sinngehalts, Diss., Halle-Wittenberg. Þorvaldur Bjarnarson (ed.) 1878: Leifar fornra kristinna frœða íslenzkra. Codex Arna-Magnæanus 677 4to auk annara enna elztu brota af íslenzkum guðfrœðisritum, Copenhagen. 271 Jan Alexander van Nahl »A waste of effort«? Towards a Reassessment of the Old Norse Kings’ Sagas (With a Comment on a ›Living Handbook of Old Norse Studies‹ 1) Preface Nanos gigantum humeris insidentes, »dwarves standing on the shoulders of giants« – a topical phrase ever since the twelfth century, with famous promotors such as John of Salisbury or Isaac Newton, and equally-famous sceptics like Friedrich Nietzsche. 2 Despite its frequent citation, in the early twenty-first century, there is no sign of this metaphor losing its significance. Self-evident as the idea of every generation (of scholars) being indebted to its predecessors might appear, the scholarly scrutinising of such dependencies does rarely feature prominently in current medieval studies, aside from mantra-like summons of supposed peaks of previous scholarship. Admittedly, there are exceptions, but putting it somewhat boldly, one might claim that many medievalists today seem to be inclined to believe that their research is either a sort of never-before-seen revolution of their respective field or yet another proof of the superiority of a firmlyestablished approach.3 The premise seems to be that the history of scholarship is a consistent affair towards an ever more complete and correct understanding of certain issues, with either/or decisions occurring along a straight line, casting the present state of knowledge as the necessary result. __________________________ Whereas my lecture introduced the idea of a living handbook of medieval studies in more general terms, I decided to focus on Old Norse studies for the time being. 2 See Leuker 1997; see also Haug 1987. 3 Peter Dinzelbacher 2017, pp. 279–84 in particular has recently stressed this point, but his position is hypercritical. 1 272 This is not to say that this was not possibly true under specific circumstances. Yet no history has ever been simply this type of development, wherein one step would follow the other out of necessity. Rather, from our human point of view, each history is contingent, i.e., it is entangled in the proliferation of possibilities, the actualisation of which is depended on seemingly countless conditions – there is no past beyond our interpretation of it. It is through this interpretation that we define our existence now, which for its part serves as a starting point for any vision of the future. Thus, with good reason, it is the belief of medievalists that the past continues to be an integral part of our lives. Yet this belief ought to embrace the sphere of academia, too: any attempt at studying the past has to imply the study of earlier attempts at studying the past, whether such attempts took place a thousand years ago or only in the twentieth century. Given the contingency of any history of thought, the retracing of the past is a selective and tentative undertaking. This limitation to our understanding of what it means to be dwarves notwithstanding – or, rather, just because of it –, we must dive into histories of scholarship again and again. The present chapter is an attempt in this spirit. Its focus is on the socalled konungasögur, the Old Norse »sagas of kings« from the thirteenth century, more precisely on a selection of scholarly opinions towards this corpus, with particular attention being given to the medieval compilation Heimskringla. Retracing tendencies in scholarship since the nineteenth century, my chapter aims at revealing a formative line of argument in approaching these sagas, which persists well into the twenty-first century. Whereas the fruitful output of this well-established approach is not called into question, my investigation strives to locate it within its broader contexts, and seeks to explain why alternative interpretations of the king’s sagas have been less attractive if not outright unwanted. Eventually, the question is raised as to how future-oriented a paradigmatic perspective on the past can possibly be in a field of studies that arguably faces different challenges today than what it did only one or two generations ago. 273 The Beginnings It is symptomatic of scholarship on the use of the past in medieval Iceland […] that the kings’ sagas do not feature prominently in the author’s analysis, despite the fact that many of them were written by Icelanders, and almost all were apparently preserved predominantly in Icelandic manuscripts. […] [T]here is still much that needs to be done in understanding the place of the kings’ sagas in the historical consciousness of twelfth- and thirteenth-century Iceland.4 A decade has passed since the Canada-based medievalist Shami Ghosh summarised thusly the »problems and perspectives« in international research into the kings’ sagas, and even today this observation has something to be said for it.5 Its significance may need to be further contextualised, however, for it would be difficult to claim that there has been a general lack of interest in these sagas.6 As early as 1823, the Danish scholar Peter Erasmus Müller published his Critisk Undersøgelse af Danmarks og Norges Sagnhistorie. Eller om Troværdigheden af Saxos og Snorres Kilder,7 and in 1873, the Norwegian historian Gustav Storm added to the debate with his book Snorre Sturlassons Historieskrivning. En Kritisik Undersögelse.8 Yet these seminal nineteenth century publications were only reactions to even earlier engagements with the kings’ sagas dating back to the seventeenth century, when Scandinavian scholars, on the eve of humanism, rediscovered these sagas as central documents regarding Northern state formation – the Icelandic philologist Sigurður Nordal later called Heimskringla, the __________________________ Ghosh 2011, p. 177. In what follows, I regularly mention the nationality and/or profession of scholars, in order to demonstrate how researchers with different backgrounds have taken a similar approach towards the kings’ sagas. 6 Medieval compilations of Old Norse kings’ sagas have received disparate scholarly attention. Until recently, the term »kings’ sagas« first and foremost referred to Heimskringla (c. 1230), with two maybe slightly older compilations, Fargskinna and Morkinskinna, having been marginalised by most scholars. 7 Müller 1823; »Critical Study on the (Legendary) History of Denmark and Norway. Or on the Trustworthiness of Saxo’s and Snorri’s Sources«. Unless stated otherwise, all translations are my own. 8 Storm 1873; »Snorri Sturluson’s Historiography. A Critical Study«. 4 5 274 most extensive collection of Old Norse kings’ sagas, »önnur biblía Norðmanna, aflvaki í norsku þjóðlífi«. 9 Despite this claim, however, it was in Sweden, in 1697, that the first comprehensive edition of Heimskringla was published,10 followed by a Danish edition around 1780,11 before a Norwegian version in the 1860s.12 In the face of this development, one may say that scholarly attention towards the kings’ sagas, Heimskringla in particular, was well-established in Scandinavia by the mid-nineteenth century, with new editions of the texts even serving the purpose of strengthening political claims in times of growing nationalism.13 By contrast, Icelandic efforts to make the kings’ sagas available to a broader audience seem to have started relatively late. The Icelandic scholar Finnur Jónsson finished his four-volume edition of Heimskringla only around 1900,14 but, as this edition had been commissioned by the Danish Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur, one may consider Steingrímur Pálsson’s edition of 1944 the first truly Icelandic project.15 To be sure, in 1941, Bjarni Aðalbjarnason had published the first volume of his edition of Heimskringla in the Íslenzk fornrit series, but only ten years later, in 1951, was the third and final volume released. 16 The comparatively late __________________________ 9 Sigurður Nordal 1941, p. 10; »the second Bible of the Norwegians, a driving force in the Norwegian national life«. Peringskiöld (ed.) 1697. Schøning / Skúli Þórðarson Thorlacius (eds.) 1778–1783. 12 Unger (ed.) 1868. 13 For a concise introduction see van Nahl / van Nahl 2019, pp. 106–8. 14 Finnur Jónsson (ed.) 1893–1901. 10 11 Steingrímur Pálsson (ed.) 1944. In his popular edition of Heimskringla from about the same time, the Icelandic scholar Páll Eggert Ólason (ed.) 1946–1948, vol. 1, p. v criticizes the lack of access to the kings’ sagas in Iceland: »Öll aðalhandrit og hin elztu að sögum eftir Íslendinga af Noregskonungum er nú að finna í handritasöfnum utan þess lands, þó að alíslenzk sé«; »All main manuscripts and the oldest Icelandic stories about Norwegian kings are today in manuscript collections abroad, despite the fact that all this is genuine Icelandic«. He criticizes »að eins og Íslendingum fyrri alda, hafi niðjum þeirra á 19. og fram á 20. öld einnig verið sögur þessar litt kunnar, nema ef svo bar við af hendingu, að til landsins slæddust eintök prentuð að umsjá útlendra fræðimanna« (p. xiv); »that just like the Icelanders in medieval times, their descendants in the nineteenth and into the twentieth century were hardly acquainted with these sagas, unless it happened by chance that some printed copies, edited by foreign scholars, sneaked into the country«. 16 Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.) 1941–1951. 15 275 start of these undertakings may come as a surprise, as the Icelandic independent movement had already reached its peak around 1850,17 and while the sagas of kings give particular prominence to Norwegian magnates, Iceland and Icelanders nevertheless play a considerable role, with the relationship between these countries thus being put into perspective. Moreover, one of the most prominent figures in medieval Iceland, the politician and poet Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179–1241), had by then long been established as the creative mind behind Heimskringla,18 and was considered outright to be the saviour of kings’ saga writing. This view is evident in Bjarni’s prologue to the first volume of his edition, where he claims that kings’ sagas were »að sumu leyti heldur ömurlegar bókmenntir, áður en Snorri tók að fást við þær«.19 Bjarni refers to Snorri’s supposed output as »sagnaritun« 20 – an ambiguous term, comprising both historiography and fiction. Yet Bjarni also refers to Gustav Storm’s study, as mentioned above, and Sigurður Nordal’s 1920 biography of Snorri as authoritative sources, and it therefore seems reasonable to assume that he agreed with Sigurður on the idea that Snorri was a pragmatist in writing Heimskringla, in the sense that Snorri refrained from ideological interpretation in favour of the (allegedly) unbiased revealing of causal connections throughout history.21 The idea that Snorri was a preeminent proponent of pragmatic history was popular in the early twentieth century. In 1922, for instance, the Swedish scholar Gustaf Cederschiöld claimed that Heimskringla showed a tendency »att sätta händelserna i naturligt orsakssammanhang«.22 Similarly, in the introduction to his translation of Heimskringla from 1922–1923, the German __________________________ 17 18 See Guðmundur Hálfdanarson 1995. See Jakob Benediktsson 1955. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.) 1941–1951, vol. 1, p. xxxi; »rather pitiful literature in various respects, before Snorri attended to the matter«. 20 See, e.g., Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.) 1941–1951, vol. 1, p. xxv–vi. 19 Bjarni’s chief witnesses among earlier scholars to consider Heimskringla the work of Snorri are Gustav Storm, Finnur Jónsson, and Sigurður Nordal. Sigurður himself says that Snorri’s primary aim was not to compose literature in the narrower sense, but to compile a coherent picture of historical events (»samhengi sögunnar, eins og sennilegast er« (Sigurður Nordal 1920, p. 204); »the coherence of history the way it seems most likely«). 22 Cederschiöld 1922, p. 9; »to put events into a natural causal relation«. 21 276 scholar Felix Niedner argued that Snorri was the first to connect individual accounts of Norse kings successfully according to the principles of pragmatic historiography.23 Despite its somewhat late start, then, the engagement of Icelandic scholars in kings’ saga research developed considerably in the first half of the twentieth century,24 and seems to have been generally in agreement with the wider consensus regarding Heimskringla’s status as historiography in the narrower sense. The 1980s Given this cross-border debate in the early twentieth century, it may come as a surprise that in 1985, the US-American scholar Theodore Andersson claimed that »we are obliged to conclude that the last fifty years of kings’ saga research have left us empty-handed«.25 Andersson’s focus was not on Heimskringla in particular, yet his far-reaching reproach could be considered a bold claim in its suggestion that seminal achievements in kings’ saga research – including Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson’s roughly 370-page (!) introduction to his edition of Heimskringla – had not had any noteworthy impact on scholarship. Andersson’s primary concern at the time seems to have been the longstanding problem of establishing relationships between different textual versions and manuscripts, and thus with the problem of assessing the kings’ sagas’ value as historical sources. It is interesting to note that Andersson claimed the main exception from this trend, the Nor- __________________________ Niedner (transl.) 1922–1923; see vol. 1, p. 6: »An Stelle der kunstlosen Einzeldarstellungen und Sammelwerke seiner Vorgänger schafft Snorri ein wirkliches Königsbuch. Er allein vereinigt die Vorzüge biographischer Darstellung mit den Erfordernissen einer pragmatisch geordneten Geschichtsschreibung«; »Instead of the crude detail-drawings and collections of his predecessors, Snorri creates a true book of kings. He alone combines the advantages of a biographical depiction with the demands of pragmaticallystructured historiography«. 24 This includes studys on other kings’ sagas than the above-mentioned compilations, including the now-lost Skjöldunga saga on Danish kings, and the Orkneyinga saga on the earls of the Orkney islands; both sagas were probably composed around 1200. Reviewing earlier scholarship on these sagas, the Icelandic scholar Bjarni Guðnason, in 1963, repeatedly emphasises their »skynsemisstefna«, and speaks of their unknown author as »skynsemismaður« (Bjarni Guðnason 1963, p. 277–79); »(tendency toward) rationalism«, »rationalist«. 25 Andersson 1985, p. 211. 23 277 wegian scholar Hallvard Lie’s 1937 monograph Studier i Heimskringlas stil,26 to be »the boldest attempt to recapture Snorri’s artistry […] in shaking off source questions to probe Snorri’s underlying habits of mind«.27 Andersson’s reference is strangely vague, as Lie explicitly addresses such source questions: Under utarbeidelsen av foreliggende avhandling har jeg forsøkt å ta tilbørlig hensyn også til de forhold vedrørende mitt undersøkelseobjekt som gjennem lengere tid har vært gjenstand for inngående filologiske granskinger. For øvrig må jeg her få fremheve at jeg har følt det som om en av de største vanskeligheter ved en undersøkelse som denne nettop består i å kunne ta disse tilbørlige filologiske hensyn uten derved å gå så vidt at man til slutt lammes av de til stadighet opdukkende tekstkritiske betenkligheter. ›Frihet‹ er en vesentlig forutsetning for frembringelse av kunst, og uten en smule av den samme frihet er også beskrivelse og fortolkning av kunstverker en umulighet.28 (During the preparation of the present study, I have tried to take into account the fact that my object of study has been subject to thorough philological analysis over a long period of time. In this context, however, I allow myself to put forward my impression that one of the biggest problems of such a study is to do justice to this philological perspective without going so far as to become ultimately paralysed by continuously emerging textual criticism. ›Freedom‹ is an essential precondition for the development of art, and without a sliver of this freedom, even the description and interpretation of works of art are impossible.) Andersson, some fifty years later, appears to be rather unimpressed by Lie’s statement, given that his conclusion, which stresses the necessity of scrutinising »Snorri’s overall perspective on the evolution of Norwegian history«, seems to follow the centuries-old research on the kings’ sagas as a historical source, rather than this allegedly »boldest attempt«. 29 Yet the __________________________ Lie 1937. Andersson 1985, p. 220. 28 Lie 1937, preface. 29 Andersson 1985, p. 221. 26 27 278 apparent inconsistency in Andersson’s argument, which acknowledges Lie’s approach for freeing Heimskringla from questions of source criticism and yet insists on the importance of such questions, is not unique to his work. In 1978, the US-American medievalist Marlene Ciklamini criticised the state of research into Heimskringla, emphasizing that despite the recognition that Snorri is one of the most imaginative, resourceful, and skilled writers of the Middle Ages, there is no literary analysis of his work in English […]. In general, studies devoted to Snorri’s work have had a utilitarian rather than an aesthetic objective.30 Ciklamini claims that Snorri’s »repute as a foremost author of the Middle Ages [is] beyond dispute« – yet her analysis turns not to literary qualities, but to the question of Snorri’s »reliability as a historian and the relationship of his works not to indigenous literary tradition but to medieval European culture as a whole«.31 In 1984, the Russian medievalist Tatjana Jackson similarly drew awareness to »Snorri Sturluson’s creative activity«, yet her remarks are guided by »the evaluation of the authenticity of the Icelandic Konungasögur«,32 and hardly touch upon the fields of narratology or literary history: His [Snorri’s] creative activity is evident, but this means that in solving the question of Heimskringla’s validity as a historical source one should take into consideration, among other things, Snorri Sturluson’s position, i.e. his social, religious and political credo, his historical conception.33 __________________________ Ciklamini 1978, preface. Ciklamini 1978, preface. Ciklamini only returns to this question in the following statement: »In Heimskringla Snorri demonstrated his mastery over both form and expression. His skill in interweaving the many strands of his narrative and in composing scenes that were both pithy and dramatic was unmatched at his time. None of the synoptics equals Heimskringla in the scope of its historic vision, its power of characterization, and verbal and structural command« (Ciklamini 1978, p. 42). Ciklamini’s enthusiasm for Snorri’s genius does not entail any in-depth study of this narrative art, however. 32 Jackson 1984, p. 107. 33 Jackson 1984, p. 125. 30 31 279 In 1988, the Icelandic literary scholar Sverrir Tómasson took a similar line when he stated that Snorri had been »meiri skynsemishyggjumaður en aðrir norrænir sagnaritarar«.34 At that time, in 1985, Ágrip and Fagrskinna, two kings’ saga compilations from the early thirteenth century, had just been published in Íslenzk fornrit.35 By contrast with those texts – which Bjarni seems to have counted among the »ömurlegar bókmenntir« (»pitiful literatures«) – the more comprehensive Heimskringla was cast once again as the climax of kings’ saga writing, a major step forward from half-baked chronicles to a universal account of Scandinavian history. As Sverrir puts it, »Snorri hefur ætlað sér að skrifa veraldarsögu norrænna manna«. 36 In a lecture of the same year, the British scholar Peter Foote reinforced this position by claiming that Snorri, like other Scandinavian historians, had been concerned primarily with »the reliability and transmission of their information«.37 Foote argues further that »Snorri pursues his principles more consistently, his knowledge is more extensive, his criticism is more mature, his narrative better organised, more lucid and logical, his style more economical and precise« – an opinion that by this time had been established for at least half a century.38 To sum up: the prevailing view of scholars, well into the 1980s, was that the development of kings’ saga writing towards the peak that Heimskringla supposedly represented had been a matter of an ever-more rational, logical and economical structuring of historical sources, with this scholarly narrative casting Snorri as an ingenious and almost scientific mind at work. From this point of view, then, Andersson’s 1985 critique of stagnation in __________________________ Sverrir Tómasson 1988, p. 288; »a greater rationalist than other historiographers in medieval Scandinavia«. 35 Bjarni Einarson (ed.) 1985. 34 Sverrir Tómasson 1988, p. 288; »Snorri’s ambition has been to write the world-history of Norse men«. 37 Foote 2004, p. 175. 38 Foote 2004, p. 175. It is interesting to note that the idea of Snorri being the saviour of Old Norse literature is still going strong among some scholars; only in 2020 did the Icelandic folklorist Gísli Sigurðsson speak of »Snorri’s stroke of genius«, claiming that »there is reason to think that the turning point in Icelandic literary history may have occurred in a flash of inspired originality in the mind of Snorri Sturluson«, and that Heimskringla in particular could be read as »a natural but brilliant extension of earlier historical writing« (Gísli Sigurðsson 2020, no pp.). 36 280 kings’ saga research does indeed have something to be said for it – even if his own research seems to have been affected by this same tendency. The 1990s The sentiment outlined above seems to have remained the dominant view in kings’ saga research around 1990, as few reassessments had emerged by then. In 1991, however, in reviewing earlier scholarship, the British medievalist Diana Whaley argued that Heimskringla defies attempts to impose modern categories on it. The boundaries between fact and fiction, utilitarian and imaginative writing, history and literature are always difficult to draw, and certainly lay differently in Snorri’s times. 39 By that time, a similar opinion on medieval narrative had already been established in German medieval studies, owing to the influential studies by the literary scholar Walter Haug. In his 1985 standard work on literary theory in the Middle Ages, Haug claims Chrétien de Troyesʼ Erec et Enide from the twelfth century to be the first vernacular romance of the Middle Ages that may be described as fictional40 – a claim that incited a range of subsequent studies on the status of fictionality in the Middle Ages. Whaley’s survey touches upon similar issues for Old Icelandic literature, and may even be considered a first attempt at overcoming the tendency outlined above. However, on the whole her understanding of medieval __________________________ 39 40 Whaley 1991, p. 143. Haug 1985, p. 92: »Diese fiktionale Freiheit ist die Bedingung für den experimentellen Strukturentwurf, über den innerliterarisch der Sinn realisiert und vermittelt wird […]. Schwieriger ist die Frage zu beantworten, in welchem Maße die arthurischen Dichter sich dieser Wende und ihrer Tragweite bewußt gewesen sind und sie literaturtheoretisch zu fassen und zu explizieren vermochten«; »This latitude in terms of fiction is the precondition of the experimental structure by which the meaning is realised and conveyed within the literary text itself […]. It is more difficult to answer the question as to how far the Arthurian poets were conscious of this decisive point and its implications, and to which extent they were able to grasp and explicate it from the point of view of literary theory« (this is my own translation, which stays closer to the original text than the official translation). 281 literature itself, as opposed to historiography, seems limited to alluding to a rather superficial sense of »entertainment«: If Heimskringla’s roots in history are not kept in view the work as a whole will appear uneven and frequently dull. If we treat it primarily as a literary text, it is our choice, not Snorri’s […]. However, the interests of information-giving and entertainment are by no means necessarily at odds.41 It is easy to agree with Whaley’s suggestion that Heimskringla may display the fruitful synthesis of education and entertainment, as it is documented in Old Norse literature via phrases such as til fróðleiks og skemtunar.42 Yet her introduction of vague notions such as »historical narrative« or »imaginative historiography«, as well as her reduction of literature to an entertaining contrast to information-giving history, hardly provide satisfying analysis of Heimskringla’s literary qualities, let alone medieval literature in general.43 In fact, Whaley might still be counted among the aforementioned scholars in her declaration that »the triumph of Heimskringla is above all its way of presenting information both more intelligently and more pleasingly than comparable works«,44 which again resounds notably with the claims made by Bjarni Aðalbjarnason some fifty years earlier. In the same year, the Norwegian historian Sverre Bagge published his monograph Society and Politics in Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla.45 Andersson later described the book as the first major attempt at incorporating the kings’ sagas in »the histories of European historiography« 46 – a claim that seems skewed in the face of, for instance, the 1988 monograph Formálar íslenskrar sagnaritara á miðöldum by Sverrir Tómasson,47 as mentioned previously, which suggests various parallels and connections __________________________ 41 Whaley 1991, p. 143. A prominent example is the comment in the Codex Regius manuscript of the Prose-Edda (c. 1220) to understand the precedent account on heathen gods til fróðleiks ok skemtunar (Faulkes (ed.) 1998, p. 5); »for learning and entertainment«. 43 Whaley 1991, p. 113. 44 Whaley 1991, p. 113. 45 Bagge 1991. 46 Andersson 1997, p. 416. 47 Sverrir Tómasson 1988; »Prologues to Icelandic Historiographies in the Middle Ages«. 42 282 between medieval Icelandic writings, especially Heimskringla, and sources from continental Europe since antiquity. Bagge’s study may instead be called the first attempt at a coherent reading of Heimskringla as witness to politics in medieval Norway. Its ambition to reconstruct a bygone sociopolitical milieu »as it actually was«,48 however, was still indebted to earlier scholarship. In the same year that Andersson praised Bagge’s study, the Icelandic literary scholar Ármann Jakobsson stated: »Fram kemur að evrópsk sagnfræði hafi hunsað Heimskringlu seinustu ár. Úr því vill Bagge bæta með því að tengja Heimskringlu nýjustu straumum í miðaldafræðum«.49 Ármann, however, criticised Bagge for his having been focused on Norwegian historical scholarship only: Í inngangi gerir Bagge skilmerkilega grein fyrir stöðu sinni og sjónarhorni á Heimskringlu. Þar kemur fram að þeir sem hann á í rökræðum við erum einkum norskir fræðimenn sem rituðu um Heimskringlu seinustu ár [...]. Hér er sumsé sagnfræðilegt sjónarhorn á ferð.50 (Bagge explicitly points out his stance and perspective on Heimskringla in the introduction [to his study], and it becomes apparent that his discussion primarily takes on Norwegian scholars that have been writing on Heimskringla in recent years [...]. It is namely the point of view of a historian that is predominant here.) __________________________ 48 Bagge 1991 used this phrase three times in his introductory chapter: »The purpose of this examination is partly to characterize Snorri as a historian, partly to analyze ideas about society and politics in early thirteenth-century Norway and Iceland, and to some extent even to contribute to our knowledge of Snorri’s society as it actually was« (p. 1); »my next problem will then be to find out what this society actually corresponds to: Snorri’s imagination, norms and ideas in his milieu, or society as it actually was« (p. 5); »I hope, however, that such an analysis may make it easier to discuss political behavior in other narrative sources and ultimately in society as it actually was« (p. 7). Ármann Jakobsson 1997, p. 266; »It is obvious that Heimskringla has been neglected by historical scholarship in Europe in recent years. Bagge wants to improve this status by relating Heimskringla to the most recent trends in medieval studies«. 50 Ármann Jakobsson 1997, p. 266. 49 283 Bagge explicitly distances himself from any narratological debate: As a historian, however, my main interest lies in Heimskringla as a description of society and as evidence of social and political attitudes, not in literary or aesthetic aspects. Generally, though recognizing the importance of an author’s intellectual milieu and the influence from others, I am inclined to pay more attention to society. This at least seems a natural approach in Snorri’s case, as he was a prominent politician, and Heimskringla immediately gives the impression of dealing with secular politics. 51 Briefly touching upon questions of authorship, he later argues: We can get a clearer picture of Snorri’s authorship in practice by analyzing his sources, which to some extent have been identified. Though this field has received some attention, much remains to be done. Scholars have usually been more interested in identifying sources and reconstructing lost sagas than in examining how Snorri and other saga writers used this material. As my interest in this context lies in another direction, I shall not attempt a general analysis here, confining myself to comparing passages that are directly relevant to Snorri’s view of politics and society.52 Even as an interim conclusion, it would hardly be appropriate to build any sort of far-reaching theory on these few remarks. What they have hinted at so far is a continuous, yet difficult-to-grasp, tendency in scholarship to primarily consider the kings’ sagas as sources for actual history in medieval Scandinavia. The interesting question to be asked here is why research on the literary and aesthetical value of the kings’ sagas seems to have been so unappealing – and arguably unwanted – even up to the late twentieth century, and thereby why scholars have continued until the present day to prioritise historiographical readings of the texts. Any attempt at an answer can be nothing but speculative. However, it is interesting to note that by the __________________________ 51 52 Bagge 1991, pp. 2–3. Bagge 1991, p. 60. 284 1990s, the idea that the kings’ sagas could be used for reconstructing early Scandinavian history had already been placed in doubt in some manner. In a new edition of Heimskringla in 1991,53 the editors Bergljót Kristjánsdóttir, Bragi Halldórsson, Jón Torfason and Örnólfur Thorsson placed these sagas on almost the same level with the Sagas of Icelanders, thus emphasising their literary quality: »Þær aðferðir sem Snorri beitir við byggingu Heimskringlu eru í meginatriðum hinar sömu sem þekktar eru úr Íslendinga sögum«.54 In 1993, the Swiss scholar Oskar Bandle criticised his colleagues for having been fixated on reading the kings’ sagas as a kind of historical report, instead advocating for applying concepts of »Fiktionalisierung« and »Literarisierung« in the interpretation of these sagas.55 Bandle further complained about a »Vulgärbegriff von Fiktionalität« in Heimskringla research,56 implying the circulation of divergent concepts; in that regard, even Walter Haug’s attempt at a theoretical clarification had remained vague.57 In 1996, the idea that Heimskringla was a trustworthy historical source was also contested by the German archaeologist Alexandra Pesch, who came to the conclusion that the generally inaccurate depiction of early Scandinavian culture in the text rendered Heimskringla a highly problematic source in this respect.58 In 1997, in reviewing the history of English __________________________ Bergljót Kristjánsdóttir et al. (eds.) 1991. Bergljót Kristjánsdóttir et al. (eds.) 1991, vol. 1, p. xxix; »The methods that Snorri applys to the design of Heimskringla are by and large the same which are know from the Sagas of Icelanders«. 55 Bandle 1993, p. 40. 56 Bandle 1993, p. 29; »vulgar concept of fictionality«. 53 54 See Haug 1985, p. 91: »Die Verwendung der Begriffe ›Roman‹ und ›Fiktionalität‹ versteht sich in diesem Zusammenhang nicht unangefochten von selbst. Sie bedarf der Rechtfertigung«; »The application of the terms ›romance‹ and ›fictionality‹ is not selfevident in this context, but demands a justification«. Haug’s attempt at justification remains brief and tentative, however. 58 See Pesch 1996, p. 178: »Daher ist äußerste Vorsicht geboten, wenn dieser Text als Erklärungsgerüst für Epochen, Ereignisse oder Bräuche der skandinavischen Vorgeschichte benutzt wird, wie es bisher immer wieder geschehen ist und trotz aller geäußerten Kritik auch in neuesten Publikationen immer noch geschieht. Als Grundlage für die historische Forschung ist die Heimskringla schlichtweg ungeeignet«; »Hence the utmost care is necessary if this text is to be used as a framework for the interpretation of epochs, events or customs in Scandinavian prehistory, as has repeatedly taken place until now and is still common in recent publications, despite all expressed criticism. Heimskringla is simply unsuitable as a basis for historical research«. 57 285 translations of Heimskringla, the Australian scholar John Kennedy claimed that a concern for Heimskringla as history and Heimskringla as literature have clearly been important elements [with regard to the translators]. Perhaps in a hundred and fifty years [since the first translation] the literary element has tended to grow in importance and the historical element to diminish, but the tendency is not sharply defined.59 Finally, in 1999 the German scholar Klaus von See openly criticised Bagge for his being a historian and not a literary scholar, an alleged shortcoming that, according to von See, had resulted in Bagge misunderstanding Heimskringla’s conception.60 Strangely enough, this growing criticism hardly seems to have altered the tendency to read Heimskringla in particular as a historical report on Scandinavian society and politics, with a special focus on ideas of monarchy and power. In fact, it may have been the case that the popularity of historiographical approaches to the kings’ sagas was maintained, at least in part, by the retrospective disappointment with scholarly attempts in the 1970s and 1980s to apply formalist and structuralist theories to the Sagas of Icelanders. Ever since the idea of these sagas essentially being narratives based on recurring patterns had been introduced, 61 scholars were eager to detect overarching structures and repetitive formulas in Old Norse texts; a similar tendency can be found in contemporary German medieval studies.62 What initially appeared to be an auspicious way to overcome challenges that, not least, the Third Reich had inflicted on the study of a ›germanic past‹ (including Old Norse literature),63 turned out to be all too rigid to do __________________________ 59 60 61 62 63 Kennedy 1997, pp. 355–6. See von See 1999, p. 370: »Daß Bagge als Historiker und nicht als Philologe arbeitet, wirkt sich hier zum Nachteil aus. Denn detaillierte Textanalysen sind seine Sache nicht«; »It is disadvantageous in this context that Bagge works as a historian, not a philologist, since in-depth textual analyses are not his thing«. See, for example, van den Toorn 1959 and Andersson 1967. For a recent reassessment see Bornholdt 2005 and Schulz 2012, pp. 159–291. Elaborating on the monumental second edition of the Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, the German medievalist Heinrich Beck 2004, p. 629–30 emphasised the impact of the »breitangelegte Debatte über die Rolle der völkischen Ideologie gerade in den Altertumswissenschaften«; »broad-ranging debate on the role of the 286 justice to the broad spectrum of respective narratives, not least the wealth of saga literature.64 As Ármann Jakobsson and Stefanie Gropper (then Würth), among others, have emphasised, structuralist readings of sagatexts have often been rather superficial, and were »continually in danger of falling through the trapdoor of banality«, as Ármann puts it.65 In addition, the old debate of whether the sagas had somehow been prefigured in oral times, or whether they were largely the product of thirteenth century men of letters, had become more intricate at that time, which highlighted the difficulty of applying distinctions like ›fact‹, ›fiction‹, or ›history‹ to medieval saga literature.66 In short, scholarly attempts to apply literary __________________________ völkisch ideology particularly in Old Germanic studies [the term Altertumswissenschaft is preferably translated thusly in this context]« as of the late 1960s: »Sie brachte (weit über eine Auseinandersetzung ausschließlich mit der NS-Zeit hinausgehend) Ergebnisse, die von allgemeiner hermeneutischer Bedeutung waren – so bedeutend, daß eine altertumswissenschaftliche Darstellung heute nicht mehr denkbar ist ohne eine Reflexion über Stand und Bedingtheit der eigenen Position«; »Far beyond the scholarly occupation with the Nazi era alone, this debate yielded results that were of general hermeneutical importance – so important so that today any debate within Old Germanic studies that does not reflect upon its own position and contingency is inconceivable«. 64 For a recent summary and reassessment with particular regard to the concept of a medieval ›bridal quest schema‹, see Bowden 2012, here p. 24: »The word ›schema‹ is too allencompassing and suggests something much more fixed and all-determined than the bridal-quest motif we find in the texts. ›Schema‹ also implies something fully realizable and clearly defined, which is not the case«. 65 Ármann Jakobsson 2017, p. 128. See also Würth 1999, p. xxxii: »Innerhalb der Altnordistik gab es jedoch kaum theoretische Reflexionen, die zu einer einheitlichen Terminologie und Vorgehensweise geführt hätten, sondern es entstanden in erster Linie deskriptive Textanalysen mit jeweils individueller Terminologie und Strategie«; »Within Old Norse studies, however, there were hardly any theoretical reflections [about structuralist approaches] that would have led to a coherent terminology and methodology; rather, descriptive textual analyses were predominantly put forth, each with its own terminology and strategy«. 66 It is beyond the scope of this chapter to scrutinise this many-voiced debate; for recent selective summaries in saga studies see O’Connor 2017 and van Nahl / van Nahl 2019, pp. 85–93. See also the sober comment in Müller 2010, pp. 83–4: »In der Debatte wurde die lange Zeit übliche Dichotomie ›Fiktion vs. Wirklichkeit‹ in Frage gestellt, das eigentümliche Realitäts- und Wahrheitsverständnis im Mittelalter untersucht und die Differenz zwischen mittelalterlichen und neuzeitlichen Vorstellungen von ›Wahrheit‹ betont. Man hat das asymmetrische Verhältnis von Faktizität und Fiktionalität herausgearbeitet und unterschiedliche Typen des Fingierens zwischen rhetorischer Inszenierung von vorgegebenem (oder als vorgegeben angesehenem) Material (›funktionaler‹ Fiktionalität) und dessen freier Erfindung (›autonomer‹ Fiktionalität) voneinander abgehoben. Schließlich wurden mittelalterliche Beispiele 287 theory to the Sagas of Icelanders had endured difficulties, and thereby, arguably, discouraged further attempts in regard to other genres. At the same time, as Andersson’s statement from 1985 suggests, it was becoming apparent that philological attempts at establishing relationship between individual versions of kings’ sagas would never yield any reliable results. 67 In light of these disillusioning problems, both Whaley’s reduction of Heimskringla’s literary dimension to »entertainment« and Bagge’s decision not to use philological tools in reading Heimskringla could be thought of as paradigmatic decisions that reflected the general scholarly spirit around 1990. In discussing such a spirit, however, we may find another reason that would have rendered historical scholarship at that time more problematic in general, namely the life and work of the eminent German historian Hans-Robert Jauß. By the 1970s, Jauß had established in medieval studies the concept of ›Alterität‹, a sort of anthropological otherness that, in this sense, indicated an almost impossible-to-bridge gap between our modern world and the past; this resulted in the assumption of a specific medieval mindset that would have been unlike our own mindset today. According to __________________________ expliziter Ausstellung von Fiktionalität (›Selbstentblößung‹) und ihrer expliziten Reflexion […] analysiert. Trotzdem ist manches unaufgeklärt geblieben«; »In this debate, the dichotomy ›fiction vs. reality‹, which had been common for a long time, was called into question, the peculiar perception of reality and truth in the Middle Ages was analysed, and the discrepancy between medieval and modern ideas of ›truth‹ highlighted. The asymmetrical relation between facticity and fictionality was worked out, and distinguished between different types of fictional simulation in between the staging of (allegedly) predefined material (›functional fictionality‹) and its invention out of nothing (›autonomous fictionality‹). Last but not least, medieval examples of explicit exposition of fictionality (›self-exposure‹) and their explicit reflection were anlysed. Nevertheless, not everything has been resolved«. Müller’s response, eventually, was to argue in favour of the scalability of fictionality (p. 95). 67 Not for nothing did the British literary scholar Alison Finlay, in her 2004 translation of Fagrskinna, compare the stemmata of kings’ sagas with »an astronomer’s chart of the heavens, so plentiful are the stars designating works known or surmised to have existed, but of which no text now survives« (Finlay (transl.) 2004, p. 3). Around the same time, Sverre Bagge 2006, p. 484 stated that, despite all scholarly effort, »we may be as far from a solution to the difficult questions about the relationship between the early narratives on Norwegian history as fifty or one-hundred years ago«. 288 this idea, the modern recipient’s primary way of approaching medieval literature was through a focus on its aesthetic appeal: Weder nachschaffende Identifikation mit dem Bewußtsein des Dichters, noch imaginative Rekonstruktion des sprechenden Subjekts, noch auch der transgressive Akt des Schreibens vermag diese hermeneutische Kluft zu schließen. […] [S]o fremd uns der Status des unpersönlichen Autors und des nicht-werkhaften Textes auf der Seite der Produktion auch geworden sein mag, kann sich doch auf der Seite der Rezeption heute noch einem Leser, der mit ästhetischem Vergnügen einen mittelalterlichen Text aufzunehmen weiß, ein unschätzbarer Zugang eröffnen, den er als Interpret über den Prozeß der Horizontverschmelzung zur hermeneutischen Brücke ausbauen kann. 68 (Neither the identification with the poet’s mind through an act of recreation, nor the imagined reconstruction of the speaking subject, nor the transgressive act of writing is able to fill this hermeneutical gap. […] As strange as the status of the impersonal author and the non-work-like text [i.e. not presented as part of an author’s oeuvre] has become for us on the side of production, on the side of reception, for a reader who knows how to absorb a medieval text with aesthetic joy, there can still today open an invaluable point of entry, which he, as an interpreter via the process of the fusion of horizons, can expand into a hermeneutic bridge.) Jauß is often considered to be one of the originators of the so-called ›Rezeptionsästhetik‹, a significant school of literary theory that paid close attention to the reader,69 and was in fact the co-founder of the important research group Poetik und Hermeneutik. It does not come as a surprise that even his ideas on the aesthetical dimension of medieval literature became highly influential.70 Yet Jauß’s merits have been subject to fundamental __________________________ 68 69 70 Jauß 1977, pp. 414–5. See Warning 1979. See Müller 2005, p. 181: »Mit seiner Schrift Literaturgeschichte als Provokation der Literaturwissenschaft (1967) eröffnete Hans Robert Jauß ein neues Kapitel literaturwissenschaftlicher Theoriebildung und Forschung«; »With his work ›Literary history 289 criticism since the disclosure of his having been a high-ranking member of the Waffen-SS. In 1997, the year of Jauß’s death, the German-based literary scholar Earl Jeffrey Richards published a paper in which he sought to establish the idea that the concept of a largely inaccessible past was Jauß’s way of putting his own SS-past behind himself.71 This chapter is not the right place to follow up the debate, but it is worth considering, in the context of understanding the motivations even behind contemporary kings’ saga scholarship, that around 1990 medievalists may have been confused by the undermining effect that this debate could have had on the previously appealing approach of literary theory.72 Could this have been a further reason for scholars of Old Norse studies at the time to disassociate themselves from questions concerning the aesthetics of medieval literature? The Early Twenty-First Century Whereas the neglect of the kings’ sagas as literature in the late twentieth century might be explicable in light of these considerations, it remains to be considered why this neglect is still palpable today, and why these narratives are still often belittled in comparison, for example, to the Sagas of Icelanders. The continuation of this neglect is especially notable given that, as discussed above, Heimskringla’s value as a historical source had already __________________________ as a provocation of literary studies‹ (1967), Hans Robert Jauß opened a new chapter of theory construction and research in literary studies«. 71 See Richards 1997, p. 12: »Fest steht, daß Jauß […] seine Zuflucht in Diskontinuität und in einer ästhetisierten Geschichte suchte, und daß diese Taktik überhaupt nichts gegen den nationalsozialistischen Wahn, von dem er ein begeisterter und hochdekorierter Anhänger war, entgegensetzt«; »It is obvious that Jauß sought refuge in the ideas of discontinuity and aesthetic history, but that these tactics in no way opposed the Nazi madness of which he was a keen and highly decorated supporter«. For a recent evaluation of the debate, see Ette 2016. 72 It is noteworthy that, for example, the authoritative 2003 volume Mediävistik im 21. Jahrhundert (»Medieval Studies in the Twenty-First Centurys«) does not discuss Jauß at all; interestingly enough, in his remarks on the future of medieval studies, the editor Hans-Werner Goetz mentions ›Alterität‹ as an auspicious concept (see Goetz / Jarnut (eds.) 2003, p. 482), yet his listing of relevant scholars does not include Jauß either. Admittedly, one should not lay too much stress on this observation, but the possibility of an undermining effect ought to incite further research into this particular history of scholarship. 290 been put into serious doubt by some scholars during the 1990s. It is worth mentioning in this context that later scholars have also criticised Bagge’s prominent 1991 study, which avoids literary readings, on the grounds that its historical analysis lacks clarity. In 2011, the Icelandic historian Viðar Pálsson criticised Bagge’s tendency to put forth far-reaching claims without backing them up in detail.73 In 2014, the Norwegian historian Hans Jacob Orning criticised the fact that »diskusjonen om Heimskringlas forhold til ›virkeligheten‹ er imidlertid kortfattet (fire sider) i Bagges bok«. 74 This objection was promptly answered by Bagge, who claimed that it was »uklart hvordan Orning forestiller seg realhistorien«, and who moreover accused Orning of having become entangled »i selvmotsigelser«.75 At the same time, however, the Swedish historian Birgit Sawyer similarly criticised Bagge by claiming that the picture that Heimskringla provides of medieval Northern society and politics had nothing to do with »Snorri’s society ›as it actually was‹«.76 Yet of these critics, not even Sawyer, who considers Snorri Sturluson a master »in the art of ambiguity«,77 attempts to introduce a reading of Heimskringla from a narratological point of view. Indeed, this has been a shortcoming of many critics, who have certainly not been sympathetic to historiographical readings of Heimskringla, but who have rarely tried to introduce an alternative reading from the point of view of literary studies.78 __________________________ 73 Viðar Pálsson 2011, p. 184. Orning 2014, p. 201; »the discussion on Heimskringla’s relation to ›reality‹ is brief (four pages) in Bagge’s book«. 75 Bagge 2015, pp. 94–5; »unclear how Orning imagines actual history«; »in self-contradictions«. 76 Sawyer 2015, p. 9 74 77 Sawyer 2015, pp. 146–7. For a similar assessment of Haralds saga hárfagra in particular, see Lincoln 2014, here p. 7: »Of all the texts, none is subtler than Heimskringla, which regards Harald Fairhair and all he represents with distinct ambivalence. Beneath a celebratory veneer, it harbors other discursive projects, including a critique it advances so skillfully and slyly that most modern critics have failed to perceive it. Never quite explicit, its critique normally remains a subtext, legible to some readers only, while remaining invisible to others«. 78 In a recent book chapter on the different versions of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, I try to demonstrate how this neglect has misled scholars in their idea of political power in medieval Scandinavia (see van Nahl 2020b). For a comprehensive discussion, see van Nahl 2021, pp. 119–31. 291 In 2012, Ármann Jakobsson drew attention to this peculiar status quo: There has been very little scholarly discussion of form and aesthetics of the kings’ sagas […]. [I]n fact most scholars would have thought it a waste of effort to discuss the narrative art of the kings’ sagas at all.79 However, his and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson’s edition of Morkinskinna from 2011 did not incite any such debate either, but was rather concerned with discussing the traditional question »hvernig skyldleika konungasagna er háttað«.80 Only in 2014, in a book with the descriptive title A Sense of Belonging, did Ármann elaborate on the question of ›structure‹ in Morkinskinna: The author of Morkinskinna presents himself as an historian. But […] as a text Morkinskinna resembles a patchwork quilt. […] The text lacks organic unity and has no obvious singular narrative thread. On the other hand, no material can be regarded as extraneous – all the tales and other anecdotes are of equal importance. Many stories and poems are woven together all at once, and yet they all remain in the mind of the author and his audience.81 In discussing aspects of narrative structure and »dramatic narrative« 82 in their relation to the idea of royal power and identity, Ármann’s study may be considered a first substantial step towards a reassessment of the kings’ sagas as literature – even though his concluding remark that the author of Morkinskinna was »an adventurer who loves narrative for its own sake«, and knew »that he is in disguise and that there is nothing simple in the behaviour of any human being«, could easily be applied to a vast range of literary texts. Likewise, Bruce Lincoln’s study on Haralds saga hárfagra __________________________ Ármann Jakobsson 2012, p. 3. Ármann Jakobsson / Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson (eds.) 2011, vol. 1, p. xxxiv; »how the relation of the kings’s sagas can be thought of«. 81 Ármann Jakobsson 2014, p. 108. 82 Ármann Jakobsson 2014, p. 113–35. 79 80 292 from the same year, as mentioned above, makes a case for discussing narrative structures in the kings’ sagas more deliberately: At a certain point, however, it becomes apparent that there is no convenient point of closure. […] It seems that narratives meant to stabilize state institutions and secure the political order are themselves profoundly unstable. Why should this be so? Do they suffer from some inevitable and inescapable contradiction?83 Ármann’s and Lincoln’s 2014 contributions stick out as exceptions to the depicted rule even in light of most recent publications. Two recent examples may suffice to indicate that the scholarly trend to belittle the literary-aesthetical value of the kings’s sagas persists. The first is Theodore Andersson’s remark, in 2016, that the kings’ sagas were not to be »exclusive property of the philologists«, but must be treated as »exceptional narratives« – a promising assertion, yet one that was immediately qualified by Andersson’s further comments: »The sagas about Norwegian kings are […] remarkable, but they do not have quite the dramatic force or the skill in characterization that set the native sagas apart«. 84 This almost sounds like a counterblast to Ármann’s claim regarding the dramatic quality of Morkinskinna. The second example is the literary scholar Ralph O’Connor’s contribution to the 2017 Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Saga, which restates the traditional view on the kings’ sagas by claiming that they have been »accepted as self-evident historiography«: »Their historical reliability is open to doubt on all sides, but few scholars would dispute that these texts were intended and received as history«.85 O’Connor’s chapter illustrates the difficulty that scholars have faced in using modern terminology to discuss medieval literature; his claim that »the modern separation between ›history‹ and ›literature‹ has been shown to make no sense at all when studying the Middle Ages« is notably at odds with his claim that the kings’ sagas are self-evident works of __________________________ Lincoln 2014, p. 104. Andersson 2016, p. 2. 85 O’Connor 2017, p. 89. 83 84 293 history.86 Bagge himself had been aware of this problem: Since [the kings’ sagas] are not considered to be pure fiction, literary scholars have avoided them, while the historians have had the feeling of putting their hands into a hornet’s nest when trying to derive factual information from them.87 Bagge’s assessment seems to present a somewhat skewed idea of what literary studies involve, let alone the complexity of concepts of fictionality. In 1996, Bagge added that while he had »mainly given a historical explanation« of Heimskringla, this did »not imply a general belief in historical texts being directly determined by political or social conditions«; yet even this statement was put into doubt when he qualified it thusly: »Norway may very well be a special case«.88 This evaluation by a Norwegian historian might not come as a surprise, but it is noteworthy that, even in recent years, research on the kings’ sagas has for the most part been conducted in Scandinavia. As far as I am aware, no recent Scandinavian scholar has claimed the kings’ sagas outright as some sort of national property – which would be a strange claim indeed – but it is worth considering the role that national identity plays nowadays in such research. Against all lip-service as to the significance of international cooperation in medieval studies, most research projects are funded on a national level, making the importance of the project to one’s own country a top priority. Again, two recent examples illustrate this claim, the first being the 2016 volume Historical and Intellectual Culture in the Long Twelfth Century – The Scandinavian Connection. As a matter of fact, ›Scandinavia‹ in this volume refers first and foremost to Denmark – an unsurprising result, given that the book gathers »the fruits of three years of research work and conferences […] made possible by a grant from the Danish Council for Independent Research«.89 The second example is the volume Intellectual Culture in Medieval Scandinavia, c. 1100–1350 from the same __________________________ O’Connor 2017, p. 88 Bagge 1991, p. 61 88 Bagge 1996, p. 160. 89 Münster-Swendsen et al. (eds.) 2016, acknowledgements. 86 87 294 year; in this case, the focus is overwhelmingly on Norway and partially on Iceland, which again may hardly be surprising in light of the original project’s having been funded by the Norwegian Research Council and the volume editor’s being a research director at the Norwegian Institute for Cultural Heritage Research.90 The funding of research and publications seems to have become an increasingly delicate matter in academia throughout the last decades.91 However, one must ask how cooperation on an international level is meant to be achieved in the face of barriers that, given the apparent necessity to pursue national-facing projects, often appear to render trans-national scholarship unwanted. Outlook »There is still much that needs to be done in understanding the place of the kings’ sagas in the historical consciousness of twelfth- and thirteenthcentury Iceland«, this initial claim by Shami Ghosh still holds true. The kings’ sagas, with their focus on social, political and religious developments from pre-historical times to the late twelfth century (and beyond), ought to feature prominently in any attempt at understanding the mentality of medieval Northern Europe through a study of its literature. Moreover, the kings’ sagas are often thought to be the oldest type of saga-writing which would have impacted on the development of the supposedly ›greater‹ Sagas of Icelanders. As a result, the ongoing lack of prominence afforded to the kings’ sagas in literary studies could well in itself be regarded as sufficient reason for my preceding attempt to outline traits and tendencies in the scholarship. Yet this attempt is also intended to demonstrate the importance of understanding our own place in the historical consciousness of our time. __________________________ Eriksen (ed.) 2016. This limitation has been subject to criticism by various reviewers, see Mortensen 2017, van Nahl 2018, and, interestingly enough, Münster-Swendsen 2018, p. 204: »Though the express aim of the book was to challenge the traditional narratives and approaches, such as the idea of a specific Nordic Sonderweg, the distinction between Latin and vernacular culture, the search for origins of unspoiled, authentic ›native‹ elements, it is a shame to discover that the volume seems to reconfirm old dichotomies und uphold a traditional ›national‹ focus«. 91 See van Nahl 2014b. 90 295 The above-exposed tendencies in medieval studies, the study of the kings’ sagas in particular, have not simply been the result of a self-sufficient thirst for knowledge by scholars in the notoriously evoked ivory tower. Rather, the before-mentioned approaches to medieval literature inevitably are (and have always been) entangled in contemporary-historical and thus societal and political contexts. To put it somewhat boldly: in the early twenty-first century, in medieval studies we are no longer dwarves standing on the shoulders of giants, but dwarves balancing on the shoulders of dwarves. Without us continuously reflecting on this entanglement, we would be compelled to agree with Friedrich Nietzsche’s initially suggested criticism: »Was hältst du Zwerg von diesem Augenblick? […] [S]ind nicht solchermaßen fest alle Dinge verknotet, daß dieser Augenblick alle kommenden Dinge nach sich zieht?«92 – the dwarf fails to understand Zarathustra’s visionary insight, however, and chooses to leap down from his shoulder. My final remarks are intended to add to this claim, which in some sense has to fight the potential criticism that research into the history of research itself is no true scholarship. This might be considered an extreme position. However, not for nothing did the German philologists Christoph König, Hans-Harald Müller and Werner Röcke in their book Wissenschaftsgeschichte der Germanistik in Porträts from the year 2000 soberly state: »Ein Interesse an der Wissenschaftsgeschichte kann heute nicht einmal mehr im Fach selbst vorausgesetzt werden«.93 In 2005, the German medievalist Julia Zernack specified this claim regarding the history of scholarship in Old Norse studies: Bei näherem Hinsehen erkennt man ein komplexes Geflecht von Traditionslinien mit Überschneidungen, Wechselwirkungen und Brüchen. Als solches läßt es sich – jedenfalls im Moment – noch kaum zuverlässig beschreiben. Man müßte auf systematische wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Rekonstruktionen zurückgreifen können, wollte man beispielsweise beurteilen, wodurch sich die Forschungstraditionen in Skandinavien, Deutschland, England und Amerika unterscheiden, wo sie sich berühren, wo innerfachliche Entwicklungen dominieren und wo __________________________ Perfahl (ed.) 1998, p. 174; »What do you, dwarf, think of this moment? […] [A]re not all things entangled in such a way that this moment entails all the following things?«. 93 König et al. (eds.) 2000, p. v; »Today one cannot even expect people within the field [of German studies] to be interested in the history of [their] scholarship«. 92 296 sich äußere, vielleicht ideologische Einflüsse geltend machen. Besonders deutlich wird ein solcher Mangel an wissenschaftsgeschichtlicher Reflexion immer dann, wenn neue oder vermeintliche neue Forschungsansätze auf überwunden geglaubte Positionen zurückgreifen und sie aus ihrem ursprünglichen Zeithorizont in einen anderen übertragen.94 (At closer inspection, one can recognise a complex web of lines of tradition with overlapping, interdependency, and disruption. Currently, this web can hardly be described in a satisfying manner. One would need access to systematic reconstructions from the point of view of the history of research in order to assess in which way research traditions in Scandinavia, Germany, England and America differ from each other, where they converge, where developments within the field are dominant, and where external, maybe ideological influences are effective. This lack of a reflection from the point of the history of scholarship becomes particularly obvious when new or allegedly new research approaches fall back to seemingly overcome positions, which they transfer from their original temporal horizon to a different one.) In 2014, I put forth the idea of exploiting digital tools to unravel this proliferation of medieval studies in the twentieth century – a form of network analysis using the data of large-scale projects in the field.95 Seven years later, with manpower mostly being committed to the digital editing of manuscripts, and digital tools primarily being used for gathering statistical evidence, such a meta-project still seems to hold little appeal.96 In order to encourage medieval literary studies, and especially the study of hitherto- __________________________ Zernack 2005, p. 125; see also van Nahl 2015. Recent attempts at compiling a coherent history of saga scholarship are convincing only to a certain degree, as is the case with the Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (Ármann Jakobsson / Sverrir Jakobsson (eds.) 2017) – a useful reference, but limited to a relatively small selection of topics, with the individual chapters often lacking coherence in the sense of an overarching picture of the development of international saga studies. 95 van Nahl 2014a; see also van Nahl 2017. 96 See Bleier et al. (eds.) 2019. 94 297 neglected text corpora in our field, perhaps a more manageable option would be the development of a living handbook on current research about the history of Old Norse scholarship – that is, a dynamic resource that would react to topical questions in our field, and scrutinise itself continuously as part of the effective histories of this field with regard to social and political contexts. In the medium-term, such an undertaking could not be restricted to the national level, but would by necessity involve a transnational, trans-border collaboration.97 Establishing such an open-access platform for the continuous reassessment of our scholarly engagement with the past and present may also increase self-confidence among literary scholars to team up their competencies in approaching formerly neglected tasks even beyond the inner-academic circle. To put it somewhat boldly, as of yet, the exchange of opinions among scholars regarding societal challenges seems often limited to the commenting of individual posts in social media profiles or blogs, unlikely to be recognized as an important contribution beyond a small community of followers. A peculiar lack of self-confidence within the humanities (in the sense of being prepared to intervene publicly) has been recognised since the turn of the millennium. In 2004, for example, the German medievalist Klaus Düwel claimed German medieval studies to be ein Fach mit einem zunehmend gestörten Selbstbewußtsein, das seine seit gut 30 Jahren befragte ›Relevanz‹ in wachsenden und atemloseren methodischen Kapriolen hinter historisch-anthropologischen, mentalitätsgeschichtlichen u.a. Konzepten bis hin zur Kulturwissenschaft zu verstecken sucht. 98 (a subject with increasingly troubled self-confidence. In growing and increasingly breathless methodological caprioles, it tries to hide its ›relevance‹, which has been questioned for roughly 30 years, behind concepts from the field of historical anthropology, history of mentality, and cultural studies, among others.) In 2007, the German philosopher Ludger Heidbrink and the social psychologist Harald Welzer attested to the humanities that they were all-too __________________________ 97 98 For my recent thoughts on this project, see van Nahl 2020a. Düwel 2004, p. 650. 298 reluctant in living up to their self-conception as being relevant in modernday society; their conclusion reads: »Wer nichts zu sagen hat, dem hört halt keiner mehr zu«.99 And in 2013, the German medievalist Peter Strohschneider, president of the German Research Foundation, once again made aware of a peculiar lack of popularity of the humanities, and thus, from the public’s point of view, the lack of relevance and, eventually, grantworthiness: »Wenn ein Philosoph ein Buch schreibt, kann niemand bunte Bänder durchtrennen wie bei der Einweihung eines neuen Forschungsgebäudes«.100 Given that our generation of scholars want to spend another thirty or so years in this field without being abandoned as the irrelevant and unwanted,101 it is essential that we reassess our underlying assumptions, which allows us to situate ourselves in historical and contemporary developments, to reassess previous limitations or failures in order to avoid perpetuating them, and to make the case more readily for our continued relevance. The reassessment of the previously discussed trends in kings’ saga research might appear to be a small task in the face of this far-reaching plea. However, the persistent dominance of approaches in kings’ saga research that were established within the context of nineteenth- and twentieth-century politics may be considered a prime example of the scholarly convenience to pursue well-established points of view without retracing their temporal roots, and thus without demonstrating engagement with scholarship’s historical dimension. Whereas questions on nationhood and state formation in Heimskringla or Morkinskinna might still appeal to a larger audience in Norway, while the search for an Icelandic identity in these narratives, understandably enough, appeals to Icelandic scholars in particular, and while many German scholars seem to have abandoned this troubling discussion for good, international kings’ saga research as a whole is in danger of missing the opportunity to cast its own history as a field of future study that is closely entangled with topical questions beyond the ivory tower: questions on ideology, politics, and __________________________ Heidbrink / Welzer (eds.) 2007, p. 10; »He who has naught to say will simply be ignored«. Strohschneider 2013; »When a philosopher writes a book, nobody can cut colourful ribbons as is the case with the inauguration of a new research facility«. For the broader discussion see van Nahl 2014a, § 12–25. For the broader discussion and more recent examples see van Nahl 2014a, § 12–25, and van Nahl 2020a. 101 See van Nahl 2013. 99 100 299 society in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. This would be a regrettable lapse, because if a new generation of scholars, i.e., if we do not know why we are doing the things that we are doing in the ways that we are doing them, why should anybody else take an interest in our generation’s scholarly existence? In performing this reassessment (publicly visible), we may thus be able to bring back to our mind, and to others’ minds, the fact that the societal task of our combined learned efforts is nothing unwanted, but rather has always been the backbone of what we call the humanities. 300 Bibliography Andersson, Theodore M. 1967: The Icelandic Family Saga: An Analytic Reading (Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 28), Cambridge (Mass.). Andersson, Theodore M. 1985: »Kings’ Sagas (Konungasögur)«, in: Carol J. 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An Introduction (Viking Society for Northern Research. Text Series 8), London. Würth, Stefanie 1999: »Vorwort zum Nachdruck«, in: Jan de Vries, Altnordische Literaturgeschichte (Grundriss der Germanischen Philologie 15/16). 3rd edition, Berlin/New York, pp. xiii–xlv. Zernack, Julia 2005: »Altertum und Mittelalter bei Andreas Heusler«, in: Jürg Glauser / Julia Zernack (eds.), Germanentum im Fin de siècle. Wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Studien zum Werk Andreas Heuslers (Studien zur Geschichte der Wissenschaften in Basel 3), Basel, pp. 120–145. 307 The Authors Alexander Wilson is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Tübingen. He completed his doctoral studies at Durham University in 2018, having previously attained bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the same institution. His doctoral thesis, Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr: Individual Agency and the Communal Creation of Outsiders in Íslendingasögur Outlaw Narratives, investigated the socio-political aspects of Icelandic outlaw sagas through a methodological framework based on sociological understandings of agency, power, and deviance. He is currently a member of the international research project ›The Íslendingasögur as Prosimetrum‹, hosted jointly by the Universities of Cambridge and Tübingen. Sebastian Thoma studied Scandinavian studies, German language and literature of the Middle Ages, and Finno-Ugrian studies (M.A.) in Munich and Umeå. He holds a Dr. phil. in Scandinavian studies and a diploma in public administration. His dissertation was published as Unmännlichkeit in den Isländersagas. Zur narrativen Funktion von ergi und níð in 2021. (He has a position as civil servant at the Bavarian State Ministry of Social Affairs where his duties center on the topics of inclusive education and cultural participation, which, being profoundly deaf himself, are of high personal interest to him.) Within the field of Old Norse studies, his interests lie in the Sagas of Icelanders, questions of gender and Old Norse texts translated from Latin. Anita Sauckel studied Scandinavian Studies, Medieval History and Archaeology at the LMU Munich and the University of Bergen (Norway). She holds a Dr. phil. from the LMU Munich. Anita is currently working as a postdoctoral researcher and teacher at the University of Iceland’s Department of Icelandic and Comparative Cultural Studies. She has published on medieval Icelandic Sagas, narratology, medieval clothing and textiles, and archaeology. Lucie Korecká has a Ph.D. in Germanic Literatures with a specialization in Old Norse literature and culture from Charles University in Prague, Department of Germanic Studies. In her research, she has focused on the study of various cultural concepts in Old Norse texts and in Nordic folklore. She has written a monograph on Old Norse magic as a cultural concept, and a dissertation on Sturlunga saga and the Bishops’ Sagas from the perspective of cultural memory studies. She has also translated Old Norse, Icelandic, and Faroese texts into the Czech language. 308 Rebecca Merkelbach studied in Tübingen, Dublin and Reykjavík and completed her PhD at the Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic, University of Cambridge. She has published on outlawry, family structures, gender, and late medieval saga literature, and her monograph Monsters in Society: Alterity, Transgression and the Use of the Past in Medieval Iceland appeared with MIP/De Gruyter in 2019. Since October 2021, Merkelbach is junior professor of Scandinavian Studies at the University of Tübingen. Zuzana Stankovitsová holds an MA in Swedish, German and Translation Studies from the Comenius University in Bratislava, a BA in Icelandic as a Second Language and an MA in Medieval Icelandic Studies from the University of Iceland. She is currently finishing her PhD at the University of Bergen. Her dissertation on the manuscripts of Króka-Refs saga combines traditional methods of stemmatic analysis with new- and material-philological approaches to explore the saga's transmission. In addition, she works as a translator of modern Icelandic literature into Slovak. Yoav Tirosh is a master of his own domain an independent scholar and an external member of CVM (Center for Vikingetid og Middelalder) at Aarhus University. He is the father of Felix [too personal] His doctoral thesis was an incoherent mess multifaceted examination of Ljósvetninga saga from the perspective of genre, memory, and scholarly history. His other interests include spoon-throwing, making comics, watching Arrested Development and singing Sunset Rubdown to his son [cute but irrelevant] issues of gender and sexuality, disability, as well as collective memory; he has published widely on these topics and yet cannot find a job. [wtf yoav?!] Mathias Kruse wrote his dissertation on the hyperbolic and comical depiction of the body in the Icelandic lygisögur while working at the department of Scandinavian Studies at Kiel University (CAU). As a scholarship holder of the DFG he is currently working as guest researcher at the Arnamagnæan collection in Copenhagen where he is preparing an edition and analysis of a fourteenth-century Icelandic collection of exempla in AM 657 a–b 4to. 309 Jan Alexander van Nahl studied in Bonn, Germany, and Uppsala, Sweden. He finished his PhD in Old Norse studies at the University of Munich, Germany, in 2012, and received his venia legendi (habilitation) in 2020. From 2014 to 2017, he was a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Iceland, and a guest teacher at the University in Katowice, Poland, in 2015. From 2019 to 2021, he was an assistant professor for medieval Icelandic studies at the University of Iceland, where he is currently an associate professor. He has published a range of books, book chapters, and journal articles in the broader field of medieval studies, including three monographs and a teaching book. His current research interest is focused on the role of night and darkness in medieval Icelandic literature, as well as the societal task of medieval studies in the 21st century. He is a full member of the Agder Academy of Sciences and Letters in Norway. 310 Index Af sýslumanni ok fjánda ......... 243–7, 255–8 Áns saga bogsveigis ........................189 Arons saga Hjörleifssonar ........... 107, 108, 111–2, 123–35 Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss ................. 144, 156, 166–7 Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa ......... 28, 30–3, 47–52, 77 Brennu-Njáls saga ....................... 57–9, 63, 65–73, 75, 78–81, 87–102, 119 Callinius saga .............. 243–7, 255–8 De nugis curialium ....................... 251 Der arm kremer............................258 Díalógar Gregors páfa ................. 254 Dialogi de vita et miraculis patrum Italicorum ............................. 254 Dialogus miraculorum ................. 251 Egils saga Skallagrímssonar ... 28, 209 Elzta saga Guðmundar biskups ......... 107–8 Eyrbyggja saga ..................... 168, 209 Finnboga saga ramma .......... 60, 144, 153–4, 167–8 Fljótsdæla saga ......... 144, 155–6, 164 Flóamanna saga ....144, 146, 151, 172 Fóstbrœðra saga .............. 28, 65, 101, 117–8, 136, 209 Gargantua et Pantagruel ............. 259 Gísla saga Súrssonar ............... 112, 116, 119, 209, 224 Grágás ..................................... 32, 60 Grand Parangon ..........................258 Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar ... 63–4, 116, 119, 144, 148–50, 154–6, 162, 171 Guðmundar saga dýra.......... 120, 122 Gulaþingslǫg................................... 77 Gull-Þóris saga ..................... 144, 146 Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls .... 144, 154 Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu ..... 28–31, 33 Gylfaginning ................................. 40 Hallfreðar saga vandræðaskálds ... 28, 31, 33, 35, 41–6 Harðar saga ok Hólmverja.......... 116, 119, 144, 148–50, 156, 164–5, 182 Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings ............ 144, 146, 155–6 Heimskringla ............................. 196, 273–86, 290–1, 294, 299, 303 Homiliae in Evangelia .................261 Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar... 107 Hrafns þáttr Guðrúnarsonar ....... 117 Íslendinga saga ........................... 107, 110, 112, 120–1, 130 Íslendingabók ...............................110 Íslensk Hómilíubók...................... 254 Ketils saga hængs...........................189 Kjalnesinga saga ........................ 144, 150–1, 167–8, 172 Kormáks saga .......................... 28, 31, 33–41 Króka-Refs saga ........... 60, 144, 150, 152, 158–60, 166, 182–97, 200 Landnámabók .............................110 Laxdæla saga ........................ 153, 209 Le miracle de Théophile ....... 249, 259 Le prestre crucefié......................... 260 Legenda aurea ......................... 254–7 Ljósvetninga saga ............... 73–4, 76, 206–9, 211, 215, 218, 220–6, 229–34 Lokasenna............................ 99–102 Magnússona saga ........................ 196 311 Maríu saga ......................248, 251–3, 255–7, 262 Norna-Gests þáttr ....................... 254 Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts and Gunnars helmings .................................101 Óláfs saga helga ............................. 47 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta ..... 46 Ǫlkofra þáttr ................................. 74 Orkneyinga saga........................... 277 Rolandslied ................................. 100 Sachsenspiegel .............................. 100 Sermones vulgares ....................... 254 Sigurðar saga turnara ................. 260 Skjöldunga saga ........................... 277 Sturlu saga ..............................120–2 Sturlunga saga......... 107–9, 119, 123, 130–1, 135 312 Svarfdæla saga ............. 144, 155, 157, 160–2, 171–2 Svínfellinga saga .......................... 121 Þórðar saga hreðu ................. 117, 134, 144, 146, 150–5, 165–6 Þórðar saga kakala ................... 131–5 Þorgils saga ok Hafliða ..... 119, 121–3 Þorgils saga skarða ................ 107, 130 Þorleifs þáttr jarlaskálds ........... 63–5, 74–6 Þorskfirðinga saga = Gull-Þóris saga Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs ... 62, 196 Þorvalds þáttr víðfǫrla ................... 63 Valla-Ljóts saga .......................... 209 Víga-Glúms saga ..........................189 Víglundar saga .................... 144, 152, 155, 171, 187 Viktors saga ok Blávus ................. 196 Vulgata ....................................... 254 Münchner Nordistische Studien herausgegeben von Prof. Dr. Wilhelm Heizmann und Prof. Dr. Joachim Schiedermair Band 50: Andreas Schmidt, Daniela Hahn (Hrsg.): Unwanted · Neglected Approaches, Characters, and Texts in Old Norse-Icelandic Saga Studies 2021 · 318 Seiten · ISBN 978-3-8316-4942-6 Band 49: Klaus Düwel, Wilhelm Heizmann (Hrsg.): Völsi-Geschichten 2021 · 194 Seiten · ISBN 978-3-8316-4926-6 Band 48: Séamus Mac Mathúna: Iceland and the Immrama: An Enquiry into Irish Influence on Old NorseIcelandic Voyage Literature 2021 · 190 Seiten · ISBN 978-3-8316-4782-8 Band 47: Franziska Groß: Verheißung und Verderben · Das Motiv der Träume in der altnordischen Sagaliteratur 2021 · 442 Seiten · ISBN 978-3-8316-4902-0 Band 46: Jan Wehrle: Das 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