Discourse in Old Norse Literature 1843845970, 9781843845973

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DISCOURSE IN OLD NORSE LITERATURE

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Studies in Old Norse Literature Print ISSN 2514-0701 Online ISSN 2514-071X

Series Editors Professor Sif Rikhardsdottir Professor Carolyne Larrington

Studies in Old Norse Literature aims to provide a forum for monographs and collections engaging with the literature produced in medieval Scandinavia, one of the largest surviving bodies of medieval European literature. The series investigates poetry and prose alongside translated, religious and learned material; although the primary focus is on Old Norse-Icelandic literature, studies which make comparison with other medieval literatures or which take a broadly interdisciplinary approach by addressing the historical and archaeological contexts of literary texts are also welcomed. It offers opportunities to publish a wide range of books, whether cuttingedge, theoretically informed writing, provocative revisionist approaches to established conceptualizations, or strong, traditional studies of previously neglected aspects of the field. The series will enable researchers to communicate their findings both beyond and within the academic community of medievalists, highlighting the growing interest in Old Norse-Icelandic literary culture. Proposals or queries should be sent in the first instance to the editors or to the publisher, at the addresses given below. Professor Sif Rikhardsdottir, Faculty of Icelandic and Comparative Cultural Studies, University of Iceland, Aðalbygging v/Sæmundargötu, S-101 Reykjavik, Iceland Professor Carolyne Larrington, Fellow in English Language and Literature, St John’s College, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3JP, UK Boydell & Brewer, PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk, IP12 3DF, UK Previous volumes in the series are listed at the end of the volume.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature

Eric Shane Bryan

D. S . B R E W E R

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© Eric Shane Bryan 2021 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

The right of Eric Shane Bryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published 2021 D. S. Brewer, Cambridge ISBN 978 1 84384 597 3 (hardcover) ISBN 978 1 80010 152 4 (ePDF) ISBN 978 1 80010 153 1 (ePUB) D. S. Brewer is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620-2731, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library The publisher has no responsibility for the continued existence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate Cover design: Toni Michelle Cover image: August Malmström, illustration of Njáls saga, ca. 1895–1900. Photographed by Cecilia Heisser of the National Museum, Sweden.

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Contents List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgementsix List of Abbreviations xi Note on the Text xiii Introduction: Discourse in Old Norse Literature 1. When Questions Are Not Questions 2. The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression 3. Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle 4. Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations 5. Icelanders and Their Language Abroad 6. Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons 7. Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender 8. Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage in Icelandic Sagas Conclusion: Close Context and the Proximity of Pragmatics Afterword

1 19 45 69 91 117 147 171

Bibliography Index

231 251

197 221 229

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Illustrations

Tables Table 1. Relation of contexts to one another

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Table 2. Self-worth

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Table 3. Levels of indirectness

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Table 4. Poetic inversion

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Chart Chart 1. Locution, illocution, and perlocution

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Graph Graph 1. The development of pragmatic understanding

218

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Acknowledgements I am very grateful to Professor Thomas A. Shippey, who introduced me to the study of pragmatics and who continues to be a valuable mentor and friend, and to Professor Paul Acker, who introduced me to Old Norse studies and who has become as good a friend as a teacher. I am also grateful to Ármann Jakobsson and Bruce Smith, who have graciously read and commented on portions of this work. I also extend my gratitude to the Fulbright Program, which gave me my first opportunity to travel and study in Iceland, and to the American-Scandinavian Foundation and the Missouri Research Board for granting financial support for travel and study in Iceland for this project. I am also grateful to the Center for Advancing Faculty Excellence and the Dean’s office for the College of Arts, Sciences, and Business at Missouri University of Science and Technology for their financial support of the publication of this volume. Thanks also go to my department chair at Missouri University of Science and Technology, Professor Kristine Swenson, who has granted me leave to go to Iceland on various research trips. I offer my thanks to the Árni Magnússon Institute in Iceland, and I extend my heartfelt gratitude to the many kind and generous scholars there who have graciously permitted me to study alongside them at various times from 2005 to the present. Most importantly, I am indebted to my family – my beloved wife, Emily, who was not only a constant support and encouragement to me but who also contributed to my thought process by sharing her comments and criticisms on parts of this work; my son, Everett; and my daughters Bryndís (who was born in Iceland during one of my research trips) and Adelaide – for their love, support, and patience throughout the writing of this book.

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Abbreviations

Texts and Editions CV CSI FSN ÍF

JEGP JHP JP SS

Richard Cleasby and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, An IcelandicEnglish Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957). The Complete Sagas of the Icelanders, ed. Viðar Hreinsson, 6 vols. (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997). Fornaldar sögur Norðurlanda, ed. Guðni Jónsson, 4 vols. (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1954). Íslenzk Fornrit. Volumes in this series were published in Reykjavík by Hið Íslenska Fornritafélag. References to ÍF in this volume include name(s) of editor(s), series number, and publication date. Journal of English and Germanic Philology Journal of Historical Pragmatics Journal of Pragmatics Scandinavian Studies

Terms ConP FTA GCI IMPL PCI PPI SSI

conflictive principle face-threatening act generalized conversational implicature implicature, followed by the implicated meaning particularized conversational implicature primary prospective implicature secondary supporting implicature

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Note on the Text The spelling of Old Norse passages follows the editions in which they are found and has not been normalized. When referred to in translation, Old Norse names are presented with their nominative singular ending and accompanied by [’s] in the possessive, such that “Hallmundr” becomes “Hallmundr’s” in English possessive form. Saga genres are typically referred to herein by their Old Norse-Icelandic name (e.g., Íslendingasögur) although at times they may be referred to in English by the translated names given in the introduction. Unless otherwise noted, translations are my own. Bibliographic entries are given in alphabetical order according to the author’s surname, except for Icelandic names, which are alphabetized by first name as is customary.

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Introduction: Discourse in Old Norse Literature This volume contributes to the understanding of the function and development of discourse in the medieval northern world by examining strategies of verbal exchanges in Old Norse literature. As Daniel Sävborg and Theodore M. Andersson have recently pointed out, despite the fact that dialogue makes up a key stylistic component and a significant percentage of saga content, no book-length scholarly work has been ventured on the importance of dialogue in the sagas since 1935.1 The literary analysis in the following pages addresses this gap in scholarship by attempting to understand the literary value of certain aspects of discourse that have been illuminated in recent years by the adjacent linguistic field of pragmatics. Pragmatics, broadly conceived, recognizes 1

Daniel Sävborg, “Style,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson (New York: Routledge, 2017), p. 118. One exception to Sävborg’s observation may be Karen Swenson, Performing Definitions: Two Genres of Insult in Old Norse Literature (Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1991), although Swenson addresses only discourse situations in which a verbal exchange is referred to by the narrative as either senna or mannjafnaðr. I consider Swenson’s work in chapter two of this volume. Andersson notes that in 1934–35 there were in fact three monographs on the topic. Sävborg refers to Irmgard Netter, Die direkte Rede in den Isländersagas, Form und Geist 36 (Leipzig: Eichblatt, 1935); Andersson, also writing in 2017, adds Werner Ludwig, Untersuchungen über den Entwicklungsgang und die Funktion des Dialogs in der isländischen Saga (Gräfenhainichen: A. Hein g.m.b.h., 1934); and Margaret Jeffrey’s dissertation, The Discourse in Seven Icelandic Sagas: Droplaugarsona saga, Hrafnkels saga freysgoða, Víga-Glums saga, Gísla saga Súrssonar, Fóstbræðra saga, Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, Flóamanna saga (Menasha Wisconsin: George Banta Publishing Company, 1934). For a brief discussion of all three monographs, see Theodore M. Andersson, “A Note on Conversation in the Sagas,” Gripla 28 (2017), pp. 227–8.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature that speakers rely upon cultural, situational, and interpersonal contexts to communicate meaning. It is often the case that these contexts facilitate an emergent type of meaning that goes beyond the obvious semantic and syntactical components of an utterance.2 In plainer terms, the words we say often do not match the meaning we intend to communicate: we may hedge, imply, deflect, obscure meaning to save face, or employ sarcasm to register an insult – always relying upon cultural and speech-situational context to communicate our meaning. If, as the study of pragmatics indicates, these linguistic phenomena are systematic, then the literature from any given linguistic community cannot be fully appreciated without also developing a thorough understanding of the pragmatic principles at play in the verbal exchanges therein. This volume argues, first, that Old Norse-Icelandic saga-writers employed a nuanced and sophisticated understanding of pragmatic principles even though Old Norse pragmatic principles may not reflect those evident in the modern world, and second, that the usage and understanding of those principles changed in the North as the cultural, political, and religious landscapes developed over time. Chapter one of this volume elaborates on the foundational concepts of pragmatics most important to the subsequent analysis. This introductory chapter offers a discussion of the texts under consideration in this book and a deeper rationale for a literary analysis of Old Norse-Icelandic literature grounded in the linguistic study of pragmatics.

What Are the Sagas and Why Are They Relevant? While the body of writing that falls under the general heading of ‘Old Norse-Icelandic literature’ is as vast and diverse as any literary corpus of the medieval world – and larger than most – the styles, origins, and characteristics of this literature allow for some generic distinctions.3 Generally speaking, this body of literature may be separated into prose genres – Íslendingasögur (sagas of the Icelanders, also often call the Icelandic family sagas or sagas about early Icelanders), konungasögur (kings’ sagas), fornaldarsögur (legendary sagas), and riddarasögur (chivalric sagas) – and poetic genres – Eddic poetry (both mythological and heroic) and skaldic poetry 2

3

My phrasing here is based on John Searle’s early description of indirectness in speech, but Searle’s language remains an apt and concise description of the type of context at play here. See his Expression and Meaning: Studies in the Theory of Speech Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 31. For a concise, recent discussion of the scholarly debate over these genres, see Massimiliano Bampi, “Genr,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion, and sources cited there. Now see also Massimiliano Bampi, Carolyne Larrington, and Sif Rikhardsdottir, eds., A Critical Companion to Old Norse Literature Genre (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2020).

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Introduction (usually grouped into court poetry, later secular verse, and Christian poetry) – along with some additional generic space given to the historical, hagiographical, and legal texts that are often read alongside these literary genres.4 Íslendingasögur, which tend to be longer prose works that give accounts of events occurring primarily in Iceland between the time of the country’s settlement (c. 870–c. 930) through the mid-eleventh century, can be further grouped into three general time periods of composition: early (written c. 1200–20), classical (written mid- to late-thirteenth century), and post-classical (written fourteenth century).5 These categorizations of genre and dating have been the subject of much debate, particularly regarding the development of Íslendingasögur and whether the sagas as we know them today originated from a living oral tradition in Iceland or a literary tradition more grounded in continental sources. This debate has been ongoing for a long time and will probably never be fully resolved, but some recent developments offer perspective to the subject matter of this volume.6 Most scholars have tended to recognize in general terms that the sagas must be understood to have both an oral pre-history and a literary tradition rather than just one or the other.7 Not much else has been agreed upon. While it seems evident that Íslendingasögur have a localized, Icelandic origin based in For eddic poetry, see Joseph Harris, “Eddic Poetry,” in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature, ed. Carol J. Clover and John Lindow (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), pp. 68–156; for the most thorough discussion of the characteristics of skaldic poetry, see Roberta Frank, “Skaldic Poetry,” in Clover, Old Norse-Icelandic Literature, pp. 157–96, and also Jonas Wellendorf’s recent discussion of the höfuðskáld (chief poets) in his “The Formation of an Old Norse Skaldic School Cannon in the Early Thirteenth Century,” Interfaces: A Journal of Medieval European Literatures 4 (2017), pp. 125–43. 5 Vésteinn Ólason, “Family Sagas,” in A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, ed. Rory McTurk (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), p. 101; and Chris Callow, “Dating and Origins,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, pp. 20–6. Callow relies heavily upon Theodore M. Andersson, Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280) (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006). 6 There are many reviews of this discussion. For a brief but recent overview of the scholarly discussion of origins and dating of Icelandic sagas, see Chris Callow, “Dating and Origins,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, pp. 15–33, and sources cited there; for a broader-reaching and more general discussion of the debate, see Gísli Sigurðsson, “Orality and Literacy in the Sagas of Icelanders,” in McTurk, A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature, pp. 285–301; and Theodore M. Andersson, Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 2–20; and for a more involved discussion of the history of the discussion, see Carol Clover, “Icelandic Family Sagas (Íslendingasögur),” in Clover, Old Norse-Icelandic Literature, pp. 239–315 (especially 239–53 and 279–86). 7 Andersson, Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, pp. 2–3. 4

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature oral tradition, they are also influenced by continental literary traditions. Though it is difficult to discern what exactly the nature of oral tradition might have been in pre-literate times, some scholars have been able to shed light on the question. For example, Gísli Sigurðsson argues that even though we know little about the nature of oral traditions in medieval Iceland, saga writers would have anticipated that their audiences knew and appreciated the living oral traditions.8 Saga writers are thus, in a way, accountable to their audience. When saga narratives overlap, it is often due to a common knowledge of oral traditions rather than the copying of one saga by another saga writer.9 Following this notion, Theodore M. Andersson points out that the sagas themselves tell us more about the types of orality present in Iceland at the time.10 Andersson goes on to note that “the old questions of whether the sagas are traditional or literary is misleading because the sagas are part of a continuum in which both traditional and literary components evolve over time.”11 In his 2006 book on the subject, Andersson discusses in detail what that continuum might have looked like during the periods of saga composition in medieval Iceland. Although it is not often described in this way, the evolution of saga materials continues after the medieval period as well. The sagas’ development in post-medieval Iceland has become the interest of palaeographical as much as literary analysis. Material (originally called “new”) philology, which views manuscript variation as a valuable part of textual analysis, offers an important point of contact with Andersson’s notion of a continuum in saga development.12 As Judy Quinn writes, “[w]hile there See Gísli Sigurðsson, The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), especially pp. 253–302. More recently, Gísli has considered the problem from the perspective of cultural memory, noting that the relationship between written sagas and oral tradition may be stronger than anticipated, provided we can understand that tradition as both “flexible” and “continuous.” See Gísli Sigurðsson, “Past Awareness in Christian Environments: Source-Critical Ideas about Memories of the Pagan Past,” SS 85:3 (2013), pp 408–10. 9 See also Tommy Danielsson’s two important monographs published in the same year that Gísli Sigurðsson’s book was published in Icelandic: Danielsson, Hrafnkels saga eller Fallet med den undflyende traditionen (Hedemora, Sweden: Gidlunds Förlag, 2002); and Danielsson, Sagorna om Norges kungar. Från Magnús góði till Magnús Erlingsson (Hedemora: Gidlungs Förlag, 2002); and note Theodore M. Andersson’s review of these three books in “Five Saga Books for a New Century,” JEGP 103:4 (2004), pp. 514–27. 10 Andersson notes seven categories of oral tradition – biographical, folkloric, genealogical, regional, legal, conflictive, and onomastic. See Andersson, Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280), pp. 16–17. 11 Andersson, Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, p. 20. 12 See, for instance, Judy Quinn, “Introduction,” in Creating the Medieval Saga: Versions, Variability and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature, 8

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Introduction are examples of copyists who replicated existing texts as if that were their sole task, more often scribes appear to have been working with an organic tradition, drawing on both written texts and orally-transmitted accounts as their narratives unfurled.”13 From here, material philology recognizes the evolution of this organic tradition (including any variation between manuscript witnesses for a specific literary work) as having interpretive value as “material” artefacts that remain connected in a meaningful way to the time, place, and people who produced and consumed them. For Old Norse-Icelandic literature, which has a robust manuscript tradition for many of its most important sagas, material philology has been, and will continue to be, a fruitful endeavor for linguists and literary analysts alike. Even though many of the extant manuscripts for the sagas date from the post-medieval period, with most of the medieval manuscripts dating from the fourteenth century and only a few from the thirteenth century, material philology offers an important diachronic dimension to any literary (or linguistic) analysis.14 When coupled with other textual and historical methods of saga dating, material philology allows for a longer and more dynamic view of both literary and linguistic phenomena evident in the sagas.15 In the present study of verbal discourse in Old Norse-Icelandic literature, this approach will allow for a view of the understanding and reception of certain pragmatic principles over time. This Old Norse-Icelandic literary corpus, complete with its strong manuscript tradition, provides a rich literary environment for the study of verbal exchanges. Certain portions of the corpus, however, more readily lend themselves to such a study than others. Íslendingasögur are especially rich in direct discourse, which makes up, as Þorleifur Hauksson and Þórir ed. Judy Quinn and Emily Lethbridge (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2010), pp. 13–37, especially pp. 18–21; and Emily Lethbridge, “‘Hvorki Glansar Gull á mér / né Glæstir Stafir í Línum’: Some Observations on Íslendingasögur Manuscripts and the Case of Njáls Saga,” Arkiv for Nordisk Filologi 129 (2014), pp. 55–89. 13 Judy Quinn, “Introduction,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, p. 16. 14 Quinn, “Introduction,” in Quinn and Lethbridge, Creating the Medieval Saga, 17. See also, as noted by Quinn, Registre/Index of Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog/A Dictionary of Old Norse Prose, ed. Helle Degnbol, Bent Chr. Jacobsen, Eva Rode, Christopher Sanders, and Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, 6 vols. (Copenhagen: The Arnamagnæan Commission, 1989). The Dictionary of Old Norse Prose is now available in pdf form online at https://onp.ku.dk/onp/onp. php?q22. 15 For a review of dating practices for the sagas, see Jürg Glauser, “What is Dated, and Why? Saga Dating in the Histories of Old Norse-Icelandic Literature,” in Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, ed. Else Mundal, (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2013), pp. 9–30.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Óskarsson have shown, approximately 30% of family saga content.16 The analysis presented in the following chapters reflects that richness by spending more time with these sagas. Equally important is the fact that, as others have noted, Íslendingasögur often present not just discourse but also considerable narrative contextualization to verbal exchanges, particularly regarding how characters’ actions may be connected with the words they speak.17 Konungasögur also provide a useful field for discourse analysis because they allow for an important view of how Icelanders understood the role of verbal exchange in an international context.18 This volume will also engage the other genres of Old Norse-Icelandic prose literature mentioned above (though sometimes only lightly) with the exception of riddarasögur.19 There are, of course, substantive verbal exchanges in the poetry of Old Norse as well.20 These poetic verbal exchanges are of great value, but while the arguments presented in the following chapters may refer occasionally to these poetic verbal exchanges, the primary focus will be on prose examples because they tend to afford greater narrative contextualization of verbal exchanges than does poetry. It is important to acknowledge that a literary analysis of these texts can tell us only and precisely how verbal exchanges were represented in literary examples from a certain place and time (medieval Iceland and the greater Scandinavian world) and as they are embodied in the Þorleifur Hauksson and Þórir Óskarsson, Íslensk stílfræði, vol. 1, ed. Þorleifur Hauksson (Reykjavík: Mál og Menning, 1994), p. 282, as noted by Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of the Icelanders, trans. Andrew Wawn (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1998), p. 213, and others. 17 See, for instance, Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, pp. 113–19. 18 Andersson, “Conversation in the Sagas,” p. 232. Andersson notes that on the whole konungarsögur tend to have fewer instances of direct discourse than Íslendingasögur, though Morkinskinna contains considerably more than the others in that genre, at ninety-eight total conversations (many of them occur in the þættir). Heimskringla also contains a considerable number of conversations: fifty-six. In this book, analysis of konungasögur occurs primarily in chapter four, below, where I consider conversion narratives in Heimskringla, Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, and Fagrskinna with other narratives that take up the conversion to Christianity. Chapter five then gives considerable attention to Morkinskinna, which demonstrates an uncommonly good understanding of with principles of pragmatics. 19 All of these genres will allow for a study of pragmatics. However, riddarasögur and fornaldarsögur prove more useful in a comparative approach, given they often have more obviously been influenced by or participate in continental literary traditions (Bampi, “Genre,” p. 5). Even so, chapter two examines Völsunga saga and Þiðreks saga comparatively with narratives from adjacent traditions in Germany and Norway. 20 Some obviously relevant examples would be Lokasenna, Hávamál, and Hárbarðsljóð, all of which display sophisticated strategies of verbal discourse. 16

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Introduction extant manuscripts available to us (from the medieval and post-medieval periods). They cannot, in other words, definitively tell us how, exactly, Icelanders or other peoples from the medieval North conversed at a given point in history. Nevertheless, the literary analyst may act on the assumption that the relationship between the saga writer(s) and their audience(s) was such that the language used in these narratives would need to be comprehensible to those who consumed them. Just as Gísli Sigurðsson expresses it, the saga writers must have been accountable to their audiences; they would have written in such a way as to be understood by their readers (or listeners). Likewise, as material philology holds, the material embodiments (that is, the manuscripts) of these narratives maintain a meaningful connection with the respective times, cultures, and people who created, disseminated, and consumed them.

Pragmatics and Literary Analysis Vésteinn Ólason has remarked that the Íslendingasögur “can often be memorable in their chiseled spareness of expression,” that “[n]early all characters with something significant to say seem capable of expressing themselves in short and well crafted sentences,” and that “[w]e may generally expect the speech of heroes to be marked by moderation and understatement.”21 The present study contends that these and other characteristics of discourse in Old Norse-Icelandic literature can be interpreted through the lens of the linguistic study of pragmatics, but it is reasonable to ask how a literary analysis such as the one presented here relates to a linguistic area of study like pragmatics. The goal of literary analysis – or at least of this literary analysis – is to understand how the literature under examination works on an aesthetic and cultural level, and to draw conclusions about the communities who composed and celebrated that literature. The source material in any literary analysis may be approached through a variety of lenses – anything from socio-political theory to anthropology to psychoanalytic theory – but the objectives of literary analysis will nearly always require some alteration of the lens employed in the analysis. While the present study thus applies a lens grounded in pragmatic linguistic theory, the objectives of this work remain centered upon an understanding of aesthetic and cultural values and implications of the sources considered – goals that often dictate the selections of passages discussed (as will be further explained below). Thus, while this study of discourse in Old Norse literature aims to correspond agreeably with pragmatic linguistics, this volume should be viewed as a literary analysis rather than a linguistic one. In some ways, literary analyses such as the kind presented here have 21

Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, p. 113.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature been carried out for a long time in the subfield of historical pragmatics, though the objectives and outcomes of those studies differ somewhat from the type of study presented in this volume.22 As Irma Taavitsainen and Andreas Jucker point out, there is and has long been an important interaction between the fields of historical pragmatics and literary studies. According to them, “the influence of literary studies [upon historical pragmatics] continues, and linguistic stylistics and corpus stylistics should be mentioned as particularly relevant and fruitful sources of inspiration for historical pragmatic studies.”23 In its most fundamental form, historical pragmatics is the study of pragmatic linguistic phenomena in literary and historical texts rather than in live, spoken interactions. As Irma Taavitsainen and Susan Fitzmaurice put it, “[a] provisional and fairly neutral definition of historical pragmatics could be that historical pragmatics focuses on language use in past contexts and examines how meaning is made. It is an empirical branch of linguistic study, with focus on authentic language use in the past.”24 As the field of historical pragmatics has grown since its inception in the mid-1990s, it has been shaped, defined, and developed in various ways.25 Traditionally, the aims of historical pragmatics have fallen into two categories. Pragmaphilology takes up “largely synchronic descriptions and studies on pragmatic aspects of historical [and literary] texts in their sociocultural context,”26 whereas diachronic pragmatics “compares two or more stages of the same language, and the focus is on language change.”27 Since the introduction of historical pragmatics in the mid-1990s, there 22

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24

25

26 27

The study of ‘literary pragmatics’ is of less interest here but is nevertheless worthy of note. As Jacob L. Mey defines it, literary pragmatics interests itself with “the kind of effects that authors, as text producers, set out to obtain, using the resources of language in their efforts to establish a ‘working cooperation’ with their audiences, the consumers of the text”; see Mey, When Voices Clash: A Study of Literary Pragmatics (de Gruyter: Berlin, 1999), p. 12. Taavitsainen and Jucker, “Twenty years of Historical Pragmatics: Origins, Developments, and Changing Thought Styles,” JHP 16:1 (2015), pp. 1–24, at p. 15. “Historical Pragmatics: What it is and How to Do it,” in Methods in Historical Pragmatics, ed. Susan Fitzmaurice and Irma Taavitsainen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), pp. 11–36, at p. 13. The most recent developments take a cognitive approach to understanding social contexts for language use. See Elizabeth Closs Traugott, “Whither historical pragmatics? A Cognitively-oriented Perspective,” JP 145 (2019), pp. 25–30. For the longer view of developments in the field, see Taavitsainen and Jucker, “Twenty years of Historical Pragmatics”; and their “Trends and Developments,” in Historical Pragmatics, ed. Irma Taavitsainen and Andreas H. Jucker (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), pp. 3–30. Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice, “Historical Pragmatics,” in Fitzmaurice and Taavitsainen, Methods in Historical Pragmatics, pp. 13–14. ibid., p. 14.

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Introduction has also been a growing interest in the crossover between literary studies and pragmatics, yet the relationship between pragmatics and literary analysis has not always been cohesive. The study of pragmatics has its origins in the notion that, in order to understand real-life language usage, we must acknowledge that meaning depends upon more than just the semantic, syntactical, and grammatical components of language.28 In the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, philosophers of language and linguists such as J. L. Austin, John Searle, H. Paul Grice, Geoffrey Leech, Penelope Brown, and Stephen Levinson began formulating the parameters of such linguistic communication and the circumstances in which principles of pragmatics might be relevant. Out of these pursuits came the more well-known concepts of speech act theory, which are essentially: 1) certain utterances are performative in nature and therefore change the state of things; 2) some types of speaker-meaning possess an indirectness in speech that produces emergent meaning; 3) all discourses proceed according to certain expectations about how meaning is communicated; and 4) as politeness theory demonstrates, certain cultural contexts and goals (like saving and losing ‘face’ and the need for politeness) influence the usage of pragmatics and the expectations of cooperation in discourse. These concepts of pragmatics and speech act theory influenced the way that linguistics was understood, advancing and at times rebuking both the Saussurian assertions on semantics and speech communities and the Chomskyan structural nature of language, though pragmatics did not often divert the conversation into the much more philosophical and theoretical realms of Derrida and the post-Structuralist initiatives of the late twentieth century.29 Those latter efforts went on to have a profound impact on much of the subsequent literary and cultural studies in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, particularly in the United 28

A comprehensive introduction to the study of pragmatics is not possible here, but see Chapman‘s especially her chapters three and four on “History of Pragmatics” and “‘Classical’ Pragmatics,” respectively: Siobhan Chapman, Pragmatics (London: Palgrave, 2011), pp. 44–88. 29 Brown and Levinson remark that “polite forms cannot be fully understood within a Saussurean structural perspective of an arbitrary system of oppositions that thus varies from culture to culture”; see Penelope Brown and Stephen C. Levinson, Politeness: Some Universals in Language Usage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 23. Brown and Levinson go on to argue that principles of politeness are grounded in the social nature of every person and can therefore be said to demonstrate a degree of universality. For Chomskyan pragmatics, see for instance Taavitsainen and Jucker’s description of the “pragmatic turn” as one that grew out of a discontent with the insufficiencies of Chomskyan assertions on grammar (Taavitsainen and Jucker, “Twenty years of Historical Pragmatics,” 3–4); and see Yehoshua Bar-Hillel’s rebuke of some linguists who “force a clearly pragmatic matter into a syntactico-semantic straitjacket” (“Out of the Pragmatic Wastebasket,” Linguistic Inquiry 2 (1971), pp. 401–7, at p. 401).

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature States. For all of their value and influence, however, those literary and cultural studies became increasingly interested in the usage of linguistic principles as analogues to cultural life, even to the point that linguistic terminology and concepts became mainly metaphorical extensions for cultural phenomena. In large part, the divergence of the two fields occurred without any direct encounters, but in a few key skirmishes the push towards literary theory was expressly a push against pragmatics. Stanley Fish provides an important instance of this in his essay “How to Do Things with Austin and Searle,” in which Fish aims to illustrate the limitations of early movements in speech act theory, concluding that the theory is on the whole “trivial.”30 Fish goes on to highlight not what it is capable of but rather all of the “things” speech act theory “can’t do.” According to Fish, speech act theory can’t tell us anything about what happens after an illocutionary act has been performed (it is not a rhetoric); it can’t tell us anything about the inner life of the performer (it is not a psychology); it can’t serve as the basis of a stylistics; it can’t be elaborated into a poetics of narrative […] and it cannot, without cheating, separate fiction from fact.31

Fish is, of course, correct, but it is worth pointing out, too, that none of these “things” are the point of speech act theory or of pragmatics. The real purpose of pragmatics, even at its early stages in the works of Austin and Searle, is to explain how intended speaker-meaning might be shaped by specific cultural, linguistic, and speech-situational contexts, and while pragmatics, like all other linguistic approaches, bears significance upon the interdisciplinary fields of psychology, literary analysis, epistemology, and philosophy, it is its own field of study.32 Early speech act theory certainly had its limitations, but linguists seem hardly to have noticed Fish’s invectives against it and went on to build and refine a robust understanding of pragmatic principles.33 Pragmatics is now recognized in

30

Stanley Fish, “How to Do Things with Austin and Searle: Speech Act Theory and Literary Criticism,” Modern Language Notes, 91: 5 (1976), pp. 983–1025, at p. 1025. See also footnote 39 below for a brief description of Jacques Derrida‘s critique or Austin‘s view of context. 31 Fish, “How to Do Things,” p. 1023. 32 Historical pragmatics has made a recent push towards interdisciplinarity. See Taavitsainen and Jucker, “Twenty Years of Historical Pragmatics,” pp. 15–16. 33 But see James Marlow’s rebuke of Fish for failing to understand the important distinction between a constative and a performative (Marlow, “Fish Doing Things with Austin and Searle,” Modern Language Notes 91:6 (1976), pp. 1603–12, at p. 1612); see also, for a broader criticism of Fish from a linguistic perspective, José Ángel García Landa, “Stanley E. Fish’s Speech Acts,” Atlantis 12:2 (1991), pp. 121–37, where Landa argues “[t]he polemic work of Stanley E. Fish has been a decisive influence in producing the shift of emphasis in

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Introduction the field of linguistics as a fundamental part of understanding language use, alongside phonetics, semantics, morphology, and syntax. Regrettably, the fissure between the two fields of literary criticism and pragmatic linguistics seems to have remained, especially in the United States. Linguists, especially in Europe, have continued to prioritize the study of language usage in cultural and interpersonal contexts, which created a space for the field of pragmatics to flourish, and literary scholars have continued to be increasingly interested in cultural studies.34 Since those foundational efforts by Austin, Searle, and others, the field of pragmatics has experienced tremendous growth in the linguistic community. As Louise Cummings puts it, “[f]ew disciplines have experienced the degree of expansion that has been witnessed in pragmatics. In the relatively short history of this field, pragmatics has moved well beyond its early philosophical roots to connect with a large number of concerns in linguistics and other disciplines.”35 Medieval literary studies, with its interest in historical languages and their interaction with both texts and cultures, ought to be an ideal place for such pragmatic examinations to occur, yet there remains a need for a deeper exploration of pragmatics in language communities such as those represented to some extent in Old and Middle English texts and to a greater extent in Old Norse-Icelandic texts.36

Context as Common Ground One of the questions, then, facing a study like the one presented in this volume – in which a linguistic theoretical framework is applied as a lens through which a literary analysis can proceed – is how to bridge the existing divide between the work of literary and cultural scholars on the one hand, and the work of linguists on the other. Much may go American academic criticism, at the cost of frequent misrepresentations of the nature and aims of literary hermeneutics” (p. 121). 34 For a brief discussion of how these divergences affected Old Norse studies, see Thomas Bredsdorff, “Speech Act Theory and Saga Studies,” Representations 100:1 (2007), pp. 34–41, with notable reference to Terry Eagleton’s After Theory (London: Penguin, 2003). 35 Louise Cummings, “Preface,” in Louise Cummings, ed., The Pragmatics Encyclopedia (New York: Routledge, 2010), pp. xxii–iii. 36 This has been noted regarding Old English by Joachim Grzega, “Greetings in English Language History,” in Speech Acts in the History of English, ed. Andreas H. Jucker, and Irma Taavitsainen (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins: 2008), p. 165; but there have been important explorations in these areas since that time. See, for instance, Marcel Bax and Dániel Z. Kádár, “The Historical Understanding of Historical (Im)politeness,” JHP 12:1 (2011), pp. 1–24, for a discussion of some important contributions on Old English, and see my comments here regarding Old Norse.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature into this conversation before it is resolved entirely, but for the present study the common ground shared by literary scholars and pragmaticists might most readily be observed in the concept of context. As was noted above, pragmatics is often defined as the study of language use in context, or, as Tim Wharton puts it, “[i]n pragmatics, context is everything.”37 Moreover, historical pragmatics, as Brigitte Nerlich articulates, “adds a historical dimension to pragmatics as the study of language use in context” (emphasis added).38 Likewise, going back as far as the works of Roman Jakobson, the notion of context has played a central, sometimes controversial role in literary studies as well.39 Pertinent to the present volume, Tim Wharton, “Context,” in The Pragmatics Encyclopedia, p. 75. The importance of context to the study of pragmatics has been well established since the beginnings of pragmatic linguistic theory, as any introductory linguistics or pragmatics textbook will attest. See above, footnote 2, and see, for instance, the first chapter of Betty Birner, Introduction to Pragmatics (Maldon, MA: Blackwell, 2013), pp. 2–9; Dawn Archer and Peter Grundy, “Introduction,” in The Pragmatics Reader, ed. Dawn Archer and Peter Grundy (New York: Routledge, 2011), pp. 1–10; and Jenny Thomas, Meaning in Interaction: An Introduction to Pragmatics (New York: Longman, 1995), p. 22, for an overview of how context figures into definitions of pragmatics. 38 Brigitte Nerlich, “Metaphor and Metonymy,” in Historical Pragmatics, ed. Andreas H. Jucker and Irma Taavitsainen (Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2010), pp. 193–215, at p. 193. See also Dawn Archer, “Context and Historical (Socio) Pragmatics Twenty Years on,” JHP 18:2 (2017), pp. 315–36, at pp. 316–17, for a recent discussion of the place of context in historical pragmatics. See also Jacob L. Mey, When Voices Clash, pp. 4–9 and 359–61, for a pragmatics assessment of context in literary works. 39 Roman Jakobson, “Linguistics and Poetics,” in Style in Language, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1960), pp. 350–77, especially p. 353. For a discussion of the various theories of context relevant to literary studies, see Urpo Kovala, “Theories of Context, Theorizing Context,” Journal of Literary Theory 8:1 (2014), pp. 161–73, and sources cited there. See also Sebastian Feil, “What are We Appealing to? A Semiotic Approach to the Notion of Context in Literary Studies,” Kodikas/Code 40:3–4 (2017), pp. 221–38. For the controversial aspect, see, for a relevant example, Jacques Derrida, “Signature Event Context,” in Limited Inc. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1972), pp. 1–23, at pp. 2–3 and 12–18. Derrida acknowledges that an instance of context in language usage dictates meaning on a semantic level, but he asserts that the concept of context is too inadequate to be of real use. Derrida goes on to criticize J. L. Austin’s view of performative speech acts based largely on the premise that context is not “exhaustively determinable” (p. 18). However, Austin, were he able to retort (Austin died in 1960), might suggest that Derrida has either misrepresented or misunderstood the nature of felicity conditions, a concept which directly addresses context. Felicity conditions, conceptually, dictate that the context need not (and could never) be “exhaustively determinable” by the participants in a performative speech act; that context needs only to be agreed upon by the participants, an agreement which does not require the context to be exhaustively determined. For example, the couple 37

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Introduction Sif Rikhardsdottir has recently taken up the importance of context in her literary analysis of emotion in Old Norse literature, arguing that [e]motive literary identities are informed by particular codes of behaviour that are recognisable to readers and draw their signifying potential conjointly from the readers’ own internal emotional life and experiences, the cultural context (and its associated emotional mentalities) and any embedded contextual signifying patterns.40

Although the present volume does not deal directly with emotion, the importance of the relationship between ‘literary identities’ and different types of internal and external contexts is applicable to all literary analyses of Old Norse-Icelandic literature. Codes of behavior are recognized by joining the reader’s (or audience’s) own life and experiences with cultural context through an ability to interpret “embedded contextual signifying patterns.”41 Context therefore sits conceptually along the border between literary analysis and pragmatics. How then do these respective concepts of context, one pragmatical and the other literary, relate to one another? What differentiates ‘context’ from other conceptual frameworks such as ‘environment’ or ‘setting’? Any number of categorizations and typologies of ‘context’ may be possible. As will be discussed in further detail in the following chapter, which outlines important terms and concepts for this volume, the most useful description of context will be one that acknowledges a continuity between literary and pragmatic views of contexts. Thus, in its most localized form, the linguistic context begins with the morphological, semantic, and syntactical contexts represented by the words on the page (or manuscript), followed by the pragmatic concepts of speech-situational context, cultural context, and shared interpersonal contexts as represented in the narratives themselves. For a broader literary view, however, the greater literary and historical contexts of each individual work must also be taken into consideration, recognizing that each manuscript variant of a given text represents its own cultural and performative context of a certain time, place, and community in history. Viewing context as a bridge between these two fields presents an opportunity to mend the relationship between literary criticism and pragmatics by joining the fields of study in a mutually productive way being declared married by a priest need not exhaustively determine the ways in which the priest is qualified, theologically or legally, to enact the performative of marrying them; they only need to accept that he does have those qualification. See also Sandy Petrey’s rebuttal of Derrida in her Speech Acts and Literary Theory (New York: Routeledge, 1990), pp. 134–43. 40 Sif Rikhardsdottir, Emotion in Old Norse Literature: Translation, Voices, Contexts (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2017), p. 27. 41 ibid.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature while also retaining the methodological integrity of both. From the perspective of historical pragmatics, Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice have isolated important reasons why a relationship between the two fields might be mutually beneficial: “the question before us is how we can engender a productive historical pragmatics from the convergence of a literary historical approach and a functional corpus-linguistic approach to the negotiation of meaning in texts.”42 Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice go on to say that the data-driven, corpus-based linguistic approach has both strengths and weaknesses. While the corpus-based approach allows for “claims about earlier generations’ or communities’ discourse practices because we base those claims upon real language use and the quantitative analysis of large databases representing authentic language use,” Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice also point out that, the quantitative analysis of language use actually amounts to the study of the occurrence of linguistic forms within a context that is defined in terms of a set of parameters that may have more to do with the design of a database than the production of language by speakers in the world. Furthermore, the context is reduced by the medium of study: the computer restricts the view both literally and figuratively, and gaining sufficient background knowledge of the text requires active reliance on library resources and familiarity with editorial practices.43

The “background knowledge of the text,” the “familiarity with editorial practices,” the material (manuscript) cultures in which the literary works are engendered, and other similar aspects of a body of literature that might be discovered through the “reliance on library resources,” are the very areas where a literary analysis such as the one presented in this volume can make its most valuable contribution to the study of pragmatics.44 Importantly, the literary analysis – not limited to a context defined by the design of the database or the need to establish a quantitative method of data collection – is also free to select its source material based on an assessment of relevant cultural phenomena, be they social, political, religious, or whatever else in nature. The source materials examined in the following chapters have been selected to meet many of the needs indicated by Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice: not only are the passages discussed here classic examples of direct discourse in Old Norse-Icelandic sagas, but they also speak to some of the most significant and longstanding cultural and literary issues identified by Old Norse-Icelandic scholars over the past five or so decades. After chapter one establishes important terminology and 42

Taavitsainen and Fitzmaurice, “Historical Pragmatics,” in Fitzmaurice and Taavitsainen, Methods in Historical Pragmatics, p. 25. 43 ibid., p. 27. 44 ibid., p. 25.

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Introduction concepts, chapter two takes up the debate over the nature of formulaic verbal conflict in the North (senna, mannjafnaðr, and flyting) most prominently argued by Joseph Harris and Carol Clover.45 Chapter three then expounds upon the work done mainly by T. A. Shippey on a pragmatic principle he calls ‘the conflictive principle’, which demonstrates that often those apparently conflictive confrontations in the literature of the medieval North produce, surprisingly, positive and productive relationships.46 Chapter four engages discussions of the pragmatic principles at play in conversion narratives, which have been debated by Siân Grønlie, Valentine Pakis, and others.47 Chapter five engages recent scholarly discussions of literary representations of Icelanders abroad, as considered most visibly by Ármann Jakobsson, Margaret Clunies Ross, and Yoav Tirosh.48 Chapter six explores commonalities between the applications of proverbs used in verbal exchanges, as discussed primarily by Richard See, for instance, Joseph Harris, “The Senna: From Description to Literary Theory,” Michigan Germanic Studies 5:1 (1979), pp. 65–74; and Carol J. Clover, “The Germanic Context of the Unferþ Episode,” Speculum 55:3 (1980), pp. 444–68. 46 See, for instance, T. A. Shippey, “Principles of Conversation in Beowulfian Speech,” in Techniques of Description: A Festschrift for Malcolm Coulthard, ed. John M. Sinclair et al. (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), pp. 109–26. See also Shippey, “Speech and the Unspoken in Hamthismál,” in Prosody and Poetics: Essays in Honour of Constance Hieatt, ed. M. J. Toswell (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995), pp. 180–96; and for further discussion of Shippey’s assessment note Michael Kightley, “Reinterpreting Threats to Face: The Use of Politeness in Beowulf, ll. 407–472,” Neophilologus 93 (2009), pp. 511–20 and “Repetition, Class, and the Nameless Speakers of Beowulf,” in Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North: Essays Inspired by the Works of Thomas A. Shippey, ed. Eric Shane Bryan and Alexander Vaughan Ames (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2020), pp. 141–56. Additionally, Frederic Amory’s study of speech acts and violence in Old Norse sources applies the framework of sociolinguist William Labov to understand speech acts that provoke violence in the sagas. Frederic Amory, “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 107 (1991), pp. 57–84. 47 Siân Grønlie, “Preaching, Insults, and Wordplay in the Old Icelandic Kristniboðsþættir,” JEGP 103:4 (2004), pp. 456–75; Valentine A. Pakis, “Honor, Verbal Duels, and the New Testament in Medieval Iceland,” Tijdschrift voor Skandinavistiek 26 (2005), pp. 163–85. 48 See, for instance, Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging: Morkinskinna and Icelandic Identity, c. 1220, trans. Fredrik Heinemann (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2014); Margaret Clunies Ross, “From Iceland to Norway: Essential Rites of Passage for an Early Icelandic Skald,” Alvíssmál 9 (1999), pp. 55–72; and Yoav Tirosh, “Icelanders Abroad,” in Handbook of Pre-Modern Nordic Memory Studies: Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. Jürg Glauser, Pernille Hermann, Stephen A. Mitchell, vol. 1 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018), pp. 502–5. 45

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Harris and Carolyne Larrington, and similar applications of poetry in discourse explored recently by Frog and others.49 Chapter seven takes up the discussion of the role gender plays in verbal exchanges in Old Norse-Icelandic sources, most recently examined by Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir.50 Chapter eight then considers how manuscript variation informs our understanding of the development of pragmatics from earlier to later time periods. All of these previous discussions represent points of contact with the more directed discussion of pragmatic principles in Old Norse literature presented in this volume. To engage in this discussion, each of the following chapters (with the exception of chapter eight) begins with the presentation and consideration of an important verbal exchange in Old Norse-Icelandic literature: the battlefield dialogue between Kolskeggr Hámundarson and Kolr Egilsson in Brennu-Njáls saga; the Quarrel of the Queens episode in the Völsung narratives; the humorous verbal volleys between Sneglu(‘Sarcastic’) Halli and King Haraldr Sigurðarson; Þorgeirr Þorkelsson’s famous speech that leads to the conversion of Iceland to Christianity; the veiled insults of Skalla-Grímr to King Haraldr hárfagri Hálfdanarson in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar; the bitter exchange between Guðrún and Bolli after Bolli has killed his best friend, Kjartan, in Laxdœla saga; and finally the famous cutting-out-the-shirt episode of Gísla saga Súrssonar, in which Auðr and Ásgerðr argue about their husbands. These are some of the greatest, most provocative, and often controversial verbal exchanges in all of Old Norse literature. It is only fitting that an assessment of dialogue in Old Norse literature should feature them. Chapter eight, finally, steps outside this model to reflect upon the historical development of certain discourses as is evident through a material-philological perspective on manuscript variation in both medieval and post-medieval witnesses.

Conclusion While the chapters of this volume are meant to stand alone as pragmatic assessments of the aforementioned longstanding issues in Old NorseIcelandic studies, three broader objectives unify the following chapters under common cause. First, this volume hopes to discover just how 49

See, for instance, Richard L. Harris, “The Eddic Wisdom of Hreiðarr the Fool: Paroemial Cognitive Patterning in an Old Icelandic Þáttr,” in Bryan and Ames, Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North, pp. 3–27; Carolyne Larrington, A Store of Common Sense: Gnomic Theme and Style in Old Icelandic and Old English Wisdom Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993); and Frog, “Speech-Acts in Skaldic Verse: Genre, Compositional Strategies and Improvisation,” in Versatility in Versification: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Metrics, ed. Tonya Kim Dewey and Frog (New York: Peter Lang, 2009), pp. 223–46. 50 See Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Words, and Power (New York: Palgrave, 2013).

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Introduction adept Old Norse-Icelandic saga writers were with the pragmatic concepts and principles discussed below. To this end, each of the following chapters introduces and demonstrates how a certain pragmatic principle or concept manifests itself in the sagas, to offer readers of this volume a strong foundational understanding of pragmatics in Old Norse literature. Second, by exploring pragmatic principles in Old Norse-Icelandic sources, this volume aims to determine whether and how the usage and understanding of these principles develop as the sagas evolve over time. Cultural and historical changes have an impact upon the usage of pragmatics in the same way that other aspects of linguistics are impacted by change. Therefore, should a development of the usage of pragmatics be evident throughout the evolution of the sagas, either during or after the medieval period, it is worth considering how and why those changes occurred. As such, the third unifying objective of this volume is to consider what cultural forces might have contributed to the changing usage and understanding of pragmatic principles throughout the development of the sagas. The pursuit of these three objectives produces some important conclusions. It becomes clear that many saga writers display a masterful application of principles of pragmatics in their writing, but it also seems evident that the skillful application and understanding of those early pragmatic principles and concepts begin to lessen as the society experiences the three great cultural developments of the time: the change from orality to literacy, from local governance to nation states, and from paganism to Christianity. It seems evident from the following discussion that discourse strategies in Old Norse-Icelandic literature appear to find a comfortable home in societies that build their communicative structures around orality as opposed to societies who depend upon literacy. While we may not be able to examine wholly and expressly oral medieval cultures – for the obvious reason that we encounter those cultures via written sources – we have evidence in the sagas of a society still in the early stages of the transition to a literate world. This process of a society becoming literate, or ‘literalization’ – which, like Christianization or nation making, takes generations or even centuries to complete (if it ever is completed) – allows us to observe a culture shifting from one end of the spectrum to the other. It emerges from the study of pragmatics in Old Norse literature that, as the society moves deeper into literalization, nation-making, and Christianization, the older applications of pragmatic principles begin to wane, and the general understanding of those principles begins to diminish. In more straightforward terms, the further away from the culture of the early medieval period, the less dependent upon that older usage of pragmatics the society becomes.

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N 1 n When Questions Are Not Questions One of the early battle scenes in the great medieval Icelandic saga BrennuNjáls saga pits the brothers Gunnarr and Kolskeggr Hámundarson against a rival group led by a man named Starkaðr, who feels that Gunnarr has insulted him and his family. Despite being heavily outnumbered, Gunnarr and Kolskeggr, who were known for their prowess, overcome the larger force. During the battle, just as Kolskeggr has dispatched one opponent, another fighter named Kolr Egilsson (who is Starkarðr’s nephew) takes a rather cheap shot at Kolskeggr and manages to sink a spear into his thigh. In the act, Kolr drops his shield out of position, which allows Kolskeggr, undaunted by the spear wound, to twist his body so as to bring down his sword deftly upon Kolr’s leg, neatly taking it off at the knee. The blow will certainly be fatal, but Kolskeggr – clearly aware that his blade has hit its mark – asks Kolr, “Hvárt nam þik eða eigi?” (“Did that hit you or not?”).1 Kolr, also quite aware of the situation, replies that he got what he deserved for not having properly shielded himself. Then, perhaps dazed from the blow, Kolr stands for a moment on his remaining leg, gaping at the bloody stump of his thigh, at which point Kolskeggr remarks, “Eigi þarftú á at líta, jafnt er sem þér sýnisk: af er fótrinn” (“You don’t have to look at it; it is just as you think: the leg is gone”).2 In response, Kolr obligingly dies. This scene in Njáls saga depicts one of the classic moments in the Íslendingasögur and is characteristic of the sagas in its remarkable balance between dialogue, character development, and vivid description of the context of events both leading up to and including the battle. The modern reader – and presumably the medieval audience as well – intuitively understands the meaning Kolskeggr intends by his question. It is clear to us that Kolskeggr does not ask the question, “Did that hit you or not?” because he is seeking information: Kolskeggr stands at most only a few 1

Brennu-Njáls saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ÍF 12, p. 158.

2 ibid.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature feet from his victim (about the length of his sword); he sees the damage his blade has done; he felt the sword cut through his opponent’s leg; he probably has Kolr’s blood on his clothes. It is clear, even in translation, that the word choice and grammar of Kolskeggr’s utterance do not match the intent with which he speaks. We may rightly say he is taunting, mocking, bantering, or perhaps boasting about his victory over Kolr, but despite the interrogative grammatical mood of his utterance, the one thing Kolskeggr is certainly not doing is asking a question to which he does not know the answer. A recent assessment of this passage has concluded that the exchange between Kolskeggr and Kolr demonstrates sarcasm, and so it certainly appears to our modern sensibilities, where sarcasm is so prevalent a conversational device.3 However, associating this passage with mere sarcasm, though a very old word in its own right, ignores many of the deeper and more nuanced linguistic and cultural subtleties evident in the verbal exchange.4 It would be wrong, also, to call Kolskeggr’s utterance a rhetorical question because, as the term implies, rhetorical questions have a rhetorical end.5 They are meant to prove a point or move forward some aspect of an argument, but Kolr does not need the loss of his leg proven to him. It may be more accurate to say that sarcasm, in the modern sense of the word, is what eventually becomes of the complex type of interactions represented in this scene from Njáls saga. In other words, we call this sarcasm today because it is as close to the phenomenon as we can get in the modern world, but what occurs here in Njáls saga – and, as I will argue in this volume, in many other places in Old Norse literature – far surpasses what we would understand today as sarcasm in its complexity, linguistic nuance, cultural context, and significance both to the literary and oral traditions of the Old Norse world. 3

4 5

Albrecht Classen, “Sarcasm in Medieval German and Old Norse Literature,” in Words that Tear Flesh: Essays on Sarcasm in Medieval and Early Modern Literatures and Cultures, ed. Alan Baragona and Elizabeth L. Rambo (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), pp. 249–70, at pp. 252–4. Classen also suggests that this scene from Njáls saga may have been the inspiration for the famous Black Knight scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when the knight loses one appendage after another and yet continues to fight. However, if any episode from Old Norse-Icelandic literature were in fact the inspiration for the scene, it is more likely to be from Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, in which Gunnlaugr cuts off Hrafn’s leg, but Hrafn props himself up on a tree stump to continue the fight. See Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, in Borgfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, ÍF 3, p. 102. See Classen, “Sarcasm in Medieval German,” pp. 250. See Dawn Archer, Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760): A Sociopragmatic Analysis (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2005), pp. 27–9; and my further comments below (pp. 40–1).

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When Questions Are Not Questions The present study takes up the task of examining passages such as this one in Njáls saga by way of a literary analysis that draws its methodological framework from the linguistic field of pragmatics. The analysis in subsequent chapters thus represents an adaptation of pragmatic principles rather than a linguistic application of them. The purpose of this chapter is to define and exemplify – with the help of this scene from Njáls saga – how several of the key, foundational concepts from pragmatics will be adapted and applied in the following chapters. Namely, this chapter will define and discuss five foundational concepts for the literary analysis that follows: (1) context; (2) theories of face and self-worth; (3) locution, illocution, and perlocution; (4) implicature; and (5) un-/underdeterminacy and levels of indirectness in speech. These five concepts will then become the building blocks with which subsequent chapters will develop an understanding of discourse in Old Norse literature.

Context(s) Kolskeggr clearly means his question to be heard and understood within a certain context—the battle in which the physical and verbal exchange occurs – yet the specific cultural and (as I will define it below) speechsituational context in which he speaks requires further elaboration based upon what is known about the home culture. In this instance, that cultural context may well have something to do with the standards and rules of hólmgǫngulǫg, or ‘dueling laws.’ As Kormáks saga puts it, in duels (hólmgǫngur), “[e]f annarr verðr sárr, svá at blóð komi á feld, er eigi skylt at berjast lengr” (if one of the two [duelers] is wounded such that any blood falls onto the cloak, then they are not required to continue).6 This context adds dimension to Kolskeggr’s ‘question’ because the reader now knows under what circumstances it might have been a genuine question. In a hólmganga context, such a question might be asked for even the slightest wound that may indeed have gone unnoticed by the duelers, since even one drop of blood could signal the end of the contest. Based on this cultural context, the irony is not just that Kolr has lost his leg and (very soon) his life, but also that, had this been a hólmganga context (instead of the rather unfair ambush it was), Kolr would have been required to lose only a single drop of blood to end the contest. The notion of context in the present study is of special importance because, as the introduction to this volume suggested, context represents a bridge between the following literary analysis and the pragmatic 6

Kormáks saga, in Vatnsdœla saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ÍF 8, p. 238. For two standard assessments on Hólmganga, see Olav Bø, “Hólmganga and Einvígi: Scandinavian Forms of the Duel,” Mediaeval Scandinavia, 2 (1970), pp. 132–48; and Marlene Ciklamini, “The Old Icelandic Duel,” SS, 35:3 (1963), pp. 174–94.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature linguistic methods to which it appeals.7 A working definition of context for the present study must therefore maintain a unified understanding of different types of context, including the semantic and syntactical contexts of an utterance (or, generally speaking, the ‘linguistic’ context), the context of a specific speech situation, and finally the literary context of a given piece of writing. This literary context must further recognize that literary representations of speech are imagined and presented in the created frame of a saga and that the saga, as a work of literature, was composed and read or heard in one or more specific cultural and historical contexts. Finally, a framework for context must address the inevitability that all such contexts, whether on a linguistic, discursive, or literary level, change over time. In other words, as the conversation proceeds, any new information introduced through the discourse changes the speech participants’ mutual understanding of context(s). Likewise, on the literary level, the surrounding cultural context may change from one reading to the next, or readers from different centuries may read a common text from different perspectives. Such an understanding of context for the present study will do well to begin by drawing a distinction between the semantic and syntactical contexts on the one hand and discursive contexts on the other. As Craige Roberts puts it, Semanticists assume that words do have basic meanings, and that a given syntactic structure corresponds with a determinate way of composing the meanings of its subparts. Pragmatics, on the other hand, studies utterances of expressions attempting to explain what someone meant by saying φ on a particular occasion. The timeless [that is, the semantic] meaning of φ often differs from what someone means by uttering φ on a given occasion. This difference arises because of the way that the context of utterance influences interpretation.8

Jacob L. Mey and others clarify this point further by appealing to the term co-text to articulate this distinction between semantic/syntactical context (that is, co-text) and the context of a speech situation. According to Mey, [a] traditional distinction is that between the cotext (that which immediately surrounds the word or utterance in question) and the larger context, which comprises not only the larger, verbal environment in which the utterance or word occurs, but also its wider surroundings, in particular the conditions under which the utterance or word was generated [… .]9 7 8

9

See the introduction to this volume, pp. 11–13, for a discussion of context as a bridge between literary analysis and pragmatics. Craige Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” in Handbook of Pragmatics, ed. Laurence Horn and Gregory Ward (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2004), pp. 197–220, at p. 197. Mey, When Voices Clash, p. 7.

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When Questions Are Not Questions Jan Rijkhoff’s model of Functional Discourse Grammar (FDG) offers further nuance to the differences between the co-text and context described by Mey. According to Rijkhoff, “the contextual component in the current FDG model must be split up into two separate contextual components […]: one for discourse (co-text) and another for the discourse event or “context of situation.”10 The co-text, Rijkhoff goes on to explain, is the “purely linguistic context” of a discourse, including the lexical and syntactical components “basically consisting of the linguistic material preceding and following an utterance in some discourse.”11 Rijkhoff then differentiates this co-textual linguistic material from the “external context in which a discourse event takes place.”12 Rijkhoff argues that the grammarian, and the theory of Functional Discourse Grammar, ought to focus on the co-text and the linguistic material of which it consists, but he also acknowledges that the elements of the external context for a discourse (what Mey has simply called “context”) “are considered to have an impact on the form, function, or meaning of (part of) an utterance.”13 In contrast to the grammarian’s focus, Mey – who is interested in pragmatics as a method of literary discourse analysis – finds value in the broader view of context as that which encompasses the external context, its relationship to the co-text (as articulated by Rijkhoff), and how these two come together to communicate meaning. Beyond co-text, this external context of the speech situation requires further elaboration as well. In their description of Relevance Theory, Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson suggest that external context is not limited to information about the immediate physical environment or the immediately preceding utterances: expectations about the future, scientific hypotheses or religious beliefs, anecdotal memories, general cultural assumptions, beliefs about the mental state of the speaker, may all play a role in interpretation.14

Echoes of Rijkhoff’s ‘co-text’ may be evident in Sperber and Wilson’s reference to information about ‘the immediately preceding utterances,’ yet they see no need to separate, as Rijkhoff does, that co-text from the ‘psychological construct’ of external context: the two in fact work together.15 While Sperber and Wilson take the more cognitive approach 10

Jan Rijkhoff, “Layers, Levels and Contexts in Functional Discourse Grammar,” in The Noun Phrase in Functional Discourse Grammar, ed. Daniel García Velasco and Jan Rijkhoff (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), pp. 63–115, at p. 88. 11 ibid., pp. 89–90. 12 ibid. 13 ibid. 14 Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson, Relevance: Communication and Cognition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), pp. 15–16. 15 ibid., p. 15.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature to this external context, suggesting further that “each new experience adds to the range of potential contexts” for the participants in a discourse, the sociolinguist D. H. Hymes views the context of a particular speech event through a broader lens.16 Hymes articulates his understanding of context by means of the convenient acronym SPEAKING, which represents the Setting (time and place of an utterance); Participants (speaker and hearer); Ends (the expected outcomes of an exchange); Act sequences (the form and content of what is said, what order it is said in, and its relation to the topic of conversation); Key (the tone and manner in which a conversation proceeds); Instrumentalities (the modes of communication, written, spoken, or otherwise, as well as the dialects and registers employed); Norms (accepted behaviors in the interaction and how they are perceived by members of the discourse community, which may vary from one social group to another); and Genre (types of utterances, such as sermons, lectures, legal defense, etc.). Taken together, Sperber and Wilson’s cognitive view of context and Hymes’s anthropological view make for a more complete understanding of the various components that contribute to context at the start of a discourse event. These components, both external (cognitive) and anthropological, make up what will in the following pages be called the speech-situational context while the semantic and syntactical context will be referred to as co-text. Added to these types of context, however, must be some acknowledgement that context changes as the conversation goes on. As Craig Roberts argues, when new information is introduced throughout a conversation, the cultural expectations, tone and manner of the conversation, and the common ground shared by the discussants develop as well. This view of context requires a further differentiation of the aspects of context, which include, according to Roberts, Discourse Referents (abstract entities under discussion), Domain Goals (broader goals that direct our discussions), Question(s) Under Discussion (which are encoded with objectives and intensions in the discourse), and Common Ground (the shared presupposed information discussants take into a discourse).17 Roberts derives his D. H. Hymes, Foundations in Sociolinguistics: An Ethnographic Approach (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press), pp. 53–62. This model has been synthesized in numerous textbooks and other resources, but see Ronald Wardhaugh and Janet M. Fuller, An Introduction to Sociolinguistics, 7th edition (Chichester: Wiley, 2015), pp. 232–4, for a concise description of these concepts. Cf. Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, p. 16. Leslie Arnovick takes a similar approach to speech events in Diachronic Pragmatics: Seven Case Studies in English Illocutionary Development (Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2000), pp. 8–9. 17 Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” pp. 205–10. See also Jonathan Ginzburg, “Interrogatives: Questions, Facts, and Dialogue,” in The Handbook of Contemporary Semantic Theory, ed. Shalom Lappin (Chichester: WileyBlackwell, 1996), pp. 385–422; and Robert Stalnaker, “Common Ground,”

16

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When Questions Are Not Questions understanding of common ground from Robert Stalnaker, who elaborates on the Gricean view of speaker-meaning by saying, when speakers mean things, they act with the expectation that their intentions to communicate are mutually recognized. This idea leads naturally to a notion of common ground – the mutually recognized shared information in a situation in which the act of trying to communicate takes place.18

In a dynamic interpretive approach, however, the value of common ground can only be realized when set alongside the other itemized components of context. This component view allows a dynamic interpretation to recognize that the mechanisms of context are always in motion. While this discussion of co-text (via Mey and Rijkhoff), the environmental context (via Hymes), the psychological/cognitive context (via Sperber and Wilson), and the dynamic context (via Roberts and Stalnaker) offers a robust view of the mechanisms of context in a real-life discourse event, a final contextual layer must be added to account for the literary analysis of discourse: the literary context.19 Whereas grammarians and pragmaticists address the co-text/context of a speech event, the literary context, as Øyunn Hestetun articulates it, encompasses the “historical or social dimensions of texts or issues such as race, gender, ethnicity, and class relation to cultural production. Contextualizing theories seek to establish links between individual texts and a historical-cultural context and systems of power.”20 The study of literary pragmatics, as it is sometimes called, understands this literary notion of context as a discourse between author and audience.21 As Roger D. Sell has argued, for literary texts, author and audience participate in a communicative act, which therefore opens their discourse to a pragmatic analysis.22 In

18 19

20 21 22

Linguistics and Philosophy 25:5/6 (2002), pp. 701–21, at pp. 701 and 704; and see below (pp. 27–8) for more on Stalnaker’s usage of that term. Stalnaker, “Common Ground,” p. 704. Mey, When Voices Clash, p. 7; Rijkhoff, “Layers, Levels and Contexts,” pp. 88–90; Hymes, Foundations in Sociolinguistics, pp. 53–62; Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, pp. 15–16; Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” pp. 197–210; Stalnaker, “Common Ground,” pp. 701 and 704; and see above (p. 13) and below (p. 27). Øyunn Hestetun, “Text, Context, and Culture in Literary Studies,” American Studies in Scandinavia 25:1 (1993), pp. 27–63, at p. 28. See Urpo Kovala, “Theories of Context,” pp. 167–8, for a discussion of how the concept of audience can become problematic in a theory of context. See Roger D. Sell, “Tellability and Politeness in ‘The Miller’s Tale’: First Steps in Literary Pragmatics,” English Studies 6 (1985), pp. 496–512, at pp. 496–8; “Politeness in Chaucer: Suggestions towards a Methodology for Pragmatic Stylistics,” Studia Neophilologica 57 (1985), pp. 175–85, at pp. 175–6; and Literature as Communication (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2000), pp. 2–4.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Hymes’s terminology, then, author and audience may be considered participants in the literary speech situation. Sell’s perspective perhaps functions better on a theoretical than an applied level because it becomes rather difficult to articulate the relationship between illocution and perlocution (as defined below) in an author-audience speech situation when the two “discussants” can be separated by time and distance. However, an effective application of a similar (though not quite the same) approach to Old Norse-Icelandic sagas may be found in Vésteinn Ólason’s Dialogues with the Viking Age. There, the author prefaces his argument by saying, “literary criticism ought to be historically based. The text is not an autonomous entity; it grows out of other texts and within an historical framework, which any interpretation must take into account.”23 Another corresponding application of Sell’s ideas on literary pragmatics may be found in manuscript studies. Acknowledging this literary context allows for a study of the discursive phenomenon of, for example, seventeenth-century Icelandic copyists’ interaction with narratives from the medieval past. In seventeenth-century Icelandic manuscripts, the comments and annotations left in the margins make it clear that at least some of the later copyist perceived themselves to be in a discursive relationship with the past.24 Out of this discussion of various contexts, a complete picture (table 1) of the many types of context emerges, one that begins in the linguistic components of meaning—semantic and syntactical co-text—and continues through to the broader literary context of an individual text, manuscript, or edition. This classification recognizes the independence of the various types of context while also acknowledging their relationship and interaction with one another. While linguistic context, to which I have added phonetic and morphological contexts, would appear to be fairly straightforward, literary context is certainly the most complicated due to its ability to incorporate the other two context groups (Linguistic1 and Global1) within its narrative content. Global context, however, has its own set of complexities due, for instance, to the fact that the cultural context of any discourse may include a common literary context, as literature is a part of culture, Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, p. 10. It should be evident how this view contrasts with the New Critical and post-structuralist views of the text. See Kovala, “Theories of Context,” pp. 161–2 and 165 for an overview of these debates. See also Jacques Derrida, “Signature Event Context,” and my comments on Derrida’s view of context in the Introduction, pp. 12–13, footnote 39, above. 24 See Susanne M. Arthur, “‘Njáls saga er þetta. Loftur hefur lesið mig’: Readership and Reception of Njáls saga: A Selection of Marginal Notes and Paratextual Features,” in New Studies in the Manuscript Tradition of Njáls Saga: The Historia Mutila of Njála, ed. Emily Lethbridge and Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2018), pp. 231–55. 23

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When Questions Are Not Questions Table 1. Relation of contexts to one another

at which point respective contexts begin to fold in upon themselves. Global context also has other points of overlap. For instance, the speechsituational context includes a cultural aspect, but as an event occurring in the world, the speech event itself has its own cultural context. While there may be correspondence between the cultural context participants carry into a speech situation and the cultural context in which the speech event occurs, the opposite may also be true: the cultural context within the speech situation may not act the same way as the cultural context in which the speech event occurs. Aspects of dynamic interpretation also correspond with parts of speech-situational context. For instance, common ground mirrors in many respects the cognitive context outlined by Sperber and Wilson. However, the theory of dynamic interpretation is really a theory of kinesis, of how context changes over time, so this overlap is less of a redundancy and more a recognition that the component parts of context from the dynamic perspective, including common ground, are susceptible to change as new information enters the conversation.

Theories of Face and Self-worth Stalnaker’s depiction of common ground as “the mutually recognized shared information in a situation” fits well in the view of global context outlined above.25 However, when this view is applied to the verbal exchange between Kolskeggr and Kolr in Njáls saga, something very odd seems to happen. Kolskeggr in fact seems to manipulate the common ground – that ‘mutually recognized’ information – that Kolskeggr and Kolr both share when Kolskeggr asks his question, “Did that hit you or not?” It is painfully obvious (literally, for Kolr) that Kolskeggr’s blade has in fact hit Kolr and cut off his leg, an event that, by any account of the 25

Stalnaker, “Common Ground,” p. 704.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature speech-situational context of the scene, must be acknowledged as having entered into the dynamic interpretation of the discourse. Yet Kolskeggr asks his question as if this information were not a part of “the mutually recognized shared information” of the discourse. The question left to the reader is, simply put, why? What does Kolskeggr gain by doing so? The answer has something to do with theories of face and self-worth. Kolskeggr’s manipulation of common ground has produced what may be referred to as a face-threatening act (FTA) and requires not only an understanding of the context of the speech situation but also an understanding of the notions of ‘face,’ politeness, and impoliteness. The concept of face has been a fundamental part of the study of pragmatics since Penelope Brown and Stephen Levinson presented their model of politeness as a universal of human language and culture.26 Brown and Levinson base their theory of face on the work of Erving Goffman, a sociologist and psychiatrist who understood face as the social worth an individual claims for themself based on the perception other members of a community have of the individual.27 Brown and Levinson advance this view, sometimes deviating from Goffman, by defining face in terms of, first, the desire to maintain a positive self-image in the eyes of others— what Brown and Levinson call “positive face”—and, second, the basic claim to a freedom to act independently within a group—what they call “negative face.”28 Brown and Levinson’s theory of face has been much criticized, but the basic notion that (im)politeness connects the usage of language to concepts of self-worth remains an important one to pragmatics and politeness theory.29 One of Brown and Levinson’s subtle but important developments is their view of face not so much as a characteristic of external social perceptions (closer to Goffman’s original understanding) but rather Brown and Levinson, Politeness. The work originally appeared as “Universals in Language Use: Politeness Phenomena,” in Questions and Politeness: Strategies in Social Interaction, ed. E. N. Goody (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1978), pp. 56–289. 27 Erving Goffman, Interaction Ritual: Essays on Face to Face Behavior (New York: Anchor, 1967), which includes Goffman‘s first essay on the subject, from 1955, entitled “On Face Work: An Analysis of Ritual Elements in Social Interaction,” first published in Psychiatry 18 (1955), pp. 213–31. See in particular Goffman, “On Face-Work: An Analysis of Ritual Elements in Social Interaction,” in Interaction Ritual, pp. 5–6. 28 Brown and Levinson, Politeness, p. 61. 29 Numerous scholars have engaged Brown and Levinson on this topic. For a representative sample, see Jonathan Culpeper, Impoliteness: Using Language to Cause Offence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 24–6; Leech, The Pragmatics of Politeness (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), pp. 24–7; and Richard J. Watts, “Linguistic Politeness Research: Quo Vadis?” in Politeness in Language: Studies in its History, Theory and Practice, ed. Richard J. Watts, Sachiko Ide, and Konrad Ehlich (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), pp. xii–ix. 26

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When Questions Are Not Questions as the internal ‘desire’ and ‘claim’ relevant to that social perception. In his recent comprehensive theory of politeness, Geoffrey Leech isolates these internal and external components by arguing that politeness has both a social and psychological explanation.30 Ultimately, Leech rejects the positive/negative face distinction submitted by Brown and Levinson and argues rather for a goal-oriented view of face. According to Leech, Face is the positive self-image or self-esteem that a person enjoys as a reflection of that person’s estimation by others. Negative face goal: the goal of avoiding loss of face. (Loss of face is a lowering of that self-esteem, as a result of the lowering of that person’s estimation in the eyes of others.) Positive face goal: the goal of gaining or enhancing face (i.e., the heightening or maintaining of a person’s self-esteem, as a result of the heightening or maintaining of that person’s estimation in the eyes of others.) 31

Leech’s goal-oriented view of face will, in large part, be the view taken in the current volume, but an important distinction between face, identity, and self-worth requires some further elaboration. Face, while closely interactive with concepts like identity’ and ‘selfworth,’ remains but one component of the larger formula. Whereas a person’s conception of their own identity (here ignoring the complicated discussions of how identity might be understood) resides within the individual, face is a relational component of the self, depending upon the perceptions of others to inform the individual of their worth.32 Thus, while relational face informs self-worth, it does not wholly overpower the individual’s internal identity to dictate self-worth. Even in cultures, such as the Old Norse pre-Christian culture, that prize external face-work over the internal condition of an individual, there remains ample room for individuals to maintain an image of themselves that does not correspond with the view that others in the community have of them. In such cultures, however, discrepancies between face and identity must be set right, either by physical conquest such as a duel or a verbal demonstration of self-worth such as a mannjafnaðr, a verbal contest that Geoffrey Leech, Pragmatics of Politeness, pp. 21–7. This book builds upon Leech’s earlier influential work, Principles of Pragmatics (London: Longman, 1983). 31 Leech, Pragmatics of Politeness, 25. 32 Robert B. Arundale, “Face as Relational and Interactional: A Communication Framework for Research on Face, Facework, and Politeness,” Journal of Politeness Research 2:2 (2006), pp. 103–217, at p. 202; See also Helen D. M. Spencer-Oatey, “Theories of Identity and the Analysis of Face,” JP 39:4 (2007), pp. 639–56, at pp. 642–4; and Culpeper, Impoliteness, pp. 27–8. 30

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature determines the respective self-worths of the contestants. The importance of face-work in such cultures is obvious, but it is the distinctions between face and identity – and the cultural need to bring them in accord with one another – that make the face-work so important. The term self-worth tends to be used as a synonym with self-image or as term referring to the individualized component of face, as to say, the worth or image one estimates of themself.33 It is helpful, however, to recognize self-worth as a composition of both relational face and internal identity, such that both of these inform an individual of his or her selfworth. Thus, the present volume assumes the following structure for self-worth (table 2): Table 2. Self-worth Self-worth Face

Identity

When the two sides of self-worth correspond with one another, selfworth is preserved; when they do not, self-worth is obscured and a correction of one kind or another is required. Self-worth may thus be negatively influenced either by an external attack against face or by an internal “self” attack through a loss of self-confidence or an ‘identity’ crisis. In those instances when a person’s self-worth is threatened by way of an external offense or impoliteness against face, it may be referred to as a face-threatening act (FTA).34 Scholars have further clarified the types of external offenses since the concept of FTAs was introduced by Brown and Levinson. Notably, Jonathan Culpeper follows Helen Spencer-Oatey and others in categorizing threats to face according to the specific aspects of self-worth (using the term as presented here) under attack.35 According to this categorization, FTAs may be specified as, 33

See Helen Spencer-Oatey and Jianyu Xing, “A Problematic Chinese Business Visit to Britain: Issues of Face,” in Culturally Speaking: Managing Rapport through Talk across Cultures, ed. Helen Spencer-Oatey (London: Continuum, 2000), pp. 272–88, at p. 281. 34 See Brown and Levinson, Politeness, pp. 313–17. 35 Culpeper, Impoliteness, pp. 27–31; Spencer-Oatey, “Theories of Identity,” p. 641. Spencer-Oatey refers to Marilynn B. Brewer and Wendi Gardner, “who is this ‘we’? Levels of Collective Identity and Self Representation,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 71:1 (1996), pp. 83–93; and Culpeper refers to Constantine Sedikides and Marilynn B. Brewer, Individual Self, Relational Self, Collective Self (Philadelphia: Psychological Press, 2001).

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When Questions Are Not Questions 1: an offense against quality face, meaning an FTA that challenges “positive values which a participant claims not only to have as a specific individual but to be assumed by other participant(s) as having.”36 For example, an FTA might target an individual’s ability to perform well in physical combat or to care sufficiently for a farm. 2: an offense against social identity face, meaning an FTA that challenges “positive values which a participant claims not only to have in common with all other members in a particular group, but to be assumed by other participant(s) as having.”37 For example, an FTA might target an individual because they are an Icelander in a foreign land. 3: an offense against relational face, meaning an FTA that challenges “positive values about the relations which a participant claims not only to have with a significant other or others but to be assumed by that/ those significant other(s) and/or other participant(s) as having.”38 For example, an FTA might target an individual’s loyalty to their friends, retinue, or spouse.

These categories of face relate to self-worth in accordance with the social norms of various cultures at play in a given verbal exchange. In other words, they contribute to the speech-situational context of a verbal exchange. Jonathan Culpeper has indicated the importance of the relationship between face, self, and the cultural and speech-situational contexts of the offensive exchange. As he argues, we can hypothesise the self as a schema consisting of layers of components varying in emotional importance with the most highly charged closest to the centre, and this is where potentially the most facesensitive components lie. With respect to cultures and identities, it is context that primes a particular component of face.39

It is to the cultural context and, more broadly, the global context (using the terminology described above) that Culpeper refers here. All of these types of offenses occur at various points in Old Norse-Icelandic sagas and assume therefore a literary representation of that global context (global1) as well. For instance, the exchange between Kolskeggr and Kolr is a matter of both a positive face goal (as described by Leech) for Kolskeggr, whose self-worth will improve not only because of his victory in physical combat but also because he has bested Kolr with words, and a loss of face for Kolr. The FTA issued by Kolskeggr to Kolr firmly attacks quality face because it challenges Kolr’s ability on the battlefield. Kolr in turn recognizes the attack on quality face, as is indicated Impoliteness, p. 28. ibid., p. 29. 38 ibid., p. 30. 39 ibid., p. 26. 36 Culpeper, 37

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature by his acknowledgement that his shield was out of position when he was wounded.40 Thus, in terms of self-worth, the cultural and speechsituational contexts of the speech event dictate that the FTA hits nearly as close to home as the blade itself.

Directness and Indirectness: Locution, Illocution, and Perlocution Kolskeggr’s question, were Kolr to have answered it directly, would have produced an utterance that includes what may be called a truthconditional statement. In other words, if he had responded directly to the question, Kolr might have said something like, yes, the blade did hit me or no, it did not. The validity of truth-conditional statements depends upon certain conditions: either Kolskeggr’s blade has or has not hit Kolr, meaning the statement can be verified with empirical data (in this case, the absence of Kolr’s leg). Kolskeggr, not happy with merely killing the man, points out both the truth conditional statement (“the leg is gone”) and the empirical nature of the statement (“you don’t have to look at it anymore”). Kolr has thus badly lost both the physical and the verbal contest, but things could have been even worse on the latter front. Were Kolr to have answered with a truth conditional statement, he would have shown that he failed to understand the illocution – that is, the intended meaning – of Kolskeggr’s question and would have, if such a thing were possible, heaped even more shame upon himself before he died; Kolr would have demonstrated himself to be not just an incapable fighter but an incapable verbal dueler as well. The illocution of Kolskeggr’s question, Kolr at least realized, communicates meaning beyond the semantic, morphological, and syntactical components of the utterance, which may be called the linguistic meaning or the locution of an utterance. Were Kolskeggr asking his question directly, the illocution and locution would have corresponded, but the context of the situation dictates a difference between the two. As has been shown above, the resulting meaning of an utterance may go on to communicate a variety of meanings within a variety of contexts, but the meaning Kolskeggr intends in the context of his question diverges from those locutionary (linguistic) components to communicate a meaning outside of the locution of the utterance. These terms, that is, locution, illocution, and the related term perlocution, have been defined and applied variously by linguists.41 While a 40 41

Njáls saga, p. 158. Much discussion has gone into the concepts of locution, illocution, and perlocution. The view presented here draws from the notion that illocutionary acts constitute an intended meaning on the part of the speaker that is meant to be understood by the hearer, even if the intended meaning is indirect. This view

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When Questions Are Not Questions comprehensive overview of those applications is not possible here, these terms require some clarification to be useful in the present study. I take the locution of an utterance to be that which reflects the base linguistic components – the semantic, morphological, and syntactical components – of what is said. The illocution may be understood here as the meaning or result intended by a speaker within a specific context. The actual result caused by the utterance, which may or may not correspond with the intended result, may then be called the perlocution. When, as in the verbal exchange between Kolskeggr and Kolr, the locution and illocution diverge, an utterance may be said to possess indirectness, but because the locution and illocution always relate to one another through context, even when the illocution diverges drastically from locution, the meaning can still be discerned by the hearer of the utterance. Based on this terminology, the articulation, intention, and outcome of Kolskeggr’s utterance must be understood in both linguistic and social terms. Geoffrey Leech again takes a goal-oriented approach to these concepts: It is assumed that we have some illocutionary goals, that is, the illocutionary goals we want to achieve in linguistic communication (in asking permission, giving advice, etc.). We also have social goals, that is, maintaining good communicative relations with people. But illocutionary goals may either support or compete with social goals, especially the goal of being (to some degree) polite. Thus in paying a compliment, one’s illocutionary goal is to communicate to H one’s high evaluation of H or of some attribute of H. Here the illocutionary goal supports a social goal (saying something polite, in order to maintain good relations). But in a request, or a criticism of H, the illocutionary goal competes, or is at odds, with that social goal.42

Leech’s insight assumes that the social goal of an utterance would always be to maintain good relations and therefore the illocutionary goal would diverge should an impoliteness occur. It is reasonable to think, however, that a speaker may aspire to a negative social goal, such as severing relations. It may seem odd that Kolskeggr should want to sever relations with a man who is certainly about to die, so what then are Kolskeggr’s illocutionary and social goals? It seems evident that his illocutionary goal is to cause harm to Kolr’s self-worth, to cause him to lose face before he ultimately has its origins in John Searle and Peter F. Strawson. See Marina Sbisá, “Locution, Illocution, Perlocution,” in Pragmatics of Speech Actions, ed. Wolfram Bublitz, Marina Sbisá, and Ken Turner (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 25–75, at pp. 50–5, for a discussion of the development of these views. 42 Leech, Pragmatics of Politeness, p. 89. Leech also refers readers to his earlier work on Illocutionary goals, found in Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, pp. 107–10.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature loses his life, but it also seems, socially, that face is a zero-sum game: as Kolr’s face diminishes, Kolskeggr’s face is enhanced. The fact that Kolr loses face may be classified as a perlocutionary result (regardless of whether the result is followed by death). Elsewhere in Njáls saga, when a character asks a question almost identical to Kolskeggr’s question above, the recipient of the question aims to circumvent the negative illocutionary goal of the question. In a battle in which two rival groups are separated by a river, one combatant throws a spear at an enemy riding a horse on the opposite side of the river. The saga carefully describes the spear’s trajectory as it passes over the river, through the rider’s shield, and through the rider’s leg finally to be pinned to the sideboard of the saddle. Flosi, who cast the spear, cries out to Ingjaldr, who was hit by it, “Hvárt kom á þik?” (“Did it hit you?”).43 Ingjaldr responds much differently than Kolr. Rather than conceding defeat and death, Ingjaldr replies, “Á mik kom víst […] ok kalla ek þetta skeinu, en ekki sár” (“It certainly hit me […] but I call this a scratch, not a wound.”).44 Ingjaldr then plucks the spear from his thigh and throws it back across the river, killing one of Flosi’s companions. The first part of Ingjaldr’s retort is the truth-conditional statement Kolr avoids, but Ingjaldr is in a better position than Kolr, having only received a “scratch,” and is able to twist the question into an insult of his own design. Based on this example, it would seem, strangely, that answering a question directly can, in some contexts, represent a kind of hostile retort, just as the asking of the question is a hostile act in itself. One may reflect for instance upon the hypothetical scene in which a family sits around the dinner table and the father asks his willful teenage son can you pass the potatoes? to which, if the teenage boy is feeling disgruntled with his parents, he might simply cross his arms and reply, why yes, yes I can … and then make no move to pass the potatoes. The son has answered the question directly, but he has not responded in a way desirable to his father’s wishes. He has in fact thwarted his father’s illocutionary goal (to have the potatoes passed). The son, being defiant, ignores the obvious illocution and instead addresses the locution, which produces a notably different perlocution than the questioner expects. The boy has in fact been very rude even though he has answered the question asked of him. In similar fashion, by answering the question as he does, Ingjaldr affirms that he will not be a welcome recipient of Flosi’s FTA, whereas Kolr, near death as he is, has nothing left with which to resist. Just as the boy offends his father, Ingjaldr offends Flosi. Such rudeness, Ingjaldr will instruct us, is more effective when followed by the casting of a spear. Perlocution in these instances in Njáls saga also offers substantive evidence that the characters in Njáls saga are quite aware of discursive 43

Njáls saga, p. 338.

44 ibid.

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When Questions Are Not Questions devices of the sort executed by Kolskeggr, and in fact it is sometimes the case that characters try to expose such a device rather than succumb to the perlocutionary result of losing face. In another instance the aforementioned Flosi gets a taste of his own medicine when Snorri goði, who has been on the hunt for Flosi, asks Flosi who is chasing him (of course, it is Snorri, the questioner). Flosi responds, “ekki spyrr þú þessa af því, at þú vitir þat eigi” (“You’re not asking about this because you don’t know [the answer]”).45 Within the speech-situational context of the scene, Snorri obviously means his question to suggest that Flosi is a coward. In this case, Flosi attempts to expose Snorri’s discursive tactic by pointing out that the questioner already knows the answer to the question he has asked.46 The degree to which the narrative interacts with questions of this kind, which are asked not because the questioner does not know the answer, suggests something of great importance to the study of discourse in Old Norse literature. What we see here goes beyond just one or two characters exhibiting anomalous or quirky discourse characteristics. The presence of such phenomena seems rather to be a given in verbal exchanges in the saga. Not only does the saga writer understand it well enough to depict it convincingly, the author carries the expectation that their audiences will also understand it. This type of speaker-meaning is built into the fabric and structure of discourse in Old Norse literature.

Implicature When illocution diverges from locution, as it does in Kolskeggr’s question, the missing component of speaker-meaning (which the speaker intends to communicate but which is left unsaid) is in this volume referred to as the implicature. Few concepts in the field of pragmatics have received as much scholarly attention as the implicature. The terminology and theoretical concept of the implicature originated quite early on with H. Paul Grice.47 Subsequently, the notion has been taken up by theorists in every corner of pragmatics – most importantly in neo-Gricean pragmatics, politeness theory, and relevance theory – to produce a vast array of dichotomies and typologies of implicatures.48 Scholarly discussions of the nature and characteristics of implicatures show no signs of slowing, yet while 45

ibid., p. 406. See chapter six of this volume for another important example of a statement of this kind in Laxdœla saga (p. 151). 47 H. Paul Grice, “Logic and Conversation,” in Syntax and Semantics, ed. P. Cole & J. Morgan, vol. 3: Speech Acts (New York: Academic Press, 1975), pp. 41–58. 48 For a recent and thorough discussion of these various theories, see Yan Huang, “Implicature,” in The Oxford Handbook of Pragmatics, ed. Yan Huang (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), pp. 155–79. 46

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature these debates are worthwhile and interesting from a linguistic and philosophical perspective, many of the distinctions made via those theoretical advancements will only distract from the purpose of the present study. For the sake of clarity, however, some account of how the concept of the implicature will be applied in the following chapters must nevertheless be given. Early Gricean models distinguished between conversational and conventional implicatures, where the former may be defined as, “any meaning or proposition expressed implicitly by a speaker in his or her utterance of a sentence which is meant without being part of what is said in the strict sense.”49 Conversational implicatures may then be classified as generalized conversational implicatures (GCIs) or particularized conversational implicatures (PCIs), where the former does not need a specific speech-situational context in order to be communicated and the latter does. The same utterance, then, might have both a GCI and a PCI depending upon the richness of the speech-situational context in which it is spoken, where the GCI is discerned merely from the general rationality and deduction of the listener and the PCI is discerned both from that and from a deeper consideration of the context in which the speaker makes the utterance. Conventional implicatures, in contrast to conversational implicatures, are those that depend not on an implicit expression of the speaker and/or the specific speech-situational context of the utterance but rather on the conventions of the particular lexical items in use. Words like therefore, but, moreover, and so do not possess semantic value in the way that nouns, verbs, and adjectives do; they rather communicate a relationship between utterances.50 By way of a conventional implicature, those relationships can be communicated by a speaker without using the words themselves. The greatest part of the implicatures considered in the present study may be classified as particularized conversational implicatures. In other words, in order to understand fully the total meaning of the utterances considered here, the listener (that is, the characters within the Old Norse-Icelandic narratives discussed here) and the reader/ listener (that is, the audience who reads or listens to the narratives) must understand both the general logic and rationality of the utterance and the particular speech-situational context of the utterance. 49

50

ibid., p. 156. ibid., p. 176. It must be noted that conventional implicatures have been the subject of much debate. Even though words like those mentioned here have a functional rather than a semantic value, it does not necessarily follow that they are the concern of a pragmatic assessment. However, see Nagy C. Katalin for a discussion of the relationship between conversational and conventional implicature, and the process of grammaticalization that may relate the two: “The Pragmatics of Grammaticalization: The Role of Implicatures in Semantic Change,” JHP 11:1 (2010), pp. 67–95.

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When Questions Are Not Questions These descriptions ought to illuminate a relationship between locution, perlocution, illocution, and implicature as it is conceived in the present study. Conceptually, we may derive the formula: illocution = locution + [implicature] When implicature = null, meaning that there is no implicature to interpret, then, illocution = locution + [null], or simply illocution = locution Thus, the utterance is “direct.” However, when an implicature is present in the intended meaning of an utterance, then a deviation from the locution must be acknowledged. Thus, illocution = locution + implicature This, albeit simplified, formula for understanding the relationship between what is said (locution) and what is meant (illocution) follows well from Yan Huang’s recent description of conversational implicature. According to Huang, “a conversational implicature is what is communicated/conveyed/meant minus what is said. […] In other words, a conversational implicature is part of what a speaker means, though not part of what a sentence means.”51 The relationship between locution, illocution, and implicature—all constructed by the speaker—and the perlocution—the domain of the hearer—may then be depicted by chart 1. If the discourse proceeds through time along the horizontal axis, the speaker’s pragmatic intent (positive integers) ought, ideally, to coincide with the hearer’s perlocution (negative integers) along the vertical axis. When illocution = locution, the two positive lines converge, but should the speaker move into indirectness by appealing to an implicature, then the locution and illocution diverge. Ideally, the perlocution will follow a corresponding pattern, but in the event that the intended meaning, whether direct (as the case early in the mapped conversation below) or indirect (as later), the resulting perlocution reflects a misfire, or a mistake in understanding. One fundamental challenge to anyone aiming to identify and interpret implicature and indirectness, either from the perspective of pragmatics or historical pragmatics, is how exactly to determine whether an implicature is evident within an utterance. Some scholars suggest that quality called cancellability, which, as Grice argued early on, is an important characteristic of implicature, could most readily be tested to determine 51

Huang, “Implicature,” in Huang, The Oxford Handbook of Pragmatics, p. 156.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Chart 1. Locution, illocution, and perlocution

the presence of a conversational implicature.52 For example, the statement (whose content I slightly modify from Grice) Smith has stopped drinking may be said to include an inference but not an implicature, since the inference that Smith at one time prior to this statement was a drinker cannot be canceled by the addition of a phrase like, I do not mean to suggest that Smith was a drinker. Hence, this utterance has failed the cancellability test. By contrast, the cancellability test of the commonly cited implicature in the following exchange demonstrates that cancellability is present: Speaker (1): We’ll all miss Bill and Agatha, won’t we? Speaker (2): Well, we’ll all miss Bill.53 The implicature here is quite obvious: [IMPL: We will not miss Agatha!] Yet the fact that the implicature is obvious does not make it follow necessarily and logically in the same way that the utterance Smith has stopped drinking must be logically followed with the phrase Smith was a drinker. Here, it is 52

Grice most clearly describes this phenomenon in H. P. Grice, “The Causal Theory of Perception,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, supp. vol. 35 (1961), pp. 128–9. 53 An oft-cited example, first used, I believe, in Geoffrey Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, p. 80. Here again, it might be incidentally noted, that irony plays a role in indirectness in the same way that sarcasm plays a role in the verbal exchange with which this chapter begins, but notions of irony and sarcasm only scratch the surface of the nuance and context relevant to both conversations. See Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, p. 82 for a discussion of how irony might work with respect to the minimization of impoliteness.

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When Questions Are Not Questions possible to ‘cancel’ the implicature we will not miss Agatha by following the initial utterance with the clarification I don’t mean to suggest that we won’t miss Agatha. While such a follow up utterance might produce an awkward conversation, it is not logically impossible. Thus, the utterance of speaker (2) has passed the cancellability test. Considerable discussion has gone on recently to determine whether the cancellability test is reliable under all circumstances, but many of the grievances with the cancellability test are nullified with some slight modification of Grice’s original notion of cancellability.54 Following Grice, Michael Blome-Tillmann points out that cancellability tests must proceed upon two potential lines—one explicit and one contextual.55 In other words, not only must we ask whether a potential implicature can be cancelled by following the utterance in question with the phrase I don’t mean to imply that… but also by asking whether it can be cancelled by placing the utterance in a different speech-situational context. Per the illustrations above, there is no context in which Smith has stopped drinking can be followed by Smith was not a drinker, but Well, we’ll all miss Bill might find contexts in which the obvious implicature might not follow, for instance if Speaker (2) happened not to know Agatha at all. For the purposes of the present volume, this dual-component cancellability test will be adequate to determine whether an implicature is indeed present for a given utterance. However, in chapter two, the manner in which implicatures work in aggressive verbal exchanges will require some slight alteration to the fundamental expectations of the characteristics of implicature. As the present volume occupies itself with literary analysis rather than a purely linguistic one, certain narrative aids become useful in determining the presence and nature of implicatures because, unlike pragmatic studies of live conversations, narration often presents not merely what a global context may be (which would include all manner of irrelevant and potentially misleading aspects of a speech situation) but specifically what aspects of a speech-situational context the author of the narrative deems most relevant for the purpose of communicating the meaning of a text to the audience. Those author-provided situational contexts may be outside of the discourse (descriptions of events, participants, locations, etc.) or within the verbal exchange (parts of the dynamic 54

For the most recent iteration in this discussion, see Julia Zakkou, “The Cancellability Test for Conversational Implicatures,” Philosophy Compass (December 2018), pp. 1–17; also Matthew Weiner, “Are All Conversational Implicatures Cancellable?,” Analysis 66:2 (2006), pp. 127–30; and Michael Haugh, “Implicature, Inference and Cancellability,” in Perspectives on Pragmatics and Philosophy, ed. Alessandro Capone, Franco Lo Piparo, and Marco Carapezza (Cham: Springer International Publishing), pp. 133–51. 55 Michael Blome-Tillmann, “Conversational Implicatures and the Cancellability Test,” Analysis 68, no. 2 (2008), pp. 156–60.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature interpretation itself), but they are always relevant because the author has made them so. In the verbal exchange described above from Njáls saga, the saga writer is clear that Kolr does not answer Kolskeggr’s question with a direct response, which aids the reader in understanding that Kolskeggr’s question is one that functionally implicates (i.e., possesses an implicature) rather than inquires (i.e., functions as an interrogative). Hence, the saga writer, through their presentation of narrative context, intends to give the audience sufficient contextual data for discerning the true importance of Kolskeggr’s question.

In-/Under-determinacy and Levels of Indirectness Another way to determine that Kolskeggr’s question clearly possesses indirectness is by noting that the utterance diverges from the expected grammatical function of the utterance. Specifically, Kolskeggr’s utterance is in the interrogative mood, which ought to indicate that it functions as a means to seek information. It does not, and thereby communicates via indirectness in speech.56 The interrogative mood, however, represent but one grammatical mood. It stands to reason that if the interrogative mood can be manipulated to communicate indirectness, then other grammatical moods might be manipulated as well. As Gabriella Mazzon points out, modality markers “are used as reflections of pragmatic stance; their use permits speakers and hearers to go beyond the propositional meaning of an utterance, adding illocutionary and performative elements.”57 In the scene described above, Kolskeggr might have affected a similar illocutionary goal by saying something like, my sword might have hit you. This statement (though of course presented in English) maintains the same illocutionary goal as Did that hit you or not? because the global1 context dictates the absurdity of the modal verb might. Thus, as Mazzon remarks, modal verbs (and other markers of modality) depend upon extralinguistic context to communicate their function. As Papafragou puts it, See David Braun, “Implicating Questions,” Mind & Language 26:5 (November 2011), pp. 574–95, for a careful discussion of this and other phenomena related to questions and indirectness. Dawn Archer uses the term grammatical indirectness to refer to what she calls “indirect interrogatives,” or questions that are presented in the form of a declarative, such as I wondered when the plane will leave in contrast to the interrogative, When will the plane leave? (pp. 26–7). For Archer, “grammatical indirectness” describes “interrogatives which utilize an indirect grammatical structure” to communicate meaning (Questions and Answers, p. 27). While, in my opinion, these types of interrogatives described by Archer might be better classified as rhetic reports (in contrast to phatic reports), Archer’s example of indirect interrogatives may indicate an example of grammaticalization. 57 Gabriella Mazzon, Interactive Dialogue Sequences in Middle English Drama (Amsterdam: John Benjamins: 2009), p. 51. 56

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When Questions Are Not Questions “modal verbs are context-dependent expressions, in that their linguistic content radically underdetermines the overall meaning communicated by their uses.”58 On this view, modal verbs may be said to possess a fundamental aspect of an implicature, namely, indeterminacy, which means that an implicature may have a range of intended meanings that can only be understood within a specific speech-situational context.59 Modality thus conceived through the lens of under-determinacy possesses an inherent quality that makes it especially useful for the communication of indirectness in speech. In addition to the interrogative mood, the subjunctive mood maintains a particularly valuable inherent quality to the function of indirectness in speech because the nature of the subjunctive is to create an added level of in- or under-determinacy.60 Likewise, other markers of modality – such as modal adverbs (e.g., possibly, maybe, perhaps), modal markers (e.g., I wish, I hope), and epistemic modal markers (e.g., I think, I believe, I feel, I suspect) – all share the characteristic of under-determinacy. Here again, Kolskeggr’s question, which attains indirectness via the under-determinacy of the interrogative mood might do the same with the phrase I think that hit you. It should also be clear that the overall effect of in- or under-determinacy upon indirectness is cumulative, such that the phrase I think that hit you escalates its indirectness when modified to I think that might have hit you and again to I think that might possibly have hit you. The pragmatic effects of such escalations may result in either politeness or extreme impoliteness, as will be discussed directly. The under-determinacy of modal markers means that indirectness has an affinity for modality, and, as such, a preponderance of modal verbs in a verbal exchange may be an indicator of indirectness in speech. However, in the same way that a question, in certain speech contexts, may be either direct (seeking information) or indirect (communicating an implicature), modal markers of other kinds might be either direct or indirect. In other words, the under-determinacy accessible through the manipulation of moods must not be seen as a guarantee of indirectness, particularly in languages like Old Norse-Icelandic, which have relatively clear applications for modality. For instance, subjunctives in Old Norse may be used to communicate an optative or potential mood, which would more likely lend itself to a pragmatic usage, but in subordinate clauses the function of the subjunctive depends upon the matrix verb of Anna Papafragou, “Modality and Semantic Underdeterminacy,” in Current Issues in Relevance Theory, ed. Villy Rouchota and Andreas H. Jucker (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1998), pp. 237–70, at p. 249. I came to this useful reference via Mazzon, Interactive Dialogue, p. 52. 59 Laurence R. Horn, “Implicature,” in Horn and Ward, The Handbook of Pragmatics, pp. 3–28, at p. 3.; see also Grice, “Logic and Conversation,” p. 58. 60 But note the following discussion of subjunctives in Old Norse. 58

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature the main clause.61 Thus, while the under-determinacy of modal markers, perhaps especially markers of the interrogative and subjunctive moods, are certainly good places to be on the lookout for indirectness in speech, it is not a de facto indicator of indirectness in speech. A question may be merely a question, and a subjunctive may merely communicate subjunctivity.62 In these cases, as in all others, meaning still depends upon context. Geoffrey Leech has observed that politeness in interaction often demonstrates varying degrees of indirectness, particularly in his understanding of neg-politeness, which Leech defines as the mitigation of potential threats to face. As he argues, “neg-politeness typically involves indirectness, hedging, and understatement, which are among the bestknown and most-studied indicators of the polite use of language.”63 Leech goes on to suggest that “there is a tendency for politeness to be associated with wordiness: the more indirect and ‘mitigated’ a request is, the more words it is likely to contain.”64 The phenomenon in modern English might proceed as follows: A guest at a dinner party wishes to be polite to their host and so might politely ask, Can you pass the salt? rather than what Brown and Levinson referred to as the “bald on record” statement, pass the salt.65 Should the host be distracted, they might fail to hear the request, or even ignore it intentionally, causing the guest to ask again, with an additional level of indirectness, Sorry, could you pass the salt? If the host again fails to heed the request, a third and fourth level of indirectness might be, Very sorry, could you possibly pass the salt? or perhaps I wonder if I could ask you for the salt. But should the host again fail to heed the request, the guest might become impatient and achieve a full seven levels of indirectness, rudely asking, I’m sorry1, but could2 you possibly3 think4 for one minute about whether5 you might6 be able7 to pass the salt?!? The latter sentence – still a question, still a request – clearly achieves an aggressive tone, but its aggression derives in large part from its syntactical and semantic proximity to the politeness in the first three sentences. Leech’s observations on wordiness are insightful, but further specificity on just how additional words increase indirectness will help clarify the Jan Terje Faarlund, The Syntax of Old Norse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 246–50. 62 Again here, a question remains about how the pragmatic and grammatical uses of these markers might have developed over time. This, ultimately, is a question of grammaticalization. See footnote 56 above, and see Debra Ziegeler, “The Grammaticalization of Modality,” in The Oxford Handbook of Grammaticalization, ed. Bernd Heine and Heiko Narrog (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 595–604. 63 Leech, Pragmatics of Politeness, p. 11. 64 ibid., p. 12. 65 See Brown and Levinson, “Universals in Language Use,” p. 74, and Politeness, pp. 315–16; and see Leech, Pragmatics of Politeness, p. 12. 61

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When Questions Are Not Questions phenomenon. All of the above pass-the-salt sentences (with the exception of the bald on record utterance) display what may be described as markers of indirectness, which often (but not always) correspond with modality markers discussed above. For instance, the levels of indirectness evident in the above progression of requests correspond to the subjunctive gradations affected by the verbs can: could, the further softening of the grammatical mood by adding the modal adverb possibly, and the deference and submission associated with the word sorry and then very sorry. The final aggressive request thus migrates its indirect meaning into an offensive intent by excessively affecting the mood of the sentence. In the aggressive statement, the words could, think, whether, might, and be able all influence the mood of the sentence, so that the potentially polite phrase achieves a level of absurdity, which in turn produces impoliteness based on a syntactical form that might have otherwise been polite. Thus, with added markers of indirectness, a new level of indirectness is indicated, such that the levels of indirectness might be demonstrated by table 3: Table 3. Levels of indirectness Levels of Indirectness

Utterance

Level 0 (bald on record)

Pass the salt.

Level 1 (polite, face saving)

Can you pass the salt?

Level 2 (polite, face saving)

Could you pass the salt?

Levels 3–4 (polite, face saving)

Sorry, could you pass the salt?

Level 5 (polite, face saving)

Very sorry, could you possibly pass the salt?

Levels 6–7 (impolite, face threatening)

I’m sorry, but could you possibly think for one minute about whether you might be able to pass the salt?

The result is a range of discursive tactics that spans from bald on record to polite to impolite, all indicated by the markers of indirectness of the respective utterances. Of course, Kolskeggr’s question to Kolr requires only one level of indirectness because the cultural and speech-situational contexts make his illocution crystal clear. When asking his loaded question of Kolr, Kolskeggr (or at least the author of Njáls saga) understands the close relationship between speech-situational context and threats to face, for he elects to manipulate the shared component of the speech-situational context at play in the scene: the common ground, or the “mutually recognized shared information” that Kolskeggr has, unquestionably, cut

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature off Kolr’s leg with his blow.66 When Kolskeggr meddles with the common ground, the speech-situational context dictates that it is not only Kolr’s life that is threatened but also – perhaps somehow even more importantly – his self-worth as well. Kolr, now utterly defeated in both actions and words, hardly has anything left to do but die.

Conclusion The objective of this chapter has been to introduce some foundational concepts that will be applied in the literary analysis that follows. Subsequent chapters will build upon these foundational concepts, illuminating more complex systems of discourse employed in Old Norse literature. These more complex systems of discourse, it is hoped, come together to illuminate an overall arc of communicative development that corresponds with the development of saga literature itself. As was suggested in the introduction to this volume, that developmental arc is one of change and even, it might be said, of loss. Vésteinn Ólason has suggested that the encounter between Kolskeggr and Kolr in Njáls saga comes to represent a type of loss evident throughout the Íslendingasögur. The Icelandic family sagas, says Vésteinn, “are about loss not of life or limb, but rather the loss of an entire world.”67 The present study will affirm Vésteinn’s reflection, but the work done in this book will contend that this passage is also representative of another kind of loss: a linguistic loss, a communicative loss, a loss of the strategies of verbal exchanges that once prevailed in the medieval North. If we are to understand the history and development of Old Norse-Icelandic literature, we must understand this communicative loss as well.

66 67

Stalnaker, “Common Ground,” p. 704. Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, p. 9.

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N 2 n The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression In a well-known episode from the Middle High German epic Das Nibelungenlied, two powerful queens, Prünhilt and Kriemhilt, argue fiercely about who has the stronger, braver, and nobler husband.1 Both women give as good as they get in the argument, and the conflict comes to a head in a contest of social status. Kriemhilt vows to enter the church before Prünhilt – a gesture that would culturally proclaim Kriemhilt to have the higher status. Bedecked in all the splendor of her status and position, Kriemhilt haughtily passes by Prünhilt on her way into the church and says, “du hâst geschendet selbe den dînen schœnen lîp: / wie möhte mannes kebse werden immer künige wîp?” (“You have dishonored yourself and your beautiful body: how could a mistress ever become a king’s wife?”).2 Prünhilt, indignant at the implicature quickly retorts, “Wen hâstu hie verkebset?” (“Whom do you call a mistress?”)3 The Quarrel of the Queens episode contains the central turning point for the Nibelung Legend of Middle High German and Old Norse literature. In addition to the Nibelungenlied, this episode appears in three other extant texts from roughly the same period: Þiðreks saga af Bern, Völsunga saga, and Skáldskaparmál.4 Three of these four versions (I set aside Skáldskaparmál because it offers only an abbreviated account of 1

2 3 4

An early version of this chapter appeared as “Indirect Aggression: A Pragmatic Analysis of the Quarrel of the Queens in Völsunga saga, Þiðreks Saga, and Das Nibelungenlied,” Neophilologus 97 (2013), pp. 349–65. Used here with permission from the publisher. Helmut de Boor, Das Nibelungenlied (Wiesbaden: F.A. Brockhaus, 1956), stz. 839. Ibid., stz. 840. See chapter seven (pp. 189–91), on the pragmatics of gender, for a further discussion of important analogues of this episode in other Old NorseIcelandic narratives. The most obvious analogues may be found in Gísla saga

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature the quarrel) present dialogues that reflect an intricate interplay between indirectness in speech, such as exhibited in the above verbal exchange, and directness in speech (that is, speech that requires little or no interpretation). Any study of culture and language in the medieval North ought to take into consideration this remarkable story of Sigurðr and the fateful ring. These narratives provide valuable evidence of pragmatic principles because they were clearly well known and often referenced in these regions, and thereby might reflect a widespread understanding of the scene. In addition to the several versions of the narrative considered in this chapter, there are a multitude of instances (some of which will be addressed in later chapters) in which Old Norse-Icelandic literature borrows from or alludes to the Nibelung narrative. It is, simply put, one of the best and most foundational narratives in northern Europe. Having a widely-known, multi-lingual, comparative story such as that of the story of Sigurðr and the ring is clearly an opportunity not to be ignored. From the perspective of historical pragmatics, this exchange as it appears in Das Nibelungenlied is interesting for two reasons. First, rather than stating directly that Prünhilt could never be a proper queen, Kriemhilt dresses up her insult in the form of a question, which Prünhilt must then interpret. Second, not only does Prünhilt have no trouble interpreting Kriemhilt’s question for what it really is – a serious insult – she also counters with a matching pattern of verbal aggression: another question, which Kriemhilt must herself interpret. This type of verbal exchange falls in line with several of the pragmatic principles and concepts outlined in the previous chapter of this volume. Most importantly, it demonstrates what philosopher of language John Searle identifies as an indirect speech act, in which “the speaker communicates to the hearer more than he actually says by way of relying on their mutually shared background information, both linguistic and nonlinguistic, together with the general powers of rationality and inference on the part of the hearer.”5 Since Searle’s early work on the subject, the notion of indirectness in speech has gone on to play a fundamental role in the field of pragmatics, and in the past fifteen or so years, the study of impoliteness as much as politeness has been a significant part of that development.6 I suggest in this chapter that the parameters of the interplay between directness and indirectness and Njáls saga, both of which will be addressed in later chapters. The episode is missing from the Poetic Edda. 5 John Searle, Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), pp. 60–1. 6 See chapter one for more on these concepts. Research on the pragmatics of impoliteness has grown considerably since the mid-2000s, but for two important contributions, see especially the work of Jonathan Culpeper, Impoliteness, and Derek Bousfield, Impoliteness in Interaction (Amsterdam/ Philadelphia: John Benjamin Publishing, 2008), and see footnotes 12, 14, and 15 below for references more relevant to the work in this chapter.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression are not random. They depend rather upon an intricate strategy of verbal aggression that I call “indirect aggression,” which occurs consistently across the three sources.7

Flyting, Senna, and Mannjafnaðr – A Scholarly Context The most significant point of contact between the Quarrel of the Queens and historical pragmatics may be found in the study of impoliteness. Given the importance of politeness theory to the early development of pragmatics, a natural question to ask is whether impoliteness works along similar lines. As early as 1996, Jonathan Culpeper began to articulate a working theory of impoliteness in interaction, and in 2008 Derek Bousfield outlined a way of understanding impoliteness in the fullness of its cultural and speech-situational context.8 It is into this discussion of impoliteness that existing studies of pragmatic principles in the medieval North most readily fit, particularly with regard to ritualized insults and verbal conflicts such as flyting, senna, and mannjafnaðr. Though the scholarly discussion of these forms has deep roots in Germanic philology, the modern iteration of the debate was kindled in the late 1970s and early 1980s by two well-known scholars, Joseph Harris and Carol Clover, who disagreed on how we ought to understand certain verbal conflicts in the medieval North.9 In 1979, Joseph Harris suggested that the native term, senna, in comparison with other Germanic genres of verbal conflict (such as the flyting evident in Old English), ought to be considered to have developed as a localized variant of a broader Germanic cultural phenomenon.10 While he affirms that there are correspondent phenomena in literatures such as Middle Scots (“The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedy”), Old English (Beowulf’s verbal duel 7

Derek Bousfield uses this term to refer to a psychological phenomenon (Bousfield, Impoliteness in Interaction, pp. 76–7). He follows the work of Kaj Björkqvist, Karin Österman, and Ari Kaukiainen, who define indirect aggression as one of three types of aggressive behavior: physical, verbal, and indirect aggression. It should be clear that my usage of the term “indirect aggression” is grounded in pragmatics rather than psychology, but there are several intriguing connections between the two fields, and the shared terminology. First, both pragmatic indirect aggression and psychological indirect aggression depend upon the manipulation of social status; second, both appear to be used more by females than males. The former of these similarities will become clear in this chapter. I will return to the latter in chapter seven. For more, see Björkqvist, Österman, and Kaukiainen, “Social Intelligence Empathy = Aggression?,” Aggression and Violent Behavior 5 (2000), pp. 191–200 (especially pp. 192 and 194–5); 8 See Culpeper, “Anatomy of Impoliteness,” JP 25:3 (1996), pp. 349–67; and more recently Culpeper, Impoliteness; Bousfield, Impoliteness in Interaction. 9 See Swenson, Performing Definitions, pp. 1–7. 10 Harris, “Senna,” pp. 65–74.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature with Unferð and Byrhtnoð’s duel with the Viking messenger in Battle of Maldon), and the Quarrel of the Queens, Harris also asserts that the senna and other formalized verbal conflicts such as mannjafnaðr represent an ‘ethnic genre’ and have a specifically Old Norse-Icelandic identity, pointing out that the noun senna is related to the verb sanna, ‘to prove’ or ‘to give evidence of,’ while mannjafnaðr is a ‘contest in comparison of men,’ both well-engrained Old Norse-Icelandic semantic fields.11 Carol J. Clover, who published her assessment not a year after Harris’s work came into print, argues that such verbal conflicts ought to be categorized broadly as flyting, as identified in Old English sources, and thereby all such examples, whether in Old English, Old Norse, Icelandic, or Middle High German, ought to have bestowed upon them the title of flyting, thus enabling a stronger connection to a Germanic context for, specifically, the verbal duel between Beowulf and Unferð, than was previously thought.12 A second front in this debate opened with regard to the nature of genre in some of these sources. Not long before her 1980 article, Clover had attempted to rehabilitate the Eddic poem Hárbarðsljóð, which has long been viewed by scholars as seriously problematic. Clover argued that the enigmatic poem ought to be viewed as parodic due to what she sees as intentional divergences from standard forms.13 In response, Harris, while agreeing in some ways with the formalist aspects of Clover’s assessment, suggests that generic-based criticism, as Clover proposed, is unable to account for the ambiguities evident in Hárbarðsljóð.14 Only a few years later Marcel Bax and Tineke Padmos stepped into this discussion, using methods grounded in historical pragmatics to assert that Hárbarðsjóð need not be considered parodic and could be understood, pragmatically, as containing not one but two distinct types of (specifically Old Norse-Icelandic) verbal dueling: not only senna but also mannjafnaðr.15 Siding with Harris, Bax and Padmos take those specifically Old NorseIcelandic genres of verbal conflict to have connections to broader northern Germanic sources, namely Middle Dutch romances.16 From here, the debate lay relatively quiet (with the occasional volley from one side or the other) until 1991, when Karen Swenson sought to 11

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13 14

15

16

ibid., p. 71. Clover, “Germanic Context,” pp. 444–68. See also Lars Lönnroth, “The Double Scene of Arrow-Odd’s Drinking Contest,” in Medieval Narrative: a Symposium, ed. Hans Bekker-Nielsen, et al. (Odense: Odense University Press, 1979), pp. 65–74. Carol J. Clover, “Hárbarðsljóð as Generic Farce,” SS 51:2 (1979), pp. 124–45 at p. 139. Joseph Harris, “Eddic Poetry,” p. 82. Marcel Bax and Tineke Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling in Old Icelandic: The Interactional Structure of the Senna and Mannjafnaðr in Hárbarðsljóð,” SS 55:2 (1983), pp. 149–74, at p. 149. Bax and Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling,” pp. 171–2.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression understand arguments in Old Norse texts that specifically use the words senna or mannjafnaðr in reference to the verbal conflicts they depict. Drawing on Harris’s work, Swenson aimed to determine how definitions of these concepts might have been understood by the authors and audiences by and for whom the texts were written. Of the forty-five passages that refer to senna or mannjafnaðr by name, Swenson observes, [w]hile such dialogues do focus on a moment rather than a narrative, a poet’s creation of such dialogue and an audience’s appreciation of it rely on a shared knowledge of many narratives. The moment of exchanged insults has meaning only to the extent that the insults are understood. Since such insults are very often interpretive assessments of someone’s behavior during an incident in the person’s life, knowledge of the story of that incident is essential to appreciation or even understanding of the insult.17

Swenson intends her comments to apply primarily to a narrative context, yet the value of her insight to the study of pragmatics in Old Norse sources should be evident. Verbal aggression of this kind requires cultural and speech-situational context to communicate its face-threatening act. Should the recipient of such verbal aggression fail to understand the context, then they will have no hope of comprehending the insult. More recently, Martin Arnold, supporting Clover’s assessment of Hárbarðsljóð as a parody, further extended the discussion by arguing that the poem, along with its verbal conflict (however labeled), must be viewed within a social, historical, and mythological context to be fully understood. Arnold illustrates just how crucial it is for historical pragmatic analyses to be grounded not only in linguistic methodology but also in literary and historical studies. Ignoring important aspects of literary history, palaeography, and cultural analysis leaves the pragmatic analysis open to errors.18 Arnold argues that an assessment of the poem “must also take into account recollections of the religio-historical circumstances that arose in the late Viking Age,” concluding that “taking into account metafiction, parody and ironic distance, the likelihood is that Hárbarðsljóð was composed quite some time after the conversion period.”19 Arnold thus again illustrates the importance of context to the comprehension of hostile verbal exchanges in Old Norse-Icelandic sources. The present volume represents, in part, an attempt to return to a challenge set by Harris in his 1979 essay, taking along the way, if Performing Definitions, p. 14. A need for a strong relationship between these two fields of study is, in part, justification for the present volume. Note especially Arnold’s criticism of Bax and Padmos in “Hárbarðsljóð: Parody, Pragmatics, and the Socio-Mythic Controversy,” Saga-Book 38 (2014), pp. 5–26, at pp. 16–18. 19 Arnold, “Hárbarðsljóð,” pp. 23 –4. 17 Swenson, 18

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature cautiously, his suggestion that “we should assume a continuum between ordinary communication and literature and that we should start with native categories like the senna and, where possible, with their origins in daily language usage.”20 However, rather than argue one side or another of the debate on the forms of verbal conflict in Old Norse-Icelandic sources, this study aims to find some form of resolution between the two sides. Swenson has done the work of exploring those verbal conflicts that refer to themselves as senna or mannjafnaðr, but it is time to bridge the gap between those more formal genres of verbal dueling to other types of uncategorized verbal conflicts. In the following chapters, I will look at several verbal discourses that are typically not labeled senna or mannjafnaðr in the texts but that nevertheless, pragmatically, hold a strong affinity with those categories: an argument between a husband and wife, for instance – or a disagreement between a mother and son, or a falling out between once-close friends, or enemies on the battlefield – might employ the same pragmatic functions evident in prominent examples of senna and mannjafnaðr without being classified as such. I will turn to those exchanges in due course. In preparation for those subsequent chapters, however, this chapter examines a well-known verbal contest that might easily find classification among the typical three categories of verbal conflict; but rather than appealing to the categories and forms associated with senna, mannjafnaðr, and (more broadly) flyting, this chapter examines the famous Quarrel of the Queens with the lenses of implicature and indirectness in speech. This analysis will then allow for a comparative approach to verbal conflicts that more evidently depict verbal exchanges of everyday life.

Indirect Aggression and Conversational Implicatures The examination of the Quarrel of the Queens here draws in part upon some of the findings of Bax and Padmos, who suggested that, in certain verbal conflicts meant to “reduce the prestige of the hearer,” the “pragmatical meaning is either covert (brought forth by presupposition) or overt (expressed by explicit comparison or by the use of a ‘signal’ […]).”21 While this observation of covert/overt exchanges in verbal conflicts is insightful, we will be better served by viewing them in terms of implicature and illocutionary goals. Thus understood, the usage of pragmatic principles in the medieval North becomes clearer. In order to identify indirectness in verbal conflict, I use the following parameters in accordance with current notions of indirectness. The most essential factor in indirectness is undoubtedly that the utterance must 20 21

Harris, “Senna,” p. 72. Bax and Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling,” p. 169.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression contain an implicature, specifically a conversational implicature.22 That is, the utterance must contain “a component of speaker meaning that constitutes an aspect of what is meant in a speaker’s utterance without being part of what is said.”23 Furthermore, •

The implicature must be an intended face-threatening act (FTA).24 In other words, by using an implicature, the speaker must be challenging the listener to decipher a threat to the recipient’s self-worth.

•

The implicature must possess cancellability. That is, the indirect meaning of the utterance must be contingent upon a particular personal and cultural context, so the same implicature spoken in a different context will not have the same meaning and therefore not represent a threat to face.

•

The implicature must possess indeterminacy. An implicature that is more difficult to decipher offers the aggressor a strategic advantage because it forces the opponent to work harder to unlock the indirect meaning of an utterance.

•

The implicature must possess reinforceability. In other words, the aggressive implicature can be stated explicitly without a feeling of redundancy.

In much the same way that implicatures facilitate face-saving efforts when used in the cooperative principle, the implicature of indirect aggression adds to the ferocity of a verbal attack. This corresponds with Geoffrey Leech’s early work on politeness, in which he suggests that indirectness increases impoliteness when the illocutionary goal is to cause offense, just as it might increase politeness when the goal is to prevent it.25 In a society that prioritizes face and self-worth, the ability to register offence indirectly would make for a significant advantage. Tactically, the benefits are significant. If, rather than stating it directly, an aggressor forces his or her opponent to deduce an insulting implicature, then the insult is doubly scathing: indeterminacy forces the recipient not only to recognize the implicature but also to decipher it, causing the recipient to verbalize For more on these terms see Yan Huang, “Implicature,” in Pragmatics Encyclopedia, ed. Cummings, pp. 205–10, at pp. 206–8, and sources cited there. 23 Horn, “Implicature,” p. 3. 24 See Jonathan Culpeper, Impoliteness, pp. 48–53, for an overview of the scholarly debates over the concept of intentionality. 25 Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, p. 171. As Jonathan Culpeper points out, this relationship between directness and indirectness applies only to impolite belief. For polite belief, an increase in directness correlates to an increase in politeness. See Culpeper, Impoliteness, pp. 184–5, and Leech, Principles of Pragmatics, pp. 109–10. 22

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature (even if only internally) the insult him or herself. The greater the indeterminacy, the harder the recipient must work to decipher the implicature and, in turn, the more scathing the attack. Cancellability likewise puts the recipient in a compromising position, for they cannot be completely certain that the threat to face is intended no matter how apparent it might be. Reinforceability offers another tactical advantage to the attacker. Should the recipient of an indirect attack deny or ignore the implicature, the attacker has the option to ‘double-tap’ the opponent by then stating directly what had previously only been implied: added to the initial insult, then, is the suggestion that the receiver has been too ignorant or careless to recognize when they have been insulted.

Pragmatics and the Quarrel of the Queens Particularly in literary studies, where the sources are narrative representations of discourse rather than live, candid conversations, it must be remembered that written dialogues do not necessarily reflect conversations as they might have happened in real life.26 Numerous factors – characterization of different social groups, selection of narrative style, selection of genres, and cross-cultural interference, to name a few important examples – can alter literary representations of dialogues from their real-world counterparts. Without an appropriate acknowledgement of these literary features, a pragmatic analysis risks producing phantom evidence of linguistic phenomena that were never a part of the living culture.27 While these difficulties cannot be ignored, making certain qualities of literary representation work to the benefit of a pragmatic analysis is possible. When similar stories are re-told in various environments, it is possible to 26

Much could be said on this subject. For a discussion of difficulties inherent in the field of historical pragmatics, see Valentine A. Pakis, “Insults, Violence, and the Meaning of lytegian in the Old English Battle of Maldon,” JHP 12:1–2 (2011), pp. 198–229; Thomas Kohnen, “Understanding Anglo-Saxon ‘politeness’: Directive Constructions with ic wille / ic wolde,” JHP 12:1–2 (2011), pp. 230–54; and Andreas Jacobs and Andreas H. Jucker, “The Historical Perspective in Pragmatics,” in Historical Pragmatics: Pragmatic Developments in the History of English, ed. Andreas H. Jucker (Amsterdam: J. Benjamins Publishing Company, 1995), pp. 3–33. 27 Efforts have been made to overcome these methodological difficulties. See Jacobs and Jucker, “The Historical Perspective in Pragmatics,” in Jucker Historical Pragmatics, pp. 3–33; Daniel E. Collins, Reanimated Voices. Speech Reporting in a Historical-Pragmatic Perspective, Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 85 (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2001); and “Indirectness in Legal Speech Acts: An Argument Against the Out of Ritual Hypothesis,” JP 41 (2009), 427–39; and Maria Bonner and Kaaren Grimstad, “Munu vit ekki at því sættask: A Closer Look at Dialogues in Hrafnkels saga,” Arkiv för Nordisk Filologi 111 (1996), pp. 5–26.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression test whether the pragmatic strategies that underlie dialogue in that story find a comfortable home in their respective cultural settings. The three works under examination here offer just this sort of useful comparative evidence. They are different versions of the same story, appearing in written form during roughly the same period.28 All three accounts seem to have used another, perhaps ultimately oral source from which to draw their material.29 Moreover, they all arguably contain to a greater or lesser extent a strategy of verbal conflict based upon indirectness in speech. Their differences, however, may prove to be more useful qualities with respect to a pragmatic study. While they tell roughly the same story, they take different approaches: they use different artistic media (poetry in Das Nibelungenlied and prose in Þiðreks saga and Völsunga saga); they use different genres (Germanic heroic poetry, riddarasögur, and fornaldarsögur); and they were likely written in three different, though related, cultural settings (Germany, Norway, and Iceland). These differences allow for an examination of pragmatic phenomena over a range of literary cultures, political situations, media, and genres so that some overarching conclusions might, at least tentatively, be forwarded. I hope to show that the application of certain pragmatic concepts remains consistent throughout the sources and that the respective applications appear to be executed comfortably and elegantly in all of the sources under consideration.

Völsunga saga I In Völsunga saga the Quarrel of the Queens episode begins when Brynhildr and Guðrún bathe together in the Rhine and Brynhildr wades farther out into the river than Guðrún, the implication being that Guðrún will now have to bathe in the water that has already been used by Brynhildr.30 Guðrún, recognizing the action as a threat to her status, asks (with no

28

Late twelfth and or early thirteenth century, roughly speaking. See Theodore M. Andersson, The Legend of Brynhild (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980), pp. 20–3 for dating of Völsunga saga, Þiðreks saga, and Das Nibelungenlied. However, I agree with Haymes and Samples that Þiðreks saga is a compilation composed in Norway around 1250 based on orally transmitted German narratives. See their Heroic Legends of the North: An Introduction to the Nibelung and Dietrich Cycles (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1996), p. 68. 29 Haymes and Samples, Heroic Legends of the North, pp. 35–49. 30 It is worth noting here that the version found in Völsunga saga was probably based on a now lost portion of the Codex Regius. For a general discussion of the relationships between the two sources, see R. G. Finch, “The Treatment of Poetic Sources by the Compiler of Völsunga Saga,” Saga-Book 16 (1962–5), pp. 315–53.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature apparent indirectness) why Brynhildr feels justified in doing as she has.31 Brynhildr responds to Guðrún’s question by saying (emphasis added), “Hví skal ek um þetta jafnast við þik heldr en um annat? Ek hugða, at minn faðir væri ríkari en þinn ok minn maðr unnit mörg snilldarverk ok riði eld brennanda, en þinn bóndi var þræll Hjálpreks konungs.”32 “Why should I be equal with you in this more than in other things? I thought that my father was more powerful than yours and [that] my husband had performed many heroic deeds and rode the burning fire, but your husband was King Hjalprek’s thrall.”33

Guðrún then responds (emphasis added), “Þá værir þú vitrari, ef þú þegðir, en lastaðir mann minn. Er þat allra manna mál, at engi hafi slíkr komit í veröldina fyrir hversvetna sakir ok eigi samir þér vel at lasta hann, því at hann er þinn frumverr, ok drap hann Fáfni ok reið vafrlogann …”34

See Bousfield, Impoliteness, pp. 39–40, for a discussion of the expectations a discussant brings to an interaction. Specifically, Bousfield observes, “face expectations not matching face reality may well result, amongst other things, in communication, manipulation or management of impoliteness or aggression, linguistic or otherwise” (p. 40). The tension between Brynhildr and Guðrún here reflects a medieval illustration of Bousfield’s observations because Guðrún has face expectations that differ from Brynhildr’s treatment indicate. 32 Völsunga saga, in FSN 1, p. 178. 33 Jesse Byock addresses the verb tenses in this passage differently, electing to translate ek hugða – 1st pers., past, indicative – in present tense, easing the strain on the present subjunctives that follow (which in English would typically be translated as present indicative). I elect to preserve the past indicative of ek hugða and shift the English translations of the subsequent present subjunctives to past indicative because it more clearly illustrates my point about the jurisdiction of the ek hugða verb phrase. See Byock’s The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990). Other translators vary in their approach to the passage. Eiríkur Magnússon and William Morris offer the more extravagant translation, “I am minded to think that …” See Völsunga Saga: The Story of the Volsungs and Niblungs, with Certain Songs from the Elder Edda, trans. Eiríkur Magnússon and William Morris (London: The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., 1907), p. 108; whereas Finch has, as I do, “I thought that …” See Saga of the Volsungs, trans. R. G. Finch (London: Nelson, 1965), p. 50. These efforts are perhaps less grammatically accurate than Byock’s, for tense in subjunctive conjugations indicates less about time than condition of the verb, yet these earlier translators commendably strive to capture the nuances of the Old Norse subjunctive. Note also my following comments on translation below and in footnote 35. 34 Völsunga saga, p. 178.

31

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression “You would be wiser to keep quiet instead of speaking ill of my husband. Everyone says that never has such a man ever come into the world, and it does not well befit you to speak ill of him because he is your first husband and killed Fáfnir and rode the wavering flame.”

The numerous subjunctives in the exchange, here italicized, make an English translation difficult.35 It is particularly challenging to capture the Old Norse syntax using modern English, which does not offer the same indicators of syntactic relation in subordinate clauses. The subjunctives in subordinate clauses cannot be directly translated as subjunctives in English, but neither should their conjugation be ignored entirely. The Ek hugða at clause in Brynhildr’s statement dictates that the subsequent verbs with the subjunctive conjugation share the conditions set by the verb preceding the “at,” so væri (translated as “was” but more technically precise would be “is”) and riði (here “rode”) both carry the pragmatic conditions set by Ek hugða (“I thought”). Pragmatically, Brynhildr’s placement of the subsequent two verbs under the condition of her thinking them, rather than a non-conditional, direct statement of fact, indicates something about the use of indirectness in the utterance.36 As was discussed in the previous chapter, phrases such as I think / wonder / feel / suspect / have heard serve an indirect function because they cast into under-determinacy what might be perceived as a certainty if stated directly. In syntactically charged cases such as this exchange, for example, one way to assess the presence and intensity of indirectness is to consider the proximity of the utterance with respect to the event or thing being articulated: how far the action is from the verb, in this case. The grammatical mood of a verb is important to indirectness in speech because it can contribute an order of distance between the verb and the illocutionary goal of the utterance. To take an often-repeated example, suppose one were at a dinner party and wanted the window closed because it was cold. Rather than give the host a directive, close the window, an utterance that has no distance between the action and verb, one could say something like should we close the window?, which adds distance 35

Modern English suffers from an ever-increasing loss of the subjunctive conjugation and does not display the same nuance as Old Norse-Icelandic. Nevertheless, for comments on the subjunctive mood and indirectness in modern English, see my comments in chapter 1 (pp. 40–2), and see Brown and Levinson, Politeness, especially pp. 86, 144, 158, and 175. See also Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” p. 122, and note Michael Kightley’s further discussion in “Reinterpreting Threats to Face,” pp. 514–15. 36 While “unnit,” a past participle, might seem to present some difficulty with this interpretation, unnit would in this case be under the jurisdiction of an implied auxiliary verb, since there is no past subjunctive participle in Icelandic. Special thanks to Shaun F. D. Hughes for his assistance on this point.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature between the verb (close) from the illocutionary goal of the utterance, (the act of closing the window). The utterance I wonder whether we should close the window adds yet another degree of distance between the verb and the main goal of the utterance.37 In the above passage, the at-clause indicates a similar distancing, but it is only possible to know why it does so by assessing the context of the utterance. If Brynhildr’s illocutionary goal is to describe information she thinks but of which she is not certain, then the statement reflects directness. If, however, she has another goal, then the utterance possesses a degree of indirectness. Guðrún (like the reader) is charged with determining what Brynhildr intends when she places the clause under the conditions set by Ek hugða. In this speech-situational context, Brynhildr’s illocutionary goal is not to point out what she thinks about her father and husband but rather to present reasons why she holds a higher social status than Guðrún.38 Accordingly, the phrase under the jurisdiction of Ek hugða (like the modal verb should in the illustration above) puts distance between the main verb (hugða) and the illocutionary goal (to present evidence) of the utterance. The utterance should therefore be read as indirectness. Brynhildr’s motivation is also up for interpretation. In another context, she could mean to offer a polite correction to Guðrún – a face-saving act – as is the case in the illustration of the window, but in this context, the indirectness suggests another kind of meaning. Immediately following the Ek hugða at clause, Brynhildr drops the indirectness and says, “en þinn bóndi var þræll Hjálpreks konungs” (“but your husband was a thrall of King Hjálprek”). A new clause begins with the word en, and the verb, var, is under no conditions, so that only at the end of the utterance does Guðrún (and the audience) discover the complete and scathing retort. Brynhildr thus sets up this harsh statement by beginning with what initially might appear to be a polite correction, but she concludes with a directness that requires little interpretation. Guðrún’s husband is not a king; he is only a thrall. Guðrún of course has better information. She knows that Sigurðr is the one who really rode the wall of fire and who first slept with Brynhildr. Thus equipped, Guðrún retaliates with a matching pattern of indirectness. The first element of her retort, “Þá værir þú vitrari …” (værir, past subjunctive) pragmatically connotes a polite suggestion, but Guðrún contrasts her initial, apparent politeness with the conditions 37

In this instance the illocutionary goal of the utterance is not to seek information but to cause something to happen: the closing of the window. Genuine questions or genuinely subjunctive moods are not inherently indirect because the goal of the utterance is to acquire information or to register a sense of indecision, uncertainty, or possibility. 38 The factuality of Brynhildr’s statement is secondary. She might be wrong, but she is not in doubt.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression set by the following ef-clause, which ultimately holds syntactic jurisdiction over the introductory element.39 The phrase “ef þú þegðir” (“if you remained silent”), furthermore, would almost certainly have held a particularly rude connotation.40 “Þegi þú” (be silent), for instance, is used repeatedly by Loki and Þórr in Lokasenna.41 Like Brynhildr, Guðrún opens with what appears to be polite indirectness only to turn quickly to her ultimate, direct attack.42 Guðrún also intensifies the aggression when she takes the subjunctive riði from Brynhildr’s original indirect statement and turns it back to the past indicative, adding on the past indicatives “lá hjá þér” and “tók af hendi þér,” both of which display directness.43 This intensification enables Guðrún to usurp the force of Brynhildr’s indirect aggression and sets up Guðrún’s final direct blow: the presentation of definitive evidence, the fateful ring, Andvaranaut, which Sigurðr took from Brynhildr’s hand. Brynhildr can say no more; defeated, she exits without further comment.

Völsunga saga II The verbal duel continues the following morning. In the interim, Sigurðr has warned Guðrún, first by indirect suggestion and finally by a direct plea, not to continue her assault, but Guðrún heedlessly continues her taunting of Brynhildr. The queens’ second exchange proceeds in three phases: (a) Guðrún continues her indirect attacks, (b) Brynhildr turns the tables and takes control of the argument, and (c) Guðrún struggles to regain control and finally tries to salvage as much dignity as her defeat will permit. In phase one, Guðrún picks up where she left off by maintaining the aggressive posture she won during their first encounter. She mocks Brynhildr, asking, “Ver kát, Brynhildr. Angrar þik okkart viðrtal? Eða hvat stendr þér fyrir gamni?” (“Be cheerful, Brynhildr. Did our conversation 39 40 41

42

43

Even today Icelandic speakers might use the preterit subjunctive, “gætir þú sagt mér …” or “gæti ég fengið …” to register polite requests, for instance. Today it might be used to say ‘shut-up,’ for example. See Harris, “Senna,” p. 69. This counter attack corresponds with the observation that saving face after a verbal attack can often be achieved by a return gesture of aggression. See Linda Harris, Kenneth Gergen, and John Lannaman, “Aggression Rituals,” Communication Monographs 53 (1986), pp. 252–65. As noted below, however, the response to verbal aggression in the Quarrel of the Queens, as in real life, is not always retaliation. T. A. Shippey has noted that in the “Battle of Maldon” Byrhtnoð switches from indicative to subjunctive moods, and vice versa, in order to communicate an air of sarcasm at the beginning of the conflict. See T. A. Shippey, “Boar and Badger: An Old English Heroic Antithesis?,” Leeds Studies in English 16 (1985), pp. 220–39, at p. 230.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature distress you? What prevents your happiness?”).44 Brynhildr knows that Guðrún does not ask out of genuine concern, and she tries to expose Guðrún’s indirectness by stating that malice (illt) has moved her to ask and that she has a grim heart. Brynhildr seems to have had enough, and phase two begins in full when she goes on the offensive. She takes up aggressive indirectness to register veiled threats toward Guðrún and Sigurðr: “Spyrr þess eina, at betr sé, attu vitir. Þat samir ríkum konum. Ok er gott góðu at una, er yðr gengr allt at óskum” (“Only ask what is best for you to know. That is suitable for noble women. And it is easy to be satisfied while everything happens according to your desires”)45. The implication here, of course, is that Guðrún is out of her depth: Brynhildr is not merely a noblewoman; as a Valkyrie she (prophetically) knows things beyond what Guðrún can know, and events will soon not go as Guðrún wishes. Guðrún’s realization that she has lost the advantage signals the beginning of the final phase of the argument. She says, seemingly to herself, “Snemmt er því enn at hæla, ok er þetta nokkur sú forspá. Hvað reki þér at oss? Vér gerðum yðr ekki til angrs” (“It is early for bragging, but this is some kind of prophecy. Why are you goading me? I have done nothing to grieve you”).46 Guðrún’s question and statement are ambiguous. They may be an indirect attempt at further mockery, for she has clearly done a great deal to grieve Brynhildr. However, Guðrún’s question and subsequent statement, though untrue, should more likely be read as directness. In that case, Guðrún would seem to have realized that Brynhildr’s threats are of a supernatural (prophetic) quality, and she is justifiably unsettled by the development. Brynhildr – now the prophetic, Valkyrie Brynhildr – is playing at a game that Guðrún (merely a noble woman) cannot possibly win, and Guðrún knows it. Viewing the statement as directness also finds some support in the rest of the exchange, when Guðrún loses her composure. Her strategy becomes confused, and she jumps from casting bitter accusations to making conciliatory gestures to outright lying. Of her nine subsequent statements, Guðrún has two directly aggressive statements, three lies that are apparently meant to prove her innocence, and two gestures of reconciliation. Pragmatically, the gestures of reconciliation are of primary interest. After saying (untruthfully) that neither she nor her mother Grímhildr knew anything about the pact between Brynhildr and Sigurðr, Guðrún tells Brynhildr that she really has a worshipful (göfgan) husband and that his bravery should not be questioned. These last two statements do not go quite so far as to be untrue, yet they conflict with Guðrún’s earlier boasts about Sigurðr. She cannot be said to engage in aggressive indirectness, 44

Völsunga saga, p. 179.

46

ibid., p. 180.

45 ibid.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression but she may be using indirectness in a different way. In Gricean terms, Guðrún here breaks the Maxim of Quality (be truthful) and employs what amounts to a conciliatory version of the politeness principle. Guðrún’s indirect compliments serve as an invitation for Brynhildr to relent from her hostility. Rather than accepting the gesture of reconciliation, however, Brynhildr signals her rejection of it by responding to each of Guðrún’s indirect statements with a direct, revealing, and all too true statement: Guðrún and her mother did know, says Brynhildr; Brynhildr’s husband is not worshipful; and his bravery should indeed be questioned. She thus undermines Guðrún’s attempts at politeness and promises that things will not go smoothly after this encounter. Brynhildr then begins a flurry of what would, on the surface, appear to be conciliatory statements of her own, using phrases like “hendum eigi heiftyrði” (“let us not throw words of hatred”) and “Leggjum niðr ónýtt hjal” (“let us set down this useless talk”).47 Guðrún, however, sees these utterances as insincere and responds, “Þú kastaðir fyrri heiftarorðum á mik. Lætr þú nú sem þú munir yfir bæta, en þó býr grimmt undir” (“You first flung malicious words at me. Now you act in a conciliatory way, yet hatred is at the root of this”).48 Guðrún clearly understands indirectness in speech even though she does not use those words to describe it. Further, it would appear that Guðrún seeks to gain some currency by exposing what she perceives to be Brynhildr’s indirect taunts. After another dismissive statement from Brynhildr, Guðrún desperately grasps at directness: “Langt sér hugr þinn um fram” (“Far into the future do your thoughts see”).49 As a whole, the encounter reveals an emotional display of vacillations between directness and indirectness. In the end, Brynhildr has no need to relinquish her indirectness, while Guðrún must at the last cling to a kind of desperate directness in hopes of some defense, even to the point of attempting to expose Brynhildr’s tactics of indirectness. The duel furthermore seems to adhere to a certain sequence: a strategy of aggression that draws upon the collective assumption that indirectness reflects strength and authority while directness reflects weakness and defensiveness. The following analyses show similar patterns that, when taken together with Völsunga saga, further reveal a discursive principle of indirect aggression.

Þiðreks saga af Bern and Embellished Directness In Þiðreks saga Grímhildr (Guðrún’s equivalent), not Brynhildr, offers the initial face-threatening act. When Brynhildr enters the hall where 47

ibid., p. 181.

48 ibid. 49 ibid.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Grímhildr is already seated, Grímhildr does not rise to greet her. Brynhildr sees this gesture as a threat to face and asks, “Hví ertu svá stolz, at þú stendr eigi upp í gegn mér, drottningu þinni?” (“Why are you so proud that you do not stand before me, your queen?”).50 Nothing in the context indicates that the question is meant indirectly, so it leaves an impression of a direct utterance. The exchange continues in rather direct fashion until Brynhildr strikes out with the following pattern of indirect aggression: “Þótt þín móðir ætti þetta sæti ok þinn faðir ætti þessa borg ok þetta land, þá skal ek nú þat eiga, en eigi þú, heldr máttu nú fara of skóga at kanna hindarstíga eftir Sigurði, þínum bónda. Þar til ertu nú komin betr en vera drottning í Niflungalandi.”51 (“Although your mother has the high seat and your father has this city and land, I will now own it, not you. You can now go search the deerpaths with your husband, Sigurðr. That is now a better succession for you than to be the queen of Niflung-land.”)

In this version, Brynhildr uses a pattern of indirect aggression similar the one observed in Völsunga saga. An indirect reference to what Brynhildr sees as Sigurðr’s low self-worth sets up a direct statement about Grímhildr’s ability to rule.52 By marrying Sigurðr, an uncultured brute, Grímhildr has forfeited her right to the throne. Grímhildr’s response inverts the pattern, perhaps in an effort to intensify the aggression, by opening with a direct statement and then moving to indirectness. Brynhildr, says Grímhildr, reproaches her for something that should be an honor. Grímhildr then asks, “Seg nú mér fyrstu spurning, er ek spyr þik: Hverr tók þinn meydóm, eða hverr er þinn frumverr?” (“Answer me now a question, which I ask you: Who took your maidenhood, or who is your first husband?”).53 Grímhildr of course knows the answer to her own question, so the illocutionary goal of the interrogative is again not to gain information but to force Brynhildr into an untenable position. The correct answer – the answer known to Grímhildr and the answer she intends – functions as the implicature behind the indirect aggression, but Brynhildr, even if she suspects the attack, cannot state the implicature because doing so would signal an immediate defeat. Brynhildr instead gives the most Þiðreks saga af B ern, ed. Guðni Jónsson, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1951), vol. 2, p. 466. 51 ibid., 466. 52 Although the passage contains two subjunctives and a modal verb – strong indications of modal under-determinacy – I do not register the initial statement as indirect because the main goal of the introductory element is to call into question those details about Grímhildr’s life. The allusion in the second statement, however, does reflect indirectness because Grímhildr must discern what Brynhildr means by her reference to the deer-paths. 53 Þiðreks saga, p. 467. 50

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression obvious, though incorrect, answer to the question: Gunnarr took her maidenhood. But a certain hyperbolic conviction (which is not to say confidence) permeates her response. “Þar hefir þú mik spurt þess, er ek kann vel at segja ok mér er engi ósæmd í. Ríki konungr Gunnarr kom til minnar borgar ok með honum margir dýrligir höfðingjar, ok með ráði minna vina tók ek hann til manns, ok var ek honum gift með margs konar prýði ok ger til in dýrligsta veizla með mannfjölda, ok með honum fór ek heim hingat í Niflungaland. Ok þessu vil ek eigi þik leyna og engi annan, ef eftir spyrr, an hann er minn frumverr.”54 (“There you have asked me a question I can easily answer and in which there is no shame for me. Powerful King Gunnarr came to my castle and with him many worthy chieftains, and with the advice of my friends I took him as my husband. I was married to him with all manner of adornments and a great wedding feast with a large crowd. And with him I came home here to Niflung-land. And this I will not hide from you or anyone if asked who is my first husband”).

Exactly where this statement falls on the spectrum of directness and indirectness is difficult to articulate. To say that Brynhildr’s response employs directness fails to capture her illocutionary goal, but neither is it properly indirect because the intended meaning (that Gunnarr is her first lover) is stated directly. Brynhildr employs what might rather be called ‘embellished directness,’ which has its own, unique set of pragmatic attributes. Based upon this passage, the characteristics of embellished directness are three-fold. First, what would have been the primary implicature (if the statement were offered indirectly) is overtly stated and therefore cannot be called an implicature. This type of meaning may be called the ‘primary prospective implicature’ (PPI). Here the PPI is that Gunnarr is Brynhildr’s first lover.55 Second, embellished directness presents another, unstated implicature that is not the main point of the utterance but that adds argumentative support to the PPI. This part of the utterance can be called the ‘secondary supporting implicature’ (SSI). In this case the SSI proclaims that Brynhildr had significant justification to take Gunnarr as her husband. Third, the SSI of embellished directness is presented in support of the direct statement (PPI) by using various descriptive flourishes or other emphases, that is, ‘embellishments.’ The introductory and concluding statements in this passage fall most obviously into the category of embellishment, while less obvious are the details about the quality of the wedding celebration and the advice offered by those close to the bride. But Brynhildr, despite 54 ibid. 55

Regardless of her statement’s truthfulness, Brynhildr wants to convey this meaning.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature her embellishments, must know something is amiss because Gunnarr had earlier failed to consummate their marriage.56 By using embellished directness, Brynhildr aims to defend her position with a two-fold statement: that Gunnarr is her first husband (PPI) and that many others can verify that she is justified in having him (SSI), though the reader must wonder whether she has convinced even herself. Pertaining to patterns of indirect aggression, embellished directness functions like simple directness. Grímhildr’s question has put Brynhildr on the defensive. Not confident in her status in the argument, Brynhildr resorts to directness. The usage of embellished directness has another result, however. It signals Brynhildr’s refusal to acknowledge (or her ignorance of) the implicature of Grímhildr’s question. Grímhildr can therefore call upon the reinforceability of her initial implicature and ‘double-tap’ her opponent by directly stating the implicature for everyone to hear: Sigurðr, not Gunnarr, took Brynhildr’s maidenhood. Grímhildr does so, and when Brynhildr denies it, again using direct speech, Grímhildr deals the decisive blow by producing the infamous ring. The episode in Þiðreks saga shares with Völsunga saga the assumption that indirectness reflects the stronger rhetorical position, but it adds another dynamic to a direct defense. Embellished directness work as a kind of bluff. Brynhildr appears not to have confidence in merely a simple direct response, but neither does her weak position allow for an indirect attack. Uncertain that a direct statement will sufficiently deflect the attack, she resorts to an embellished version of her statement. Of course, bluffs are only useful if the opponent believes them, and Grímhildr clearly does not.

Das Nibelungenlied In this version of the Quarrel of the Queens, as in Þiðreks saga, Kriemhilt (Grímhildr/Guðrún) offers the initial face-threatening act when she remarks that she has a husband (Sîfrit, here) “daz elliu disiu rîcheze sînen handen solden stân” (“that should have this entire kingdom under his control”).57 An interesting question arises here regarding intentionality and face-threatening acts. Politically, viewing Kriemhilt’s statement as anything but indirect aggression is problematic because it suggests that she is unaware of the social dynamics and political structures at play. She must have known the impact her statement would have. Linguistically, however, there is adequate reason to call it direct. The ambiguity leads one to question whether an act can be considered, pragmatically, a 56 57

ibid., pp. 308–9. Nibelungenlied, stz. 815. For a discussion of the manuscript tradition of the Nibelungenlied, see Jan-Dirk Müller, Rules for the Endgame: The World of the Nibelungenlied, trans. William T. Whobrey (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007), pp. 36–8.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression face-threatening act if there is no such intentionality on the part of the speaker. ‘Solden’ (should) appears to have undertones of modal underdeterminacy, but otherwise the statement serves grammatically as a simple observation. Regardless of Kriemhilt’s intent, Prünhilt takes the statement as a threat to face, and her response is both aggressive and indirect, as she says, “wie kunde daz gesîn? / ob ander niemen lebte wan sîn unde dîn, / sô möhten im diu rîche wol wesen undertân. / die wîle lebt Gunther, sô kundez nímmér ergân” (“How can this be? / If no other lived but you two, then the kingdom might be subject to him. / But while Gunther lives, such a thing could never happen”).58 Confident in her position, both socially and rhetorically, Prünhilt responds with indirectness by her appeal to a question, conditional statement, and the modal verb, möhten. Her attempt to gain the upper hand fails, however, as Kriemhilt raises the intensity of indirect aggression when in the following stanza she acts as though Prünhilt has not spoken at all. She simply directs Prünhilt’s attention to the warriors – including Gunther, though she doesn’t mention him specifically – and says simply that Sîfrit stands out among them as does the brightness of moon from the stars. She closes the stanza by saying that in this, “muoz ich von schulden tragen vrœlîchen muot” (“I must properly have a joyful heart”).59 The similes of the stars and the moon, the modal verb muoz (I must), and the phrase von schulden (schulden, meaning ‘reason’ or ‘cause’), all flavor Kriemhilt’s argument with a sense of obligation: she can do no other but have a glad heart. The implicature of Kriemhilt’s statement, then, answers the question of how her glad heart, which she is obligated to have, relates to the issue at hand. In other words, Kriemhilt invites Prünhilt to answer her own sarcastic question from the previous stanza (“wie kunde daz gesîn?”) and in doing so intensifies the level of indirect aggression employed in the argument.60 The implicature, that Sîfrit is far better than Gunther and therefore deserves the kingdom, sufficiently unnerves Prünhilt and she retreats to a more defensive position in stanza 818. However noble Sîfrit might be, says Prünhilt, “sô muost du vor im lân / Gunther den recken, den edeln bruoder dîn. / der muoz vor allen künegen, daz wizzest wærlîche, sîn” (“you must nevertheless yield to the knight Gunther, your noble brother. He must be recognized before all other kings”).61 Despite certain elements of under-determinacy, such as the use of modal verbs, this statement again shows characteristics similar to the embellished directness observed in Þiðreks saga. The PPI, that Gunther must be recognized as the better of the two, is overtly stated, while the SSI alludes to the relationship 58

ibid., stz. 816. ibid., stz. 817 60 ibid., stz. 816. 61 ibid., stz. 818. 59

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature between Gunther and Kriemhilt. In other words, Kriemhilt should not ignore her loyalty to a blood relative – possibly a foreboding for things to come. Here again, embellished directness reflects a defensive posture. After Kriemhilt maintains her indirect aggression in stanza 819, Prünhilt resorts to nearly two stanzas of direct speech, listing explicit reasons why she thinks Gunther is the greater king. When Gunther, she says, came to her castle with his knights and won her love, she heard Sîfrit himself say he was Gunther’s vassal, and for that reason she expects him to be so. Prünhilt is of course correct. Sîfrit did say that he was Gunther’s man, but he was also lying when he said it, all according to the plan devised by Sîfrit while they were on their way to Prünhilt’s land.62 Later, Sîfrit again helps Gunther by subduing Prünhilt so that Gunther can consummate their marriage, after which time Prünhilt loses her strength. On these grounds Kriemhilt can claim that Sîfrit took Prünhilt’s virginity. Edward R. Haymes and Susann T. Samples point out that the two deceptions weaken Sîfrit’s social status, ultimately leading to his death.63 Indeed, this danger bears itself out in the argument between the two queens and in fact seems to stand at the heart of Prünhilt’s argument against Kriemhilt. If Sîfrit is not her vassal, as he said he was, then he has betrayed his own face and by his own actions cast his self-worth out of balance, an egregious compromise of the heroic standard by which he claims his aristocratic status. Doing so would be a threat not just to himself but to the aristocratic structure of the realm. More is at stake than just the egos of the two women; the social structure upon which the queens base their authority, and the authority of their husbands, might crash to the ground if the political inconsistency is not resolved. Following Prünhilt’s directness, Kriemhilt makes several prods with indirect aggression, one appealing to the friendship between the two women and questioning why, if they are subject to Gunther and Prünhilt, have she and Sîfrit never paid tribute to them.64 This question is particularly scathing, since Prünhilt has raised it in her own mind.65 The argument then deteriorates into the famous challenge between the two women. Kriemhilt declares that she will enter the church before Prünhilt when custom dictates that the woman with the higher status ought to enter first. If Kriemhilt is bold enough to enter the church before Prünhilt, then there will no longer be ambiguity about how Kriemhilt, at least, views her own status. In pragmatic terms, if Kriemhilt enters the church first, she will offer a public and undeniably intentional face-threatening act to Prünhilt. 62

Prünhilt has been suspicious for some time. She has certainly noticed several inconsistencies in Sîfrit’s character. 63 Haymes and Samples, Heroic Legends of the North, p. 104. 64 Nibelungenlied, stz. 822, 824–5. 65 ibid., stz. 724.

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression When she later arrives at the church, Kriemhilt has beautifully adorned herself with all the physical indications of the status she claims while Prünhilt only states the observed custom that whoever owes homage shall not pass before the one to whom it is owed. This statement works as a warning to Kriemhilt, but it also speaks to Prünhilt’s position in the argument. Kriemhilt’s challenge to enter the church before her has forced Prünhilt into an entirely defensive position. If she were to enter without giving Kriemhilt the opportunity to enter first, then she would deny Kriemhilt the chance to back down – a denial that would be tantamount to Prünhilt’s running from the fight. As a result, Prünhilt can do nothing but wait for her rival and restate the custom that everyone present already knows. Kriemhilt seizes the opportunity by offering the indirect, strong, and aggressive question with which I began this chapter: “kúndestu nóch geswîgen, daz wæré dir guot. / du hâst geschendet selbe den dînen schœnen lîp: / wie möhte mannes kebse werden immer künige wîp?” (“It would have been good if you could have kept silent. You have dishonored yourself and your beautiful body: how could a mistress ever become a king’s wife?”).66 Kriemhilt’s question has two levels of indirectness. First, there is the sense of an indirect question, whose implicature is that no mistress can ever be queen. The second implicature, of course, is that Prünhilt fits that description. Prünhilt’s status in the argument has not improved, but she feels compelled to return fire by invoking her own indirectness, which, if not aggressive, is surely indignant: “Wen hâstu hie verkebset?” (“Whom do you call a mistress?”). At first glance this response would seem to conflict with previous observations that the arguer in the weaker position should resort to directness, but Prünhilt has lost so much ground in the argument that she here resorts to poor, even desperate tactics. The implicature – that Prünhilt certainly does not fit the description of a mistress – has no force, and the results of her foolish attempt at indirectness are unfortunate to say the least. Prünhilt’s desperate retort leaves her vulnerable to an appeal to reinforceability, Kriemhilt is able (as in Þiðreks saga) to capitalize on her opponent’s desperation by stating directly what was previously only implied: “… den dînen schœnen lîp / den minnet’ êrste Sîfrit, der mîn vil lieber man. / jane wás ez niht mîn bruoder, der dir den magetuom an gewan” (“your beautiful body was first taken by Sîfrit, my beloved husband. Truthfully, it was not my brother who took your maidenhood”).67 Her reiteration of the phrase, ‘den dînen schœnen lîp’, now twice stated, emphasizes the connection with the implicature of Kriemhilt’s initial question. At this point, Prünhilt has been entirely disarmed, and rather than deny the claim, she only responds by saying that she will tell her husband what has been 66 67

ibid., stz. 839. ibid., stz. 840.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature said. Kriemhilt enters the church ahead of her, and Prünhilt must wait until after the mass to confront Kriemhilt again. Afterwards, in an entirely defensive posture, Prünhilt makes a final effort to salvage her lost social status. She uses direct speech to demand that Kriemhilt produce evidence for her accusation. Kriemhilt responds by producing the ever-significant ring and (in this version) girdle, but the manner in which she introduces them maintains her indirect aggression in a way reminiscent of early attacks observed in Völsunga saga and Þiðreks saga. She initiates the attack with an indirect introductory element followed by a direct presentation of the physical evidence. She introduces the ring and girdle by saying that she will comply with Prünhilt’s demand only “ir möhtet mich lâzen gân” (“so that you might permit me to pass …”). This introductory statement affects an air of tedium and condescension as though Kriemhilt can hardly be bothered (were it not simply so she can pass by and go on her way) to produce such evidence to someone lower in status than she. Through these pragmatic means, the central and most perplexing element of the Quarrel of the Queens episode – the ring and girdle that were taken from Prünhilt by Sîfrit, the physical evidence that puts into motion the eventual death of Sîfrit and the downfall of the entire kingdom – is here presented by Kriemhilt as though it were an afterthought, a casual gesture to dismiss the base concerns of a woman far below her station. Prünhilt is devastated, but her defeat comes at the far greater expense of the aristocratic social structure in which the kingdom finds its vitality.68 The events that follow can no longer be averted: if the social structure has any chance of surviving, Sîfrit must not be allowed to live.

Conclusion It might be tempting to assume that the work done in this chapter is an argument to dismiss the longstanding debate of the nature and characteristics of flyting, senna, and mannjafnaðr. Why, after all, should there be such a controversy over whether to call verbal conflicts either senna or mannjafnaðr, on the one hand, or the more generic term, flyting, on the other? Is it not a mere semantic distinction that might just as easily be decided one way or another without any meaningful difference made to the texts themselves? Justification for the value of the debate may have been best articulated in Harris’s 1979 article. Harris suggests, “a further feature [of the poetics of Old Norse oral literature] may be the intimate relationship of the oral genres with ordinary language […].”69 By ‘ordinary language’ Harris means the language that speakers of See Haymes and Samples, Heroic Legends of the North, pp. 104–5 for a discussion of the political implications of Sîfrit’s murder. 69 Harris, “Senna” p. 69. 68

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The Quarrel of the Queens and Indirect Aggression Old Norse-Icelandic used in their everyday lives, which brings us to the “attractive hypothesis of an origin [of these types of verbal dueling] in daily life.”70 If Harris is correct, we may have a chance to learn something about how speakers of Old Norse-Icelandic used language in their everyday worlds. Seen in this light, the debate over how to label and situate verbal conflicts in Old Norse-Icelandic sources is far from a question of mere semantics; it might indeed be one of the most important Old Norse scholarly discussions of the last half-century. The primary goal of this chapter is to enter into that debate by demonstrating that tactics of indirectness in verbal conflict were employed in different literary examples in different cultures during roughly the same period in history. Based on the observations discussed here, the verbal encounters in the Quarrel of the Queens episode adhere to the following basic strategy of inquiry here called indirect aggression: 1. A verbal aggressor may use indirectness to initiate or maintain an attack (as reflected in all three accounts of the Quarrel of the Queens). 2. The defender may attempt either (a) to gain the upper hand by retaliating with an indirect attack that reflects and intensifies the initial attack, or (b), if the defender feels that she has the weaker position, she may resort to directness in hopes of salvaging her status (as reflected in all three accounts of the Quarrel of the Queens).71

In addition to these fundamental strategies of indirect aggression, there are three optional caveats to the basic strategy: A. Should an aggressor concede the stronger position (of authority), she may either resort to direct speech (2.b above), or she may offer polite indirectness in an attempt to assuage the victor (as does Guðrún in Völsunga saga in the second encounter). B. If the obvious loser of the verbal duel offers polite indirectness, the victor may either (1) accept the offer of politeness by validating the indirectness (an option that Brynhildr does not take but for which Guðrún hopes in Völsunga saga), or she may (2) reject the offer by directly exposing the polite indirectness as a lie (as Brynhildr does in Völsunga saga). C. Under certain circumstances (as in Þiðreks saga and Das Nibelungenlied) the defender may offer “embellished directness” in an attempt to deflect or deflate the implicatures of an indirect attack. In these instances, the strategy is generally the same as in step 2, with the hope that embellishments and flourishes will overwhelm the indirect attack. 70 71

ibid., p. 70. Compare Craige Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” p. 210, and other sources quoted there, on strategies of inquiry.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature These strategies substantiate the general principle that indirectness in speech reflects strength, while directness signals a position of weakness. Those figures in the stronger position have no cause to resort to directness, yet those in a weaker position must struggle to salvage face either by striking back with intensified indirectness or by resorting to directness, possibly in the hope that an appeal to true events will validate their status in society. Regarding the debate over the types of verbal dueling in Old NorseIcelandic sources, this chapter has intentionally avoided such classification as flyting, senna, and mannjafnaðr. Rather, I have here examined the more fundamental aspects of how pragmatics, specifically indirectness in speech, are employed in the verbal conflicts described above. These applications of directness and indirectness will serve as a baseline moving forward in this subsequent chapters of this volume. This approach, I believe, has the opportunity not only to shed some light on the question of “speech activities in everyday life,” as Bax and Padmos put it, but also to alleviate some of the discord between the two predominant sides in this scholarly debate.72 Pragmatics in the medieval North, as I will seek to demonstrate in later chapters, is not immune to the expected changes and developments that all other aspects of language experience as culture correspondingly changes and develops over time. Just as phonological, morphological, semantic, and syntactical changes in language will occur, so too will pragmatical changes occur as culture and history move forward. Taken in this broader context, it seems possible that the specifically Old Norse-Icelandic senna and mannjafnaðr observed by Harris, Swenson, and others, fits into the broader Germanic context of flyting observed by Clover, and that both – flyting on the one hand and senna and mannjafnaðr on the other – utilize similar pragmatic functions. Those functions, I will go on to argue in chapter eight, are seen only in snapshot in the sagas as we know them today, but a comparison of the earliest medieval iterations of the sagas with versions of the sagas scribed in seventeenth-century Icelandic manuscripts suggests that the post-medieval culture no longer fully comprehends the medieval principles of pragmatics. The following chapter adds to the map of pragmatic principles examined in the present volume. Whereas this chapter has shown ways that indirectness in speech might be used to cause harm to another, chapter three will present what, on the surface, appears to be a similar application of indirectness but to a different end. Contrary to all expectations, certain contexts lend themselves to the usage of verbal aggression and face-threatening acts not to do harm to an enemy but rather to establish a positive and fruitful relationship between the two parties.

72

Bax and Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling,” p. 149.

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N 3 n Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle In one of the more amusing moments of Sneglu-Halla þáttr, The Story of Sarcastic-Halli, the ‘sarcastic’ Icelander, Halli, has taken passage on a ship headed for Norway.1 When they arrive in Norwegian waters, the ship stops for the night at Agðanes before going on to its final destination of Trondheim. As the ship approaches Trondheim the next day, a noblelooking man (who turns out to be King Haraldr Sigurðarson) shouts from the deck of a nearby ship: “Who commands the ship; where did you winter; where did you make landfall; and where did you stay last night?”2 The rapid-fire questions confuse the other sailors on Halli’s ship, even Bárðr, one of the king’s men on board, but Halli is able to respond 1

2

Sneglu-Halla þáttr, in Eyfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, ÍF 9, pp. 261–95. This story appears in two distinct manuscript traditions—one found in Flateyjarbók (GKS 1005 fol.) and the other found in Morkinskinna (GKS 1009 fol.). There are notable differences between the two traditions, and a reading of discursive tactics evident in the story must take these differences into account. Morkinskinna (from around 1220) is the older of the two versions and is shorter and less descriptive than the Flateyjarbók version (fifteenth century; see below, p. 200, for more). Most importantly, Flateyjarbók includes an additional chapter at the end of the story that contains a significant example of the discursive tactics discussed here, as well as additional information at the beginning of the þáttr, which I discuss further below. I consider the Flateyjarbók version here because it presents the verbal exchange in a way most accessible to the modern reader, but I note some important differences along the way. The interpretation of the differences between the earlier and later versions of this story belong to a discussion of manuscript variation and diachronic linguistic development, which I take up in chapter eight. There, I address manuscript variation as a broad concept, taking a material-philological approach, which recognizes manuscript variation not as a problem to be solved but rather as great benefit to a study of linguistic development. This chapter grew out of a paper presented at the 129th Modern Language Association Annual Convention (Chicago: January 2014). Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 265.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature with an equally well-balanced flurry: “We were in Iceland for the winter, and we sailed from Gásir, and Bárðr is our skipper, and we landed at Hitra, and we stayed the night at Agðanes.”3 The king then asks Halli the quite vulgar question, “Sarð hann yðr eigi Agði?” (“Did Agði not fuck you?”).4 Halli responds initially by saying “eigi enna” (“not yet”; emphasis added), which may initially appear to be a blunder, since it leaves Halli open to the possibility of ill treatment by Agði in the future.5 The king jumps at the opening, asking whether Halli has agreed to have sex with Agði later on. Halli, with great dexterity, says that they have no plans for sex in the future because, as he shouts back to the king, “Þat, herra, […] ef yðr forvitnar at vita, at hann Agði beið at þessu oss tignari manna ok vætti yðvar þangat í kveld.”6 (“It was, lord … if you really want to know, that Agði was waiting for nobler men than us, and was expecting your arrival there tonight.”)

It is a wonder Halli does not lose his life on the spot. Jeffrey Turco has recently done a thorough investigation of the literary and mythic allusions to be found in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, and he points out that this passage shows affinities with an exchange in Völsunga saga between Sinfjötli and Granmarr, said to be Höðbroddr’s brother, king over the lands that Sinfjötli has come to attack.7 Turco points out that in Völsunga saga, as in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, Sinfjötli offers Granmarr a series of sexually charged insults leading up to an epic battle between their two forces.8 It is also true that Granmarr gives as much as he gets, like Halli; in fact the exchange between Sinfjötli and Granmarr follows very nicely 3 ibid.

ibid., p. 265. Even apart from the obvious, sarð is quite an interesting word, although Cleasby and Vigfússon seem unwilling to comment on it overmuch. It has an Old English correspondent in seorðan, to violate, and is found in the famous runic inscription at Mæshowe, Orkney, Þornýsarþ hælgeræist (“Þorný fucked; Helgi carved”). 5 ibid. 6 ibid. In Morkinskinna Halli’s response is much truncated: “Já, herra,” … “beið hann at betri manna, vænti þín þangat í kveld.” The difference is telling because the Flateyjarbók version offers more descriptive language to the pragmatic context. For more, see my comments in chapter eight (pp. 201–3). 7 Jeffrey Turco, “Loki, Sneglu-Halla þáttr, and the Case for a Skaldic Prosaics,” in New Norse Studies: Essays on the Literature and Culture of Medieval Scandinavia, ed. Jeffrey Turco (Ithaca: Cornell, 2015), pp. 185–241, at pp. 196–7. 8 This episode in Völsunga saga is based on the Codex Regius: “Helgakviða Hundingsbana I,” stanzas 34–46, in Eddukvæði II, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, ÍF, pp. 253–6. For a general discussion of the relationships between the two sources see Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, “Fornaldarsögur and Heroic Legends of the Edda,” in Revisiting the Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Heroic Legends, eds. Paul Acker and Carolyne Larrington (New York: 4

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle with the tactics of indirect aggression already observed elsewhere in Völsunga saga as described in the previous chapter. Of most interest are the think/seem/remember verbs that carry considerable under-determinacy. Granmarr begins his face-threatening volley with the phrase “Eigi muntu kunna margt virðuligt mæla ok forn minni at segja …” (“you don’t seem to be able to speak of much that’s honorable or say much about old memories …’”).9 Sinfjötli replies with a typical tactic of indirectness: “Eigi muntu glöggt muna nú, er þú vart …” (“You probably won’t clearly remember now when you …”).10 After this the insults become increasingly sexual. The presences of the think/seem/remember verbs and the repetition of the modal phrase muntu in Sinfjöltli’s retort adds palpable levels of indirectness to these insults. These insults, therefore, not only correspond in content, as Turco illustrates, but also in discursive tactics: both this passage in Völsunga saga and the excerpt discussed above from Sneglu-Halla þáttr use the pragmatic strategy of indirectness in verbal aggression to challenge the social status of the hearer. I would add to Turco’s assessment that there is a crucial difference between the two passages. Whereas the hostile verbal exchange in Völsunga saga leads to, and in truth is merely a prelude to, a violent outcome (a fierce battle in which King Höðbroddr and many others lose their lives), the corresponding hostile verbal exchange in Sneglu-Halla þáttr leads rather to a peaceful and indeed positive relationship between King Haraldr and Halli. The fact that one hostile verbal exchange leads to violence and another, strikingly similar hostile verbal exchange leads to a positive relationship is, in pragmatic terms, noteworthy to say the least. It should be evident that the exchange between Sinfjötli and Granmarr is a rather clear example of indirect aggression, which, as I argued in chapter two, is illustrated masterfully in at least one other episode from Völsunga saga – the Quarrel of the Queens. What occurs in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, despite its similarity to Völsunga saga, reflects an altogether different pragmatic principle. Were SnegluHalla þáttr an example of indirect aggression, it seems only too likely that Halli’s words would get him executed on the spot, but something quite odd happens after the exchange. Rather than ordering Halli’s immediate execution, the king only calls him an orðhákr – a term which literally translates to “word-shark” but which describes a person who is abusive with words – and then lets him go about his business.11 When Halli (against the recommendation of his friends) presents himself before King Haraldr the next day, rather than punishing Halli for his insolence, the king greets Routledge, 2013), pp. 202–18, at pp. 202–5; and R. G. Finch, “Treatment of Poetic Sources,” pp. 315–53. 9 Völsunga saga, p. 131. 10 ibid. 11 CV, s.v. “orðhákr.”

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature him well, seems impressed with the Icelander, gives him a place to stay, and later even allows him to join his retinue. All this leads us to a compelling question: why, in the case of Sneglu-Halla þáttr, does the indirect face-threatening act result in a positive relationship between the king and Halli, when similar usages of indirectness in verbal aggression, as in the noted episodes from Völsunga saga both here and in chapter two, result in doing harm to a verbal opponent? Some rationale for the odd exchange between King Haraldr and Halli may be offered by simply saying that the king appreciates a good joke from time to time. The question appears to have occurred to the writer of the Flateyjarbók version of the tale, for early on in this version of the story the narrator states that King Haraldr Sigurðarson, … var skáld gott. Jafnan kastaði hann háðyrðum at þeim mǫnnum, er honum sýndist; þolði hann ok allra manna bezt, þótt at honum væri kastat klámyrðum, þá er honum var gott í skapi.12 (… was a good poet, and always cast scornful words (háðyrðum) at men, whomever he deemed appropriate. When he was in a good mood, he would endure best of all men, even if libelous words (klámyrðum) were cast upon him).

It is interesting to note that the Morkinskinna version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr does not include this passage, which results in more interpretive onus being placed on the audience.13 Morkinskinna’s audience must now determine for themselves the motivations for the king’s favorable response to Halli. It is possible to deduce from this significant difference that the narrator of the Morkinskinna version felt that their audience did not need further explanation of the exchange between Halli and the king. In turn, it is possible that the narrator of the Flateyjarbók version might have determined that their audience did require further explanation, which might indicate a significant loss of pragmatic comprehension from the time of Morkinskinna (c. 1220) and the time of the so-called “younger” Flateyjarbók (c. 1387–94). I will return to such questions about the diachronic development of pragmatic comprehension in chapter eight. The prefatory commentary by the narrator in Flateyjarbók does something to rationalize the unexpected peaceful outcome of Halli’s exchange with the king, but there may be a deeper pragmatic function 12

Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 265. Morkinskinna the narrator skips any introduction of the king and opens with an account of Halli’s departure and trip to Norway. As I remark again in note 24 below, and as I discuss in further detail in chapter eight, it is revealing that many of the additions made in Flateyjarbók all seem to have significant bearing on a reading of the discourses presented in the tale. See chapter eight below, pp. 201–3, for a more careful assessment of this observation.

13 In

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle at work in the passage. Considerable insight may be found by observing pragmatic principles evident in the ancillary heroic culture found in Old English poetry.14 Thomas A. Shippey has observed a similar kind of verbal aggression in the Old English poem Beowulf when Beowulf first arrives at the Danish shores.15 The exchange between Beowulf and the Danish coastguard holds similar, if not quite so vulgar, face-threatening acts. It will be useful to look at the full speech by the coastguard: Hwæt syndon ġē searohæbbendra, byrnum werede, þē þus brontne ċēol ofer lagustrǣte lǣdan cwōmon, hider ofer holmas? [Iċ hwī]le wæs endesǣta, ǣġwearde hēold, þē on land Dena lāðra nǣniġ mid scipherġe sceðþan ne meahte. Nō hēr cūðlicor cuman ongunnon lindhæbbende, nē ġē lēafnesword gūðfremmendra ġearwe ne wisson, māga ġemēdu. Nǣfre iċ māran ġeseah eorla ofer eorþan ðonne is ēower sūm, secg on searwum; nis þæt seldguma, wǣpnum ġeweorðad, næfne him his wlite lēoge, ǣnliċ ansȳn. Nū iċ ēower sceal frumcyn witan, ǣr ġe fyr heonan lēasscēaweras on land Dena furþur fēran. Nū ġē feorbūend, merelīðende, mī[n]e gehȳrað ānfealdne geþōht: ofost is sēlest tō gecȳðanne hwanan ēowre cyme syndon.16 (What kind of armed men are you, who bear arms, protected by chainmail, who have come over the sea-road, bringing your tall ship here over the sea? I am the coastguard, I keep the sea-watch, by which no foe could inflict harm on the Danish land. No shield bearers [warriors] have proceeded to come her more openly, neither have you permission from our warriors nor consent of kinsmen. Never have I 14

For further discussion of pragmatic assessments in Anglo-Saxon texts, see Thomas Kohnen, “Linguistic Politeness in Anglo-Saxon England? A Study of Old English Address Terms,” JHP 9:1 (2008), pp. 140–58; “Understanding Anglo-Saxon ‘Politeness,” pp. 230–54; Marcel Bax and Dániel Z. Kádár, “Understanding Historical (Im)Politeness [Special Issue],” JHP 12:1–2 (2011), pp. 1–24; Valentine A. Pakis, “Insults, Violence,” pp. 195–226; and following in footnote 15 below. 15 Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” pp. 109–26. See also Michael Kightley, “Reinterpreting Threats to Face,” pp. 511–20, and “Repetition, Class, and the Nameless Speakers,” pp. 141–56. 16 Klaeber’s Beowulf, ed. R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, 4th edition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), lines 237–57.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature seen such a warrior in all the earth such as that one of you, a man in battle-gear; that is no hall-retainer, only decorated with weapons— unless his appearance belie him. Now, I must know your origins, rather than allow spies to go further into Danish land. Now, foreigners, seafarers, listen to my plain thought: it is best to reveal quickly from whence you come.)

Though the passage from Beowulf lacks the vulgarity of the opening sequence between King Haraldr and Halli, the respective speech situations possess many of the same pragmatic traits: 1) Beowulf’s and Halli’s ships are newly arrived; 2) both encounter an unknown authority figure (who announces himself in some way); 3) both are challenged by facethreatening acts (though Beowulf also receives praise); 4) in both cases (though there is not room enough here to discuss Beowulf’s response) the new arrival pushes back with an equally challenging remark; and 5) in both cases the new arrival is welcomed at the court of the king. Carol Clover contextualizes attacks of this kind in the broader medieval Germanic and Scandinavian practice of flyting. According to her, “[t]he exposure of newcomers to mockeries and challenges […] is so common a feature in the literature that we may wonder whether it does not in fact reflect actual Germanic etiquette.”17 Clover’s observations are undeniable, yet her observations attend more to the literary phenomenon in question. A pragmatic analysis affords the opportunity understand the social and illocutionary goals of these sorts of exchange. Most importantly, while the practice of flyting may well be at work, there is an important distinction to be made between the social function of flyting as it is used in instances of indirect aggression, as observed in the previous chapter, and the verbal hostilities noticeable in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, Beowulf, and elsewhere. It seems quite important to distinguish the social and illocutionary goals of these respective exchanges, which depend not so much upon the literary context but the speech-situational context. Shippey observes that there is a kind of “balance” to the coastguard’s opening speech in Beowulf, meaning that more-or-less equal parts of the coastguard’s speech to Beowulf may be taken as face-threatening acts, on the one hand, and praise, on the other.18 Indeed, references to Beowulf’s arriving without permission and the possibility that he might be a spy can hardly be thought a compliment, and other statements, such as the description of Beowulf’s armor and appearance must surely be praise. Shippey argues that this mixture of face-threatening acts and face-enhancing acts requires the introduction of a new principle of conversation, which he calls the conflictive principle, to account for similar such exchanges in heroic literature. According to Shippey, the conflictive principle states 17

18

Clover, “Germanic Context,” p. 451. Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” p. 120.

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle that speech participants may use indirectly hostile speech or bald facethreatening acts to establish and recognize the social worth of the speech participants. As Shippey describes it, discussants ought to “ensure that one’s own worth is stated and acknowledged. If it is acknowledged by hearer, [the speaker should] be prepared to acknowledge hearer’s worth. If not, [the speaker should] respond with an appropriate degree of reciprocal non-acknowledgement.”19 To follow this principle, discussants must adhere to the following guidelines: 1. Always test awareness of this principle by offering one’s own worth and enquiring after hearer’s. 2. When enquiring after hearer’s, maximize retractability till matters become clear. 3. As part of testing awareness of this principle, offer a face-threatening act. 4. In doing so, attempt, where possible, to present hearer with a dilemma: fail to recognize the face-threatening act (thus losing face directly), or fail to recognize retractability (thus showing lack of awareness of cooperative principle 2, and losing face indirectly). 5. Deny awareness of own insecurity; indicate awareness of other’s insecurity.20

These points fit nicely into a pragmatic reading of Sneglu-Halla þáttr. Even from the beginning, King Haraldr is testing Halli and the crew of the newly arrived ship on their awareness of the conflictive principle. The king’s test also follows the program of the coastguard in Beowulf by starting with a direct question. As Shippey notes, the question asked by the coastguard is one of only six questions in Beowulf. Shippey concludes, in the context of the coastguard’s and other questions in the poem, that asking questions “can be regarded as a hostile act, and in Beowulf … it usually is.”21 We have seen how questions can be used to cause offense on several occasions already in the present work, and King Haraldr’s questions are hostile as well. When he offers his rapid-fire round of questions, the narrative clearly states that the others on board with Halli were “næsta orðfall” (nearly speechless) because so much was asked so quickly, and only Halli was able to answer.22 Furthermore, while it may be difficult at first glance to see the “balance” Shippey observes in Beowulf, it is present in Halli’s response to the king’s vulgar question about whether Agði 19

ibid., p. 121. ibid., p. 124. Shippey adds this final guideline after further discussion of the conflictive principle. 21 ibid., p. 119. 22 Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 264. 20

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature violated Halli. When Halli explains, “ … at hann Agði beið at þessu oss tignari manna ok vætti yðvar þangat í kveld,” (“… that Agði was waiting for nobler men than us, and was expecting your arrival there tonight”),23 he embeds two vital notions within his insult: 1) even though the king has not yet revealed himself as such, Halli shows that he knows full well with whom he is verbally sparring; and 2) even though Halli suggests the king might have sex with Agði, the reason for the suggestion is that the king is of a nobler status than Halli. Thus, the insult is balanced with praise, and the king is intrigued rather than offended. In pragmatic terms, the exchange is a resounding success. Halli embeds within his insult an acknowledgement of the king’s worth as the nobler man while he also refuses to back down from the king’s FTA. The conflictive principle has been engaged, and the worth of both men has now been established and respectively acknowledged, thus opening the possibility of a positive relationship between the two.

Balance, Double Meaning, and Tvíræði This balance between praise and aggression is fundamental to understanding Halli’s relationship with the king, especially in this first encounter, although it is not fully explained until near the end of the story.24 King Haraldr and the queen, Þóra Þorbergsdóttur, are discussing a gift that the king had recently given Halli. The queen upbraids Haraldr for giving Halli such nice gifts even though he is an insolent and ill-mannered retainer, while other men in the king’s service receive little for their “góða þjónustu” (good service).25 Haraldr says he will give gifts to whomever he wants, and that he chooses to take Halli’s words that possess tvíræði (“double-meaning”) in a positive rather than negative light.26 The king calls in Halli and orders him to make up a tvíræðisorð (a “double-meaning verse”) about the queen. The verse, which Halli promptly recites, nearly gets him killed: Þú est makligust miklu, munar stórum þat, Þóra, flenna upp at enni allt leðr Haralds reðri.27 23

ibid., p. 265. This passage does not occur in the Morkinskinna version, which puts further burden on the reader to understand the King’s pragmatic appreciation of Halli. See chapter eight for more on this point. 25 Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 294. 26 CV has tvíræði literally translated as “double-reading” (s.v. “tví-ræði”), appealing to ræðingr, “reading” or “text,” but “double-meaning” seems a more elegant translation here, especially considering tvíræðis-orð, doublemeaning verse, which is used to describe the verse Halli recites for the queen. 27 Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 294. 24

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle (You are most deserving by far, —there is a great difference, Þóra— to pull down from the precipice all the skin of Haraldr’s cock.)

The queen immediately calls for Halli’s execution. Queen Þóra’s response is what readers might have expected from the king when Halli insulted him at the beginning of the story, but fortunately for Halli, the king finds the verse more amusing than the queen and intervenes to save Halli’s life. The more interesting aspect of the scene is how the king answers the queen’s indignation. Þóra, it seems, has misunderstood a fundamental truth, so the king has used Halli’s tvíræðisorð (double-meaning verse) to illustrate the point. Haraldr says, “… en at því má gera, ef þér þykkir ǫnnur makligri til að liggja hjá mér ok vera dróttning, ok kanntu varla at heyra lof þitt” (“… but it [their marriage] can be changed, if it seems to you that another is more well matched to lie by me and be my queen, and you can hardly hear your own praise”).28 The queen has badly mis-taken Halli’s tvíræðisorð, focusing on the negative interpretation rather than the positive, but this goes deeper than merely the queen’s inability to take a joke: her selfworth is on the line, as the king suggests by his quick (and rather indirect) remark about replacing her with someone more worthy. What the queen fails to realize is that by taking offense she actually shows herself to be of lower social status. In other words, it ought to be so unthinkable that anyone would intend to insult her that for the queen even to consider the possibility of such an insult lowers herself to a level at which that insult might actually be true. The “balance” of face-threatening acts and face-enhancing acts observed by Shippey bears worthy comparison with the tvíræði (double meaning) referred to here, which, as the king states, may be taken as either a compliment or an insult. Likewise, the idea of a tvíræðisorð also falls nicely in line Shippey’s conflictive principle, especially step 5 – Deny awareness of one’s own insecurity; indicate awareness of other’s insecurity. It is this maxim that the queen has failed to follow, and she pays for it by being publicly shamed by the king. Nor should it be ignored that the king offers greater rewards to the one among his retainer who uses indirectness or ambiguity to issue praise to the king than to those other retainers who, in the queen’s words, simply do good work.29 Rewarding this type of indirectness and ambiguity moves well beyond the narrator’s description of the king as one who enjoys a good joke from time to time. This point, at least, falls in line with the conclusions made about indirect aggression: indirectness 28 ibid. 29

ibid., p. 294.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature reflects a position of strength rather than weakness. Moreover, it also confirms some of Shippey’s observations about face-threatening acts in Old English heroic literature. As he states, in places in Old English heroic literature, “… [face-threatening acts] are regularly courted, flirted with, denied, allowed to hover,” and in other places, “… delivering [a face-threatening act] unanswerably seems to be a valued skill.”30 It is not uncommon, then, for the one who can skillfully deliver face-threatening acts to be valued in a heroic society. It seems clear that in Sneglu-Halla þáttr Haraldr is showing his appreciation for Halli’s ability to do so with great acumen. The fundamental concept at play here is one that both indicates and dictates social status depending upon how a discussant deals with indirectness in verbal aggression. Thus, the first meeting between Halli and Haraldr becomes a rather elegant – if vulgar and humorous – exchange taking place between the king and the newlyarrived Icelander.

The Conflictive Principle in Other Contexts There are quite a few examples of the conflictive principle in Old Norse literature, but here it is instructive to discuss two instances in particular because they depict important moments in Norse cultural development. The first, from Laxdœla saga, has value in part because of its importance to the literary history of Iceland. It is certainly among the best four or five Icelandic sagas in terms of quality and age, and, moreover, one of the scenes that displays evidence of the conflictive principle also depicts a key moment in the religious development of the North. While readers may not be able to look at the saga material as a historical account of conversion, saga material reflects how the later Christian Icelandic world understood the cultural clashes of Christianity and heathenism at the time of the conversion.31 The scene in question describes the arrival of Kjartan Óláfsson and Bolli Þorkelsson – the foster brothers who are at the center 30 31

Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” pp. 117–18. For a recent overview of the debate on whether the sagas may be seen as history or fiction, see Ralph O’Connor, “History and Fiction,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to The Medieval Icelandic Sagas, pp. 90–4 and 98–103. On viewing Old Icelandic sagas through the lens of cultural memory, see especially Pernille Hermann and Stephen A. Mitchell, eds., Memory and Remembering: Past Awareness in the Medieval Norse, Special Issue: SS 85:3 (2014); Jürg Glauser, “Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendinga sögur) and Þættir as the Literary Representation of a New Social Space,” trans. John Clifton-Everest, in Old Icelandic Literature and Society, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 203–20; and see Yoav Tirosh’s recent overview of scholarship on the subject in “Scolding the Skald: The Construction of Cultural Memory in Morkinskinna’s Sneglu-Halla þáttr,” European Journal of SS 47:1 (2017), pp. 1–23, at pp. 3–7.

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle of the conflict in the saga – in Norway not long after the country has been converted to Christianity by the new king, Óláfr Tryggvason. There are also, according to the saga, a large number of Icelanders in Norway at the time, which presents some tension between those who have not yet converted to Christianity and Óláfr, who wants to convert the entirety of the northern world, including Iceland. Much of Kjartan and Bolli’s time in Norway is in fact spent determining whether to convert to Christianity. The social clash between Christianity and heathenism, on the one hand, and Norwegian and Icelander, on the other, makes for a fascinating environment in which to sort out social statuses as well as face-saving and face-threatening verbal encounters. Not long after Kjartan and Bolli arrive, they and the other Icelanders in Norway meet together and decide that they will not convert to Christianity. One day, Kjartan notices a group of men swimming in the river, where one man has distinguished himself as clearly the best swimmer. Kjartan decides to challenge the best of the swimmers to a contest. Without saying a word to the man, Kjartan dives into the water and pushes the man under. The two men are evenly matched, though the narrative indicates that Kjartan had never been so taxed physically as he was in this context. After the third bout of the dunking contest, both men swim to shore, but because they have been swimming, neither has any outer garments on that might indicate their social status. The local man, who turns out to be King Óláfr, asks Kjartan’s name and whether he is as skilled in all things as he is at swimming. Kjartan responds appropriately and modestly, but fails to enquire after the stranger’s name. The following verbal exchange then takes place: Bœjarmaðr mælti: “‘Þat skiptir nǫkkuru, við hvern þú hefir átt, eða hví spyrr þú mik engis?’” Kjartan mælti: “‘Ekki hirði ek um nafn þitt.’” Bœjarmaðr segir: “‘Bæði er, at þú ert gørviligr maðr, enda lætr þú allstórliga; en eigi því síðr skaltu vit nafn mitt, eða við hvern þú hefir sundit þreytt. Hér er Óláfr konunger Tryggvason.’”32 (The local man [King Óláfr] said, “Things change depending on the person you have been competing with, but why have you not asked me anything?” Kjartan said, “I don’t care what your name is.” The local man replied, “You are an accomplished man even if you behave haughtily, but you shall nonetheless know the name of the man against whom you have been swimming. Here before you is King Óláfr Tryggvason.”)

Kjartan says nothing in return but only turns to walk away, at which point the king, who is now nearly fully dressed, offers his own, very fine outer cloak to Kjartan, saying that he must not go back to his men without 32

Laxdœla saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ÍF 5, pp. 117–18.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature a cloak.33 Kjartan accepts, thanks the king, and returns to his own men. The heathen Icelanders with Kjartan, who for both religious and political reasons are skeptical of the king’s vald (dominion), are concerned by the exchange. When Kjartan shows the king’s gift to his fellow Icelanders, they are quite upset with Kjartan because they “þóttu Kjartan mjǫk hafa gengit á konungs vald; ok er nú kyrrt” (believed Kjartan had greatly gone into the king’s dominion; but things were quiet after that).34 Yoav Tirosh has also noticed the connection between Laxdœla saga and Sneglu-Hall þáttr although Tirosh perceives the actions of both Halli and Kjartan as having a lack of social grace. Tirosh goes on to suggest, “it is possible to notice a certain display of social ineptitude in many interactions between the Icelanders and the Norwegians.”35 Likewise, Anthony J. Gilbert argues that Kjartan’s words and actions with the king display a “rashness and lack of prudence” and argues that Kjartan is “clumsy about his social gestures.”36 However, these readings do not explain why and how, in both Halli’s and Kjartan’s cases, the foreign “aggressors” (that is, the Icelanders in foreign lands) are received so amicably by the Norwegian kings. It would stand to reason that the Icelanders’ aggression would produce animosity rather than friendship, and their clumsiness and imprudence, if it is read as such, would be equally unlikely to result in the high favor of the king. But both Kjartan and Halli clearly have that high favor (though in Halli’s case the king keeps a close eye on the Icelander). A pragmatic assessment of these discourses offers answers to these questions. Far from being clumsy or imprudent, Kjartan shows a deftness in verbal exchanges matched only by the king’s own skill; just as

33

It is interesting to compare the king’s gift giving here with gift giving in other heroic cultures, especially that of the Anglo-Saxon world. Consider especially Scott Gwara, “Praising and Appraising Heroic Deeds: Generosity as Surplus Giving in Beowulf,” in Bryan and Ames, Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North, pp. 157–84. 34 Laxdœla saga, p. 118. 35 Tirosh, “Scolding the Skald,” p. 15. Tirosh goes on to argue that the rashness with which Halli and, by extension, Kjartan react to the respective kings of Norway is a thirteenth century constructed cultural memory as a reaction against the political and cultural encroachment of Norway upon Iceland. Tirosh thus argues, “it was necessary to find a unifying factor for the [13th century] Icelandic people, which they could hang on to even in the face of losing their independence” (18). There is merit in this approach from the perspective of literary history and cultural memory studies, and as I will show in the following chapter, I concur generally with Tirosh’s understanding of the posture of Icelanders abroad. However, as my argument here attests, I do not agree that this posture includes careless rhetoric or ineptitude. 36 Anthony J. Gilbert, “The Icelander Abroad: The Concept of Social and National Identity in Some Icelandic Þættir,” Neophilologus 75 (1991), pp. 408–24, at pp. 411–12.

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle Kjartan is (nearly) a match for the king in the swimming contest, Kjartan proves himself to be (nearly) a match or the king in the verbal exchange. Understanding Kjartan’s discursive acuity requires a recognition of the specific cultural and speech-situational contexts at play in the episode. The function of the conflictive principle in the contest between Kjartan and the king hinges upon the fact that both swimmers are disrobed during the swimming contest, which means, consequentially, their respective self-worths are a matter only of their own physical abilities in the contest and whatever words the two might say to one another. There is the obvious danger of an offense to quality face (as described by Culpeper and others), but lingering closely beneath the surface is the risk to relational and social identity face as well.37 As a representative of his Icelandic countrymen, Kjartan risks his social identity face throughout the exchange with the king, and the king must fare well in the exchange or risk his relational face before his followers. Much is at stake for both men. In this precarious speech-situational context, Kjartan offers the first threat to face by forcing the king under water without offering so much as a greeting. For the duration of the contest, no words are exchanged although it is clear that their abilities are about equal. It is interesting to note that the king, who knows himself to be of higher social status than at least anyone else in Norway even if he does not know Kjartan’s specific self-worth, is the first to engage the stranger. Like King Haraldr in SnegluHalla þáttr, King Óláfr here makes the first verbal address, asking after Kjartan’s identity and his skill level in other things. Óláfr’s question to Kjartan is more direct than Haraldr’s to Halli, who uses his question as a test of abilities rather than merely an enquiry, but the pragmatic effect is the same: both kings are playing with step 1 of the conflictive principle – state one’s own worth while enquiring after the hearer’s. Kjartan goes about the pragmatic exchange in a much more indirect manner; most importantly, he offers a brutal face-threatening act by not asking about the identity of the man he was competing against (thus denying the king a chance to announce himself and his self-worth). As in Sneglu-Halla þáttr this may appear at first to be a blunder, similar to Sneglu-Halli’s “eigi enna” (not yet), and thus in itself is flouting the conflictive principle (ConP), step 1b – enquire after the self-worth of the person you’re speaking to. However, this flouting of step 1b ends up playing into ConP, step 3 – as a part of testing awareness of the conflictive principle, offer an FTA. As Shippey observes, “there are few FTAs more wounding than evident unconcern about a hearer’s reaction.”38 Kjartan’s lack of interest consequently forces the king into a more direct posture, For more on these terms, see Culpeper, Impoliteness, pp. 28–9, and this volume, pp. 30–1. 38 “Principles of Conversation,” p. 118. 37

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature and he asks Kjartan why he has not asked after the king’s identity. Kjartan’s reply is a second, unmistakable face-threatening act: “ekki hirði ek um nafn þitt” (“I don’t care what your name is”).39 Finally, just as Halli’s FTA seems to impress King Haraldr, here again, Kjartan’s FTA impresses King Óláfr, as he replies, “Bæði er, at þú ert gørviligr maðr, enda lætr þú allstórliga” (“you are an accomplished man, even if you behave haughtily”).40 It must not be overlooked, however, that the king’s utterance here may hold a play on words that considerably alters the illocution of the verbal exchange: görvi may be translated as “apparel” or “gear,” so that the king may not be saying that Kjartan is “accomplished” (gørviligr) but simply “dressed” (görviligr).41 The phrase lætr þú allstórliga holds some ambiguity as well, though more on the cultural than linguistic level: reading the phrase ‘you behave haughtily’ as a positive character trait would fall quite firmly into the heroic, heathen mentality in which Kjartan appears to be grounded at the time, but it could hardly be viewed as a positive character trait in the King’s Christian worldview, where humility is perceived to be more agreeable than haughtiness. Taking these two lexical ambiguities together, the king could easily be registering a subtle but stern FTA against Kjartan. The problem for Kjartan is that even though he may behave allstórliga (‘haughtily’) because he thinks himself gørviligr, ‘accomplished,’ he is not at all görviligr (‘dressed’). Thus, the king’s comment here may in fact be read as an artful display of indirectness, constituting an indirect FTA that reads something like, you’re about as accomplished as you are well dressed. The implicature being: [IMPL: you’re neither dressed nor accomplished, so don’t be so haughty!] Depending on the reading of the word gørviligr and the interpretation of the cultural meaning behind allstórliga, Kjartan could be said to “win” or “lose” the encounter. If these words are interpreted as possessing no indirectness, then Kjartan has forced the king into directness (the weaker position) and gift giving, while Kjartan maintains indirectness (the stronger position) and the steps of the conflictive principle much more closely. He clearly offers an FTA when he flouts ConP, step 1. Likewise, the indirectness and indifference he shows by ignoring the identity of the king register high on a scale of retractability (ConP, step 2) because he has the option to retract his indifference once he knows that King Óláfr has been his opponent. All of this forces the king to respond to ConP, step 4 – either fail to recognize the FTA or fail to recognize retractability. Reading indirectness in gørviligr and allstórliga yields a far more satisfying depiction of the king, who has thus remarkably navigated the dilemma by offering his own indirect FTA in return to Kjartan’s FTA, 39

Laxdœla saga, p. 118.

41

CV, s.v. “görvi.”

40 ibid.

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle but the king is in a difficult position. Offering Kjartan an FTA at this point in the conversation would risk allowing the verbal exchange to drift from the conflictive principle to an instance of indirect aggression; it would also prove King Óláfr guilty of the same misstep as Queen Þóra in Sneglu-Halla þáttr: overreaction. Such a thing is unthinkable of King Óláfr Tryggvason of Norway, who, as will be evident in chapter four below, stands among the most accomplished users of pragmatic principles in all of Old Norse-Icelandic literature. Rather than falling prey to the dilemma of ConP, step 4, King Óláfr – not unlike King Haraldr in Sneglu-Halla þáttr – appears to take a third option: he is simply amused. Instead of displaying a lack of awareness of Kjartan’s FTA or its retractability, the king breaks the conflictive principle procedures by offering an indirect FTA – intending gørviligr and allstórliga as indirectness. He then contradicts the apparent hostility of that same FTA by offering a gift to Kjartan as he leaves. It is only fitting that the gift Óláfr gives to Kjartan is his own kingly cloak, literally covering the inadequacies in Kjartan (being undressed and, by extension, unaccomplished) that Óláfr exposes with his indirect FTA intended by the word gørviligr. This Laxdœla saga episode between King Óláfr and Kjartan offers some insight into the contexts that are relevant to the usage of pragmatics in the medieval North, particularly the contexts of conversion (which I further discuss in chapter four) and political tensions between Icelanders and Scandinavian countries (which I further discuss in chapter five). For now, it is enough to note that the indirectness in these contexts is not without purpose. Kjartan’s application of the conflictive principle positions him within a certain proximity to the king, as does Sneglu-Halli’s. In both cases, the Icelander manages to endear himself to the king without losing his Icelandic identity, which would have been of paramount importance for any Icelander returning to the homeland of their ancestors. Kjartan, like Halli, goes on to serve the king, but he does not give the king an inch – either in his conversion or in his service – that the king does not work hard to win, and the king values Kjartan all the more for it. One other example, although rather late, is worth a brief mention here, as it helps us understand how the conflictive principle ages in Iceland. Kumlbúa þáttr (The Story of the Cairn-Dweller) is an anecdotal narrative about an Icelander named Þorsteinn Þorvarðsson and his confrontation with an ancient warrior-like ghost who lives in a nearby cairn. According to the story, Þorsteinn is walking home one evening and stumbles upon the cairn. He digs with his hands to find the bones of a man and a nice sword, which he takes with him. That night he dreams that the cairn dweller comes to him twice to demand return of the sword. On the first visit, Þorsteinn is so frightened that his wife has to wake him from the dream. On the second visit, however, Þorsteinn stands his ground. The imposing cairn-dweller returns and recites a poem that boasts of a 83

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature war-like prowess and threatens battle against Þorsteinn for taking the sword. This time, Þorsteinn pushes back, reciting his own poem (the final four lines will suffice for the present purpose): […] áðr gafk ǫrnum fœðu, undgjóðs sendir, blóði; fyrr skalk hǫgg við hǫggvi, hjaldrstœrir, þér gjalda.42 (in earlier times I gave fodder to eagles, raven’s sender, blood; the sooner will I [re]pay you, warrior, blow-for-blow.)

The cairn dweller is impressed by Þorsteinn’s response and answers, “Nú hafðir þú þat ráðit, Þorsteinn, er helzt lá til, ok mundi eigi hlýtt hafa ella” (“Now you have done well, Þorsteinn, the best you could have, and nothing else would have been proper”).43 He leaves the sword with Þorsteinn and is never heard from again. Þorsteinn tries to find the cairn the next morning but cannot. Stephen A. Mitchell, one of the few scholars to take an interest in the story, has suggested that Kumlbúa þáttr offers little satisfaction to the reader interested in the supernatural.44 It may be true from a folkloristic perspective, as Mitchell points out, that “Kumlbúa þáttr is a story that achieves neither a satisfying nor harmonious conclusion.”45 However, it is possible that the deeper value of this little story may be found in linguistic rather than folkloric quality: it is, along these lines, a story about an older (heathen) versus newer (Christian) way of communicating self-worth. The tale goes almost out of its way, considering the brevity of the story, to explain that Þorsteinn Þorvarðsson is the brother-in-law of the Abbot Þorfinnr, but Þorsteinn has also been fooling around with the wife of another man and had a child with the woman. Þorsteinn could thus be perceived as a rather fringe (read heathen?) representative of Kumlbúa þáttr, in Harðar Saga, ed. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, ÍF 13, p. 455. 43 ibid. 44 Stephen A. Mitchell, “The Supernatural and the fornaldarsögur: The Case of Ketils saga hængs,” in Fornaldarsagaerne: Myter og virkelighed: Studier i de oldislandske fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, ed. Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2009), pp. 281–98, at p. 283. See also John Lindow, “Meeting the Other: The Cases of Draumr Þorsteins, Síðu-Hallssonar, and Kumlbúa þáttr,” in Myths, Legends, and Heroes: Essays on Old Norse and Old English Literature in Honor of John McKinnell, ed. Daniel Anlezark (Toronto: University of Toronto, 2011), pp. 77–90. 45 Mitchell, “The Supernatural and the fornaldarsögur,” p. 283. 42

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle Christianity who is in a conflict with a clear representative of the heroic, heathen past – of which Brynhildr and Guðrún in the Quarrel of the Queens and (early on, at least) Kjartan are also able representatives – as indicated by the cairn dweller’s heroic poetry and his burial in a cairn rather than a churchyard. Regardless of Þorsteinn’s religious status, the clearly heathen, clearly heroic cairn-dweller is impressed when he hears Þorsteinn’s aggressive verse, praises him for it, and even allows him to keep the sword he had originally stolen. Under the circumstances, this is as close to the gift-giving observed in Laxdœla saga as the dead can get. While not a nuanced, full-blown example of the conflictive principle such as may be seen in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, the basic concepts of the ConP hold true in Kumlbúa þáttr: it is good to meet a challenge with a challenge; it is good to show hostility when hostility is shown to you; and it is especially good to use indirectness to do so, all of which speak to the self-worth of the respective participants in the discourse. The point about using words to demonstrate self-worth is borne out by John Lindow’s observation that Þorsteinn’s poem is of a higher technical quality than the cairn-dweller’s, using stronger kennings and more complex scansion.46 Thus, again an example of a strong, heroic figure impressed with the well-crafted conflictive indirectness of a stranger.

Conflictive Principle in Contrast to Indirect Aggression As the concepts of indirect aggression and the conflictive principle are now established, it will be instructive to present a comparison of the two, so that differences between them may be apparent. Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa displays a verbal conflict that allows for such a comparison. Alison Finlay has done the most thorough study of Bjarnar saga, focusing on the bitter poetic war that ensues between Þórðr and Bjǫrn, who are competing for the affections of Þórðr’s wife and Bjǫrn’s former love interest, Oddný.47 Finlay suggests that the severity of some of the insults exchanged in the saga may be as great as that ascribed to níð, and indeed the verbal exchanges between the two men are some of the most intense in Old Iceland literature.48 Here, however, I will focus on a different verbal 46

Lindow, “Meeting the Other,” pp. 84–9. The speech situation here is similar to those that occur in Gísla saga. The romantic and social situation of the love triangle proves an especially rich context in which to find pragmatic principles at work. Similar situations may be found in numerous of the sagas discussed here and has a legacy reaching back as far as Das Nibelungenlied, making it a kind of archetypal speech situation in the Icelandic/Old Norse/Germanic world. See chapter seven (p. 183), on the pragmatics of gender, for more on this point. 48 Alison Finlay, “Monstrous Allegations: An Exchange of ýki in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa,” Alvíssmál 10 (2001), pp. 21–44, at pp. 28–33; and “Níð, Adultery, and Feud in Bjarnar Saga Hítdœlakappa,” Saga-Book 23 (1990-93), pp. 158–78. 47

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature exchange – one between Þórðr and Oddný – which follows the pattern of a strategy of verbal aggression discussed in chapter two, indirect aggression. As described in chapter two, strategies of indirect aggression dictate that arguers will vacillate between directness and indirectness in speech to achieve victory in a verbal conflict. The global context for this exchange between Oddný and Þórðr is important for understanding the illocution communicated here. In the saga, Þórðr has stolen Oddný’s affections from Bjǫrn by convincing everyone in Iceland, including Oddný, that Bjǫrn has died on an overseas expedition. Þórðr minds very little being the consolation prize for Oddný, but of course when Bjǫrn arrives on a ship moored in a nearby fjord, Þórðr has some explaining to do. The narrator tells us that the conversation in question takes place in the evening, possibly just before or after the evening meal – or perhaps the reader is privy to a bit of pillow talk just before the couple drifts off to sleep. In the first exchange Oddný uses an interrogative to initiate the opening sequence of the exchange. Oddný opens with a question: “Hefir þú nǫkkut tíðenda heyrt, Þórðr?” (“Have you heard any news, Þórðr?”).49 The question purports to function as many other opening sequences would, simply setting up the topic for the ensuing conversation. This question might therefore work well as a conventional implicature. This term, which is quite controversial, denotes an implicature whose meaning depends upon linguistic components generally shared by the discourse community (in other words, the co-text: elements of grammar, lexicon, or syntax) rather than upon the specific context of the immediate conversation (which would make it a conversational implicature).50 There are copious examples of Icelanders asking and telling the news, for instance, most often upon the arrival of a new guest or stranger. Thus, in a different speech-situational context, Oddný’s comments might be utterly benign: a wife idly asking her spouse whether he has heard any bit of news throughout his day. But Oddný means to ambush her husband. She manipulates the conventional pragmatic function of her question so that it serves as a cloak for another, much more hostile conversational implicature. The conventional pragmatic function of her question sets the topic for the ensuing conversation, registers interest and respect for the recipient of the question, and shows the speaker to be on agreeable terms with the recipient. The later implicature is much more dangerous – have you heard any news … [IMPL: about Bjǫrn?!?] – is conversational in nature and thus depends upon the specific situation and the specific relationship between the two discussants. This conversational Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa, in Borgfirðinga sögur, ed. Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, ÍF 3, p. 135. 50 For more on the nature and controversy over the implicatures, see Siobhan Chapman, Pragmatics, pp. 68–86. 49

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle implicature signals the speaker’s (Oddný’s) disdain for the recipient, and it signals conflict rather than agreeability. Þórðr, for his part, anticipates the ambush – probably because he indeed did hear the news – and tries to expose Oddný’s ploy for what it is: “‘Engi,’ segir hann, ‘en því muntu um þat rœða, at þú munt spurt hafa nǫkkur’” (“Not a thing,” he says, “but you must have mentioned it because you have learned something”).51 As the conversation between Þórðr and Oddný moves on, it becomes clear that both Oddný and Þórðr are employing intricate strategies of indirectness to execute their respective attacks and defenses. For instance, Oddný relies upon the concept of reinforceability – which, as shown in the previous chapter, means that if an insulting implicature is ignored by the recipient, the speaker may state the insult directly to increase its force. When Þórðr refuses to acknowledge that there is any news about Oddný’s old love interest, he leaves himself open to being embarrassed for not having identified the implicature of Oddný’s opening sequence. Oddný capitalizes, maintaining a level of indirectness for the larger part of her retort, but then reinforcing her implicature by stating it directly: “Nær getr þú,” she says “frétt hefi ek þat, er mér þykkja tíðendi, mér er sǫgð skipkváma í Hrútafirði, ok er þar á Bjǫrn, sá er þú sagðir andaðan” (“You’re close (…) I have heard something, which to me seems like news; I’m told that a ship arrived in Hrútafjǫrðr, and on it is Bjǫrn, who you said was dead” [emphasis added]).52 The indirectness here is most palpable in the think/ seem/have heard verbs that permeate Oddný’s early phrases: “mér þykkja” and “mér er sǫgð,” as well as the ‘closeness’ with which she labels Þórðr’s response to her initial question. These elements of indirectness contrast sharply with the “þú sagðir” phrase, which functions as a stark and direct assault, which is also, it must be noted, quite different from the indirect phrase, “people say.” The former is inevitably direct because there is no question of who the agent of the verb sagðir is – it is Þórðr – whereas the phrase “people say” leaves the agent(s) of the verb inevitably ambiguous. To this, Þórðr responds with indirectness of his own: “Þat má vera,” he says, “at þér þykki þat tíðendi” (“it may be (…) that you think it is news” [emphasis added]), the implication being that Þórðr and perhaps others do not think it newsworthy.53 But Oddný is prepared to press the issue now by continuing with her direct assault: “Víst eru þat tíðendi” she says (“it certainly is news”),54 and then she goes on: “ok enn gørr veit ek nú (…) hversu ek em gefin; ek hugða þik vera góðan dreng, en þú ert fullr af lygi ok lausung” (“and now I know […] what sort of marriage I am in; I thought you were a good man, but you are full of lies and deceit”).55 51

Bjarnar saga, p. 135.

52 ibid. 53 ibid.

54 ibid. 55 ibid.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature This final, inescapably direct statement about the quality of man she has married debilitates Þórðr’s strategy. He concedes and retreats to the proverbial statement: “‘Þat er mælt,’ segir Þórðr, ‘at yfirbœtr sé til alls’” (“it is said […] that there may be compensation for everything”).56 The proverb works as indirectness whose implicature is meant to suggest that Þórðr might still have some way of resolving the issue, but in context it is a weak, ineffectual grab at some dignity.57 Oddný mocks him with it, exposing his attempt at indirectness with her own indirect and much more menacing volley: “‘Mik grunar,’ segir hon, ‘at sjálfr muni hann hafa skapaðar sér bœtrnar’” (“I suspect,” she says, “that he will have devised his own compensation”).58 As has been the case in other passages, the “I suspect” clause here casts what follows into indirectness, and Þórðr’s strategic dismissal of the idea of compensation is thrown coldly in his face.59 The argument between Oddný and Þórðr results in Oddný’s claim of moral authority over her husband, who has been exposed as a fraud. However, the most relevant conclusion for present purposes is that Þórðr has lost all social currency and status both within and without his marriage. This loss of face escalates as Þórðr, foolishly, asks Bjǫrn to stay with him and Oddný, during which time the two men engage in a series of verbal conflicts in which Bjǫrn regularly shows himself to be of the better quality. This brief analysis of an example of indirect aggression here affords an opportunity to compare indirect aggression with the conflictive principle. There are four fundamental observations to be made about the conflictive principle, particularly in relation to strategies of indirect aggression discussed last chapter. •

Whereas indirect aggression is the strategic usage of indirectness in speech to inflict damage upon an opponent, the conflictive

56 ibid.

See Richard Harris, Concordance to the Proverbs and Proverbial Materials in the Old Icelandic Sagas, s.v. “Bjarnar saga Hítdælakappa,” accessed 20 June 2018, https:// www.usask.ca/english/icelanders/proverbs_BJSH.html. See also, as Harris notes, Thesaurus Proverbiorum Medii Aevi. Lexikon der Sprichwörter des romansichgermanischen Mittelalters, 13 vols. and Quellenverzeichnis, ed. Kuratorium Singer der Schweizerischen Akademie des Geistes- un Sozialwissenschaften. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995–2002), vol. 2, p. 160, where further sources of this proverb may be found. Bjarnar saga Hitdælakappa features twenty proverbs, a large quantity for such a short saga. See also chapter six of this volume for more on the pragmatic function of proverbs. Of special interest will be my comments on the usage of proverbs as both defensive and offensive pragmatic weapons in verbal aggression (p. 148). 58 Bjarnar saga, p. 135. 59 For more on the indirectness of I suspect/think/have heard constructions, see chapter one (pp. 41–2). 57

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Sneglu-Halli and the Conflictive Principle principle, despite its name, is a strategy meant to establish a positive relationship between the discussants. •

Whereas speakers who engage in indirect aggression tend to know one another quite well already (in this instance from Bjarnar saga, they are even husband and wife), in examples of the conflictive principle, the speakers are generally not well acquainted. Their respective self-worths and social statuses are unclear, and they consequently engage the conflictive principle to sort matters out.

•

Both the conflictive principle and indirect aggression rely on the basic premise that indirectness comes from a place of strength whereas directness is resorted to only in dire situations.

•

“Face,” as the external contributor to an individual’s self-worth, is the primary instrument in both the conflictive principle and indirect aggression. However, in indirect aggression, the illocutionary goal is to malign social status of one’s opponent while in the conflictive principle it is to establish self-worth (whatever it may be) merely by testing it.

Oral Society and the Conflictive Principle It seems clear, as Shippey observes, that the conflictive principle plays a vital role in the heroic, pre-modern world, but the reasons for this connection may have as much to do with orality as heroism. While it is true that the fundamental components of the conflictive principle – facesaving and face-threatening acts, indirectness, and social status – find a natural home in the heroic world, the primary function of the conflictive principle, that is, to establish a positive relationship between two strangers, may in fact be a by-product of the rather practical needs of an expressly oral society. In a world where there are no resumes, no letters of recommendations, no business cards, and no internet searches, the only means by which to determine the self-worth of two strangers who are meeting for the first time are the clothes on their backs and, especially, the words that come out of their mouths. Hence, the coastguard in Beowulf assesses the battle gear of Beowulf and engages him in a dance of indirectness and FTAs; hence, King Haraldr and Sneglu-Halli trade insults; hence, Kjartan and the King Óláfr likewise engage in complicated pragmatic strategies. Before any positive relationship can begin, the strangers must determine and establish their respective self-worths. The remainder of this book will continue to explore the relationship between oral culture and principles of pragmatics, and chapter six, especially, will address the impact that a development from a predominantly oral culture to a predominately literate culture might have on the usage of pragmatic principles. Yet a movement from orality to literacy is 89

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature not the only large-scale cultural development to influence, and be influenced by, the pragmatic principles at work in a culture. The discussion of Laxdœla saga and Kumlbúa þáttr indicates that the introduction of Christianity and the subsequent departure from what may be identified as a heroic culture influenced the way people communicate in Iceland as well. Indeed, the introductions of Christianity, literacy, and political upheaval all contribute to the changing face of pragmatics in the medieval North. It is to the first of these, conversion and Christianization, that this study will now turn.

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N 4 n Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations Possibly the most famous speech act in all of Icelandic literature is the law speaker Þorgeirr Þorkelsson’s proclamation that Iceland will convert from the heathen religion of its ancestors to the new religion of Christianity.1 After spending a mysterious day and night lying under a cloak, Þorgeirr emerges to proclaim that Christianity will be the new religion of the land. In Ari Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók, the earliest account of the Icelandic conversion, Þorgeirr says: En nú þykkir mér þat ráð […] at vér látim ok eigi þá ráða, es mest vilja í gegn gangask, ok miðlum svá mál á miðli þeira, at hvárirtveggju hafi nakkvat síns máls, ok hǫfum allir ein lǫg ok einn sið. Þat mon verða satt, es vér slítum í sundr lǫgin, at vér monum slíta ok friðinn.2

1

2

This chapter grew out of a conference presentation, “Rich or Poor, Pagan or Christian? Speech Acts and the Conversion and Christianization of Iceland” (presentation, 18th International Medieval Congress, University of Leeds, England, July 2011); and an early version of this chapter was published as “Don’t Kill the Messenger: Felicity Conditions in Old Norse Conversion Narratives,” in Bryan and Ames, Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North, pp. 117–39. Used here with permission from the publisher. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson, ÍF 1, p. 17. While Íslendingabók is the earliest account of Icelandic conversion, Kristni saga (likely between 1122 and 1133) is arguably the better missionary and church history of Iceland’s conversion; see Siân Grønlie, introduction to Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders. Kristni Saga = The Story of the Conversion, trans. Siân Grønlie (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2006), pp. xiii–xiv and xxxvii– xli. For a discussion of the relationship between Kristni saga and other sources, see Siân Duke’s “Kristni Saga and Its Sources: Some Revaluations,” Saga-Book 25 (1998–2001), pp. 345–66. The account paraphrased here from Íslendingabók is very similar to the corresponding passage in Kristni saga, in Biskupa sǫgur, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, ÍF 15, vol. 2, p. 36

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature (And now it seems advisable to me […] that we do not let those who most wish to oppose one another succeed, and that we mediate between them, so that each side should have something, and let us all have the same law and the same religion. It will turn out to be true that if we tear asunder the law, we also tear asunder the peace.)

What may be most interesting about this speech is that it is not, in fact, the speech act that converts Iceland to Christianity. Despite any assumptions about what this remarkable speech means or implies, no conversion has yet taken place, nor is it certain at this moment that there ever will be a conversion. Ari is quite clear on the matter, for immediately following Þorgeirr’s speech, the narrative continues (emphasis added): En hann lauk svá máli sínu, at hvárirtveggju játtu því, at allir skyldi ein lǫg hafa, þau sem hann réði upp at segja. Þá vas þat mælt í lǫgum, at allir men skyldi kristnir vesa ok skírn taka.3 (And he concluded his speech in such a way that both sides agreed that everyone should have one law and that they would do whatever he advised. Then it was spoken into law that all men should become Christian and be baptized.)

Here, only after Þorgeirr’s famous speech, does Ari give an account of the speech act that converted Iceland to Christianity, but while these brief lines describe the speech act, they do not present the speech itself in direct discourse. The actual words that Þorgeirr used – the speech act that converts Iceland to Christianity – is lost to history.4 By acknowledging the sequence of this speech situation, and by acknowledging Ari’s distinction between the speech that proclaimed Christianity in Iceland and the one leading up to the conversion, three questions may arise: (1) From the perspective of historical pragmatics, why does Ari elect to present a direct quotation of Þorgeirr’s speech that leads up to conversion but not the proclamation of conversion itself? (2) In pragmatic terms, what does the first, preparatory speech act do that the second, unspoken one does not (or cannot) do for itself? (3) What does Ari mean when he writes, “hann lauk svá máli sínu, at …” (he concluded

3 Ibid. 4

Of the accounts of the conversion narrative, only Njals saga presents the speech act as direct discourse. In chapter 105, the saga writer presents a dramatized scene in which Þorgeirr proclaims Christianity as law using direct discourse. See Brennu-Njáls saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ÍF 12, pp. 270–2. Even there, however, it is clear that the most notable part of Þorgeirr’s speech, which is borrowed from the earliest sources, prepares the people to accept Þorgeirr’s decision. The earliest sources simply inform readers that the proclamation takes place.

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations his speech in such a way that …)? Rhetorically, the speech is clearly compelling, but pragmatically, how does it work? The answers to these questions may be intuitively formulated with relative ease: Þorgeirr needed to convince both sides to agree to his proclamation before actually giving it. Otherwise, the two sides would have fallen into fighting once more. This description is true enough; yet pragmatics would describe the situation somewhat differently: before Þorgeirr can execute the speech act that proclaims Christianity to be the law of the land, he must first (a) establish his own cultural status as an authority with both parties and (b) establish the cultural conditions and the conditions of the immediate speech situation so that his speech act would be valid. Otherwise, his speech act would not be “felicitous”; it would fail. These conditions fall under the umbrella of what J. L. Austin and John Searle called “felicity conditions.” Austin and Searle argued that for certain types of speech acts there are certain conditions upon which the validity of the intended action depends.5 For instance, if someone intends to perform a wedding ceremony, it is necessary that the speaker be sanctioned by the culture and authorized by the law to perform the ceremony.6 Likewise, in a baseball game, a player trying to score can be declared out only by the umpire officiating the game. A passionate fan may scream “OUT!” as loudly as they like, but it does not make it so. In 5

6

Austin argued that only performative speech acts required felicity conditions, in contrast to constative speech acts, which describe a situation or object and which depend rather upon truth conditions for their validity. Austin and others later realized that a different terminology was required. In the 1990’s, when the study of pragmatics began empirically pursuing an understanding performative speech acts and their felicity conditions, scholars questioned whether some performatives were in fact partially constative in nature. Other scholars argued that existing theories of speech acts and their felicity conditions focused only upon the most obvious types of speech acts and therefore left too much ambiguity and variance to be a thoroughly and universally useful theory. For an introduction to these criticisms, see Jenny Thomas, Meaning in Interaction, pp. 32–49. These criticisms are quite reasonable on the theoretical level, yet in my opinion they do not preclude the usefulness of an examination of felicity conditions of specific speech acts provided that no assumptions about what those conditions may be for a given society at a given time. Thomas points out that for ritual performatives, with which the present examination is largely concerned, the actual, situation-specific felicity conditions will be especially culturally dependent (Thomas, Meaning in Interaction, p. 37). Kathleen M. Self takes a similar approach in her comparison of medieval Icelandic and neo-pagan conversion narratives, though she does not consider any of the episodes discussed here. See “Conversion as Speech Act: Medieval Icelandic and Modern Neopagan Conversion Narratives,” History of Religions 56 (2016), pp. 167–97. Self goes as far as recognizing that the sincerity condition is met in each of the conversion narratives she discusses in Icelandic narratives but does not recognize felicity conditions as a problematic feature of the missional effort. See below, note 60, for more on this point.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature their simplest form, felicity conditions may be described as the cultural and speech-situational conditions that must be observed in order for a speech act to bring about the intended action. Building upon Austin, John Searle offered the following felicity conditions for speech acts: 1. The Preparatory Conditions: A. There must exist an accepted conventional procedure having a certain conventional effect, that procedure to include the uttering of certain words by certain persons in certain circumstances, and further, B. The particular persons and circumstances in a given case must be appropriate for the invocation of the particular procedure invoked. 2. The Executive Conditions: A. The procedure must be executed by all participants correctly. B. The procedure must be executed by all participants completely. 3. The Sincerity Condition: A. Where, as often, the procedure is designed for use by persons having certain thoughts or feelings, or for the inauguration of certain consequential conduct on the part of any participant, then a person participating in and so invoking the procedure must in fact have those thoughts or feelings, and the participants must intend so to conduct themselves, and further … B. The participants must actually so conduct themselves subsequently.7

In most speech situations, felicity conditions are already worked out ahead of time. The speaker either is or is not an umpire; the speaker either does or does not intend to keep their promise; the hearer(s) and speaker(s) all either agree or do not agree upon the conventions and appropriateness of the participants involved; and so on. In that sense, there is often little complication to observe in felicity conditions.8 They are simply met or 7

8

Adapted from J. L. Austin, How To Do Things with Words, ed. J. O. Urmson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965), pp. 14–15. For a discussion of the strengths and weaknesses of Austin’s original theory, see K. Allan, “Felicity Conditions,” in Concise Encyclopedia of Pragmatics, ed. Jacob L. Mey (Oxford: Elsevier, 1998), pp. 295–9, and references there. Of special importance to the present study may be Allan’s critique of 3, often called the “fulfillment condition.” Allan notes that such fulfillment may merely be a question of behavior rather than of illocutionary force (“Felicity Conditions,” p. 299). But see Etsuko Oishi, “Appropriateness and Felicity Conditions: A Theoretical Issue,” in Context and Appropriateness: Micro Meets Macro, ed. Anita Fetzer

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations they are not. There are moments throughout a society’s or individual’s history, however, at which time the status of felicity conditions for a given speech act may fall into serious doubt. If a priest turns out to be an imposter, a couple who thought themselves happily married for years must now question whether they were ever officially married at all; if there is a revolt against the government or a hostile takeover of one country by another, the changes in leadership will for a time bring about uncertainty as to who, exactly, meets the requirements to issue laws or make legal judgments and declarations. Chaos can easily ensue. Until the ambiguities about the leadership are resolved, the parties competing for authority will inevitably struggle to meet the felicity conditions required to affect any speech act. A religious conversion of the kind described in Íslendingabók qualifies as just such a historical event. The day before Þorgeirr’s speech, tensions were so high at the Alþingi that “… nefndi annarr maðr at ǫðrum vátta, ok sǫgðusk hvárir ýr lǫgum við aðra, enir kristnu menn ok enir heiðnu, ok gingu síðan frá lǫgbergi” (… one man after another named witnesses, and the Christians and the heathens declared themselves under separate laws from one another, and then they left the Law-Rock).9 All might have been lost, but when the Christian contingent asked Síðu-Hallr to stand as law speaker for their side, Hallr refused and reached out to the heathen law speaker, none other than Þorgeirr Þorkelsson. Þorgeirr retired and famously lay under his cloak until the next day. Whatever Þorgeirr did while he lay undisturbed under the cloak, he knew when he arose that, before anything else, he had to achieve the right credibility with all parties involved.10 In pragmatic terms, he had to be sure that the necessary felicity conditions were fulfilled. The risk is great for the missionary (or in Þorgeirr’s case, the officeholder) who attempts to convert a group of people, however large or small, without first establishing the right felicity conditions for the message they wish to communicate. At best, members of the target community will simply not listen; at worst, they will become hostile towards the missionary. If we are to understand the conversion and Christianization process in Iceland, we must therefore understand the felicity conditions that brought about religious change. In this chapter, I will explore the role that felicity conditions played in several conversion narratives in Iceland and Scandinavia. The aim is to increase understanding not merely of the categorizations of speech acts that led to a successful or failed conversion (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2007), pp. 55–77, in which Oishi considers the role that felicity conditions play in the formation of a linguistic artifact. 9 Íslendingabók, p. 16. 10 For more on the various theories about what Þorgeirr was doing while under the cloak, see, Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders, trans. Grønlie, p. 9, n. 72, and references cited there.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature but also of the mechanisms of conversions, and in the process to shed light on the way that conversion was perceived and remembered in the post-conversion eras that produced these narratives.

The Historical Value of Conversion Narratives Two important points ought to be emphasized from the start: First, the narratives and speech acts under consideration here cannot a priori be relied upon to reflect historical events. These sources convey what might be called legendary history rather than a contemporary record of events.11 Composed at various times subsequent to the history they describe, ranging from the early twelfth century to the late fourteenth century, the conversion narratives under scrutiny here must be seen as products of their own time as much as records of the past. It is of course possible that they do reflect historical events, and it is perhaps even likely that they fall somewhere on a spectrum of reliability, but such proximity to history can rarely be demonstrated and must not be assumed.12 Second but equally important, the work done over the past two decades indicates that the transition between paganism and Christianity in the North was very much a process rather than the product of a single event.13 It should 11

I am indebted to Ármann Jakobsson and Kevin P. Smith for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter, and especially for urging me to emphasize the importance of the ideas conveyed in this and the subsequent paragraph. 12 The secondary literature on this topic is too extensive to give a comprehensive account of it here, and sources listed in this and the following footnote are meant to offer only an introduction to the discussion: For an overview of the problem throughout Scandinavia (including Iceland), see Anders Winroth, The Conversion of Scandinavia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), especially chapters eight and nine, with references cited there; for a discussion of Icelandic literary sources, consider Christopher Abram, “Gylfaginning and Early Medieval Conversion Theory,” Saga-Book 33 (2009), pp. 5–24, as well as Duke’s “Kristni Saga and its Sources”; and for a discussion of historical evidence of Christianization in Iceland, see Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland: Priests, Power, and Social Change 1000–1300 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). With respect to Norway’s conversion, consider Sverre Bagge’s work, especially his “Christianization and State Formation in Early Medieval Norway,” Scandinavian Journal of History 30:2 (2005), pp. 107–34, and “The Making of a Missionary King: The Medieval Accounts of Olaf Tryggvason and the Conversion of Norway,” JEGP 105 (2006), pp. 474–513, at pp. 480–3. 13 See again Winroth, The Conversion of Scandinavia; see also Alexandra Sanmark’s Power and Conversion: A Comparative Study of Christianization in Scandinavia (Uppsala: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, 2004). For a discussion of archaeological evidence on the subject of conversion and Christianization, see Adolf Friðriksson and Orri Vésteinsson, “Landscapes of Burials: Contrasting the Pagan and Christian Paradigms of Burial in Viking

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations become clear that Ari and others who depicted the conversion events of 999/1000 tended to emphasize the single moment of conversion, which is somewhat at odds with what is known from cultural, archaeological, and other historical evidence of conversion and Christianization.14 As a result of all this, the real value in these sources may be that they are themselves principal actors in a continuing process of Christianization that, though begun years before the events of 999/1000, continued for centuries thereafter. For the historian attempting to reconstruct the events of conversion and Christianization, this debate about the reliability of these conversion narratives may cause some problems, but for the student of historical pragmatics, it only makes these sources more interesting.15 Pragmatics recognizes the opportunity to understand how subsequent writers depicted the speech situations pertinent to conversion and Christianization.

Hákon góði’s Failed Conversion of Norway In contrast to the successful conversion of Iceland in 999/1000, one clear instance in which felicity conditions are not satisfied in a conversion speech situation is Hákon (góði) Aðalsteinsfóstri’s attempt to convert Norway to Christianity during his reign (934–61). Since Hákon góði was raised and given a Christian upbringing in England, he was already at a disadvantage when he returned to Norway to rule. Before he attempted to convert the country to Christianity, he would have first had to show himself a capable leader. The details of his conversion attempt differ somewhat from one source to another,16 but the essential course of events seems to have proceeded as follows: Age and Medieval Iceland,” Archaeologia Islandica 9 (2011), pp. 50–64; Fridtjov Birkeli, Norske steinkors i tidlig middelalder: et bidrag til belysning av overgangen fra norrøn religion til kristendom (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1973); and for an overview in English, see Stefan Brink, “Early Ecclesiastical Organization of Scandinavia, especially Sweden,” in Medieval Christianity in the North: New Studies, ed. Kirsi Salonen, Kurt Villads Jensen, and Torstein Jørgensen (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 23–39. 14 Note, however, Winroth’s remark on Íslendingabók: “In the twelfth-century Íslendingabók, Ari Thorgilsson was unusually open about the compromises reached when the Icelandic Althing famously decided in 999 or 1000 that Iceland would accept Christianity” (The Conversion of Scandinavia, p. 135), which may indicate that Ari at least intended to record the events without bias. 15 In fact, these sources present a unique opportunity to gain insight into how the study of historical pragmatics might inform assessments of cultural memory, yet approaching such an inviting topic would require more methodological discussions of pragmatics, historiography, and multidisciplinary studies than is possible here. 16 References to Hákon Aðalsteinsfóstri appear in the poem “Hákonarmál,”

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature 1. As the younger son of Haraldr hárfagri (ca. 850–932), Hákon góði was raised in England and received there a Christian upbringing under his foster father, King Aðalsteinn (Old English Æðalstan) of England. 2. Hákon gained power after the death of his father and may have come to power, as Ágrip af Nóregskonunga sǫgum, Fagrskinna, and Hákonar saga góða indicate, by making conditions more favorable for the bændr (sg. bóndi), landowners, of the Þrándheimr (Trøndelag) in Norway and by benefitting from favorable crop production. 3. At some point during his reign (sources differ), Hákon góði attempted to compel the bændr to convert themselves and everyone under their authority to Christianity. The bændr responded unfavorably, and Hákon did not have the support needed to force the issue further. 4. All sources indicate that Hákon góði betrayed his Christianity to some degree or another for the sake of retaining his rule, but sources interpret Hákon’s unfaithfulness to Christianity differently. Hákonarmál tells the story of Hákon’s journey to Valhǫll and Óðinn’s acceptance of him despite his dedication to Christianity; Historia Norwegiæ depicts Hákon as an apostate; Ágrip, Fagrskinna, and Hákonar saga góða offer more favorable depictions of Hákon’s turn to heathenism, suggesting that humility and a benevolence toward his mainly heathen people caused him to offer a mere gesture of worship to the heathen gods. Ágrip and Hákonar saga góða make reference to the king having to eat horse flesh.

Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson’s reading of these passages is more than sufficient to illustrate the importance of heathen ritual to the sociopolitical state of the time.17 An observation of pragmatic evidence in these passages, however, may extend the work already done by Jón Hnefill to encompass some of the socio-linguistic expectations of the time as well. One well-known episode from Snorri’s Hákonar saga góða bears particular relevance on the question of felicity conditions. According to the saga, not long after Hákon’s failed attempt to convert the country to Christianity, he attended a sacrificial feast at Hlaðir. During the feast, a bóndi named presumably composed before 970, and which may be found in Hákonar saga góða in Heimskringla; Ágrip af Nóregskonunga sǫgum, composed around 1190; Fagrskinna, composed 1220–30; and in Hákonar saga góða itself, composed around 1230. It may also be found in the Latin text Historia Norwegiæ, from between 1152 and 1210. Heimskringla offers the most literary of the sources, yet Snorri appears to have been well acquainted with previous sources. Consider Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson’s discussion of the sources in “A Piece of Horse Liver and the Ratification of Law,” in A Piece of Horse Liver: Myth, Ritual and Folklore in Old Icelandic Sources, trans. Terry Gunnell and Joan Turville-Petre (Reykjavík: Háskólaúgáfan, 1998), pp. 57–80. 17 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, “A Piece of Horse Liver.”

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations Kárr saw Hákon góði make the sign of the cross over his drink, and Kárr challenged the king on his using a Christian gesture at a heathen ritual. One of Hákon’s supporters, Sigurðr (Jarl of Hlaðir) stepped in and claimed that the king was making the sign of Þórr rather than of Christ (which the king did not deny). The crowd was appeased for the moment, but the next day the chieftains confronted the king and demanded that he eat a bite of horseflesh. He refused, and they asked him to drink the soup. He refused again, and they asked him to eat the fat of the horse. He refused a third time, and Sigurðr again stepped in to mediate by asking the king merely to gape over the kettle handle which had become greasy from the cooked horse meat (presumably so he could inhale the aroma of the cooked meat). Despite its being a far cry from actually eating and digesting the horsemeat, this gesture might have served to appease the heathen landowners, but the king condescended to follow the instructions only while using a cloth to touch the kettle handle. This was too much, and the landowners remained unsatisfied (though they let him continue his rule).18 Snorri may well be drawing out the scene to illustrate how resistant Hákon góði was to participating in heathen practices, but the method by which Snorri achieves his objective is nevertheless interesting. With each concession, the actual participation in the ritual becomes less, yet the felicity condition (had the king followed through) would have been met no less despite the reduction in participation. These observations suggest that, at least as far as the narrative is concerned, the principal actors had an understanding of the difference between ritual practice on the one hand and the felicity conditions required to justify the speech acts of a king (i.e., the edicts, judgments, and lawmaking) on the other. The text highlights the awareness of this distinction by closing the chapter by saying that the king “gekk síðan til hásætis, ok líkaði hvárigum vel” (went then to the high-seat, but neither [the king nor the landowners] liked it much).19 In other words, the king did just enough to keep his throne – and thereby meet the felicity conditions of the throne – but the ritual was a disaster for both parties. Concerning the concessions offered to, but not quite accepted by, the king, a further speculation may be of use. It seems reasonable to speculate that the bœndr would likely have been concerned about the felicity of the king’s social status not only for their immediate ritualistic interests as subjects of the king but also as their roles as leaders over their own lands. The bændr, in other words, have a felicity problem as well. Snorri makes it clear that one of the reasons Hákon góði was so successful in gaining the support of the bændr is because Hákon promised to make them óðalborna, Hákonar saga góða, in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, ed. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, ÍF 26, vol. 1, pp. 171–2. 19 ibid., p. 172. 18

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature óðal-born, or to make them the heritable possessors of their land.20 The bændr’s authority over their lands has thus come directly from the king, but if the king does not meet the felicity conditions to ratify the law, then the bændr may no longer have that authority (in the same way that a couple married by an imposter-priest may not be officially married in the above illustration). After the king asks everyone to convert to Christianity, Ásbjǫrn af Meðalhúsum speaks on behalf of the bændr. Ásbjǫrn reminds the king how pleased the bændr were when the king offered to make them óðal-born, but then he equates the king’s bidding to be Christian with the tyranny of þrælka, thralldom, they knew prior to King Hákon’s reign.21 The bændr are eager to follow all of Hákon’s laws and to be loyal subjects, but they will have nothing to do with the new religion. To equate the acceptance of Christianity with being bound in thralldom seems to conflate two distinct aspects of life, one religious and the other civil. However, it is worth keeping in mind that in Norse heathen cultures, there appears to have been no distinction between the two aspects. In fact, the one depended upon the other. Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson puts it into perspective: it is […] understandable that the Norsemen of the time would not venture to take a king who practiced a religion differing from that of his followers. The law was simply not ratified unless the highest authority in the kingdom sacrificed in association with acceptance of the laws. He sealed or confirmed it by sacrifice.22

Although he does not use the same terminology, Jón Hnefill’s description of the situation accords with the preparatory and executive felicity conditions (1–2, above). For the bændr, the “accepted conventional procedure having a certain conventional effect” is the ratification of the law by sacrifice, and the “certain persons in certain circumstances” is the king under the circumstances of ritual sacrifice.23 Putting Jón Hnefill’s assessment in terms of the preparatory and executive felicity conditions helps explain the bændr’s insistence upon Hákon’s eating of the horseflesh. It makes sense that they would want him to do so, but it remains unclear why, then, they would be so willing to concede ground time and again when Hákon refuses to partake of the horseflesh. An incorporation of the third felicity condition, the sincerity condition, may offer some insight. It would appear, simply put, that the bændr are not particularly interested in whether Hákon is sincere in his sacrifice. Surely it is obvious that he is not sincere, but it is unclear why then the bændr have him go through with the ritual at all. It may be because 20

ibid., pp. 150–1. ibid., pp. 169–70. 22 Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, “A Piece of Horse Liver,” p. 70. 23 See above, Preparatory Conditions 1.a. 21

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations the bændr understand that their authority at home depends less upon whether the king is sincere in his actions and more upon the bændr’s ability to attest to the king’s compliance with the ritual and consequential ratification of the law. That is to say, they are relying upon the ambiguity of the sincerity condition. Whether a participant in a ritual performative is sincere in their actions is notoriously ambiguous, so much so that pragmaticists argue whether it ought to be incorporated into a theory of felicity conditions at all.24 In this case, the ambiguity of the sincerity condition actually works in favor of the bændr’s objectives, and it might have worked in favor of the king’s as well, if he had gone through with it to the bændr’s liking. The bændr are willing to allow the ambiguity as long as the king does enough to meet the first two felicity conditions, thus affording the bændr the freedom to go back to their own lands and govern under the authority of the king. When the king uses a cloth to touch the kettle, however, he has gone too far. He dispels any ambiguity of the sincerity condition not so much because he is less sincere than the moment before but rather because he breaches the second felicity condition by not properly executing the ritual. Of course, Snorri’s early thirteenth-century account of events is unlikely to convey the nuances of felicity conditions and negotiations of events that took place in the tenth century. In comparison with the earlier sources that Snorri had at his disposal, Snorri significantly expands the passages. His expansion of the events, and especially of the verbal exchanges between Hákon góði and the bændr, may indeed say more about the social, linguistic, and political situation of Snorri’s time rather than that of conversion. It is interesting to note, however, that both Fagrskinna (1220–30) and Ágrip (1190) reference some kind of concessions on the bændr’s part. In Fagrskinna, when the king would not partake of the ritual, the bændr ask him to take “einn lítinn hlut í samþykkt, svá at blótmenn kalli eigi at af hónum verði niðrfall laganna” (one little part in compliance so that the heathen worshippers [blótmenn] could not say of him that he had been the downfall of the law).25 The key distinction made here is one between the bændr, to whom the king and his friends are speaking, and the blótmenn, the “heathen worshippers,” who will have the biggest problem with the king if he make sacrifice. This contrast between blótmenn and bændr in the Fagrskinna passage suggests that the bændr are concerned not only about the king’s accountability to them but also the bændr’s accountability to others in or near their farms. The 24

See William C. Mann and Jörn Kreutel, “Speech Acts and Recognition of Insincerity,” Catalog 4 (2004), pp. 64–8. For more rudimentary discussions see Thomas, Meaning in Interaction, pp. 39–40, and Allan, “Felicity Conditions,” pp. 297–9. 25 Ágrip af Nóregskonunga sǫgum: Fagrskinna—Nóregs konunga tal, ed. Bjarni Einarsson, ÍF 29, p. 80.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature concessions made by the bændr are at least as much for the sake of the blótmenn as they are for the bændr. In contrast, Ágrip states that the king concedes to partake in the ritual “svá til at hann fyrkvað eigi í nekkverum hlut í yfirbragði til vingunar við þá” (in such a way that he did not refuse in any part so as to give the outward appearance to be friendship with them [emphasis added]).26 The emphasis on the yfirbragði, the outward appearance, highlights the contrast with the missing inward sincerity, and the ambiguity of the sincerity condition is at work again. This reading of felicity conditions in Hákon’s exchanges with the bændr accounts for both the concessions that the bændr make to Hákon and the dissatisfaction that both sides feel over the scenes described above. It also helps to tie the confrontation between the king and his bændr to the larger political and socio-linguistic picture of a Norse society in flux, in which the felicity conditions required to ratify the law have been called into question. It is with some interest, then, that in the immediate context of the passages discussed above, both Fagrskinna and Ágrip emphasize Hákon was able to establish important laws throughout Norway.27

Þangbrandr’s “Failed” Conversion of Iceland The medieval Norse world benefits from a wealth of conversion narratives, but the story of Þangbrandr Vilbaldússon, missionary to Iceland, is particularly valuable both in terms of his verbal exchanges and of the descriptions of his actions that contextualize his discourses. Þangbrandr appears, to a greater or lesser extent, in most accounts of Icelandic conversion, and while his name comes up most often in references to failed attempts to convert Iceland, his role is by no means insignificant or relegated to Iceland alone. To understand Þangbrandr in the right context, his mission to Iceland must be read in light of stories about his earlier life. According to Kristni saga, Þangbrandr grew up in Germany and became a clerk to Bishop Albertus of Bremen.28 The Bishop took young Þangbrandr along when he visited the Bishop of Canterbury, who is supposed to be Albertus’s brother.29 During the visit, a person referred to as Bishop Hubert of Canterbury gave Þangbrandr a shield, saying 26

ibid., p. 9. Ágrip has this comment immediately following the passage in question and refers specifically to Gulaþing’s law, while Fagrskinna places the remark at the beginning of the passage. 28 This text may be found in Kristni saga, in Biskupa sǫgur I, vol. 2, pp. 1–48 and mirrors, sometimes word for word, the accounts of Þangbrandr in Óláfs saga Triggvasonar en Mesta. For a discussion of conversion narratives and their sources, see Duke, “Kristni Saga and its Sources.” 29 This appears to be an error by the saga-writer. See Biskupa sǫgur I, vol. 2, p. 113, n. 4 and the introduction to “Af Þangbrandi” in Biskupa sǫgur I, vol. 1, p. clxxxvii. 27

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations forebodingly “Þú ert háttaðr sem riddarar, því gef ek þér skjǫld ok er á markaðr kross með líkneski Dróttins várs; þat merkir lærdóm þinn” (“You have the disposition of a knight, thus I give you a shield, which has the mark of the cross with the likeness of our lord upon it; it denotes your learning”).30 This gift turns out to be of great importance to Iceland’s conversion narrative. Some time later, Þangbrandr meets up with a young and not yet converted Óláfr Tryggvason. Curious about the image on the shield, the heathen Óláfr asks Þangbrandr who is on the shield and what has he done to be treated so badly. At this point a remarkable exchange takes place. When Þangbrandr tells him the story of the passion, Óláfr is so impressed that he offers to buy the shield from Þangbrandr. Ultimately the exchange is carried out, but the manner in which it takes place has some remarkable pragmatic peculiarities. As the story reads, after Þangbrandr tells him the story of the passion, “Konungr falaði þá skjǫldinn, en Þangbrandr gaf honum skjǫldinn, en konungr gaf honum jafnvirði skjaldarins í brenndu silfri” (The king then asked to buy [falaði] the shield, but Þangbrandr gave the shield to him, and the king gave him an amount of refined silver equal to the value of the shield).31 The modern reader may ask in what way has the king not purchased the shield, yet interpreted through the lens of social currency, the steps of the exchange make more sense: STEP 1: King Óláfr requests to purchase the shield. This step seems reasonable enough since the king has been impressed with the image on the shield. An important caveat to the statement, however, is the use of the verb fala. I have translated it above as “offered to buy,” but the word also suggests an urgency or insistence upon the sale. Cleasby and Vigfússon define the verb as “to demand for purchase,” and it occurs in such contexts as Eyrbyggja saga, when Þuríðr is so taken with Þórgunna’s fine clothes, and in Brennu-Njáls saga, when Gunnarr must ask Otkell to sell him hay and food because of the great famine.32 In those cases the urgency of the word reflects either a desperate need or unreasonable greed. In this case, it may reflect Óláfr’s fascination with the shield, but it seems more appropriate to interpret it as a reflection of Óláfr’s social status. The king is talking to a mere clerk – a very interesting clerk, as it turns out – but the king could not possibly do anything less than demand the sale of the item and still retain his status. STEP 2: Rather than agree to the sale, Þangbrandr gives the shield to Óláfr as a Kristni saga, p. 14. The sense of ‘lærdóm’ here is ‘clerical learning’, as Sian Grønlie has it in her translation of the word (Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders, p. 39). Grønlie points out that there was no Archbishop Hubert of Canterbury until Hubert Walter (1193–1205). See Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders, p. 38, n. 30. 31 Kristni saga, p. 14. 32 CV, s.v. “fala.” 30

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature gift.33 Þangbrandr acts according to what would be socially acceptable, for he dare not enter negotiations with a king, which would reduce the king’s self-worth. STEP 3 is implied but obvious: Óláfr accepts the gift, but in STEP 4, he gives Þangbrandr a gift of silver that equals the value of the shield and goes on to tell Þangbrandr that if he should ever need anything, he should come to Óláfr. The vital element of the exchange is that it is explicitly not a purchase, though the references to the possibility of a purchase allow for the mutual and conscientious acknowledgement of social status. Those social statuses are, furthermore, inevitably bound together through the exchange. In pragmatic terms, the exchanges set the context for any verbal communication they will have in the future, and as a consequence future verbal exchanges must be read in light of this exchange.34 Not long after Óláfr leaves, Þangbrandr uses the silver Óláfr gave him to buy a young and beautiful Irish slave girl. After returning to Bremen with the slave girl, Þangbrandr gets into a fight with an important man over the girl, kills him in a duel, and must therefore flee the country. Remembering Óláfr’s promise of assistance in a time of need, Þangbrandr finds Óláfr, who gives him shelter. It seems that money will be a persistent cause of trouble for Þangbrandr. After being ordained, Óláfr installs him as the priest in the newly converted Mostr, but according to the account in Kristni saga, Þangbrandr acts more like a local chieftain than a priest, as he is said to have been so open handed with his men that he soon ran out of money. Rather than ask the king for more money, however, Þangbrandr then takes a long ship and “herjaði á heiðna menn ok rænti víða ok lagði þat fé fyrir lið sitt” (harried the heathen people and plundered far and wide and dispensed it to his troop of men).35 When the king gets word of Þangbrandr’s actions, he confronts the bellicose cleric and tells him that he cannot be his servant if he is a ránsmaðr, someone who unlawfully steals from others, and that he must attempt to convert Iceland

Although the verb gefa (pret. gaf) used to describe the exchange can fit into a semantic field suggesting payment, the syntax here is indicative of a gift exchnage, as Grønlie also has it in her translation (Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders, p. 39). 34 A comparison of this text with Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta confirms this assessment, though perhaps in more dramatic fashion than that found in Kristni saga. The saga writer seems less comfortable leaving things unsaid and, as often seems to be the case in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, the writer expounds somewhat upon the speech event. The steps of the exchange are preserved, including the usage of the verb fala in STEP 1. See Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, ed. Ólafur Halldórsson, 3 vols. (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1958–2001), vol. 1, p. 150. Citations are from this edition. 35 Kristni saga, p. 15. Compare this scene with Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, vol. 2, p. 65. 33

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations to Christianity to make up for his behavior.36 Kristni saga makes fairly short work of the interaction between Þangbrandr and the king, but the later composed Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta goes into greater detail. Óláfr accuses Þangbrandr of setting out on raiding expeditions “sem heiðnir víkingar” (like heathen Vikings) when he ought to be serving the Christian god and acting like a disciple.37 At first glance it is difficult to fathom Þangbrandr’s motives – they hardly seem Christian – but it is also puzzling, in a way, why Óláfr would be so angry with Þangbrandr as to banish him from his kingdom. The most obvious answer is that Óláfr does not approve of Þangbrandr’s violence against the heathens, but Óláfr himself was no stranger to violence and raids against heathens. One well-known account of such violence takes place at Hlaðir, where Óláfr “let briota ofan hofit ok taka brottu fe alt þat er þar var ok alt skraut af goðonum. hann tók gull hring mikinn or hofs hurðinni er Hakan j(arl) hafði gera latit” (had the temples destroyed and took away all the livestock that was there and all the heathen ornaments. He took the large gold ring from the temple door that Earl Hákon had put there).38 Both Þangbrandr and the king steal commodities from heathens; both destroy heathen temples along the way; and both are doing so in the name of Christianity. Taken in light of these comparisons, the obvious reading of the scene to mean that Óláfr is taking the moral high ground seems tenuous. An alternative reading of the exchange between Óláfr and Þangbrandr suggests that Óláfr is capitalizing on the situation to put Þangbrandr into a rhetorically and pragmatically beholden speech situation for the purpose of obliging him to go on a missionary voyage.39 In fact, it is not terribly far-fetched to suggest that Óláfr may even have seen strategic value in Þangbrandr’s actions, as long as he was able to put them to good use. If Þangbrandr did in fact act more like a heathen chieftain than a Christian priest, then he displayed the sort of qualities that would enable him to meet the felicity conditions necessary to be a missionary to Iceland: he has the ability to lead and maintain a large retinue; he understands the value of gift-giving and preserving the social status of members of the retinue; and he is not afraid of violence when the time comes. Culturally, Þangbrandr’s qualities reflect the typical heathen chieftain-priest, with the exception that Þangbrandr was Christian rather than heathen. In this sense, Þangbrandr would be the ideal choice for a missionary effort that Kristni saga, p. 17. Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, vol. 2, p. 65. 38 ibid., p. 328. Compare Snorri’s Óláf saga Tryggvasonar, in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, vol. 1, p. 308. 39 In fact, Óláfr seems to make a habbit of wrangling his retainers into similar postures of indebtedness for the express purpose of sending them on Christian missionary trips. See below pp. 107–9. 36 37

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature attempted to carry the message of Christianity to Iceland, as he could accommodate more closely pre-Christian Icelandic felicity conditions by employing elements of heathen culture and social structure as media of conversion. Given the social context of Iceland at the time (around 997, post settlement but pre-conversion), this strategy would have made a great deal of sense. The Icelandic population was entrenched in a culture of local chieftaincy, and those chieftains – the goðar – functioned both as social and religious leaders, just as Þangbrandr had done at Mostr. As Órri Vésteinsson has pointed out, the early Christian priests in Iceland functioned as both priest and chieftain (or were at least on the social level of a chieftain), the duties of which regularly led to violent action without – at least early on – any conflict of moral interests for the priests.40 Þangbrandr looks like an early variant of these later Christian priests. Óláfr sends him to Iceland outfitted with a sturdy ship, a retinue of men (both learned and unlearned), and wealth. A key passage in Óláfs Saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta concludes with a telling description of Þangbrandr: “Þangbrandr var mikill maðr uexti ok styrkr at afli. snjallr í máli ok klerkr goðr. garpr mikill ok fullhugi at allri karl mennzku. Þo at hann væri kenni maðr” (Þangbrandr was a big man in size, well built and with means, eloquent in speech and a good cleric; a very warlike man and complete in all manliness, though he was a priest).41 This is hardly a description of someone who has recently fallen out of the king’s good graces. Siân Grønlie suggests that this passage emphasizes Þangbrandr’s rhetorical ability (particularly the phrase “snjallr í máli”), whereas earlier texts focus on his violence and unpredictability.42 There is certainly truth to this assessment, but with respect to felicity conditions, the more important conclusion to draw from this passage is that it indicates the important relationship between words and actions. In reality, Þangbrandr is no less violent and unpredictable in this version of the story than in other sources, but here his capacity to have both violent and rhetorical prowess is depicted in a positive light. The passage goes on to say that he was “ekki áleitinn. en harðr ok óvæginn bæði í orðum ok verkum ef hann varð reiðr” (not aggressive, but stern and unyielding both in words and deeds, if he became angry).43 That Þangbrandr is strong in both “orðum ok verkum” (words and deeds) drives the point home: the two are intrinsically connected. Viewing his acts of violence through a pragmatic lens, then, Þangbrandr’s demeanor aids him in meeting the relevant felicity conditions of the speech situations. Barring the reference to his Christianity, this description could easily apply to any of the great

Orri Vésteinsson, Christianization of Iceland, pp. 33 and 183–94. Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, vol. 2, p. 66. 42 Siân Grønlie, “Preaching, Insults, and Wordplay,” p. 461. 43 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, vol. 2, p. 66. 40 41

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations Icelandic pre-Christian goðar or in fact any of the great heroic leaders from the age. All this makes him the right man for the job, so to speak.

Þorvaldr tasaldi and King Óláfr’s Guilt Trip Þangbrandr’s experience with the king is not unique. Siân Grønlie notes that Óláfr’s coercion of Þangbrandr reflects a common motif found in stories about both Óláfr Tryggvason and Óláfr Haraldsson (king of Norway, 1015–28).44 One of these comparable instances is of special interest to the study of pragmatics and felicity conditions: the story of Þorvaldr tasaldi’s expedition to convert the reclusive and reluctant Bárðr to Christianity. Since the story may not be well known, I summarize it here: Newly arrived from Iceland, Þorvaldr converts to Christianity and is baptized in order to win favor with King Óláfr. Though Óláfr likes Þorvaldr, a disagreeable member of the king’s bodyguard, Helgi, manages to turn the king against Þorvaldr and then compels Þorvaldr to approach the king and ask him why he is displeased. The king tells Þorvaldr about the peculiar old fellow Bárðr living in Uppland, who has resisted conversion to Christianity yet does not seem to hold to heathenism. The king has sent several envoys to Bárðr, but none have returned. The king bids Þorvaldr to travel to Bárðr’s estate and bring him back to the king. Þorvaldr agrees and asks that only one other of the king’s guard, Sigurðr, to come with him. The night before he gets to Bárðr’s estate, Þorvaldr dreams that the king comes to him and gives him a piece of writing containing the name of God. Þorvaldr is to bind the writing to his chest when he confronts Bárðr. Next day, Þorvaldr and Sigurðr arrive at Bárðr’s home to find only the old man and his beautiful daughter at home. They exchange words and then wrestle for the better portion of the day – Þorvaldr with Bárðr and Sigurðr with the daughter. Just as Þorvaldr’s strength begins to fail, Bárðr comes into contact with Þorvaldr’s chest, where the writing has been bound, and is thrown to the ground. Bárðr then calls upon his men, who, troll-like, have been hiding in a cellar under the porch. The men seize Þorvaldr and his companion Sigurðr, and they are kept for the night under house arrest. Þorvaldr and Sigurðr leave next morning, but upon being escorted off the premises, Þorvaldr decides to turn back and finish the king’s mission. When he returns to Bárðr, Þorvaldr reveals that his strength comes from the Christian God and Bárðr therefore decides to go to the king and be baptized. Upon his baptism, Bárðr joins the service of the king but dies a peaceful death shortly thereafter.

The story is quite interesting from a folkloristic perspective, but the manner in which the characters converse has much to offer as well. There are three verbal exchanges in the story that possess special interest. The 44

Íslendingabók = The Book of the Icelanders, p. 40, n. 42.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature first of these exchanges takes place when Þorvaldr approaches King Óláfr to ask him why the king has been upset. The exchange is rich with undercurrents of indirectness and cultural context, but of special importance to the question of felicity conditions is how the king compels Þorvaldr to go on his mission. Þorvaldr begins by asking whether something is wrong. Importantly, Þorvaldr avoids asking the king whether he has anything against him (Þorvaldr), asking rather whether the king is either physically sick or in despair because of something someone has done. The king replies that he is not sick, to which Þorvaldr replies, “Þá er þegar nær ok af hinn harðasti. Eru men þá sakbitnir við yðr?” (“then one is nearer [to the journey’s end] once the hardest is behind him. Are there men then who are guilty before you?”).45 Þorvaldr’s illocutionary goal of the question is surely to inquire as to whether he is guilty before the king, so when the king says there are indeed men whom the king holds guilty, Þorvaldr is instantly beholden to the king. The king follows by saying, “en þú ert skyldr til, Þorvaldr, at leysa þetta vandræði, er þú hefir fyrstr eftir leitat” (“and you are obliged, Þorvaldr, to resolve this difficulty, which you have been the first to ask about”).46 Þorvaldr responds by saying that all of the king’s men are obliged to do what the king tells them to do. Þorvaldr’s response reveals a key oddity about this passage as well as the narrative describing the exchange in which Þangbrandr commits to the mission to Iceland. The king, Þorvaldr’s response implies, need not resort to rhetorical sparring to put Þorvaldr into a position of obligation. Þorvaldr, as are all of the king’s men, are already obligated to do as the king bids. The oddity is clearer here than in Þangbrandr’s case only because Þangbrandr has done something that, at least by modern standards, warrants an especially guilty conscience, whereas Þorvaldr finds himself in this position only because he has been maligned. The previous section of this chapter was meant to show in part that Þangbrandr’s actions were not entirely out of the ordinary for the bellicose Óláfr, who used similar tactics in his missionary ventures. In both cases, the king’s tactics result in placing the missionaries under a special obligation to him. In pragmatic terms, the king’s tactics bring to the forefront felicity conditions that would normally remain unstated. In particular, the king highlights the second part of the preparatory condition: “the particular persons and circumstances in a given case must be appropriate for the invocation of the particular procedure invoked.”47 In other words, the king has the right to direct his men. Having asserted (or reasserted) this felicity condition, the king may now proceed with his bidding, which is that Þorvaldr should go Flateyjarbók, ed. Sigurður Nordal, 4 vols. (Reykjavík: Flateyjarútgáfan, 1944), vol. 1, p. 422. 46 ibid. This too is a common motif: the first person to ask about a problem is beholden to solve the problem. 47 See above, p. 94. 45

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations and retrieve the curmudgeonly Bárðr from his estates in Uppland. While the king’s assertion of the preparatory condition may appear redundant, it bears vitally upon the overall reading of felicity conditions. The second important moment in the story occurs when Þorvaldr returns to Bárðr’s home after having been escorted off the premises, and the conversation turns to how Þorvaldr was able to defeat Bárðr. When Þorvaldr explains that he had the name of God bound to his chest and thus defeated Bárðr, Bárðr replies “Ek kann eigi þat at hugsa, at sá muni eigi ǫllu mega orka, ef hann kemr sjálfr til, […] ok fyrir því mun ek fara með þér á konungs fund […]” (“I can do none other than to think that he [Christ] might accomplish everything he wants to do, if he himself determines it […] and thus I will go with you to the king’s meeting” [emphasis added]).48 The two italicized phrases speak to a deeper element of felicity conditions in any missionary effort; however, this is not a felicity condition relevant to the missionary’s speech situation but to Christ’s. When Bárðr concedes that he can do no other than to think that the Christian God is powerful enough to do whatever he wants, it affords the Christian God the necessary conditions under which Bárðr will follow him. Bárðr follows this statement, in fact, by saying that he could only follow a god who is able to show that he is powerful in this way. The point is put specifically into linguistic terms when Bárðr meets King Óláfr to be baptized. Upon meeting the king, Bárðr says to the king, “Máttugr er guð þinn, konungr, ok hefi ek nú þat reynt, ok því vil ek á hann trúa ok láta skírast” (“Mighty is your god, king, and I have now tested it, and thus I will believe in him and be baptized”).49 The king is pleased with Bárðr’s change of heart but feels the need to correct him somewhat. He says, “Vel talr þú, Bárðr, eftir þinni skilningu, en þat er satt at kveðit, at sá er guð, er mér stýrir ok öllum hlutum, sýniligum ok ósýniligum, ok kallar til sín með ýmissum háttum alla þá menn, er hans þjónustu eru makliger.”50 (“You speak well, Bárðr, according to your understanding, but it is true to say that it is God who directs me and all things, seen and unseen, and calls to himself in various ways all his servants who are deserving.”)

The sentiment here seems to be that Bárðr, according to his earnest but perhaps naive understanding (skilning), has not fully comprehended the power structure of the Christian community. Whereas Bárðr is under the impression that the king directs his god, it is really the Christian God as head of that community, who directs (at stýra) and who calls (at kalla), not the king. In a missionary effort, the final and ultimate felicity conditions 48

Flateyjarbók, vol. 1, p. 425

49 ibid. 50 ibid.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature are to be met by the deity to whom conversion is bidden. The person being called to convert must decide whether to listen and obey. If that person determines, as Bárðr has, that the deity meets the felicity conditions to validate that calling, then the person will convert; if the deity fails to do so, then the missionary effort is a failure. It is, after all, the Christian God who is entering into a foreign linguistic community proclaiming to be the authority figure who has the right to direct all people, even kings.

Honor and Shame in Old Norse Conversion Narratives It only makes sense that conversion and Christianization would affect the way principles of pragmatics are employed in the medieval North. The notion that pragmatics might have some relevance in a discussion of Nordic conversion and Christianization has been explored before, and it remains to contextualize the present examination within those existing scholarly conversations. In her 2004 article on preaching and insults in early Icelandic conversion narratives, Sîan Grønlie suggests that the struggle over Iceland’s conversion was more verbal than physical.51 Following Grønlie’s assessment, Valentine A. Pakis compares certain values observable in Nordic culture with those from an early Mediterranean culture. Pakis argues that the cultural picture reflected in biblical narratives would not have been so foreign to the Nordic listener as might be expected. Rather, says Pakis, the culture reflected in the Gospels would have resonated with the “Scandinavian ethos of honor and vengeance – fueled as it was by the public acknowledgement or rejection of claims to worth.”52 Pakis in this way hopes to point out what he feels is a common misconception about the study of Christian conversion, particularly the typical binary (which he sees Grønlie supporting) of Christian-redemptive speech and pagan-destructive speech.53 The present analysis of felicity conditions in conversion narratives may offer further insight into these two perspectives. While I value Pakis’s observation that there are similarities between the importance of honor and social currency in the early Mediterranean world and the pre-Christian Scandinavian view of honor and self-worth, I am less confident that “certain aspects of the New Testament did not clash with the honor-driven culture of medieval Scandinavia.”54 Pakis concludes that Scandinavian audiences would have noticed “Jesus’s skill at verbal duels, and the honor he acquired through this skill.”55 51

Grønlie, “Preaching, Insults, and Wordplay,” pp. 456–75. Pakis, “Honor, Verbal Duels,” p. 184. 53 ibid., 163. Pakis references Vilhjálmur Árnason, “Moral and Social Structure in the Icelandic Sagas,” JEGP 90:2 (1991), pp. 157–74, at pp. 157–61. 54 Pakis, “Honor, Verbal Duels,” p. 184. 55 ibid., p. 185. 52

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations However, while a Scandinavian audience might have noticed Jesus’ (or any other New Testament figures’) rhetorical skills, any association of that skill with the acquisition of honor in a Scandinavian (or for that matter a Mediterranean) cultural sense would have badly contradicted the message of the Christian missional effort. In fact, early Christianity was just as out of place in its own cultural context as it would have been in the Nordic heathen one. Jesus certainly acquired a following, but a following is quite different from acquiring honor of the sort celebrated in Mediterranean or Scandinavian cultures. Those who followed Jesus tended to be poor and disenfranchised by Mediterranean standards of honor. If they did have any cultural honor, Christianity required that they dispense with it. As Jerome H. Neyrey aptly puts it, [t]o be a disciple of Jesus, a typical male would have to forswear the pivotal value of his cultural world. He would be prohibited from seeking honor, especially in the ways defined by eastern Mediterranean culture. […] Nor may he defend his own honor or seek honorable satisfaction and revenge for injury and insult. This disciple, then, will be considered a weakling, a wimp, a worthless no-account who cannot defend his honor, a person of whom one takes advantage, a man to be ashamed of. This […] is the “cross” of following Jesus: the loss of honor.56

Thus, neither Jesus nor any of his followers, as a rule, would have ever had any hope of achieving honor in the cultural sense, nor would they have wanted to. All this would have conflicted with the Scandinavian view of honor in the most egregious way, and any missionary to the North would have had to find some way to resolve the problem. Pakis is right to point out that Jesus (and other New Testament figures) “was entrenched in the culture of his day,” and he is also right that Jesus sought to “participate in the game in order to undermine it” and that “he must defeat the authorities […] at the contest in order to proscribe […] the contest itself,” but none of this had anything to do with acquiring honor.57 Jesus and other New Testament figures were acting as all missionaries do: they were establishing the proper felicity conditions to communicate their message. We must be careful not to confuse the missional message with the pragmatic mechanism by which it is communicated. When Jesus engages the Pharisees in rhetorical debate, he is meeting the culture on its own terms while not endorsing its values. His ultimate goal is to change the culture, not to uphold it. And when St. Paul writes Jerome H. Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1988), p. 211. Pakis refers to Neyrey’s work but does not, in my opinion, address it fully. 57 Pakis, “Honor, Verbal Duels,” p. 185. 56

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature his letters to the Romans, he does not use Jewish cultural and philosophical tactics but Roman ones. A key biblical passage illustrates the point. St. Paul says to the particularly worldly church at Corinth: For I think that God has exhibited us apostles as last of all, like men sentenced to death, because we have become a spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men. We are fools for Christ’s sake, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honor, but we in disrepute. To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless, and we labor, working with our own hands. When reviled, we bless; when persecuted, we endure; when slandered, we entreat. We have become, and are still, like the scum of the world, the refuse of all things.58

It is clear that Paul is speaking ironically here, for immediately following this passage, he emphasizes that he is admonishing them, though not at all in the same way that the honor-driven Mediterranean society would have expected: “I do not write these things to make you ashamed, but to admonish you as my beloved children.”59 The passage thus illustrates the point well: although Paul uses irony, which would fit comfortably into a Mediterranean rhetorical situation, the message he conveys (admonition rather than shame, according to Paul) is in stark contradiction with the Mediterranean cultural tendency (shame rather than admonition). The “you” in the passage refers to the worldly Corinthians; the “we” refers to the apostles, who are the standard at the time for Christian living. The differences are clear: on the one hand are the Mediterranean cultural values: wisdom, strength, honor, wealth; while on the other hand, Paul gives us the Christian values of weakness, a poor reputation, a meager living – all of which seem preposterous if observed through the lens of Mediterranean culture. If there were any remaining question on the issues, Paul punctuates his message by saying, “the kingdom of God does not consist in talk but in power.”60 To 58

1 Cor. 4:9–13 (ESV) 1 Cor. 4:14 (ESV) 60 1 Cor. 4:20 (ESV). To this point, Kathleen M. Self is right to remark, “usually, in these [Icelandic] conversion narratives the change of deities is only implied” (Self, “Conversion as Speech Act,” p. 184). While Self’s observations are insightful, I disagree with her final conclusion that “[a]bsent from these narratives are questions of experience, or belief, and where there is concern for truth, it is the truth of which deity is most powerful. Contracts, bargains, and other commitments are not standing in the place of some ‘true’ religiosity, they are integral to the religiosity of medieval Iceland” (“Conversion as Speech Act,” pp. 184–5). As this chapter argues, the contracts, bargains, etc., observed by Self were never meant to indicate anything about the true religiosity of medieval Iceland but rather indicate something about the crisis of felicity conditions that needed to be reconciled in order for conversion to take 59

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations put it in terms of the present discussion, the honor and shame (i.e., “face”) driven society of the Mediterranean world cannot compare with the true power of God. Likewise, when early Nordic missionaries engage the culture, they do so on Nordic rather than Mediterranean cultural terms. Gift-giving, social status, and even violence and threats are important conversion tactics for the Norse missionary because they are Nordic cultural values. The connection to Mediterranean culture is all but accidental. The present examination of felicity conditions in Nordic conversion narratives supports this perspective. The more closely the converting culture aligns to the target culture, the less likelihood there will be of conflict over felicity conditions. Thus, conflicts over felicity conditions ought to be viewed as indications of a proportional differentiation between the two cultures. Grønlie’s observation that Icelandic conversion was more verbal than physical conforms to the prevailing scholarly sentiment, and there is nothing in present discussion to contradict it.61 There may be some room, however, to observe exactly why, in pragmatic terms, Iceland’s conversion narratives reflect such verbal efforts and to make an observation about how the violence that is present in Iceland’s conversion narratives might be relevant to the conversion itself. In the figure of Þangbrandr, for instance, it is a composition of verbal and physical qualities that prevails, which in turn meets the felicity conditions necessary for the missionary to be on equal ground with the culture he means to convert. At its best, the nature of a pragmatic approach ought, in my opinion, to seek out ways that words are not just verbal and how actions such as gift-giving – and even violent actions – speak as much as words. Þangbrandr arms himself with both rhetorical and warlike skills – “orðum ok verkum” (words and place. The “experience,” “belief,” “concern for truth” and other indications of “true” religiosity in medieval Iceland are all quite evident in other medieval Icelandic sources, but to demonstrate their prevalence here would take the present discussion far afield from its primary focus. For representative discussions of medieval Iceland’s religiosity, see Margaret J. Cormack, “Saints and Sinners: Reflections on Death in Some Icelandic Sagas,” Gripla 8 (1993), pp. 187–218, and The Saints in Iceland: Their Veneration from the Conversion to 1400 (Bruxelles: Society of Bollandistes, 1994); Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland; Sverrir Jakobsson, “Conversion and Cultural Memory in Medieval Iceland,” Church History 88:1 (2019), pp. 1–26; and Hjalti Hugason, Kristni á Íslandi, vol. 1, Frumkristni og Upphaf Kirkju (Reykjavík: Alþingi, 2000). These works indicate that, while conversion and Christianization in Iceland were by no means uncomplicated, their “true” religiosity, as Self describes it, is prevalent and widespread throughout medieval Iceland. 61 See for example Jenny Jochens’s well-known essay, entitled “Late and Peaceful: Iceland’s Conversion through Arbitration in 1000,” Speculum 74:3 (1999), pp. 621–55.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature deeds) – so that both his (violent) actions and his words reflect a leader that would have been respected by the culture he intended to convert. He is consequently more likely to meet the felicity conditions in that cultural setting. Þangbrandr’s promise as a missionary-chieftain is only partially realized, but not because he was a rash, impetuous killer – at least not according to some sources. As Sîan Grønlie points out, in Kristni saga, it was “not so much Þangbrandr’s behaviour as his nationality which people found objectionable.”62 Þangbrandr was playing at the right game, and there is plenty of evidence of his success: according to Kristni saga, he converted a good portion of the people in southern and northern quarters of the country.63 He also converted several of the key figures who went on to make Christianity law in the country. Though he failed in his attempt to convert all of Iceland to Christianity, he was the right missionary for the job insofar as Óláfr could see. It is perhaps only because Iceland had moved so far away from its Norwegian origins that Þangbrandr failed. In contrast to other places in the medieval North, Iceland requires the felicity conditions not just of a warrior-chieftain-missionary like Þangbrandr. Those felicity conditions would take conversion only so far. In Iceland, the felicity conditions were more complicated (one might even say, more sophisticated); in Iceland the felicity conditions set for the speech act that would convert the country to Christianity also demanded a statesperson: one who could accommodate not only religious but also secular and legal cultural felicity conditions. … Enter Þorgeirr Þorkelsson and his cloak.

Conclusion A study of felicity conditions helps illuminate the relationship between actions and words. In conversion narrative, very often the actions of the missionary give the necessary evidence that a certain felicity condition has been met. Þorvaldr’s physical struggle with Bárðr is just the evidence Bárðr needs to know that Þorvaldr (and indirectly, King Óláfr) meet the preparatory condition for proclaiming the true religion. Other missionaries walk on hot coals or contest heathen forces through some show of physical prowess.64 Likewise, much of Þangbrandr’s violence is a sign that he had sufficient authority to overcome daunting foes, and, as a consequence, was able to meet the preparatory condition in a way similar to Þorvaldr. The primary objective of this chapter has been to demonstrate that felicity conditions play a vital function in Old Norse conversion narratives. Duke, “Kristni Saga and its Sources,” p. 365. Kristni saga, chapter 9. 64 See, for instance, the Grønlie, “Introduction,” Íslendingabók, pp. xxxviii–ix, for further discussion of such feats. 62 63

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Felicity Conditions and Conversion Confrontations While the felicity conditions evident in Old Norse conversion narratives might or might not be indicative of actual, historical speech situations, the present analysis is of the cultural remembrances of pre-Christian Iceland, as those remembrances were maintained and cultivated in the cultural setting in which the narratives were written: early twelfth century for Ari’s Íslendingabók, c.1230 for Heimskringla, c.1300 for Óláfs Saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, and c.1390 for Flateyjarbók. The conversion narratives in these texts are clearly interrelated, but, furthermore, the writers of these works seem to have (1) recognized the importance of felicity conditions, (2) had no difficulty in navigating felicity conditions in their texts and in the texts from which they may have drawn, and (3) had an expectation that their audiences would have understood their treatment of felicity conditions. Finally, based on these narratives, several generalized hypotheses might be formulated with regard to the missionary efforts. It is plausible, as the texts here indicate, that missionary efforts, wherever and whenever they occur, and whatever the religious cause, are at bottom a contest over felicity conditions. Three levels of conversional felicity conditions emerge from this analysis: local, communal, and intermediary. On the local level, the felicitousness of the missionary him-/herself is called into question. It is on this level that Þangbrandr and Hákon góði ultimately failed and that Þorgeirr Þorkelsson and Þorvaldr tasaldi succeeded. Often, efforts to attain this level of felicitousness come down to some remarkable act (either rhetorical or physical). Next, on the communal level, attempted conversions from one religion to another raise questions about who meets the conditions necessary to make certain speech acts felicitous. In much the same way that a transition from one political leader to another might cause problems with felicity conditions, the transition from one religion to another brings about doubt as to who will preside over the speech acts of communal life. Felicity conditions dictate whether the new religious authority structure will successfully facilitate the social, legal, and political success of the community in question. The Icelandic community of 999/1000 worked out these conditions so as to affect conversion, whereas Hákon góði and the bœndr of Norway were not able to do so. Finally, and perhaps ultimately, conversion comes down to whether the deity can demonstrate felicity to the individual or group being converted. At this, the intermediary level, the deity must show evidence of its authority and presence. The narrative relaying Bárðr’s conversion shows this level most clearly by highlighting that it is the Christian God who calls (at kalla) and directs (at stýra) the servants of Christ. Not insignificantly, the story of Bárðr’s conversion shows that all three of these levels are interrelated: Þorvaldr demonstrates that he meets the (local) felicity conditions to convey the message of conversion, while Bárðr’s conversation with King Óláfr highlights not only that the 115

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Christian God meets the (intermediary) felicity conditions to dictate to his servants but also that King Óláfr, as God’s representative, meets the (communal) felicity conditions to propagate the legal and social speech acts to keep the community functional. Whether felicity conditions on these levels can be met determines in great part the success or failure of the missional effort. If they are met, conversion occurs; if not, the missionaries find themselves in significant peril. It seems Þangbrandr Vilbaldússon, that classic warrior-priest, understood his peril only too well, for when the king sends him to Iceland as a missionary, Þangbrandr’s only response is, “Til þess mun ek hætta” (“I will take the risk”).65

65

Kristni saga, p. 17.

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N 5 n Icelanders and Their Language Abroad In the early chapters of Egils saga Skallagrímssonar, Egill’s father, uncle, and grandfather become wrapped up in King Haraldr hárfagri (fairhair) Hálfdanarson’s ambition to unify all of Norway under his rule. King Haraldr wants these men to join his retinue because they are known to be strong and capable, but only Egill’s uncle, Þórólfr, elects to go to the king. Things do not turn out well. Despite Þórólfr’s loyalty, he and the king have a falling out and the king ends up killing Þórólfr in a fierce battle. Not to be discouraged – and likely to determine where lie the allegiances of Þórólfr’s family – the king asks Egill’s father, Skalla-Grímr, to join his retinue in his brother’s stead. Skalla-Grímr responds thus (emphasis added): “Þat var kunnigt, hversu miklu Þórólfr var framar en ek em at sér gǫrr um alla hluti, ok bar hann enga gæfu til at þjóna þér, konungr. Nú mun ek ekki taka þat ráð. Eigi mun ek þjóna þér, því at ek veit at ek mun eigi gæfu til bera at veita þér þá þjónustu, sem ek munda vilja ok vert væri. Hygg ek, at mér verði meiri muna vant en Þórólfi.”1 (“It [is] well known how much more accomplished Þórólfr was than I am in all things, but he did not have the good-fortune to serve you [properly], king. Now I will not take that course. I will not serve you because I know that I will not have the good fortune to give you service as I would wish and as would be fitting. I think that I would fall short of many of Þórólfr’s qualities.”)

Taken out of context, this passage might possibly be read as a polite, even humble refusal to serve the king: Skalla-Grímr appears to be saying that he is not worthy to serve the king and that he must decline the king’s offer because he could not do the king the service he deserves. Indeed, certain markers of politeness – such as the lowering of his own abilities 1

Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, ed. Sigurður Nordal, ÍF 2, p. 64.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature beneath those of his brother’s and the suggestion that the king deserves better – contribute to a sense that he is respectfully declining the king’s request. The king, however, is not impressed with Skalla-Grímr’s mock politeness and takes the speech as a great insult, which it certainly is. The text states that the king grows silent and his face turns dreyrrauðan, bloodred. Skalla-Grímr is quickly ushered out of the king’s presence and told he must leave Norway immediately. From the perspective of pragmatics, two important factors contribute to the intended meaning communicated in Skalla-Grímr’s utterance to King Haraldr. First, Skalla-Grímr is in no way trying to be polite, nor is he trying to obscure his intentions to the king by using “nice” language. Skalla-Grímr is in fact engaging in indirect aggression, a strategy by which, as described in chapter two of this volume, verbal combatants use indirectness in speech to cause offense. Second, it seems that the tactics Skalla-Grímr employs to register his insult depend upon the dressing up of his insult in the pragmatic clothes of politeness. In other words, the potency of Skalla-Grímr’s insult increases because of, not in spite of, its close proximity to politeness. This phenomenon depends upon the concept of gradually deepening levels of indirectness, by which each added level of indirectness increases politeness but which, if taken to the extreme, communicates rather an ironic impoliteness (see above, pp. 42–3). Here, Skalla-Grímr’s response to the king relies upon several typical markers of indirectness as it possesses a flurry of verbs that affect the mood of the sentence – especially munda (would), vilja (wish), væri (would be), and hygg (think…). The final sentence is doubly indirect. As Bjarni Einarsson notes, the phrase “… mér verði meiri muna vant” (“I would fall short”) is a veiled reference to what Skalla-Grímr’s brother said to the king just before he was killed by the king: “I fell three feet short” (that is, of killing the king).2 Here, these markers of indirectness that would be deemed politeness in another context are transformed into a perverse version of the would-be politeness. Skalla-Grímr’s intended meaning, which the king has no trouble interpreting, suggests that Skalla-Grímr would not make a very good servant to the king because he would seek vengeance for the death of his brother. All of this contributes to the kind of indirectness in speech that medieval Icelanders called tvíræði, or “double-meaning.”3 The above excerpt from Egils saga uses Skalla-Grímr’s insult to the king to depict the settlers of Iceland, like Egill’s father, Skalla-Grímr, as being bold, resolute, unwilling to be pushed around by a bossy Norwegian king, and able to use words to communicate their dissatisfaction with a powerful leader. Different sagas depict Icelanders in different ways, 2 3

ibid., 33, n. 1. Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 294. See my discussion of this scene in chapter three (pp. 76–8).

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad but the words of an Icelander abroad are rarely spoken without purpose or authorial agenda.4 This chapter will explore ways that saga writers strategically use indirectness in speech to comment both upon the geopolitical situation in the medieval North and, specifically, upon how Iceland matches up with others in the region. The status of Iceland in relation to its Scandinavian counterparts during the medieval period has been the subject of considerable scholarly discussion.5 As Ármann Jakobsson observes, in Icelanders abroad, [w]e find the otherness of the islander and the insignificance of the foreigner, but we also observe that Icelanders can be useful and worthy retainers of a king, not least in their poetic and storytelling skills. An inferiority-complex and self-assurance repeatedly clash with each other.6

In her study of Icelandic skalds and their journeys abroad, Margaret Clunies Ross takes Ármann’s observation even further: In Icelandic writings the worth of Icelanders and Icelandic culture is often measured by the extent to which Icelanders are shown to be able to cope with Norwegian society on terms that the Icelanders themselves are able to lay down, even as strangers at court, where they are frequently depicted as beating the Norwegians at their own game because they play by different, Icelandic rules.7

The emphasis placed by these scholars upon the self-worth of Icelanders abroad makes the question of how Icelanders conversed with foreign leaders, friends, and enemies an intriguing one for the study of pragmatics, which is so often directed at the preservation or denigration of the self-worth of the discussants in a given verbal exchange. A pragmatic assessment of verbal exchanges of Icelanders abroad also affords an opportunity to understand what these “Icelandic rules” may be, and how they were applied such that Icelanders end up beating the Norwegians at their own game. Ultimately, this chapter will suggest that the verbal exchanges under examination here employ pragmatic principles for the

Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, p. 276. See also Sverrir Jakobsson, “Strangers in Icelandic Society 1100–1400,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 3 (2007), pp. 141–57, where Sverrir argues that, by contrast to the Icelandic experience abroad, foreign merchants who visited thirteenth-century Iceland could expect to find a place of opportunity, provided they respected the social mores of the land (154). 6 Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, p. 291. Ármann speaks here specifically of Icelanders abroad as represented in Morkinskinna, but the observation applies to other medieval sagas as well. 7 Clunies Ross, “From Iceland to Norway,” p. 56. 4 5

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature purpose of setting the Icelandic cultural identity not just on par with their Norwegian cousins but even, in some circumstances, above them.

Víga-Glúms saga Early in the Icelandic family saga entitled Víga-Glúms saga, the young and as-yet unproven Glúmr travels to Norway to test his mettle.8 He visits Vigfúss, his maternal grandfather, but the older, more seasoned Norwegian man is skeptical of the young Icelander. Vigfúss and his friends treat Glúmr quite rudely, even going so far as to say the young Icelander is an idiot. The episode contains a clear exercise in mannjafnaðr (which I discuss in chapter two, pp. 47–50), and has affinities with BöðvarBjarki’s and Hjálti’s contest with berserkers at Hrólfr’s hall in Hrólfs saga Kraka, but the fact that such endeavors are given to a young Icelander abroad in Norway makes the episode an intriguing one.9 During the Winter Nights celebration, a notorious bully, Bjǫrn, turns up at Vigfúss’s home and, as is his practice, taunts the guests by asking whether anyone is “jafnsnjallr” (equal) to him so as to justify challenging anyone who says ‘yes’ to a duel.10 When Vigfúss hears Bjǫrn is coming, References to Víga-Glúms saga are taken from Eyfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, ÍF 9. The origins and development of Víga-Glúms saga have been the subject of debate. The most complete version of Víga-Glúms saga may be found in Möðruvallabók (AM 132 fol.), from around 1350, but it is evident that this version is a compilation of other, shorter works. Richard North argues that the saga was composed by Sighvatr Sturluson, brother of Snorri Sturluson, sometime between c.1220 and c.1230, when he was a chieftain of Eyjafjörður (1217–38). For a fairly recent overview of the origins and composition of the saga, see Richard North’s “Sighvatr Sturluson and the Authorship of Víga-Glúms saga,” in Analecta Septentrionalia: Beiträge zur nordgermanischen Kultur- und Literaturgeschichte, ed. Wilhelm Heizmann, Klaus Böldl and Heinrich Beck (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), pp. 256–78, especially pp. 256–62. Theodore M. Andersson likewise argues for an early (c. 1220) dating of Víga-Glúms saga based in part on the hypothesis that Eyjafjörður at about that time produced a significant amount of saga literature. See Andersson, “Víga-Glúms saga and the Birth of Saga Writing,” Scripta Islandica 57 (2006), pp. 5–39, at pp. 25–6 and 35–8. These early dates for the saga would place Víga-Glúms saga among the earlies and best examples of the classical saga style, a conclusion which supports hypotheses made in chapter eight of the present volume: it is fitting that the best early examples of the sagas would have, as is evident in the analysis of Víga-Glúms saga here, the highest quality of pragmatic interactions. For a thorough discussion of the early scholarship on the question, see Andersson, “Víga-Glúms saga,” pp. 5–16. 9 See Hrólfs saga kraka, in FSN 1, pp. 69–72. Richard Harris makes these observations in his forthcoming book. See also the present volume (pp. 76–8) for a deeper discussion of mannjafnaðr, senna, and their relationship to principles of pragmatics. 10 This same word and phrasing are present in Hrólfs saga Kraka, pp. 70–1. 8

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad however, he asks his guests to promise that they will be cautious with what they say to Bjǫrn and thereby avoid giving him any grounds to demand a duel. Bjǫrn arrives and acts in his typical fashion, finally asking Glúmr whether he thinks he is Bjǫrn’s equal. According to the narrative (emphasis added), … hann [Glúmr] ekki þurfa at eiga við sik ok kvazk eigi vita um snilli hans, “ok vil ek af því engu við þik jafnask, at út á Íslandi myndi sá maðr kallaðr fól, er þann veg léti sem þú lætr. En hér hefi ek vitat alla bezt orðum stilla.”11 (… he [Glúmr] needn’t meddle with him and said he didn’t know about his prowess, “and I don’t want to be equated with you, because out in Iceland a man who behaved the way you do would be called a fool. But here I have noticed that everyone does their best to moderate [their] words.”)

There is something odd about this last line, particularly the phrase “orðum stilla,” which I have translated “to moderate [their] words,” but which must be read within a fuller semantic and literary context in order to be thoroughly understood. John McKinnell’s translation of the passage reads, “But here I’ve discovered that everyone is extremely polite,” which aids our understanding because it emphasizes the notion of politeness and self-worth.12 However, more could be said of the depth of meaning behind “orðum stilla.” Orðum is dative plural, meaning “words,” and Zoëga suggests that when used with the dative, stilla should be read as “to moderate” or “to regulate,” as in the phrase “stilla görðini” (to moderate a settlement), which leads to my translation “to moderate [their] words.”13 Indeed, in the broader semantic and literary context, the phrase stilla orðum turns up in other places to mean something similar. For instance, in the anonymous “Hugsvinnsmál,”14 (“Sayings of the Wise One”) the phrase means to speak moderately: Ómálugr skal ok stilla orðum vel, Sá er vill guðs ást geta;15 Víga-Glúms saga, pp. 18–19. John McKinnell, Killer-Glum’s Saga, in CSI 2, p. 276. 13 Geir T. Zoëga, A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910), s.v. “stilla.” 14 Tarrin Wills and Stefanie Gropper, eds., “Anonymous Poems, Hugsvinnsmál,” in Poetry on Christian Subjects, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross, Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), p. 372, stanza 19. 15 John McKinnell points out that this wording closely resembles the Latin Disticha Catonis I, 3. See “The Evolution of Hávamál,” in Essays on Eddic Poetry, ed. Donata Kick and John D. Shafer (Toronto: University of Toronto, 2014), pp. 59–97, at p. 62. Interestingly, McKinnell translates the phrase in this poem as 11

12

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature [he who wants to gain God’s love must be reserved in his speech and moderate words well;]

Likewise, in Morkinskinna, the phrase occurs when Eindriði Einarsson and Þorsteinn Hallsson have earned the disfavor of King Magnús of Norway. Einarr, Eindriði’s father, intercedes for the two men when they foolishly try to meet with the king. Einarr says it will take all of his skill to bring about a settlement between them and the king, and “ek kann hvárntveggja ykkarn konung at ekki mynduð it svá stilla ykkrum orðum at þat myndi hlýða” (“I know you and the king will not moderate your words in a way that would be helpful” [emphasis added]).16 These references contribute a semantic context to the phrase as Glúmr uses it in this episode from Víga-Glúms saga. Even more relevant is the fact that Vigfúss, Glúmr’s host and grandfather, has used the phrase earlier in the same scene to tell his guests to watch what they say around Bjǫrn. The saga states that “Vigfúss bað þess, at menn skyldi vel stilla orðum sínum, – ‘ok er þat minni læging en taka meira illt af honum’” (Vigfúss asked that people would moderate their words well, — “and it is less of a degradation than taking greater harm from him” [emphasis added]).17 The term læging, or “degradation,” is related to the verb að lægja, “to lower,” and is certainly a reference to the “lowering” of social status that would inevitably come from a physical contest with Bjǫrn. The entire scene is an exercise in facesaving and face-threatening words and deeds. In the model of self-worth outlined in chapter one of this volume, Glúmr’s identity (the internal component of self-worth) is out of balance with his face (the external component). Since arriving at his grandfather’s, he has received no respect and has even been relegated to the very end of the lower bench in the hall. Even when Glúmr stands up to Bjǫrn the guests come to his defense only by explaining to Bjǫrn that Glúmr cannot be taken at his word because he is quite stupid. The imbalance between the internal (identity) and external (face) sides of Glúmr’s self-worth must be set right one way or another: either his face must be enhanced or his identity must be reduced. The key factor in establishing Glúmr’s self-worth is that the means by which Glúmr sets things in balance is both verbal and physical in nature. By contrast, Vigfúss and his other guests “arrange [his] words” rather than “be extremely polite,” as he offers for the phrase in Víga-Glúms saga. 16 Morkinskinna 1–2, eds. Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, ÍF 23–4 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2011), vol. 1, p. 142. Compare Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade’s translation of the passage: “I know you and the king well enough to realize that you will not frame your words in a helpful way” (Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), trans. Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), p. 164). 17 Víga-Glúms saga, p. 18.

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad are only willing to venture words. Vigfúss’s guests “ýmissa orða leituðu” (“searched for various words”) to respond according to Vigfúss’s bidding to moderate their words. In fact, after Vigfúss does likewise, Bjǫrn mocks him for his reserved tactics of politeness, saying: “Vel er svarat ok hyggiliga, sem ván var at. Þú ert virðingamaðr mikill, ok gengit lengi at óskum líf þitt ok engi hnekking komit vegs þíns ok sóma. Nú er þat vel, at ek þarf ekki við þik annat at mæla en gott eitt, en spyrja vil ek þik, ef þú þykkisk jafn við mik.”18 (“Well and wisely spoken, as was expected. You are a very worthy man,19 and your life has for a long time gone according to your wishes, and no rebuff has come to you and your honor. Now it is well that I don’t need to say anything but good to you, but I will ask you, if you think yourself equal with me.”)

Bjǫrn has set a dangerous trap for Vigfúss. If he answers in the affirmative, then Bjǫrn will challenge him to a duel; if he says no, then Vigfúss has put his social status below Bjǫrn’s, which, after the accolades showered upon him by Bjǫrn, would set Bjǫrn up as almost kingly. Vigfúss defers by saying that he might have thought himself his equal when he was younger, but since he is older he cannot hope to be. Vigfúss has “moderated his words” adequately to avoid physical contest with Bjǫrn, but he has also suffered læging, the degradation of self-worth, because of it. Bjǫrn then feels justified in going around the room again asking all others in the room who among them thinks themselves his equal. It does not seem out of bounds to acknowledge a comparative episode in alliterative Middle English poetry. The speech situation in Víga-Glúms saga bears a striking resemblance to the opening scene in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.20 Just as Vigfúss’s feast occurs during the celebration of vetrnætr, or Winter Nights, King Arthur’s feast occurs at the time of the New Year/Christmas in Sir Gawain.21 In Víga-Glúms saga, Bjǫrn interrupts 18 ibid.

The Old Icelandic word here, virðingamaðr, can also mean “appraiser” in the sense of a tax collector. It is unclear whether Bjǫrn intends the doublemeaning to be a pun. 20 Though he does not mention Víga-Glúms saga, Magnús Fjalldal has recently discussed possible Scandinavian connections to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by way of the “Evil at Christmas” and “Christmas Visitors” motifs. See his “A Scandinavian Link to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight?,” Arv: Nordic Yearbook of Folklore 69 (2013), pp. 47–57. See also Terry Gunnell, “The Coming of the Christmas Visitors … Folk Legends Concerning the Attacks on Icelandic Farmhouses Made by Spirits at Christmas,” Northern Studies 38 (2004), pp. 51–75. To my knowledge no comparisons of Víga-Glúms saga and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight on linguistic terms, pragmatic or otherwise. 21 The timing of the events early in Sir Gawain are interesting, as the poem refers to the time of year as New Year (ll. 60, 105, 284, and elsewhere), Christmas 19

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature the feast and aims to “[leita] þar orða við menn” (use words to spar with men there) in the hope that someone would say something to justify his challenging them to a duel.22 Likewise, the Green Knight enters Arthur’s feast and berates Arthur and his guests in hopes that someone will take up his challenge of the beheading game. Just as Bjǫrn mocks Vigfúss for not fighting, the Green Knight mocks Arthur and his guests because they will not take the challenge: “What, is þis Arþures hous […] Þat al þe rous rennes of þurȝ ryalmes so mony? / Where is now your sourquydrye and your conquestes, / Your gryndellayk and your greme and your grete wordes?”23 Previous discussions in the present volume will suffice to demonstrate the Green Knight’s tactics of asking questions to which he already knows the answer, and it is not insignificant that the Green Knight challenges Arthur’s court on their “sourquydrye” (pride) and “grete wordes” (great words). Bjǫrn goes around the room challenging all the guests in the same way, just as the Green Knight challenges the knights of the round table. Gawain must intervene when the king feels compelled at the last to take the challenge himself because no one else is willing, just as Glúmr feels obliged to step up and address the situation properly for the same reason. The greatest difference between the two scenes may be that Glúmr is deemed of the least social worth in Vigfúss’s hall whereas Gawain is Arthur’s best knight, but this difference too is resolved in the end. After Glúmr dispatches the over-matched Bjǫrn, Vigfúss explains that he is now willing to give Glúmr the honor he deserves and that he was waiting for Glúmr to prove himself: “Vilda ek þess at bíða, er þú fœrðir þik með skǫrungskap í þína ætt” (“I was waiting for this—that by way of some noble deed you show yourself to be worthy of your

(ll. 37, 471, 502, and elsewhere), and Yule (284, 500), which are all slightly different but which all refer to the time at the beginning of the new solar year. One interesting example occurs when Arthur calls for a Christmas game: “Forþy I craue in þis court a Crystemas gomen, / For hit is ȝol and Nwe Ȝer …” Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. J. R. R. Tolkien and E. V. Gordon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), ll. 283–4a.There is not space here to conduct a thorough pragmatic analysis of the opening scene of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Suffice it to say here that the Gawain poet exhibits a masterful understanding of the principles of pragmatics at work in the narrative. Some work on the pragmatics in Sir Gawain has been done by A. Keith Kelly, in his “Teaching Good Manners: Civil Discourse Patterns in Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” in Bryan and Ames, Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North, pp. 223–42; and in the honors thesis by Rebecca Marcolina, “An Offer You Can’t Refuse: An Examination of Face Manipulation in The Godfather & Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” Missouri University of Science and Technology, dir. Eric Bryan, 2019. 22 Víga-Glúms saga, 17. 23 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ll. 309–12.

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad heritage”).24 The ordeal has proven Glúmr worthy of acknowledgement as a member of Vigfúss’s lineage and of a seat in Vigfúss’s hall.25 All of this leads back to an understanding of the phrase orðum stilla. Glúmr takes issue with what he perceives to be weakness on the part of the Norwegians in the room. The cultural currency at play in this scene is self-worth and social status as evinced by the semantic field working throughout the co-text of the scene: skǫrungskap, læging, virðingamaðr, sómi, jafnask, and þykkisk jafn (and in Sir Gawain, sourquydrye, though used mockingly). Additionally, as Richard North has pointed out, Bjǫrn’s initial taunt – asking whether anyone thinks themselves “jafnsnjallr” (equal) to him – bears a connotation of equality not only in bravery but also in eloquence.26 Snjallr, which at one and the same time connotes “bravery” and “eloquence,” becomes the principle that not only sets Glúmr above Bjǫrn but that also unifies the two components of Glúmr’s self-worth. Thus, according to the cultural context at work in the scene, self-worth could not possibly be determined by eloquence alone (a conveyor and defender of external face) or by only bravery (a characteristic of internal identity); self-worth must be dictated by both. As a result, the cultural currency at play here is gained and lost by means not only of how one manages or moderates one’s words (orðum stilla) but by a demonstration of bravery as well. Bjǫrn’s (and the Green Knight’s) mockery targets the fact that Vigfúss (and Arthur) talks too much and acts too little, but such, ironically, is also the weakness Glúmr’s mockery targets in Bjǫrn. When Glúmr says, “En hér hefi ek vitat alla bezt orðum stilla” (“But here I have noticed that everyone does their best to moderate their words”), the “everyone” (alla) not only includes Vigfúss and his guests but also Bjǫrn.27 Likewise, the spatial-deictic expression “here” (hér) must be set in contrast to Glúmr’s previous reference to Iceland (“út á Íslandi”), such that “hér” does not refer only to Vigfúss’s hall but to all of Norway. A pragmatic reading of this scene, then, must include an implicature based on the cultural and semantic contexts evident in the episode, so that Glúmr’s statement to Bjǫrn ought to read, “But here [(spatial deixis) IMPL: in Norway] I have noticed that everyone [(personal deixis) IMPL: including Vigfúss, his guests, and Bjǫrn] does their Víga-Glúms saga, p. 19. Whether Gawain retains his self-worth in the end is of course a question of much debate and interpretation. See, for instance, J. J. Anderson, “The Three Judgments and the Ethos of Chivalry in ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” The Chaucer Review 24 (1990), pp. 337–55; and Derek Pearsall, “Courtesy and Chivalry in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: The Order of Shame and the Invention of Embarrassment,” in A Companion to the Gawain-Poet, ed. Derek Brewer and Jonathan Gibson (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997), pp. 351–62. 26 North, “Authorship of Víga-Glúms saga,” p. 262. North’s interpretation is confirmed by CV, s.v., “snjallr.” 27 Víga-Glúms saga, pp. 18–19.

24

25

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature best to moderate their words [IMPL: when they ought to resort to action].” Glúmr confirms this pragmatic assessment by subsequently beating Bjǫrn savagely and throwing him out in the cold. One important distinction between Gawain and Glúmr may be made in the types of face they each wager on the challenges they accept. Both Sir Gawain and Glúmr wager relational face: Glúmr aims to demonstrate his place in his ætt by receiving approval from his grandfather, just as Gawain fights not only for himself but for the approval of his uncle, King Arthur.28 Both Glúmr and Gawain also risk social-identity face, but in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Gawain’s relational face and social identity face are essentially one and the same (Arthur and Arthur’s court, respectively).29 In this episode of Víga-Glúms saga, Glúmr relational face differs from his social identity face. His relational face refers to his ætt, specifically to his grandfather, but his social identity face refers not to his grandfather’s hall but to his Icelandic cultural identity. This is a vital distinction because it grants Glúmr the license to seek the approval of his ætt, his grandfather, while at the same time criticize the Norwegian cultural identity. Glúmr, as a member of his ætt, transcends the cultural and national boundaries to win the approval of his grandfather and a seat as his table, but as an Icelander, he criticizes the Norwegians in the room for being too polite, that is, for using words when they ought to be using actions to resolve a situation. The fact that he registers his criticism by way of indirectness and implicature signals (a) that Glúmr (as a representative Icelander) knows full well how to use indirectness in speech, even speech that is critical or aggressive in nature and (b) more importantly, Glúmr (unlike the Norwegians in the room) knows when to leave off “doing things with words,” to invoke J. L. Austin, and get things done with action instead.

Gunnlaugr’s Tour of the North In other Íslendingasögur, similar criticism of leaders in the North is executed through dialogue rather than narrative, depicting an Icelandic cultural identity that goes beyond just a sense of self-awareness and social consciousness. In the course of Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, Gunnlaugr takes a tour of the North, visiting the leaders of Hlaðir, Norway; London, ibid., 19. c.f. CV, s.v. “ætt,” where this quotation is referenced specifically. There, the lexicographers determine ætt to denote “friends,” presumably meaning the “friends” Glúmr has now made in Norway or possibly his friends at home. As my reading suggests, ætt should here remain more closely aligned with the more common connotation of “family” and “heritage.” 29 See Jonathan Culpeper‘s comments on ways that social identity face and relational face might be identical: Impoliteness, pp. 28–9. 28

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad England; Dublin, Ireland; then the Orkney Islands; Skarar and Uppsala, Sweden; back to England; back to Norway; and finally back to Iceland.30 Gunnlaugr in fact meets with every meaningful leader in the Anglo-Norse world with the (conspicuous?) exception of Sveinn Forkbeard in Denmark. All of these leaders were Norse speaking except Æþelræd. However, the saga writer makes the well-known claim that “the language in England was then the same as that spoken in Norway and Denmark” (“[e]in var þá tunga á Englandi sem í Nóregi ok í Danmörku”), an assertion that has been a source of interest and debate for scholars who argue for an affinity between Old English and Old Norse languages.31 It is difficult to prove the validity of the saga’s statement, but such arguments may be missing another important point. Regardless of the historical or linguistic validity of the claim, the saga writer aims to establish a literary and cultural context in which the titular character of the saga is literally conversant with leaders of the northern medieval world. Gunnlaugr’s ability to converse with these leaders is the key factor to understanding the saga because, as I argue here, it is through Gunnlaugr’s verbal exchanges with these leaders that the saga writer articulates a commentary on the sociopolitical conditions of the northern world. Thus, a pragmatic analysis of Gunnlaugr’s verbal exchanges with these leaders affords the opportunity to see how at least one saga writer perceives Iceland’s proximity to and perception of the geopolitical situation in the North just after the turn of the millennium, when the saga is set. When Gunnlaugr appears before Earl Eiríkr at Hlaðir, the earl notices that Gunnlaugr has a nasty boil on his foot (which is never explained). The earl remarks that Gunnlaugr is not limping, to which Gunnlaugr responds that one should not limp as long as his legs are the same length. One of the Earl’s followers, Þórir, takes exception to Gunnlaugr’s comment and says, “Þessi rembisk mikit, Íslendingrinn, ok væri vel, at vér freistaðim hans nökkut” (“This Icelander puffs himself up quite a lot, and it would be good if we tested him a little”).32 It is unclear what type of test Þórir has in mind, but it is instructive to compare this scene with the verbal exchange in Beowulf in which Unferð and Beowulf argue about the swimming contest with Breca.33 Both Þórir and Unferð are close Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, pp. 49–107. ibid., p. 70. For an overview of these arguments, see Stephen Pax Leonard, Language, Society and Identity in Early Iceland, Publications of the Philological Society 45 (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), pp. 124–6 and, earlier, Magnús Fjalldal‘s “How Valid is the Anglo-Scandinavian Language Passage in Gunnlaug’s Saga as Historical Evidence,” Neophilologus 77 (1993), pp. 601–9, at pp. 601–4 , but note especially Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson’s comments in Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 70, n. 2, and H. R. Loyn, The Vikings in Britain (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1977), p. 30. 32 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 69. 33 c.f. Thalia Phillies Feldman, “The Taunter in Ancient Epic: The Iliad, Odyssey, 30 31

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature to their lords – Þórir is hirðmaðr (bodyguard or follower) to Earl Eiríkr while Unferð “æt fótum sæt fréan Scyldinga” (sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings);34 both Gunnlaugs saga and Beowulf depict a confident foreigner entering the court of a local king or earl; in both cases the lord’s man feels threatened by the newcomer – Þórir says Gunnlaugr is quite arrogant while Unferð is described as believing no one is more heroic than he himself;35 and both Þórir and Unferð challenge the newcomer – Unferð offers a more specific and involved challenge while Þórir simply says it would be good if we tested him. In Beowulf, at least, the contest is a verbal one, and so it seems in Gunnlaugs saga as well. It is also common to both narratives that the newcomer trounces the incumbent – Beowulf thoroughly dismantles Unferð by emphasizing his own prowess and then pointing out Unferð’s weaknesses, and Gunnlaugr simultaneously insults Þórir and displays his own discursive prowess by composing a poem about Þórir that implied the earl must not trust him: Hirðmaðr es einn, sá’s einkar meinn; trúið hónum vart, hann’s illr ok svartr.36 (Here’s a king’s man who is especially dangerous; he should be trusted little, he is evil and black.)

Seemingly unable to stomach the insult, Þórir draws his axe. It would be easy to perceive this exchange with the earl and Þórir as a mere gaffe on the part of a young, hot-headed Icelander abroad.37 However, a pragmatic analysis of the scene, along with the recognition of similarities between it and Beowulf, indicates an example of a failed attempt at engaging in the conflictive principle, which dictates that two strangers in the heroic world verbally challenge or insult one another in order to sort out their respective social status. The strangers should offer and receive threats to face in a way that indicates their own social worth while at the same time challenging the worth of the opponent. Should one or the other of the discussants lose their cool or show themselves to be unaware of the rules of the conflictive principle, they then reveal themselves to be of low social status. Beowulf is able to enact the Aeneid, and Beowulf,” Papers on Language & Literature 15 (1979), pp. 3–16, at pp. 7–8. 34 Klaeber’s Beowulf, ll. 500. 35 ibid., ll. 503–5 36 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 69. 37 See Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, “The Individual and Social Values in Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu,” SS 60:2 (1988), pp. 257–66, at p. 250.

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad conflictive principle with Unferð by touting his own accomplishments in his swimming contest with Breca while, in the same speech act, exposing Unferð as more or less a cowardly, fratricidal drunkard, to which Unferð has no response. Similarly, when Gunnlaugr registers a threat to face, Þórir’s only response is to reach for his axe, and so by losing lost his cool Þórir fails to enact the conflictive principle properly. Earl Eiríkr stops Þórir from escalating the exchange into physical violence, but Gunnlaugr continues with the same posture when Earl Eiríkr offers his own threat to face against Gunnlaugr by suggesting that the young Icelander is not likely to live long given the way he speaks.38 Gunnlaugr returns the face-threatening act by suggesting that Earl Eiríkr should worry about his own life so that, “[… ] þú fengir eigi þvílíkan dauðdaga sem Hákonar jarl, faðir þinn” (“you do not meet your death in the same way as Earl Hákon, your father”).39 Here, Gunnlaugr refers to Hákon Sigurðarson, who was killed in a most demeaning way – beheaded after being dragged from the pigsty where he had been hiding. Earl Eiríkr’s response to this threat to face is reminiscent of King Haraldr’s response to Skalla-Grímr’s usage of tvíræði (double-meaning) to insult the king. Haraldr, it will be remembered, is said to turn dreyrrauðan, bloodred, with anger, and Skalla-Grímr is quickly ushered from the room. Earl Eiríkr, too, is said to become “svá rauðan sem blóð” (as red as blood) and Gunnlaugr is ushered from the room. It may not be immediately clear where any tvíræði could be found in Gunnlaugr’s insult to Earl Eiríkr, but there is at least the chance to read a double meaning in Gunnlaugr’s words. The most obvious reading of Gunnlaugr’s statement is as a threat to Eiríkr’s social worth, but within the cultural context, specifically regarding his father’s history, another reading suggests a redoubled threat to Þórir, the earl’s follower. Eiríkr’s father unmistakably came to a disgraceful end, but as is well-documented in chapters 48–9 of Heimskringla – a work that the author of Gunnlaugs saga seems to have had access to – Hákon was betrayed by a trusted thrall, which led to Hákon’s disgraceful end. So while we might read the implicature of Gunnlaugr’s statement as saying, careful you don’t ended up dead in a pigsty, we might also read it as further warning against Þórir, Eiríkr’s trusted servant, as to say, [IMPL: careful not to trust the man standing directly to your right—a.k.a., Þórir, your hirðmaðr, who, by the way, I’ve already told you once (in my poem) cannot be trusted.] However the reader – or more to the point, Eiríkr – chooses to interpret the statement from Gunnlaugr, it is a statement that requires interpretation. The illocution, in other words, is ambiguous, which puts the responsibility of interpretation on the recipient of the utterance. In 38

This is similar to King Haraldr’s tolerance with Sneglu-Halli’s aggressive language: Sneglu-Halla þáttr, p. 265. 39 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 69.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature exchanges like this one, and the one discussed earlier between SkallaGrímr and King Haraldr, that onus of interpretation becomes a kind of capital that authors can spend to depict characters or concepts in a positive or negative light. Skalla-Grímr uses indirectness that parades as politeness to cause offense (indirect aggression), whereas Gunnlaugr uses indirectness that parades as offensiveness in an attempt to establish a positive relationship (the conflictive principle). Skalla-Grímr succeeds; although Gunnlaugr fails (or is it Eiríkr who fails?), in a later episode Gunnlaugr’s poetry restores him to Eiríkr’s good graces. In both cases, it is the Norwegian leaders, King Haraldr and Earl Eiríkr, who come off looking foolish. Like Skalla-Grímr’s speech, a pragmatic reading of Gunnlaugr’s speech situation shows him to be clever, well informed, aggressive, and unwilling to submit to the Norwegian Earl Eiríkr or his men, while both the earl and his right-hand man come off looking rather clumsy and unable to respond gracefully to threats to face offered by Gunnlaugr: a classic blunder when engaging in the conflictive principle. This discourse-driven criticism in Gunnlaugs saga might be ignored or explained away were it to have occurred only the once with Earl Eiríkr, but the same thing subsequently happens several more times. When Gunnlaugr later travels to London to meet King Æþelræd unræd, the saga writer again shows himself to be well informed about historical events in the medieval North. Based on context and historical references, it seems Gunnlaugr arrives in England in the winter of 1002 or early 1003 and stayed the winter.40 That particular winter was a crucial moment in Anglo-Saxon history, for it was on November 13th of that winter that the St. Brice’s Day massacre is said to have occurred, when King Æþelræd ordered the mass killing of Danes in England who were thought to be conspiring against him. Magnús Fjalldal has argued that the writer of Gunnlaugs saga betrays a lack of knowledge of Anglo-Saxon history by not referring at all to the St. Brice’s Day massacre. According to Magnús, “no reference is made to these turbulent times, and Gunnlaug is kept snug

40

For a discussion of the timing of Gunnlaugr’s excursions, see Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, “Formáli,” Borgfirðinga sǫgur, pp. lviii–lix. As noted by Magnús Fjalldal, this timing of Gunnlaugr’s first trip to England is agreed upon by all editors of the saga. See his Anglo-Saxon England in Icelandic Medieval Texts (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), p. 5. Just before Gunnlaugr arrives, it is said that Æþelræd was spending the winter in London and later that Gunnlaugr spent the winter with him in England. From these textual references and other context, we may deduce either that Gunnlaugr was in England as the St. Brice’s Day massacre occurs or that he had arrived just after it. There are no overt references to the event in the saga, but as the present analysis suggests, the saga writer seems to use Gunnlaugr as a mouthpiece to criticize King Æþelræd for this and other weaknesses in his reign, despite the praise given the king at the opening of the chapter in question.

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad in a historical vacuum during his stay with the king.”41 However, this assessment seems inconsistent with the evidence on several levels both within and outside the saga. For one thing, it goes against the general reputation of Icelanders with contemporary historians in the region. Saxo Grammaticus (c.1150–1220) remarks that he has “scrutinized [Icelanders’] store of historical treasures and composed a considerable part of this present work by copying [Icelanders’] narratives, not scorning, where I recognized such skill in ancient lore, to take these men as witnesses,”42 and Theodoricus monachus (Þórir munkur) calls Icelanders “… the people among whom in particular the remembrance of these matters [of the ancient history of Norwegian kings] is believed to thrive – namely those whom we call Icelanders, who preserve them as much celebrated themes in their ancient poems.”43 Of those Icelandic writers, the author of Gunnlaugs saga goes to great lengths to demonstrate a knowledge (whether accurate or not may be argued) of history and politics in the medieval North: he has noted that the language spoken in England was the same as that spoken in Denmark and Norway; he mentions William the Conqueror and his claiming of the throne in England; he demonstrates a knowledge of Sigtryggr and his reign in Ireland; he knows about the lord of Orkney and his posture towards Icelanders; he demonstrates a knowledge of the geography and travel routes throughout Scandinavia both by land and by water; he understands the delicate relationships between the leaders in Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and England; and on Gunnlaugr’s second trip to England, the narrative notes that a large Danish army (led by Sveinn Forkbeard) has come to the country. The writer of Gunnlaugs saga may be right or wrong about these historical events and details, but he clearly shows a desire to engage with history and politics as he knows them. It may also be objected that the author of Gunnlaugs saga was unaware of the St. Brice’s Day massacre, but this too seems unlikely. By the time the saga was composed (probably late thirteenth century), the events of St. Brice’s Day, 1002 were all but common knowledge throughout the North. It had been recorded in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, William of Jumièges, The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, The Chronicle of Henry Huntingdon, and William of Malmesbury. Furthermore, according to Ian Howard, the massacre was seen in Denmark “as a treacherous attack on Magnús Fjalldal, “How Valid,” p. 607; and see his Anglo-Saxon England, p. 5, where he discusses the same text. 42 Saxo Grammaticus, The Histories of the Danes, Books I-IX, ed. Hilda Ellis Davidson, trans. Peter Fisher (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1979–80), p. 5. For more on this point see Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, p. 287. 43 Theodoricus monachus, Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium—An Account of the Ancient History of the Norwegian Kings, trans. David and Ian McDougall (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998) p. 41. 41

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Scandinavians who were settled in parts of England” and in fact became part of the motivation for Sveinn Forkbeard’s invasion in 1003.44 While it may be difficult to get inside the head of the author of Gunnlaugs saga, the St. Brice’s Day massacre was just the sort of significant and visible event in the histories of the time that the saga writer liked to comment upon. Further, as Jonathan Wilcox has concisely pointed out, Viking attacks had been the broad shaping force of English history since they began in the late eighth century. […] The [ninth] century saw the expansion of English political power into the Danelaw, but the reign of Æthelred (978–1016) was preoccupied by a Viking problem. In 991, Æthelred’s ranking ealdorman was defeated by a Viking army in a battle near Maldon. […] Thereafter, Æthelred began trying to buy off Viking attacks with the payment of vast tributes known as danegeld.45

Considering the historical importance of the St. Brice’s Day massacre, the saga writer’s obvious interest in history, the widespread knowledge of the Massacre throughout the region, and the fact that the saga writer places his titular character with the king in England during the winter of 1002/1003, within mere months of the Massacre, it seems too much of a coincidence to ignore. In short, the thought that this saga writer in particular would fail to comment on the St. Brice’s Day massacre seems unlikely to say the least. But why would the saga writer not overtly comment on the Massacre? It seems to be the case that, while Gunnlaugs saga tends to use narrative to present aspects of history and geography, the saga’s outright criticisms of kings and other leaders in the medieval North appears not by narrative commentary of events but rather through discourse that use indirectness to communicate often harsh or embarrassing criticism. Such is the case with regard to Æþelræd’s act of executing as many as forty Scandinavians on St. Brice’s Day, 1002. Internally, the evidence for the saga writer’s commentary on St. Brice’s Day massacre is also strong but must be read through the lens of indirectness in speech. The key verbal exchange occurs during Gunnlaugr’s first stay in London, when he has been made a follower of the king due to a laudatory poem he recited for him. Gunnlaugr has lent money (against his better judgement) to a man named Þórormr, who in return refuses to pay back what he owes. When Gunnlaugr tells the king about the loan and the fact that Þórormr refuses to repay Gunnlaugr, the following exchange takes place:

Ian Howard, Swein Forkbeard’s Invasions and the Danish Conquest of England, 991–1017 (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2003), p. 20. 45 Jonathan Wilcox, “The St. Brice’s Day Massacre and Archbishop Wulfstan,” in Peace and Negotiation: Strategies of Coexistence in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Diane Wolfthal (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), pp. 79–91. at p. 81. 44

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad Konungr svarar: “Nú hefir lítt til tekizk; þessi er inn mesti ránsmaðr ok víkingr, ok eig ekki við hann, en ek skal fá þér jafnmikit fé.” Gunnlaugr svarar: “Illa er oss þá farit,” segir hann, “hirðmönnum yðrum, göngum upp á saklausa menn, en láta slíka sitja yfir váru, ok skal þat aldri verða.”46 (The king answered, “Now things have gone poorly; this [man] is the worst thief (ránsmaðr) and Viking (víkingr); have nothing to do with him, and I will pay you an equal amount of money.” Gunnlaugr answers, “In that case your followers would have become a wretched/ pathetic group,” he said, “we gang up on innocent men but let such [men] as this walk all over us; that will never be.”)

Several key elements of Gunnlaugr’s statement to King Æþelræd indicate a criticism not only of Æþelræd’s response to the unpleasantness with Þórormr but also, indirectly, a criticism of the king’s atrocities during the St. Brice’s Day massacre. First, Æþelræd refers to Þórormr as a ránsmaðr and a víkingr. The word víkingr is a clear reference to the seafaring “Danes” who had been inflicting such damage on England since Æþelræd assumed power. As Cleasby and Vigfússon put it, “… in the Icel[andic] Sagas [the word is] used specially of the bands of Scandinavian warriors, who during the 9th and 10th centuries harried the British Isles and Normandy.”47 There is no mistaking that the co-textual significance of this passage points to the very people that were such a burden to England during Æþelræd’s reign, as Wilcox has aptly pointed out. (And even though the writer of Gunnlaugs saga may not have known it, the Old English poem “The Battle of Maldon.” uses the same word (wicing) used to refer to the attackers at Maldon.48) This co-text in mind, when Gunnlaugs saga depicts King Æþelræd unræd as overly eager to “pay” (fá) Gunnlaugr for what he has lost to this “víkingr,” Þórormr (a Norse name), the informed reader must think not only of the Viking attacks on tenth-century England but also the exorbitant amounts of gold, the danegeld, Æþelræd paid out to stop Viking attacks. Since any reading of indirectness in speech is dependent upon the cultural and speech-situational context of the utterance, recognizing this cultural context is vital for understanding Gunnlaugr’s response to the king. Without that context, one phrase in particular seems especially Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 72. CV, s.v. “víkingr.” 48 See “The Battle of Maldon,” in The Anglo-Saxon Minor Poems. Vol. 3 of The Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records, ed. G. P. Krapp and E. V. K. Dobbie (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1942), ll. 26, 73, 97, 116, 139, and 322. My point here is not to suggest that the writer of Gunnlaugs saga was familiar with “The Battle of Maldon” but that the word víkingr/wicing was widespread enough in the medieval Northern world that it is not insignificant that the saga writer uses it in this specific context. 46 47

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature inaccessible: “göngum upp á saklausa menn” (“we gang up on innocent men”). The syntax is clearly arranged to contrast this phrase with the phrase “láta slíka sitja yfir váru” (“let such a man as this walk all over us”). It is clear who “such men” are: they are Þórormr and his fellow Vikings, who have taken money from Gunnlaugr and who, after the king’s description of him as a víkingr, must be associated with the Vikings who have harried England for so long. It is also clear that the “we” refers to the king’s men, since Gunnlaugr is now counted among their numbers (though he would not have been at the time of the massacre). The phrase saklausa menn, “innocent men,” however, is never explained. In the context of Gunnlaugr’s trouble with Þórormr, it might be tempting to assume that it refers to Gunnlaugr, who is innocent in his dealings with Þórormr, but this assumption quickly falls apart because it is Þórormr, the víkingr, who has wronged Gunnlaugr, not the king’s men (“we”), who are clearly the agents of the phrase göngum upp ([we] gang up on) and who are the antecedents to the first-person plural pronouns used in Gunnlaugr’s utterance. But if the saklausa menn does not refer to Gunnlaugr, then whom did the king’s men (“we”) gang up on? In the context established by Æþelræd’s reference to víkingr and his over-eagerness to pay off what Þórormr has plundered instead of confronting him, it seems evident that Gunnlaugr refers not to himself as the saklausa menn, but to another group of innocent people: the forty-odd truly innocent (saklausa) people the king had slaughtered mere weeks (or at the most, months) before this confrontation between Gunnlaugr and Þórormr is said to have taken place. Factoring in the historical context of the St. Brice’s Day massacre, the cultural context of the decades of Viking raids that had taken place up to that point, Æþelræd’s excessive payments of the danegeld, and the speech-situational context already established in Gunnlaugr’s verbal exchange with Æþelræd, we may read the illocution of Gunnlaugr’s statement to the king thus: [IMPL:] how dare you slaughter those innocent people (saklausa menn) on St. Brice’s Day and then turn around and pay the debts of true perpetrators (víkingr) like Þórormr! Gunnlaugr, for one, will have none of it. “Skal þat aldri verða,” he says (“That will never be”). In the following scene, Gunnlaugr makes good on his word and challenges Þórormr to a duel and kills him. This reading of Gunnlaugr’s exchange with King Æþelræd of England fits well with the reading of Glúmr’s verbal exchanges with Bjǫrn in Vigfúss’s hall in Víga-Glúms saga. Here, as there, action is required rather than placation (as in Víga-Glúms saga) or payoffs (as in Gunnlaugs saga). In other brief encounters, the writer of Gunnlaugs saga again uses discourse rather than narrative commentary to criticize regional leadership. Gunnlaugr’s tour of the North continues when he leaves England for Dublin, where he recites a poem for King Sigtryggr at Dublin. Once again, whereas Gunnlaugr shows his pragmatic skill, King 134

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad Sigtryggr fails to do the same. No one has ever recited a poem in the king’s honor before (which leaves the reader to wonder why not, exactly), so Sigtryggr is confused about what an appropriate gift for Gunnlaugr might be. Sigtryggr tries to give Gunnlagr two knarrar in exchange for the poem, a gift far greater than the worth of the poem no matter how good it is, but fortunately the king’s treasurer intervenes to inform him that a more appropriate treasure would be a sword or gold bracelets. Sigtryggr finally decides to give Gunnlaugr a scarlet suit from the king’s own wardrobe. Again, the leader, this time Sigtryggr, comes off looking rather clumsy. Gunnlaugr then makes his way to Uppsala (via the Orkney Islands and Skarar, Sweden), where King Óláfr the Swede reigns. At court, Gunnlaugr meets his rival, an Icelander named Hrafn Önundarson, with whom Gunnlaugr competes for the duration of the saga. The two young men first compete to win the king’s favor and then later for the affections of Helga Þorsteinsdóttir, who was originally promised in marriage (though not formally betrothed) to Gunnlaugr but who later marries Hrafn after Gunnlaugr fails to return to Iceland after three years abroad, as his arrangement with Helga’s father dictated. The saga offers little clarity on whether Gunnlaugr or Hrafn should be considered the protagonist of the story, given that Hrafn betrays Gunnlaugr to marry Helga, on the one hand, and that Gunnlaugr is rather impetuous and demands satisfaction when his honor is challenged, on the other. Helga clearly favors Gunnlaugr, but that is not necessarily an indication of Gunnlaugr’s good quality.49 Scholars are thus divided on whether Gunnlaugr or Hrafn is the better of the two men. Gabriel Turville-Petre focuses on Gunnlaugr’s honorable and chivalric deeds,50 while Robert Cook and Preben Meulengracht Sørensen emphasize Gunnlaugr’s impetuousness, exaggerated sense of honor, and (what Sørensen reads as) Gunnlaugr’s brashness with Earl Eiríkr.51 Opinions will differ, but a pragmatic analysis of the initial verbal duel between the two Icelanders may offer some insight into this debate, particularly where the respective men’s selfworth and social context is concerned. The key falling out between the men occurs when Gunnlaugr wants to recite a poem for the king, as he has done for all the other leaders he has 49

Sørensen, “The Individual and Social Values,” pp. 247–66 Gabriel Turville-Petre, “Gísli Súrsson and His Poetry Tradition and Influences,” Modern Language Review 39 (1944), pp. 374–91 [rprt. in Nine Norse Studies (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1972), pp. 118–53], which may be most easily accessed here: http://www.vsnrweb-publications.org. uk/Text%20Series/Nine%20norse%20studies.pdf (Last accessed, 16 October 2019). 51 Robert G. Cook, “The Character of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue,” SS 43:1 (1971), pp. 1–21, at pp. 20–1; Sørensen, “The Individual and Social Values,” pp. 265–6. 50

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature visited on his tour of the North. When the king agrees, Hrafn interjects and says he would like to recite his poem first. The two exchange heated words, until Gunnlaugr asks, “Hvar kómu feðr okkrir þess […] at faðir minn væri eptir bátr föður þíns, hvar nema alls hvergi? Skal ok svá með okkr vera” (“Where did our fathers go that my father would follow in tow after your father, where but nowhere? So shall it be with us”).52 It should be clear from previous chapters that Gunnlaugr is using indirectness, specifically modal under-determinacy, to cause offense. Gunnlaugr’s question is clearly not meant as a direct inquiry but as indirect verbal aggression. The final phrase in his question, “hvar nema alls hvergi?” though still under-determinate, appeals to a kind of reinforceability due to its nature.53 Additionally, the comparisons of fathers bears a foreboding similarity to Brynhildr’s attack on Guðrún in Völsunga saga, where the former remarks, “Ek hugða, at minn faðir væri ríkari en þinn …” (“I thought my father was more powerful than yours …”), though in the Völsunga saga passage, the illocutionary aspect of the statement derives from the Ek hugða phrase rather than the syntax of the question put forward by Gunnlaugr.54 From here, the verbal exchange follows a pattern common to the indirect aggression discussed in chapter two of this volume. When Gunnlaugr recites his poem, the king asks Hrafn how well it was composed. Hrafn responds, “Vel, herra, […] þat er stórort kvæðit ok ófagrt ok nökkut stirðkveðit, sem Gunnlaugr er sjálfr í skaplyndi”55 (“Well, Lord, it is an ostentatious and unattractive poem, and a somewhat stiff poem, as Gunnlaugr himself is in temperament”).

After Hrafn recites his poem, the king in turn asks Gunnlaugr how well Hrafn’s poem was composed. Gunnlaugr responds, “Vel, herra, […] þetta er fagrt kvæði, sem Hrafn er sjálfr at sjá, ok yfirbragðslítit; eða hví ortir þú flokk um konunginn […] eða þótti þér hann eigi drápunnar verðr?”56 (“Well, Lord, […] this is as fine a poem as Hrafn himself is to look at, but there’s not much beneath the surface; and why did you compose a flokkr about the king […] did you not think he was worthy of a drápa?”) Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 80. In fact, Katrina C. Attwood translates the phrase directly: “nowhere, that’s where!” (The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue, in CSI 1, p. 319), which is perfectly in keeping with the way reinforceability discussed in chapter two of this volume. 54 Völsunga saga, p. 178. 55 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 80. 56 ibid. 52 53

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad Here, Gunnlaugr responds with a syntactical and lexical pattern that matches Hrafn’s statement, reusing the phrases “vel, herra” and “er sjálfr,” but Hrafn has used direct language to insult Gunnlaugr, whereas Gunnlaugr elevates his insult by shrouding it with indirectness: he begins with a compliment and then undermines it, and finally uses underdeterminacy (the final question) to suggest that Hrafn does not think highly enough of the king to compose a drápa. The real insult, however, may be that Hrafn is simply not capable of composing the longer and more complicated poetry required to make a drápa. Pragmatically, Gunnlaugr’s usage of indirectness is thus a sophistication of the verbal attack by Hrafn, showing that Gunnlaugr is the more discursively capable of the two men. Coming out on top of this verbal conflict does not necessarily suggest that Gunnlaugr is the better of the two men, but they have clearly met their match in one another. Gunnlaugr is the better poet and verbal dueler, while Hrafn clearly has the high esteem of the king. Not long after Gunnlaugr’s victory, the saga remarks that Hrafn is made one of the king’s men, which would be an unusual honor if the king had deemed him a lesser man. There is no mention of Gunnlaugr ever becoming the king’s man in Sweden, but that is likely because Gunnlaugr is by this time already a follower of King Æþelræd in England. When Gunnlaugr eventually leaves Sweden, it is said that the king gives him good gifts (“góðar gjafar”), the same language used to describe what he had given Hrafn.57 Perhaps the greatest takeaway with respect to the question of Icelanders abroad is that the two Icelanders are so evenly matched. Regardless of whoever ends up on top, it is fitting that Gunnlaugr and Hrafn should meet their match in one another rather than in someone from elsewhere in the North. Icelanders abroad regularly come off in the sagas as possessing a special aptitude with language, particularly language heavy with indirectness, as we have already seen not only in Gunnlaugr and Hrafn here, but also Víga-Glúmr Eyjólfsson, and in previous chapters in the characters of Kjartan Óláfsson and Sneglu-Halli – all of whom exhibit such a remarkable facility with indirectness in speech that they are able to rival kings and earls during travels abroad. All of these cases indicate an Icelandic cultural identity that distinguishes itself from its relatives in Norway and elsewhere in the North but that also feels it has the license and authority to criticize something about those Scandinavian cousins, resulting in a sense that Icelanders perceive themselves as preserving the best parts of an older and truer sense of their heritage. Other Northern leaders and societies have forgotten those parts of their past and have socially evolved in less than preferable ways, whereas Icelanders have

57

ibid., pp. 81 and 83.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature developed in a way that both preserves and advances their heritage more effectively than others in the North.

Icelanders Abroad in Morkinskinna This Icelandic aptitude for language is nowhere more evident than in Morkinskinna, the chronicle of the kings of Scandinavia. For instance, the earliest version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr, discussed in detail in chapter three of this volume, appears in Morkinskinna, but Halli is just one of many examples of Icelanders engaging in complex speech situations abroad. Around twenty Icelanders (depending on how one counts) feature in various stories and anecdotes related to the kings of the North. From a nationalistic perspective, it may not be terribly surprising that in Morkinskinna and other distinctively Icelandic sources such as Laxdœla saga and Gunnlaugs saga would highlight the accomplishments of Icelanders abroad, but the fact that saga writers so often highlighted Icelanders’ abilities with language lends special relevance to the study of discourse in Old Norse literature.58 As Ármann Jakobsson puts it, when Icelanders are in a position to prove their worth to others, “they have to make their own way, often with eloquence and poetic arts as their only weapons.”59 The Icelandic reputation abroad for eloquence may have in fact been grounded in history, as Saxo Grammaticus’ remarks mentioned above would indicate. Morkinskinna offers several illustrations of the Icelandic ability to apply pragmatic principles in bouts of eloquence and poetics, as may be exemplified in the brief story of Eldjárn, further identified only as an Icelander60 who lived at Husavík. The story occurs as a digression in the larger episode about King Magnús berfœttr (bare-leg) Óláfsson (1073– 1103), in which the king has taken a certain Norman into his service, named Giffarðr. Giffarðr looks the part, but during a key battle against Swedish forces,61 the Norman knight is nowhere to be found, only riding into camp after the victory has been won. Giffarðr’s cowardice earns him at disparaging poem composed by an unnamed poet fighting alongside the king: See Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, pp. 23–69, for a discussion of the origins and authorship for Morkinskinna. 59 ibid., p. 285. 60 Eldjárn is called a Norðmaður while he is in England (Morkinskinna vol. 2, p. 55), which may indicate that Icelanders are viewed outside of Norway and Iceland as Norwegian in nationality. See Morkinskinna vol. 2, p. 55, n. 1 and “Formáli” §10, and see Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, p. 277. 61 This battle is said to have taken place at Foxerni against king Ingi Steinkelsson of Sweden. According to Morkinskinna, the Norwegian forces take the Swedes by surprise and inflict heavy casualties, putting the Swedes to flight. Morkinskinna vol. 2, pp. 53–4. 58

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad Spurði gramr hvat gerði Giffarðr þars lið barðisk; vér ruðum vǫ́pn í dreyra, vasat hann kominn þannig. Framreiðar vas fnauði fulltrauðr af jó rauðum; vill hann eigi flokk várn fylla, falsk riddari enn valski.62 (The king asked what Giffarðr was doing where the host fought; we reddened weapons in blood; he did not appear there. The coward was completely unwilling to ride forth on his chestnut steed; he does not wish to complete our company; the Norman knight hides himself.)

For his poor conduct – and due to the scathing poem composed about him – Giffarðr gets a bad reputation and soon after leaves Norway for England. Eldjárn, the Icelander (having just returned from a trip to Constantinople), happens to be on the same ship to England. When stormy weather strikes the boat, all aboard must bail water, but Giffarðr again proves to be of little use. Eldjárn, noticing that Giffarðr is not helping bail, offers a poetic rebuke to the effect that Giffarðr should not be so lazy as to lie around while serious help is needed. Much offended by the poem, Giffarðr seeks out the first reeve he can find when the ship arrives in England to bring charges against Eldjárn for slander. Eldjárn denies the allegation and offers to recite the following poem before both Giffarðr and the reeve as evidence: Frák at flótta rǫ́kuð —falsk annat lið manna, þar vas harðr, es ek heyrða, hernaðr—á Foxerni. Varð hjalmþrimu herðis hǫ́r, þars staddir vǫ́ru, gangr, þars gauzka drengi Giffarðr í hel barði.63 (I heard that you pursued the flying host at Foxerni. Other warriors hid themselves. There was hard fighting, I heard. The warriors’ offensive was great, there where the warriors were present, where Giffarðr beat the Gautish warriors to death.)

The poem appears to the reeve to be nothing more than praise, but Giffarðr, “veit þat með sér at honum er þetta háð en eigi lof at því sem efni váru til, en vildi víst eigi gera þar bert fyri mǫnnum hversu hann hafði fram gengit á Foxerni” (knew deep down that this [poem] was 62 63

Morkinskinna vol. 2, p. 53. ibid., p. 55.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature mockery and not praise because of how things were [at Foxerni], but he did not want to make known to people how he had carried himself at Foxerni).64 Giffarðr unhappily departs without saying any more about Eldjárn’s slander. Eldjárn’s poem functions on more than just an ironic, sarcastic level; it demonstrates that the writer of Morkinskinna possesses a comprehensive understanding of cultural and speech-situational contexts, indirectness in the form of tvíræði, and implicature. For one thing, the poem is not at all close to the poem Eldjárn composes on the ship, which upbraided Giffarðr for not helping to bail the water from the ship. The poem Eldjárn recites before the English reeve instead has important, if subtle connections with the original poem composed by the unnamed poet in Norway. Eldjárn embeds the subtlety in a reversal that only those acquainted with the Foxerni poem would recognize: the second and eighth lines of the Foxerni poem – “[…] lið barðisk” (the host fought) and “falsk riddari enn valski” (the Norman knight hid himself) – correspond with the eighth and second lines of Eldjárn’s poem – “Giffarðr í hel barði” (Giffarðr beat [the Gautish warriors] to death) and “Giffarðr í hel barði (Giffarðr beat [the Gautish warriors] to death) “falsk annat lið manna” (other warriors hid themselves), as illustrated in table 4:

Table 4. Poetic inversion

Spurði gramr hvat gerði Giffarðr þars lið barðisk; vér ruðum vöpn í dryra, vasat hann kominn þannig. framreiðar vas fnauði fulltrauðr af jó rauðum; vill hann eigi flokk várn fylla, falsk riddari enn valski.

64

Frák at flótta rökuð —falsk annat lið manna, þar vas harðr, es ek heyrða, hernaðr—á Foxerni. varð hjalmþrimu herðis hör, þars staddir vöru, gangr, þars gauzka drengi Giffarðr í hel barði.

ibid., p. 56.

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad As may be observed in the above table, line two, Eldjárn’s poem exchanges the subject of line eight of the first poem, so that instead of reading “falsk riddari enn valski” (the Norman knight hid himself), Eldjarn’s poem reads “falsk annat lið manna” (other warriors hid themselves). Eldjarn’s poem likewise reverses the subject of the phrase “lið barðisk” (the host fought) to “Giffarðr … barði” (Giffarðr … beat). These poetic devices signal a reversal of the subjects of the poems to indicate that whatever good or valorous thing Giffarðr is said to have done in Eldjárn’s poem should be attributed to the king’s men, not Giffarðr. This is further borne out by the fact that, in actuality, if Giffarðr had indeed “chased those who fled the battle,” as Eldjárn’s poem suggests, it was not because he had defeated them but because he also was fleeing the king’s company, and while it may be true that “other men hid,” according to Eldjárn’s poem, it was because (as the narrator has described earlier in the episode) the king’s men had set an ambush for (i.e., “hid from”) the Gautish forces. Eldjárn’s poetic sleight of hand illustrates, pragmatically, that he has a keen understanding of the speech situation and of the respective recipients of his poem. In effect, Eldjárn divides the hearers of his poem into two respective speech situations: one that knows what happened at Foxerni or that has at least heard the poem originally composed about Giffarðr at Foxerni, and one that does not. For anyone who knows the context, the poem is an insult bearing the implicature that Giffarðr is a coward; for anyone who does not, the poem is praise. Eldjárn thus tasks Giffarðr with the impossible decision of whether to expose his own cowardice in order to illustrate the context in which Eldjárn’s poem is insulting or to preserve the reeve’s context in which the poem is not insulting. Either way, Giffarðr loses face: he is either a coward or he has wrongfully brought a legal suit against another person. It may not be an overstatement to put Eldjárn, the otherwise unnamed Icelander of Morkinskinna, on a level of pragmatic prowess even with Sneglu-Halli, who so ably offers tvíræði, or double-meaning, in his encounters abroad. In addition to Eldjárn and Sneglu-Halli, Morkinskinna offers a host of other Icelanders who illustrate a similar ability to manipulate principles of speech and politeness abroad. A few important examples are worth a brief mention. Hreiðarr heimski (the foolish) Þorgrímsson comes to Norway with his brother, Þórðr, who is a retainer to King Magnús the Good. When he meets the king, Hreiðarr (though otherwise socially awkward, to say the least) shows himself to understand the principles of self-worth and face that lie behind the conflictive principle even though he does rather an odd job of it. “Ek vilda sjá þik, konungr” (“I wanted to see you, king”), says Hreiðarr upon meeting the king.65 The Icelander and the king then engage in a complicated appraisal of one another, in 65

Morkinskinna vol.1, pp. 155–6.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature which the king eventually disrobes and the Icelander circles him as he assays the king. In a story about King Haraldr Sigurðarson, the king and another Icelander, Stúfr enn blindi (the blind), engage in a verbal exchange similar to the one that takes place between Sneglu-Halli and King Haraldr.66 Stúfr engages the king in a series of coy riddles and challenges, even committing the king to honor certain promises before he has heard the request. Like Sneglu-Halli, Stúfr is rewarded by being taken into the king’s service. In another story, King Haraldr appraises the Icelander Brandr ǫrvi (the open-handed) Vermundarson, who, according to King Haraldr’s skald, is worthy of being the king of Iceland. King Haraldr decides to test Brandr’s generosity and orders his skald to make a series of requests of Brandr on the king’s behalf. These requests escalate until the king, still having offered no compensation, requests Brandr’s cloak. Brandr again offers what has been asked for, but this time he tears one sleeve off the cloak. Rather than be insulted, the king responds, “Þessi maðr er bæði vitr ok stórlyndr” (“this man is both wise and of a proud disposition”) and goes on to explain that Brandr has torn the sleeve off because he perceives that the king has only one hand, and with that hand is only able to receive, not to give.67 The word vitr (“wise”) used to describe Brandr is more or less uncomplicated, but stórlyndr is more difficult to render in modern English. While “magnanimous” generally aligns with the speech-situational context – in which Brandr generously gives to the king – the king describes Brandr as vitr and stórlyndr only after Brandr has exhibited frustration with the king’s treatment of him.68 Andersson and Gade translate vitr ok stórlyndr rather as “wise and self-assertive,” which perhaps more accurately reflects the complexity of personality that would respond to the king as Brandr has.69 It seems reasonable, however, to translate the phrase (though it may seem awkward in modern English) “wise and of a proud disposition,” as to say that Brandr is “wise” for honoring the king’s requests, but he is not willing to sacrifice his own self-worth and dignity in the process.70 However stórlyndr may be read, King Haraldr clearly appreciates that Brandr is vitr ok stórlyndr and calls Brandr to himself to bestow upon him proper gifts and honors. Brandr thus shows the king some backbone, perhaps not unlike Þorsteinn Þorvarðsson who stands up to the daunting CairnDweller of Kumlbúa þáttr. While perhaps not a complete example of the ibid.,p. 293. The episode appears shortly after Sneglu-Halla þáttr in Morkinskinna. 67 Morkinskinna vol. 1, pp. 230–2. 68 See CV, s.v. “stórlyndi,” f., magnanimity. 69 Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle, p. 220. 70 Consider CV, s.v. “stórr,” II.2: pride and “lyndi,” temper, disposition. 66

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad conflictive principle, the mindset of that pragmatic approach remains nevertheless in evidence throughout this exchange. The narratives discussed here, along with other stories of Icelanders abroad in Morkinskinna – Halldórr Snorrason, Auðunn from the Westfjörds and his gift of a polar bear for King Sveinn, Þorvarðr krákunef (crow-nose) and his (rejected) gift of a sail for King Haraldr, Oddr Ófeigsson and how he hoodwinked King Haraldr, Þorarinn stuttfeldr (short-cloak) and the insults he trades with one of King Sigurðr’s men – further demonstrate not only that the writer of Morkinskinna has a thoroughly-developed understanding of what we now call principles of pragmatics but also that the author employs pragmatics to demonstrate the self-worth of Icelanders abroad.71

Conclusion A pragmatic analysis of verbal exchanges of Icelanders abroad adds dimension to some of the recent studies of Icelandic identity in a broader geopolitical context by clarifying the continuity between the twelfth and thirteenth-century Icelandic perceptions of landnámsmenn – who were, like Skalla-Grímr, perceived as brave and adroit speakers against tyrants – and the later Icelandic sense of self. The present study affirms Ann-Marie Long’s observation that saga accounts of Icelanders abroad “allowed Icelanders to claim parity with their Norwegian counterparts and nullify the criticism of those who would suggest that they were but the descendants of fugitives, slaves and thieves.”72 However, an expectation of parity does not account for the fact that, like Skalla-Grímr and so many other landnámsmenn in Iceland, the original settlers did not leave Norway because they thought themselves equal (jafn, to use the term employed by Víga-Glúms saga) with the Norwegian cultural and political structure they left behind; they rather, it seems, felt themselves better than what they were leaving behind. They in fact left Norway because they were unwilling to diminish their self-worth and social quality by becoming subject to a king they did not like or trust. Skalla-Grímr does I agree with Ármann Jakobsson’s argument that Morkinskinna ought to be viewed as a unified work rather than a haphazard collection of independent narratives. As he concisely articulates, “Morkinskinna is an organically complete saga [… .] Its aesthetics are complex, but perfectly in tune with the spirit of the time. […] The structure of Morkinskinna proves to be by no means haphazard or clumsy but is rather perfectly consistent with the aesthetic priorities of the historian who was its author” (A Sense of Belonging, 343). The debate is relevant to the present consideration of Morkinskinna because the argument herein treats Morkinskinna as stylistically, structurally, and aesthetically unified. 72 Ann-Marie Long, Iceland‘s Relationship with Norway c. 870–c. 1100 (Boston: Brill, 2017), p. 209. See also Clunies Ross, “From Iceland to Norway,” p. 56. 71

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature not think himself equal with those who remain behind to become the subjects of an unworthy king; he perceives himself as better than those who have allowed themselves to become the king’s subjects. In the eyes of the original settlers, it was the Norwegians who lowered themselves, not the Icelanders. The cultural identity of the Icelanders who were born decades and centuries later must in some way account for this high view of their own self-image, which they do admirably in the sagas through direct discourse and a keen sense of pragmatic principles. It is also true, as Long points out, that Icelanders in the sagas sought to distinguish themselves by seeking out the service to kings in Scandinavia to earn renown.73 This observation holds especially true in Morkinskinna, whose author takes a special interest in communicating an Icelandic cultural identity.74 As Ármann Jakobsson remarks, in Morkinskinna “Icelandic nationality is not implicit in the political independence of Iceland but rather in the image Icelanders have of themselves in Norway.”75 Ármann observes, furthermore, that for some Icelanders abroad, “[t]heir nationality seems to give them bonus points; as Icelanders they are not dependent on anyone in Norway, apart from the king, and thus he can rely on them more than on others.”76 However, joining the king’s service and being useful to him does not, on their own, earn renown for an Icelander abroad. Based on the work done in this chapter, such renown is earned by joining the king’s service, becoming useful to the king, and yet also becoming something of a thorn in the king’s side. In a literary context, verbal exchanges rich with principles of pragmatics – perhaps especially the conflictive principle – work as a natural narrative device to illustrate this point, since these exchanges allow for a display of intellectual prowess, a sense of social status and self-worth, and finally an opportunity for commentary on the qualities of respective leaders in the North. A pragmatic analysis therefore suggests that the Icelandic cultural identity does not merely put Icelanders on par with their Norwegian cousins but suggests that Icelanders in fact perceive themselves to have surpassed them. Examination of the above verbal exchanges suggests that the Norwegian view of leadership in Scandinavia has suffered the consequences of capitulating to the leadership of a king. Norwegians have somehow, perhaps by the act of taking a king, forgotten their true heritage while Icelanders not only remember their heritage but have advanced it in the way it ought to be. Just as the original landnámsmenn criticized the Norwegian kings they left behind when they came to Iceland, Icelanders abroad use their keen sense of discourse to criticize Iceland‘s Relationship with Norway, 223. Yoav Tirosh, “Icelanders Abroad,” p. 505. 75 Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging, p. 277. 76 ibid., p. 286. 73 Long, 74

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Icelanders and Their Language Abroad the leaders in the North in their own turn. Icelanders have gone about building a nation in a better way. What we see of Icelanders and their language abroad is more than just the Norse of their ancestors transported to a new land. The language of Icelanders abroad has bite; it has illocutionary power; it has the ability to speak truth to the authorities of the region. This is nation making in its truest form: not by top-down or agenda-driven ideologies and political movements but by the creation of distinctly Icelandic cultural memories that show the world what they are made of. By setting the standard for the Icelandic voice, by saying this is how we talk, this is who we are, Icelanders set themselves not on par with their neighbors, but a little above them. The Norwegians whom the original settlers left behind have forgotten how to do things with words. Icelanders well remember.

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N 6 n Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons The slaying of Kjartan Óláfsson by his foster-brother and (former) loyal companion, Bolli Þorleiksson, is undoubtedly one of the most famous and moving scenes in Laxdœla saga and, indeed, all of the Icelandic family sagas. Bolli feels he has no choice but to commit the slaying, and yet he immediately feels a deep regret for having done so. After grieving thus, Bolli returns home to find his wife, Guðrún, the real agent behind Bolli’s attack on Kjartan, waiting for him. One of Bolli’s men has already told Guðrún about the slaying, so when Bolli arrives, his wife is well aware of what has happened, and Bolli knows it. The exchange between the two promises to be one of the great moments of direct discourse in all of saga literature, so it is rather disconcerting that the various authors, scribes, and copyists from the medieval period to the seventeenth century cannot seem to agree on what, exactly, Guðrún says at this moment. Despite the importance this verbal exchange to the saga – or perhaps because of it – the scene has, according to Jonna Louis-Jensen, “been badly bungled in the manuscript tradition.”1 The principal manuscript for the saga, Möðruvallabók, appears (quite clearly) to say, “Mikil v[er]ða h[er]mdar v[er]k, ek hefi spunnit tólf álna garn, en þú hefir vegit Kjartan” (“Great are the deeds of vengeance: I have spun twelve ells of yarn, and you have killed Kjartan”).2 This reading, however, was unsatisfying to Einar Ól. Sveinsson, possibly due to the somewhat awkward hapax legomenon “hermdarverk,” which lead him to appeal to a much later, seventeenthcentury paper manuscript as he was editing the Íslenzk fornrit edition of the saga, producing what has become the standard reading of the line: “Misjǫfn verða morginverkin; ek hefi spunnit tólf álna garn, en þú hefir vegit Kjartan” (“Unequal are the morning’s labors: I have spun twelve 1

2

Jonna Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work: Laxdœla saga, ch. 49,” in Cold Counsel: The Women in Old Norse Literature and Myth, ed. by Sarah M. Anderson (London: Taylor & Francis Group, 2013), pp. 189–99, at p. 189. AM 132 fol. (Möðruvallabók), 182r.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature ells of yarn, and you have killed Kjartan”).3 As Ólafur Halldórsson and others point out, this line is likely a variation on the proverb Drjúg eru morgunverkin (great are the morning’s labors).4 To make matters more interesting, ÍB 225 4to, a seventeenth-century copy of the fourteenth-century Vatnshyrna manuscript, includes a variation of both phrases: “Mickel v[er]ða h[er]nað[ar] v[er]kin, en misjöfn morgen v[er] kin [… ].”5 Finally, Jonna Louis-Jensen argues that a scribal error in Möðruvallabók has distracted us all from the intended reading of “Mikil verða hér nú dagsverkin: [etc.]” (which we might translate “Here now, great are the day’s labors: [etc.]”), a reading that has a great deal of force to it, but which has less of what we might consider “proverbiousness” than other options.6 Much more could be (and has been) said about the various manuscripts of Laxdœla saga and the two manuscript groups (y- and z-) to which editors and paleographers have appealed to make these arguments, but is it true that scribes, copyist, and (we may add) editors alike have “badly bungled,” this passage, as Louis-Jensen suggests?7 If so, then what is it about this particular passage that has caused so much consternation in the manuscript tradition? Particularly, why have some scribes – medieval or seventeenth century – elected to use the much more proverbial phrase “Misjǫfn verða morginverkin” rather than relying on other possibilities that appear in the older manuscripts? The pursuit of answers to these questions illuminates more than just editorial and paleographical concerns; it unlocks an important pragmatic function that occurs within certain speech situations in Old Norse dialogue. This chapter will consider the role of proverbs, such as the one attested to in some variants of the passage, in the pragmatics of direct discourse in the sagas. Proverbs, this chapter will go on to argue, are but one of a number of pragmatic tools – weapons, to be precise – employed in these specific speech situations. In addition to proverbs, other tools – kennings, skaldic poetry, and, in a certain post-classical saga, hapax legomena – are used in 3

4 5 6 7

Laxdœla saga, p. 154, following the reading of ÍB 226 4to, copied around 1690. See Jónas Kristjánsson, “Tólf álna garn,” in Festskrift til Ludvig Holm-Olsen på hans 70-årsdag den 9. Juni 1984, ed. Einar Lundeby and Bjarne Fidjestøl (Øvre Ervik: Alvheim & Eide, 1984), pp. 207–14, at pp. 210–11, for further details on manuscript traditions relevant to this passage. Ólafur Halldórsson, “Morgunverk Guðrúnar Ósvífursóttur,” Skírnir 147 (1973), 1pp. 25–8; Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work,” p. 190. ÍB 225 4to, 102r. Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work,” p. 191. Consider, for instance, hérna, “here now,” used as a discourse marker in modern Icelandic. See especially Einar Ól. Sveinsson, “Formáli,” in Laxdœla saga, pp. lxxvi–lxxxii, for a discussion of the manuscript groups for Laxdœla saga. Jónas Kristjánsson, “Tólf álna garn,” pp. 207–14; and Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work,” pp. 189–91, and sources cited there.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons similar speech situations as the one articulated in the verbal exchange between Guðrún and Bolli. Ultimately, it will be observed here that these various mechanisms of meaning work similarly in direct discourse. These mechanisms allow speakers not just to speak into a certain speech situation but rather to alter speech-situational contexts in order to bring to fruition the speakers’ illocutionary and social goals.

Proverbs and Pragmatics The notion that proverbs might be read through the lens of pragmatic linguistic methodologies has been around for some time. As early as 1982, less than a decade after H. P. Grice published his watershed work on pragmatics,8 Neal R. Norrick began associating proverbial meaning with Gricean theories of pragmatics and perlocutionary force.9 A decade before that, Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett suggested that proverbs must be read “in context” in order to understand why some proverbs appear to have multiple meanings.10 In more recent times, psychologists have brought together the study of pragmatics and paroemiology to develop a method of testing the abilities of patients who suffer from schizophrenia to process abstract language meaning.11 Despite these associations of proverbs with pragmatics, far fewer attempts have been made to understand pragmatics and proverbs in historical texts, and none at all, so far as I have found, have done so in the fertile fields of proverbs in Old Norse texts.12 Understanding the importance of this passage might begin with the recognition that, despite the manuscript variation of Guðrún’s words, Bolli is not at all confused by her meaning. He reads her utterance as containing an implicature and responds accordingly, saying later in 8

Grice, “Logic and Conversation.” See above (pp. 35–9) for my discussion of the importance of Grice’s work, particularly on the concept of the implicature. 9 Neil R. Norrick, “Proverbial Perlocutions: How to Do Things with Proverbs,” Grazer Linguistische Studien 17–18 (1982), pp. 169–83. 10 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “Toward a Theory of Proverb Meaning,” Proverbium 22 (1973), pp. 821–7. 11 See for instance Marc H. Haas, et al., “Evidence of Pragmatic Impairments in Speech and Proverb Interpretation in Schizophrenia,” Journal of Psycholinguistic Research 44 (2015), pp. 469–83. 12 There are some interesting exceptions to this statement. For instance, Alexander Brock uses proverbs about speaking and discourse as evidence that speakers in the seventeenth century think about pragmatics. See Brock, “Historical Evidence of Communicative Maxims,” in Investigations into the Meta-communicative Lexicon of English: A Contribution to Historical Pragmatics, ed. Ulrich Busse and Axel Hübler (Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2012), pp. 271–87; and see Leslie K. Arnovick, Written Reliquaries: The Resonance of Orality in Medieval English Texts (Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2006), pp. 175–94.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature their discourse, “þat grunar mik, at þú brygðir þér minnr við, þó at vér lægim eptir á vígvellinum, en Kjartan segði frá tíðendum” (“I suspect you would be much less upset if it were me lying [dead] on the battlefield and Kjartan bringing the news”).13 Whatever Guðrún’s locutionary words may have been, Bolli clearly perceives her illocution without difficulty: it contains an implicature and a scathing face-threatening act. From here it is necessary to consider further examples of proverbs being used in speech situations that show heavy indications of indirectness and implicature. Laxdœla saga is especially rich with examples. Only a few chapters after Bolli kills Kjartan, Halldórr Óláfsson, Kjartan’s brother, and his mother, Þorgerðr, are taking a journey, ostensibly to visit a friend of Þorgerðr’s. As they pass a certain farm, Þorgerðr asks her son what in another context would be a perfectly innocent question: “Hvat heitir bœr sjá?” (“What is the name of this farm?”).14 Halldórr is not fooled by his mother’s question and, taking a tack similar to Flosi in Njáls saga (as discussed in the first chapter of this volume), replies, ‘Þess spyrr þú eigi af því, móðir, at eigi vitir þú áðr; sjá bœr heitir í Tungu” (“You are not asking a question, mother, that you don’t already know the answer to; The name of this farm is Tunga”).15 Þorgerðr ignores him, asking further, “Hverr býr hér?” (“Who lives here?”), to which Halldórr responds, “You know, mother” (“Veiztu þat, móðir”).16 In fact, they both know that it is Bolli, Kjartan’s killer, who lives there. Most obviously, this scene presents an example of the common occurrence of a female character goading a male relative into a vengeful act. It occurs in many other sagas, and is normally referred to as “cold counsel,” which many scholars have discussed previously.17 It is an important topic, but more important to the present discussion is the pragmatic means by which Þorgerðr and Halldór’s discourse proceeds. There are three aspects of their exchange that constitute a pragmatically charged verbal conflict: First, Þorgerðr employs modal under-determinacy to communicate her attack by asking questions to which she already knows the answers.18 Just as Kolskeggr does to his opponent, Kolr, in Njáls saga, Þorgerðr here offers interrogatives – what is this farm called? and who lives here? – that involve uncomplicated grammar even for Old Icelandic. However, the purpose of these questions is not to seek information (as we typically 13 14

15 16 17

18

Laxdœla saga, p. 155. ibid., p. 161. Note here again that vitir is in subjunctive. See Jan Faarlund, Syntax of Old Norse, p. 249. See chapter one of this volume, pp. 40–2. Laxdœla saga, p. 161. Most recently, see Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Words, and Power (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013), but see my comments below in this and the following chapter. See chapter one for more on this phenomenon.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons expect from interrogatives) but rather to communicate an implicature, which is not merely IMPL: Your brother’s killer lives at this farm but Your brother’s killer still lives. Second, Halldórr appeals to a tactic of verbal conflict in which a combatant attempts to deflect the pragmatic weapon being used against him by overtly exposing the implicature embedded within the attack. As chapter two indicates, a verbal opponent who feels they are in the losing position, as Halldórr clearly does, may resort to direct speech in order to salvage their social status.19 Halldórr’s direct comments You are not ask this question, mother, that you don’t already know the answer to and the even more direct, “Veiztu þat, móðir” (“You know, mother”) employ this strategy by exposing his mother’s questions for what they are: an indirect means by which to communicate her true illocutionary goal.20 It is the third aspect of this passage that introduces an important proverb. Halldórr’s defensive tactic of exposing his mother’s implicature clearly fails, and in response Þorgerðr opens up a full-blown rant against her son for not yet having avenged his brother’s death. Þorgerðr here employs the carefully placed proverb: “Kemr hér at því, Halldórr, sem mælt er, at einn er auðkvisi ættar hverrar” (“It shows the saying is true, Halldórr, that every family has its coward”).21 The proverb contains an implicature as well, such that the phrase should read, every family has its coward, [IMPL: and in this family, Halldórr, it’s you]. However, as with all such implicatures, it requires cultural and situational context to decipher. For instance, in another circumstance, it might be one of Halldórr’s brothers who is the family coward. Here, Halldórr must decipher his mother’s implicature, but in this case, we see an interesting development from Þorgerðr. It seems she is not willing to leave any room for confusion and sharply clarifies the context when she says, “kveð ek þik af því at þessu, Halldórr […] at þú þykkisk mest fyrir yðr brœðrum” (“I speak to you about this, Halldórr, because you think yourself the foremost among your brothers”). This clarification accomplishes two things: it appeals to the quality of “reinforceability,” which, in verbal conflicts offers the aggressor (Þorgerðr here) a tactical advantage because she can now state overtly what Halldórr ought to have been able to discern himself. It also deprives Halldórr of his only defensive tactic, which has been to respond directly to his mother’s indirect attack. If she is following her indirectness with direct statements, then Halldórr cannot. Whereas Þorgerðr employs a proverb to goad Halldórr into revenge, a third passage in Laxdœla saga does the opposite. Earlier in the saga, when Hǫskuldr (that is, Kjartan’s grandfather) is thinking of taking vengeance on his half-brother, Hrútr, for the killing of his farmhand, Hǫskuldr’s 19

See above, p. 61. Laxdœla saga, p. 161. 21 ibid., p. 162. 20

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature wife, Jórunn, employs the proverb, fangs er ván af frekum úlfi (“A hungry wolf will always fight hard”).22 Here again, the speaker couches her proverb in a context heavy with pragmatic potential. After using rather direct language to point out all the reasons why Hǫskuldr should reconcile with his half-brother instead of seeking revenge, she concludes, snappishly (emphasis added), “Nú þœtti oss hitt ráðligra, at þú byðir Hrúti, bróður þínum, sœmliga, því at þar er fangs ván af frekum úlfi; vænti ek þess, at Hrútr taki því vel ok líkliga, því at mér er maðr sagðr vitr; mun hann þat sjá kunna, at þetta er hvárstveggja ykkarsómi.”23 “ (Now,

it would seems to me [lit.’us’] more advisable for you to treat Hrútr, your brother, honorably because a hungry wolf will always fight hard; I expect this: that Hrútr will take it well and favorably, because I am told he is a wise man; he will surely see that it works to the honor of you both”).

Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir suggests of this passage that “[i]t should perhaps come as no surprise that the author of Laxdœla saga should put this advice in the mouth of a female character; […] women are consistently portrayed as wise in this saga.”24 Of particular interest to the present discussion is the means by which Jórunn communicates her meaning. This passage offers an effective illustration levels of indirectness, which means that a particular utterance may alter its illocutionary goal by adding multiple levels of indirectness to the utterance. A certain amount of indirectness may be read as politeness, but an excess of indirectness has the opposite effect.25 In this single quotation above, Jórunn uses no fewer than seven levels of indirectness: she begins with three levels of indirectness prior to the proverb: 1) she uses the verb þykkja, “to think/seem,” rather than a more direct verb, such as “to be”; 2) she puts that verb into subjunctive mood (þœtti) rather than indicative (þykir); and 3) she uses 1st person dative plural rather than dative singular, which ambiguates both the speaker and recipient of the utterance. Jorúnn thus casts the phrase “Nú þœtti oss26 ráðligra,” into as much indirectness as possible leading up to the proverb fangs er ván af frekum úlfi. This proverb, while indirect by virtue of its being a proverb, communicates “received wisdom about the nature of alpha males,” which emphasizes the gendered aspect of the intended CV, s.v. “fangs,” III.4: “there will be a grapple with a greedy wolf.” Laxdœla saga, pp. 47–8. 24 Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, p. 44. 25 See pp. 42–3 for more on this phenomenon. 26 The oss here cannot be referring to Jorúnn and Hǫskuldr because it would be in 2nd person dative dual, okr. 22 c.f. 23

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons meaning being communicated.27 Immediately following the proverb, we see three more indications of indirectness: 4) another usage of a verb of expectation, speculation, or hope – in this case, the verb at vænta (to expect or hope for, vænti, sg. pres. indicative); 5) another I am told/I think/I believe phrase (“mér er maðr sagðr”), and finally 6) the use of the modal construction, mun hann þat sjá kunna (he will surely see …”). So there are three levels of indirectness immediately before the proverb and three immediately following it, making a total of seven levels of indirectness. Thus, while the use of indirectness here might appear, on the surface, to be an exercise in politeness, the numerous levels of indirectness create a sense of urgency and aggression. Hǫskuldr seems to have been appropriately cowed, for he concedes without further argument. The employment of proverbs in general offers and intriguing study into the pragmatics of the sagas. On the one hand, the speaker (in this case, Jorúnn) means the proverb to evoke in the hearer (in this case, Hǫskuldr) a fundamental and usually obvious truth (which initially seems quite direct).28 On the other hand, the application of that truth is entirely dependent upon the speech-situational and cultural context in which it appears. As Hasan-Rokem argues in his study of the pragmatic characteristics of proverbs, “it is not the proverb which is generated by the user, but rather the fact of inserting it in a particular behavioral […] context.”29 In other words, the speaker (“user”) of a proverb establishes the proverb’s illocutionary goal not merely by uttering the proverb, but by speaking it at a particular time and place, and under particular discourse conditions. Hasan-Rokem’s notion that the user generates the context in which a proverb is inserted also falls nicely in line with Jonna Louis-Jensen’s description of the verbal exchange between Guðrún and Bolli. Guðrún, according to Louis-Jensen, “is staging the scene as a kind of elaborate metaphor, pretending that the couple are merely exchanging domestic commonplaces suitable for the end of a working day or shift.”30 Even though she uses different terminology, Louis-Jensen is perfectly describing Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, p. 44. See Wolfgang Mieder, Proverbs: A Handbook (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2004), pp. 1–31 for an overview of proverb definitions. A common thread through most definitions is that it communicates a fundamental truth (pp. 1–4). Mieder also alludes to proverbs as speech acts in his more recent Behold the Proverb: Proverbial Wisdom in Culture, Literature, and Politics (Jackson, MS: University of Mississippi, 2017), p. 5. Mieder does not elaborate overmuch on the concept, but his view supports the notion of the shared cultural knowledge outlined by others as referenced later in this chapter (p. 166). 29 Galit Hasem-Rokem, “The Pragmatics of Proverbs: How the Proverb Gets its Meaning,” in Exceptional Language and Linguistics, ed. Loraine K. Obler and Lise Menn (New York: Academic Press, 1982), pp. 169–73, at p. 171. 30 Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work,” p. 192. 27

28

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature a verbal exchange heavy with indirectness, in which the “elaborate metaphor” of the speech situation carries with it the implicature that it is unfortunate that Bolli killed Kjartan instead of the other way round. Guðrún thus stages the speech-situational context to communicate her meaning. Guðrún’s shaping of the scene in which she utters her proverb should certainly remind us of Þorgerðr, who literally changes the scenery in which she delivers her proverb by taking Halldórr to Bolli’s farm before she speaks it. In pragmatics, as was noted in the introduction to this volume, “context is everything.” Saga writers understood this point well enough to have their characters manipulate contexts even before they speak. This type of context manipulation simplifies the formula for the delivery of an implicature, which was established in chapter one of this volume as illocution = locution + implicature. In the exchange between Guðrún and Bolli, the only component of this formula in question is the locution: the words and syntax she uses to communicate her illocutionary goal. All else remains the same across manuscript variants: the context, the illocutionary goal, and the perlocution as evinced by Bolli’s response. Thus, even though the illocution differs from one variant to the next, it is really the context, not the locution itself, that dictates the meaning of her utterance, and Guðrún, as Louis-Jensen carefully illustrates, is in complete control of the context.

Poetry and Pragmatics This relationship between context and illocutionary goals is further clarified by a consideration of how users of kennings and poetry manipulate and make use of speech-situational context to convey their meaning. In a recent article Frog has suggested that when skaldic verses appear in prose narratives, they are meant to indicate something about the self-worth of the speaker in the immediate speech-situational context in which they are composed.31 Regarding how those verses, which Frog and others have referred to as “situational verses,”32 Frog remarks, “[t]hese narratives promote the value of skill in rapid composition, the value of poetry in gaining social respect, and models for the assertion of individual identity: they show how this skill can be used to negotiate and transform social situations and circumstances.”33 The “situational” aspect 31

See Frog, “Speech-Acts in Skaldic Verse,” pp. 223–46, especially 224–5. It seems evident that Frog understands speech acts in the broader sense of an act of speaking, for, as he says, “every performance of oral poetry constitutes a ‘speech act.” (p. 226). 32 Frog, “Speech-Acts in Skaldic Verse,” p. 224. See also Margaret Clunies Ross, A History of Old Norse Poetry and Prose (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2005), p. 71. 33 Frog, “Speech-Acts,” p. 228. See also Richard Bauman, “Verbal Art as

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons of Frog’s assertion should evoke notions of the speech-situational context as it is being discussed here. Just as the usage of proverbs depends heavily on the situational context constructed by the speaker, the appeal to situational verses depends heavily upon the context in which they are spoken, but as Frog points out, situational verses also influence the speech situation by establishing the worth of the speaker. A look at two important scenes from Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar will illustrate how these conclusions relate to the above discussion of proverbs. The first of these occurs early in the saga after Grettir has killed a farmhand named Skeggi. Grettir’s father is getting old at the time and elects to send Grettir to the Alþingi in his place. Grettir is to travel with a long-time friend of his father’s, a man named Þorkell krafla (scratcher), who was a goði from Vatnsdalr and considered a “hǫfðingi mikill,” a great chieftain.34 After Skeggi is dead Grettir announces the killing by reciting a verse before Þorkell and Þorkell’s followers (emphasis added): “Hygg ek, at hljóp til Skeggja hamartroll með fǫr rammri, blóð vas á gunnar Gríði grǫ́ðr, fyr stundu áðan. Sú gein of haus hǫ́num harðmynnt ok lítt sparði, vask hjá viðreign þeira, vígtenn ok klauf einn.”35 (“I think a crag-troll leapt at Skeggi with a mighty rush; the BattleGiantess was hungry for blood, a little while ago. She gaped, hard-mouthed and sparing little – I was near their battle – war-teeth, and clove forehead.”)

It would be wrong to think that Grettir means to distance himself from the killing by obscuring the language he uses to announce it.36 Rather, Grettir Performance,” American Anthropologist 77 (1975), pp. 290–311, at p. 305, as referred to here by Frog. 34 Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, ed. Guðni Jónsson, Íslensk fornrit 7 (Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936), p. 44. 35 ibid., p. 47. 36 Contrast my view with Marion Poilvez, “Those Who Kill: Wrong Undone in the Sagas of Icelanders,” in Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, ed. Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, (München: Herbert Utz, 2016), pp. 21–58. Poilvez views this killing announcement as an effort on Grettir’s part to garner a sympathetic response from the reader by distancing the character from the killing. She argues that this passage is one of several that represent “a narrative strategy that excuses characters such as killers and undo[es] the wrong they have done” (pp. 21–2). See below and footnotes 39 and 45 for more on how our readings of the scene differ.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature aims to use his skaldic verse as a means of enhancing his own face (the external component of self-worth), using indirectness and implicature to claim the killing as his own. To apply Frog’s observations as noted above, Grettir employs a situational skaldic verse to garner “social respect” and assert “individual identity.”37 Grettir’s verse appeals to the well-established kennings of the troll-woman and giantess to refer to the murder weapon,38 and the self-references Hygg ek (I think… ) and vask hjá viðreign þeira (I was near their battle) reflect the common tactic of appealing to under-determinacy to communicate an implicature (IMPL: I killed Skeggi). The key to understanding how Grettir employs this tactic is recognizing that the speech participants involved in the exchange respond differently when Grettir utters his verse.39 Þorkell’s men (“fylgðarmenn Þorkels”) are quite unable to discern what has happened,40 saying amongst themselves “ekki mundu troll hafa tekit manninn um ljósan dag” (“a troll wouldn’t kill a man in the light of day”).41 By contrast, the narrative distinguishes Þorkell’s response by saying he at first (while his men are talking) “þagnaði” (kept quiet) and then explained to his men: “Ǫnnur efni munu í vera, ok mun Grettir hafa drepit hann” (“Something else must have happened; Grettir must have killed him”). 42 Þorkell, the “hǫfðingi mikill” (great chieftain),43 understands the poem just fine. It is his men who do not. The levels of indirectness evident in the poem mean that only those of a high enough worth and cleverness will be able to comprehend the implicature while anyone of a lower self-worth will miss the meaning. Þorkell’s interpretation of the verse, and his clarification to followers, establish the respective self-worths of those involved. Þorkell and Grettir are clearly on a level higher than those in the group who did not understand the verse. 37

38

39

40

41

42 43

Frog, “Speech-Acts,” p. 228. According to the Skaldic Project at University of Aberdeen, there are at least nine other skaldic usages of this kenning. http://skaldic.abdn.ac.uk/m. php?p=kenning&i=122 Poilvez describes the speech participants as being uniform in their response, saying, that Grettir’s “interlocutors understand at first that a troll did it, though they refute it pretty quickly” (“Those Who Kill,” p. 22). As my reading here suggests, it is important to recognize that Þorkell and his men respond differently. Þorkell’s men do not understand the meaning of the poem until Þorkell tells them. This is an important indication of the speech participants’ respective self-worths and thus key to understanding the passage. Grettis saga, p. 47. The word fylgðarmenn is an interesting choice here as well. According to CV, s.v. “fylgðar-menn” typically refers attendants of a king, which perhaps increases the social difference between Þorkell and his men and, by analogy, increases Grettir’s self-worth because he is speaking on Þorkell’s level. Grettis saga, p. 47. ibid., p. 47. ibid., p. 44.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons The episode shows the complexity of the relationship between the internal (identity) and external (face) components of his self-worth, particularly for outlaws in the sagas. Externally, the episode confirms Grettir’s self-worth as “bellinn bæði í orðum ok tiltekðum” (mischievous in both word and deed),44 but words and deeds are complicated things for the outlaws of Íslendingasögur. The killing of Skeggi might have been the “deed” of a brute (or a crag-troll), but the words he uses to announce the killing are on the level of a great chieftain like Þorkell.45 Thus, a pragmatic assessment indicates that, rather than distancing himself from the killing, Grettir is bragging about the killing, indirectly working to establish his own self-worth through both words and deeds. A comparison of the pragmatics in another episode, where Grettir undoubtedly wants to distance himself from killings, further illuminates the point. Later in the saga, Grettir is accused of starting a fire that kills several people.46 Grettir gets a bad reputation all over Norway because many people illmæla, “slander,” his name. When Grettir goes to King Óláfr to clear his name, he uses directness rather than indirectness in speech: “… em ek af því hér kominn, at ek vænta af yðr nǫkkurrar linunar um þat illmæli, er mér hefir kennt verit, en ek þykkjumst þessa eigi valdr” (“I have come here because I hope [to receive] from you some respite from the slander which has been spread against me, but I say I was not the cause of this thing”).47 The contrast between this statement and the one following Grettir’s first killing is striking. Whereas in his first killing announcement Grettir employs kennings, tvíræði, and skaldic poetry that obscure the events that took place, in this case – when Grettir undoubtedly wants to distance himself from the killings – he uses not a hint of indirectness, no tvíræði, no skaldic poetry, and no kennings; he uses only a directness that is impossible to misunderstand. This bald directness is the kind of language Grettir (and the saga writer) uses to distance himself from an event. In contrast, he uses indirectness only when he aims to bolster his own self-worth. A similar, if rather more absurd, variant of Grettir’s usage of indirectness 44

ibid., p. 36. Poilvez and I agree on this point (“Those Who Kill,” p. 23). The value of Poilvez’s approach is in its articulation of the complicated emotional nature of the outlaw, which Poilvez demonstrates admirably. 46 The ultimate cause of the fire is complicated. He is sailing with some merchants who moor their ship one night during a blizzard. The crew sees a fire burning in the distance and compel Grettir to go fetch some for them, but when Grettir shows up at the house where the fire is burning, the people inside mistake him for a troll and attack him. A fight ensues and the people in the house strike at Grettir with anything they have at hand, including the burning logs of the fire, which ultimately causes the fire to spread throughout the house. See Grettis saga, pp. 129–31. 47 Grettis saga, p. 132. 45

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature to announce a killing occurs in another late medieval saga, Króka-Refs saga. In one of the more bizarre scenes in the already quite unusual saga, the titular character, Króka-Refr (Refr the Sly), enters the court of King Haráldr Sigurðarson of Norway to announce that he has killed one of the king’s men, Skálp-Grani (sheath-Grani). In some ways the announcement falls in line with what we might expect of similar such killing announcements, by which the killer hopes to avoid a conviction of murder (morð) for the lesser accusation of manslaughter (víg) or even to pay compensation and avoid legal trouble altogether. However, rather than directly announcing the killing, Refr elects to obscure the events leading up to the killing by using kennings and other abstracted language forms to present a kind of metaphorical representation of the events. He says things like “vit Sverðhúss-Grani urðum saupsáttir í dag” (“Swordhouse-Grani and I came to a soup-agreement today”); and “hann vildi fjallskerða konu mína” (“he wanted to mountain-valley my wife”); and “Þá hreiðrballaða ek hann, herra,” (“Then I nest-balled him, lord”).48 Even worse, Refr proclaims the killing without getting the attention of anyone in the hall and while the king is in the middle of his own speech. Finally, rather than staying around to ask whether anyone understood or even heard him, Refr leaves immediately following his proclamation. This is rather an odd scene by any standard, although it maintains some notable similarities to Grettir’s announcement of the killing of Skeggi in Grettis saga. There, Grettir articulates an elegant pragmatic maneuver to show himself to be of high quality, both in rhetorical and physical prowess. Refr’s killing announcement in Króka-Refs saga is filled with obscure riddles, uncommon kennings, and hapax legomena that make little-to-no sense. Despite all that, the king interrupts his own speech to decipher flawlessly the meaning of Refr’s cryptic proclamation. No doubt Refr wants to avoid prosecution, but the pragmatic principles at work in the scene are similar to those employed by Grettir’s announcement of the killing of Skeggi. Coupled with cultural and literary contexts, these factors suggest more complex motivations on Refr’s part than might initially be expected. With specific reference to literary context of the saga, it is important to recognize, as have Frederic Amory, Chris Callow, and others, that Króka-Refs saga should be viewed as a post-classical Icelandic saga.49 In other words, it was written quite late, with a particularly literary style, and with rather specific allusions to motifs, topoi, and even specific sagas from the earlier classical period. Kendra Willson and Martin Arnold go 48 49

Króka-Refs saga, in Kjalnesinga saga, ed. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ÍF 14, p. 153. Chris Callow, “Dating and Origins,” in Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, pp. 15–33; Frederic Amory, “Pseudoarchaism and Fiction in Króka-Refs saga,” Medieval Scandinavia 12 (1988), pp. 7–23.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons yet further by identifying Króka-Refs Saga as a parody of those earlier sagas,50 and we can see quite well how this passage in particular might be too absurd to be anything but parody. But if this passage is a parody, the question remains: a parody of what? We gain some insight into Refr’s illocutionary goals by looking at the perlocution of his utterance. Shortly after Refr departs, King Haráldr says, “Nú þó at hann sé mikill fyrir sér, þá verðum vér þó at geyma várrar tignar, at leiða öðrum at drepa niðr hirð vára, ok af því gerum vér hér í dag þenna mann útlægan fyrir endilangan Nóreg ok svá vitt sem várt ríki stendr.”51 (“Now, though he be powerful,52 we must nevertheless preserve our dignity [lit. ‘high-born-ness’], and compel others to fear to kill our followers, and therefore we here today make this man an outlaw throughout the whole of Norway and as far as our realm extends.”)

The key element here is that the king must preserve his dignity. Refr has committed a face-threatening act by killing the king’s man; he has compromised the King’s social standing, his tign, literally “state of being high-born.” Despite the FTA, the king seems to admire Refr. It is the King who gives Refr his new name, Króka-Refr (Refr the Sly), and the king describes him as mikill, “powerful” or “great,” and says that Refr seems to him to be a man of no small significance.53 The king in fact seems to regret having to issue Refr’s outlawry. Considering the conflictive principle, it should not seem unusual that the king might preserve such a high opinion of Refr after the latter’s killing announcement. It is true that, even beyond the killing, the use of riddles and indirectness to tell the king of Grani’s killing would constitute another threat to face because, should the king not understand the riddles, he would have been shown to be of lesser intelligence than Refr. It is a risky move on Refr’s part, but offering an FTA also falls in line with tactics outlined in the conflictive principle. Fortunately for Refr, the king does understand the implicatures present in Refr’s pronouncement, but only the king himself is able to comprehend Refr’s speech. As was the case in Grettis saga, when only Þorkell, the “hǫfðingi mikill” (great chieftain),54 is Kendra Willson, “Parody and Genre in Sagas of Icelanders,” in Á Austrvega: Saga and East Scandinavia, Preprint papers of the 14th International Saga Conference, Uppsala, 9th –15th August 2009, 2 Vols., ed. Agneta Ney, Henrik Williams, and Fredrik Charpentier Ljungqvist (Gävle: Gävle University Press, 2009), vol. 2, pp. 1039–46; Martin Arnold, The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003), p. 243. 51 Króka-Refs saga, p. 157. 52 See CV, s.v. “fyrir.” 53 Króka-Refs saga, pp. 156–7. 54 ibid., p. 44. 50

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature able to understand Grettir’s obscure poem, here in Refs saga only the king can understand Refr’s announcement. Like Þorkell’s men, all of the king’s followers dismiss Refr as a foolish, unimportant man who is speaking mere gibberish. Refr’s speech thus sets him above the king’s men, who do not understand, and in some sense on the same level as the king because Refr is speaking a language that only the king can understand. Hence, the king admires him even though he must also condemn him. This assessment suggests that the saga writer is parodying not just a classical saga style but a specific cultural and speech situational context. The obvious personal reason Refr makes his proclamation is that he knows – as the narrator overtly states – that he will be accused of murder (morð) rather than manslaughter (víg) if he does not announce it, but it should not be supposed that this is his only, or even his primary reason for making that announcement in such an indirect fashion. For one thing, it doesn’t work. The king still condemns Refr to death, but while Refr is not able (yet) to clear his name (later on he does), he is able to garner the respect and appreciation of the king by the pragmatic means he employs to announce the killing. The ambiguity in the announcement serves a double purpose: it is not meant merely to be vague, but also to be understood by only those people who are clever enough to comprehend it. It therefore becomes a measure of both the speaker’s (in this case, Refr’s) and the respondent’s (in this case, the King’s) self-worth. If we apply this standard of reinforceability to Króka-Refs Saga, we can see just how Refr sets himself above all of the king’s men in the room: they say they thought he was a simple fool, but Refr has shown that they in fact are the fools. Later in Grettis saga, the saga writer plays with these same pragmatic principles but turns them against Grettir. The tables turn on Grettir when he meets the mysterious and powerful Loftr (whose real name is Hallmundr), whom Grettir tries to rob of his horse. When Grettir tries to take the reins, Loftr pulls them back with a strength that impresses even Grettir. Grettir then asks Loftr where he is headed, to which Loftr replies, Ætlak hreggs í hrunketil steypi niðr frá stórfrerum. Þar má hængr hitta grundar lítinn stein ok land hnefa.55 (I intend [to go] to the storm’s howling cauldron forged below the great

55

Grettis saga, p. 176.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons fields of ice.56 There can the salmon of the earth find the little stone and the land of the fist.)

The verse is almost impenetrably obscure. As O’Donoghue points out, this poem is composed in kviðuháttr, a meter often associated with ancient poetic forms, and there are five distinct heiti or kennings to be deciphered: hurnketill (howling cauldron), which must be decoded as “cave”; stórfrerum (“great fields of ice”), which must be understood not just as a glacier but specifically Balljökull; hængr … grundar (salmon of the earth), or snake, meaning Grettir; lítinn stein (little stone), or, ironically, a small “hallr,” boulder, meaning Hall-, the first half of Loftr’s real name; and land hnefa (land of the fist), or mund, hand, meaning -mund, the second half of Loftr’s true name. Loftr/Hallmundr is therefore answering Grettir’s question, “where are you going” by saying that he is going home to his cave beneath Balljökull, where Grettir can find him (Hallmundr) if he wishes. Grettir really has no hope of decipher the code of Loftr’s verse and replies, “Eigi er víst at leita eftir byggðum þínum, ef þú segir eigi ljósara” (“No one will know where to look for your home, if you do not speak more clearly”). Loftr then offers the much easier verse: Esat mér dælt at dylja þik, ef þú vill 56

The first four lines of this verse are especially difficult. Bernard Scudder translates the lines “I am heading / for the storm’s frost-cauldron / below the beetling /expanse of ice” [Grettis Saga, translated by Bernard Scudder, in CSI 5, p. 134], which captures the idea of the “expanse of ice” as referring to Balljökull (per Loftr’s subsequent verse) but seems to associate frer (frost) with both “frost-cauldron” and “expanse of ice,” while equating hrun- with “beetling.” Heather O’Donoghue opts for the more precise and elegant, “I intend [to go] to the storm- / resounding cauldron / down below /great downpouring snowsheets” (Skaldic Verse and the Poetics of Saga Narrative (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 209), seeming to take steypi as a derivation of the verb at steypa, to pour out (CV , s.v. “steypa”), presenting the primary image of the verse as a downpour of a snowstorm outside the mouth of a cave, which causes the cave (cauldron) to be “resounding” with sound of the storm outside. I take these first four verses to have two important images: (1) the sound of wind blowing over the opening of the cave, making hrunketil “howling cauldron,” and (2) the “fields of ice” are left to refer to Balljökull. This reading, which fits the context well given the subsequent verse by Loftr, requires taking steypi as a derivation of steypa, as O’Donoghue does, but opting rather for the less common definition of “to cast” or “to found” (see CV, s.v. “steypa,” entry B), in the sense of forging or making a cauldron. I find Jón Þorkelsson’s annotations of the poem useful. See his Skýringar á vísum í Grettis sögu (Reykjavík: í Prentsmiðju Íslands, Einar Þórðarson, 1871) p. 22, n. 1; and note O’Donoghue’s discussion of the poem in Skaldic Verse, pp. 209–10.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature vitja þangat. Þat ‘s ór byggð Borgfirðinga, þars Balljökul bragnar kalla.57 (It will not be easy for me to conceal from you, if you wish to go there. It is in the region of Borgarfjörðr, Balljökull it is called by men.)

Loftr is laughing at him a little. This verse includes no kennings and is as unambiguous as it is simplistic, yet the first four lines nevertheless maintain an indirect mockery of Grettir because it has obviously been easy for Loftr to conceal his destination. Rather than a “double-tap” appeal to reinforceability, Loftr goes from an incredibly difficult verse to one that is so easy as to be almost insulting in its very nature. Grettir is duly impressed (and a little cowed) and says so in his own verse, which he composes only after Loftr has ridden away. The exchange calls to mind the “value of skill,” as Frog calls it, which “can be used to negotiate and transform social situations and circumstances.”58 Grettir’s exchange with Loftr thus has a demonstrable point of contact with Grettir’s earlier poetic proclamation of the killing of Skeggi the farmhand. Only poets of the highest quality and self-worth have the ability to produce such poetry that will gain social respect and assert their identity. Thus, by juxtaposing this scene with the earlier scene in which Grettir uses poetry to announce the killing of Skeggi, it becomes clear that Grettir is as far below Loftr as Þorkell’s followers were beneath Grettir. To be fair, Grettir really has no chance of understanding Loftr’s verse because he has not been told Loftr’s real name, and the kennings and heiti Loftr uses (in contrast to Grettir’s) are not particularly obvious. Thus, the initial exchange between Loftr (Hallmundr) and Grettir is more an indication of how remarkable Loftr is than how unremarkable Grettir is. It is the only time Grettir meets his match in both words and deeds, and Grettir appropriately admires and fears him. After they part ways, Grettir recites a verse about Loftr in which he intimates that he would not like to meet the strange man again without his brothers, Illugi and Atli, because Loftr is too much for him alone. The encounter represents a variation on the conflictive principle in which Grettir’s threat to steal Loftr’s belongings represents the initial threat to face, which is rebuffed and returned by Loftr with both physical prowess and an extreme level of indirectness that overmatches Grettir. The two warrior-poets meet again when Loftr (now revealed as Hallmundr) comes to Grettir’s rescue after being attacked by a large group of men. Grettir kills six men while Hallmundr kills twelve, but Hallmundr has been badly injured in the 57

58

Grettis saga, p. 177. Frog, “Speech-Acts,” p. 228.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons effort. After the battle, Grettir approaches the man, whom he does not recognize, and asks him his name. Hallmundr answers by giving his true name, Hallmundr, and follows, “en þat má ek segja þér til kenningar, at þér þótta ek fast taka í taumana á Kili um sumarit, er vit fundumst. Þykkjumst ek nú þat hafa launat þér.”59 (“but I can tell you something by which you will recognize me – that you thought I held the reigns tightly on Kjölr during the summer. I think I have now paid you for that.”)

To this, Grettir replies, “Þat er víst […] at mér þykkir þú hafa sýnt mér mikinn drengskap, hvenær sem ek get þat launat þér.”60 (“It certainly seems to me that you have shown me great honor, regardless of whether I can repay you.”)

Regarding the global context, the exchange seems more or less straightforward, but the co-text, specifically the semantic context, adds a dimension to the discourse in an important, some might even say humorous, way. Two words in this exchange maintain a high priority in Old Norse lexicon: kenningar and drengskapr. The fact that Hallmundr has shown Grettir drengskapr – a word which has received much attention from scholars and may variously be defined as honor, manliness, heroism, or all-of-theabove – can only be fully understood through the word kenningar used by Hallmundr. The key phrase “segja þér til kenningar” is above translated as “tell you something by which you will remember me” because it facilitates an understanding of the passage in English, but the Old Icelandic bears a deeper connotation.61 The prepositional phrase til kenningar may be read as “in a kenning,” as can be observed in Snorri Sturluson’s usage of the phrase in Skáldskaparmál, for instance, when he writes, “Hér er bæði orrosta ok vápn haft til kenningar mannsins” (Here both battle and weapons are used in a kenning for man),62 or earlier in the same work, “[fyrir því er kona kǫlluð til kenningar ǫllum kvenkendum viðar heitum” (For this reason a woman is called in a kenning by all the feminine names 59

Grettis saga, p. 184.

60 ibid. 61

Scudder has gone even further, rendering the phrase, “‘You’ll recognize me if I tell you that you thought …,” which is a fine translation, but it takes the authority of the term kenningar, which Scudder translates into the verb “recognize,” away from Hallmundr and gives it to Grettir. The Saga of Grettir the Strong, trans. by Bernard Scudder, p. 138. 62 Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál, ed. Anthony Faulkes, 2 vols. (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998), vol. 1, p. 74.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature for trees).63 In this scene in Grettis saga, then, we may read Hallmundr’s words somewhat differently, particularly given the context in which they are spoken. When he says, “en þat má ek segja þér til kenningar,” we may rightly read it to say, “… but I can tell you that [my name] in a kenning.” The indirect meaning here is complex and, frankly, quite amusing. Grettir has already demonstrated that he cannot understand the kennings employed by Hallmundr, so an implicature must be appended to read as follows: I can [“má”] tell you [my name] in a kenning [IMPL: Indeed, I have already told you my name in a kenning, but you didn’t understand it! So I’ll tell you instead … ] that you thought I held [etc.] …” Hallmundr therefore makes a morbid (considering his physical condition after the fight) quip about Grettir’s inability to understand the kennings recited upon their earlier meeting. Hallmundr’s quip also represents an effort to enact the politeness principle, though one grounded in hostility rather than politeness. Grettir has utterly failed to understand who Hallmundr is – first on Kjölr when they first met, when Grettir failed to comprehend Hallmundr’s indirectness, and second when Grettir fails to recognize him in the battle – but rather than engage reinforceability, which would amount to Hallmundr’s pointing out, directly, that Grettir has shown himself inept, Hallmundr gives him an obvious way out in the form of a continued attempt to state indirectly his identity and how he knows Grettir. Even though Hallmundr tells him, in this meeting, his true name, he does not tell him the name he used in their first meeting, Loftr; so without some mechanism by which to associate the person who has saved his life with the person who befuddled and impressed him on Kjölr, there’s no reason Grettir (who does not recognize him) would know who had saved him. Hallmundr’s pragmatic approach to the discourse thus preserves the indirectness of their first meeting, which is a mark of his respect for Grettir, yet it also does not let Grettir off the hook for his inability to recognize Hallmundr a second time. In this one utterance, Hallmundr simultaneously pokes fun at Grettir for not recognizing him while allowing him the opportunity to redeem himself by recognizing Hallmundr for who he really and truly is and always has been: a friend. When Grettir says that Hallmundr has shown him drengskapr, then, he acknowledges a myriad of factors all at once. He (finally) understands who it is that has saved him, but he has also acknowledged that the concept of drengskapr includes both a heroic (physical) element, such as Hallmundr demonstrates in his assistance to Grettir, and a verbal element, such as Hallmundr demonstrates in his two conversations with Grettir. Richard Bauman and others have noted the performativity of drengskapr,64 but as evinced by this exchange between Grettir and 63 64

ibid., p. 40. Richard Bauman, “Performance and Honor in 13th Century Iceland,” Journal of American Folklore 99 (1986), pp. 131–50, at pp. 142–3. See also Joseph Harris

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons Hallmundr, the important verbal element of drengskapr is quite specific: it includes a mastery of the pragmatic principles at play in their discourses both earlier in the saga and in this scene. As it is executed here in Grettis saga, Theodore M. Andersson’s definition of drengskapr seems most fitting (with the possible exception that the term chivalry is almost as difficult to define as the term drengskapr). According to Andersson, drengskapr is “a spirit of chivalry which imposes respect for another man’s honor as well as one’s own.”65 The notion that one who exhibits drengskapr both demands respect and gives it to others (under the appropriate circumstances, of course), hits very close to the inner workings of the conflictive principle. It may be remembered that, according to T. A. Shippey, discussants who engage in the conflictive principle must “ensure that one’s own worth is stated and acknowledged. If it is acknowledged by hearer, [the speaker should] be prepared to acknowledge hearer’s worth. If not, [the speaker should] respond with an appropriate degree of reciprocal non-acknowledgement.”66 Joining Andersson’s definition of drengskapr with Shippey’s description of the conflictive principle, it would seem that the conflictive principle represents one (notably verbal) way that someone can demonstrate drengskapr. More recently, Shippey has explored the “unwritten rules” of drengskapr, which include, among other things, “admiring the prowess in others, laughing at oneself, taking things in good part.”67 Shippey goes on to say, “cold-bloodedness, though, is also very much part of drengskapr, seen again and again in the love of understatement, oblique statement, refusal to react as expected” and “a kind of self-decentredness.”68 In this vein it would have in fact been ódrengiligr (un-drengr-like) of Hallmundr to state his name outright on either occasion, just as it would have been ódrengiligr of Grettir to be offended (rather than to laugh at himself) by Hallmundr’s indirect (or “oblique”) jabs. By all (modern) rationality, this should not be a comical moment in the action; it is very much a serious moment – Hallmundr is badly wounded and there are eighteen corpses lying around them as they talk – and yet the drengir,69 Hallmundr and Grettir, are able to laugh despite all. We (and the medieval audience) can laugh along with Grettir and Hallmundr. Shippey observes much the same spirit of drengskapr in the mass beheading described in Jómsvíkinar

65 66

67 68 69

and Karl Reichl, “Performance and Performers,” in Medieval Oral Literature, ed. Karl Reichl (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), pp. 141–202, at pp. 148–9. Theodore M. Andersson, “The Displacement of the Heroic Ideal in the Family Sagas,” Speculum 45:4 (1970), pp. 575–93, at p. 575. Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” p. 121. Tom Shippey, Laughing Shall I die: Lives and Deaths of the Great Vikings (London: Reaktion Books, 2018), p. 235. ibid., p. 234 Drengir would have been the plural form in West Norse, drengjar in East Norse. See CV, s.v. “drengr.”

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature saga, where one young fellow waiting to be killed asks someone to hold his hair because he wants to keep his beautiful locks from being bloodied. When the ax finally drops, the condemned man jerks his head back exposing the hands of the assistant to be cut off instead. The young Viking then laughs and asks whose hands are in his hair. The morbid joke earns the young man a reprieve. Such manifestation of drengskapr – as the spirit of self-worth but also of self-decentredness, a respect for the honor of others but also for oneself, and an unmistakable cold-bloodedness but also an ability to laugh in the face of death and dying – would have required a complex, sophisticated, and culturally widespread understanding. If there is any value to this description of drengskapr, then that widespread understanding must have transcended both literary and oral culture. With its frequent usage of kennings, skaldic poetry would have been an ideal avenue for such as cultural transmission. As Frog puts it, “[o]ral-poetic meters and verse-forms do not exist in a vacuum: their authority and rhetorical value is dependent on their cultural activity and conventions of application.”70 This examination of Grettis saga suggests that the “authority and rhetorical value” of these verses function according to principles of pragmatics to confirm and reinforce cultural concepts like drengskapr.

Orality and the Pragmatics of Proverbs and Poetry One of the key features of the pragmatic usage of proverbs and poetry in Old Norse-Icelandic literature is recognizing that both are used not only in context but in specific circumstances in which the speech-situational context must be altered in some way or another to communicate the illocution behind the proverb or poem. Guðrún does more than just walk into the context in which she speaks to Bolli; she creates it. Likewise, Grettir transforms the speech situation for his killing announcement to communicate the deeper meaning behind his poem. Króka-Refr distorts the circumstances of his killing announcement to reach his illocutionary goal. Hallmundr transforms a very serious situation into a humorous one. All of these speech situations are manipulated for the purpose of certain illocutionary and social goals: the elevation, preservation, or denigration of self-worth. The final point to make about all of these mechanisms is that they all rely upon what must be considered conventions of societies grounded in orality rather than literacy. The pragmatic function underlying both proverbs and poetry is that they both represent a kind of verbal communication that, even though we read of it in written form via the sagas, has its most relevant application in cultures whose social structures depend 70

Frog, “Speech-Acts,” p. 242.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons upon orality rather than literacy. For instance, several scholars have explored relationships between sententious sayings and oral poetry.71 Carolyne Larrington has argued that “a body of folk-wisdom” existed as the background for medieval Germanic poetry, and “not just verse specifically intended as didactic.”72 Richard L. Harris further demonstrates that there is an “immanent oral corpus at the roots of paroemial cognitive patterning in the northern Germanic world.”73 These conclusions regarding orality may be summed up generally by referring to the work of Walter J. Ong, who, speaking more broadly of how oral societies use proverbs and riddles, suggests that, [b]y keeping knowledge embedded in the human lifeworld, orality situates knowledge within a context of struggle. Proverbs and riddles are not used simply to store knowledge but to engage others in verbal and intellectual combat: utterances of one proverb or riddle challenges hearers to top it with a more apposite or a contradictory one.74

These thoughts on orality come together powerfully in the usage of both Old Norse proverbs and poetry (with its regular use of “riddles,” or kennings) as pragmatic weapons in the sagas discussed here. A pragmatic analysis shows that there is much more to the usage of proverbs than just the communication of wisdom. Indeed, even those verses which are “intended as didactic” possess a dynamic pragmatic function when speakers set them in specific speech-situational contexts. In those contexts, both proverbs and poetry serve the illocutionary and social goals of building up or breaking down self-worth. That said, it would be a cheapening of the deep cultural value of both wisdom and poetry 71

Much of this discussion is effectively given in overview by Richard L. Harris in the second chapter of his forthcoming work on Paroemial Cognitive Patterning, a portion of which Professor Harris was generous enough to share with me in advance of its publication. Harris directs his readers to a wealth of resources on this topic. Most important to the present discussion, see T. A. Shippey, Old English Verse (London: Hutchinson & Co., 1972), pp. 18–19; Joseph Harris, “A Nativist Approach to Beowulf: The Case of the Germanic Elegy,” in A Companion to Old English Poetry, ed. Henk Aertsen and Rolf H. Bremmer, Jr. (Amsterdam: Vrije Universiteit Press, 1994), pp. 45–62; Susan E. Deskis, Beowulf and the Medieval Proverb Tradition (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 1996), p. 140; and Carolyne Larrington, A Store of Common Sense, especially chapter three on “Christian Wisdom Poetry: Hugsvinnsmál.” 72 Larrington, Store of Common Sense, p. 18 (also quoted in Richard Harris, forthcoming, chapter two). 73 Richard L. Harris, “The Eddic Wisdom of Hreiðarr,” in Bryan and Ames, Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North, p. 18. 74 Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (London: Routledge, 1982 [rprt. 2002]), p. 44.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature in the medieval North to say that proverbs and poetry serve only a utilitarian purpose. Rather, it must be recognized that they serve a pragmatic function by virtue of the deep and meaningful value attributed by the culture to both proverbs and poetry. Context may dictate the force of an utterance, but, as Guðrún in Laxdœla saga (and indeed all of the speakers considered in the present chapter) can attest, it is sometimes the speakers themselves, invoking the cultures in which they live, who establish the context. Just as Guðrún builds the context for her utterance (whether a proverb or not), the usage of kennings in skaldic poetry functions along similar lines of oral culture. As Frog concludes in his study of speech-acts in skaldic verse, [i]t is clear that the compositional strategies available to an individual competent in the poetic idiom would enable the generation of situational verse, the formulation of speech-acts in dróttkvætt (or other less demanding meters). Both evidence within the corpus and comparison with situational verse in other cultures makes it likely that this phenomenon was established in the oral culture.75

Proverbs and kennings in skaldic verse work along the same lines as the “riddles” described by Ong. Króka-Refs saga adds a potentially diachronic dimension to this discussion. A parody cannot exist without the target of the parody existing first. It may, it is true, be a diachrony of a short period of time, so short that it may be just as well to call it a contemporary of the target, but the target must always, even if only for a few days, hours, or minutes, exist first. As chapter eight of this volume will attest, while manuscript variation from the medieval to the post-medieval affords, in a sense, the ability to stand in a medieval text and look forward to what that text becomes over the centuries between the earliest and later manuscript variations, parody affords the opportunity to examine the work of someone else looking back onto a linguistic and cultural past and claiming to understand it at least well enough to parody it.76 The hapax legomena in Refs saga may also give us further insight into the manuscript variation observed in the exchange between Guðrún and Bolli in Laxdœla saga. The hapax legomenon in the Möðruvallabók variant – “Mikil verða hermdarverk” (“Great are the deeds of vengeance”) – is typically 75 76

Frog, “Speech-Acts,” p. 243. Such questions as those forwarded by Kendra Willson and other regarding the genre of parody in contrast to “making comic use of traditional motifs” are important questions, but they do not affect the basic principle I suggest here, which is that Króka-Refs saga and others like it are looking backwards to a saga culture and tradition that predates it. See Willson, “Parody and Genre,” p. 1043.

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Proverbs and Poetry as Pragmatic Weapons seen by modern editors as a less-than-desirable variant, if for no other reason, because there is no way to triangulate its meaning.77 However, if Króka-Refs saga is meant to parody the very pragmatic principles evident in scenes like this one from Laxdœla saga, then a hapax legomenon (though perhaps not quite as absurd as those spoken by Refr) would be quite appropriate in such a speech-situational context as the one engineered by Guðrún. In pragmatic terms, all variations of this scene from Laxdœla saga include the heavy weight of indirectness and implicature, which means the pragmatic principles, if not the specific tool employed, are consistent across all variations. In other words, we may not know exactly what Guðrún’s words are (locution), but we have no doubts about what they “do” in the Austinean sense. Some variants appeal to the ambiguity and novelty of a hapax legomenon while others appeal to the contextdependence of a proverb. Either way, the illocutionary goal of the utterance remains the same.

Conclusion More broadly, while both proverbs and skaldic “riddles” may function similarly, their pragmatic purposes often differ depending upon how they are employed within a specific speech-situational context. The situational verses uttered by Loftr/Hallmundr work as a variant of the conflictive principle discussed in chapter three of this volume. By contrast, proverbs, as pragmatic weapons, stand much closer to the indirect aggression, as they are employed to do harm to the other person in one way or another. In some cases, the wielders of this pragmatic weapon – such as Guðrún, Jórúnn, and Þorgerðr in Laxdœla saga – build their speech-situational context rather deliberately in order to ensure that their weapon will find its mark. In these three instances from Laxdœla saga, some striking commonalities are evident: 1) all three speech situations include female– male discourse interactions, 2) all include a verbal exchange teeming with indirectness and implicature, 3) all include a setting in which social status and self-worth of the hearers are on the line, and finally 4) all include a context in which both physical and verbal aggression are imminent (though not always stated overtly). The first of these similarities, the gender-relationships of the speakers and hearers in these discourses, deserves special attention. It is clear that, as Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir has demonstrated, “by using speech acts as tools for empowerment, women can work within and manipulate existing power structures for their own ends.”78 Female Old Norse-Icelandic speakers seem to have a special ability, and a special 77

78

See Louis-Jensen, “A Good Day’s Work,” p. 190. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, p. 10.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature need, to work within a discourse to transform the speech situation into which they speak. The usage of proverbs is one way this transformation happens, but there are other mechanisms as well. The following chapter will thus build upon Jóhanna’s work in this area to gain a deeper understanding of the pragmatic mechanisms by which female speakers transform their speech-situational context.

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N 7 n Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender No comprehensive analysis of pragmatics in Old Norse-Icelandic literature would be complete without consideration of the cutting-outthe-shirt scene from Gísla saga Súrssonar, when Gísli’s wife, Auðr, and sister-in-law, Ásgerðr, argue over which of them will be better at cutting out a shirt for Ásgerðr’s husband (and Gísli’s brother), Þorkell. The two women are working one morning in the dyngja, a part of the Icelandic homestead that would have been almost exclusively occupied by the women of the house,1 when, thinking themselves alone, they engage in a brief but damaging conversation: (1a) Ásgerðr: “Veittu mér þat, at þú sker mér skyrtu, Auðr, Þorkatli bónda mínum.” (1b) Auðr: “Þat kann ek eigi betr en þú,” sagði Auðr, “ok myndir þú eigi mik til biðja, ef þú skyldir skera Vésteini bróður mínum skyrtuna.” (1c) Ásgerðr: “Eitt er þat sér,” segir Ásgerðr, “ok svá mun mér þykkja nǫkkura stund.” (1d) Auðr: “Lǫngu vissa ek þat,” segir Auðr, “hvat við sik var, ok rœðum ekki um fleira.” (1e) Ásgerðr: “Þat þykki mér eigi brigzl,” sagði Ásgerðr, “þótt mér þykki Vésteinn góðr. Hitt var mér sagt, at þit Þorgrímr hittizk mjǫk opt, áðr en þú værir Gísla gefin.” (1f) Auðr: “Því fylgðu engir mannlestir,” segir Auðr, “því at ek tók 1

See Karen Bek-Pedersen, The Norns in Old Norse Mythology (Edinburgh: Dunedin, 2011), pp. 105–13, for a thorough discussion of the greater connotations of the dyngja as a female space.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature engan mann undir Gísla, at því fylgði neinn mannlǫstr; ok munu vit nú hætta þessi rœðu.”2 (1a) Ásgerðr: “Help me with something: cut out a shirt for me, Auðr, for Þorkell, my husband.” (1b) Auðr: “I cannot do that better than you, […] and you would not ask me to do that, if you were to cut a shirt for Vésteinn, my brother.” (1c) Ásgerðr: “That is another thing, […] and so shall it seem to me for a while.” (1d) Auðr: “I have known about that for a long time, […] what was going on, and we will say no more about it.” (1e) Ásgerðr: “It doesn’t seem shameful to me that I should think well of Vésteinn. I have heard it said that you and Þorgrímr spent quite a lot of time together, before you were married to Gísli.” (1f) Auðr: “There’s no way to find shame in that, […] because I have been with no man other than my husband; therefore, there is not any shame, and we will now stop this conversation.”

But of course they were not alone. While all the other men in the house had gone out into the fields for haymaking, Þorkell, being very proud (“ofláti mikill”), did not deign to go out to work on the farm.3 Instead, he went back into the eldhús (the fire-room) after breakfast that morning and, hearing voices coming from the dyngja, decided to lie down at the far end of the fire-room where he could hear the women’s conversation. After the above exchange, he declares the ominous words: (1g)

“Heyr undr mikit, heyr ørlygi, heyr mál mikit, heyr manns bana, eins eða fleiri” 4

(“Hear a great wonder; hear words of doom; hear a great matter; hear of men’s death; one man’s or more.”)

Scholars have long been intrigued by a host of questions that spring 2

3 4

Gísla saga Súrssonar, in Vestfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, ÍF 6, pp. 30–1. I present this dialogue in a mode conducive to the dynamic interpretive analysis below. Gísla saga, p. 29 ibid., p. 31.

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender up from this conversation: What does the act of cutting out a shirt for someone really suggest? If the cutting out of a shirt is suggestive of romantic interest, what exactly is the relationship between Auðr and Þorkell, Ásgerðr and Vésteinn, and Auðr and Þorgrímr? Were the women earnestly arguing with one another or merely engaging in idle chatter? What has Vésteinn, Auðr’s brother, got to do with anything? What exactly does Þorkell hear that makes him think one or more people will die? Finally, behind all of these questions lingers a not-so-subtle connection between Gísla saga Súrssonar and the stories of the Völsungs and the fateful and embittered verbal exchanges between Brynhildr and Guðrún on the eve of Sigurðr’s death. It should now be clear that answers to these questions depend largely upon a deeper understanding of various types of context for the exchange: the co-text for the utterance, the cultural context of the dyngja as a space reserved for women, the speech-situational context shared by the speech participants, the literary context for Gísla saga and its proximity to the Völsung narratives, and, last but not least, the dynamic interpretation of context as the conversation proceeds.5 By exploring the various types of context for this scene, this chapter aims to explore a pragmatic mechanism of gendered discourse introduced in the previous chapter, by which of female speakers in Old Norse literature shape the contexts of their verbal exchanges to bring about their illocutionary goals.

Context in Gísla saga Craige Roberts’s view of context offers a useful starting point for our understanding of the exchange between Auðr and Ásgerðr, specifically with regard to co-text and speech-situational context: [k]nowledge of the context of utterance is crucial in figuring out which speech act a speaker intends to perform by the utterance of an imperative like Hand me the rope. Only by considering the relative status of the interlocutors and the information they share about where the rope is, whether the speaker needs or wants it, and what is to be done with it, can we form a hypothesis about whether this constitutes a request, a command, permission, or advice to the hearer. Otherwise, we cannot say what type of obligation the speaker urges the hearer to undertake, and, hence, we cannot understand the sense of the imperative.6

This consideration of the possible differences between the grammatical mood of the imperative and the type of obligation imposed upon the hearer helps unlock Ásgerðr’s opening statement, which includes two such imperatives: “Veittu mér þat, at þú sker mér skyrtu, Auðr, Þorkatli 5 6

See chapter one of this volume (pp. 25–7) for an appraisal of these types of context. Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” p. 199.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature bónda mínum” (“[You] help me with something: [you] cut out a shirt for me, Auðr, for Þorkell, my husband” [emphasis added]). Scholars have given considerable thought to the question of what Ásgerðr precisely means by the imperative “… sker mér skyrtu” (… cut out a shirt for me).7 Yet, as Roberts’s assertion indicates, a pragmatic approach to the problem indicates that it is simply not possible to understand the cutting-of-theshirt imperative without first understanding the initial imperative, “Veittu mér þat … ” (“Help me with something …”). In Roberts’s terminology, this imperative may act as a command, request, permission, or advice, but to know which is intended (and why) we must first comprehend the cultural and speech-situational context for the exchange. The site of the conversation between Ásgerðr and Auðr contributes most obviously speech-situational context. The dyngja factors heavily into the speech situation because it is a space fully within the female gender sphere of medieval Iceland.8 Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir has summarized the notion of gender spheres, stating, [h]istorically, high-ranking women in medieval Iceland seem to have had a clearly defined role and realm of power innan stokkis “within the domestic sphere” as heads of households [… .] The public sphere was the realm of (high-status) males: men took part in local and national assemblies, legislation, blood feud, travel, trade, and other business, where women had no official role.9

With this notion of gender spheres in mind, Jeffrey Turco has succinctly argued that one of the fundamental tensions in Gísla saga arises from the fact that Þorkell invades the female gender sphere. As Turco puts it, “[both Þorkell’s unusual location during the kvennahjal scene (indoors, while “all the men” are outdoors) as well as his conspicuous passivity […] plainly spell gender trouble in medieval Iceland.”10 While recognizing Þorkell’s invasion of this gender sphere helps illuminate much about why things went so poorly after the conversation had concluded, it remains to work out what transpired within the conversation itself. A “dynamic interpretation” of context, as presented by Craige Roberts, allows for what might be called a kinetic view of context by recognizing that speech-situational context at the beginning of a verbal exchange See Jenny Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998), p. 71. 8 Helga Kress, “Staðlausir Stafir. Um slúður sem uppsprettu frásagnar í Íslendingasögum,” Skírnir 165 (1991), pp. 130–56, at p. 136. 9 Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, pp. 9–10. See also Siân Grønlie, “‘Neither Male Nor Female’? Redeeming Women in the Icelandic Conversion Narratives,” Medium Ævum 75 (2006), pp. 293–318. 10 Jeffrey Turco, “Gender, Violence, and the ‘Enigma’ of Gísla saga,” JEGP 115:3 (2016), pp. 277–98, at p. 283. 7

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender will change, sometimes drastically, as the conversation proceeds. New information, revealed emotions or perspectives, hidden meanings, and (in the case of Þorkell’s eavesdropping) unanticipated interruptions all shape and reshape the context of a discourse as it moves forward. To understand this kinetic aspect of a discourse, Roberts describes four parts, called a four-tuple, for every discourse: (1) Discourse Referents (entities and actions referred to in the discourse), (2) Domain Goals (goals of discourse), (3) Questions under Discussion (what is to be worked out by means of the discourse), and (4) Common Ground (the shared presupposed information discussants take into a discourse).11 At the start of any discourse, the Common Ground shared by the discussants typically includes only the social space in which the discourse occurs and any usual social constraints, expectations, or benefits enjoyed by those particular persons in that particular space. As the discourse proceeds, however, the four-tuple expands to include the content, whether explicit or implicit, delivered within each utterance. It would be tedious to include a complete four-tuple analysis of the exchange here, but the following three stages will serve to illustrate the most relevant developments of the speech-situational context as the discussion progresses: Input context C: DR:

Empty

DG:

Empty

QUD:

Empty

CG:

dyngja (discourse space within female sphere and shared knowledge about work at hand) and other shared presuppositions

Step 1a: Ásgerðr: “Help me with something: cut out a shirt for me, Auðr, for Þorkell, my husband.”C+(1a): DR:

a=Ásgerðr (“me”), b=Auðr (impl. “you”), c=Þorkell, d=shirt, (b,d,c)=cut

DG:

Explicit: Auðr cut out Þorkell’s shirt Implicit: ????

QUD:

Explicit: Will Auðr cut out shirt for Ásgerðr, for Þorkell Implicit: ????

CG:

dyngja (discourse space within female sphere and shared knowledge about work at hand) + (shared knowledge about respective relationships with men) and (implications of shirt cutting=x, y, z … n), where x=indication of intimate relationship, y=grounds for divorce, and z=null

11

Roberts, “Context in Dynamic Interpretation,” pp. 207–11.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature […] Step 1e: Ásgerðr: “It doesn’t seem shameful to me that I should think well of Vésteinn. I have heard it said that you and Þorgrímr spent quite a lot of time together, before you were married to Gísli.” ((((C+(1a))+(1b))+(1c))+(1d))+(1e): DR:

a=Ásgerðr (“me”), b=Auðr (impl. “you”), c=Þorkell, d=shirt, (b,d,c)=cut, e=Vésteinn, (a,d,e)=cut, + f=“it” or “what was going on” + g=(shamefulness) + h=(Auðr’s previous relationship with Þorgrímr)

DG:

Explicit: (Auðr cut out Þorkell’s shirt) + (Auðr will not cut shirt for Þorkell)//subj neutralizes new QUD as DG + Remove Ásgerðr’s and Vésteinn’s connection [(a,d,e)=cut] from Discourse Referents + Remove (f=“it” or “what was going on”) from Discourse Referents + ameliorate + reject (g=shamefulness of Ásgerðr to like Vésteinn) Implicit:????

QUD:

Explicit (Will Auðr cut out shirt for Ásgerðr, for Þorkell) + (Will Ásgerðr cut out shirt for Vésteinn) Implicit: ???? + Is it shameful for Ásgerðr to like Vésteinn? + Is it shameful for Auðr to have liked Þorgrímr?

CG:

dyngja (discourse space within female sphere) + (shared knowledge about respective relationships with men; shared knowledge about work at hand) + (implications of shirt cutting=x, y, z … n), where x=indication of intimate relationship, y=grounds for divorce, and z=null + (Auðr/Þorkell as Ásgerðr/ Vésteinn), as (b,d,c)=cut//(a,d,e)=cut (Implied connection between Ásgerðr and Vésteinn) + Auðr knows about (f=“it” or “what was going on”); Ásgerðr’s and Vésteinn’s connection [(a,d,e)=cut] has not been removed from Discourse Referents + (f=“it” or “what was going on”) has not been removed from Discourse Referents + (“cutting shirt for”)=(“thinking well of”)

Even though the above chart represents an abbreviated context model of the conversation (only including the input context, 1a, and 1e), it should be evident that as the conversation progresses, new information is added to the respective context categories so that the expectations and assumptions of the speech-situational context develop with the discourse itself. While the speech situation initially includes only the discussants’ shared space and knowledge of the work at hand, as the conversation moves forward, six additional CG entities must be factored into the shared context. 176

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender The most important, if ambiguous to the modern reader, of these added CG entities appears in step 1a: + (shared knowledge about respective relationships with men) and (implications of shirt cutting = x, y, z … n), where x = indication of intimate relationship and y=grounds for divorce. The implications of shirt cutting could, theoretically, go on ad infinitum (… n), as any conversation and cultural context might continue to add meaning to it, but in pragmatic terms, it is the prerogative of the discussants who share the common ground to narrow that field of implications to one or a few understood entities that in turn allow the discourse to proceed without confusion.12 In other words, if the context of a conversation is not shared by all participants, then the conversation will not function properly; it will instead suffer from misunderstanding and eventually break down altogether. Thus, because the conversation continues without interruptions, at least until Þorkell intervenes, the outside observer may assume that, whatever those assumptions may be, Ásgerðr and Auðr shared them within the common ground of their discourse. At least one association (y, per the above chart) with shirt cutting is evident from the developing context of the discourse itself because it is stated overtly. In step five of the conversation, Ásgerðr states that it should not be shameful that she should think well of Vésteinn. At this point, the only possible discourse referents to which this new information could apply is (a,d,e)=cut, in which a=Ásgerðr, e=Vésteinn, and d=shirt. Thus, based on this context analysis, cutting out a shirt must necessarily refer – implicitly at first and explicitly as the conversation develops – to a relationship between two people that may or may not (such is the Question Under Discussion) lead to shamefulness. Icelandic cultural expectations associated with sewing and shirtcutting can also illuminate the context of discourse. Scholars have pointed out that a woman who makes or mends a shirt for a man may have a romantic interest in him, a cultural phenomenon which conforms with y=grounds for divorce, per the above chart. Contrasting references to the sagas suggest that cutting a man’s shirt too low (such that the man wore what appeared to be a woman’s shirt) would enable the woman to entrap her husband with grounds for divorce, which conforms to x=indication of intimate relationship.13 Outside of the immediate speech-situational 12

Jane Christine Roscoe‘s master thesis offers an accessible discussion to some of the possible implications behind the shirt-cutting reference here. See “The literary significance of clothing in the Icelandic Family Sagas,” MA thesis (Durham University, 1992), pp. 226–37. 13 See Alison Finlay, “Betrothal and Women’s Autonomy in Laxdœla saga and Poets’ Sagas,” Skáldskaparmál Tímarit um íslenskar bókmenntir fyrr alda 4 (Reykjavík: Stafaholt hf, 1997), pp. 107–28, at p. 108, and Christopher W. E. Crocker, On the Representation of Women in the Sagas of Icelanders, (MA Thesis: University of Manitoba, 2001), pp. 88–91.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature context, these two interpretations appear to conflict with one another, since one indicates a positive relationship and the other a negative one. However, within the developing context of the discussion between Ásgerðr and Auðr, no conflict need arise between the two interpretations, so that the pragmatic reading of the phrase—“… at þú sker mér skyrtu, Auðr, Þorkatli bónda mínum” (“… cut out a shirt for me, Auðr, for Þorkell, my husband.”)—includes (a) give me grounds for divorcing my husband (y=grounds for divorce) by (b) showing that you, Auðr, have intimate feelings for him (x=indication of intimate relationship). Yet this second imperative (to cut out a shirt for Ásgerðr) must have rung as ironic in Auðr’s ears, because, culturally, only an intimate relation would prepare a man’s shirts (per x=indication of intimate relationship), which in turn prompts an interpretation of the first imperative. An accurate pragmatic reading of the scene therefore requires a return to the question of the preceding imperative, “Veittu mér þat … ” (“Help me with something … ”). Getting at the right pragmatic interpretation requires consideration of the anaphoric relationship between the two first-person dative pronouns, mér in Ásgerðr’s utterances. The first, in the phrase “veittu mér þat,” is uncomplicated because it is independent of any possible antecedent other than Ásgerðr. The second phrase, “at þú sker mér skyrtu, Auðr, Þorkatli bónda mínum,” causes more problems – not because the grammar is unclear but rather because it becomes unclear, pragmatically, exactly for whom Auðr should cut out the shirt. While the shirt would be for Þorkell (… Þorkatli bónda mínum … ), Auðr would be doing the act of cutting out the shirt for Ásgerðr’s sake (… sker mér skyrtu …). In other words, the pronoun mér in Ásgerðr’s second imperative ties the full act of cutting out a shirt to the much less complicated mér of her first imperative. Thus, taken as a whole, her complete utterance must be read thus: Help me with something [IMPL: which I cannot/will not do myself]: (a) give me grounds for divorcing my husband (y=grounds for divorce) by (b) showing that you, Auðr, have intimate feelings for him (x=indication of intimate relationship).

Auðr takes Ásgerðr’s statement in precisely this way, as she says plainly that she (Auðr) can do such a thing no better than Ásgerðr, despite Ásgerðr’s implication that she cannot do such a thing herself. Of course, Ásgerðr could create circumstances in which a divorce would take place, but the terms would not be advantageous because it would require being unfaithful to Þorkell with Vésteinn. This reading illuminates the final peculiarity in the scene, which is the tense and mood of Auðr’s retort: “Þat kann ek eigi betr en þú […] ok myndir þú eigi mik

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender til biðja, ef þú skyldir skera Vésteini bróður mínum skyrtuna.”14 English translators tend to force this utterance a little to read, “… and you would not have asked for my help if you had been cutting out a shirt for my brother, Vesteinn.”15 This reading which implies, easily enough, that Ásgerðr has married the wrong man, and if she had been cutting out shirts for the person she really ought to have married, Vésteinn, then none of this would be a problem. However, this translation and interpretation are not precisely accurate. The phrase ought to read, “… if you were to cut out a shirt for my brother Vésteinn,”16 which implies an act (cutting out shirts for Vésteinn) that ought to happen presently, not one that ought to have happened in the past. The only way to read Auðr’s statement without complication is to take her pragmatic suggestion to mean that if Ásgerðr really wants a divorce from Þorkell, her husband, then all she need do is sleep with Vésteinn. Ásgerðr, not surprisingly, takes offense. If taken piecemeal, certain aspects of the speech situation allow for a third interpretation of Ásgerðr’s shirt-cutting request (listed as z=null on the above chart), which views Ásgerðr’s imperative statement as no more than a simple and direct request for help with a mundane task. The conversation occurs while the women are in the process of sewing clothes of their respective family members.17 On some level, it would seem perfectly innocent to ask a workmate for help with something. Were this the case, the initial aggressive speech act would fall to Auðr rather than Ásgerðr. However, such a reading requires ignoring the importance of Ásgerðr’s usage of the first-person datives, mér, as well as other external It is possible that this line ought to be translated “… unless you were cutting out a shirt … .” There is, arguably, parallel structure between the two phrases (“myndir þú eigi” and “þú skyldir”) and therefore some chance that the second “eigi” is implied. “Ef eigi” regularly means “unless,” so should the eigi from the previous phrase be implied, the translation would make a good deal more sense. This reading changes the overall meaning of the phrase because it indicates that Auðr knows not merely that Ásgerðr has feelings for Vésteinn but in fact is acting on those feelings – that is, she is already “cutting out a shirt” for Vésteinn. Thus, Auðr’s statement would read something like “… you wouldn’t be asking me to cut out a shirt for Þorkell unless you were cutting out a shirt for my brother, Vésteinn,” indicating that Auðr is using Ásgerðr’s request either to deduce the truth about Ásgerðr and Vésteinn or that she already knew (per utterance 1d, above) and is using Ásgerðr’s request as a way to expose the infidelity. 15 See, for example, Martin S. Regal‘s translation, Gisli Sursson‘s Saga in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders vol. 2, p. 9. 16 See, for instance, Jóhanna Barðdal, “The Development of Case in Germanic,” in The Role of Semantic, Pragmatic, and Discourse Factors in the Development of Case, ed. Jóhanna Barðdal and Shobhana L. Chelliah, Studies in Language Companion (Amsterdam, 2009), pp. 123–69, at p. 127. 17 See Roscoe, “Clothing in the Icelandic Family Sagas,” p. 231. 14

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature factors that contribute to the speech-situational context. It is also possible that Ásgerðr and Auðr are passing the hours of their labors with some innocent banter back and forth. It could even fall within the prerogative of the female-gendered speech situation to do so (as might also be the case with an expressly male-gendered speech situation). In fact, as will be discussed in greater detail in the following chapter, the later manuscript tradition emphasizes this possible eventuality (see pp. 211–12 below). Be that as it may, any chance of interpreting the request as such dwindles to nothing the moment Þorkell enters the discourse situation. Despite his obvious eavesdropping, Þorkell has chosen not to enter the femalegendered space of the dyngja physically but to invade it aurally from the outside; he takes the words spoken irrespective of any possibility of idle and innocent conversation and subjugates the entire speech-situational context under what he – rather than Ásgerðr and Auðr – brings to the conversation. In other words, he appropriates all rights to interpretation of the preceding contexts to his own interpretation to create a speechsituational context that follows the formula C = Þorkell/C1, in which Þorkell appropriates all aspects of the original context four-tuple (now in Þorkell’s interpretation: C1) to serve his own conclusion and no other (Discourse Referents = Þorkell/DR1, Domain Goals = Þorkell/DG1, Question Under Discussion = Þorkell/QUD1, and Common Ground = Þorkell/CG1). At this point there is little hope of recovery unless Þorkell is willing to relinquish his appropriation, which he clearly is not. This dynamic interpretation of the discourse between Auðr, Ásgerðr, and Þorkell demonstrates on the pragmatic level the discursive mechanisms of Turco’s observation that Þorkell has invaded the female gender sphere. Moreover, it also allows for a deeper comparative assessment of the connections between Gísla saga and the Völsung narratives, specifically of the Quarrel of the Queens episode, which was more carefully examined in chapter two of this volume.18 The connections between Gísla saga Súrsonar and the Völsung narratives have been thoroughly discussed before, but even a surface-deep reading will show that the writer of Gísla saga is quite familiar with the Völsung narrative. Gísli famously criticizes his sister at one point for not being of the same stuff as Guðrún Gjukadóttir (chapter 19), and there are thematic connections between Grásíða, the fateful weapon used to do the killings in Gísla saga and Gramr, the sword of such importance in the Völsung narratives. These internal references to aspects of the Völsung narratives likewise make the association unmistakable, and this argument between Ásgerðr and Auðr must certainly be considered another example of an internal allusion to 18

See Riti Kroesen, “The Reforged Weapon in the Gísla Saga Súrssonar,” Neophilologus 66 (1982), pp. 569–73; and Heinrich Mattias Heinrichs, “Nibelungensage und Gísla Saga,” Beitrage zur deutchen und nordischen Literature (1958), pp. 22–9.

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender Völsunga saga. The pragmatics of the verbal exchanges in this scene from Gísla saga represent an expressly Icelandic, potentially “modernized” version of the Quarrel of the Queens, although it is more properly called an analogue to the episode rather than a version of it. Gísla saga is unique in that it retains the motif of the Quarrel of the Queens but not a retelling of the actual episode. It is as though the writer of Gísla saga tries to present the Quarrels of the Queens episode in the cultural setting of tenth-century Iceland. Much of the Quarrel of the Queens, and the strategy of inquiry described in chapter two as indirect aggression, remains in Gísla saga, though the details have been altered.19 Rather than two queens quarreling over whose husband is the nobler, Gísla saga has two well-married women inadvertently entangled in a similar, if perhaps more modern, contest of honor. According to the reading of the speech-situational context described in this chapter, Ásgerðr enacts indirect aggression (IA) strategy 1 (IA 1, per the above description in chapter two of this volume) because she uses use indirectness in speech to initiate or maintain an attack by using the speech-situational context to create the implicatures associated with the shirt-cutting request. Auðr then engages IA 2.a when she attempts to gain the upper hand by retaliating with an indirect attack that reflects and intensifies the initial attack. Auðr’s intensification tactic here is evident first by her redirection of the initial shirt-cutting implicature (now implicating Ásgerðr and Vésteinn rather than Auðr and Þorkell) and, second, by her intensified indirectness via the usage of the modal verbs munu and skulu in the statement “ok myndir þú eigi mik til biðja, ef þú skyldir skera Vésteini bróður mínum skyrtuna” (“and you would not ask me to do that, if you were to cut a shirt for Vésteinn, my brother”).20 Auðr wins the round as evident by Ásgerðr’s attempt, per IA 2.b, to resort to directness in hopes of salvaging her status, with her definitive statement, “Eitt er þat sér,” (“That is another thing”), which admits no guilt but which attempts to separate Auðr’s implicatures regarding Ásgerðr and Vésteinn from the rest of the conversation. Ásgerðr’s effort here – represented as a main Domain Goal, that is, to remove Ásgerðr’s and Vésteinn’s connection [(a,d,e)=cut] from Discourse Referents, (g=shamefulness of Ásgerðr to like Vésteinn) – brings something new to a discussion of the indirect aggression strategy of inquiry, which functions rather line the “embellished directness” (IA C) discussed in chapter two above. Like embellished directness, Ásgerðr’s defensive aim is to “deflect or deflate the implicature of an indirect attack,” but by attempting to remove her connections to Vésteinn from the discourse referents, she leaves herself the chance for further attacks against Auðr in the future. 19

20

See above, p. 67. Gísla saga, p. 30.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Ásgerðr’s tactic is also a risky one, however, because she leaves herself open for retaliation should Auðr have the right information and thus appeal to reinforceability and restate what has only thus far been implicated about Ásgerðr and Vésteinn. Ásgerðr tries to recover her footing by returning to an indirect posture in the second half of her response (utterance 1c): “[…] ok svá mun mér þykkja nǫkkura stund” (“[…] and so shall it seem to me for a while”). 21 However, Auðr has now gained a tempo, to borrow a chess term, and has the ability to lead off a follow-up indirect attack. Auðr does so artfully. While she does not fully appeal to reinforceability by producing a definitive statement about Ásgerðr and Vésteinn, she warns that she does have such information: “Lǫngu vissa ek þat,” segir Auðr, “hvat við sik var, ok rœðum ekki um fleira […]” (“I have known about that for a long time, […] what was going on with you, and we will say no more about it”).22 Auðr now has total control of the conversation, but Ásgerðr grasps at the only straw she can find and accuses Auðr of an illicit affair with Þorgrímr. There is no real bite in her remark, but the damage has been done. Þorkell makes himself known and speaks his ominous verse.23 If the author of Gísla saga does indeed use this scene as an allusion to the Quarrel of the Queens, then the motivations behind the women’s argument – represented by the implicit Domain Goals (DG) and Questions Under Discussion (QUD) from the chart above – must also find some clarity. In the Völsung narratives, the QUD is clearly which of the two women possesses the higher social status, while the domain goal was essentially for one to expose the other as shameful or disgraceful. Their respective husbands represented, in a way, the mere ammunition for their assaults upon one another. Some indication of what those implicit DGs and QUDs might be of the discourse may be with the addition of Discourse Referent g=shamefulness/disgrace, referred to by both Ásgerðr (in 1e) and Auðr (twice in 1f). The vocabulary used to refer to this shame reveals something about the stakes of their game. Auðr refers twice to mannlǫstr (“shame,” specifically a shame done to a woman’s husband), which indicates that her concern extends to Gísli perhaps even more than herself.24 By contrast, Ásgerðr says there is no shame, “brigzl,” in her liking Vésteinn. The noun brigzl or brigzli – “insult,” “shame,” “dishonor” – is related to the verb brigzla, “to reproach” or “upbraid.” It so happens that this is the same verb, brigzla, used by Brynhildr uses in Völsunga saga to describe how Guðrún has mistreated her (emphasis added): 21

Gísla saga, p. 30.

22 ibid. 23

Ásgerðr’s attack is an absurd suggestion because, as noted in the ÍF edition of the saga, it had been such a long time since the proposed affair (Gísla saga, p. 31, n. 1). 24 Gísla saga, p. 30, n. 2.

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender “Ek vil eigi lifa,” sagði Brynhildr, “því at Sigurðr hefir mik vélt ok eigi síðr þik, þá er þú lézt hann fara í mína sæng. Nú vil ek eigi tvá menn eiga senn í einni höll, ok þetta skal vera bani Sigurðar eða þinn eða minn, því at hann hefir þat allt sagt Guðrúnu, en hún brigzlar mér.25 (“I will not live,” said Brynhildr, “because Sigurðr has defrauded me, and you no less, when you let him come to my bed. Now I will not have two men at once in the same hall, and this shall be the death of Sigurðr or you or me, because he has told all to Guðrún, and she shames me.”)

Both the noun brigzli and the verb brigzla are common in Old NorseIcelandic literature, so it may be asking too much of the author of Gísla saga to suggest that Ásgerðr’s usage of brigzl here alludes to Brynhildr’s application of brigzla. Nevertheless, it cannot be ignored that the semantic contexts for these concepts strike such a common tone in such similar speech-situational contexts. The shaming Brynhildr speaks of in Völsunga saga corresponds in Gísla saga with the very conversation in which Ásgerðr uses the same word to describe her own shame (even though she denies it to be true). Connections between this argument in Gísla saga and the Quarrel of the Queens episodes in Völsunga saga (and elsewhere) fall in line with previous observations about the relationship between the two sagas, but at this point in the narrative, Gísla saga makes a remarkable departure from the Nibelung / Völsung narratives. Auðr wants to get out of the conversation and says as much in two separate statements. She follows her allusion to reinforceability with the statement, “rœðum ekki um fleira” (“we will say no more about it”), and a moment later, “… munu vit nú hætta þessa rœðu” (“we will now stop this talk”). It is possible that Auðr means these statements to chide Ásgerðr for not wanting to talk about Vésteinn, but Auðr seems rather to anticipate the danger of the conversation and says only enough to preserve her – and her husband’s – honor. The scene thus presents something of an abortive version of the Quarrel of the Queens, and the strategies of indirect aggression are just as abortive. Both women engage in indirectly aggressive utterances, but Auðr’s reluctance to continue the argument is puzzling. It is, perhaps, possible that the saga writer does not understand or is not interested in strategies of indirectness in verbal aggression, but in the scenes that follow this one, it is quite clear that the author understands strategies of inquiry and speech-situational contexts quite well, and even wants to contrast one verbal exchange with another. When the women realize Þorkell has heard their conversation, they 25

Völsunga saga, p. 188. The Dictionary of Old Norse Prose lists thirty-four instances of brigzla and ninety-two of brigzli. ONP: The Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (University of Copenhagen), s.v. “brigzli” and brigzla http://onp.ku.dk/ onp/onp.php? Last accessed 8 August 2019.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature each devise a plan on how best to approach their husbands. Ásgerðr’s plan is far more indirect: she says she will do nothing but wrap her arms around Þorkell’s neck and tell him none of what he heard is true, whereas Auðr decides upon the direct approach: “Segja Gísla bónda mínum allt þat, er ek á vant at rœða eða af at ráða” (“I will tell my husband, Gísli, everything that I have left unsaid and try to come up with a plan”).26 While the speech-situational context of Ásgerðr’s and Þorkell’s conversation is rife with power dynamics, deception, and what seems to be a long history of tension between the couple, Auðr aims for a different sort of discourse. In the former case, Ásgerðr waits patiently to construct the context in which she will speak, as she waits until Þorkell has gone to bed and goes into the bedroom to lie down with him. Þorkell, however, says he does not want to share his bed with her, now or for a long time. When she asks why, he says “Bæði vitum vit nú sökina, þótt ek hafa lengi leyndr verit, ok mun þinn hróðr ekki at meiri, þó at27 ek mæla berara” (“We both know the charged offense though I have long been kept in the dark, and your honor will not increase if I were to speak more clearly”).28 This sentence alone offers several intentional layers of indirect aggression. First, the subjunctive mæla offers a doubly emphatic indirectness, and the sentence as a whole marks a scathing attack on Ásgerðr’s honor. Second, the term sökina is not uncommon in legal disputations (in the sense of a suit or action in court), so Þorkell here subtly suggests that Ásgerðr has caused what might be permanent hurt to Þorkell. Þorkell in fact suggests, indirectly, that this is an offense of legal proportions, serious to the point of divorce proceedings. The verbal conflict goes on to vacillate between directness and indirectness, but in the end Ásgerðr thoroughly dismantles Þorkell, who finally says she can come to bed if she wants to. Auðr’s conversation with Gísli contrasts decidedly from Ásgerðr’s and Þorkell’s. According to the saga, “Auðr kom nú í rekkju hjá Gísla ok segir honum rœður þeira Ásgerðar ok biðr af sér reiði ok bað hann taka nǫkkut gott ráð, ef hann sæi” (Auðr lay down beside Gísli in bed and told him all about the conversation with Ásgerðr and asked him not to be angry with her and if he could see any counsel that would help). Gísli says he can think of nothing that will help but that he will not be angry with her: fate must have someone to speak through. The author of Gísla saga clearly contrasts the speech situation for Ásgerðr’s and Þorkell’s conversation – consumed with indirectness, bitterness, and coercion – with Auðr’s and Gísla saga, p. 32. The phrase þó at along with the subjunctive mæla seems here to mean “if.” 28 Gísla saga, p. 17. The longer version of the saga simplifies Þorkell’s retort differently, though it bears the same indirect effect. There, “Veiztu sökina,” segir Þorkell; “enda veit ek ok.” A good modern-day translation might be “we both know what you’ve done.” Saga Gísla Súrssonar, I og II, ed. Benedikt Sveinsson, p. 124. 26 27

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender Gísli’s open and gracious speech-situational context. Auðr’s words here go beyond an errant wife dutifully “coming clean” to her husband; they reveal a speech-situational context that allows for truthfulness and transparency even when circumstances are not at their best. The latter appears to be close to what Jürgen Habermas would call an ideal speech situation, by which he meant a discourse situation entirely free from the danger of any coercive or threatening pressures so that all parties are free to speak openly and honestly about an issue.29 When added to the notion that Auðr wants to escape the caustic discourse with Ásgerðr (though she can win the indirectly aggressive encounter if pressed), Auðr’s understanding and pursuit of the ideal speech situation with Gísli affirm Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir’s argument that Old Norse female speakers do not fit into the single category of “inciters” to violence as per the cold counsel motif. More often than scholars tend to acknowledge, Jóhanna argues, “female characters who wield power, whether using verbal strategies or magic, often use their power constructively rather than destructively for peaceful ends, and with the aim of preserving the community and its status quo.”30 Whereas Jóhanna ably demonstrates these two types of female speakers in Norse sagas, inciters on the one hand and peace-makers on the other, Gísla saga stands as a kind of transitional narrative, or hinge, between these two types of speakers. Auðr may readily fit into the peace-seeking category of female speakers, but the rest is unclear. Despite the fact that she does a poor job of it, Ásgerðr also must be placed into this peace-seeking category, as she tries (but fails) to convince her husband to drop the whole matter. It is also worth noting that rather than aiming for her counsel (ráð) to be heard and carried out, Auðr suggests that she and Ásgerðr should seek counsel: See, for instance, Jürgen Habermas, On the Pragmatics of Social Interaction: Preliminary Studies in the Theory of Communicative Action, trans. Barbara Fultner (Cambridge: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 2001), pp. 97–8. Note that for Habermas the ideal speech situation typically refers to a rhetorical situation rather than an intimate personal one such as a discussion between a wife and husband. Yet, there is obvious crossover, particularly in a case such as this, where Auðr and Gísli work to come up with a good solution to the problem. Habermas would later abandon the notion of an ideal speech situation because he viewed it as not practicable in a real-life situation. See, for instance, Karl-Otto Apel, “Is the Ethics of the Ideal Communication Community a Utopia? On the Relationship between Ethics, Utopia, and the Critique of Utopia,” in The Communicative Ethics Controversy, ed. Seyla Benhabib and Fred Dallmayr (Cambridge: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1995), pp. 23–59, and sources cited there. However, I would suggest that within a literary context the notion may find new life, since the literary idealization of a speech situation, though not possible in real life situations, may serve (as I suggest it does here) a discursive purpose for the author of a literary work. 30 Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, p. 135. 29

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature “leitum okkr ráðs” (“we must seek counsel”).31 It is Þorkell, having taken on a feminized identity by entering the female sphere, who assumes the role of inciter.32 As the inciter, he is the one to bring about the death and destruction of community rather than a biologically female speaker.33 The contrasts between the respective couples’ conversations likewise suggest that the author of Gísla saga not only displays a keen understanding of speech-situational context, but also means to employ such contexts and the respective discussions that occur in them as a kind of sophisticated morality of discourse. Auðr recognizes that she had a choice of whether to engage or not engage in the argument, and more importantly, she wishes she had not engaged. Gísla saga has thus introduced a new gendered sphere – the ideal sphere – which is typified by a speech-situational context that warrants intimacy, truthfulness, and directness in speech across gender boundaries such as the one enjoyed by Auðr and Gísli.

Agency in the Female Sphere Just as Auðr wishes to escape the context of her discussion with Ásgerðr, and as Ásgerðr tries to control the context of her discourse with Þorkell, other female speakers seek to revise the speech-situational context in which they speak. One such example of this phenomenon occurs in Víglundar saga, when Ketilríðr communicates to her father, Hólmkell, her feelings about whether her brothers ought to be avenged upon Víglundr. Víglundr and his brother, Trausti, had been attacked by her two brothers, Jökull and Einarr, and her husband (whom she married against her will) in order to put a stop to the secret romance between Ketilríðr and Víglundr. Víglundr and his brother got the best of their assailants but nearly died themselves in the attack. When her father, Hólmkell, asked Ketilríðr whether she wanted him to avenge the deaths of her brothers, Ketilríðr replies, “‘Þat skyldi prófa, ef ek væra svá karlmaðr mikils ráðandi sem nú er ek kona’” (“That would be evident, if I were a man of great influence, but I am in fact a woman”).34 Without knowing the context in which Ketilríðr makes this statement, her father might have taken her statement to mean she does indeed want her brothers avenged, but both the speech-situation context and the shared common ground of Gísla saga, p. 31. Turco, “The ‘Enigma’ of Gísla saga,” p. 283. 33 See Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, pp. 17–25; and also Rolf Heller, Die literarische Darstellung der Frau (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1958), pp. 98–122, and Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society, p. 192, as referenced by Jóhanna. The present reading would of course suggest that Þorkell incites Þorgrímr to kill Vésteinn. 34 Víglundar saga, in Kjalnesinga saga, ed. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ÍF 14, p. 100. 31

32

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender the discussion have made her father uncertain. She had only moments earlier told him that she was crying because of the deaths of her brothers, but he also knew that she harbored strong romantic feelings for Víglundr. He clarified his position quite directly by saying that the only reason he had not moved against Víglundr and his brother already was for her sake, but if she wanted him to avenge her brothers (as the context and her utterance might suggest) he would certainly do so. To this, Ketilríðr passionately responds (emphasis added): “At síðr skyldu þeir drepnir, ef ek skylda ráða, at hvárrgi skyldi sekr hafa verit gerr, ef ek skylda ráða, ok svá peninga til gefa þeim til farareyris, ef ek ætta, ok svá skylda ek öngvan annan mann eiga en Víglund, ef ek skylda kjósa.”35 (“No more would they be killed, if I could give my own counsel, than they should have been outlawed, if I could give my own counsel, and, if I had it [to give], money would likewise be given to them for their travels, and I would marry no other man than Víglundr, if I could choose.”)

It is a powerful moment. Marianna E. Kalinke has done a thorough reading of Víglundar saga, observing of Ketilríðr’s statement here that, “[d]espite the indirection of her answer – couched in the subjunctive, it suggests her powerlessness – Ketilríðr in effect tells her father what he is to do.”36 Even though she does not appeal to a pragmatic methodology, Kalinke’s description of the “indirection […] couched in the subjunctive” fits perfectly with indirectness in speech and the under-determinacy of the subjunctive mood discussed in this volume. Kalinke’s observation could be extended to include three further pragmatic elements in the passage: First, it should be evident that Ketilríðr appeals not just to indirectness in speech but to multiple levels of indirectness (see above, pp. 42–3). The initial usage of the phrase “ef ek skylda ráða” might, in another context, be taken as a sign of deference to her father, as to say, if I were to give my own counsel I would suggest one course of action, but since you are in charge, father, I defer to your counsel instead. Yet there is not only the one instance of the subjunctive mood here, but seven: six usages of the modal verb skulu and one usage of the verb eiga (to have) in the subjunctive (ætta). Her previous statement includes two additional subjunctives, “skyldi” (would be) and “væra” (were), making a grand total of nine instances of the subjunctive mood in a single verbal exchange. The repetition of the word ráða (to counsel) has also been a constant refrain throughout the saga. As Kalinke notes, 35

ibid. Subjunctive mood is difficult to render precisely in the corresponding English translation, so I have added emphasis only in the Old Norse. 36 Marianne E. Kalinke, “Fathers, Mothers, and Daughters: ‘Hver er að ráða?,’” in Cold Counsel, p. 179.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Ketilríðr tells Víglundr she would marry him “… if I could decide” (“… ef ek skylda ráða”),37 so her return to this phrase must be seen by her father – and the reader – as an added layer of indirectness. All of these layers of indirectness turn Ketilríðr’s statement to her father into a scathing retort. Second, while these multiple layers of indirectness cross the threshold from politeness into impoliteness and frustration, something greater than mere anger or frustration is communicated. Like the proverbs discussed in the previous chapter, the extreme layers of indirectness themselves become a unit of communication, a meta-lexical item by which a deeper meaning is communicated. Ketilríðr’s father, Hólmkell, has told her “dylst þú ekki fyrir mér, á hvárn máta er þú villt vera láta” (“do not conceal from me what you want to be done”); yet Ketilríðr both conceals herself (via indirectness) and lets her true desires be known (by the implicatures thereof). Both of these elements constitute their own respective meanings, but the fact that she achieves these meanings by employing not just indirectness but multiple layers of indirectness, contributes a third, unspoken unit of meaning – another implicature that must be interpreted by her father. That implicature may be read to the effect of: [IMPL: I will not give you, father, my counsel directly because you have refused it so often in the past.] Third, pertaining specifically to the notion of a dynamic interpretation of speech-situational context, it must be noted that Ketilríðr seeks to overcome the principal limiting factor in her own speech context. The fact to which she alludes with each subjunctive, which by its nature falls short of achieving the status of the indicative and lacks the force of the imperative, calls attention to the specific aspect of the speech-situational context that makes it impossible for her to have her way: the fact that she is a woman. With each instance of the subjunctive, then, she calls to the mind of her father the circumstances of the first subjunctive she used in the conversation: “… ef ek væra svá karlmaðr mikils ráðandi sem nú er ek kona” (“… if I were a man of great influence, but I am in fact a woman”).38 Her subsequent subjunctives repeatedly pound upon this initial utterance like a hammer upon a stone she would have broken to pieces. Yet it is not her gender that she would break into pieces but rather the context in which her gender is limited – that is, the speech-situational context in which her gender disqualifies her from deciding matters by way of her own counsel – more specifically, that she is in a specific gendered relationship with her father. She is in fact competing with another woman who has demonstrated a greater influence over her father than she: her own mother. As Kalinke observes, Ketilríðr “does Víglundar saga, p. 75; also quoted in Kalinke, “Fathers, Mothers, and Daughters,” p. 173. 38 Víglundar saga, p. 100. 37

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender not consider it fitting to make her own decisions; she does not wish to oppose her father in any way; but in the last analysis, she knows that her mother has the decisive voice (… .) As it turns out, the major sources of conflict and the obstacle to Víglundr marrying Ketilríðr is her mother.”39 Thus, the speech-situational context against which Ketilríðr rails in the heated exchange with her father is not a simple Male-Female (M-F) speech situation but rather a M(father) – F(daughter) dynamic, which is a weaker social dynamic than M(husband) – F(wife). To overcome the limitations put on her authority, Ketilríðr must overcome not just the fact that she is a woman speaking into her father’s (male) gender sphere but that she is a daughter speaking into a sphere where her mother has more sway than she. While the power dynamic between a mother and daughter need not to be hostile, in the case of Ketilríðr and her mother it certainly is. Nevertheless, it is instructive to recognize that gendered discourses in Old Norse literature are not defined merely by the gender spheres and gender relationship of the discussants but, more specifically, by the specific type of gendered relationships. In the M(father) – F(daughter) speech situation, the female discussant has less authority than in the female in the M(husband) – F(wife) speech situation. Thus, for Ketilríðr’s speech acts to have any force, she must contend against her mother’s authority to gain the necessary social currency to bring about her illocutionary goal. In all cases, social currency is required before a speech act can be enacted. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir appeals to this notion when she posits that in order for female speakers to effect their wills, “speakers must be qualified to perform the speech act” and “the speech act must have been heard and understood by someone; if these conditions are not fulfilled [the speech act] may be considered void.”40 Though she does not use quite the same terminology, Jóhanna is here referring to felicity conditions such as those outlined in chapter four of this volume. It should be evident from this discussion of Víglundar saga that a part of meeting those conditions is contending against other women who may have the social currency needed to perform a certain speech act. It should come as no surprise, then, that instances in which female characters argue with other females about their respective self-worths evolve into something of a topos in literature of the medieval North. We have already seen that topos play out in the Quarrel of the Queens in both Middle High German and Old Norse sources, and that same topos translates into the delicate, complex interplay of worth, words, and contexts in the argument between Ásgerðr and Auðr in Gísla saga. Another important instance of this topos occurs early on in BrennuNjáls saga, when Njáll and his wife, Bergþóra, hosts Gunnarr and his 39 40

Kalinke, “Fathers, Mothers, and Daughters,” p. 176. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature, p. 19.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature wife, Hallgerðr, for their annual winter feast at Bergþórshvoll. Hallgerðr has been seated at the cross-bench in a place of honor, but when Njáll’s son and daughter-in-law, Þórhalla, arrive, Bergþóra insists that Hallgerðr move so that Þórhalla can sit in her place. Hallgerðr takes the demand as a face-threatening act and refuses to move at first, saying, “Hvergi mun ek þoka, því at engi hornkerling vil ek vera” (“In no way will I move, since I will not be an old hag in the corner”).41 The causality of “því at” (for that or because) and its relation to the verb phrase “vil ek vera” (I will be) in Hallgerðr’s response is key to understanding Hallgerðr’s view of the situation,42 which she perceives as having important consequences with regard to social status instead of merely reflecting the current respective statuses of the women. If Þórhalla had a higher status than Hallgerðr, then Bergþóra’s demand might be appropriate, but as it stands in Hallgerðr’s eyes, Bergðóra’s demand requires a demotion of Hallgerðr to a lower status. Bergþóra surely understands the situation as well, for she offers no hint of polite indirectness in her demand, only the imperative, “Þú skalt þoka fyrir konu þessi” (“You must move aside for this woman”).43 Though the narrator says nothing of Bergþóra’s motives, it seems reasonable to deduce that she understands and intends her words to be a face-threatening act. After Hallgerðr’s assertion that she will not be moved, Bergþóra replies with some finality: “Ek skal hér ráða” (I will decide what happens here). As in Víglundar saga, here again it seems that ráða (to counsel/to decide) holds a central place in the determination of women’s status and authority. The similarities between this scene and the Quarrel of the Queens discussed in chapter two should be evident. The women argue about social status and the attempts of one woman to demote or humiliate the other by some face-threatening act, and like Þiðreks saga af Bern in particular, where (or whether) certain women sit is a question that sparks the conflict. The quarrel unfolds through a series of face-threatening acts perpetrated via the manipulation of social status and principles of (im) politeness in the verbal exchange. Finally, one of the women (who is perceived to have lost the contest) appeals to her husband to avenge the insult. With all this in mind, it may not be insignificant that Hallgerðr has earlier explained (just before she has her first husband killed) that she is related to Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, which would put at least one of the women involved in the quarrel at Bergþórshvoll in line with a legacy of such conflicts as the Quarrel of the Queens.44 The only thing missing is the fateful ring, Andvaranaut, which would – if the analogy holds – be present on Bergþóra’s finger (as she, like Guðrún, Njáls saga, p. 91. CV, s.v. “þat,” C. 43 Njáls saga, p. 91. 44 ibid., p. 46. 41

42

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender is the one who wins the quarrel). While Bergþóra does not produce a ring, she does in a sense present Hallgerðr with her fingers, where a ring would go. As she is setting out water for the cleaning of hands, Hallgerðr grabs her hand and says, “Ekki er þó kosta munr með ykkr Njáli: þú hefir kartnagl á hverjum fingri, en hann er skegglauss” (“There isn’t much difference in quality [“kosta munr”] between you and Njáll, you have diseased nails on every finger, and he is beardless”).45 Not a ring, perhaps, but here what is on Bergþóra’s finger is directly associated with the quality of husband she has, just as in the Quarrel of the Queens. The vital point to remember in these exchanges is that such feats of indirectness in speech require an astonishing amount of social currency with which to meet the felicity conditions of a speech act spoken by a female character. It only makes sense that women of high regard, recognizing the importance of social currency, would take seriously their duty to accrue and protect their respective self-worths. Far from any sort of juvenile bickering or kvenna hjáli, the female-gendered discourses of Das Nibelungenlied, Völsunga saga, and Þiðreks saga af Bern represent a deep and meaningful contest of supremacy between two female speakers because that supremacy means the greater currency with which to force action via (typically) indirect speech acts. The same is true in Njáls saga. In each encounter, the victor goes away with the currency needed to affect their illocutionary and social goals while the loser’s authority diminishes. Njáls saga gives us a glimpse of what this might look like when Skarphéðinn and Helgi go to see Þráinn, Gunnarr’s uncle, to seek compensation for an offense perpetrated against Helgi in Norway. When the Njálssons arrive, Hallgerðr remarks that the two will find no welcome there, to which Skarpéðinn replies, “Ekki munu mega orð þín, því at þú ert annathvárt hornkerling eða púta” (“Your words will have no strength, because you are either an old hag or a whore”).46 The phrase “ekki munu mega” is as significant as the word “hornkerling.” The latter recalls Hallgerðr’s proclamation that she refused to become a “hornkerling,” an old hag, by being demoted to a lesser seat than Þórhalla, and the former illuminates the strict relationship between the impotency of her words and the loss she suffered at Bergþóra’s hand. Skarpéðinn, in other words, does not merely insult Hallgerðr here; he goes so far as to imply that Hallgerðr’s inability to impose her will upon a situation by way of speech acts directly results (again, því at, “because,” bears relevance) from the diminution of self-worth she suffered in the argument with 45 46

ibid., p. 91. ibid., 228. Even though the saga does not mention Skarpéðinn specifically as being present at the argument between Hallgerðr and his mother, Bergþóra, in the unlikely event that he was not present, the argument between the two women has clearly become common knowledge. Helgi, who certainly was present, would have told him if no one else did.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Bergþóra. Nor is it only Hallgerðr’s enemies that seem to feel this way. Even members of Hallgerðr’s own family deem her words to have little potency after her defeat by Bergþóra. Gunnarr, her own husband, refused to act in her defense even though she demanded that he do something to avenge Bergþóra’s insults.47 And when Hallgerðr intimates that she would attack Bergþóra’s and Njáll’s servant for chopping wood that was rightfully theirs, Gunnarr’s mother upbraids Hallgerðr (quite indirectly) for planning to murder someone.48 In fact, the only people Hallgerðr can get to do her dirty work seem to be thugs who are more afraid of her than they are of whatever she might ask them to do.49 Hallgerðr herself seems to understand the weakness of her own words. After Skarphéðinn has killed Sigmundr, he asks a shepherd to take the dead man’s head to Hallgerðr to announce the killing, but the shepherd tosses it aside instead and only tells Hallgerðr of Skarphéðinn’s intent. To this, Hallgerðr says, “Þat var illa, er þú gerðir þat eigi […] ek skylda fœra Gunnari, ok myndi hann þá hefna frænda síns eða sitja fyrir hvers manns ámæli” (“It was wrong of you not to do that [… .] I would have taken it to Gunnarr, and he would have had to avenge his kinsman or endure the reproof of others”).50 Hallgerðr knows that Gunnarr will not be moved to action by her words alone, so she must literally put something he cannot ignore into his lap. She has lost all social currency and is desperate to find anything, even a severed head, with which to enact her illocutionary goals. Meanwhile, Bergþóra – despite the fact that she may be no less culpable than Hallgerðr for the violence that follows their argument – has demonstrated that her words maintain substantial strength and authority after her victory over Hallgerðr, both inside and outside her family. Atli, whom she enlists to kill Kolr in revenge for killing their beloved servant, Svartr, may be a ruffian similar to Kolr, but he is also said to be brave, which Kolr seems not to be; Þórðr, who kills Brynjólfr for Bergþóra (as retribution for the killing of Atli), is praised by Rannveig as an “øruggan” (fearless) man; and even though Skarphéðinn remarks, indirectly, that all the slaves seem to be doing a lot more killing than they used to do, the narrator adds that Skarphéðinn “glotti við” (grinned) as he said it, Njáls saga, p. 91. Rannveig hears Hallgerðr’s veiled threat and says, “Þó hafa húsfreyjur verit hér góðar, þótt ekki hafi staðit í mannráðum” (“There have been good housewives here, though they did not participate in murder”), an indirect statement with the implicature that Hallgerðr is in fact not a good housewife (Njáls saga, p. 93). 49 Kolr, who kills Njáll’s servant, is said to be “mesta illmenni,” “the worst of men,” or a knave, and wavers when Hallgerðr asks him to kill Svartr (Njáls saga 93), and Sigumundr and his crew, who kill Þorðr, are insulted by both Gunnarr and his mother, Rannveig, as impulsive and impressionable (Njáls saga, p. 108). 50 Njáls saga, p. 117. 47

48

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender suggesting that he was not too terribly unhappy about his mother’s actions.51 Most importantly, when Bergþóra enlists her sons to avenge the insults registered by Hallgerðr, the Njálssons might have tried, at first, to make light of her goading, as Skarphéðinn says (accompanied by one of his famous grins), “Ekki hǫfu vér kvenna skap […] at vér reiðimsk við ǫllu” (“we do not have a woman’s temperament such that we become furious over everything”), but they do what she wants.52 Much to the detriment of everyone involved, they follow her ráð. They do not seem to have much choice in the matter.

Conclusion All of this comes back to a consideration of speech-situational context. By viewing these discourses – between Ásgerðr and Auðr, Ketilríðr and her father, and Bergþóra and Hallgerðr – through the lens of speech-situational context, it becomes evident that these female characters, along with the queens in the Quarrel of the Queens episode discussed in chapter two of this volume, are working to change their speech-situational contexts in order to maintain the cultural currency they need to be able “to do things with words.” As Karen Swenson has noted in other types of verbal duels, “the victor wins the power to ‘define;’ that is, an opponent battles for the right to interpret facts, events, him- [or her-] self, and the other contestant.”53 Swenson has also noticed that Droplaugarsona saga refers to something akin to a female-female version of mannjafnaðr (“man-comparison”).54 Although no native Old Norse word is known to have referred to such a thing, it should be clear from the discussion of the Quarrel of the Queens in chapter two that contests of this kind were not unheard of and, as the discussion of this chapter attests, they were in fact rather common. Those of the higher social status have a greater ability to affect their world by using only words, and as is evident in Hallgerðr’s case, there are consequences for losing such contests. In this way, the woman’s ráð, cold or otherwise, has an immediate correspondence with verbal exchanges like the Quarrel of the Queens – whether that quarrel take place in Das Nibelungenlied, Þiðreks saga, Völsunga saga, or as a literary topos such as that seen in Víglundar saga or Njáls saga. The prize that goes to the victor is social currency, which may then be spent by way of (typically indirect) speech acts to bring about the illocutionary and social goals of female speakers. 51

ibid., p. 98. This is in keeping with the idea that Skarphéðinn in a representative of the older, pagan ways, and therefore has little problem with the way the feud is developing or with his mother’s goading them into action. 52 Njáls saga, p. 114. 53 Swenson, Performing Definitions, p. 37. 54 ibid., p. 111.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Gísla saga contrasts with these pragmatic phenomena by presenting Auðr as a reluctant participant in the aggressive confrontation with Ásgerðr. Auðr’s reluctance, alongside the new ideal (cross-)gender sphere created by Gísli and Auðr, speaks to a new kind of rhetorical and interpersonal innovation in Gísla saga that celebrates not the power of indirectness in speech but the power of directness. The author of Gísla saga is clearly adept at composing discourses rich with principles of pragmatics, but that same author may not celebrate the discursive tactics of the old, pre-Christian northern world such as those evident in the Quarrel of the Queens. Given the proximity of the scene in question from Gísla saga and the Quarrel of the Queens episode, it is possible to view this innovation as a departure from an older literary motif. In addition to Auðr and Gísli from Gísla saga, may be added Njáll, Gunnarr, and Rannveig of Njáls saga (all of whom could be said to show some reluctance to the old way of doing things). These figures represent a development in the usage of pragmatic principles in these sources, whereas the Quarrel of the Queens, examples of cold counsel, and other speakers – whether female, male, or feminized (like Þorkell) – represent an older way of doing things. The older modalities of using indirectness in speech to establish self-worth and social currency, such as may be seen here, in instances of indirect aggression discussed in chapter two, or the conflictive principal discussed in chapter three, may in Gísla saga be contrasted with a new system of communication that relies upon more directness than indirectness. It would, of course, not be the only example of Gísla saga demonstrating the tension between the old, pre-Christian heroic system and the new Christian system. One need only think of the good and bad dream women who haunt Gísli toward the end of his life to see such tension. Is it possible that there is another, discursive element to the pre- and post-conversion tensions on display in Gísla saga? The implications of such a hypothesis may fit well with the observations of a distinctly Icelandic usage of pragmatics observed in chapter five. In the world presented in Gísla saga the standards of face-saving and indirect aggression have changed. While certain social situations call for strategies of inquiry such as indirect aggression, what was once a social obligation to engage in a defense of face has changed in this distinctly Icelandic saga. Like Glúmr of Víga-Glúms saga, Auðr shows herself to be more than ready for the challenge of indirect aggression, but she also shows (not least through her conversation with Gísli) that indirect aggression fails to contribute to an ideal speech-situational context. Although the former may be useful, the latter requires an honesty and, pragmatically, directness in speech that transcends mere “face” culture. An appeal to the “heart” is required instead. If these observations of a new ethic of pragmatics in Gísla saga hold true, then it represents an early instance of a development in the usage 194

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Speech Situations and the Pragmatics of Gender of pragmatic principles, from a prioritization of indirectness to a prioritization of directness in speech. Further indications of such a development may be evident elsewhere. The following chapter will explore this possibility by way of a diachronic study of the manuscript tradition and stylistics in Icelandic family sagas. It will be argued there that the historical development in the usage of pragmatic principles, which is only posited here, is further evident in a comparison of early medieval versions of the sagas and their later, post-medieval variants.

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N 8 n Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage in Icelandic Sagas If pragmatics is the study of language usage within specific cultural and speech-situational contexts, then it is reasonable to expect that, as cultural contexts change over time, so the application of pragmatic principles within that changing context may also change.1 While it may safely be said that all language communities employ pragmatic principles, it does not follow that all communities employ the same principles in the same way.2 Some language communities may be more prone to indirectness while others place a higher value on directness in speech; strategies of (im)politeness may develop over time due to cultural changes in religion, ethics, or education; and the introduction of new technologies may alter the usage of certain pragmatic principles. This chapter explores how 1

2

The study of historical pragmatic may thus be broken into two general categories: pragmaphilology may be defined as the study of pragmatics in specific historical and textual contexts while diachronic pragmatics compares the evidence for pragmatics at different points in the history of the same language. The present chapter, though still literary analysis, draws more upon diachronic pragmatics whereas the preceding chapters were closer to pragmaphilology in their approach. For a representative overview of these see Andreas H. Jucker, “The Historical Perspective in Pragmatics,” in Jucker, Historical Pragmatics, pp. 10–13; Irma Taavitsainen and Susan Fitzmaurice, “Historical Pragmatics: What it is and how to Do it,” in Fitzmaurice and Taavitsainen, Methods in Historical Pragmatics, pp. 11–36; and comments in the introduction to the present volume (pp. 7–8). Much work has been done in this area but little has been done on the change of pragmatic principles over time in Old Norse-Icelandic. For an introduction to the diachronic perspective, see Thomas Kohnen, “Speech Acts: A Diachronic Perspective,” in Corpus Pragmatics: A Handbook, ed. K. Aijmer and C. Rühlemann (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 52–83. For an early example of this approach, see Leslie Arnovick, Diachronic Pragmatics: Seven Case Studies in English Illocutionary Development.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature language use in contexts has developed over time in Iceland from the medieval to the post-medieval period by comparing manuscript traditions for four of the verbal exchanges discussed earlier in this volume: one each from Sneglu-Halla þáttr and Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu that exhibit characteristics of the conflictive principle, and two scenes from Gísla saga Súrssonar that show indications of indirect aggression. The manuscript traditions of these sagas have a great deal to offer a discussion of the development of pragmatics in Iceland due to the number of witnesses for each saga and the chronological distributions of manuscripts from the medieval to the post-medieval period. These manuscripts can be used to create a timeline of sorts to indicate how principles of pragmatics were used and understood from the earlier medieval period to the later, post-medieval period. Successful consideration of these materials requires the adoption of several important assumptions about manuscripts from the field of material philology.3 Material philology is grounded, foremost, in the assumption that edited versions of ancient or medieval texts do not give a complete picture of the narrative as it existed in the living tradition. As Judy Quinn and others have pointed out, traditional editorial approaches such as those associated with Karl Lachman tend to attempt to construct an edited text that best represents the supposed original intent of the author.4 Of these traditional editorial practices, Quinn notes, [i]f the Lachmannian method were to be followed to the letter and editors were to give free rein to the impulse to reconstruct the lost text of the author, excising all that they judged to be ‘unoriginal’ from the actual texts of sagas, we might lose substantial portions of the works as we know them.5 3

4

5

For a thorough discussion of the development of this approach to manuscript studies, see M. J. Driscoll, “The Words on the Page: Thoughts on Philology, Old and New,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 87–104. See also Stefka G. Eriksen, “New Philology/Manuscript Studies,” in Handbook of Arthurian Romance: King Arthur’s Court in Medieval European Literature, ed. Leah Tether and Johnny McFadyen (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2017), pp. 199–213, particularly 202–6, where Eriksen highlights some of the differences and conflicts between traditional and new approaches to manuscript studies. See Odd Einar Haugen, “Stitching the Text Together: Documentary and Eclectic Editions in Old Norse Philology,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 39–45, for a discussion of how these concerns relate to Old Norse saga studies. Quinn, “Introduction,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, p. 19. It is worth highlighting that Quinn speaks here of a worst-case scenario. Nevertheless, see below, particularly with regard to the editing of Gísla saga for some instances in which Lachmannian editorial practices have led to the omission of important portions of the “longer” Gísla saga manuscripts.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage Material philology, in contrast, acknowledges that all manuscripts have inherent value regardless of their age or the material (paper or vellum) with which they were produced.6 Material-philology also offers a unique opportunity to the study of historical pragmatics because the linguistic variation between manuscripts within a certain stemma but of different eras offers an opportunity to observe how linguistic phenomena change over time. Quinn points out that multiple-witness editions – that is, those editions which offer not a reconstructed version of a text but versions from various manuscript witnesses for a certain text – “are almost always diachronic in their composition, presenting a kaleidoscopic range of witnesses from different moments in history in order to bring into focus the pre-existing saga that the editor attempts to reconstitute.”7 This kaleidoscopic view of manuscript witnesses offers the unique opportunity to map a variety of linguistic, literary, and cultural phenomena as a culture changes over time. The benefits of a material-philological approach have not yet been applied to the study of pragmatics, but a number of analogous studies have been successfully conducted on other linguistic and literary phenomena. One important example worth acknowledging is the recent paleographic efforts at the Árni Magnússon Institute in Iceland, and similar work has been ongoing at the Arnamagnæean Institute in Copenhagen.8 6

7 8

This assumption does not suggest that all manuscripts have equal value but that they have sufficient value to be acknowledged as useful to the study of a given text. See Driscoll, “Words on the Page,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 91–2. To my mind, it is a matter of what question is being asked through those individual pursuits. For someone studying linguistic phenomena from the thirteenth century, thirteenth-century manuscripts will have more value than seventeenth-century manuscripts. However, for a study of linguistic change over time, both thirteenth-century and seventeenth-century manuscripts will be of value. Thus, a genealogical stemma for an individual text remains valuable to a study such as the present one because it aids in placing a linguistic phenomenon in a specific historical context. Quinn, “Introduction,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, p. 21. For example, a research team led by Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir has set out to understand the variation amongst the sixty-odd extant manuscripts of the well-known Icelandic narrative Njáls saga. See Emily Lethbridge and Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, ed., New Studies in the Manuscript Tradition of Njáls saga (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2018); Emily Lethbridge, “Gísla saga Súrsson: Textual Variation, Editorial Constructions and Interpretations,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 123–51. See also Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, “Með Handrit á Heilanum. Safnarinn Árni Magnússon,” 66 handrit úr fórum Árna Magnússonar, ed. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir (Bókaútgáfan Opna, Reykjavík, 2013), pp. 9–37; and Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir and Ludger Zeevaert, “Við upptök Njálu. Þormóðsbók – AM 162

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Matthew Driscoll describes three fundamental principles of material philology that will be relevant to the work of this chapter.9 These are 1. Literary works are connected in a meaningful way to their material embodiments (i.e., the manuscripts). 2. These physical objects (manuscripts) were created in a specific social and historical context, and these factors influence the form and meaning of the text.10 3. The dissemination and consumption of these material objects through time also occurs in a social and historical context, which leave meaningful traces upon the material objects.

By applying these three assumptions derived from material philology, this chapter recalls concepts and textual analyses discussed in the preceding chapters of this volume and enquires how those concepts and analyses might change over time based on variation in the manuscript traditions of certain saga scenes. The four scenes examined here have sufficiently robust manuscript traditions, both in the medieval and the post-medieval periods, to allow for a comparison of early manuscript variants with later variations.

The Conflictive Principle in Sneglu-Halla þáttr The roughly twenty-six manuscripts that contain a version of SnegluHalla þáttr range in dates from the thirteenth to the nineteenth century, with the earliest and most important manuscripts being Morkinskinna (GKS 1009 fol.), which can be dated as early as 1220, and Flateyjarbók (GKS 1005 fol.), whose dating is more complicated. Most of the content in Flateyjarbók may be dated to somewhere between 1387–94, but the “younger” Flateyjarbók, of which Sneglu-Halla þáttr is a part, must be placed in the fifteenth century.11 The manuscripts fall into two groups b fol. delta,” in Góssið hans Árna, ed. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum: Reykjavík, 2014), pp. 160–9. 9 The following abbreviates and paraphrases Driscoll’s description in “Words on the Page,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 90–1. 10 This assumption becomes complicated rather quickly, since it is clear that later manuscripts are meant to reproduce, copy, or retell stories from an older time. Thus, the concern might be put forward that linguistic information from the later time may be a reproduction of the earlier era rather than a manifestation of the later. I suggest that this concern is overcome by comparison of earlier and later variants of the same text. 11 The dates for the physical materials that make up the “younger” Flateyjarbók are quite reliable. However, there is some debate on whether the later version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr might be a copy of a version of the þáttr that predates the Morkinskinna version (See Jeffrey Turco, “Loki, Sneglu-Halla þáttr,” pp. 230–3,

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage based on one or the other of the two principal medieval manuscripts, Morkinskinna and Flateyjarbók. I focus primarily on the differences between these two principal manuscripts, with added comments on a few other important variants. An assessment of the differences in the usage of the conflictive principle in the early and late manuscript variants of Sneglu-Halla þáttr suggests a marked contrast in authorial (or scribal) expectations of what pragmatic principles their respective audiences might be able to comprehend. Regarding the example of the conflictive principle enacted between Halli and King Haraldr early in the þáttr, these two manuscripts differ primarily in the amount of speech-situational context contributed by the narrative for the verbal exchange.12 The later Flateyjarbók variant essentially includes much more narrative context for the verbal exchange, with a few lines also added to the actual exchange itself. In contrast, Morkinskinna offers much less context. Morkinskinna reads: […] ok stóð maðr upp á drekanum, er fyrir fór, í rauðum kyrtli ok mælti: “Hverr stýrir skipinu, eða hvar váru þér í vetr, eða hvaðan ýttu þér, eða hvar kómu þér við land, eða hvar váru þér í nótt?” Halli svarar: “Sigurðr heitir stýrimaðrinn, en vér várum í vetr á Íslandi, en ýttum frá Gásum, en kómum við Hítrar ok várum í nótt við Agðanes”” Maðrinn mælti: “Sarð hann yðr eigi þá Agði?” Halli svarar: “Eigi enna.” Maðrinn mælti: “Var þó nǫkkut til ráðs um?” “Já, herra,” svarrar Halli, “beið hann at betri manna, vænti þín þangat í kveld.” Þar var Haraldr konungr, er orðum skipti við Halla.13 ([…] and a man wearing a red tunic stood up in the first warship and spoke, “Who steers this ship? Where were you last winter? From where did you embark? Where did you come to land? Where were you last night?” Halli answers, “Our captain’s name is Sigurðr; we were in Iceland last winter; we embarked from Gásir, and we first came to Hítra; and we were at Agðanes last night.” The man said, “Did Agði not fuck you?” Halli answers, “Not yet.” The man said, “Is there some reason for that?” “Yes, lord,” says Halli, “he was waiting for better men [than us] and was expecting you there this evening.” )

Whereas Flateyjarbók reads (with additions in bold), for more on this manuscript and textual tradition). My argument here would be that a pragmatic analysis offers an explanation of the sparsity of the older Morkinskinna, such that we do not have to assume that the more complex but later version is the better version. Other parts of Morkinskinna demonstrate a strong, even elegant understanding of pragmatics, so there is no reason to expect anything else from Sneglu-Halla þáttr. 12 See pp. 69–78 for a thorough analysis of this scene in the Flateyjarbók version. 13 Sneglu-Halla þáttr, pp. 263–5.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature [… .] þá gekk maðr fram ór lyptingunni á drekanum í rauðum skarlatsklæðum ok hafði gullhlað um enni, bæði mikill ok tigurligr. Þessi maðr tók til orða: “Hverr stýrir skipinu, eða hvar váru þér [í vetr], eða hvar tóku þér fyrst land, eða hvar lágu þér í nótt?” Þeim varð næsta orðfall kaupmǫnnum, er svá var margs spurt senn. Halli svarar þá: “Vér várum í vetr á Íslandi, en ýttum af Gásum, en Bárðr heitir stýrimaðr, en tókum land við Hítrar, en lágum í nótt við Agðanes.” Þessi maðr spurði, er reyndar var Haraldr konungr Sigurðarson: “Sarð hann yðr eigi Agði?” “Eigi enna,” segir Halli. Konungrinn brosti at ok mælti: “Er nökkurr til ráðs um, at hann muni enn síðar meir veita yðr þessa þjónustu?” “Ekki,” sagði hann Halli, “ok bar þó einn hlutr þar mest til þess, er vér fórum enga skǫmm af honum.” Hvat var þat?” Segir konungr. Halli vissi görla, við hvern hann talaði. “Þat, herra,” segir hann, “ef yðr forvitnar at vita, at hann Agði beið at þessu oss tignari manna ok vætti yðvar þangat í kveld, ok mun hann þá gjalda af hǫndum þessa skuld ótæpt.” “Þú munt vera orðhákr mikill,” segir konungr.14 […] then a man stood up on the poop deck of the warship, dressed in red scarlet and wearing a circlet on his brow, looking both tall and princely. This man spoke, “Who steers this ship? Where were you [last winter]? Where did you first come to land? Where did you stay last night?” The merchants were nearly struck dumb, when so many [questions] were asked at once. Halli answers then, “We were in Iceland last winter; we embarked from Gásir; our captain is named Bárðr; we first took land at Hítra; and we stayed last night at Agðanes.” This man, who was really King Haraldr Sigurðarson, asked: “Did Agði not fuck you?” “Not yet,” says Halli. The king smiled then [at what Halli had said] and said, “Is there some agreement that he will perform this service for you later?” “No,” Halli said to him, “and we had one advantage that led to our suffering no shame from him.” “What was that? the king says. Halli knew clearly with whom he was speaking. “It was, lord,” says he, “if you really want to know, that Agði was waiting for nobler men than us, and [he] was expecting your arrival there tonight, and he will pay you this debt freely.” “You must be a great word-shark,” says the king.

The core of the direct discourse from Morkinskinna remains largely the same in Flateyjarbók, and the illocutionary goals communicated by the two discussants are essentially unchanged.15 However, Flateyjarbók adds considerably to cultural and speech-situational contexts of the discourse. Additions to cultural context focus mainly on the identity and demeanor of the king. Rather than wearing a “rauðum kyrtli” (a red tunic), as he is described in Morkinskinna, in Flateyjarbók the king is dressed in “skarlatsklæðum” (garments of red scarlet), has a “gullhlað um enni” 14

15

Sneglu-Halla þáttr, pp. 264–5. See pp. 74–6 for a more thorough assessment of these goals in the Flateyjarbók version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage (a gold-circlet on his brow), and is further described as “bæði mikill ok tigurligr” (both tall and princely). When Halli says that Agði has not violated him … yet, the king in Morkinskinna simply goes on with the discourse whereas in Flateyjarbók he “brosti at …” (smiled at [what Halli said]), and then asks whether Agði plans to violate him in the future. Halli’s awareness of the situation is also further emphasized in Flateyjarbók. In Morkinskinna the reader is never told that Halli knows he is talking with the king (though he clearly does), but in Flateyjarbók the narrator states, “Halli vissi görla, við hvern hann talaði” (Halli knew clearly with whom he was talking). Halli’s final retort is likewise further drawn out in Flateyjarbók. Whereas Morkinskinna has him saying only, “beið hann at betri manna, vænti þín þangat í kveld” (“he was waiting for better men, and was expecting you there tonight”), in Flateyjarbók Halli states, “ef yðr forvitnar at vita, at hann Agði beið at þessu oss tignari manna ok vætti yðvar þangat í kveld, ok mun hann þá gjalda af höndum þessa skuld ótæpt” (“[…] if you really want to know, […] Agði was waiting for nobler men than us, and was expecting your arrival there tonight”). The added material builds the co-textual moment for the final revelation of Halli’s face-threatening act against the king. What is most interesting about the comparison of these two manuscripts is that the illocutionary goals communicated in the respective versions have not changed from the earlier to the later variant. Both manuscripts present a robust example of the conflictive principle as described by Shippey. It is nevertheless as though the author of the Flateyjarbók version knows the account as it occurs in Morkinskinna and yet decides that his readers need more information to be able to process and understand the illocution communicated in the sparser version of Morkinskinna. The added narrative contexts offered in Flateyjarbók has led some scholars to perceive the later version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr as the better, and in fact some scholars have argued that the composer of the “younger” Flateyjarbók took as a source an earlier, “better,” and now lost version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr that surpassed the quality of the Morkinskinna version, of which the Morkinskinna version would then, theoretically, be a mere abbreviation.16 A pragmatic analysis of other narratives in Morkinskinna pushes back against this theory. As I have shown elsewhere (in chapter five), the author of Morkinskinna is a master of pragmatic principles, and his mastery is on display nowhere more than in the dozen or so significant verbal exchanges between Icelanders and others from the medieval North. In short, it would be quite out of character for the author of Morkinskinna to botch the pragmatics in a verbal exchange between an Icelander and a foreign leader. 16

See Jeffrey Turco, “Loki, Sneglu-Halla þáttr,” p. 195; and Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om den norske kongers sagaer (Oslo: I kommisjon hos J. Dybwad, 1937), p. 156 (also referenced in Turco).

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature An alternative interpretation of this evidence would suggest that the writer of Morkinskinna had more confidence in his audience’s ability to comprehend the meaning being communicated. Such confidence may be attributed to a number of motivations and causes: perhaps the respective authors were writing for audiences from different social classes or perhaps they were writing for audiences in different geographic communities (from Iceland and Norway, perhaps), but given the earlier and later dates of composition for the two versions of Sneglu-Halla þáttr, it seems worthwhile to consider whether the differences are due to a change in what sort of context is required to communicate the flow of the discourse in the respective eras in which the manuscripts were composed. It is possible that the language community of the later date (fifteenth century, for the “younger” Flateyjarbók) had developed such that the audience of the later version required more narrative context to unlock the illocutionary goals at play in the scene. In such a case, evidence from other manuscript variants of Sneglu-Halla þáttr may show further indications of such a deterioration of pragmatic tactics over time. Other manuscript variants of the þáttr support this hypothesis. AM 593b 4to, which is also from the fifteenth century and is closely related to the Flateyjarbók variant, has the important difference that Halli responds to the question of whether Agði has violated him by simply saying “eigi” (“not” or, in this situation, “no”) rather than the much more pragmatically charged “eigi enna” (not yet), which baits the king into asking further questions. The change is not insignificant because it breaks the continuity of the pragmatic communication. The seventeenth-century paper manuscript AM 563a 4to, also in the Flateyjarbók family, again abbreviates “eigi enna” to just “eigi.” These may seem like minimal changes but they effectively reduce the vibrancy of the discourse and place the burden of interpretation less on the actual discourse and more on the narrative description of the speech situation, over which the narrator has greater control. A fourth vellum manuscript, from the fourteenth century, falls between the sparse narrative context described in Morkinskinna and the voluminous descriptions in Flateyjarbók. While the version of the þáttr in this manuscript, AM 66 fol. (Hulda), falls clearly within the Morkinskinna group,17 certain tendencies towards the overly emphasized speech-situational context resemble Flateyjarbók. AM 66 fol. adds information about who is captaining Halli’s ship and what the weather was like on the day they encountered the king. Most importantly, the king himself is described in clearer detail prior to the verbal exchange with Halli. Whereas Morkinskinna says only that the king was wearing a red tunic, thus preserving his anonymity leading up to the encounter 17

Some argue that this version is based on another, now lost, manuscript, but similarities to Morkinskinna are too strong to be ignored.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage between him and Halli, AM 66 fol. goes further to say, before the encounter, that the man who speaks to Halli is “mikill og merkiligr og búinn ríkmannliga” (“great and distinguished and magnificently dressed”). Thus, though not to the same extent, AM 66 fol. offers the same type of enhancements to the speech-situational context as we see in the later version of Flateyjarbók. Also in the Morkinskinna family, two seventeenth-century paper manuscripts – AM 426 fol. and ÍB 45 4to – are of interest. The two are fairly faithful copies of AM 66 fol., but they both contain the oddity of an added line to the discourse between Halli and the king – “var þó nöckuð til ráðz um? Já” (“was there some reason for that? Yes”) – which it is not present, as far as I have found, in any variant prior to the seventeenth century. Likewise, the phrase “ekki enna” (not yet) has again been tampered with to become “ei enn nú,” a phrase borrowed from Danish to mean more or less the same thing as “not yet” (or “not at this time”).18 While the semantic value of the new phrase is similar to the original, this borrowing indicates that the scribe is prepared to alter the language to accommodate contemporary linguistic community. Grammatically and semantically, the addition of the phrase “var þó nöckuð til ráðz um?” could, technically, serve some purpose, but pragmatically, it is simply nonsense, particularly as the phrase is repeated verbatim just one line below. It seems obvious that the scribe has been copying from some other, unknown manuscript and has suffered an eye-skip during the transcription. What is more interesting about this particular eye-skip is that in the earlier of the two manuscripts that include the duplicate phrase, AM 426 fol., the scribe has seemingly been uncertain whether to include the line, as is clear from the fact that he has put the superfluous phrase in parenthesis. Furthermore, it is interesting that the subsequent scribe, for ÍB 45 4to, copying the þáttr possibly as little as a year later, includes the redundant phrase without parenthesis or any apparent distress or reservations over the meaning. These findings may be interpreted in different ways, but one compelling possibility is that the seventeenth-century scribes may have simply lost connection with the discursive tactics that were, originally, being communicated in the thirteenth-century text in Morkinskinna. They might have had better luck if they were transcribing the Flateyjarbók version of the narrative, with its additions to the speech-situational context of the verbal exchange, but without the benefit of the additional cultural and speech-situational context offered by the fifteenth-century version, these seventeenth-century scribes may have simply lost the thread of the discourse. The scribe of AM 426 fol. seems to know something is amiss at least enough to register some hesitation, but in 18

My thanks go to Matthew Driscoll for for pointing out this linguistic detail.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature the case of ÍB 45 4to, the copyist is so unconcerned or inattentive that they continue the transcription none-the-wiser to the problems with the pragmatics of the discourse. The largest addition to the Flateyjarbók version of Sneglu-Halli þáttr occurs at the end of the story and has already been examined in chapter two. It is in this additional Flateyjarbók material that the king introduces the concept of tvíræði, or “double-meaning,” and demonstrates the importance of such discursive ability to the queen, who fails to see its value. All this is missing from the Morkinskinna version, but it would be a mistake to view the Morkinskinna version of the story as the weaker of the two variants because of its brevity. Rather, the Morkinskinna narrative itself works on the same principles as the verbal exchanges: litotes prevails over hyperbole, understatement is better than overstatement, implicature wins out over directness in speech. An awareness of all of these points – which are evident not only in the Morkinskinna version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr but, as is demonstrated in the closer study of Morkinskinna texts in chapter five of this volume, throughout the entirety of the Morkinskinna manuscript – should indicate that the author of Morkinskinna is surgical in his application of discursive tactics. It might be said, in fact, that while the author of the Flateyjarbók variant knows and understands the discursive tactics on display in Sneglu-Halla þáttr, the author of Morkinskinna is the true master: Flateyjarbók understands well enough to explain it; Morkinskinna understands well enough not to.

The Conflictive Principle in Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu This discussion of Sneglu-Halla þáttr should not suggest that later scribes and copyists are only ever guilty of adding to those earlier manuscripts that show pragmatically rich scenes. Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu suggests that scribes sometimes simply remove what they perceive as problematic or overly complicated features of pragmatic principles.19 Here again an example of the conflictive principle is at work (see chapter five, above) in a scene when Gunnlaugr visits Earl Eiríkr Hákonarson of Norway and has a heated exchange with the earl’s hirðmaðr (retainer). The scene is beautiful in its subtlety and points of contact with other examples of the conflictive principle in both Old Norse and Old English.20 Though the conflictive 19

20

Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, pp. 49–107. I have argued that the scene in fact shows strong similarities to the exchange between Beowulf, Unferð, and Hroðgar when Beowulf first arrives at Heorot, although in Beowulf the exchange is a success whereas in Gunnlaugs saga the conflictive principle is a failure. Note that Carol Clover views Unferð as the loser of the flyting exchange with Beowulf; see “Germanic Context,” p. 465. If this exchange is viewed as an example of the conflictive principle, the end result is a success because a positive relationship is established. The latter

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage principle in this instance fails to establish a positive relationship initially, Gunnlaugr undoubtedly gets the best of his opponent, Þórir, in the verbal exchange that occurs. Based on my discussion of the scene in chapter five, it will be evident that the illocutionary and social goals in the scene hinge upon the poem Gunnlaugr recites before the earl and Þórir.21 This poem works as an indirect face-threatening act in response to initial aggressive comments made by Þórir: Þórir insults Gunnlaugr; Gunnlaugr recites his poem as a reciprocal FTA; and then Þórir (showing himself to be overly sensitive) draws his ax to fight Gunnlaugr. All this is readily evident in the principal manuscript for the saga, Holm Perg 18 4to. However, the discursive tactics evident in the scene do not hold true in all manuscripts of the saga. In the later of the two medieval manuscripts, AM 557 4to (1420–50), Gunnlaugr’s poem is entirely omitted from scene with no scribal indication that any such poem should be present, so that the action of the scene goes directly from Þórir stating that Gunnlaugr ought to be tested to Þórir’s drawing his ax to attack Gunnlaugr. The verbal duel, which Þórir loses, has been replaced by a physical contest. Notably, this is not a case, as sometimes happens, of a saga scribe removing all poetry from a saga.22 Other examples of poetry remain in the manuscript. This particular poem, so important to the discursive tactics at play in the scene, is simply removed. Later scribes seem not to have noticed any problem with the omission, for in four of the six extant manuscripts scribed from that time preserve the omission (AM 552 l, 4to, 6r [1600–50]; AM 426 fol., 66r [1670–82]; ÍB 45 4to, 298v [1683–84]; and AM 931 4to [1753–54]). As a matter of fact, the exchange still works acceptably well on a narrative level without Gunnlaugr’s poem because the “test” Þórir proposes is transformed into a physical one rather than verbal, but the result of the omission thoroughly defuses and uncomplicates the pragmatics communicated in the earliest medieval manuscript: the omission of the poem likewise deprives Gunnlaugr of any agency in the verbal exchange; it depicts Þórir as a more of a thug than the earl’s trusted hirðmaður; and it facilitates a changeover from a skillful contest of words to a more blunted contest of physical strength. Couching these findings within the earlier discussion of the differences between Flateyjarbók and Morkinskinna versions of Sneglu-Halla þáttr allows for the opportunity to establish some sense of a trajectory for the development of discursive tactics in this particular scene. view might be further confirmed by the fact that the two appear to have a nothing but a positive relationship later in the narrative when Beowulf thanks Unferð for the use of Hrunting despite the fact that the sword has failed him (ll. 1655–70). 21 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu, p. 69. 22 As is noted by Quinn, “Introduction,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, p. 21.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Based on the present analysis, the thirteenth-century Morkinskinna represents a time when discursive tactics maintain a high level of sophistication, while the author expected that the audience would fully comprehend that meaning without any narrative assistance (remembering that Morkinskinna displays a remarkable ability with pragmatic principles in other places in the text). By the fifteenth century, the time of both the “younger” Flateyjarbók version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr and AM 593b 4to, there remains an understanding – even an appreciation – of the pragmatics of the scene, yet the conspicuous additions to this version suggest a need for further clarification of the cultural and speech-situational context. By the seventeenth century, scribes and copyists struggle to understand. They sometimes know enough to recognize the importance of the scene and perhaps try to make it work by adding to the context, but they are simply too far away from the originating thirteenth-century language community to comprehend the full sophistication of the verbal exchange. Likewise, the earlier manuscripts of Gunnlaugs saga demonstrate a fuller understanding of pragmatic principles whereas that understanding seems to diminish in later medieval and post-medieval manuscripts.

Indirect Aggression in variants of Gísla saga Súrssonar A similar type of variation occurs between the two principal variants for Gísla saga Súrssonar, the so-called “longer” and “shorter” variants. Much could be, and has been, said on the dating of the variants.23 As it pertains to the pragmatic analysis below, I agree with the perspective that the shorter version predates the longer, as outlined by Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson,24 and with the general consensus outlined by Emily Lethbridge that the shorter version was set down sometime in the first half of the thirteenth century. The longer version – which is extant in two eighteenth-century manuscripts but which is based on a now lost late medieval vellum manuscript – originated toward the end of the medieval period.25 Of the 23

Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson has given a thorough overview of this complexity in “Editing the Three Versions of Gísla saga Súrssonar,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 107–17. See also Tommy Danielsson, “On the Possibility of an Oral Background for Gísla saga Súrssonar,” in Oral Art Forms and their Passage into Writing, ed. Else Mundal and Jonas Wellendorf (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2008), pp. 29–41. 24 Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, “Three Versions of Gísla saga Súrssonar,” pp. 113–14, and sources cited there. 25 Lethbridge, “Gísla Saga Súrssonar,” pp. 127–8, and sources cited there. I would also stress, as do Þórður (p. 115) and Lethbridge (pp. 149–50), that we must resist the urge to attach artistic subjective value judgements to any assessment of the respective traditions. The assessment forwarded here is of a descriptive linguistic nature, not an artistic one.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage more than thirty manuscript variants of Gísla saga, the majority fall into two groups on the basis of these two shorter and longer versions.26 In a comparison of the shorter and longer Gísla saga manuscript groups,27 two key moments in the cutting-out-the-shirt episode discussed in detail in the previous chapter help illustrate how the understanding of discursive tactics has developed over time.28 The first occurs when Auðr suggests, with considerable indirectness, that Ásgerðr has a romantic interest in Auðr’s brother, Vésteinn. The respective manuscript traditions read as follows with important additions marked in bold: Shorter (1200–1250?): AM 556a 4to

Longer (1450?) AM 149 fol. and NKS 1181 fol.

1. Nú tekr Ásgerðr til orða: “Veittu mér þat, at þú sker mér skyrtu, Auðr, Þorkatli, bónda mínum.”

1. […] Asgerðr tok til orða, veittu mer, Auðr, s(egir) hon, “oc snið skyrtu Þorkeli bonda minom […]

(Now Ásgerðr took to words: “Help me with something: to cut out a shirt for me, for Þorkell, my husband.”)

(Now Ásgerðr took to words: “Help me with something,” she said, “and cut out a shirt for Þorkell, my husband.”

2. “Þat kann ek eigi betr en þú,” sagði Auðr, “ok myndir þú eigi mik til biðja, ef þú skyldir skera Vésteini, bróður mínum skyrtuna.”

2. […] Auðr mælti, þat kann ek eigi betr enn þú; oc mundir þu mik ecki þes biðia, ef þu skylldir gera Vesteine br(oður) minom […]

(“I cannot do that do that better than you,” said Auðr, “and you would not ask me to do that, if you had cut a shirt for Vésteinn, my brother.”)

(Auðr spoke: “I cannot do that better than you; and you would not be asking me this, if you had done so for Vésteinn, my brother.”)

3. “Eitt er þat sér,” segir Ásgerðr, “ok svá mun mér þykkja nökkurra stund.”

3. […] eitt er þat ser, s(egir) Asgerðr er tekr til Vest(eins) ok sva mun mer þyckja nockura stund, oc meira ann ec honum enn Þorkeli bonda minom, þott vit megim aldri njótaz […]

(“That is another thing,” says Ásgerðr, “and so shall it seem to me for a while.”)

(“That is another thing,” says Ásgerðr, “between me and Vésteinn,” and so shall it seem to me for a while, and more dearly do I love him than Þorkell, my husband, though we can never enjoy one another.”)

26

See again Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, “Editing the Three Versions,” pp. 105–22. I take the shorter text from Gísla saga Súrssonar, in Vestfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943), pp. 1–118; the longer version is taken from Agnete Loth, ed., Membrana Regia Deperdita (København: E. Munksgaard, 1960). 28 See above, pp. 171–83, for a thorough discussion of the shorter version of this scene.

27

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature The first two exchanges are effectively the same, so there can be no doubt about the relationship between the variants. In the shorter, earlier version, Ásgerðr responds vaguely, saying only, “Eitt er þat sér [… .] ok svá mun mér þykkja nökkurra stund” (“That is another thing […] and so shall it seem to me for a long time”).29 The sense in this version is that Auðr has hit below the belt with her comment and Ásgerðr does not want to talk about it. Ásgerðr tries to recover her own status by deflecting the indirect face-threatening act levied by Auðr but fails to do so, which ultimately leads to Þorkell’s belief that she is in love with Vésteinn. In the younger version of the narrative, the usage of discursive tactics changes considerably. Any sense of indirectness in Ásgerðr’s response is wholly demystified. Although Ásgerðr’s response begins the same as the earlier version, the seventeenth-century scribe has inserted an additional statement by Ásgerðr: “[…] oc meira ann ec honum enn Þorkeli bonda minom, þott vit megim aldri njótaz […]” (“[…] and more dearly do I love him (Vésteinn) than Þorkell, my husband, though we can never enjoy one another […]”).30 In this later version, it is not Ásgerðr’s failure to retain her self-worth by means of indirectness in speech that convinces Þorkell of her guilt, as is the case in the earlier version, but rather an inescapably direct statement that she does, unambiguously, love Vésteinn. This addition in the later version thus disarms any currency Ásgerðr’s indirectness might have had in the earlier version, as though the scribe deems the indirectness of the earlier version inadequate to communicate the meaning behind the discourse. A second notable difference between the early and late versions of the saga occurs shortly after the cutting out the shirt scene, when Ásgerðr tries to come to bed with Þorkell, but the later version again alters the discourse to reduce the indirectness in their exchange: Shorter (1200–1250?): AM 556a 4to

Longer (mid-fourteenth century?) AM 149 fol. and NKS 1181 fol.

5. Ásgerðr mælti: “Hví hefir svá skjótt skipazt, eða hvat berr til þess? Eða hvat berr till þess?” segir Ásgerðr.

5. […] hvat er annat sæmilegra segir hon enn ec recki hja bonda minom, eðr hvi hefir sva skjott skipaz hugr þinn, e(ða) hvat er til saka vorðit s(egir) hon […]

(Ásgerðr said, “Why a sudden change, and what has brought this about?”)

29 30

(What else is more honorable becoming,” she says, “than that I should sleep with my husband?” And why the sudden change in your feelings? And what is to blame for this?”)

Gísla saga, p. 31. Membrana Regia Deperdita, p. 21.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage 6. Þorkell mælti: “Bæði vitu vit nú sökina, þótt ek hafa lengi leyndr verit, ok mun þinn hróðr ekki at meiri, þó at ek mæla berara.” (“We both know the offense, though I have long been kept in the dark, and your reputation would not increase, if I were to speak more plainly.”) 7. Hon svarar: “Þú munt ráða verða hugleiðing þinni um þetta, en ekki mun ek lengi þæfast til hvílunnar við þik, ok um tvá kosti áttu at velja. Sá er annarr, at þú tak við mér ok lát sem ekki sé í orðit. Ella mun ek nefna mér vátta nú þegar ok segja skilit við þik, ok mun ek láta föður minn heimta mund minn ok heimanfylgju, ok mun sá kostr, at þú hafir aldri hvíluþröng af mér síðan.” (She answers: “You can come to your own conclusions about that, but I won’t fight with you any longer about whether I can sleep with you, and you have two options to choose from. Either you take up with me and behave as if nothing has happened, or I will name witnesses and divorce you, and I will have my father reclaim my bride price and my dowry, and with that choice you will never have to worry about my taking up space in your bed.”)

6. […] veiztu sokina s(egir) Þork(ell) enda veit ek ok […] (“You know your offense,” says Þorkell, “and of course so do I.”)

7a. […] hvat þarf slikt at tala s(egir) hon, “oc tru þu ecki a heimsku tal vort kvenna, þviat jafnann rausum vær þat s(egir) hon þa er vær erum einar, er litill sannleikr fylgir, er ok þetta svo, s(egir) hon, Asgerðr leg[g]r nu up baðar hendr um hals honum ok lætr hit bliðazta ok biðr hann ekki trua slíku, Þorkell biðr hana a brott fara […] (What need is there to talk in such a way?” She says, “and do not believe the foolish talk of us women; because we always jabber on like that,” she says, “when we are alone, but little truth follows; and that is that,” she says. Then she put both her hands around his neck and began caressing it most gently, and asked him not to believe such things.” Þorkell tells her to go away.) 7b. [Then she goes into her threat of divorce (per exchange 7 of the shorter version).]

In the earlier version, when Þorkell says he does not intend to sleep with Ásgerðr, she simply asks what has brought about the sudden change in his attitude, while in the later version, she asks, “hvat er annat sæmilegra segir hon enn ec recki hja bonda minom, eðr hvi hefir sva skjott skipaz hugr þinn, e(ða) hvat er til saka vorðit” (“What is more honorable (sæmilegra) than for me to sleep next to my husband? And why the sudden change in your feelings? And what is to blame for this?”).31 Ásgerðr has gone from one question to three,32 and now makes a direct 31

32

Membrana Regia Deperdita, p. 21. While this flurry of questions might remind a reader of the questions asked by

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature reference to what is sæmilegra, “more honorable,”33 both of which further foreground the threat to her own self-worth not only because of her loss in the verbal contest with Auðr but also because of the humiliation she will feel by being tossed out of her marriage bed. These additions to the later version all work to bring to the foreground what is communicated only indirectly by Ásgerðr in the earlier version, as though the later scribe again feels a need to emphasize and clarify the speech situation for the audience. Þorkell’s response to his wife’s questions further foregrounds, in the later variant, the illocutionary goals that were only implicated in the earlier text. In the earlier version Þorkell offers the scathing retort: “Bæði vitu vit nú sökina, þótt ek hafa lengi leyndr verit, ok mun þinn hróðr ekki at meiri, þó at ek mæla berara” (“We both know the offense, though I have long been kept in the dark, and your reputation would not increase, if I were to speak more clearly”).34 As I have mentioned, this final statement by Þorkell, “… þó at ek mæla berara” (“if I were to speak more clearly”), is a classic allusion to reinforceability, which is a key attribute of indirectness in speech that means a speaker can restate directly what he as stated indirectly.35 In verbal aggression, reinforceability offers the aggressor using indirectness in speech the ability to “double-tap” the recipient of the insult.36 Thus, in the earlier version of the saga, this phrase serves as a key indication of the saga writer’s complex and nuanced understanding of pragmatic principles evident in the scene. The author of the earlier version has such a command of these concepts not only to write them into the dialogues but also to have the characters allude to these principles themselves in their own dialogues: Þorkell is threatening to double-tap. As elegantly as this phrase works for Þorkell in the earlier version of Gísla saga, in the later version, the phrase has been completely removed. Þorkell’s retort reads only, “[…] veiztu sokina s(egir) Þork(ell) enda veit ek ok […]” (“You know the offense […] and, of course, so do I”).37 The subtlety of the discourse is crippled by the omission. The entire conversation, which was elegant and multifaceted illocution in the earlier version has, in the later version, been linguistically leveled to use King Haraldr of Sneglu-Halli upon arriving in Norway, the speech situation is quite wrong for such an application of the conflictive principle, as is the case in Sneglu-Halla þáttr. See above, pp. 85–9, for further discussion of the differences between indirect aggression and the conflictive principle, and note that this exchange between Ásgerðr and Þorkell strongly mirrors the speech situation between Oddný and Þórðr in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa. 33 See CV, s. v. “sæmiligr” 34 Membrana Regia Deperdita, p. 21. 35 See above, p. 51. 36 See above, p. 52. 37 Membrana Regia Deperdita, p. 22–3.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage directness rather than indirectness and to state overtly the subtleties of threats to face and implications of their conversations on self-worths. These changes to the later Gísla saga version end up doing more harm than good to the meaning being communicated. The omission of Þorkell’s allusion to reinforceability removes a major part of his indirect attack upon his wife, while the overt statement made by Ásgerðr that she is more in love with Vésteinn than her own husband disables the potential for the free movement of implicature between the two women when they think they are alone. Taken together, these changes have the overall effect of reducing the levels of indirectness in the exchange while at the same time enhancing the dynamic speech-situational context. It is a simplification, a smoothing over of the discursive tactics in the scene. These variations in direct discourse tend to be minimized or completely ignored by editors. For instance, even though the Íslenzk fornrit edition of Gísla saga contains both variants of the saga up to about the point where Gísli and Þorkell arrive in Iceland, the edition gives only the shorter version after that point (long before the exchange between Ásgerðr and Auðr). As a justification of this decision the editors include a footnote saying that from this point on the younger version is identical (“samhljóða”) with the older version in content, and the variants from the younger version will hereafter be mentioned only when the variation is thought to have some special circumstance.38 Yet the editors do not mention the differences outlined here.

The Development of Discourse in Icelandic Sources Nothing in this chapter, it must be stressed, should suggest that principles of pragmatics have somehow gone away or that their usage has mysteriously ceased in the cultures represented by the later manuscripts discussed here. This assessment suggests only that a type of discursive meaning used in the earlier stages has fallen out of usage in later stages of the language and culture. This is the natural way of language, and of pragmatics as a component of language. As culture changes, so also does language. The implications of this particular language change, however, are quite significant. Though perhaps not immediately obvious at the outset, the diachronic approach to pragmatics taken in this chapter has something to offer the debate between Joseph Harris and Carol Clover outlined earlier in this volume.39 The heart of that debate focused upon whether (as Harris, Bax and Padmos, and Swenson hold) the type of verbal conflict observable in Old Norse-Icelandic sources ought to be considered Old Norse-Icelandic phenomena and referred to with 38 39

Gísla saga, p. 38, n. 4. pp. 47–50.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature Old Norse-Icelandic vocabulary (principally senna and mannjafnaðr);40 or whether it ought to be considered (as Clover and Arnold generally hold) under the umbrella of the Germanic practice of flyting (an English word) as was also evident in Beowulf, Das Nibelungenlied, and other Germanic, Scandinavian, and English sources.41 Prospects of resolving the question have been deemed bleak. As Harris points out, questions about how these connections and cultural developments occurred are difficult, if not impossible to answer in the “long-dead communicative culture of medieval Iceland.”42 However, a study of manuscript variation allows for a partial revival of that communicative culture or, at least, for a sense of how that culture changed moving from the early medieval to the post-medieval periods. Based on the observations made in this chapter, it seems evident that as time goes on in the North, the understanding of the kind of discursive tactics that were at play in the earliest Old NorseIcelandic literature diminishes. Nor is it insignificant that the genre of parody was an important front in that original debate.43 We will never know for sure how the pre-literate past might have employed and understood the pragmatic principles and tactics for verbal aggression. The genre of parody, however, offers a unique purview because parody is inherently diachronic in nature: it is always looking backward at something that has preceded it.44 Just as the manuscript study in this chapter allows us to stand in the medieval period and look forward to the seventeenth century to discover how the earlier texts have been altered, parody allows us to look backwards at the target of the parody. The parody evident in Króka-Refs saga (as discussed 40

41

42 43 44

See, respectively, Harris, “Senna,” pp. 65–74; Bax and Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling,” pp. 149–74; Swenson, Performing Definitions. See my comments in chapter two above for further comments on this debate (pp. 47–50). Clover, “Germanic Context,” especially p. 445; Martin Arnold, “Hárbarðsljóð,” pp. 5–26. See also Lars Lönnroth, “Double Scene,” in Medieval Narrative, ed. Bekker-Nielsen, et al., pp. 65–74. Harris, “Senna,” p. 72. See p. 48. As Harris astutely points out, “[u]sually with generic parody we have to do with comic perversions of serious forms […] but senna is already by nature a comic form, and I am not sure that what happens in Hárbarðsljóð is enough of a deviation to qualify” (Harris, “Eddic Poetry,” p. 82). Harris is, in my opinion, right to question the nature of parody in Hárbarðsljóð (though that does not diminish the poem’s value), but while Hárbarðsljóð might not be parody, Króka-Refs saga has a much stronger claim to such a genre classification. There, it seems evident that the “serious form” parodied by Króka-Refs saga is not a classified type of verbal conflict like the senna or mannjafnaðr but a specific application of pragmatic principles that, perhaps, throve in the pre-literate North, that was and well-understood (if from a distance) in the classical saga period, and that was, even in the post-classical period, still identified as an important “serious form” of language usage from the past.

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage in chapter six) sampled what that retrospective view might look like. It seems evident that the parody in Króka-Refs saga is targeting not so much specific scenes or topoi but rather (or at least in addition to those literary phenomena) a pragmatic phenomenon that was perceived in the postclassical period as being an important element of the time and cultures about which the classical sagas were composed. The comparisons of the manuscript variants of Sneglu-Halla þáttr, Gunnlaugs saga, and Gísla saga suggest that this post-classical evidence from Króka-Refs saga was a part of a greater trend: not only were these post-classical sources looking back on an older pragmatic phenomenon, but the authors and scribes of these later texts seem to have perceived their audiences as requiring more careful description of the meaning being communicated in those earlier times. In other words, while authors and scribes of the later, post-classical period understood the discourses of the earlier, classical sagas, they felt that their audience might not. Therefore, they added, altered, or removed content to explain. In Króka-Refs saga, the author even went so far as to parody what they saw in earlier sources. The thirteenth-century Morkinskinna variant of Sneglu-Halla þáttr represents that time when discursive tactics maintain a high level of the sophistication and when authorial expectation was that the audience would fully comprehend the pragmatics at work without any assistance. By the fourteenth century, as evidenced by AM 66 fol., that ability to understand was beginning to deteriorate, hence the scribe added to the speech situation to lend clarity to the scene. Then by the fifteenth century, the time of both the “younger” Flateyjarbók version of Sneglu-Halla þáttr and AM 593b 4to, there remained an understanding – even an appreciation – of the pragmatics of the scene, but the conspicuous additions to these versions suggest a need on the scribes’ part to clarify the cultural and speech-situational context. Seventeenth-century scribes and copyists seem to have recognized the importance of the scene and perhaps try to make it work by making additions, but they are simply too far away from the originating thirteenth-century language community to comprehend the full sophistication of the verbal exchange. These observations correspond with the comparative study of Gísla saga Súrssonar. It seems evident, based on the assessments made here (and elsewhere), that these types of variations represent a discernible trend rather than random, careless scribal deviation.45 Emily Lethbridge, who has made a thorough 45

It must be emphasized again that the present reading of Gísla saga variants is not a matter of artistic or cultural value of one variant over another (see note 5 above). Nevertheless, the present assessment supports the perspective that the shorter version is the elder and the longer version comes later, probably from around the same time as Hulda, or mid-fourteenth century, in the middle of the Transitional period posited here. The shorter version would be a prime example of the earlier period, the Literate period, also described here.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature study of the textual variations in the two groups of Gísla saga variants (though she does not address the scenes discussed here), concludes that variation between the two Gísla saga groups […] must, on the whole, be regarded as the outcome of deliberate scribal revisions. Such conscious alterations to an exemplar might have been effected at any time by any number of individual copyists, perhaps in order to make the Gísla saga narrative more meaningful in its contemporary context for an audience, or to make it conform to an individual copyist’s or potential audience’s sense and expectations of the narrative with regard to its overall coherence, style and/or thematic interest.46

In the manuscript variations discussed here, it seems evident that an important aspect of this effort by copyists to accommodate the coherence, style, and expectations is the specific targeting of scenes that include complicated pragmatic tactics in their earliest versions. In other words, late medieval and post-medieval scribes and copyists are changing the representations of verbal exchanges in the sagas to accommodate their perceived audiences. An alternative assessment of the causes of such changes may be discerned from work done by Katarzyna Anna Kapitan, who observes that the medieval saga Hrómundar saga Greipssonar experienced a process of re-oralization via the composition of Icelandic rímur (long poems that often retell versions of Old Norse-Icelandic sagas), which are then returned to the written arena in the form of seventeenth-century saga manuscripts.47 Kapitan notes that direct discourse is at times misunderstood throughout this process, so much so that discourse is sometimes even attributed to the wrong character.48 It is possible that this cycle of medieval saga-to-rímur-to-seventeenth-century saga has significantly impacted the usage and understanding of pragmatic principles as well. This possible cause would indicate a less conscious post-medieval leveling of pragmatics, but it does not diminish the fact that the understanding of medieval discourses in post-medieval sources has been either lost or significantly diminished. In either case – whether intentional scribal emendations to texts or incidental misunderstandings of discourse through the re-oralization of saga material (or both) – the resulting renditions of the sagas add to the profile of the timeline of the development of pragmatics in Iceland. A trend of changing usage of pragmatic principles can be marked from the earliest versions of the sagas through the late Middle Ages and into the seventeenth century, at which point the ability to understand the type Lethbridge, “Gísla saga Súrsson,” p. 149. Katarzyna Anna Kapitan, Studies in the Transmission History of Hrómundar saga Greipssonar (Ph.D. Thesis, University of Copenhagen, 2018). 48 ibid., pp. 217–19. 46 47

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage of discursive tactics exhibited in earlier sources has further deteriorated. Earlier manuscripts display a stronger, more confident understanding of the types of discourse being discussed here, while later manuscript traditions, especially those produced in the seventeenth century, exhibit a diminishing understanding of earlier pragmatic principles, which has in some post-medieval manuscripts become detached, simplified, and linguistically leveled in comparison with its medieval predecessors. This evidence fits within the existing theories of verbal conflict in Old Norse-Icelandic sagas and, in fact, helps to resolve some important inconsistencies. Even though Swenson offers compelling evidence that Old Norse-Icelandic references to mannjafnaðr and senna, two types of verbal conflict, were understood well in Iceland and perhaps beyond, that in itself does not preclude the prospect of a more generalized northern Germanic phenomenon for such uses of verbal conflict. Whatever that generalized phenomenon became in specific cultural contexts, be they Old English, Icelandic, or Germanic, there is adequate comparative evidence to compel most scholars to agree that some common phenomenon was a part of the Germanic past,49 but based on Swenson’s and Harris’s work, senna, mannjafnaðr, and other such examples of verbal conflict represent a particularized version of that Germanic, heroic phenomenon. Based on the work done in this volume and especially in this chapter, that particularization can be placed as one event on a longer timeline of linguistic development. Though it is difficult to assert specific dates for some manuscripts, I propose here four stages of pragmatic understanding in the medieval North: Pre-Literate, Literate, Transitional, and Late (graph 1). The flyting identified by Clover and others represents the written remnants of the earliest of these stages, as do the samples of ancient literature represented in the Quarrel of the Queens. By the time of the classical saga period, when many of the important examples discussed in this volume were composed, the Literate period has begun. It is a time when both authors and audiences maintained strong remembrances of the cultural and linguistic phenomena associated with the pre-Christian, heroic past. The Transitional period is a time when authors and scribes – those closest to the stories of the past – understood the usage of pragmatic principles of the past, but also anticipated that their audiences would not understand. This compelled them to add context and alter content in order to preserve a type of pragmatics they perceived as important to their cultural past but waning in their contemporary society. By the Late (post-medieval) period, even scribes, authors, and copyists have lost much of the connection with that ancient depictions of discourse. While it may be evident in those manuscripts most faithfully copied in the seventeenth century and beyond, those sagas that come to us through 49

See Harris, “Senna,” p. 67, and sources cited there; Clover, “Germanic Context,” p. 445; Arnold, “Hárbarðsljóð,” p. 8; and Lönnroth, “Double Scene.”

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Graph 1: The development of pragmatic understanding

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Manuscript Genealogy and the Diachrony of Pragmatic Usage a re-oralization process and those sagas that show the heaviest revisions and rewritings suffer from a loss of understanding. The changes from the earlier to later stages on this timeline occur due to a fundamental truth about the pragmatic principles evident in Old Norse literature: it is deeply engrained in primarily oral societies, which rely entirely on verbal discourse and physical deeds (worda ond worca, to quote Beowulf) to measure a stranger’s self-worth. As the society becomes increasingly literate, and even experiences vacillations between orality and literacy, the reliance upon such complicated pragmatic exchanges decreases and, eventually, falls out of usage. When that happens, only the vague remembrances of those old customs remain.

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Conclusion: Close Context and the Proximity of Pragmatics Possibly more than any other aspect of linguistic study, the essential components of pragmatics intuitively resonate with all language users. Even though not everyone knows the terminology to describe the linguistic theory of pragmatics, we all employ pragmatics every day of our lives. From the moment we greet a colleague or friend each morning (Hi, how are you today?) to the evening meal when we need to season our food (Could you possibly pass the salt, dear?), we communicate by means of pragmatics. Our discourses are not just words placed one after the other; they are tapestries woven with the threads of our cultural and interpersonal contexts. This tapestry of language, culture, and relationship does not exist only in the abstract; it is not a philosophical construct; nor is it the product of a lone writer or the erudite few. It is ubiquitous. This book has sought to demonstrate the prevalence and nuance of pragmatic principles in the discourse of Old Norse-Icelandic literature. Not only did saga writers have an ability to present dialogue rich with illocution and implicature, but they also expected their audiences to understand those discourses as well. In itself, evidence of pragmatic principles in Old Norse-Icelandic linguistic communities should not be at all surprising, for, if the recent discoveries in pragmatics are to be trusted, all languages and linguistic communities use pragmatic principles. Thus, if we are to understand a culture’s language usage in its entirety, then we must understand its usage of pragmatics. If illocution can only be fully comprehended in specific cultural and speech-situational contexts, then the closer we are to the contexts of a verbal exchange, the more likely we are to understand the fullness of its pragmatic quality. This “closeness” of pragmatics to cultural and interpersonal context stands at the heart of the present study. 221

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature The seven discourses which anchor the chapters in this book – the exchange between Kolskeggr and Kolr in Njáls saga, the Quarrel of the Queens, the exchange between Sneglu-Halli and King Haraldr Sigurðarson, the speech made before Iceland’s conversion to Christianity, Skalla-Grímr’s verbal duel with King Haraldr Hálfdanarson, the exchange between Guðrún and Bolli in Laxdœla saga, and the cutting-out-the-shirt scene from Gísla saga – all stand as representatives of the type of pragmatic principles at work in Old Norse-Icelandic literature, while the many other verbal exchanges discussed in the preceding pages mark something of the kind of variation of the principles that can be expected in the literature of the medieval North. Many of these passages bear relevance upon some of the most important and compelling interpretive quandaries put forward by scholars up to this point. This book has aimed to demonstrate how the close proximity afforded by an examination of discourse in Old Norse literature might aid in an understanding of these vital scholarly inquiries, which, variously, concern such topics as the importance of social status and self-worth, the conversion and Christianization of the North, the process of nation-making in the minds and hearts of (particularly) Icelanders, the diverse relevance of wisdom, proverbs, and skaldic verse in the establishment of social status, and the importance of discourse analyses to understanding the role of gender in the sagas and the broader cultural context. As, for example, the second chapter of this volume demonstrates, strong similarities exist not just along the broader lines of types and characteristics of verbal conflict (such as senna and mannjafnaðr) between Middle High German and Old Norse-Icelandic sources. The similarities amongst those sources concern a more fundamental strategy of using indirectness in verbal conflicts. It was then suggested, in chapter three (with some comparisons with the Old English Beowulf) that those strategies of indirectness in verbal aggression might be more nuanced than originally thought. Not always does indirectness in verbal aggression lead inevitably to conflict. In certain contexts, the goal of such indirectness is to establish a positive relationship amongst strangers. Though the conflictive principle, as T. A. Shippey called it,1 has been clearly demonstrated by others to persist in Old English, it will be evident from chapter three of this volume that it is deeply ingrained in Old Norse-Icelandic sources as well. Perhaps the most important of these scholarly concerns can be found in the longstanding debate about the nature, characteristics, and origins of verbal disputes known as either flyting or, in the terminology native to Old Norse-Icelandic sources, senna and mannjafnaðr. It should be clear 1

Shippey, “Principles of Conversation,” pp. 109–26; and see above (pp. 74–5) and variously throughout this volume for a discussion of Shippey’s notion of the conflictive principle.

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Conclusion by now that in whatever form and function these specific types of verbal conflicts existed, they were a part of a much broader and more nuanced component of speaker meaning. One may go so far as to say that verbal conflict of any kind in any culture at any time in history may not exist without the active involvement of pragmatics, because of the fundamental realization that any sort of con-flict implies a culturally and interpersonally specific con-text outside of which the conflict is meaningless. Reading conflict, in other words, means reading context, which requires an understanding of what we now call pragmatics. In the introductory remarks to this volume it was noted that this scholarly debate over senna, mannjafnaðr, and the broader term, flyting, was far from the mere splitting of hairs on the semantics of these terms. Instead, it may in fact be one of the most important scholarly discussions of our time. Harris’s call to understand “the intimate relationship of the oral genres with ordinary language” warns us to pursue this question with great care.2 The study of pragmatics, context, and its relation to verbal conflict has offered just the sort of care needed for such a study, such that, it is hoped, this volume may even go so far as to offer some resolution between these seemingly disparate views. Rather than having to see either the particularized phenomena of senna and mannjafnaðr or the generalized flyting, the study of pragmatics in the Old Norse literature allows for a diachronic, comparative possibility. The generalized, broadly-speaking Germanic world sustained common pragmatic tactics of verbal aggression that became, in their respective local (sometimes national) communities, certain genres of verbal conflict. These genres, once particularized, made their way into oral tradition and then into written literature in the form in which we find it. One benefit of the present study is that it does not stop with these medieval written sources but rather moves onward through history to determine whether any further such changes are evident in later written sources. In this study, chapter eight makes use of some of the many later, often seventeenth- (and some eighteenth-) century manuscripts for medieval sagas. Later manuscripts, the chapter concludes, display a weakening understanding of the kind of pragmatic principles at work in the earlier sources. In the context of the important debate between Harris and Clover, these findings represent the continuation of developments begun even before the technology of writing arrived in the North.3 Whatever that ancient, pre-literate, generalized Germanic phenomenon of verbal conflict may have been has, by the seventeenth century, become so foreign as to be often misunderstood to one degree or another. Three factors seem to be the most likely culprits for such a gradual change in 2 3

Harris, “Senna,” p. 69. See above (pp. 47–50) for a detailed discussion of the debate between Harris, Clover, and other on the nature of verbal conflicts in the medieval North.

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature the usage of pragmatic principles in the medieval North: nation-making Christianization, and literalization. The long and gradual influence of nation-building – when considered not in the nineteenth-century variety of nationalism but rather in the global context of Germanic migrations and settlements throughout the North and (eventually) westward into England—upon linguistic phenomena ought to come as a surprise to no one. Diachronic linguistic variation of this kind is fundamental to any understanding of language, but pragmatics has given a new perspective to this sort of language change. As Andreas H. Jucker puts it, “de Saussure’s clear-cut distinction between synchronic and diachronic linguistics has given way to an understanding of language as a dynamic system in which older and newer forms co-exist and any description of language has to take its history seriously.”4 This dynamic system of language operates hand-inhand with both the present and the past, so that any language speaker uses their language with one hand reaching out to their immediate speech situation and the other hand reaching backward through time to the forms and functions of the past. When migratory language communities in the North began to settle and individuate themselves, all aspects of their respective language usage, including pragmatics, were subject to particularization. What the present volume contributes to an understanding of that linguistic particularization in the medieval north is a demonstration of just how that differentiation occurred with respect to pragmatics. Chapter five of this volume examines accounts of Icelandic speakers of Old Norse distinguish themselves from other speakers of Old Norse in the region, even (whether historically accurate or not) the King of England. In these accounts, Icelanders use discursive tactics to distinguish their own national and cultural identity. The particularization of tactics of verbal aggression from a more general Germanic usage to a uniquely Norse, and then uniquely Icelandic, application fits well within the observations and assertions of both Harris and Clover.5 The Old Norse-Icelandic variety of verbal conflicts such as senna and mannjafnaðr (among other types of verbal aggression such as hvǫt, níð, and spá) fits well with the overall trajectory of language variation in the North.6 Just as cognate elements of vocabulary and syntax remain evident between 4

5

6

Andreas H. Jucker, “Pragmatics in the History of Linguistic Thought,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Pragmatics, ed. Keith Allan and Kasia M. Jaszczolt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 495–512, at p. 509. In other ways their perspectives remain distinct. For instance, one key element in Clover and Arnold, that Hárbarðsljóð ought to be seen as a parody is difficult to resolve, but this difference does not detract from the common ground described here. See Clover, “The Germanic Context,” pp. 444–68 and Arnold, “Hárbarðsljóð,” pp. 5–26. See Swenson, Performing Definitions, pp. 28–9.

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Conclusion the northern and western Germanic languages, so too are there “cognate” pragmatic elements, such as the commonalities observed in the early chapters of this volume. Nevertheless, particularization does occur. Thus, Harris and his supporters are right to argue for a localized variant of a broader Germanic phenomenon, but Clover and her supporters are also right to speak of the importance of a generalized Germanic phenomenon. Harris represents the Icelandic (or the Old English or Middle Scots) speaker reaching their hand into the present while Clover represents the other hand reaching into the past. What results is a dynamic system of language such as the one articulated by Jucker. One of Clover’s supporters, Martin Arnold, does a remarkable job of illustrating the importance of social, religious, and historical contexts of verbal conflict in the Eddic poem Hárbarðsljóð. It is likewise inescapable that Christianization should influence, and be influenced by, pragmatic principles at work in the North. Chapter four of the present volume offers, in a way, an extension of Arnold’s conclusions by showing some ways the “religio-historical” context of the Christianization process might have influence, and been influenced by, the applications of pragmatic principles. Here again, the fundamentals of pragmatics, in this instance, felicity conditions, remain a constant factor in both the missionary culture and the target-conversion culture. However, it is the standards set by the target culture that determines whether conversion takes place. Orality and literacy also play an important role in the long development of discourse strategies in Old Norse-Icelandic sources. While it is not possible to determine how pragmatics functioned prior to the introduction of the technology of writing, it seems evident, especially from the work presented in chapter six of this volume, that pragmatic principles served an important function in cultures founded upon orality as opposed to those grounded in literacy.7 In the latter, literacy becomes a means by which the elite classes measured their self-worth whereas orally-grounded societies, by necessity, prioritized the ability to speak well as much as to perform well.8 In the Old English Beowulf this concept is addressed with the phrase “worda ond worca” (words and deeds),9 and in Old Norse, it is called the same: as Þangbrandr Vilbaldússon is said to be “en harðr ok óvæginn bæði í orðum ok verkum” (stern and unyielding in both words and deeds).10 Chapter six furthers this observation, noting that the pragmatic functionality of proverbs and skaldic See Arnved Nedkvitne, The Social Consequences of Literacy in Scandinavia (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004). 8 See, for example, Thomas A. Shippey’s discussion of the fear of the written word in his “Bibliophobia: Hatred of the Book in the Middle Ages,” lecture, Birkbeck College, University of London, 2001. 9 Klaeber’s Beowulf, l. p. 289. 10 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, vol. 2, p. 66. 7

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Discourse in Old Norse Literature poetry in prose indicates a rich and deeply enculturated oral context for direct discourse. However, we must also consider what the literalization and re-oralization might have meant to the usage and comprehension of pragmatic principles in the North. Chapter eight suggests that as these narratives moved between orality and literacy, some understanding of the older pragmatic principles were lost. All this indicates a downward trajectory of the uses and functionality of the type of pragmatics that seem to have been prevalent in the pre-literate world. That trajectory begins in the oral past, before the earliest literary sources, at a time when the orally dependent culture maintained a complex, vibrant, and culturally dependent functionality of pragmatic principles. That trajectory continued through the age of the first written sagas when the vitality of the old pragmatics was still remembered by the saga writers. As literacy (and Christianization and nation-building, correspondingly) strengthened its hold on the society, the cultural dependency upon those older pragmatic principles diminished, and the understanding of the old pragmatics waned as well. Thus, while we cannot know precisely what the uses of pragmatic principles looked like prior to the introduction of writing to the region, it should be evident, at least, that the usage of certain pragmatic principles like the conflictive principle and indirect aggression held a higher priority in the culture before literalization than it did after. It remains to be said, with considerable emphasis given to the point, that these conclusions—indeed all the work done in this volume—are demonstrative, not exhaustive, and should mark a beginning more than an end. The vast corpus of Old Norse-Icelandic texts offers too many examples of direct discourse for any one study to present an exhaustive assessment, but this fact will, I hope, be seen as an opportunity rather than a problem. One place where future efforts might build upon the work done in this book is in the field of corpus linguistics. The increasing initiatives to digitize not just editions of Old Norse-Icelandic sources but manuscript variants of the respective sagas invite the kind of corpus linguistics that have become so important to recent efforts in historical pragmatics or, as it is often called, historical corpus pragmatics. As Christoph Rühlemann has recently described it, a “corpus” in this context may be defined as a large computerized collection of texts ranging from, say, 100,000 words to trillions of words [… .] It contains naturally occurring language rather than ‘edited’ language. It is most often annotated in some form, be it part-of-speech (PoS) tagging or some other type of markup [… .] Most importantly, it is, or aims to be, representative of a language or language variety.11 11

Christoph Rühlemann, Corpus Linguistics for Pragmatics: A Guide for Research (New York: Routledge, 2019), p. 1.

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Conclusion The work of establishing and annotating these materials is well under way in Old Norse-Icelandic corpus. Once this corpus is in place, the linguist may, among other approaches, “take lexical words or constructions which previous pragmatic analyses have shown to have recurring pragmatic functions as their starting point.”12 This book is not an effort in corpus pragmatics, of course, but it may serve later efforts in corpus-linguistics by outlining and defining some of those “pragmatic functions” evident in Old Norse-Icelandic literature. Where this volume has, for example, explored the importance of the subjunctive mood or phrases including epistemic markers of modality (e.g., at hyggja, “to think”), which display a natural in-/under-determinacy, a linguist may now compare the usages of such markers in the variation evident in the larger corpus.13 In this way, the author of the present volume hopes the work done in these pages will help build a stronger relationship between linguists and literary analysts. For, as the introduction to this volume suggests, the two fields have much to offer one another. Part of the intrigue of discourse is that even though we often do not say what we mean, our meaning is generally communicated nonetheless. Even more remarkably, this communication seems to happen not in spite of our indirectness in speech but, somehow, by means of it. Somehow, our emergent meaning seems to be enhanced rather than obscured through indirectness – when our locution and illocution do not line up – perhaps because, in those times when we must interpret indirectness, we must rely upon more than words. Perhaps this deeper meaning is communicated by virtue of the fact that we, the speakers and hearers of that indirect utterance, must proceed by sharing not merely the basic components of language – sounds, semantic values, and syntactical structures of the words we speak – but also a more dynamic kind of mutual comprehension that takes up the shared understanding of the broader world, the immediate and sometimes intimate circumstances of the speaker and listener, and a deeper knowledge of one another than that which is typically conveyed in just the locutionary meaning alone. This is as true today as it was in medieval Scandinavia. By understanding how discourse works in Old Norse literature, not only are we better able to comprehend those ancient voices of the past: we gain a better understanding of our own voices as well.

12

Christoph Rühlemann and Karin Aijmer, “Corpus Pragmatics: Laying the Foundations,” in Corpus Pragmatics: A Handbook, ed. Christoph Rühlemann and Karin Aijmer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 1–28, at p. 9. 13 See chapter one of this volume, pp. 40–3, for more on the importance of modality to indirectness in speech.

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Afterword I have completed the final preparations of this manuscript in the fall of 2020, during the height of the Covid-19 global pandemic. Infection rates in the United States and globally are once again on the rise; new restrictions on travel and socializing are imminent; and while there is hope of a vaccine and a return to normal life, there is also fear that it will not come soon enough. For some, it has not come soon enough. We are all affected by the virus in different ways, but one constant is that we have all been confined in one way or another, often separated from friends and loved ones for their (or our) own good. Now, long-awaited reunions with family and friends that might have happened during the winter holidays look as if they might be deferred even longer. But there is also hope to be found in unlikely places. I am forced to recognize that the subject of this book, discourse, feels a little different to me now than it did when I began this project. We extend salutations and valedictions now from phrases like best wishes to something like best wishes and good health; we ask questions like how are you doing? with a little more purpose; and the idle words shared by colleagues or casual acquaintances draw us a little closer together now than they did before. Somehow, the way we talk with one another now – though we must often speak through computer screens, cell phones, and chat boxes – makes the discourses of Old Norse speakers from centuries ago a little more meaningful as well. Njáll’s bare face and Skarpéðinn’s grin are a little clearer to me. Guðúrn, I can almost see, has the beginnings of a tear in her eye when she speaks so coldly to Bolli. Kjartan, I’m sure, has the hint of a smile when he insults the king. Whether in medieval Iceland or in the confinement of this persistent pandemic, there is nothing more fundamental to the human experience than our need for discourse. A global pandemic may confine us; it may hurt us or scare us, but as long as we continue sharing our voices, we will persevere. Eric Shane Bryan 26 November 2020 Saint Louis, Missouri 229

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Bibliography Killer-Glum’s Saga, trans. John McKinnell, CSI vol. 2, pp. 267–314. Klaeber’s Beowulf, ed. R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, 4th edition (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008). Kormáks saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, in Vatnsdœla saga, ÍF 8 (1939), pp. 133–302. Kristni saga, ed. Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, and Peter Foote, in Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., Biskupa sǫgur, ÍF 15–17, (1998–2003), vol. I:2, pp. 1–48. Króka-Refs saga, ed. Jóhannes Halldórsson, in Kjalnesinga saga, ÍF 14 (1959), pp. 117–60. Kumlbúa þáttr, ed. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, in Harðar Saga ÍF 13 (1991), pp. 451–5. Laxdœla saga, ed. Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ÍF 5 (1934). Membrana Regia Deperdita, ed. Agnete Loth (Copenhagen: E. Munksgaard, 1960). Morkinskinna 1–2, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, ÍF 23–4 (2011). Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030– 1157), trans. Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000). Das Nibelungenlied, ed. Helmut de Boor (Wiesbaden: F.A. Brockhaus, 1956). Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta, ed. Ólafur Halldórsson, 3 vols. (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1958–2000). Saga Gísla Súrssonar, I og II, ed. Benedikt Sveinsson (Reykjavík: Kostnaðarmaður Sigurður Kristjánsson, 1922). The Saga of Grettir the Strong, trans. Bernard Scudder, in CSI vol. 2, pp. 49–191. The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue, trans. Katarina C. Attwood, in CSI vol. 1, pp. 305–33. The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer, trans. Jesse L. Byock (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990). The Saga of the Volsungs, trans. R. G. Finch (London: Nelson, 1965). Saxo Grammaticus, The Histories of the Danes, Books I-IX, ed. Hilda Ellis Davidson, trans. Peter Fisher (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1979–80). Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. J. R. R. Tolkien and E. V. Gordon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968). Sneglu-Halla þáttr, in Eyfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, ÍF 9 (1956), pp. 261–95. Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál, ed. Anthony Faulkes, 2 vols. (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998). Theodoricus monachus. Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium—An

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Bibliography Account of the Ancient History of the Norwegian Kings, trans. David and Ian McDougall (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998). Víga-Glúms saga, in Eyfirðinga sǫgur, ed. Jónas Kristjánsson, ÍF 9 (1956), pp. 1–98. Víglundar saga, in Kjalnesinga saga, ed. Jóhannes Halldórsson, ÍF 14 (1959), pp. 61–116. Völsunga Saga: The Story of the Volsungs and Niblungs, with Certain Songs from the Elder Edda, trans. Eiríkur Magnússon and William Morris (London: The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., 1907). Völsunga saga, ed. Guðni Jónsson, in FSN 1, pp. 107–218. Þiðreks saga af Bern, ed. Guðni Jónsson, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1951).

Secondary Sources Abram, Christopher, “Gylfaginning and Early Medieval Conversion Theory,” Saga-Book 33 (2009), pp. 5–24. Allan, K, “Felicity Conditions,” in Concise Encyclopedia of Pragmatics, ed. Jacob L. Mey (Oxford: Elsevier, 1998), pp. 295–9. Amory, Frederic, “Pseudoarchaism and Fiction in Króka-Refs saga,” Medieval Scandinavia 12 (1988), pp. 7–23. ––– “Speech Acts and Violence in the Sagas,” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 107 (1991), pp. 57–84. Anderson, J. J., “The Three Judgments and the Ethos of Chivalry in ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,’” The Chaucer Review 24 (1990), pp. 337–55. Andersson, Theodore M., “A Note on Conversation in the Sagas,” Gripla 28 (2017), pp. 227–35. ––– “Five Saga Books for a New Century: A Review Essay,” JEGP 103:4 (2004), pp. 505–28. ––– “The Displacement of the Heroic Ideal in the Family Sagas,” Speculum 45:4 (1970), pp. 575–93. ––– “Víga-Glúms saga and the Birth of Saga Writing,” Scripta Islandica 57 (2006), pp. 5–39. ––– The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280) (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006). ––– The Legend of Brynhild (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980). Apel, Karl-Otto, “Is the Ethics of the Ideal Communication Community a Utopia? On the Relationship between Ethics, Utopia, and the Critique of Utopia,” in The Communicative Ethics Controversy, ed. Seyla Benhabib and Fred Dallmayr (Cambridge: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1995), pp. 23–59. 233

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Bibliography Archer, Dawn, “Context and Historical (Socio)Pragmatics Twenty Years on,” JHP 18:2 (2017), pp. 315–36. ––– Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760): A Sociopragmatic Analysis (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2005). Archer, Dawn and Peter Grundy, “Introduction,” in The Pragmatics Reader, ed. Dawn Archer and Peter Grundy, (New York: Routledge, 2011), pp. 1–10. Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging: Morkinskinna and Icelandic Identity, c. 1220, trans. Fredrik Heinemann (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2014). Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, ed., The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (New York: Routledge, 2017). Arnold, Martin, “Hárbarðsljóð: Parody, Pragmatics, and the Socio-Mythic Controversy,” Saga-Book 38 (2014), pp. 5–26. ––– The Post-Classical Icelandic Family Saga (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003). Arnovick, Leslie. Diachronic Pragmatics: Seven Case Studies in English Illocutionary Development. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2000. ––– Written Reliquaries: The Resonance of Orality in Medieval English Texts (Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2006). Arthur, Susanne M., “‘Njáls saga er þetta. Loftur hefur lesið mig’: Readership and Reception of Njáls saga: A Selection of Marginal Notes and Paratextual Features,” in New Studies in the Manuscript Tradition of Njáls Saga, ed. Lethbridge and Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, pp. 231–55. Arundale, Robert B., “Face as Relational and Interactional: A Communication Framework for Research on Face, Facework, and Politeness,” Journal of Politeness Research 2:2 (2006), pp. 193–217. Austin, J. L., How To Do Things with Words, ed. J. O. Urmson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965). Bagge, Sverre, “Christianization and State Formation in Early Medieval Norway,” Scandinavian Journal of History 30:2 (2005), pp. 107–34. ––– “The Making of a Missionary King: The Medieval Accounts of Olaf Tryggvason and the Conversion of Norway,” JEGP 105:4 (2006), pp. 473–513. Bampi, Massimiliano, “Genre,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, pp. 4–14. Bampi, Massimiliano, Carolyne Larrington, and Sif Rikhardsdottir, eds., A Critical Companion to Old Norse Literature Genre (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2020).

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Bibliography Bar-Hillel, Yehoshua, “Out of the Pragmatic Wastebasket,” Linguistic Inquiry 2 (1971), pp. 401–7. Bauman, Richard, “Performance and Honor in 13th Century Iceland,” Journal of American Folklore 99 (1986), pp. 131–50. ––– “Verbal Art as Performance,” American Anthropologist 77 (1975), pp. 290–311. Bax, Marcel and Dániel Z. Kádár, “The Historical Understanding of Historical (Im)politeness,” JHP 12:1–2 (2011), pp. 1–24 Bax, Marcel and Tineke Padmos, “Two Types of Verbal Dueling in Old Icelandic: The Interactional Structure of the Senna and Mannjafnaðr in Hárbarðsljóð,” SS 55:2 (1983), pp. 149–74. Bek-Pedersen, Karen, The Norns in Old Norse Mythology (Edinburg: Dunedin, 2011). Birkeli, Fridtjov, Norske steinkors i tidlig middelalder: et bidrag til belysning av overgangen fra norrøn religion til kristendom (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1973). Birner, Betty, Introduction to Pragmatics (Maldon, MA: Blackwell, 2013). Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Om den norske kongers sagaer (Oslo: J. Dybwad, 1937). Björkqvist, Kaj, Karin Österman, and Ari Kaukiainen, “Social Intelligence Empathy = Aggression?,” Aggression and Violent Behavior 5 (2000), pp. 191–200. Blome-Tillmann, Michael, “Conversational Implicatures and the Cancellability Test,” Analysis 68:2 (2008), pp. 156–60. Bø, Olav, “Hólmganga and Einvígi: Scandinavian Forms of the Duel,” Mediaeval Scandinavia 2 (1970), pp. 132–48. Bonner, Maria and Kaaren Grimstad, “Munu vit ekki at því sættask: A Closer Look at Dialogues in Hrafnkels saga,” Arkiv för Nordisk Filologi 111 (1996), pp. 5–26. Bousfield, Derek, “The Grand Debate: Where Next for Politeness Research?,” Culture, Language and Representation 3 (2006), pp. 9–15. ––– Impoliteness in Interaction (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2008). Braun, David, “Implicating Questions,” Mind & Language 26:5 (November 2011), pp. 574–95. Bredsdorff, Thomas, “Speech Act Theory and Saga Studies,” Representations 10:1 (2007), pp. 34–41. Brewer, Marilynn B. and Wendi Gardner, “Who is this ‘We’? Levels of Collective Identity and Self Representation,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 71:1 (1996), pp. 83–93. Brink, Stefan, “Early Ecclesiastical Organization of Scandinavia, especially Sweden,” in Medieval Christianity in the North: New Studies, ed. Kirsi Salonen, Kurt Villads Jensen, and Torstein Jørgensen (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 23–39. 235

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Bibliography Brock, Alexander, “Historical Evidence of Communicative Maxims,” in Investigations into the Meta-communicative Lexicon of English: A Contribution to Historical Pragmatics, ed. Ulrich Busse and Axel Hübler (Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2012), pp. 271–87. Brown, Penelope and Stephen Levinson, Politeness: Some Universals in Language Usage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). ––– “Universals in Language Use: Politeness Phenomena,” in Questions and Politeness: Strategies in Social Interaction, ed. E. N. Goody (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), pp. 56–310. Bryan, Eric Shane, “Back the Way We Came! The Place of Old Norse in the History of the English Language,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Teaching 28:1 (2018), pp. 55–73. ––– “Bad Data: Challenges Facing Historical Pragmatics and How the ‘Neglected Sagas’ Can Help,” paper presented at the 129th Modern Language Association Annual Convention, Chicago: January 2014. ––– “Indirect Aggression: A Pragmatic Analysis of the Quarrel of the Queens in Völsungasaga, Þiðreks Saga, and Das Nibelungenlied” Neophilologus 97 (2013), pp. 349–65. ––– “Rich or Poor, Pagan or Christian? Speech Acts and the Conversion and Christianization of Iceland,” paper presented at the 18th International Medieval Congress, Leeds: July 2011. Bryan, Eric Shane and Alexander Vaughan Ames, eds., Literary Speech Acts of the Medieval North: Essays Inspired by the Works of Thomas A. Shippey (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2020). Callow, Chris, “Dating and Origins,” in The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, ed. Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, pp. 15–33. Ciklamini, Marlene, “The Old Icelandic Duel,” SS 35:3 (1963), pp. 174–94. Classen, Albrecht, “Sarcasm in Medieval German and Old Norse Literature,” in Words that Tear the Flesh: Essays on Sarcasm in Medieval and Early Modern Literatures and Cultures, ed. Alan Baragona and Elizabeth L. Rambo (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), pp. 249–69. Cleasby, Richard and Guðbrandur Vigfússon, An Icelandic-English Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press: 1957). Clover, Carol J., “Hárbarðsljóð as Generic Farce,” SS 51:2 (1979), pp. 124–45. ––– “The Germanic Context of the Unferþ Episode,” Speculum 55:3 (1980), pp. 444–68. ––– “Icelandic Family Sagas (Íslendingasögur),” in Old Norse-Icelandic Literature, ed. Clover and Lindow, pp. 239–315. Clover, Carol J. and John Lindow, eds., Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A Critical Guide (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985). Clunies Ross, Margaret, “From Iceland to Norway: Essential Rites of Passage for an Early Icelandic Skald,” Alvíssmál 9 (1999), pp. 55–72. 236

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Bibliography Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht, “The Individual and Social Values in Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu,” SS 60:2 (1988), pp. 247–66. Spencer-Oatey, Helen D. M., “Theories of Identity and the Analysis of Face,” JP 39:4 (2007), pp. 639–56. Spencer-Oatey, Helen and Jianyu Xing, “A Problematic Chinese Business Visit to Britain: Issues of Face,” in Culturally Speaking: Managing Rapport through Talk across Cultures, ed. Helen Spencer-Oatey (London: Continuum, 2000), pp. 272–88. Sperber, Dan and Deirdre Wilson, Relevance: Communication and Cognition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986). Stalnaker, Robert, “Common Ground,” Linguistics and Philosophy 25:5/6 (2002), pp. 701–21. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, “Með Handrit á Heilanum. Safnarinn Árni Magnússon,” in 66 handrit úr fórum Árna Magnússonar, ed. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir (Bókaútgáfan Opna: Reykjavík, 2013), pp. 9–37. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir and Ludger Zeevaert, “Við upptök Njálu. Þormóðsbók—Am 162 b fol. delta,” in Góssið hans Árna, ed. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum: Reykjavík, 2014), pp. 160–9. Sverrir Jakobsson, “Strangers in Icelandic Society 1100–1400,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 3 (2007), pp. 141–57. Swenson, Karen, Performing Definitions: Two Genres of Insult in Old Norse Literature (Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1991). Taavitsainen, Irma and Andreas H. Jucker, “Speech Acts Now and Then: Towards a Pragmatic History of English,” in Speech Acts in the History of English, ed. Andreas H. Jucker, and Irma Taavitsainen (Amsterdam/ Philadelphia: John Benjamins: 2008), pp. 1–23. ––– “Trends and Developments in Historical Pragmatics,” in Historical Pragmatics, ed. Irma Taavitsainen and Andreas H. Jucker (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), pp. 3–30. ––– “Twenty Years of Historical Pragmatics: Origins, Developments and Changing Thought Styles,” JHP 16:1 (2015), pp. 1–24. Taavitsainen, Irma and Susan Fitzmauric, “Historical Pragmatics: What it is and How to Do it,” in Methods in Historical Pragmatics, ed. Susan Fitzmaurice and Irma Taavitsainen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), pp. 11–36. Thesaurus Proverbiorum Medii Aevi. Lexikon der Sprichwörter des romansichgermanischen Mittelalters. 13 vols. and Quellenverzeichnis, ed. Kuratorium Singer der Schweizerischen Akademie des Geistes- un Sozialwissenschaften (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1995–2002). Thomas, Jenny, Meaning in Interatction: An Introduction to Pragmatics (London: Longman, 1995). Tirosh, Yoav, “Icelanders Abroad,” in Handbook of Pre-Modern Nordic 247

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Bibliography Memory Studies: Interdisciplinary Approaches. Vol 1, ed. Jürg Glauser, Pernille Hermann, and Stephen A. Mitchell (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018), pp. 502–5. ––– “Scolding the Skald: The Construction of Cultural Memory in Morkinskinna’s Sneglu-Halla Þáttr,” European Journal of Scandinavian Studies 47:1(2017), pp. 1–23. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs, “Whither historical pragmatics? A Cognitivelyoriented Perspective,” JP 145 (2019), pp. 25–30. Turco, Jeffrey, “Gender, Violence, and the ‘Enigma’ of Gísla saga,” JEGP 115:3 (2016), pp. 277–98. ––– “Loki, Sneglu-Halla þáttr, and the Case for a Skaldic Prosaics,” in New Norse Studies: Essays on the Literature and Culture of Medieval Scandinavia, ed. Jeffrey Turco (New York: Cornell, 2015), pp. 185–241. Turville-Petre, Gabriel, “Gísli Súrsson and His Poetry Tradition and Influences,” Modern Language Review 39 (1944), pp. 374–91 [reprinted in Nine Norse Studies (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1972), pp. 118–53]. Vésteinn Ólason, “Family Sagas,” in A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, ed. McTurk, pp. 101–18. ––– Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of the Icelanders, trans. Andrew Wawn (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1998). Vilhjálmur Árnason, “Moral and Social Structure in the Icelandic Sagas,” JEGP 90:2 (1991), pp. 157–74. Wardhaugh, Ronald and Janet M. Fuller, An Introduction to Sociolinguistics, 7th ed. (Chichester: Wiley, 2015). Watts, Richard J., “Linguistic Politeness Research: Quo Vadis?,” in Politeness in Language: Studies in its History, Theory and Practice, ed. Richard J. Watts, Sachiko Ide, and Konrad Ehlich (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), pp. xi–xlvii. Weiner, Matthew, “Are All Conversational Implicatures Cancellable?” Analysis 66:2 (2006), pp. 127–30. Wellendorf, Jonas, “The Formation of an Old Norse Skaldic School Cannon in the Early Thirteenth Century,” Interfaces: A Journal of Medieval European Literatures 4 (2017), pp. 125–43. Wharton, Tim, “Context,” in The Pragmatics Encyclopedia, ed. Cummings, pp. 74–5. Wilcox, Jonathan, “The St. Brice’s Day Massacre and Archbishop Wulfstan,” in Peace and Negotiation: Strategies of Coexistence in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Diane Wolfthal (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), pp. 79–91. Wills, Tarrin and Stefanie Gropper, eds., “Anonymous Poems, Hugsvinnsmál 19,” in Poetry on Christian Subjects, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007). Willson, Kendra, “Parody and Genre in Sagas of Icelanders,” in Á 248

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Bibliography Austrvega: Saga and East Scandinavia, Preprint papers of the 14th International Saga Conference, Uppsala, 9th -15th August 2009, 2 vols., ed. Agneta Ney, Henrik Williams, and Fredrik Charpentier Ljungqvist (Gävle: Gävle University Press, 2009), vol. 2, pp. 1039–46. Winroth, Anders, The Conversion of Scandinavia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012). Zakkou, Julia, “The Cancellability Test for Conversational Implicatures,” Philosophy Compass (December 2018), pp. 1–17. https://doi.org/10.1111/ phc3.12552 Ziegeler, Debra, “The Grammaticalization of Modality,” in The Oxford Handbook of Grammaticalization, ed. Bernd Heine and Heiko Narrog (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 595–604. Zoëga, Geir T., A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910). Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, “Editing the Three Versions of Gísla saga Súrssonar,” in Creating the Medieval Saga, ed. Quinn and Lethbridge, pp. 105–22. Þorleifur Hauksson and Þórir Óskarsson, Íslensk stílfræði, vol. 1. (Reykjavík: Mál og Menning, 1994).

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Index Aðalsteinn (Æðalstan), king of England 98 Æþelræd unræd, king of England 127, 130, 132–4, 137 Agðanes, Norway 69–70, 201–2 Agði, Norse god 70, 75–6, 201–4 agency see under gender spheres Ágrip af Nóregskonunga sǫgum 98, 101–2 Albertus of Bremen, bishop 102 Alþingi 95, 155 Andvaranaut 57, 190–1 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 131 Ari Þorgilsson 91–2, 97, 115 Ásbjǫrn of Meðalhús 100 Ásgerðr Þorbjarnardóttir 16, 171–86, 189, 193–4, 209–13 Auðr Vésteinsdóttir 16, 171–86, 189, 193–4, 209–13 Auðunn vestfirzki (from the Westfjords, Iceland) 143 Austin, J. L. 9–12, 93–4, 126, 169 author 119, 129–32, 143–5, 152, 182–86, 194, 198, 203 audience and 25–6, 35, 39–40, 43, 49, 110–11, 201, 204, 208, 212, 215, 217 historical awareness 130–4 scribal intent 147, 206, 208, 212, 215, 217 Balljökull, Iceland 161–2 banter 20, 180

Bárðr of Uppland 107, 109–10, 114–15 Beowulf 47–8, 73–5, 89, 127–8, 214, 219, 222, 225 Bergþóra Skarphéðinsdóttir 189–93 Bergþórshvoll 190 Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa 85–9, 211 n. 32 Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi (champion of Hítardalr) Arngeirsson 85–8 Bjǫrn járnhauss (iron skull) 120–6, 134 blótmenn (heathen worshippers) 101–2 boasting 20, 58 Böðvar-Bjarki 120 Bolli Þorkelsson 16, 78–9, 147, 149–50, 153–4, 166, 168, 222 bóndi/bændr (farmer) 98 Brandr ǫrvi (the open-handed) Vermundarson 142–3 Brennu-Njáls saga 16, 19–21, 27–8, 32–5, 40–1, 43–4, 103, 150, 189–94, 222 brigzl (shame) 171, 182–3 Brynhildr Buðladóttir 53–62, 67, 85, 136, 173, 182–3 see also Prünhilt Brynjóðfr rósti (brawler) 192 Byrhtnoð 48 cancellability 37–9, 51–2 see also reinforceability Chomsky, Noam 9

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Index Christianization 17, 90, 110–14, 222–6 in Iceland 91–3, 95–7, 102–7 in Norway 97–102, 107–10 Christmas 123–4 Chronicle of Florence of Worcester 131 Chronicle of Henry Huntingdon 131 cold counsel 150, 185–7, 194 common ground  context as 11–16 four-tuple 175–80 manipulation of 27–8, 43–4 as shared information 24–5, 186–7 see also context; dynamic interpretation conflictive principle (ConP)  Beowulf and 74, 129 fading understanding of 200–7, 226 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu and 128–30, 206–7, 212 indirect aggression and 85–9 Kumlbúa þáttr and 83–5 Laxdœla saga and 78–83 Morkinskinna and 141–3 oral society and 89–90 Sneglu-Halla Þáttr and 75–7, 81, 200–3 theory of 15, 74–6, 222 variations on 159, 162, 165, 169 constative speech act 10 n. 33, 93 n. 5 context  close 221–2, 227 cultural 8–11, 13, 20–7, 31–2, 43, 49, 51, 81, 94, 111, 125, 127, 129, 133–4, 140, 153, 158, 160, 167, 173–4, 177–8, 181, 193, 202, 208, 215, 217, 222 global 26–7, 31, 39–40, 86, 143, 163, 224 implicature and 36, 39–401, 51–2, 86, 88, 125, 129, 140–1, 150–1, 154, 169, 181 literary 11, 13–14, 25–26, 49, 74, 121, 127, 144, 158, 173, 199–200 literary studies and 12–13 manipulation of 153–4, 166, 168–9

modal verbs and 41–3 pragmatics and 12, 14 religio-historical 49, 225 speech-situational 2, 10, 13, 21, 24, 27–8, 31–2, 35–6, 41–44, 47, 49, 56, 74, 81, 86, 94, 133–4, 140–2, 149, 151–5, 160, 166–70, 173–77, 180–6, 188–9, 193–4, 197, 201–5, 208, 213, 215 theory of 1–2, 11–16, 21–7, 197–8 conventional implicature see under implicature conversational implicature see under implicature conversion see Christianization conversion narratives  92 n. 4, 95–7, 111–14 conversional felicity conditions 115–16 see also felicity conditions cooperative principle 51, 75 corpus linguistics 14, 226–7 see also historical corpus pragmatics co-text 22–6, 86, 122, 125, 133, 163, 173, 183, 203 see also context danegeld 132–4 Das Nibelungenlied 45–6, 53, 62–67, 191, 193, 214 Derrida, Jacques 9, 12 n. 39 diachronic pragmatics 8, 72, 197 n. 1, 213, 224 diachrony 5, 168, 195, 197, 199, 214, 223, 224 direct discourse 5–6, 14, 92, 147–50, 202, 213, 216, 226–7 directness in speech 32, 46, 58, 59–62, 65, 67, 82, 86, 89, 157, 181, 184, 194–6, 213 see also embellished directness discourse referent 24, 175–7, 180–2 see also dynamic interpretation discursive context 22 discursive tactics 35, 43, 59, 69, 71, 194, 205–10, 213–15, 217, 224 divorce 175–9, 184, 211

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Index domain goal 24, 175–6, 180, 182 see also dynamic interpretation drápa 136–7 drengkapr 163–6 Droplaugarsona saga 193 Dublin, Ireland 127, 134 dynamic interpretation 25, 28, 173–8, 180, 188 see also common ground; discourse referent; domain goal; question under discussion dyngja 171–6, 180 Eddic poetry 2, 48, 225 Egils saga Skallagrímssonar 117–18, 129–30, 143–4, 222 Eindriði Einarsson 122 Eiríkr Hákonarson, earl 127–30, 206 Eldjárn of Húsavík 138–41 embellished directness 59–64, 67, 181 see also directness in speech executive condition(s) 94, 100 see also felicity conditions external context 13, 23–4 Eyrbyggja saga 103 face negative face 28–9 negative face goal 29 positive face 28–9 positive face goal 29 quality 31, 81 relational 29–31, 81, 126 social identity 29–31, 81, 126 self-worth and 27–33, 51, 64, 81, 89, 122, 125, 141, 156–7, 213 theory of 27–32 see also identity; self-worth; face-threatening act; face-enhancing act face-enhancing acts 29, 74, 77, 156 face-threatening act (FTA)  129, 159 conflictive principle and 71–9, 81–3, 122, 203, 207, 210 indirect aggression and 34, 49, 51, 59, 62–4, 68, 89, 190 proverbs and 150 theory of 28, 30–2 Fagrskinna 98, 101, 102

felicity conditions 91, 93–5, 97–102, 105–11, 114–16, 189, 191, 225 see also conversional felicity conditions; executive condition; preparatory condition; sincerity condition Fish, Stanley 10–11 Flosi Þórðarson 34–5, 150 flyting 15, 47–8, 50, 66, 68, 74, 214, 217, 222–3 see also mannjafnaðr; senna “Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedy” 47 fornaldarsögur 2, 53 four-tuple 175–6, 180 Foxerni, Sweden 139–40 Functional Discourse Grammar 23 Gásir, Iceland 70, 201–2 gender spheres 174–5, 180, 186, 189, 194 agency and 186–93 female sphere 174–6, 180, 186, 189 male sphere 174, 180, 189, 191 see also ideal gender sphere gendered discourse 152–3, 173, 188–91 generalized conversational implicatures see under implicature Giffarðr, Norman knight 138–41 gift-giving 76, 80, 82–3, 85, 102–5, 113, 135, 137, 142–3 Gísla saga Súrssonar 171–86, 189, 194, 198, 208–13, 215–16, 218 Gísli Súrsson 171–2, 176, 180, 182, 184–6, 194, 213 gørviligr/görviligr (accomplished/ dressed) 79, 82–3 Gospels 110–11 grammatical mood 20, 40–3, 55, 56–7, 118, 152, 173, 178, 187 see also interrogative mood; subjunctive mood Gramr, sword 180 Granmarr, king 170–1 Grásíða, sword/spear 180 Grettir Ásmundarson 155–8, 160–6 Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar 155–66 Grice, H. P. 9, 25, 35–9, 59, 149

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Index Gricean Maxims 59, 149 Grímhildr Aldriansdóttir, wife of Sigurðr 59–62 see also Guðrún Gjúkadóttir; Kriemhilt Grímhildr, wife of Gjúki 58 Guðrún Gjúkadóttir 53–9, 62, 67, 85, 136, 173, 180, 182–3, 190, 222 see also Grímhildr Aldriansdóttir; Kriemhilt Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir 147–50, 153–4, 166, 168–9, 222 Gunnarr Aldriansson, king of Burgundy 61–2 see also Gunther, king of Burgundy Gunnarr Hámundarson 19, 103, 189, 192, 194 Gunnlaugr ormstunga Illugason 126–37, 206–7 Gunnlaugs saga Ormstungu 126–38, 198, 206–8, 215, 218 Gunther, king of Burgundy 63–4 see also Gunnarr Aldriansson, king of Burgundy Habermas, Jürgen 185 Hákon (góði) Aðalsteinsfóstri 97–102, 115 Hákon Sigurðsson, earl 105, 129 Hákonar saga góða 98–102 “Hákonarmál” 97 Halldórr Óláfsson 150–1, 154 Halldórr Snorrason 143 Hallgerðr Hǫskuldsdóttir 190–3 Halli see Sneglu-Halli Hallmundr Brandsson 160–6, 169 Hallr Þorsteinsson 95 hapax legomena 147–8, 158, 168–9 Haraldr hárfagri Hálfdanarson, king of Norway 98, 117–18, 129–30, 222 Haraldr harðráði Sigurðarson, king of Norway 69–72, 74–8, 82–3, 89, 142–3, 201–2, 222 Hárbarðsljóð 48–9, 225 heathenism, Norse 78–80, 82, 84, 85, 91, 95–6, 98–107, 110–11, 114 see also Christianization, blótmenn heiti 62–2, 161–2 see also kennings

Helga Þorsteinsdóttir 135 Helgi Njálsson 191 Historia Norwegiæ 98 historical corpus pragmatics 14, 226–7 historical pragmatics 7–14, 37, 46–9, 92, 97, 195, 197 n. 1, 199, 226 Hitra, Norway 70 Hjalprek, king 54, 56 Hlaðir, Norway 98–9, 105, 126–6 Höðbroddr 70–1 hólmganga 21 hólmgǫngulǫg 21 Hólmkell Alfarinsson 186–8 honor 45, 60, 65, 71, 110–13, 123–4, 135, 137, 142, 152, 163–6, 181–4, 190, 210–12 see also shame Hǫskuldr Kollsson 151–3 Hrafn Önundarson 135–7 Hreiðarr heimski Þorgrímsson 141 Hrólfs saga Kraka 120 Hrómundar saga Greipssonar 216 Húsavík, Iceland 138 hyggja (think) 54–6, 87, 136, 227 see also modal markers ideal gender sphere 186, 194 ideal speech situation 185–6, 194 identity 81–3, 154, 156, 162, 164, 202 face and 29–31, 122, 126, 157 feminized identity 186 Icelandic cultural 48, 83, 120, 137, 143–4, 224 self-worth and 29–31, 122, 157 see also face illocution 82, 86, 129, 134, 136, 145, 150, 154, 166, 212, 221, 227 implicature and 35, 37–8 indirectness and 40, 43 theory of 21, 26, 31–5 see also locution; perlocution illocutionary goal 108, 151–4, 159, 166–9, 202–3, 212 indirect aggression and 50–1, 55–6, 60–61, 74, 89 social goals and 149, 191–3, 207 theory of 33–4, 40

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Index see also social goals implicature  conventional implicature 36, 86 conversational implicature 36–9, 50–1, 86 examples of 38, 82, 86–8, 125–6, 129, 134, 140–1, 149–51, 156, 159, 164, 178, 181, 188 generalized conversational implicatures 36 indirect aggression and 50–2, 60–3, 65, 67 particularized conversational implicatures 36 poetry and 154–6, 164 primary prospective implicature 61–3 proverbs and 88, 149–51, 154, 169, 188 secondary supporting implicature 61–3 theory of 35–40, 154, 206, 213, 221 see also illocution; indirectness in speech; under-determinacy; tvíræði impoliteness 28–30, 33, 41, 43, 46–7, 51, 118, 188 indeterminacy 41, 51 see also under-determinacy indirect aggression  Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa and 85–8 conflictive principle and 77, 83, 88–9, 226 Egils saga and 117–18, 130 Gísla saga and 181–4, 194, 198, 208–13 Gunnlaugs saga and 130, 136 Laxdœla saga and 153, 169 Nibelungenlied and 62–6 theory of 47–52, 67–8, 74 Völsunga saga and 53–9, 70–1 Þiðreks saga and 59–62 indirectness in speech 126, 130, 132–3, 137, 140, 151–4, 156–7, 187–8, 191, 194–5, 222, 227 change in usage of 197, 210, 212–13

indirect aggression and 46, 50, 53, 55, 59, 62, 67–8, 86, 118–19, 181–4 theory of 2 n. 2, 9, 21, 32–3, 41–3 see also implicature; illocution, levels of indirectness, under-determinacy interrogative mood 20, 40–2, 60, 86, 150–1 see also grammatical mood; subjunctive mood Íslendingabók 91–3, 95–6, 103, 107, 115 Íslendingasögur 2–7, 19, 126, 157 see also names of individual sagas jafnsnjallr (equal) 120, 125 Jesus Christ 110–12 Jómsvíkinga saga 165 Jórunn Bjarnardóttir 151–3, 169 Kárr of Grýting 98–9 kennings 85, 148, 154, 156–8, 161–8 see also heiti Ketilríðr Hólmkelsdóttir 186–9, 193 Kjartan Óláfsson 78–83, 85, 89, 137, 147–8, 150–1, 154 Kjölr, Iceland 163–4 Kolr Egilsson 19–21, 27–8, 31–4, 40, 43–4, 150, 192, 222 Kolskeggr Hámundarson 19–21, 27–8, 31–5, 40–1, 43, 150, 222 konungasögur 2, 6 see also names of individual sagas Kormáks saga 21 Kriemhilt, wife of Sîfrit 45–6, 62–6 see also Guðrún Gjúkadóttir; Grímhildr Aldriansdóttir Kristni saga 91 n. 2, 102–5, 114, 116 Króka-Refr (Refr the Sly) Steinsson 158–60, 166, 169 Króka-Refs saga 158–60, 166, 168–9, 214–15 Kumlbúa þáttr 83–5, 90, 143 Lachman, Karl 198 landnámsmenn (settlers of Iceland) 143–4

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Index law speaker 91, 95 Laxdœla saga 78–83, 85, 90, 138, 147–53, 168–9, 222 Leech, Geoffrey 9, 28–9, 31, 33, 38, 42, 51 levels of indirectness 40–3, 65, 71, 118, 152–3, 156, 187, 213 linguistic context see co-text literacy 17, 89–90, 166–7, 219, 225–6 literalization 17, 224, 226 see also orality literary analysis, theory of 1–2, 4–14, 21, 23, 25, 39, 44, 197 n. 1 literary context see under context literary pragmatics 25–6 see also historical pragmatics locution 32–5, 37–8, 150, 154, 169, 227 see also illocution; perlocution Loftr Brandsson see Hallmundr Brandsson Lokasenna 6 n. 20, 57 Loki 57 London, England 126, 130–2 Magnús berfœttr (bare-leg) Óláfsson, king of Norway 138 Magnús góði (the good) Óláfsson, king of Norway 122, 141 mannjafnaðr 15, 29–30, 47–50, 66, 68, 120, 193, 214, 217, 222–4 see also senna; flyting

manuscripts

AM 66 fol. (Hulda) 204–7, 218 AM 132 fol. (Möðruvallabók) 120 n. 8, 147–8, 168 AM 149 fol. 209–13, 218 AM 426 fol. 205–7, 218 AM 552 l, 4to 207, 218 AM 556a 4to 209–13, 218 AM 557 4to 207, 218 AM 563a 4to 204, 218 AM 593b 4to 204, 208, 215, 218 AM 931 4to 207, 218 GKS 1005 fol. (Flateyjarbók) 69–72, 108–9, 115, 200–8, 215, 218 GKS 1009 fol. (Morkinskinna) 69 n. 1, 200, 218 see also Morkinskinna

Holm Perg 18 4to 207, 218 ÍB 45 4to 205–7, 218 ÍB 225 4to 148 NKS 1181 fol. 209–13 manuscript variation 4–5, 69 n. 1, 149, 168–9, 199–200, 214–16 markers of indirectness 43 markers of politeness 117–18 material philology 4–5, 7, 198–200 matrix verb 41–2 Middle Dutch romance 48 mocking 20, 57–8, 74, 88, 118, 123–5, 140, 162 modal markers 40–3, 227, 136, 150, 227 adjectives 41 adverbs 41, 43 epistemic 40–3, 54–6, 71, 87, 117–18, 152–3, 155–6, 227 verbs 40–3, 56, 60 n. 52, 63, 71, 153, 181, 187 see also hyggja Monty Python and the Holy Grail 20 n. 3 Morkinskinna 69, 72, 122, 138–44, 200–8, 215 Mostr, Norway 104, 106 nation making 17, 143–5, 222 negative face see under face negative face goal  see under face negative politeness 42 neo-Gricean pragmatics 135 new philology see material philology New Year 123–4 níð 85, 224 óðalborna (óðal-born) 99–100 Oddný Þorkelsdóttir 85–8, 211 n. 32 Oddr Ófeigsson 143 Óðinn 98 Óláfr Eiríksson, king of Sweden 135 Óláfr Haraldsson, king of Norway 157 Óláfr Tryggvason, king of Norway 79, 81–3, 89, 103–9, 114–16 Óláfs Saga Tryggvasonar en Mesta 105–7, 115, 225

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Index orality 17, 89–90, 153–4, 166–8, 225–6 oral saga tradition 3–5, 20, 53, 66, 223 re-oralization 216–19 see also literacy orðhákr (word-shark) 71, 202 Orkney Islands 70 n. 4, 127, 131, 135 Otkell Skarfsson 103 paganism see heathenism parody 49, 159–60, 168–9, 214–15 paroemial cognitive patterning 167 see also proverbs particularized conversational implicatures see under implicature Paul, apostle 111–12 performative 9, 12 n. 39, 13, 40, 93 n. 5, 101 perlocution 21, 26, 32–8, 149, 154, 159 see also locution; illocution pharisees 111 poetic inversion 140–1 politeness 67, 117–18, 121, 123, 130, 141, 152–3, 164, 188, 190 principle of 59, 164 theory of 9, 28–9, 35, 41–2, 51, 56 see also impoliteness positive face see under face positive face goal see under face post-classical saga age 3, 148, 158–60, 214 n. 44, 215 post-structuralism 9, 26, 12 n. 39 pragmaphilology 8, 197 pragmatics of gender 171–3, 181, 194–5 literary analysis and 9–17 orality and 166–9 poetry and 154–5 proximity of 221–7 semantics and 22–3 theory of 1–2, 28, 35, 37, 46, 49, 52, 89, 93–5, 97, 110, 118–19, 143–4, 197, 214–17 see also historical corpus pragmatics; historical pragmatics; literary pragmatics; pragmaphilology preparatory conditions 94, 100, 108–9, 114

see also felicity conditions primary prospective implicature see under implicature proverbs 147–8, 150, 152–3, 155 pragmatics of 149–54 see also paroemial cognitive patterning Prünhilt, queen of Iceland 45–6, 63–6 see also Brynhildr Buðladóttir quality face see under face question under discussion 24, 175–7, 180, 182 see also dynamic interpretation ráð/ráða (counsel/to counsel) 61, 91–2, 117, 184–8, 190, 193, 201–2, 205, 211 ráðligr (advisable) 152 Rannveig Sigfússdóttir 192, 194 re-oralization see under orality reinforceability 51–2, 62, 65, 87, 136, 151, 160, 162, 164, 166, 182–3, 212–13 see also cancellability relational face see under face Relevance Theory 23–5, 35 religio-historic context see under context Rhine, river 53–4 riddarasögur 2, 6 see also Þiðreks saga af Bern riddles 142, 158–9, 167–9 rímur 216 saga writer see author sarcasm 2, 20, 38, 57 Saussure, Ferdinand de 9, 224 Saxo Grammaticus 131, 138 scribal intent see under author Scyldings 48, 73–4, 127–9 Searle, John 2 n. 2, 9–11, 46, 93–4 secondary supporting implicature see under implicature self-worth 44, 64, 104, 169, 212–13, 222, 225 Christian culture and 110–11 conflictive principle and 76–7, 81, 84, 85, 89, 128, 165, 219

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Index self-worth (continued) contests of 189, 191, 194, 210 drengskapr and 165–6 Face Threatening Acts and 30–2 Icelanders abroad and 119, 121–5, 128, 141–4 indirect aggression and 51, 60, 89, 124–5 poetry and 154–7, 160, 167 theory of 27–32, 110 see also face; identity semantic meaning 13, 42, 66–7, 68, 223 context 121–2, 125, 163, 183 fields 48, 104 n. 33 pragmatics and 22 value 36, 205, 227 see also co-text; locution senna 47–50, 66–8, 214, 217, 222–4 see also flyting; mannjafnaðr settlement of Iceland 3, 106 shame 32, 61, 77, 110–13, 172, 176–7, 181–3, 202 see also honor Síðu-Hallr Þorsteinsson see Hallr Þorsteinsson Sîfrit, prince of Netherland 62–66 see also Sigurðr Sigmundarson Sigtryggr (silkiskegg) Óláfsson, king of Ireland 131, 134–5 Sigurðr Hákonarson, Earl of Hlaðir 99 Sigurðr Sigmundarson (Fáfnisbani) 46, 56–8, 60–62, 173, 183, 190 see also Sîfrit sincerity condition 93–4, 100–2 see also felicity conditions Sinfjötli Sigmundarson 70–1 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight  123–6 situational verse 155–6, 168–9 skaldic poetry 2, 148, 154, 156–7, 161, 166, 168–9, 222, 235 Skáldskaparmál 45 Skalla-Grímr Kveldúlfsson 117–18, 129–30, 143–4, 222 Skálp-Grani (sheath-Grani), hirðmaðr 158

Skarar, Sweden 127, 135 Skarphéðinn Njálsson 191–3 Sneglu-Halla þáttr (The Tale of SarcasticHalli) 69–78, 81, 83, 85, 118, 138, 189, 198, 200–8, 212, 215, 218 Snorri goði Þorgrímsson 35 Snorri Sturluson 98–9, 101, 105, 120, 163 social currency 59, 88, 103, 110, 125, 189, 191–4, 210 social goal 33–4, 74, 149, 166–7, 191, 207 see also illocutionary goal social identity face see under face social status 4, 169, 173, 210, 222 Christianity and 93, 99, 103–5, 113 conflictive principle and 71–81, 88–9, 128 gender and 169, 174, 181–2, 190, 193 Icelanders abroad and 119, 122–5, 144 indirect aggression and 45, 53, 56, 62, 64–8, 88–9, 151 paganism and 113 orality and 89–90 see also face; identity; self-worth social structure 62, 64, 66, 106, 115, 169 SPEAKING, pneumonic 24 speech act theory 9–10, 12 n. 39, 93–4, 96 speech-situational context see under context St. Brice’s Day massacre 130–4 Starkaðr Barkarson 19 stórlyndr (proud disposition) 142 Stúfr blindi (the blind) Þórðarson 142 subjunctive mood 41–3, 54–7, 60 n. 52, 152, 184, 187–8, 227 see also grammatical mood; interrogative mood Sveinn tjúguskegg (forkbeard) Haraldsson, king of Denmark 127, 131–2 Sveinn Úlfsson, king of Denmark 143 syntax 11, 55, 86, 134, 136, 154, 224 see also co-text

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Index taunting 20, 57, 59, 120, 125 Theodoricus monachus (Þórir munkur) 131 Trondheim, Norway 69 Trøndelag, Norway 98 truth-conditional statement 32, 34 see also felicity conditions Tunga, Iceland 150 tvíræði (double-meaning) 76–7, 118, 129, 140–1, 157, 206 tvíræðisorð (“double-meaning verse”) 76–7 under-determinacy 40–42, 55, 63, 71, 136–7, 150, 156, 187 Unferð 48, 127–9, 206–7 Uppsala, Sweden 127, 135 Valhǫll 98 Vatnsdalr, Iceland 155 vetrnætr (Winter Nights) 120, 123 Víga-Glúmr Eyjólfsson 120–2, 124–6, 134, 137, 194 Víga-Glúms saga 120–6, 143, 194 Vigfúss Sigurðarson, hersir 120, 122–5, 134 Víglundar saga 186–90, 193 Víglundr Þorgrímsson 186–9 Völsunga saga 45, 53–60, 62, 66–7, 70–2, 136, 181–3, 191, 193

Þangbrandr Vilbaldússon 102–8, 113–16, 225 Þiðreks saga af Bern 45, 53, 59–63, 65–7, 190–1 Þóra Þorbergsdóttur, queen 76–7 Þorarinn stuttfeldr (short-cloak), skald 143 Þórðr Kolbeinsson, skáld 86–8 Þórðr Sigtryggsson 192 Þórðr Þorgrímsson 141 Þorgeirr Þorkelsson 91–3, 95, 114–15 Þorgerðr Egilsdóttir 150–1, 154, 169 Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson 171–3, 176, 182 Þórgunna, from the Hebrides 103 Þórhalla Ásgrímsdóttir 190–1 Þórir, hirðmaðr 127–9, 207 Þorkell krafla (scratcher)  155–6, 159–60, 162 Þorkell Súrsson 171–84, 186, 194, 209–13 Þórólfr Kveldúlfsson 117–18 Þórormr, Viking 132–4 Þórr 57, 99 Þorsteinn Hallsson 122 Þorsteinn Þorvarðsson 83–5, 142 Þorvaldr tasaldi 107–9, 114–15 Þorvarðr krákunef (crow-nose) 143 Þrándheimr, Norway see Trøndelag Þuríðr Eyvindardóttir 103

William of Jumièges 131 William of Malmesbury 131

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Studies in Old Norse Literature 1 EMOTION IN OLD NORSE LITERATURE Translations, Voices, Contexts Sif Rikhardsdottir 2 THE SAINT AND THE SAGA HERO Hagiography and Early Icelandic Literature Siân E. Grønlie 3 DAMNATION AND SALVATION IN OLD NORSE LITERATURE Haki Antonsson 4 MASCULINITIES IN OLD NORSE LITERATURE Edited by Gareth Lloyd Evans and Jessica Clare Hancock 5 A CRITICAL COMPANION TO OLD NORSE LITERARY GENRE Edited by Massimiliano Bampi, Carolyne Larrington and Sif Rikhardsdottir 6 THE MAPPAE MUNDI OF MEDIEVAL ICELAND Dale Kedwards 7 FRENCH ROMANCE, MEDIEVAL SWEDEN AND THE EUROPEANISATION OF CULTURE Sofia Lodén

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