Old English Medievalism: Reception and Recreation in the 20th and 21st Centuries 9781843846505, 9781800108066, 9781800108073

Citation preview

Volume XXI

Old English Medievalism

ISSN 2043-8230 Series Editors Karl Fugelso Chris Jones Medievalism aims to provide a forum for monographs and collections devoted to the burgeoning and highly dynamic multi-disciplinary field of medievalism studies: that is, work investigating the influence and appearance of `the medieval’ in the society and culture of later ages. Titles within the series investigate the post-medieval construction and manifestations of the Middle Ages – attitudes towards, and uses and meanings of, ‘the medieval’ – in all fields of culture, from politics and international relations, literature, history, architecture, and ceremonial ritual to film and the visual arts. It welcomes a wide range of topics, from historiographical subjects to revivalism, with the emphasis always firmly on what the idea of ‘the medieval’ has variously meant and continues to mean; it is founded on the belief that scholars interested in the Middle Ages can and should communicate their research both beyond and within the academic community of medievalists, and on the continuing relevance and presence of ‘the medieval’ in the contemporary world. New proposals are welcomed. They may be sent directly to the editors or the publishers at the addresses given below. Professor Karl Fugelso Art Department Towson University 3103 Center for the Arts 8000 York Road Towson, MD 21252-0001 USA [email protected]

Professor Chris Jones School of English University of St Andrews St Andrews Fife KY16 9AL UK [email protected]

Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9 Woodbridge Suffolk IP12 3DF UK

Previous volumes in this series are printed at the back of this book

Old English Medievalism Reception and Recreation in the 20th and 21st Centuries

Edited by

Rachel A. Fletcher, Thijs Porck and Oliver M. Traxel

D. S. BREWER

© Contributors 2022 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 First published 2022 D. S. Brewer, Cambridge ISBN 978 1 84384 650 5 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 80010 806 6 (ePDF) 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 CIP 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 image: The original Sutton Hoo lyre, visually merged with its replica © Trustees of The British Museum.

Contents List of Illustrations List of Contributors Acknowledgements List of Abbreviations

vii ix xiii xv

Early Medieval English in the Modern Age: An Introduction to Old English Medievalism Rachel A. Fletcher, Thijs Porck and Oliver M. Traxel

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I  Reinventing, Reimagining and Recontextualizing Old English Poetry 1 2 3 4

Old English as a Playground for Poets? W. H. Auden, Christopher Patton and Jeramy Dodds M. J. Toswell

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‘Abroad in One’s Own Tradition’: Old English Poetry and Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows (1908) 37 Victoria Condie Wulf and Eadwacer in 1830 New Zealand: Anglo-Saxonism and Postcolonialism in Hamish Clayton’s Wulf (2011) 53 Martina Marzullo Old English Poetry and Sutton Hoo on Display: Creating ‘the AngloSaxon’ in Museums Fran Allfrey

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II  Invoking Early Medieval England and Its Language in Historical Fiction 5

Creating a ‘Shadow Tongue’: The Merging of Two Language Stages Oliver M. Traxel

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Contents

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At the Threshold of the Inarticulate: The Reception of ‘Made-up’ English in Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake (2014) 115 Judy Kendall

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Reimagining Early Medieval Britain: The Language of Spirituality Karen Louise Jolly

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Historical Friction: Constructing Pastness in Fiction Set in EleventhCentury England James Aitcheson



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III  Translating and Composing in Neo-Old English 9

Ge wordful, ge wordig: Translating Modern Texts into Old English Fritz Kemmler

10 Fruit, Fat and Fermentation: Food and Drink in Peter Baker’s (Neo-) Old English Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Denis Ferhatović 11 The Fall of the King and the Composition of Neo-Old English Verse Rafael J. Pascual

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191

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IV  Approaching Old English and Neo-Old English in the Classroom 12 Mitchell & Robinson’s Medievalism: Echoes of Empire in the History of Old English Pedagogy 225 Joana Blanquer, Donna Beth Ellard, Emma Hitchcock and Erin E. Sweany 13 The Magic of Telecinematic Neo-Old English in University Teaching Gabriele Knappe

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Bibliography Index

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Illustrations Fig. 1

Specimen page of Heinrich Hoffmann, Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan. Myrge mæþelword ge lustbære licnessa, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010), p. 10. © Edition Tintenfass, used with permission

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The editors, contributors and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons listed for permission to reproduce the materials in which they hold copyright. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; apologies are offered for any omission, and the publisher will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

Contributors James Aitcheson is the author of four historical novels set during the Norman Conquest of England which have been published in the UK, the US, Germany and the Czech Republic. His most recent title is The Harrowing (Heron, 2016). He holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Nottingham. Fran Allfrey is Lecturer in English Literature at the University of Reading and a museum education facilitator. She holds a Ph.D. from King’s College London. She has published on ‘affective Anglo-Saxonism’ and researches how early medieval textual and material remains become enmeshed with contemporary politics in arts and heritage practices. Joana Blanquer is currently a Special Community Member at the University of Denver and holds a Ph.D. in English from Trinity College Dublin. She has published on Beowulf, the science of the calendar and Old English lexicography. Victoria Condie is a Bye-Fellow of Fitzwilliam College, University of Cambridge. She works on medievalism in the nineteenth century and is currently engaged in a study of the afterlives of medieval manuscripts in New Zealand. Donna Beth Ellard is an Associate Professor in the Department of English and Literary Arts at the University of Denver. She writes about Old English in relation to its disciplinary history, postcolonialism and critical animal studies. Denis Ferhatović is Associate Professor of English at Connecticut College (New London, CT, USA). He has published on Old English poetry, its translations and adaptations, as well as on fabliaux and queer aliens. His book Borrowed Objects and the Art of Poetry came out in 2019 with Manchester University Press. Rachel A. Fletcher holds a Ph.D. in English Language and Linguistics from the University of Glasgow. She has published on the history of Old English lexicography, Old English scholarship in the Early Modern period, and J. R. R. Tolkien’s work on the Oxford English Dictionary. Emma Hitchcock is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. Her approach to early medieval English literature is grounded in genre studies, religious and intellectual history, and critical Indigenous studies.

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Contributors

Karen Louise Jolly is Professor of Medieval European History at the University of Hawai‘i, where she has taught for more than 30 years since receiving her Ph.D. from the University of California at Santa Barbara in 1987. Her first book was Popular Religion in Late Saxon England (The University of North Carolina Press, 1996), and her most recent book is The Community of St. Cuthbert in the Late Tenth Century: The Chester-le-Street Additions to Durham Cathedral Library A.IV.19 (The Ohio State University Press, 2012). She is currently working on a historical fiction biography of Aldred the scribe exploring life in tenth-century Northumbria. Fritz Kemmler holds a Dr.phil. from the University of Tübingen. His publications include several editions of a course book on English Medieval Studies, a study of Robert Mannyng’s Handlyng Synne, and a prose translation of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales into modern German. Judy Kendall is Reader in English and Creative Writing at the University of Salford. Her publications as an award-winning creative writer, critic and translator include the subjects of visual text, poetic processes and Old English riddle translation. Her third monograph, Where Language Thickens: Meaning and Effects at the Threshold of the Inarticulate in Translated and Original Literary Work, is due out with Edinburgh University Press in 2023. Gabriele Knappe is Extraordinary Professor (außerplanmäßige Professorin) of English Linguistics and Medieval Studies at the University of Bamberg, Germany. In her Ph.D. dissertation (published 1996) she explored traditions of classical rhetoric in Anglo-Saxon England. She has continued publishing on Anglo-Saxon England but also developed further research interests in the history of linguistic thought and historical phraseology. Martina Marzullo is a Ph.D. Candidate in English Studies at Heidelberg University and also a member of the Heidelberg Graduate School for the Humanities and Social Sciences (HGGS). Her current research explores the correlation between early medieval England and contemporary writers. This is her first publication. Rafael J. Pascual is a Stipendiary Lecturer in English at New College, Oxford. Previously, he held a Departmental Lectureship in English Language and Literature at the Oxford Faculty of English as well as postdoctoral research positions at CLASP: A Consolidated Library of Anglo-Saxon Poetry (an ERC-funded project based at the Oxford Faculty of English) and at Harvard University. He specialises in medieval English language and literature, with a focus on Old English poetry. Thijs Porck is University Lecturer in Medieval English at Leiden University. He has published on Old English textual criticism, Beowulf, old age, medievalism, and J. R. R. Tolkien. Recent books include Old Age in Early Medieval England: A Cultural History (Boydell Press, 2019) and Early Medieval English Life Courses: Cultural-Historical Perspectives (co-edited with Harriet Soper; Brill, 2022). Erin E. Sweany is currently a part-time Instructor in the English Department at Western Michigan University and holds a Ph.D. from Indiana University Bloomington. She researches representations of health and medicine in Old and Middle English, as well as modern academic approaches to medieval medical texts.

Contributors

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M. J. Toswell teaches Old English, medieval studies and medievalism at the University of Western Ontario in Canada. Recent publications include the edited collection A Pandemonium of Medieval Borges in Old English Newsletter (2021) and a collection of essays on medieval syntax in honour of Michiko Ogura co-edited with Taro Ishiguro (Peter Lang, 2022). Oliver M. Traxel is Professor of English Language and Linguistics at the University of Stavanger. He has a Ph.D. in Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic from the University of Cambridge and habilitated in English Philology at the University of Münster. He has published widely on the representation of past language stages in the modern world.

Acknowledgements This volume has its origins in a series of sessions at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds (2019, 2020). We wish to thank our contributors for developing their chapters in the midst of a global pandemic. We would also like to thank the anonymous reader for Boydell & Brewer for their insightful and helpful comments on the volume. Caroline Palmer and Elizabeth McDonald at Boydell have supported this project and we are very grateful for their patience and advice. We also owe a debt of gratitude to Chris Jones, co-editor of the Medievalism series. We are furthermore grateful for support and assistance from the University of Glasgow, the Leiden University Centre for the Arts in Society and the Department of Cultural Studies and Languages at the University of Stavanger. We are greatly indebted to colleagues who have generously given their time to advise us and to read and respond to chapters, and we would especially like to thank Jonathan Lench and Amos van Baalen for their comments, as well as Fran Allfrey for her helpful suggestions for our introductory chapter. We also owe thanks to student-assistant Juliane Witte for her editorial assistance. Of course, any remaining errors are very much our own.

Abbreviations AND Anglo-Norman Dictionary ASPR Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records Bosworth-Toller Crist, Sean and Ondřej Tichy (eds), Bosworth Toller’s Anglo-Saxon Dictionary Online, based on a digital edition of Joseph Bosworth and T. Northcote Toller (eds), An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, Based on the Manuscript Collections of the Late Joseph Bosworth (1898) and Supplement (1921) (Prague, 2019) DOE Cameron, Angus, Ashley Crandell Amos, Antonette diPaolo Healey et al. (eds), The Dictionary of Old English: A–I (Toronto, 2018) DOML Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library DSL Dictionaries of the Scots Language < https://dsl.ac.uk/> EETS Early English Text Society MED Lewis, Robert E., et al. (eds), Middle English Dictionary (Ann Arbor, 1952–2001). Online edition in Frances McSparran et al. (eds), Middle English Compendium (Ann Arbor, 2000–18) NS New Series OED Oxford English Dictionary Online (Oxford, 2000–) OEN Old English Newsletter ONP Dictionary of Old Norse Prose OS Original Series

Early Medieval English in the Modern Age: An Introduction to Old English Medievalism Rachel A. Fletcher, Thijs Porck and Oliver M. Traxel

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LD ENGLISH IS alive! While the last native speaker of Old English may have died over 900 years ago, the language of early medieval England seems more popular than ever. In recent decades, modern poets, authors of historical fiction and production teams of TV series, movies and video games have drawn on the language and literature of early medieval England for inspiration. The presence of early medieval English in the modern age is hard to miss: Seamus Heaney’s 1999 Beowulf translation was a world-wide best seller and Paul Kingsnorth’s Man Booker Prize-longlisted novel The Wake (2014) was completely written in ‘pseudo-Old English’, while immensely popular media set in Viking Age England, such as the TV series Vikings (2013–20) and the video game Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla (2020), feature dialogue in Old English.1 These more recent revivals of Old English are part of a long trend that goes as far back as the Middle Ages;2 Old English language and literature have long been a source of artistic inspiration and fascination, providing scholars and artists with the opportunity not only to explore the past but, in doing so, to find new perspectives on the present. This volume explores how Old English has been transplanted and recreated in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries by translators, novelists, poets and educators. As the individual chapters demonstrate, these Old English afterlives take on various forms, ranging from the evocation of elements of Old English language or See, for example, Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Old English in the Modern World: Its Didactic Value’, OEN 46:3 (2016), [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]; Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28. 2 See, for example, Fred C. Robinson, ‘The Afterlife of Old English: A Brief History of Composition in Old English after the Close of the Anglo-Saxon Period’, in The Tomb of Beowulf and Other Essays on Old English (Oxford, 1993), pp. 275–303; Chris Jones, ‘Old English after 1066’, in Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2013), pp. 313–30. 1

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style in the context of a modern literary work to the adaptation and recontextualisation of works of Old English literature, the depiction of Old English-speaking worlds and world views in historical fiction, and even linguistic recreation through the composition of neo-Old English (whether translating an existing text into Old English or creating an original work). The contributors to this collection investigate a myriad of literary, political and ideological uses of Old English in the modern world, as well as addressing concerns about the linguistic and cultural authenticity of these various modes of recreation. For several of them, these concerns are not only theoretical but personal, as the volume includes contributions from practicing writers and translators. The insights into their creative process are brought into dialogue with readings of established figures of literary medievalism such as W. H. Auden and J. R. R. Tolkien, as well as with the afterlives of Old English in other media and contexts, including television, film and museum communication, as well as the classroom contexts in which Old English and neo-Old English are often first encountered. The modern reception of Old English literature and early medieval England is the subject of a growing body of scholarship, which has thus far focused primarily on literary revivals as well as the ideologies underpinning the reuse of early medieval English material. Two monographs by Chris Jones, in particular, have advanced our understanding of Old English literary resonances in, respectively, nineteenthand twentieth-century English poetry, demonstrating how such authors as William Morris and W. H. Auden interacted with Old English poems.3 As Jones shows, alongside the contributors to John D. Niles and Allen J. Frantzen’s Anglo-Saxonism and the Construction of Social Identity (1997) and Donald G. Scragg and Carole Weinberg’s Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century (2000), reviving elements of Old English literature was a means of political, cultural and ideological (self-)expression for scholars and poets alike.4 Reviewing more recent primary material and also including film and visual arts, the volume Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (2007) edited by David Clark and Nicholas Perkins highlights how engagement with the literature and art of early medieval England still remains an important creative impetus for modern-day artists.5 Not every revival of early medieval English is worthy of celebration, however: Old English language and culture have long had an appeal to far-right extremists.6 Scholarly controversy at the end of the 2010s over the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ has contributed to a growing interest in this unfortunate misappropriation of Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006); Chris Jones, Fossil Poetry: Anglo-Saxon and Linguistic Nativism in NineteenthCentury Poetry (Oxford, 2019). 4 John D. Niles and Allen J. Frantzen (eds), Anglo-Saxonism and the Construction of Social Identity (Gainesville, 1997); Donald G. Scragg and Carole Weinberg (eds), Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2000). 5 David Clark and Nicholas Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2007). 6 See, for example, the discussion in Jones, Fossil Poetry, pp. 8–12, 273–4. 3

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early medieval English history, literature and language by modern ethno-nationalist movements, as well as in acknowledging the inherited prejudices that may be encoded even in superficially apolitical uses of Old English.7 The study of Old English has always been used to support the political and ideological agendas of those who worked on it,8 from Matthew Parker’s religious polemic in the sixteenth century9 to the founders of what has been termed the ‘Englisc nationalist movement’ in twenty-first century Britain;10 the discipline of Old English studies has never been ideologically neutral. Bearing this in mind, we must be especially vigilant for the ways, both overt and covert, in which Old English medievalism might be used to further contemporary political and ideological ends. Fortunately, the reuse and adaptation of Old English material is by no means limited to right-wing extremists. In his Antiracist Medievalisms, Jonathan Hsy has called attention to reinventions of Old English poetry by contemporary poets of colour including Carter Revard, Yusef Komunyakaa and Timothy Yu, whose repurposing of early medieval English poetic forms challenges those audiences who see Old English poetry as an exclusively white cultural heritage.11 An awareness of both the more sinister aspect of Old English medievalism and the various ways that this 7 See, for example, Mary Dockray-Miller, ‘Old English Has a Serious Image Problem’, JSTOR Daily, 3 May 2017 [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]; Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘Misnaming the Medieval: Rejecting “AngloSaxon” Studies’, History Workshop, 4 Nov. 2019 [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. Because of its unfortunate associations with racism and white supremacy, some scholars have decided to avoid the use of the term ‘Anglo-Saxon(ist)’; others, particularly in sub-fields such as archaeology and public outreach, have argued in favour of retaining the use of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ on grounds of technical precision and popular recognition, or to prevent white supremacists from ‘taking over’ the term for their own ends. These latter views are represented in the essay by John Hines et al., ‘The responsible use of the term “Anglo-Saxon”’ published on (last update 3 Jan. 2020) and Howard Williams, ‘The Fight for “Anglo-Saxon”’, Aeon, 29 May 2020 [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. On the terminology discussion, see also Elise Louviot, ‘Divided by a Common Language: Controversy over the Use of the Word “Anglo-Saxon”’, Études Médiévales Anglaises 95 (2019), 107–47, In light of these discussions, we have chosen in editing this volume to allow individual contributors to use whichever terminology they feel is most appropriate to their work. 8 See, for example, John D. Niles, The Idea of Anglo-Saxon England 1066–1901: Remembering, Forgetting, Deciphering and Renewing the Past (Chichester, 2015); Donna Beth Ellard, Anglo-Saxon(ist) Pasts, Postsaxon Futures (New York, 2019); Catherine E. Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England: Utopia, Heterotopia, Dystopia (Woodbridge, 2020). 9 R. I. Page, Matthew Parker and his Books (Kalamazoo, 1993); Aaron Kleist, ‘Matthew Parker, Old English, and the Defense of Priestly Marriage’, in Thomas N. Hall and Donald G. Scragg (eds), Anglo-Saxon Books and Their Readers: Essays in Celebration of Helmut Gneuss’s ‘Handlist of Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts’ (Kalamazoo, 2008), pp. 106–33. 10 On this movement and its ideological underpinnings, see the trilogy of blog posts published here: [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. As the archaic orthography of the ‘Englisc’ descriptor implies, members of this movement often use (aspects of) the Old English language as a vehicle for their extremist ideas. 11 Jonathan Hsy, Antiracist Medievalisms: From ‘Yellow Peril’ to Black Lives Matter (Leeds, 2021), pp. 99–107.

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might be resisted informs the approaches taken by many of the contributors to this volume, though they vary widely in how they choose to engage with it. Some address the legacy of problematic engagements with Old English, while others choose to focus on how modern re-creations and recontextualisations might be used as a tool to challenge fixed and narrow perceptions of Old English and to build a more outward-looking and inclusive field. Amid this intense scrutiny of modern reactions to and applications of ‘AngloSaxon’ culture in a general sense, relatively little critical attention has been paid to the language that acts as the vehicle of these themes and ideas. The present volume works to redress the balance by focusing on specifically ‘Old English’ medievalisms – responses not simply to the abstract idea of early medieval England, or to its material culture, but to the distinctive language and literary style of its surviving textual witnesses. As many of these essays demonstrate, such linguistic and stylistic responses cannot be considered in isolation from the concerns of medievalism as a whole; familiar themes and issues, from authenticity to extremist misappropriation, recur throughout the volume. However, they also demonstrate the potential of this more focused approach to shed new light on old topics, and perhaps even to identify an Old English medievalism that is distinct from more cultural–historical Anglo-Saxonism. From stylistic echoes to more elaborate linguistic revivals of Old English in the form of pseudo- and neo-Old English, this volume hopes to contribute to a broader and more complete understanding of medievalism, and of modern responses to early medieval England. Reinventing, Reimagining and Recontextualizing Old English Poetry I push back through dictions, … to the scop’s twang, the iron flash of consonants cleaving the line. In the coffered riches of grammar and declensions I found bān-hūs its fire, benches, wattle and rafters, where the soul fluttered a while in the roofspace.12

Seamus Heaney, ‘Bone Dreams’, North (London, 1975), pp. 27–30, at p. 28, lines 21–2, 29–41. 12

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Seamus Heaney’s ‘Bone Dreams’ (1975) is a clear example of how modern poets have been inspired by Old English poetry. Heaney describes how the finding of a piece of bone triggered within him the memory of the Old English kenning for ‘body’ – ‘Bone-house: / a skeleton / in the tongue’s / old dungeons’ – and a desire to go back to the linguistic roots of English: ‘Come back past / philology and kennings, / re-enter memory’.13 Heaney’s use of elements of medieval poetry, including alliterative verse lines, metrical patterns, kennings and imagery, has been well studied.14 More than just a reanimation of a past language state and poetic style, Heaney’s Old English medievalism, both in his own compositions and his famous Beowulf translation, has been interpreted as an ‘act of literary and linguistic politics’:15 a form of ‘cultural appropriation’, as he claims part of what is traditionally considered typically English heritage for the Irish.16 Heaney is by no means unique in drawing on Old English poetry for inspiration: many other twentieth- and twenty-first-century authors and translators evoke or allude to Old English poetry, and, as with Heaney, their acts of evocation typically serve as tools for contemporary expression.17 A recent example is the poem ‘Ginnel’ by Kayo Chingonyi, one of three poets to be invited to reflect on the 2018 AngloSaxon Kingdoms: Art, Word, War exhibition of the British Library as part of the Sheffield-based Poet in the City project. Born in Zambia and having migrated to the United Kingdom at an early age, Chingonyi has noted how an awareness of the longevity of some of the earliest English expressions allowed him to find ways to connect to the local Yorkshire dialect of Sheffield.18 In ‘Ginnel’, he alludes to the possible Old English etymology of the Yorkshire word ginnel ‘narrow passageway’, as well as to the well-known poetic kenning hronrad:19 From the Old English: the coast’s open maw Heaney, ‘Bone Dreams’, pp. 27–9, lines 17–20, 49–51; for a full analysis of this poem within the context of Heaney’s oeuvre, see Jones, Strange Likeness, 207–13. 14 See, for example, Daniel Donoghue, ‘The Philologer Poet: Seamus Heaney and the Translation of Beowulf’, The Harvard Review 19 (2000), 12–21; Jones, Strange Likeness, pp. 182–237; Heather O’Donoghue, ‘Heaney, Beowulf and the Medieval Literature of the North’, in Bernard O’Donoghue (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Seamus Heaney (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 192–205; Conor McCarthy, Seamus Heaney and Medieval Poetry (Cambridge, 2008). 15 O’Donoghue, ‘Heaney, Beowulf’, p. 205. 16 Jones, Strange Likeness, p. 182. See also Conor McCarthy, ‘Language and History in Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf’, English: Journal of the English Association 50:197 (2001), 149–58. 17 For an overview, see Chris Jones, ‘New Old English: The Place of Old English in Twentieth and Twenty-First-Century Poetry’, Literature Compass 7:11 (2010), 1009–19. For an important analysis of the relatively under-studied role of woman writers who recreate the past, including through reworkings of Old English poetry, see Clare A. Lees, ‘Women Write the Past: Medieval Scholarship, Old English and New Literature’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 93:2 (2017), 3–22. 18 ‘Digesting History | Poet in the City’, YouTube, 25 Feb. 2021, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]; the interview with Chingonyi starts at 12:00. We thank Fran Allfrey for alerting us to Chingonyi’s work. 19 The word may derive from Old English gin as found in the phrase ‘garsecges gin’ [the ocean’s gap] in line 430 of the Old English poem Exodus. But this etymology is uncertain, see, for example, OED, s.v. ginnel. 13

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pointing the way to the whale road.20

Chingonyi reinvents Old English, re-situating it in a modern urban landscape. In doing so, he, like Heaney, claims a place in a literary and linguistic history from which some might seek to exclude him. ‘Ginnel’ shows how contemporary poets can incorporate echoes of Old English into their poetic voice to create works that are not merely evocative of the past but also make strong statements about present-day linguistic and cultural identities. The chapters in this first section of the volume showcase the variety of ways in which modern authors and audiences have responded to the rich poetic traditions of Old English. As in the work of Heaney and Chingonyi, these responses often involve implicit claims of identity through participation in a continuing literary tradition, and each one of the four chapters invites us to consider how the choice to hearken back to the medieval past through elements of Old English poetry carries weight and meaning in the present.21 Old English medievalism can be used to great effect but, as these chapters remind us, should also be critically evaluated with an awareness of the voices and perspectives that it may be silently excluding. First, M. J. Toswell explores the concept of Old English as a space for stylistic and thematic exploration and play, particularly for poets with a solid academic grounding in medieval literature. She demonstrates how W. H. Auden’s juvenilia combine echoes of various Old English poems in a way that can almost be described as pastiche, while his later work returns to Old English, and particularly its prosody, in more subtle and sophisticated ways. Moving from the well-known example of Auden, Toswell turns to more recent and less-studied poets from twenty-first-century Canada. The work of the American-born Canadian poet Christopher Patton demonstrates how thoughtful translation of Old English poetry can spill naturally into creative play, combined with a delight in the visual and material. Next, in the troubled career of Canadian poet Jeramy Dodds, Toswell finds not only a bold reimagining of medieval poetry but also a cause for concern: how does the playground of Old English allow darker, more concerning impulses to be expressed? In her conclusion, Toswell notes that, while scholars are inclined to be appreciative of modern Kayo Chingonyi, ‘Ginnel’, A Blood Condition (London, 2021), n.p., lines 7–10. It is worth noting here that while most of the chapters in this section of the volume focus on the work of white male authors who are very much part of the literary canon, scholarship is increasingly recognising the important and interesting work done by authors outside the traditional literary canon. Examples include the analyses of such women poets as Caroline Bergvall and Sharon Morris in Clare Lees and Gillian Overing, The Contemporary Medieval in Practice (London, 2019); the study of the reworking of medieval English poetry by poets of colour in Hsy, Antiracist Medievalisms; and the work done on echoes of Old English poetry in the often unpublished work of lesser-known authors in Francesca Brooks, Poet of the Medieval Modern: Reading the Early Medieval Library with David Jones (Oxford, 2021), and Carl Kears, ‘Eric Mottram and Old English: Revival and Re-Use in the 1970s’, The Review of English Studies 69 (2018), 430–54. With thanks to Fran Allfrey for her suggestions of relevant scholarship. Equally relevant is the scholarship on non-anglophone reworkings of Old English poetry, which includes most notably the work of Jorge Luis Borges, for which see M. J. Toswell (ed.), A Pandemonium of Medieval Borges, special issue of OEN 47:1 (2021). 20 21

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poets interacting with early medieval English material, the motivations of these poets to play with the medieval require careful interrogation. Victoria Condie’s chapter on Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows (1908) offers a counterexample to Toswell’s observation that Old English medievalism in poetry is a game played predominantly by the limited circle of poets who studied the language in an academic setting. Grahame was not a scholar of Old English, yet in his classic work of children’s literature, specifically in the nautically themed prose-poem interlude ‘Wayfarers All’, Condie finds aural and thematic echoes of Old English poetry, albeit of a very different kind to the direct and conscious allusions made by more traditionally medievalist writers. She shows how reading this interlude alongside Old English texts such as Beowulf, The Seafarer and The Wanderer can offer new insights into its distinctive style. In addition, Condie argues that the medieval soundscapes identifiable in this part of Grahame’s work can be used to situate it in a long literary tradition of Old English medievalism, showing the continued aesthetic impact of Old English on the popular imagination. In her analysis of the novel Wulf (2011) by Hamish Clayton, Martina Marzullo turns to the domain of historical fiction to argue that Old English poetry can be a source of literary inspiration that transcends national and historical boundaries. In her post-colonial analysis, Marzullo demonstrates how allusions to the Old English poem Wulf and Eadwacer are woven throughout Clayton’s novel, giving the famously ambiguous poem a new life as Clayton uses it to portray the complex tensions and loyalties of colonial New Zealand in ways that explore and challenge the cultural gap between the Māori and the British colonizers. As such, Marzullo argues that Clayton’s bold recontextualisation offers a hope for a ‘perpetual and limitless Old English’ that is able to break free from historicised, nationalist narratives and welcomes new ideas and perspectives.22 The final chapter in this section, by Fran Allfrey, continues the theme of the imaginative de- and recontextualisation of Old English poetry. Echoing the concerns raised by Toswell, Allfrey focuses on how such decontextualisation can be used to construct a narrative of the medieval past that is limited, misleading, and potentially harmful. Analysing the use of Old English texts, such as Heaney’s Beowulf as well as newly produced ‘fake’ Old English, in the British Museum and at the National Trust Sutton Hoo site, she shows how extracts, presented in translation and stripped of their surrounding narrative, are used to guide visitors’ reactions to the artefacts and landscapes on display. This literary cherry-picking, Allfrey argues, contributes to the construction of a stereotyped ‘Anglo-Saxon’ past that smooths out historical depth and complexity and is open to ethno-nationalist misappropriation. Allfrey closes her essay with the exhortation to confront these issues through greater interdisciplinary communication. Taken together, these chapters offer a vision of what a reinvented Old English has to offer as a vibrant literary and poetic heritage that speaks to, and can be used by, authors and audiences outside traditional national and academic boundaries. At the same time, they show some of the imaginative limitations of Old English medievalism as an activity that tends to look inward and to return to well-worn, 22

See below, p. 67.

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simplistic narratives about Old English texts and the culture that produced them. Once released from ‘the tongue’s / old dungeons’, to use Heaney’s phrase, Old English poetry can become many things: ‘love-den, blood-holt / dream-bower’.23 Invoking Early Medieval England and Its Language in Historical Fiction he wolde spec micel of the eald daegs of the anglisc of our folcs cuman here to these grene lands from across the wid sea. and those daegs he wolde always sae those daegs was best for our folc24

The speaker of this passage in The Wake, Paul Kingsnorth’s novel set in England in the years immediately following the Norman Conquest, is looking back to a romanticised version of the early settlement of England by Germanic peoples. The sentiment expressed here will be recognised by many readers of texts that engage in Old English medievalism, Kingsnorth’s own readers included. The ‘eald daegs of the anglisc’ still hold a particular fascination for many, and, for many audiences today, these old days are situated somewhere in the Old English-speaking world. Kingsnorth’s phrase invites several questions. What is ‘eald’ about this early medieval past; how is its oldness and sense of temporal distance conveyed to a modern audience? In what ways can the ‘eald daegs’ be said to belong to ‘the anglisc’ (or, as Kingsnorth writes later in the same passage, to ‘our folc’); who lays claim to the imagined Englishness of the past, and in what ways can that claim be challenged? And were the ‘eald daegs’ ever ‘best’; indeed, did they ever exist at all? The novels discussed in the second section of this volume are all concerned, in various ways, with the evocation of a reconstructed or imagined early medieval past in the medium of historical fiction. Each of the four chapters pay particular attention to how these novels use language and intertextuality, alongside other strategies, to evoke an English past that remains stubbornly ambiguous and out of reach. Oliver M. Traxel’s chapter concentrates on the linguistic strategies of Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake (2014) and Philip Terry’s tapestry (2013).25 Both novels use distinctive language that is intended to recall some of the features and style of Old English, while remaining intelligible to a present-day, non-specialist audience. Traxel analyses the spelling, pronunciation, morphology, syntax and vocabulary of these pseudo-Old Englishes in order to assess how convincingly and authentically they emulate genuine Old English. He points out problems arising from the tension between authenticity and comprehensibility and offers his own suggestions for linguistic strategies that balance these two goals, which will be of considerable interest to writers of future novels set in early medieval England. The linguistic analysis of this chapter paves the way for the three other chapters in this section, which, respectively, focus on the reception of such reconstructed past languages by the audiences of historical fiction, the challenges faced by historical fiction authors that Heaney, ‘Bone Dreams’, p. 29, lines 47–8. Paul Kingsnorth, The Wake (London, 2014), pp. 16–17. 25 Throughout this volume we have retained the author’s preferred non-capitalised version of this title. 23

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wish to invoke the multilingual reality of early medieval England, and the non-linguistic strategies that historical fiction authors can bring to bear to create a sense of pastness. Judy Kendall’s chapter discusses readers’ reactions to the pseudo-Old English in Kingsnorth’s The Wake in the context of other literary experiments in constructed forms of English, such as those of Caroline Bergvall and Philip Terry. The chapter supplements that of Traxel, whose main interest is in the faithfulness shown by authors of historical fiction to Old English as a linguistic model; instead, Kendall turns her attention to the issue of how pseudo-Old English is received by readers. Her investigation into the highly polarised responses to the linguistic challenge presented by The Wake demonstrates how ‘made-up’ English (or Englishes) is a deliberately fluid, ambiguous and anti-prescriptive concept that not only permits but delights in linguistic inconsistency. In doing so, she highlights the potential of pseudo-Old English to be both frustrating and liberating. Next, Karen Louise Jolly shares her experiences not only as a scholar of early medieval England but also as a writer of historical fiction herself. Inspired by both the multilingualism of her chosen setting and her engagement with contemporary post-colonial theory, Jolly seeks to reject modern Western binarisms and to portray an authentically medieval spiritual worldview in her novel-in-progress about the tenth-century Northumbrian glossator Aldred. Her chapter traces precedents of her approach in medieval-inspired fiction from Tolkien to Kingsnorth and Umberto Eco, assessing how their use of language reflects both character and world-view. Like Kendall, she ultimately celebrates the potential of fluidity and ambiguity, in Jolly’s case not only in the experience of reading but also in personal, social and spiritual outlook. The ways in which historical fiction set in the early medieval period lends itself to multiple and ambiguous readings are also a central concern of the last chapter in this section, by James Aitcheson. Like Jolly, Aitcheson offers an academic reflection on his own practice as an author of historical fiction, analysing his own novel The Harrowing (2016) alongside Terry’s tapestry and Justin Hill’s Shieldwall (2011). Building on Robert Eaglestone’s taxonomy of ‘modes of pastness’ in historical fiction,26 Aitcheson demonstrates how the idea of the past – both the medieval past from the perspective of the present day and the past experiences of the individual characters portrayed in each novel – can serve a variety of overlapping purposes. Surveying three historical novels set in eleventh-century England, Aitcheson emphasises that each novel incorporates multiple narrative strategies to invoke a sense of the past. These multiple modes create a space for multiple readings of the novels and of the medieval past, which are informed by Old English texts without being constrained by them. Taken together, the chapters in this second section show that historical fiction can be fertile ground for the exploration of the language and literature of early medieval England. Writers of historical novels employ great linguistic ingenuity and careful research to portray their medieval settings, yet it is important to remember Robert Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, in Daniel O’Gorman and Robert Eaglestone (eds), The Routledge Companion to Twenty-First Century Literary Fiction (Abingdon, 2019), pp. 311–20. 26

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that these portrayals remain firmly rooted in the present day. For better or worse, we do not see the medieval directly but through the lens of the present; the ‘eald daegs of the anglisc’ seen in these novels are, like Kingsnorth’s language, a modern creation, not an unaltered Old English in geardagum. As many of the contributors to this section argue, however, it is in the instability of this imagined medieval past, in the ‘eald daegs’ that never really existed, that we can find a space for imaginative linguistic and literary experimentation that speaks to both past and present. Translating and Composing in Neo-Old English Sceaða butan mildse, deorcnes worulde – Beorgaþ Heorot cwacað – Ac beorheall stenteþ Timber bifaþ – feohtdæg Sceaða butan mildse, wamm on þam lande – Beowulf stenteþ! [Fiend without mercy, darkness to the world – Beware! Heorot quakes – but the mead hall will stand Timbers tremble – battle-day Fiend without mercy, blight on the land – Beowulf will stand!]27

Though this passage looks like Old English, it is not found in any known manuscript written in early medieval England. So are we dealing with a newly discovered text that had been lost for centuries? This is clearly not the case. In fact, composing in Old English despite its being a dead language has a long tradition which can be traced back as far as the early modern period. The passage above is taken from Song of the Wildlands, a progressive rock album by Clive Nolan based on the Old English epic Beowulf, which was released in September 2021 by Crime Records. Though most of its lyrics are sung in Modern English, the album also features some choral passages in Old English composed by academic Christopher Monk, well-known for his blog The Medieval Monk.28 In texts such as this, which might be described as neo-Old English, the world of academia meets that of popular culture. Unlike the works of Old English medievalism discussed in the previous section, which seek to convey a general impression of early medieval England and its language through creative responses and reimagination, compositions such as Monk’s are acts of linguistic recreation. Composing such neo-Old English texts requires a solid, often academic, grounding in the linguistic intricacies of early medieval English and, for a long time, these neo-Old English compositions have been seen as the products of playful pastime for scholars of Old English.29 Clive Nolan, ‘Grendel Attacks’, lyrics booklet for Song of the Wildlands, CD, Crime Records and We Låve Rock Music (2021), p. 8. 28 [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. 29 Michael Murphy, ‘Scholars at Play: A Short History of Composing in Old English’, OEN 15:2 (1982), 26–36, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. For an early example of a creation of a neo-Old English poem by a non-anglophone student who sought to impress his professorial donors, see the edition and analysis of ´Se Gleomann’ [The Minstrell] by Dutchman G. J. P. J. Bolland in Thijs Porck, ‘An Old English 27

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It is unsurprising, then, that the best-known author of neo-Old English, J. R. R. Tolkien, was also a noted philologist whose Old English compositions demonstrate linguistic rigour as well as an imaginative response to the medieval texts he studied and taught, as well as, in several instances, a keen sense for the whimsical, anachronistic potential to be found in writing Old English in the twentieth century.30 Tolkien’s neo-Old English ranges from passages incorporated into his fantasy fiction to an imagined folktale precursor to Beowulf, translations of parts of the Old Norse Atlakviða, riddles, drinking songs, and even an Old English version of ‘I Love Sixpence’, an English nursery rhyme.31 From this varied output we can get an impression of the different possible modes of neo-Old English composition, from free invention to careful translation of an existing text, and from serious to humorous. With the exception of the Old English passages, place names and personal names in The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien’s neo-Old English writings were probably never intended for a wider audience. They were mostly written for his own satisfaction or the entertainment of his learned colleagues. By contrast, more recent years have seen the publication of three neo-Old English translations that were meant for a wider audience, all translations of children’s literature: Fritz Kemmler’s Old English translations of Le Petit Prince (2010) and Der Struwwelpeter (2010), as well as Peter S. Baker’s Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in Old English (2015). The first two chapters in this section deal with these three twenty-first-century neo-Old English translations, while the third and final one discusses a newly composed Old English poem inspired by the works and practices of Tolkien. All three contributors offer a careful consideration of the technical challenges of composing accurate, convincing neo-Old English while responding to the unique characteristics and audiences of the particular texts on which they focus. Fritz Kemmler’s chapter is another practice-based contribution in which the author reports on his own Old English translations of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s French classic Le Petit Prince and the German children’s book Der Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffman. In addition to some of the linguistic and technical choices he had to make in order to render these works into Old English, Kemmler also Love Poem, a Beowulf Summary and a Recommendation Letter from Eduard Sievers: G. J. P. J. Bolland (1854–1922) as an Aspiring Old Germanicist’, in Thijs Porck, Amos van Baalen and Jodie Mann (eds), Scholarly Correspondence on Medieval Germanic Language and Literature, special issue of Amsterdamer Beiträge zur älteren Germanistik 78:2–3 (2018), 262–91. 30 On Tolkien’s use of Old English in his writings, see Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Exploring the Linguistic Past through the Work(s) of J. R. R. Tolkien: Some Points of Orientation from English Language History’, in Monika Kirner-Ludwig, Stephan Köser and Sebastian Streitberger (eds), Binding Them All: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on J. R. R. Tolkien and His Works (Zurich, 2017), pp. 279–304. 31 See, for instance, Maria Artamonova, ‘Writing for an Anglo-Saxon Audience in the Twentieth Century: J. R. R. Tolkien’s Old English Chronicles’, in Clark and Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination, pp. 71–88; Mark Atherton, ‘Old English’, in Stuart D. Lee (ed.), A Companion to J. R. R. Tolkien (Oxford, 2014), pp. 217–29. Tolkien’s retelling of Beowulf can be found in J. R. R. Tolkien, Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary, Together with Sellic Spell, ed. Christopher Tolkien (London, 2014), pp. 355–414; his translation of Atlakviða is printed in J. R. R. Tolkien, The Legend of Sigurd & Gudrún, ed. Christopher Tolkien (London, 2009) and the nursery rhyme is in J. R. R. Tolkien, E. V. Gordon et al., Songs for the Philologists (London, 1936).

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discusses his prospective readers and how different audiences might lead to different translation strategies. Kemmler reveals that his works can be read at different levels since elements of intertextuality, in the form of literary echoes of original Old English texts, can only be enjoyed by more advanced readers. Particular challenges that Kemmler discusses include his desire to create a linguistically authentic Old English text as well his strategies of dealing with modern cultural items and ideas for which the speakers of Old English lacked a means of expression. This last challenge is also taken up by Denis Ferhatović, who discusses the way food and drink items are handled by Peter S. Baker in his Old English translation of Lewis Carroll’s classic children’s book. Ferhatović demonstrates how Baker’s handling of Carroll’s Victorian ideas of food and consumption invites an exploration of cultural and material history, prompting readers to rethink simplistic assumptions about modern–medieval equivalencies. In the context of abuse and misappropriation of Old English, Ferhatović shows how Baker’s translation can serve as a basis to begin discussions that dismantle harmful stereotypes of medievalism, such as the perceived isolationism of the early medieval period. The translation prompts a greater appreciation of both the international, multicultural awareness of early medieval writers (as seen from the fact that an apparently ‘modern’ ingredient such as pepper can be transposed directly into the pseudo-medieval setting of the Old English Alice) and the fallacy of assuming that modern assumptions can be mapped onto the early medieval period (as seen in the differences between Carroll’s foodstuffs and those selected by Baker in his translation). Rounding off this section on neo-Old English translation and composition is Rafael J. Pascual. He presents and discusses his own composition of a neo-Old English verse text The Fall of the King, inspired by the work of J. R. R. Tolkien, specifically an episode from The Lord of the Rings. Like Tolkien, Pascual brings his linguistic expertise to bear on his linguistic re-creation, offering a metrical analysis as well as a practical guide to composing one’s own Old English verse. Pascual also adds a pedagogical angle to his chapter, highlighting how students might be taught Old English metre through verse composition exercises. His chapter thus forms a natural bridge to the next section, which focuses on pedagogical aspects of Old English medievalism. Approaching Old English and Neo-Old English in the Classroom In the late nineteenth century, Henry Sweet realized the educational potential of newly composed Old English. Rather than confronting the readers of his First Steps in Anglo-Saxon (1897) with the original and complex poetic language of Beowulf, he wrote his own prose paraphrase ‘Beowulfes siþ’ [the journey of Beowulf], which begins as follows: Hit gelamp geo þæt an cyning wæs on Denum, se wæs haten Hroþgar. And se Hroþgar wæs mære heretoga, swa þæt his magas him georne gehierdon, oþ-þæt his folgoþ weox þearle, and he hæfde sige swa hwider swa he eode, ægþer ge on sæ ge on lande.32 32

Henry Sweet, First Steps in Anglo-Saxon (Oxford, 1897), p. 39.

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[It happened long ago that there was a king among the Danes, who was called Hrothgar. And this Hrothgar was a famous army-leader, so that his kinsmen eagerly followed him, until his following grew greatly, and he had the victory wherever he went, both on sea and on land.]

In his preface, Sweet pointed out that he had found the composition process ‘very difficult’ but that he was satisfied with the result. He further noted that this text, along with two other adapted and normalised versions of original Old English texts (‘Be þissum middangearde’, based on Ælfric’s De temporibus anni, and ‘Be manna cræftum’, based on Ælfric’s Colloquy), was highly suitable for new learners of Old English: These three texts not only form an easy and interesting introduction to the language, but have the further advantage of giving a brief but comprehensive view of the science, daily life, and epic and mythological traditions of our forefathers.33

Sweet’s educational writings on Old English, notably his Primer and Reader, have remained fundamental for Old English pedagogy from their publication to the present day.34 Working in the tradition of Sweet, twenty-first-century educators continue to use neo-Old English in the classroom, occasionally even turning to performance and composition rather than translation of Old English to help students get to grips with grammar and vocabulary.35 One notable example is a group of Old English translations of modern pop songs, produced by students of Timothy Arner (Grinnell College),36 the publication of which on YouTube has sparked off a whole genre of Old English music videos, of varying quality.37 The two chapters making up this section explore the place of Old English medievalism in the classroom, considering its potential pitfalls as well as its pedagogical advantages. Looking back at the nineteenth-century foundations of Old English pedagogical practices, Joana Blanquer, Donna Beth Ellard, Emma Hitchcock and Erin E. Sweany Sweet, First Steps, pp. viii–ix. On Henry Sweet, see, for example, Mark Atherton, ‘Priming the Poets: The Making of Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader’, in Clark and Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination, pp. 31–50. 35 Peter S. Baker, ‘On Writing Old English’, in Haruko Momma and Heide Estes (eds), Old English Across the Curriculum: Contexts and Pedagogies, special issue of Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Teaching 22:2 (2015), 31–40; Martin K. Foys, ‘Hwæt sprycst þu?: Performing Ælfric’s Colloquy’, in Momma and Estes (eds), Old English Across the Curriculum, pp. 67–71. For a practical example, involving the composition of Old English proverbs, see Thijs Porck and Jodie Mann, ‘Blanded leornung: Three Digital Approaches to Teaching Old English’, TOEBI Newsletter 34 (2017), 5–13. 36 Grinnell College students are responsible for Old English renditions of Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022], and Avicii’s ‘Wake Me Up’, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. 37 Examples include the Old English cover of Disney’s ‘Let It Go’ published on the YouTube account Silly Linguistics, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]; a particularly successful Old English cover is the rendition of Paul McCartney’s ‘Yesterday’ by Die Töchter Düsseldorfs, with Old English lyrics by Fritz Stieleke, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. 33

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address some of the negatives of Sweet’s legacy in the classroom. They interpret the linguistic normalisation used by Sweet in his introductory Reader and Primer as an often-unnoticed form of medievalism that reshapes original texts according to modern criteria of correctness. This normalisation, they argue, reflects a tacit colonial ideology that lingers in the background of many subsequent pedagogical endeavours in Old English, including the hugely successful Guide to Old English of Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson.38 The authors challenge us with the question of how the potential pedagogical advantages of reshaped, normalised Old English can be balanced against the ideological baggage that continues to weigh on the field. Finally, Gabriele Knappe shares her experience of teaching Old English through television and film dialogue, such as the Old English used in TV series, such as BBC’s Merlin and the History Channel’s Vikings, or in films, such as Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred in the extended DVD version of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Knappe notes how the Old English dialogue in these series allows teachers to use the popularity of the telecinematic medium to enrich the teaching of what might otherwise be considered a ‘dead’ language. She contextualizes her classroom practice by first sketching how the use of Old English in TV series fulfils the audience’s desire for linguistic realism, while also serving other narrative purposes, such as othering those who speak in different tongues, as in Robert Zemeckis’s Beowulf film (where the Grendelkin speak Old English), and alienating the audience, as in Merlin (where Old English is used for magical spells). Next, Knappe provides practical examples of how various scenes that feature telecinematic neo-Old English can be fruitfully combined with other pedagogical tools to highlight crucial aspects of the Old English language. For teachers not to use this material, she concludes, would be a missed opportunity as it opens up the field to students who might otherwise not be interested in Old English. As the first place where most people encounter Old English, the classroom is an important setting for the reception and recreation of Old English. As the chapters in this section demonstrate, teachers of Old English cannot afford to ignore the significance of Old English medievalism. From innovative new media approaches to the legacies of Victorian ideologies, the classroom presence of Old English is strongly shaped by its post-medieval reception, and this fact should inform our pedagogical approaches. We conclude this introduction by briefly returning to a troubling aspect of Old English medievalism: the co-option of the language and literature of early medieval England and the use Old English to further the nefarious objectives of right-wing and nationalist movements. In recent years, the scholarly response to this misappropriation has been manifold, ranging from wrongfully ignoring its existence to radically altering some of the field’s foundations, including most notably elements of its central nomenclature. Far from presenting a unified front, the academic field currently remains divided on how best to challenge misuse of the language and

Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English: Revised with Texts and Glossary, 3rd edn (Oxford, 1982). 38

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literature of early medieval England, even if its members share an adamant rejection of extremist misappropriation. As editors, we hope to have brought together a balanced volume that is not blind to the darker sides of Old English medievalism but also does not let misappropriation obscure the positive, imaginative and inspirational vigour of Old English in the modern age. The chapters in this volume each demonstrate how Old English in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries is a site of creative innovation that requires authors, teachers and readers to actively engage not only with the medieval past but also – through the processes of recreation and reimagining – with the modern context into which it is partially or wholly transplanted. In exploring these revivals of Old English, the contributors consistently question the interplay of such aspects as inspiration, affect, authenticity and ideology: is early medieval English in the modern age a raised Lazarus or rather a Frankenstein’s monster? A miracle, to be admired and made much of, or an abomination, abused and abhorred, or possibly both at the same time? The chapters in this volume show that there is no easy answer to this question. As scholars of Old English, we are inclined to react positively to groups outside academia engaging with the material we study, whether they are poets, museum directors, novelists, film makers or teachers, and we welcome their fresh and creative responses, which demonstrate the continued imaginative value of Old English. However, as Jane Toswell reminds us in the epilogue to her chapter, there is a danger that, in our enthusiasm, we might turn a blind eye to some of the more negative aspects of these engagements, whether it is its potentially elitist nature or the darker motivations behind engaging with the medieval. We hope that this volume points the way towards an approach that has space for both of these responses to come together: an approach that is able to celebrate the continued vitality of Old English while critiquing its limitations and holding to account those who seek to misuse it. If one of the central themes of Old English medievalism is the almost limitless potential to find new meaning in old words, this is surely an approach that offers a sense of hope for our discipline as a whole, that a reimagined, positive and inclusive Old English can, while retaining its links with the past, move forward to inspire new audiences and creators. 39

39 For example, Mary Rambaran-Olm and Erik Wade, ‘The Many Myths of the Term “Anglo-Saxon”’, Smithsonian Magazine, 14 Jul. 2021, [accessed 1 Apr. 2022]. Cf. Williams, ‘Fight for “Anglo-Saxon”’, and Francesca Tinti, Europe and the Anglo-Saxons (Cambridge, 2021), pp. 3–4. See further footnote 7 above.

I

Reinventing, Reimagining and Recontextualizing Old English Poetry

1 Old English as a Playground for Poets? W. H. Auden, Christopher Patton and Jeramy Dodds M. J. Toswell

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oets often like arcane knowledge, hidden byways, odd detours, new ways of seeing the world. Their work, after all, is to see things anew themselves and somehow in their poetry to shock or entice us, their interlocutors, to see things anew ourselves. They use language to inspire and enlighten, to intrigue and engage. Sometimes they do so to teach their audience or expound their views on a political, social or cultural issue; sometimes they do so to delight or engage the heart and soul; and sometimes they do so simply to provide a thing of beauty or a surprise.1 To do this work they need inspiration and enlightenment themselves. For some poets, beginning with figures such as Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Walt Whitman, Old English has formed some part of that inspiration. A poet’s access to Old English is sometimes secondhand, or mediated in various ways, and sometimes firsthand, generally through undergraduate study or some other specific learning opportunity. There, however, matters become somewhat complicated: knowledge of Old English is generally reserved not just for university-level students of English literature but for a small subset of that group ‒ those who choose to take courses in the earliest language and literature of the field. Thus, even students of English often turn aside from a course or program in which they essentially learn a new language. This means that references to Old English are arcane even to many students of English today. Demonstrating detailed knowledge of the literature and language of early medieval England is, therefore, a kind of secret understanding, a world of material that is just beyond accessibility even for those who are well acquainted with English literature, a kind of otherworldly reach for the poet to know and the poet’s audience to admire. In the one hundred and fifty years since serious university-level study of English literature as a scholarly field began, various poets have engaged with this material, from Tennyson and Longfellow to Jorge Luis Borges, from Richard Wilbur to Earle Birney, from Basil Bunting An old study but a good one making these pretty well-known points is Robin Skelton, Poetic Truth (London, 1978). 1

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to Geoffrey Hill to Seamus Heaney, and from my chosen poets here, W. H. Auden to Christopher Patton and Jeramy Dodds.2 For some of these poets, working with Old English is about establishing their roots, becoming aware of the origins of English poetry, and engaging with issues of nationalism and ethnicity. For others, Old English offers a kind of sacred play, a sense of inspiration direct from the earliest speakers of English, making a spiritual link from the past to the present. It provides roots and a strong sense of place and engagement. Poets also delight in the sounds of Old English and in the linguistic complexity of trying to recreate Old English poetic techniques and predilections in a modern idiom, playing with issues of literalism and register as they transfer early medieval material into a contemporary mode, or working to recreate the alliterative line with appropriate modifications.3 Two generations ago, perhaps the most interesting efforts in this direction came from Auden and Jorge Luis Borges, though the focus here will be on Auden; in the current era, a significant number of modern poets play with Old English, among whom two young Canadian poets, Christopher Patton and Jeramy Dodds, offer two extreme kinds of treatment. Play itself is a term with a long history, here used to consider the light-hearted side of poetic approaches to Old English but also more serious play, and (at the end) a much darker possible interpretation. W. H. Auden Auden offers the most obvious example for this approach to Old English as a playground for the modern poet. In his 1963 series of essays and aphorisms called The Dyer’s Hand, Auden famously notes that, after listening to J. R. R. Tolkien declaim the opening lines of Beowulf, he concluded, ‘This poetry, I knew, was going to be my dish’. The specific context of this firm conclusion is interesting, since it is Auden’s Inaugural Lecture as Professor of Poetry at the University of Oxford, an event held on 11 June 1956. During the lecture, he recalls his own undergraduate years at the 2 On the institutional history of the study of English, see Heather Murray, Working in English: History, Institution, Resources (Toronto, 1996), and for the historiography of Old English studies more particularly see John D. Niles, The Idea of Anglo-Saxon England 1066–1991: Remembering, Forgetting, Deciphering, and Renewing the Past (Malden, 2021). Niles also addresses the poets mentioned here, though I do not entirely agree with his view of the importance of Longfellow. On the question of how much Old English mattered to these poets, Heaney, for example, describes brocen wurde, the opening half-line of Battle of Maldon, as a phrase whose plainspoken force ‘stamped itself indelibly on my memory’; see his ‘Foreword’ to Greg Delanty and Michael Matto (eds), The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation (New York, 2011), pp. xi–xiii, at p. xi. 3 There are many studies of direct translations from Old English, nearly all of them focused on translations of Beowulf. The best, and most sympathetic, of these is Hugh Magennis, Translating Beowulf: Modern Versions in English Verse (Cambridge, 2011). There are far fewer studies of poetry of the kind I am discussing here, but enough to result in one valiant effort to classify modern poetic engagements with Old English by Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28. Note the material discussed here would probably best fall under his final classification of ‘Modern Anglo-Saxonist Poetry’, but that term perhaps needs revision.

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end of the 1920s in various nostalgic ways, all focused towards his development as a poet and the various influences on that development. The quotation is often cited and analysed in terms of Auden’s real commitment to learning Old English and his real love of the material: I remember one [lecture] I attended, delivered by Professor Tolkien. I do not remember a single word he said but at a certain point he recited, and magnificently, a long passage of Beowulf. I was spellbound. This poetry, I knew, was going to be my dish. I became willing, therefore, to work at Anglo-Saxon because, unless I did, I should never be able to read this poetry. I learned enough to read it, however sloppily, and Anglo-Saxon and Middle English poetry have been one of my strongest, most lasting influences.4

Throughout his long life as a poet, Auden’s love of this material intersects with some of his other loves as poet and person. As I have considered elsewhere, his sense of his own personal origins, his family roots, embeds itself in the north and in Old English and Old Norse, hence his etymologizing of ‘Auden’ as a version of ‘Odin’.5 As Odin/Auden he brings poetry to the world, a vatic being of great certainty and assuredness, creating works of imagination that encapsulate and respond to the great philosophical and political questions of the age. However, the point of the quotation that should not be lost is Auden’s clear statement that, ‘I do not remember a single word he said’; that is, it is the sound of the Old English that captures Auden’s interest, not the argument or ideas that Tolkien was propounding. Moreover, he finds Old English to be hard work and he only comes to read it ‘sloppily’. His knowledge is not deep. Auden’s perception of his own engagement with Old English should, perhaps, be foregrounded in this consideration of his accomplishments. Humphrey Carpenter’s biography of Auden notes that, ‘He took enough trouble with Anglo-Saxon to be able to appreciate The Dream of the Rood, The Wanderer and The Seafarer, as well as some of the Exeter Book riddles and at least part of Beowulf ’.6 Carpenter is very restrained, being well aware that around these statements of deep connection lay an absence of detailed knowledge. Auden found Old English spiritually engaging, not intellectually or linguistically ineluctable; he played, somewhat superficially, with medieval Germanic texts and references throughout his literary life. However, he also seems later in life to have engaged with Old English in a different way, as a craftsman and poet thinking through the structure of a medieval text. For example, an exchange of letters with an Oxford academic, Alan Ward, indicates that he was attempting in The Age of Anxiety (1947) to replicate Old English alliterative W. H. Auden, ‘Making, Knowing and Judging’, The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays (London, 1963), pp. 31–60, at pp. 41–2. 5 M. J. Toswell, ‘Auden and Anglo-Saxon’, Medieval English Studies Newsletter 37 (1997), 21–8. I argued at that time that Old English was a ‘half-learned mode’ (p. 24) for Auden and investigated the papers he took at Oxford and his early poem based loosely on ‘The Wanderer’ and Sawles Warde, but here I suggest that Auden did not need to know Old English in detail to use it as a poetic playground and find it inspiring. 6 Humphrey Carpenter, W. H. Auden: A Biography (Oxford, 1992), p. 55. 4

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structures, and in specific points of that poem to produce particular Old Norse metres.7 Thus, he responds to a very technical question: I made some attempts to obey the quantity rules of O.E. but abandoned them; as in all quantitative experiments in modern English so many vowels become long by position that, without an obviously artifi[ci]al diction, you cannot get enough Lifts of the Accented-Short-unaccented-short type.8

He concludes: ‘The alliteration conforms, I hope, to O.E. rules’. Ward had clearly asked him about the alliteration in the poem, and more specifically about the metre, having noticed that in places it looks quite close to Old English and Old Norse models. Auden responds with a solid technical discussion of short and long vowels in modern English and the effect this has on the replication of Old English metrical structures, and concludes on the most positive of his points, that the alliteration does conform. Ward’s second and far more technical letter (which survives) also gets a reply, admitting that not always is the second alliteration exact but Auden thinks that the first and third are always there. This, of course, is not precisely accurate, for Old English metre depends on the stress at the head-stave after the caesura in each line alliterating with one or both of the stresses in the first half of the line; Auden seems to think alliteration is required on the first stress and strongly recommended on the second – which may be the norm but is not the rule. This exchange with Ward demonstrates how Auden engaged with these medieval metres. He treated them from the point of view of a working poet finding ways to capture a metrical approach and marry it to his chosen content. His conclusion about Old English metre confirms this: ‘On the whole, I suspect that it is a metre which is only suitable to rather sombre subjects, but I may be wrong’. Here is Auden the crafter of poetry, seeing what he can do with this approach. The phrase is also a memorable one with a solemn cadence, and appropriately alliterative: ‘suitable to rather sombre subjects’. The next question, of course, is why Auden would choose to write The Age of Anxiety in his own version of Old English metre. Others have written about Auden’s use of themes and ideas from medieval England, and in particular of his habit of using single lines in translation, sometimes appearing rather randomly placed in his poetry.9 His version of ‘The Wanderer’, as noted earlier, really includes snatches of ‘Maxims I’ and Sawles Warde, and only tangentially connects to the Old English elegy. If it were not Auden, one might call his poetic use of medieval materials pastiche. Consider, for example, these lines from an untitled poem written in the 1920s:

7 M. J. Toswell and Alan Ward, ‘Two New Letters by Auden on Anglo-Saxon Metre and The Age of Anxiety’, The Year’s Work in Medievalism 15 (2000), 57–72. The details of Auden’s engagement with Old English and Old Norse metres are discussed at length in that article; see also the references there for research on Auden’s medieval metres published earlier and for his use of Old Norse metrical forms as well as Old English in the poem. 8 Toswell and Ward, ‘Two New Letters’, p. 57. David Ward now owns the letters. 9 See Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006), 68–121. The classic study is Edward Mendelson, Early Auden (Cambridge, MA, 1983).

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Nor was that final, for about that time Gannets, blown over northward, going home, Surprised the secrecy beneath the skin. ‘Wonderful was that cross, and I full of sin’. ‘Approaching, utterly generous, came on, For years expected, born only for me’.10

In his notebook, Auden records lines 45–7 of ‘The Wanderer’ beside the first stanza of this untitled poem. Katherine Bucknell in her edition notes, rightly, that the gannets probably came from ‘The Seafarer’, not ‘The Wanderer’. She also notes that Auden sent a poor transcription of Dream of the Rood l. 13 to Christopher Isherwood, but in this notebook has a better version of the Old English line corresponding to the first line of the second triplet quoted here. The sense of the poem as a whole (there are two more stanzas) is pretty uncertain; it really does read like a practice piece, something Auden was playing with, and enjoying for the fun of putting disparate ideas and images and words together. It is dated October 1927, the beginning of Auden’s second year at Oxford. Auden is obviously assembling ways of thinking about Christianity, and doing so by playing with different elements, calling on the cross of Christ as against the first-person sinner, picking up T. S. Eliot’s idiom of the skull beneath the skin to here have secrecy beneath the skin, but also playing with the Miltonic idea of being surprised by sin.11 Auden likes playing with words and sounds, and he enjoys mixing his Old English materials with his biblical knowledge and his literary knowledge from other writers. He uses Old English with exuberance here, but a serious exuberance that brings it into play with Christian imagery in a profound way. He brings out the ‘these bones shall live’ reference to Ezekiel 37:3 in the fourth and last stanza of this poem and finishes with ‘Of Adam’s brow and of the wounded heel’, tying together Christ’s sacrifice with the fall of humanity in the Garden of Eden – referring to the most salient features of that fall. The poem may not strike us as entirely coherent, but it is a kind of sacred play using various elements from Auden’s capacious knowledge, already in 1927.12 The Age of Anxiety, as noted above, was Auden’s last long poem, an extended apocalyptic meditation on war and life in the twentieth century, and apparently set in a bar in New York. Heather O’Donoghue argues in an insightful paper that the 10 W. H. Auden, Juvenilia: Poems 1922–1928, ed. Katherine Bucknell (Princeton, 1994), p. 224. The poem is untitled, though Bucknell uses the first line, ‘Nor was that final, for about that time’. 11 The reference is to the second line of T. S. Eliot’s ‘Whispers of Immortality’, written between 1915–1918, and frequently published since appearing in Poems (London, 1919); see it now at [accessed 26 Apr. 2022]. 12 An article taking a different and very sophisticated approach to another of Auden’s juvenile poems with respect to its medieval valence is Daniel C. Remein, ‘Auden, Translation, Betrayal: Radical Poetics and Translation from Old English’, Literature Compass 8:11 (2011), 811–29; disagreeing somewhat with Remein and also looking at the same early poem is Robert E. Bjork, ‘W. H. Auden’s “The Secret Agent”, the Old English “Wulf and Eadwacer”, and Ockham’s Razor’, ANQ: A Quarterly Journal of Short Articles, Notes and Reviews (November 2020), 1–7. See also, for a fresh approach, Conor Leahy, ‘Middle English in Early Auden’, Review of English Studies 70 (2019), 527–49.

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poem swirls around the notion of Ragnarök, and she investigates the Old Norse metrical usage that Auden so obviously uses, especially a variant of kviðuháttr and the extremely complex dróttkvætt or court metre in some passages (reflecting quite accurately, though she was not aware of it, Auden’s own account to Alan Ward).13 But it is here, in his self-described use of Old English as the ground bass for the metre in use throughout the poem, that Auden’s sophisticated engagement with Old English as a mode for poetry lies. The usage gives the poem a faint but noticeable archaism, a sound patterning through the length of the poem that is almost that of modern syntax but not quite. See, for example, this short excerpt near the beginning of Part 3 of the poem, where the alliterating syllables are marked with boldface: But Rosetta says impatiently: Questioned by these crossroads our common hope Replies we must part; in pairs proceed By bicycle, barge, or bumbling local, As vagabonds or in wagon-lits, On weedy waters, up winding lanes, Down rational roads the Romans built, Over or into, under or round Mosses dismal or mountains sudden, Farmlands or fenlands or factory towns, Left and right till the loop be complete And we meet once more.14

Metrical analysis of this passage starts with syllable-counting. Of the twelve lines here, nine clearly have nine syllables, two (lines 2 and 4) have ten, and the last line has but five (with a heavy spondaic sense). Here, as Auden notes, he has drawn from the tradition of medieval romance, more a Continental tradition from the Romance languages of syllable-counting than an English tradition. But it gives the lines a basic coherence and unity of length. The basic sound-pattern of the lines feels trochaic, which picks up the second element of the sound-patterning, the alliteration. As Auden noted in his letters to Alan Ward, almost every line alliterates according to Old English customs. Omitting the first line as introductory to the speech, five lines here have single alliteration and five have quite good double alliteration (only one of them with vowel alliteration, and that one plays with alliteration on prepositions in a way that is rather amusing). Note that Auden does not include ‘proceed’ in line 3 (which would correspond to Middle English alliterative practice) because the syllabic emphasis falls on the second syllable. I suspect he also enjoyed playing with the non-English etymologies and pronunciations of ‘vagabonds’ and ‘wagon-lits’ to get his sound-pattern in that line. Mostly, however, Auden follows Old English practice, Heather O’Donoghue, ‘Owed to Both Sides: W. H. Auden’s double debt to the literature of the North’, in David Clark and Nicholas Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 51–69. She also extensively discusses an early work heavily indebted to Beowulf, Paid on Both Sides, making similar points about its debt to Old Norse (as well as Old English) metres and narratives. 14 W. H. Auden, Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson (New York, 1976), p. 490. 13

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placing his nouns and adjectives in alliterative highlights, with the occasional verb as necessary. The result is a metre, and a poem, not easy to fathom but consistent and intelligent, sombre and thoughtful. Auden, then, performs his knowledge of Old English in various ways. He is perhaps most successful in playing with his medieval knowledge when he does not try to be obvious about it; that is, the fascinating use of medieval metres in The Age of Anxiety gives Auden a chance to work with Old English and Old Norse word patterns and syntax, so that the poem feels archaising but not in an obvious or particularly unsettling way. Auden takes his somewhat sketchy knowledge of Old English poetic texts, as exemplified in his youthful effusions and the somewhat awkward way he uses puns and word-play, to imply a depth and meaning to his poetry that is not really there, and advances to the point where his use of Old English is in the service of his own strengths. The Age of Anxiety ponders the Zeitgeist of the Second World War and its aftermath and does so in a heavily alliterative and somewhat ponderous metre: he applies his own thoughts about Old English prosody as best suited to ‘sombre subjects’. To get to this sophisticated play with Old English, he works his way through various other kinds of play with this material, and also thinks, as a working poet does, about his craft in terms he is happy to discuss with a fellow enthusiast of early medieval metres. Christopher Patton Having laid this groundwork demonstrating how one modern poet, Auden, plays with Old English in ways that are superficial and in other ways that are serious and intriguing, it seems appropriate to turn to two modern Canadian poets to see how they play with Old English. Both have had similar educations, but seventy or eighty years later in North America, and appear to have used their own discovery of Old English as a way into the writing of poetry in the modern, perhaps the postmodern, era. The first of these, Christopher Patton, is an American who has spent significant time in Canada, receives Canadian government grants for his creative work, and publishes only with Canadian presses (notably the well-known art press in the province of Nova Scotia called the Gaspereau Press), and is usually claimed as a Canadian poet (on his website he calls himself ‘American born. Canadian grown’).15 His third and fourth books of poetry closely concern Old English, prepared while he was a graduate student of medieval literature at the University of Utah; together they offer translations of elegies and riddles in highly curated textual productions. Patton now teaches creative writing at Western Washington University on the American west coast, and playing with language and its permutations continues to be his métier. Patton’s debut collection, entitled Ox and published with Véhicule Press in 2007, had poems that had been published earlier in The Paris Review, and was extremely well reviewed. His second book was a children’s story in poetry called Jack Pine, 15 Patton has a very carefully curated website, [accessed 1 Feb. 2022] where he also provides a blog. His most recent volume, also with Gaspereau Press in Nova Scotia, turns to a different world-view; entitled Dumuzi, it retells the stories of the Sumerian god of spring (2020). For the Gaspereau books see also [accessed 1 Feb. 2022].

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published by Groundwood Press, also in 2007. These first two books demonstrate Patton’s concern with nature, his deft eye for the salient detail, and his charm. Patton then has two beautiful books referring to Old English with Gaspereau Press, the first entitled Curious Masonry: Three Translations from the Anglo-Saxon in 2011, and including facing-page translations with extensive commentary of ‘The Earthwalker’ (usually ‘The Wanderer’), ‘The Seafarer’, and ‘The Ruin’, and the second Unlikeness is Us: Fourteen from the Exeter Book, from 2018.16 Patton has extensive introductory notes and commentary justifying his decisions on which poems to translate, the structures of his volumes, and the purpose of his engagement. Although he seems to have less formal scholarly engagement with the medieval than Auden or the next poet, Dodds, Patton offers a very intriguing approach. In his commentary provided for each translation, he steers quite clear of the scholarly tradition and produces his own quite original material, some of it quite sly and subversive. Patton brings the material to the modern day; he wants to keep the Old English material alive. He presents the original material on the left opening of each page, and on the right opening of each page gives his careful interpretation of the text. Curious Masonry is a remarkable book, with a navy blue outer cover embossed randomly with words and fragments of words from the Old English texts. The words overlap and, since they are embossed, decoding them requires holding the book at various angles in order to capture different words or phrases. They run randomly at angles across the outer cover and give a sense of de luxe engagement with this material, of partaking of a bygone era of enjoying a literary text as an artefact, luxuriating in how the text is prepared and printed as much as in its words and meaning. In addition to the three translations, this chapbook offers a short introductory statement and an additional poem based on ‘The Ruin’ entitled ‘H Earth’ or ‘Hearth’ (there is a careful discrepancy between the title of the poem as given in the artist’s biography in a sleeve placed over the back outer cover, which reads ‘Hearth’ and the appearance of the title in the table of contents and the text, in which there is an ‘H’ in blue followed by at least two spaces then ‘Earth’ also in blue). Patton is interested in spatial relationships, and even his titles reflect this concern (he has also done some visual poetry installations). Curious Masonry also has an inner cover, this one black and covered on the outer sides with a pattern of stylized large and small white stars or snowflakes (six-pointed made of three straight and equidistant lines). Moreover, the chapbook appears to be handprinted, with delicate initials in blue at the beginning of each poem and wherever the press designer and printer decided some extra refinement would be useful. The book is a beautiful product; even the type is ‘a digital revival of Monotype Poliphilus by Andrew Steeves’ at Gaspereau Press in Kentville, Nova Scotia. The book demonstrates just how good the production from a small but serious press can be: it is a small-press spectacular, and deeply reminiscent of the fonts and 16 Christopher Patton, Ox (Montreal, 2007), Jack Pine (Toronto, 2007), Curious Masonry (Kentville, 2011), Unlikeness is Us: Fourteen from the Exeter Book (Kentville, 2018), Dumuzi (Kentville, 2020). Patton has a significant number of other publications, blogs, single poems in journals, and visual poetry installations. See his website [accessed 1 Feb. 2022], subtitled ‘Christopher Patton’s website’.

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approaches of William Morris at the Kelmscott Press, and, even farther back in time, William Pickering and his elegant productions of Old English fonts.17 ‘The Wanderer’, entitled ‘The Earthwalker’ by Patton, begins with long and involved syntactic units, heavy use of enjambement, and a carefully middle-range vocabulary: ‘One often alone, hedged in, heavy/at heart, wandering waves, one/who stirs a hoary sea with his hand/and walks a wretched way of exile’.18 Patton does not strive to surprise the reader or listener, but to convey a sense of the original and its charms. Parataxis and juxtaposition sweep the poem forward, never slowing, always leaping ahead to the next moment. Like Auden, Patton plays with modern English syntax in order to enforce the sense of otherness of his material. He likes gnomic statements (‘Fate is implacable’) and kennings or near-kennings, inventing ‘war carnage’ and ‘earthwalker’ just in the first eight lines. Otherwise, he uses very ordinary modern English, striving for a conversational style. There is both a wide sweep to Patton’s work here as he reaches to make ‘The Wanderer’ a demotic poem and also a meticulous care with the text. Patton fearlessly retitles not only ‘The Wanderer’ but many other poems, notably in the next volume Unlikeness is Us, the title obviously taken from the poem often known as ‘Wulf and Eadwacer’ but called by Patton simply ‘The Wolf ’. As he says in the extended scholastic–poetic introduction to the volume, ‘Translation is a savage triage’.19 The poet decides what to keep and what to reject. The poet who begins, as Patton does, by transcribing the poem from the manuscript has yet more to think about and more decisions to make. For example, Riddle 57 concerns a flock of birds, variously described by scholars as swallows, crows, swifts, jackdaws, house martens, or perhaps not birds but a cohort of bees, hailstones, raindrops, storm clouds, musical notes, damned souls, demons. Patton notes that Michael Warren in The Riddle Ages blog considers that the riddle, like all birds, eludes naming, and suggests that the riddle may be just ‘unanswerable, or even that its answer may be unanswerableness’.20 Patton, however, does attempt an answer, arguing that the way the birds swoop about in a flock is best compared to a group, a clutter, of starlings. The last line, that ‘they name themselves’, reflects Patton’s sense that the birds themselves have agency and make their own choices; they are no longer in the hands of the humans describing them, or those reading that description and attempting to decode it as humans into a name like the names given by Adam in Genesis to all living things. Patton is deeply interested in human and animal ecology, and prefers the birds to choose their own names, rather than to have humans assign identity. See Sian Echard, Printing the Middle Ages (Philadelphia, 2008), on Morris passim, and on Pickering, pp. 56–7, though she does not mention his lovely production of Joseph Gwilt, Rudiments of a Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue (London, 1829), which seems to have eluded scholarly attention. 18 Patton, Curious Masonry, p. 13. 19 Patton, Unlikeness is Us, p. 26. 20 The blog is a group effort, this section now to be found at [accessed 1 Feb. 2022], with this entry by Michael Warren, but the blog in general is Megan Cavell with Matthias Ammon, Neville Mogford and Victoria Symons (eds), The Riddle Ages: Early Medieval Riddles, Translations and Commentaries (2013; redeveloped 2020) < https://theriddleages.com> [accessed 1 Feb. 2022]. 17

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Finally, Patton addresses Riddle 9, but does not call it that. ‘The Cuckoo’ is fascinating: Mother and father? They left me for dead in my first days. No soul in me then. No life. And then love herself wrapped me in warmth, swaddled me, held me in a sheltering robe, as kindly as she would her own child; and I, under that cover, grew strong among unkin – as my nature had me. She fed and fostered me a long time, until, great in spirit, my journey took me further. Well, she’d fewer to love, sons and daughters, for what she did. Mec on þissum dagum  deadne ofgeafun fæder 7modor;  ne wæs me feorh þa gen, ealdor in innan.  Þa mec [an] ongon, welhold mege,  wedum þeccan, heold 7freoþode,  hleosceorpe wrah swa arlice  swa hire agen bearn, oþþæt ic under sceate –  . swa min gesceapu wæron, ungesibbum wearð  eacen gæste. Mec seo friþemæg  fedde siþþan, oþþæt ic aweox,  widdor meahte siþas asettan.  Heo hæfde swæsra þy læs suna and dohtra  þy heo swa dyde. :721

Patton may well have read Jennifer Neville’s argument that perhaps there is some anthropomorphizing here, and the cuckoo might refer to a foster-child, one perhaps larger and more demanding and destined for greatness.22 He does not mention this in his very eclectic references in his annotation of this poem, which range from Kubrick to Deleuze and Guatteri. His ‘great in spirit’ reference to the first-person protagonist, the presumed cuckoo about to leave the nest, might well refer to the kind of behaviour Neville adduces. More striking, perhaps, is Patton’s willingness here to rearrange lines and half-lines, putting ‘Mother and father?’ at the beginning and with a question-mark. They are included only to abandon the dead child, which comes back to life when parented by ‘love herself ’, a loose but intriguing translation, given that the text never identifies the person/bird who stands in loco parentis – because the important issue is that the cuckoo does find someone, not what that might mean for 21 Unlikeness is Us, p. 82 [Old English], p. 83 [Patton’s version]. Patton’s transcription and presentation are much more detailed than the version here, with length marks for long vowels and a mid-point diamond after ‘sceate’, reflecting his deep engagement with the Old English. 22 Neville provides the commentary for this riddle in Cavell, Riddle Ages [accessed 1 Feb. 2022].

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other offspring. This is thoughtful and interesting translation, carefully reflective of Old English style and metre, but also carefully modern in lexicon and syntax. Patton embeds himself here both in the scholarship about Old English texts and in a detailed and extensive learning of Old English, which gives him a base from which to produce his demotic but syntactically unusual renderings of these poems. Patton, then, is not unlike Auden in becoming engaged with Old English as a result of his university course (he is also now completing a degree at the University of Toronto), but his approach is on the one hand far more scholarly and detailed in its linguistic engagement with the text and on the other hand far more visual than Auden’s. Where Auden is thinking about sounds and sound patterns, Patton is deeply concerned with the construction of the word on the page and with the page in the book: his is the mind of a visual poet, and his play with Old English is a play rather like that of the cuckoo: he has no parents in the language since no native speakers exist, but he is suffused by the love and passion that learning the language provides, and – as the cuckoo poem points out – ‘my journey took me further’. Patton’s play with Old English is filial, serious, but also original and more than a little playful. He plays the human/avian parallel of Riddle 9 for every valence and nuance of meaning, and he rather playfully horrifies the reader in the commentary with a detailed discussion of Freudian psychology as applied to the text, and then an even more detailed discussion of a Youtube video with a leopard killing a baboon, discovering its living baby, and making some efforts to keep the infant alive, but in a desultory and rather uncaring and playful way. Patton concludes that the baby baboon was always going to die, that these two cultures going face to face with each other were never going to find a joyous medium; that the cuckoo of the riddle is not likely to survive in any meaningful way. The image is shocking, painfully unsympathetic and yet in a deep way quite empathetic about the collisions between different worlds – and playful as the leopard bats at the young baboon. Patton’s is a modern sensibility, shifting back and forth between anthropomorphizing the animals in the riddles and acknowledging their otherness. His riddling play is sophisticated and scholarly but also rebellious and original. It is too early in his career to know if he will return to Old English materials with the mature mind of the fully developed poet as Auden did, but should he do so, I suspect he would produce remarkable work – and his ecological awareness would provide a fascinating new lens on Old English texts remade into modern English. Jeramy Dodds Jeramy Dodds embarked (much as Auden famously did) specifically on a career as a poet, with very successful works published and grants won in the early years of the twenty-first century. He for some years did extensive public relations as a rising young poet, speaking of his training as a medievalist and his use of that work in his poetic output, including most obviously his translation of The Poetic Edda. 23 Here 23 As many modern writers do, Dodds has an extensive online presence (which will become clear later): see [accessed 1 Feb. 2022]. A useful long reading and discussion piece (particularly on the Old Norse translations) is from the

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the focus will be on his links to Old English and its role in his riddling play with language as a fundamental feature of his poetry. Note that, as will be discussed at the end of this section, Dodds’ career suffered a recent setback, and a severe one that offers an emotionally taxing situation for modern audiences of Old English and for the question being addressed here of why modern poets engage with the early medieval as a performative and playful medium. It will be interesting to see how Dodds addresses his changed circumstances and frames them into his poetry. Dodds’ career started very impressively. Born in 1974, he grew up near Peterborough in Ontario and attended Trent University as an undergraduate, completing a joint degree in English literature and anthropology. He followed the path that a number of Canadian students, usually those planning medieval studies, take, going to the University of Iceland to complete a master’s degree in Icelandic. According to his own account, he worked as a research archaeologist for some time, but continued to produce poems and to send them to small journals, mostly in Canada. His first book of poetry, Crabwise to the Hounds, was published in 2008 with the highly reputable press Coach House Books and was hailed as the confident work of an important poet. The book won the Trillium Book Award for Poetry and was shortlisted for several major awards, including the Griffin Poetry Prize. He also won, in short order, the CBC Literary Award and the Bronwen Wallace Memorial Award. All these accomplishments and awards earned Dodds an important job as one of two poetry editors for Coach House Books.24 Dodds’ interest in medieval poetry is somewhat occluded in his first book, Crabwise to the Hounds, not announced or signalled too broadly, but ever present. For example, here are the first eight lines of ‘Planning your Seascape’: Shipwrights shoulder-pole bedrolls and Swede-saws through a cellophane of rain. Rent boys pony up to door frames as cliff-dwellers stare down dead holes in the sun. Cocklers chase the tide on oxcarts through a dogbreath of fog, the only surviving25

The title is the first clue to Dodds’ love of riddles and wordplay, since the usual idiom is to ‘plan your escape’, not your seascape. The poem describes a large town or city at the seaside, but with images that constantly shift and shock. There are compounds coined by Dodds which are nonetheless pretty easy to understand: ‘shoulder-pole’ and ‘dogbreath’ here, and shortly thereafter, ‘pit-fire’, ‘gun-felled’, ‘weather-heckled’. These all reflect the Old English techniques of adding nouns together, or nouns with WordsFest 2014: WORDS Literary and Creative Arts Festival held in London, Canada: Jeramy Dodds in Conversation with Andy McGuire, posted 3 Dec. 2014: [accessed 1 Feb. 2022]. 24 Dodds’ published work to date includes Crabwise to the Hounds (Toronto, 2008), The Poetic Edda, trans. Jeramy Dodds (Toronto, 2014), and Drakkar Noir (Toronto, 2017). 25 Dodds, Crabwise, p. 44.

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adjectives/participles/gerunds. Some stray a bit farther but remain well within the world of Old English compounding: ‘three-toe’ as a verb describing the way seagulls with their three-toed feet stand and balance on the stomachs of the dead (possibly a reference to the dead, possibly simply a reference to meat about to be barbecued), or the verb ‘unshadow’ negating the idea of shadowing. Dodds plays with language, with shocking juxtapositions in a free verse that is nonetheless highly rhythmic, with a driving force of words tumbling over each other blasting images and crashing against the norms of human expression. Dodds’ poetry, even the brief sample analysed above, plays with words very cleverly and robustly, pushing idioms and reconfiguring them to force confusion and uncertainty or new perception into the reader or listener. For example, one long poem, which Dodds often used to read at poetry events, is ‘Canadæ’, a rant about what Canada is and how Canadians function. Poems of this kind are something of a high-art Canadian tradition. That Dodds would produce such a high-profile piece and read it frequently suggests his own high profile in the field, as rising poet and poetry editor for Coach House Books, a prestigious independent publisher. His second book translates large sections of The Poetic Edda, introduced with a foreword by Terry Gunnell of the University of Iceland, and an introduction to the translations by Dodds that describes them as ‘recreations that possess birthmark similarities, echoes, absolute similitudes and forgeries’.26 The book translates thirty-one poems from the Edda, working from Gustav Neckel’s edition with an added four poems not from the Codex Regius. Dodds revels in the complexities of these poems, in the complex naming and word-play, in the confusing dialogues and contradictory stories. The translation is into a contemporary idiom; see, for example, from Grípisspá: [Gripir said:] ‘All alone you’ll gut the glistening serpent greedily lounging on Gnitaheid. You’ll be the slayer of both Regin and Fafnir. Gripir tells the truth.’27

Unlike Patton, Dodds does not provide the medieval original, and clearly works from the published text, with help from various modern translations. His version is colloquial, using alliteration (as here on g for two lines), and he mostly holds to a trochaic rhythm that gives the verse an archaic sense. Where he cannot hold to that rhythm, as in the last line here, he provides a summarizing half-line with alliteration on ‘tells’ and ‘truth’. Here, too, as with his earlier poems, he likes to shock, using ‘gut’ for Sigurd’s actual sword-stroke on Fafnir, and picking up two descriptors to describe the dragon: ‘glistening’ and ‘greedily’. He sticks to demotic language, using ‘you’ll’ twice and emphasizing Sigurd’s singular accomplishment with ‘All alone’ to start the stanza. He worked on the translation for five years, by his own account,

Dodds, Poetic Edda, p. 12. Dodds, Poetic Edda, p. 155. He translates from Gustav Neckel (ed.), Edda: Die Lieder des Codex Regius nebst verwandten Denkmälern (Heidelberg, 1962). 26 27

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spending more time in Iceland to work on his lexicon and perfect the register.28 The result is a translation of this much-translated text that nonetheless merits attention. Dodds’ third book, Drakkar Noir (the title is quite helpful for our purposes), is the one that consciously cites Old English, including ‘From The Exeter Book Riddles: XCIV’, written in the second person except for the last five lines. The title presumably refers to the Sir Israel Gollancz edition of the Exeter Book Riddles, given the use of roman numerals. Riddle 94 is very badly damaged, with only a few phrases here and there surviving, though it is usually taken as a variation on a creation riddle. Dodds clearly looks at it as a kind of ‘funhouse-mirror form’ (see the poem below, which has this image in its first line), a poem that can only be glimpsed sideways as if through a concave or convex mirror. Moreover, his poem is loosely a narrative, though it riddles its way through the opposition between the narrator and a ‘Deputy’, someone who can be a berserker and the Deputy he reflects in the mirror. The ‘I’ of the poem kills seven constables when his crystal-meth lab blows up, but the Deputy is guilty of ‘starscreaming’ down the spine of the narrator’s bedridden niece. ‘Starscreaming’ is unexplained and genuinely inexplicable, but it sounds like a crime. The violence the poet and narrator allude to is constant and either barely averted or embraced wholeheartedly. The poem also picks up the imagery of the sun, moon and stars often found in the Old English riddles, and its structure, with a clear caesura in the typesetting, not just in the pauses, and frequent use of Old English alliterative and metrical patterns, also reflects a Germanic approach. Dodds likes repetition, especially repetition that can shock. Here are the opening five lines: You, who’s frozen in  your funhouse-mirror form, locked out of your  lookout. You, who eye-spies me glinting  in the echo chamber of an oak-treed glade,  veins lassoing muscles to bloodstone bone, eyes  the pits of Hollowsure Moor.29

Dodds is explicitly referencing an Old English riddle in the title here, yet in the text he is playing with possibilities that are not about creation but destruction, not about admiring the accomplishments of a divine creator but about an implied dialogue between two antagonists, spying on each other and dreadfully anxious and bothered by their own behaviour. His riddles are filled with violence and danger, pitfalls and problems. Dodds trained as a medievalist and uses his training explicitly in his work. He takes a robust approach, perhaps, tackling the most well-known texts and using his medieval knowledge entirely as a way to establish cognitive distancing from the contemporary world and comment on modern behaviour and modern language in striking and often shocking ways. Dodds is a difficult poet to discuss these days since he lost his post as poetry editor at Coach House Books in 2018 as a result of a Canadian #metoo incident; since then he has been in Europe and engaging with the See the discussion at 28:10–28:34 in the WordFest interview with Dodds: [accessed 1 Feb. 2022]. 29 Dodds, Drakkar Noir, p. 21. The solution to this riddle, written upside-down at the bottom of the page, is ‘Cop Killer’. 28

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Canadian literary scene only to sue as many of his attackers (as he sees it) as he can.30 The story is a difficult and convoluted one, but it would appear that a fellow poet accused him of sexual harassment and aggressive behaviour in complaints sent to the press, and shortly thereafter to the internet. Dodds was immediately suspended, and in fact the most venerable publisher of poetry in Canada suspended its entire poetry list, since the accusations were not just specific but seemed to suggest a more general atmosphere of sexual aggression (trading a ‘relationship’ for publication was implied). The story is complicated, and since it is currently in the courts little can be said. I can make one comment: in Dodds’ own account of the breakup with his fellow poet, posted to his own website on 6 March 2018, he states: Six years ago, following a breakup, I mailed several items back to an ex-girlfriend. The last item was her taxidermy chicken, which I packed in a box and wrapped in used target silhouettes — an inside joke inspired by our shared macabre sense of humour about gun culture. In retrospect, this was poor judgement on my part.31

‘Poor judgement’ hardly starts to clarify the matter. As elsewhere explained by Dodds and by the woman in question, ‘used target silhouettes’ refers to bull’s-eye paper targets, something no one would want to get in the post, let alone wrapped around a stuffed chicken. The suitability of this behaviour is not, whatever other issues have been raised, in question: this is entirely bad behaviour. It would be hard to receive such a package and not read a threat. The result has been, for me at least, a rereading of Dodds’ poetry, and especially of his medievalist work, from an altered perspective. His interest in violence, in voyeuristic stalking behaviour (as in the riddle quoted here), his shocking and painful images, his obvious desire to unsettle and destabilize the reader: all these patterns seem to suggest both hypermasculinity and a focus on violence. Much as connecting biography to poetic production is unsettling and inappropriate, here one has to wonder if Dodds shifted to medieval texts precisely for a distancing effect, for an opportunity to play in a world that others might not fully understand, a world that could be more easily presented as violent, aggressive, dangerous. After all, the medieval world was, apparently, all of these things.32 Moreover, by using it as a backdrop for his poetry, Dodds could take an oracular or superior stance, a mode of behaviour that could serve as a way of engaging with difficult issues from a safer location than their everyday world.

The suit has been called a SLAPP (Strategic Lawsuit against Public Participation) suit, designed to muzzle the complainants; see H.G. Watson, ‘End of Story’, Maisonneuve: A Quarterly of Arts, Opinion, and Ideas, 14 Sep. 2018, [accessed 26 Apr. 2022]. More recently, see Mandi Gray, ‘Cease and Desist/Cease or Resist? Civil Suits and Sexual Violence’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, York University, Canada, 2021). The case is discussed on p. 184; Dodds sued four women and at least one media outlet. 31 See [accessed 1 Feb. 2022]. This material is near the beginning of the second paragraph. 32 There is no space for it here, but Dodds’ translations of the Poetic Edda could profitably be compared to Auden’s, done with Paul Beekman Taylor near the end of his life. See W. H. Auden and Paul Beekman Tayler, Norse Poems (London, 1981). 30

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Conclusion I arrive here at a kind of epilogue. Too frequently, it seems to me, we as scholars of medieval literature in general and Old English in particular are somewhat too delighted to find a poet from the last two hundred years who has engaged with our field, translating or reflecting Old English metres or ideas or word-formation. There are reasons for doing this kind of work that merit further investigation. First, as noted above, and frequently by many scholars in the field, often these poets trained in the field of English literature and completed undergraduate and even graduate degrees, sometimes with a real focus on medieval literature. Study of Old English remains a part of degrees at ‘elite institutions’, universities, and so a first point is that poets who play with Old English do so from a position of educational privilege, and notably education in an Anglo-American university tradition. Second, there is often a sly sense of inside knowledge, a kind of secret handshake between poet and interlocutor that invokes, not always in a laudable way, a shared understanding of the world. Poetry that plays with Old English is poetry for the literati, probably also from economic elites, and probably also white. It creates a sense of community, a constellation of stars who can recognise and appreciate the sophisticated way in which the poet is manipulating this difficult and arcane material. It is not poetry for the masses, or even for the many; this is poetry for the very few. A less important point here is that the kind of play many poets do with Old English seems a bit jejune; for all the efforts we make to recover Auden’s early poetry as intelligent and engaged with the medieval, we would not be looking at these works if he had not gone on to produce far better poems for some decades. That is, the poems he wrote while at Oxford to impress his friends with his brilliance were indeed his juvenilia, and while studying them is useful, it should not be thought of as an exercise in transparency. It is about decoding a secret language, a task found deeply enjoyable by its proponents precisely because of its difficulty, its arcane pleasures. We perhaps, as scholars who love the field, react with too much delight when a poet treads its measures with us. This is not to say that anything is wrong when Christopher Patton does artisanal work preparing his poetry in a way that replicates not just Old English texts and approaches but even copying the script as a font and publishing a highly wrought artistic production. Nor is there anything inherently wrong about Jeramy Dodds and his attempt ‘to combine an academic, ethnographic translation with a poetic one’ for The Poetic Edda.33 However, we should recognise the way in which this is an inward-turning accomplishment, an effort that is designed to appeal to the scholarly and elitist few, not any kind of general reader. Third, there are darker reasons for taking up Old English as a mode of approach to creative endeavours, rather than engaging with the ideas and approaches current in a writer’s own time. Much has been written about medievalist nostalgia, and about how and why writers engage with the medieval, but always (or almost always) from a positive and life-affirming stance. Daniel Remein carefully points out that part of Auden’s motivation might well have concerned the queering of the Middle Ages and of the notion of translation itself; certainly Auden’s rather precious use of 33

Dodds, Poetic Edda, p. 24.

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medieval materials early in his career stands in stark contrast to the thoughtful and sophisticated engagement of The Age of Anxiety and some other as-yet-undiscussed poems of Auden’s maturity.34 The continuing fascination with Auden’s medievalism is itself testimony to our delight in his engagement with our field. Patton and Dodds both perform their Old English in quite particular ways, and in their work it becomes clear that establishing the distance that Old English provides is a productive mode for many contemporary poets. They access a temporally and spatially distant space, one so distant on both vectors that the poet can take on the stance of a teacher, a prophet, perhaps a vatic orator. However, there are hazards to this untethered engagement with the medieval; as readers and listeners of this poetry part of our work is that we must think deeply about what is at stake when a modern poet plays with the medieval, because there is always something at stake.

34

See Remein, ‘Auden, Translation’, pp. 821–2.

2 ‘Abroad in One’s Own Tradition’: Old English Poetry and Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows (1908)1 Victoria Condie

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n a 2019 interview,2 the American poet Richard Kenney quotes Ezra Pound: ‘poetry begins to atrophy when it gets too far from music’.3 The subject of the interview is Kenney’s belief in the essential importance of song to poetry; or, as he puts it in a fugue-like development of his main theme, how ‘sonic echoes strum the neural lyre’.4 Kenney’s intrinsic belief in the paramountcy of sound in poetry has resulted in his use of a set of poetic methods including early Irish metrical forms and the Welsh technique of cynghanedd.5 His engagement with Old English verse has resulted in a method whereby he locates the alliteration between the end of one line and the start of the next, ‘riveting’ (as he refers to the technique) the sounds together not within the line but across the line. Kenney alludes frequently throughout the interview not just to Pound but also to W. B. Yeats, Dylan Thomas, Seamus Heaney and Gerard Manley Hopkins; all poets who may be said to have worked with ‘sonic manipulation’ (to borrow Kenney’s phrase). Kenney is right when he stresses the fundamental significance of the sonic The title of this chapter alludes to Chris Jones’ observation that ‘to be a writer working through the Old English inheritance is to be something of an inner émigré, abroad in one’s own tradition’. Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006), p. 6; also, to Jorge Luis Borges’ engagement with certain Old English poems as texts which prefigure rather than directly allude to later authors. See Joshua Byron Smith, ‘Borges and Old English’, in John D. Niles (ed.), Old English Literature: A Guide to Criticism with Selected Readings (Malden, 2016), pp. 301–18. 2 Amy Beeder, ‘The Neural Lyre: An Interview with Richard Kenney’, Plume 99 (Nov. 2019), 1–2. 3 Ezra Pound, An ABC of Reading (London, 1951), p. 14. 4 ‘Beeder, The Neural Lyre’, p. 1. 5 Cynghanedd is one of the measures of Welsh poetry. Sometimes called ‘criss-cross’ harmony, it features heptasyllabic lines grouped in rhyming couplets. In each couplet, a stressed syllable in one line rhymes with an unstressed syllable in the other line. 1

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(and by extension the aural) to poetry but less convincing when he tries to draw explicit connections and lines of descent between older forms such as Anglo-Saxon accentual verse and the work of the poets he cites. For Kenney, Hopkins’ sprung rhythm is simply alliterative poetry re-clothed in modern English. The aim of this chapter is to examine part of Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows as an example of how in the triggering of aural allusion6 our own perceptions and preconceptions allow us to hear accentual verse in the language and subject matter of works which are not explicit re-workings or even re-imaginings of older texts. It will propose a model of reading that spreads beyond the acoustic to enmesh the linguistic, literary and cultural knowledge of writers and readers and the readings they bring to bear on any engagement with a text. Using aspects of rhizome theory, it will suggest approaching the re-materialising of Old English via a network of allusion rather than via the linear trajectory of direct influence. A literary work, be it prose or poetry, is not just a collection of types of sound patterns or the visual arrangement of sound patterns but something that is invested with the meanings associated with those patterns. Chris Jones states that ‘an aural structure itself can be invested with meaning, although this meaning is cultural rather than lexical’.7 This leads to what he goes on to describe as an ‘acoustic gauze’, something that allows the reader to hear the body of Old English verse behind a poetic utterance. Jones’ arguments for aural allusion propel the reader towards an engagement with, or even immersion in, a particular soundscape that they will identify either wholly or partially as ‘Old English poetry’, emphasised here to draw attention to a type of poetry which brings with it a certain set of expectations which may or may not be met. However, as Jones concludes, the reader or the writer must know the idiom before it can be manipulated or understood to have been manipulated. Poets such as Pound and Kenney are consciously aware of the poetic traditions in which they are working. Indeed, Jones elucidates his theory of aural allusion with recourse to poems by W. S. Graham and Edwin Morgan precisely because they have ‘both studied the ecosystem of Old English poetry’.8 Work on what has come to be understood as the re-shaping of Old English often calibrates direct influence with cultural climates.9 Any emphasis on influence and origins can result in (arguably unintentional) hierarchies which appear to privilege a linear development; that is, a central spine of engagement with and conscious awareness of Old English poetics comes to support a new body of work which speaks in varying degrees of parity with a readership who shares its own preoccupations. The concept of aural allusion, or soundscape, is discussed by Chris Jones in ‘Where Now the Harp? Listening for the Sounds of Old English Verse, from Beowulf to the Twentieth Century’, Oral Tradition 24:2 (2009), 485–502. Jones argues that the invocation of such a soundscape allows a conversation to take place between Old English poetry and some twentieth-century poets schooled in Old English poetics. 7 Jones, ‘Where Now the Harp?’, p. 493. 8 Jones, ‘Where Now the Harp?’, p. 494. 9 See among other works Chris Jones, Fossil Poetry: Anglo-Saxon and Linguistic Nativism in Nineteenth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2018); David Clark and Nicholas Perkins (eds), AngloSaxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010); Jones, Strange Likeness; Donald G. Scragg and Carole Weinberg (eds), Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2000). 6

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By moving beyond direct influence, however, it is possible to begin to explore a hinterland which is marked still by aural allusion but in a way that is diffuse, blurred, and de-centralised. Rhizome theory can be usefully applied here to advance an examination of Old English poetry and poetic language as entities which extend themselves by establishing multiple connections and exist in a system which allows for a plurality of voices and applications.10 As a theory it moves the author as sole creator of the text away from the centre and allows the reader to ‘establish connections between filaments and stems’.11 The extent of these connections will depend on the reader’s level of awareness of the tradition they may sense lying behind a text. To try and make sense of such connections the reader will also be forced to realise the predominant role of their own culture and history. In rhizome theory the book is not an unchangeable object but an ‘assemblage’ which opens up spaces for thought. Books/texts therefore become invigorated with each new critique or reading rather than limited by a set of conventions. Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘Pierre Menard, author of the Quixote’12 is a frequently quoted example of a postmodern re-visioning of the recreation of meaning, for what Borges seems to be advancing in reading the Quixote or Menard’s Quixote is that the possibility for interpretation given a multiplicity of contextual frames is limitless.13 If ‘Pierre Menard’ allows for lateral explorations of interpretation then one of Borges’ later stories, ‘The Immortal’,14 promotes an idea that can be applied to the proposed model for reading re-materialized Old English. Borges writes: ‘Among the Immortals … every act (every thought) is the echo of others that preceded it in the past, with no visible beginning’.15 Borges was fascinated by Old English, as M. J. Toswell has examined,16 not just in the way that all languages fascinated him as works of art but as how he could investigate his own family history as well as literary history. The lines quoted from ‘The Immortal’ reflect Borges’ growing distrust of originality Rhizome theory as a concept was developed by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari in their two-volume theoretical work consisting of Anti Oedipus and A Thousand Plateaus, published as Capitalisme et Schizophrenie (Paris, 1972 and 1980). Rhizome theory privileges a multiplicity of readings and rejects hierarchies and binary choices. 11 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, 1987), p. 15. 12 Jorge Luis Borges, ‘Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote’, Labyrinths (London, 2000). The short story originally appeared in the journal Sur in 1939 and was subsequently published in book form in Borges’ 1941 collection The Garden of Forking Paths and then included in Ficciones published in Argentina in 1944. The fictional Menard attempts to move beyond a translation of Don Quixote to a line-by-line recreation by a complete immersion in the text. 13 Howard Giskin, ‘Borges’ Revisioning of Reading in “Pierre Menard”, Variaciones Borges 19 (2005), 103–23. Giskin argues that ‘what one sees in a literary text is what one sees, given a particular assumed context’ (p. 117). Interpretation can be limitless (although not always correct) which allows for the imposition of Jones’s ‘soundscape’ of Old English poetry without the anxiety of ascertaining direct influence. 14 First published in 1947. 15 Translation from Jorge Luis Borges, Collected Fictions, trans. Andrew Hurley (London, 1999), p. 192: Smith, ‘Borges and Old English’, pp. 305–6. 16 M. J. Toswell, Borges the Unacknowledged Medievalist: Old English and Old Norse in His Life and Work (New York, 2014). See also M. J. Toswell (ed.), A Pandemonium of Medieval Borges, special issue of the OEN 47:1 (2021) devoted entirely to Borges and Old English. 10

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and his belief that there are only iterations and endless patterns of repetition and variation. Borges was not interested in identifying explicit Old English borrowings but more in tracing the sound and themes of Old English which he saw as prefiguring the poetry of later writers.17 Using aspects of rhizome theory and its application to multiple interpretations and accepting Borges’ concept of prefiguring, the impossibility of any ontological approach to the re-materializing of Old English can be acknowledged and replaced with a recognition of the continual re-shaping and re-reading of language and poetic forms to evoke an oblique connection to a literary continuum. Kenneth Grahame: early writing and the Romantic Sublime in The Wind in the Willows Grahame’s early experiments in prose and poetry are now preserved only in extract form in Patrick Chalmers’ edition of Grahame’s letters and unpublished work.18 This early work consisted of poetry, described by Grahame’s latest biographer as ‘vapid’ and ‘cumbrously metrical’, and slightly ‘sprightlier’ prose.19 Grahame was advised to concentrate on prose,20 and his early output consists of essays written very much under the influence of Robert Louis Stevenson. In Grahame’s early essays, there are recognizable patterns of a late nineteenth-century literary obsession with nature mysticism and a suspicion of modernity,21 but leavened with Grahame’s own love of landscape. Grahame left behind the overt influence of Stevenson, but his attachment to landscape overlaid by a sense of awe for its timeless, benign power rather than a straightforward nostalgia for a disappearing world permeates The Wind in the Willows. ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ (chapter seven) and ‘Wayfarers All’ (chapter nine) are both self-contained interludes in The Wind in the Willows. 22 Neither chapter advances the plot of the book, and both can be considered, in their own ways, as prose poems. Critically, ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ and ‘Wayfarers All’ have tended to be read together as essays in the Romantic sublime with particular attention paid to the influence of Keats, Coleridge and Rossetti.23 This reading is not entirely specious, but it is much more pertinent to ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ than it is to ‘Wayfarers All’. In the former it is easy to see a direct line of influence from Grahame’s earlier prose works. Like many of his contemporaries, Grahame was fascinated with Pan as a central figure for the natural imagination. His essay Smith, ‘Borges and Old English’, p. 309. Smith quotes the example of Borges’ insistence that the opening lines of The Seafarer prefigure Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself through their emphatic focus on relating a personal narrative. 18 Patrick Chalmers, Kenneth Grahame; Life, Letters and Unpublished Work (London, 1933). 19 Matthew Dennison, Eternal Boy: The Life of Kenneth Grahame (London, 2018), p. 84. 20 Chalmers, Kenneth Grahame, p. 44. 21 Dennison, Eternal Boy, p. 118. 22 The Wind in the Willows was first published by Methuen in 1908. All subsequent quotations taken from Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows: An Annotated Edition, ed. Seth Lerer (Cambridge, MA, 2009). 23 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, pp. 148, 180, 187. 17

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collection, Pagan Papers, reflects this, as does the cover of the first edition of The Wind in the Willows, which implies Pan as a presiding genius over the story. Pagan Papers reflects Grahame’s engagement with late nineteenth-century nature mysticism despite not going much further than a rejection of the modern world. Nonetheless, in ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ Grahame describes the animals’ vision as a transcendental moment marked by an intensity of perception of sight and sound which partially connects it to Wordsworth’s The Prelude. Only partially, because Grahame establishes, and returns to again and again, commonality over individuality.25 Other presences are stubbornly constant: the Water Rat and the Mole share their vision of Pan and the vision itself is initiated by the search for the young otter who is eventually found. Grahame’s evocation of a late-nineteenth-century, Romantically inspired nature worship is reflected straightforwardly in the prose of ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’. 24

On either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition.26

The commonality of the experience is established: they glided, they noticed, they felt, their expedition. This commonality is not expressed in the voices of the participants. Their experience is objectified as we hear the description of the journey and its climax in the third person. In fact, the inability of either the Mole or the Water Rat to describe what they have witnessed or to retain the music they have heard subsequent to their vision is emphasised by Grahame. ‘“But what do the words mean?” asked the wondering Mole. “That I do not know,” said the Rat simply’.27 Grahame’s prose slows down to reflect the inexorable progress of the expedition to its conclusion. The syntax is relatively simple, and the second sentence deliberately employs an asyndetic structure of noun-intensifying adverb–adjective to create the effect of an overwhelming sensory experience. It is rhetorically patterned, but it is the patterning of prose despite the subject-matter’s debt to Romantic and late Victorian poetry. In ‘Wayfarers All’ the Romantic sublime may still be present. In the opening pages describing the late summer landscape, Richard Gillin detects the influence of Keats and echoes of The Prelude, and more insistently ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’.28 These parallels are as seductive as the Sea Rat’s evocation of his journeys south but prove the point that what one sees in a text is simply what one sees, given Kenneth Grahame, Pagan Papers (London, 1894). Richard Gillin, ‘Romantic Echoes in the Willows’, Children’s Literature 16 (1988), 169–74. 26 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, pp. 154–5. 27 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 161. 28 Gillin, ‘Romantic Echoes’, pp. 169–70. Gillin specifically identifies the hypnotic powers of the Sea Rat which drive the Water Rat to try and revive in poetry the vision he has experienced. 24 25

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an assumed context. Gillin reads ‘Wayfarers All’ and the figure of the Sea Rat as an allusion to Romantic poetry partly to bring the chapter into line with ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ and partly to locate it and The Wind in the Willows in general within the linear development of late-nineteenth-century nature worship. The style of ‘Wayfarers All’ is unique, however, and stands apart from the rest of the book in its network of aural allusion and context. Frederick Furnivall, William Morris and ‘Wayfarers All’ Grahame, when he was beginning to experiment with his own writing, also came into the orbit of Frederick Furnivall. Grahame became a member of Furnivall’s New Shakespeare Society and acted as its honorary secretary from 1877. It was Furnivall who had advised him to concentrate on prose rather than poetry. Furnivall had joined the Philological Society in 1847, and he went on to found a number of societies fundamentally in support of his planned new dictionary of the English language based on historical principles. As such, he conceived of a completely new dictionary rather than a supplement to Samuel Johnson’s work. Furnivall’s secretaryship of the Philological Society laid the foundations for the Oxford English Dictionary. The Early English Text Society, started by Furnivall in 1864, provided new printed editions for students to work from and provided the link between texts and the study of Old English. Furnivall’s advocacy, or veneration, of Germanic comparative philological approaches29 and the actual links he drew between medieval texts and the study of words and language allowed for the teaching of literature as an academic discipline and for the enrichment of poetic vocabularies.30 There is no record of Grahame actively reading any Anglo-Saxon poetry. As an author, he is an inheritor of a tradition that has been consciously and unconsciously re-shaped, as this chapter will now outline. The re-materializing of Old English in The Wind in the Willows becomes an example of the organic growth and natural dissemination of a linguistic and literary tradition. ‘Wayfarers All’ follows the Water Rat’s growing disquietude and dissatisfaction with his own life when he encounters first the birds preparing to fly south for the winter and then more significantly the Sea Rat, who beguiles him with stories of his voyages and mesmerises him to the point where the Water Rat is tempted to leave all that is familiar for the unknown. The chapter ends with Mole physically preventing the Water Rat from leaving and a kind of cure effected through poetry. The Water Rat, it is implied, will at some later date narrate his own experiences in verse. It is in the Sea Rat’s account of his ancestors in Constantinople that the reader encounters the first instance of Grahame’s engagement with literary and linguistic M. J. Toswell, ‘The Study of Anglo-Saxon Poetry in the Victorian Period’, in Joanne Parker and Corinna Wagner (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Victorian Medievalism (Oxford, 2020), pp. 178–88. 30 An example of this can be found in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. Hopkins does not replicate traditional poetic compounds but creates new and often strange coinages. See Matthew Townend, ‘Victorian Medievalisms’, in Matthew Bevis (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Victorian Poetry (Oxford, 2013), pp. 167–80, at pp. 175–6, and Michael Alexander, Medievalism: The Middle Ages in Modern England (Cambridge, 2017), p. 170. 29

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borrowing within the contextual frameworks of his own literary inheritance. In an example of a scholarly desire for direct influence and origin, a source for the Sea Rat’s tale has been identified by Giles E. M. Gaspar31 within William Morris and Eiríkr Magnússon’s translation of The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer, published as part of their Saga Library.32 Gaspar corrects what he sees as a misattribution of the passage to Morris and Magnússon’s translation of The Saga of Sigurd the Volsung, which was never part of the Saga Library. He frames his research by stating that ‘Kenneth Grahame’s sources of inspiration are seldom directly indicated in any of his works’.33 There is, perhaps, little reason for Grahame to make such identifications. Having accepted the correctly identified source and the fact that Grahame was familiar with the Saga Library it is worth exploring how this episode might relate to the idea of an unbroken literary continuum in which the reader/writer (in this case Grahame) responds to direct and indirect allusion and overcomes any epistemological hurdle in the re-contextualizing of material according to his own terms of reference. William Morris combined the skills of both scholar and poet in his Old Norse translations.34 He had learned Old Norse with Magnússon, whom he had met in 1869 when Magnússon came to London to supervise the printing of the New Testament in Icelandic.35 Morris had translated Völsungasaga with Magnússon in 1870 and soon after began work on his own poem Sigurd the Volsung. The combination of scholarly attention to the language and poetic evocation of what Morris’ daughter, May, referred to as the ‘terse, grim language of the Sagas’36 resulted in a translation that is distinctive for its extreme literalness but not necessarily for its readability. Ian Felce describes this as a style which ‘was an attempt to bridge the temporal and cultural gap between the imagined medieval Icelandic society that [Morris] celebrated in the sagas and the degraded British one he lamented in the present’.37 Morris could not know what medieval Icelandic society was like and so was forced, or perhaps embraced the opportunity, to realise the predominant role his own history and culture played in the decoding of these texts. It is perhaps for the same reason that May Morris described the language as ‘terse and grim’, or rather that a nineteenth-century view of medieval Iceland and its literature at several removes had produced that interpretation. Felce argues that in the end Morris’ translation represented an attempt to reconnect his readers with a kindred culture, albeit an attempt that was not altogether 31 Giles E. M. Gaspar, ‘Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows and William Morris’s Old Norse Translations’, Notes and Queries 50:3 (2003), 323–4. 32 Snorri Sturluson, ‘The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem-Farer, Eystein and Olaf ’, in The Stories of the Kings of Norway called the Round World (Heimskringla), trans. and ed. by William Morris and Eiríkr Magnússon (London, 1895). 33 Gaspar, ‘Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows’, p. 323. 34 Heather O’Donoghue, Old English Poetry and Old Norse Myth: A History (Oxford, 2014), p. 170. See also Ian Felce, William Morris and the Icelandic Sagas (Cambridge, 2018). 35 Gaspar, ‘Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows’, p. 323. 36 Ian Felce, ‘The Old Norse Sagas and William Morris’s Ideal of Literal Translation’, The Review of English Studies 67:279 (2016), 220–36, at p. 221; May Morris and George Bernard Shaw, William Morris: Artist, Writer, Socialist, 2 vols (Oxford, 1936), vol. 1, p. 455. 37 Felce, ‘The Old Norse Sagas’, 220.

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successful. Morris’ literal translation, which at times reaches levels of obscurity, fails because it makes foreign what it hopes to domesticate.38 Felce’s reading of Morris’ translation technique is countered by Marcus Waithe’s theory of ancestor texts.39 The ancestor (source text) should retain its integrity and resist assimilation. Waithe believes that Morris ensured the integrity of his Norse texts by disrupting their assimilation into contemporary Victorian English. The otherness of Norse language and literature is rendered more than simply different; it becomes almost wilfully strange. Grahame’s adaptation of Morris’ translation of The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer makes clear that he is not seeking to emulate this strangeness. The passage cited by Gaspar as the source for the Sea Rat’s account of his ancestors is translated by Morris thus: Then let the kaiser spread pall over all the streets of the city from Goldport to Laktiarn; there are all the noblest halls of the kaiser. King Sigurd said to his men that they should ride proudly into the city, and let them look to be heeding little, whatever new things they might see, and they did. Rode King Sigurd and all his men in the greatest state to Micklegarth [Constantinople], and so to the bravest hall of the king, and there was all dight before them.40

Grahame’s paraphrase is as follows: … the port I originally hail from is Constantinople … You will have heard of Constantinople, friend? A fair city and an ancient and glorious one. And you may have heard, too, of King Sigurd of Norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through the streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the Emperor and Empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship. When Sigurd returned home, many of his Northmen remained behind and entered the Emperor’s bodyguard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that Sigurd gave the Emperor.41

This paraphrase of a translation can be said if anything to halt the disruption of the ancestor text’s assimilation and to work instead to smother the Northern elements of the language: ‘kaiser’ becomes ‘emperor’, ‘Micklegarth’ becomes ‘Constantinople’. The Sea Rat speaks in a way that renders him a closer relative of the Water Rat and by extension of Grahame and his readers. Grahame utilised parts of the narrative of The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer to create an identity for the Sea Rat which establishes his superficial otherness from the Water Rat. In not seeking to emulate Morris’ deliberate strangeness in his prose, Felce, ‘The Old Norse Sagas’, 221. Felce, ‘The Old Norse Sagas’, 236; Marcus Waithe, William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers: Victorian Medievalism and the Ideal of Hospitality (Cambridge, 2006), p. 90. 40 Gaspar, ‘Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows’, p. 324; Sturluson, Morris and Magnússon, ‘The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem-Farer, Eystein and Olaf ’, p. 259. 41 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, pp. 188–9. 38 39

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Grahame assimilated the material to produce a closeness which embeds the past within the present. Likewise, Grahame’s association with Furnivall did not result in any specific or documented interest in philology or Old English, but perhaps it offered Grahame opportunities to encounter older texts as he had done in his reading of The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer. Such encounters might enable a reader to intuit a variety of aural allusions resulting in a multiplicity of responses beyond the direct influence of a text or tradition. ‘Wayfarers All’ and Old English Poetry ‘Wayfarers All’ not only can be read further back than the Romantic sublime but also beyond the parameters of The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer, because if there is an adherence to the idea of excavating older English poetry with a view to establishing an uninterrupted English literary tradition then Grahame becomes the interpreter of Old English poetic authorship, at several removes but an interpreter nonetheless. To put it another way, and to borrow Borges’ concept, Old English poetry has prefigured Grahame’s prose in ‘Wayfarers All’. Reading the chapter further back than this but without simply exchanging one set of direct influences for another allows for multiple connections and a plurality of voices. There is no evidence that Coleridge studied or even knew any Old English verse, and yet John Conybeare detected in ‘Christabel’ a likeness to Anglo-Saxon verse forms in its accentual metre and was therefore able to make an indirect connection that suggested an element of continuity.42 Conybeare was one of the first editors and translators of Old English poetry, and his readings to the Society of Antiquaries were printed as Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry (1826). He was especially interested in Anglo-Saxon metre and established the corpus of poetry as a subject for serious study and as something of value in the Anglo-Saxon period.43 The ‘new principle’ – as Conybeare termed it – of accentual verse was imitated by Walter Scott and subsequently popularly accepted as representative of early English verse. Any writer working with this ‘new’ accentual metre could consider themselves without ever necessarily thinking about it, or be considered, as part of the long English poetic tradition. In ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, Gillin identifies the incantatory power of the Sea Rat’s song-poem as similar to the Mariner’s. In the same way that Borges recognised the echo of The Seafarer in Whitman’s Song of Myself, this power to narrate the self is not so far removed from the sentiments expressed by the Seafarer of the Old English poem that bears this modern, eponymous title – ‘Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan, / siþas secgan’ [I can tell a truth-song about myself, tell of my experiences]. 44 One other preoccupation Grahame articulated in the works he showed Furnivall was posed as a question: ‘Of the friends that make so great a part of our life, relentless Time makes two bodies – the living and the dead – which are the dearer?’45 Grahame went on to answer his own question: the dead, because ‘their sympathies Jones, Fossil Poetry, p. 89. Toswell, ‘The Study of Anglo-Saxon Poetry’, p. 181. 44 The Seafarer in Anne L. Klinck (ed.), Old English Elegies: A Critical Edition and Genre Study (Montreal, 1992), lines 1–2a. 45 Dennison, Eternal Boy, p. 98: Chalmers, Kenneth Grahame, p. 38. 42 43

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are sure’. This was especially true of the memory of his mother, who had died shortly before Grahame’s fifth birthday. The simultaneous acknowledgement of transience together with the possibility of the continuing emotional presence of the dead and what they signify reflects (again, unconsciously) some of the sentiments that are associated with what are termed the elegiac Old English poems. The recognition of time passing and the pull of the unknown against the familiar emerges persuasively and exclusively throughout ‘Wayfarers All’. What is dearer to the Water Rat, though, are his living friends and his unchanging environment. The Water Rat dwells in the present; the Sea Rat eloquently and rhapsodically describes his past experiences and seems compelled towards an uncertain future: ‘I, footsore and hungry … following the old call, back to the old life, the life which is mine and which will not let me go’.46 The power of the Sea Rat’s speech convinces on account of the strong and explicit first-person narration, which distinguishes ‘Wayfarers All’ from ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’. We as readers experience along with the Water Rat the mesmeric nature of the Sea Rat’s story. This subjective frame of reference also takes us closer to Old English poetry. The Seafarer is recounted right from the start by someone who wishes to make clear that this is his story, his own experience, regardless of whether it is allegorical or not. Similarly, The Wanderer, despite the ambiguity over single or multiple voices, establishes one voice articulating his sorrow alone: ‘Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce / mine ceare cwiþan’ (lines 8–9a) [Often alone, each dawn, I had to lament my sorrow].47 It is possible to hear the voices of the Seafarer or the Wanderer in the same way the Water Rat hears the voice of the Sea Rat. It is not just the shifting colours of his interlocutor’s eyes which hold the Water Rat in thrall but also the liminal quality of the auditory experience: he is unsure whether he is listening to speech or song and the two forms meld and elide. Arguably, Grahame makes a space in his text for an acoustic performance in the way that Jones describes the experience of listening to Beowulf like that of listening in to the sound of oral composition.48 In ‘Wayfarers All’ Grahame allows his readers the same: the acoustics may be most recently related to those of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, but the language is by no means exclusively Coleridgian or derivative as such. Grahame varies the words and presents us with a Sea Rat who takes the Water Rat (and his readers) into a shared linguistic and literary past existing within this soundscape. The nature of ‘Wayfarers All’ illustrates the stylistic and acoustic differences between it and ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’. One section that affirms these differences now comes at the end of the Sea Rat’s song-speech just before he urges the Water Rat to follow him. It forms part of the description of a sea voyage, or rather the Sea Rat’s intensely personal evocation of finding a ship and setting out to sea again. I shall take my time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 188. The Wanderer, ed. Klinck, Old English Elegies, lines 1–2a. 48 What Jones describes as ‘Beowulf ’s attempts to summon the sound of oral composition’ in ‘Where Now the Harp?’, p. 488. 46 47

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anchor-chain coming merrily in. We shall break out the jib and foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way and the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of the great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!49

Reading this aloud the most immediately obvious stylistic effect is the use of alliteration and the employment of an almost exclusively rising rhythm of a Type-B line taken from Eduard Sievers’ classification50: take my time, loaded low, clink of the capstan, clothe herself with canvas, sounding slap of the great green seas. It becomes not too much of an imaginative leap to re-arrange parts of this prose passage into very rudimentary half lines: x x. / x / x x / x x / 1. I shall take my time,  I shall tarry and bide, x x / x x / x / x x / x 2. I shall wake to the song  and tramp of the sailors x / x x / x x x / x x x / x \ 3. The clink of the capstan  and the rattle of the anchor chain x x / x x x x / \ x x / x x x / x 4. As she forges towards the headland  she will clothe herself in canvas / x / x / / \ 5. sounding slap of  great green seas

The song-speech of the Sea Rat is embodied in the accent, alliteration and patterning of Grahame’s prose. Compared with the passage from ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, the syntax is simple but wrought, which allows for a re-arrangement of the prose into these rudimentary half lines. The anaphoric repetition of ‘I shall’ leading to the partially asyndetic passage ‘the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in’ captures acoustically the movement of the ship towards the sea. In turn, it recalls, in terms of sound and meaning, the passage from Beowulf describing the embarkation of the Geats: Fyrst forð gewat;  flota wæs on yðum, bat under beorge  beornas gearwe on stefn stigon -  streamas wundon, sund wið sande;  secgas bæron on bearme nacan  beorhte frætwe, guðsearo geatolic;  guman ut scufon, weras on wilsið  wudu bundenne. Gewat þa ofer wægholm  winde gefysed 49 50

Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 196. Although note that line 5a resembles Type-A and line 5b Type-D.

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flota famigheals  fugle gelicost, oð þæt ymb antid  oþres dogores wundenstefna  gewadan hæfde, þæt ða liðende  land gesawon,51

The sentiments are shared: the eagerness for a journey, the importance of choosing the right time to leave, the metaphorical shape-shifting of the ship into something living and with agency (the Sea Rat’s ship clothes herself with canvas; Beowulf ’s ship flies like a bird). On a more specific linguistic level, the similarities between the ways the Sea Rat and Beowulf ’s men board their ships can be noted (‘I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser’ and ‘eager men climbed on the prow’) as well as the concise description of the open seas (‘the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind’ and ‘over the billowing waves, urged by the wind’). One very noticeable difference between these passages is that the journey described here in Beowulf reaches a temporal and spatial conclusion whereas the journey described by the Sea Rat reads allegorically in the context of ‘Wayfarers All’.52 His earlier narratives have taken the Water Rat on descriptive journeys to the South but this final song-speech is different in tone, closer to verse, as has been demonstrated, and more fragmented than the earlier prose. The Water Rat has entered a liminal state of not quite waking, not quite dreaming. ‘Lastly in his waking dream, it seemed to him that the Adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-green eyes’.53 The Sea Rat, although like the Water Rat never named, has shifted shape to become an incorporeal and potentially metaphorical Adventurer – a Wanderer, or indeed a Seafarer through life. The evocation of a universal journey merges with the exhortation to the Water Rat to ‘Take the Adventure, heed the call now ere the irrevocable moment passes!’54 and ‘Adventure’ is capitalised, therefore broadening its range of meanings beyond that of a sea voyage south and more towards an encouragement to change one’s mode of life. The persuasion continues: ‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward and you are out of the old life and into the new!’55 This could be read as a siren call, a dangerously hypnotic story, and Grahame twice describes the Water Rat as being held ‘spellbound’, which almost causes the Water Rat to leave the familiar for the unknown. R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles (eds), Klaeber’s Beowulf, 4th edn (Toronto, 2009), lines 210–21: The time for departure came – the ship was on the waves, moored under the cliffs. Eager men climbed on the prow – the currents curled, sea against sand – the men carried their bright war gear into the bosom of the ship, splendid armour; the men pushed off on their desired journey in that wooden ship. Over the billowing waves, urged by the wind, the foamy-necked ship flew like a bird, until at the right time on the second day the curved-prowed ship had advanced so that the seafarers sighted land. 52 It has been helpfully noted that Beowulf opens with a description of a sea voyage which reaches no conclusion: ‘men ne cunnon / secgan to soðe selerædenne / hæleð under heofenum / hwa þæm hlæste onfeng’ (lines 50b–2b) [Men are unable to tell truthfully, no hall-ruler, no hero on earth, who received that cargo]. 53 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 195. 54 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 196. 55 Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 196. 51

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Spellbound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing. […] And the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on—or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song—chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail? All these sounds the spellbound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle. Back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings …56

The Water Rat is held by the story woven by the Sea Rat, which Grahame crafts, in the first extract, through the rhythmic patterning of his prose into repeated and varied concise units of preposition–adjective–noun. This narrative reduces the Water Rat to a state of anonymity; he is now just ‘the listener’ who cannot distinguish speech from song, human activity from that of the seabirds or the sea, so that he becomes disorientated and dislocated from the security of the familiar. It evokes, or allows an evocation of, depending on the reader’s absorption of Old English poetry, the lines in The Wanderer in which the poet represents the potentially harmful separation of mind from self through the central figure’s illusory identification of the seabirds with his former companions. ‘Sorg bið geniwad / þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfað; /greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað /secga geseldan; / swimmað oft on weg /fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð /cuðra cwidegiedda’.57 Certainly the Mole’s reaction to his friend’s changed appearance and the cure he effects might easily suggest the dangerously hallucinatory qualities of the Sea Rat’s narrative as does Grahame’s insistence throughout The Wind in the Willows on the consolation and stability of the domestic and the everyday. The Sea Rat’s exhortations to travel hopefully set against the desire for home allow for the indentification of certain hermeneutic tools and can be framed as the simultaneous heimweh (longing for home) and fernweh (longing to be elsewhere) experienced by the Wanderer and the Seafarer and metaphorised as the longing for Heaven. The Sea Rat’s words begin to take on the allegorical tone of The Seafarer: Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, pp. 194–5. Klinck, Old English Elegies, lines 50b–5a: ‘Sorrow is renewed when the mind turns beyond the memory of kinsmen, eagerly gazes on, greets joyfully the companions of men; they always swim away – the spirit of the floating ones brings no comfort or familiar speech’. 56 57

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Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð  ofer hreþerlocan, min modesefa  mid mereflode ofer hwæles eþel  hweorfeð wide, eorþan sceatas,  cymeð eft to me gifre ond grædig,  gielleð anfloga, hweteð on hwælweg  hreþer unwearnum ofer holma gealgu.  Forþon me hatran sind Dryhtnes dreamas  þonne þis deade lif, læne on londe.58

The Seafarer narrates his own ‘soðgied’ not just to his implied listeners but also to himself. His alienation from the world and its transient pleasures suggests a search for a better country, a more fulfilling home – an Augustinian conception of travelling by land or sea as the necessary means by which one returns to the City of God rather than as something to enjoy for its own sake: ‘Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen, /ond þonne geþencean hu we þider cumen, /ond we þonne eac tilien, þæt we to moten /in þa ecan eadignesse, / þær is lif gelong in lufan Dryhtnes’ (lines 117–21). [Let us consider where we may have a home, and then think how we may get there and how we may henceforth also strive so that we might arrive in everlasting blessedness, where there is life originating in the Lord’s love]. The Sea Rat’s message appears not to be one of using the journey as a necessity but rather of enjoying it for the novelty that it brings, but it is not necessarily as straightforward as that. When he has called to the Water Rat to take a blithesome step into a new life, he does not end there. He continues ‘Then some day, some long day hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played’. That which is familiar and domestic in The Wind in the Willows can be recognized within its context as the equivalent of Augustine’s City of God; that is, the true homeland. Otherness and Likeness in ‘Wayfarers All’ Jones’ description of Old English in the modern period as ‘simultaneously a locus of alterity and similitude’,59 that otherness which although superficially strange is rooted in what is known, could apply to an overall reading of The Wind in the Willows: otherness in the form of brief encroachments of modernity, the vision of the god Pan, and the half-imagined half-real figure of the Sea Rat plays a recurring role throughout the book. Otherness is the muffled reverberation of Grahame’s self-posed question: which are dearer, the living or the dead – the unknown or the known? Returning alterity to linguistic and literary forms, however, can only be done most satisfyingly with regard to ‘Wayfarers All’. Linguistically, the first-person Klinck, Old English Elegies, lines 58–66: ‘Now, therefore, my thought turns beyond the confines of my heart; my mind turns at large with the ocean tide over the whale’s home, over earth’s surfaces, and comes back to me ravenous and greedy; the lone flier calls out and urges the heart irresistibly along the whale-path over the waters of the oceans, because for me the pleasures of the Lord are more intense than this dead life on land’. 59 Jones, Strange Likeness, p. 5. 58

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prose of the Sea Rat approaches verse in the climactic moments of the chapter in ways not discernible in ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ where the third person narration keeps an objective distance, and no other voice is heard other than the exchanges between the Mole and the Water Rat. Pan cannot simply pass through the narrative as the Sea Rat does, literally and metaphorically in the way that speech and song are often indistinguishable and the way his ‘spel’ resists what is known and secure. The Sea Rat is simultaneously of, and not of, the country. Grahame sets him apart from the Water Rat in physical appearance and dress and the Water Rat notes this difference: ‘You are not one of us’, said the Water Rat, ‘nor yet a farmer; nor even, I should judge, of this country’.60 Yet even though the Sea Rat admits he is a foreigner (even in Constantinople, the city of his birth) in their first exchanges when he narrates his history and adventures his language marks him out as the same ethnie as the Water Rat. Their speech is intelligible to each other and to the reader. Could it be argued, then, that when the Sea Rat changes the mode of expression in his song speech to a diction which is closer to Old English poetic forms this shift implicitly positions Old English as exclusively alien? Is it possible to hear in these exchanges an echo of the meeting of ancestor and reader and to follow Waithe’s analogy of a homecoming or a meeting of two distant relatives at a midway point?61 The analogy is borne out by a literal reading of the narrative whereby the Sea Rat and the Water Rat, identified as the same ethnie, do in fact meet at a point that is neither the environment of one nor the territory of the other. Grahame’s work in ‘Wayfarers All’ is more subtle than this; arguably unconsciously so, but subtle nonetheless. He is not deliberately setting out to establish a kindred culture through the deliberate re-working of an archaic lexis and syntax, but neither is he deliberately triggering an aural allusion. Listening to the alliteration and accentual rhythm as well as responding to the subject matter of sea voyaging it is quite possible to identify a long, uninterrupted line of descent from Old English poetry to the early twentieth century, but this is not achieved solely through sonic manipulation nor through any traceable direct influence. The acoustic qualities of Old English poetry are without doubt important to the re-shaping of Old English and to its reception, but perhaps not exclusively so. Tennyson’s translation of The Battle of Brunanburh (which is no more a translation than Pope’s translation of Homer)62 is primarily acoustic in its double dactyls, but Tennyson has read the earlier battle back from his own contemporary Charge of the Light Brigade, which argues against any direct influence. In fact, ‘influence’ may be seen here as essentially fractured, allusive and rhizomatic, as Tennyson’s poem reflects what the Anglo-Saxons represented to a mid-nineteenth century public as much as his own engagement with the scholarship of John Mitchell Kemble and Sharon Turner.63 By the same token, Grahame becomes the inheritor of Coleridge, Scott and Conybeare. ‘Wayfarers All’ is different in tone and subject matter from the rest of The Wind in the Willows, and it can be Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 188. Waithe, William Morris’s Utopia, p. 90. 62 Edward B. Irving, ‘The Charge of the Saxon Brigade: Tennyson’s Battle of Brunanburh’, in Donald G. Scragg and Carole Weinberg (eds), Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 174–93, at p. 187. 63 See Irving, ‘The Charge of the Saxon Brigade’ and Jones, ‘Where Now the Harp?’. 60 61

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assumed that Grahame intended this to be the case, however he came upon the means to create this distinction. These distinctions, though, make ‘Wayfarers All’ as different, and arguably as new, as Morris’ literal translation technique and use of dialect and obscure words to allow readers to sense the alterity of the material, and as Hopkins’ coinages and compounds ‘rinse and wring the ear’64 and work something new in poetry. Grahame uses Old English verse forms and subject matter obliquely, but his use of them in prose demonstrates the way in which they have been dispersed widely throughout the literary tradition. ‘Wayfarers All’ reflects in microcosm the continual re-fashioning of Old English and its inherently transformative nature. Grahame’s prose in ‘Wayfarers All’ may be read as the sifted result of a linguistic, literary and cultural sieve: a work which unconsciously relates to the continued re-forming and filtering of older forms of writing and the ways they have been received, to the spreading and embedding of such revisions within the consciousness of writers and readers.

64

Alexander, Medievalism, p. 168.

3 Wulf and Eadwacer in 1830 New Zealand: Anglo-Saxonism and Postcolonialism in Hamish Clayton’s Wulf (2011) Martina Marzullo

When she came aboard. When we went into the hold When she strangled her daughter. When we threw the body into the sea. Then we had entered each other´s histories.1

I

n 1830, the British ship Elizabeth silently approached New Zealand’s shores, waiting to engage with the Māori tribe Ngāti Toa. What happened afterwards is the topic of Hamish Clayton’s Wulf, a novel published in 2011, which frames the story of the great Māori chief Te Rop’hara (Clayton makes use of both spellings, Te Rop’hara and Te Rauparaha) as a contemporary reinterpretation of the Old English poem Wulf and Eadwacer.2 Clayton is just one of many contemporary writers who have incorporated or adapted Anglo-Saxon literary material into their own work. Chris Jones was one of the first scholars to start analysing this phenomenon, focusing specifically on twentieth-century poets and their interactions with Old English verse.3 His research shows how this practice of incorporating Old English poetic features into modern works of art had begun already in the early 1900s, growing so considerably in popularity that, by the turn of the twenty-first century, some scholars started to refer Hamish Clayton, Wulf (Rosedale, 2011), p. 231. The majority of Clayton’s considerations regarding the novel have been acquired thanks to the writer himself, who has shared with me his perspectives and experiences. These will be referred to in the chapter as ‘personal communication’. 3 Chris Jones mentions, among others, the works of Seamus Heaney, Geoffrey Hill, Thom Gunn, Edwin Morgan, and Richard Wilbur. See Chris Jones, ‘While Crowding Memories Came: Edwin Morgan, Old English, and Nostalgia’, Scottish Literary Review 4:2 (2012), 123– 44; and Chris Jones, Fossil Poetry: Anglo-Saxon and Linguistic Nativism in Nineteenth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2018). 1

2

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to this literary trend as ‘The Anglo-Saxon Poetic Renaissance’.4 This revival of Old English is found in a variety of works, including poetry and historical fiction, both inside and outside the border of the British Isles.5 Novels like Wulf display a peculiar way of dealing with historical languages and their literature: Clayton himself stated in an interview how ‘The last thing that anybody in their right mind would tell, is this story of Te Rauparaha through it’,6 where ‘it’ refers to the Anglo-Saxon poem Wulf and Eadwacer. Applying Old English literature to cultural settings and historical events that are completely disconnected from the Anglo-Saxons in time and space can change how readers perceive medieval material. This chapter hopes to shed light on this literary trend and its implications for the study of both medieval and contemporary literature. The only existing scholarship regarding Clayton’s work is a publication by Melissa Kennedy,7 who analyses the complicated relationship between the Māori and the Pākehā throughout history8 and the unbiased and postcolonial way Clayton treats this relationship in his novel. Kennedy, however, overlooks how relevant the connection to the Old English poem is. In fact, the postcolonial tones present in the novel gain an entirely new meaning once analysed in relation to Wulf and Eadwacer, and, more importantly, in light of the debate Old English studies is currently facing. With the present chapter, it will be shown how Hamish Clayton’s Wulf is connected to Old English, both on a linguistic and literary level, and what such contemporary usage of early medieval English implies for Anglo-Saxonist scholarship in general.9 Moreover, by taking into account the postcolonial perspective in relation to the history of New Zealand and the Anglo-Saxon past, I will elaborate on possible ways to rehabilitate Anglo-Saxonist scholarship, focusing especially on how to disassociate it from nationalistic narratives, which much too often frame the field as a white supremacist hub. The Anglo-Saxons and the Twenty-First Century Before turning to the analysis of Clayton’s Wulf, it is important to contextualize Anglo-Saxonist scholarship and the political associations the field has acquired, 4 Chris Jones, ‘New Old English: The Place of Old English in Twentieth- and TwentyFirst-Century Poetry’, Literature Compass 7:11 (2010), 1009–19, at p. 1017. 5 A few examples of this trend are Maria Dahvana Headley, The Mere Wife (London, 2018); Neil Gaiman, The Monarch of the Glen (London, 2016); Sarah Perry, After Me Comes the Flood (London, 2014); Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Be þam lytlan æþelinge, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010); Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande, trans. Peter S. Baker (Portlaoise, 2015). 6 Brannavan Gnanalingam, ‘Hamish Clayton on Wulf’, The Lumière Reader, 5 Mar. 2012, [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 7 Melissa Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts Before Us: Hamish Clayton’s Wulf ’, Journal of New Zealand Literature 31 (2013), 150–72. 8 The word Pākehā comes from the Māori language and refers to Europeans, ‘fairskinned’ people, in general anyone non-Māori. 9 Here, the term ‘Anglo-Saxonist’ is used in relation to Allen J. Frantzen’s definition of “Anglo-Saxonism” as ‘the study of how Anglo-Saxon culture has been used to promote social, intellectual, and political objectives in post-Anglo-Saxon periods’. Allen J. Frantzen, AngloSaxon Keywords (Malden, 2012), p. 11.

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especially in recent years. Patrick Geary describes how ‘over the last decade […] The creation of new states in East and Central Europe and the reemergence of xenophobia in Western Europe have returned to prominence old myths of medieval national origins and ethnic enmity’.10 The idea of a mythical past, a medieval heritage which somehow grants a sense of racial superiority, is not something new. Already in the early nineteenth century, Thomas Jefferson was creating the idea of a republic based on Anglo-Saxon roots. As illustrated by John D. Niles: ‘[…] just as the Angles and Saxons had migrated to Britain bringing with them their ancient language and customs, so English-speaking people had migrated to North America a thousand years later, bringing with them their mother tongue and an unbroken cultural heritage’.11 Whereas Jefferson focused purely on the historical link between the Anglo-Saxons and the American people, the American scholar Louis F. Klipstein (1813–1878) went further, focusing instead on an ideological link by ‘declaring that there is a natural connection between language and ethnicity’.12 Niles explains how Klipstein considered Old English to be ‘the language of mighty people – that is to say, peoples who have been successful in waging wars – [as such, it] becomes a more advance medium to the extent that their society grows strong’.13 Hence, the word ‘Anglo-Saxon’, which represented those ‘mighty people’, started acquiring a new meaning: ‘the term is […] used to denote the dominant “white” element in the modern populations of the British Empire and North America’.14 Another influential figure, who contributed to the connection between Old English, and consequently Anglo-Saxons, and this idea of a ‘race superiority’ was Jacob Grimm. As illustrated by Donna Beth Ellard, Grimm also believed that old languages represented ‘a nation’s original “tradition[s]” which are “embodied” by a “masculine national virility”’.15 Just as Klipstein did, Grimm perpetuated the ‘belief in the superiority of English-speaking peoples’ which is directly linked to that ‘northern European/Germanic homosocial, ethnically separatist, and racist heroism’.16 The problem with these ideological beliefs of Klipstein and Grimm is that, however false, they created the basis for what would become a much larger and more dangerous discourse revolving around Old English and Anglo-Saxon studies. In Ellard’s words: ‘we do not own nor fully control the many valences of this term [Anglo-Saxon], but we are beholden nevertheless to the politics sedimented within its nineteenth-century origins and twentieth-century uses’.17 If we look at the political events of recent years, and especially the new extremist movements such as the Alt-Right, then we can clearly see how these ideas evolved in the twenty-first century. Sarah Luginbill writes: ‘For the last several years, neo-Nazis and hate groups across the globe have co-opted and twisted various aspects of Patrick Geary, ‘European Nationalism and the Medieval Past’, Historically Speaking 3:5 (2002), 2–4, at p. 2. 11 John D. Niles, The Idea of Anglo-Saxon England 1066–1901: Remembering, Forgetting, Deciphering, and Renewing the Past (Chichester, 2015), p. 268. 12 Niles, Idea of Anglo-Saxon England, p. 281. 13 Niles, Idea of Anglo-Saxon England, p. 281. 14 Niles, Idea of Anglo-Saxon England, p. 282. 15 Donna Beth Ellard, Anglo-Saxon(ist) Pasts, postSaxon Futures (New York, 2019), p. 289. 16 Ellard, Anglo-Saxon(ist) Pasts, p. 292. 17 Ellard, Anglo-Saxon(ist) Pasts, p. 292. 10

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the Middle Ages to serve their own agendas. […] White supremacists who believe medieval Europe was all-white cling to the notion of a pure “Anglo-Saxon” race: a (fantasized) masculine, warrior culture loosely based on the inhabitants of early medieval England’.18 This notion of an ‘Anglo-Saxon race’ led, eventually, to a change in the perception of Anglo-Saxons themselves. As Mary Dockray-Miller explains: ‘Outside the university […] the phrase “Anglo-Saxon” did not refer to early medieval English. Instead, it was racial and racist, freighted with assumptions of privilege and superiority’.19 The association of the term Anglo-Saxon with racism is what has caused most recently a great debate over medievalist terminology: according to some, ‘“Anglo-Saxon” has become a supremacist dog-whistle reinforcing the idea of the “Anglo-Saxon race” as an indigenous group in England. […] The term’s association with whiteness has saturated our lexicon to the point that it is absurdly misused in political discourse’.20 However, as politically relevant as the Anglo-Saxons have become due to their misappropriations by these extremist groups, the same could not always be said regarding their literature, culture, and language. In fact, Anglo-Saxon history and Anglo-Saxon England in general have not always been appreciated, sometimes not even considered worth studying. As Thomas Shippey stated in a 2000 publication, ‘the Anglo-Saxon world […] has no presence at all in modern life’,21 while historical and mythological characters of roughly the same period such as the Vikings or King Arthur have always played a role in the popular imagination. Nonetheless, in the last century, a few scholars and writers were able ‘to reverse the trend and put Anglo-Saxondom in an imaginatively attractive setting’.22 J. R. R. Tolkien can be considered inarguably one of the most famous examples of ‘resuscitating’ the Anglo-Saxon world and shaping its myths into a new narrative.23 An Old English literary revival started already in the nineteenth century, thanks especially 18 Sarah Luginbill, ‘White Supremacy and Medieval History: A Brief Overview’, Erstwhile: A History Blog, 18 Mar. 2020 [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 19 Mary Dockray-Miller, ‘Old English Has a Serious Image Problem’, JSTOR Daily, 3 May 2017 [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 20 Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘Misnaming the Medieval: Rejecting “Anglo-Saxon” Studies’, History Workshop, 4 Nov. 2019 [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 21 T. A. Shippey, ‘The Undeveloped Image: Anglo-Saxon in Popular Consciousness from Turner to Tolkien’, in Donald G. Scragg and Carole Weinberg (eds) Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 215–36, at p. 225. 22 Shippey, ‘Undeveloped Image’, p. 234. 23 Among the scholars who have drawn parallelism between Tolkien’s works and AngloSaxon material, see Jane Chance, Tolkien and the Invention of Myth: A Reader (Lexington, 2004); Jonathan Evans, ‘The Dragon-Lore of Middle-earth: Tolkien and Old English and Old Norse Tradition’, in George Clark and Daniel Rimmons (eds), J. R. R. Tolkien and His Literary Resonances: Views of Middle-Earth. (London, 2000), pp. 21–38; Stuart D. Lee and Elizabeth Solopova, The Keys of Middle-earth: Discovering Medieval Literature through the Fiction of J. R. R. Tolkien (Basingstoke, 2005); Thijs Porck, ‘Reshaping the Germanic Economy of Honour: Gift Giving in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings’, in Renée Vink (ed.), Lembas Extra 2019: The World Tolkien Built (Leiden, 2019), pp. 7–26; T. A. Shippey, The Road to Middle-Earth: How J. R. R. Tolkien Created a New Mythology (London, 1982).

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to the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Alfred Tennyson, and eventually rose to popularity in the twentieth-century with the Modernists. Chris Jones has shown how poets such as Ezra Pound, W. H. Auden,25 and Seamus Heaney reinvented Old English poetry by adapting it and making it new: ‘Pound’s “Seafarer” can justifiably be seen as the portal through which Old English comes into contact with a host of other poets, to the point where, a century later, Old English is now almost a mainstream aspect of contemporary poetry’.26 In this sense, Jones speaks of ‘New Old English’, a term he coined to indicate all the vast body of twentieth-century poetry that uses Old English as a ‘compositional resource’.27 Carl Phelpstead has also argued how Auden’s poetry, for instance, has adapted the Old English verse form, dissociating it from its archaic subject matter, and introducing modern vocabulary in it.28 Phelpstead explains how Auden’s interest lay not simply in reproducing Old English poetry but in the belief that the alliterative verse was better suited for the English language than the modernist rhyming and free verse.29 Following Phelpstead’s study, Jones was able to prove how ‘the return to Old English by various authors did not occur as isolated incidents of literary history, but as a part of a more coherent and widespread phenomenon’.30 The analysis of modernist poetry and its correlation with Old English alliterative verse helped create a new field of scholarly enquiry,31 which looks at modern uses of Old English in its entirety as a new literary trend rather than focusing on single authors.32 However, it is not only through poetry and its alliterative verse that Old English has found new life. Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, writers have challenged themselves with the task of producing novels which deal with the AngloSaxon period itself, and more specifically with its literature and language. Examples 24

See Chris Jones, Fossil Poetry. See M. J. Toswell’s contribution to this volume for more information on the poet and his connection to Old English poetry, pp. 19–35. 26 Chris Jones, ‘Old English after 1066’, in Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2013), pp. 313–30, at pp. 326–7. 27 Jones, ‘New Old English’, p. 1009. 28 See Carl Phelpstead, ‘Auden and the Inklings: An Alliterative Revival’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology 103:4 (2004), 433–57. 29 See Phelpstead, ‘Auden and the Inklings’. 30 Jones, ‘New Old English’, p. 1014. 31 See Bettina Bildhauer and Chris Jones, The Middle Ages in the Modern World: TwentyFirst-Century Perspectives (Oxford, 2017); David Clark and Nicholas Perkins, Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010); Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006); Christina Neuland and Florian Schleburg, ‘A New Old English? The Chances of an Anglo-Saxon Revival on the Internet’, in Sarah Buschfeld, Thomass Hoffman, Magnus Huber, Alexander Kautzsch and Edgar W. Schneider (eds), The Evolution of Englishes: The Dynamic Model and Beyond (Amsterdam, 2014), pp. 486–504; Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Old English in the Modern World: Its Didactic Value’, OEN 46:3 (2016), 1–8 [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]; Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’ (2018), 309–28; Elaine Treharne, ‘The Shock of the Old: Early English and its Modern Re-Tellings’, The Heroic Age: A Journal of Early Medieval Northwestern Europe 14 (2010), [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 32 Jones, ‘New Old English’, p. 1011. 24 25

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may vary, from novels which describe fictionalized historical events of early medieval England, such as The Last Kingdom and The Northumbrian Thrones series,33 to works entirely written in new forms of Old English, like Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake,34 or even translations of famous works into Old English, such as Heinrich Hoffman’s Der Struwelpeter (as Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan), Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Le petit prince (as Be þam lytlan æþelinge) or Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland (as Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande),35 to name but a few. At this point some may wonder, why precisely Anglo-Saxon England? What makes the Old English world so attractive to the twenty-first-century public? Throughout the centuries, Anglo-Saxon England has been imagined, reinvented, glorified, abused in so many different ways that it has become a difficult concept to grasp.36 Even the physical and historical space Anglo-Saxon England occupied appears still blurry: ‘[…] the culture that we identify as Anglo-Saxon was never confined to the British Isles. Originating as a product of the conversion and colonization of parts of sub-Roman Britain, it moved out to convert and colonize other geographical and cultural areas. The fact that it also lived on well beyond the usual terminal dates of 1100 or 1066 has also been the subject of numerous recent studies. Even in the post-Conquest period, the borders of Anglo-Saxon England remain hard to define’.37 It is not surprising, then, to find contemporary writers using the literary material of such a timeless and borderless period to produce their works. The complexity and multiculturalism of Anglo-Saxon England cannot be defined ‘simply by chronology and geography, but rather [Anglo-Saxon England is] an idea, a concept applied to texts and still in motion’.38 An example of the borderless and timeless literature of the Anglo-Saxons is Wulf, written by the New Zealander Hamish Clayton. A New Zealander Wulf In Wulf, Hamish Clayton tells the story of the British ship Elizabeth, which sailed for New Zealand in 1830, and its encounter with the Māori tribe Ngāti Toa. The whole novel is narrated by a nameless British sailor on board the Elizabeth who gives an Bernard Cornwell, The Last Kingdom Series (also known as The Saxon Stories) (London, 2004–); Edoardo Albert, The Northumbrian Thrones Series (Oxford, 2014–16). 34 Paul Kingsnorth, The Wake (London, 2014). For more information on this novel, see the contributions by Oliver M. Traxel and Judy Kendall to this volume, pp. 95–134. 35 Heinrich Hoffmann, Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan. Myrge mæþelword ge lustbære licnessa, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010); Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Be þam lytlan æþelinge. Mid licnessum gefæged be þam writere, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010; Runic edition, 2018); and Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande, trans. Peter S. Baker (Portlaoise, 2015). See the contributions by Fritz Kemmler and Denis Ferhatović to this volume, pp. 173–208. 36 For a complete study on the different ways Anglo-Saxon England has been re-imagined, see Catherine E. Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2020). 37 Catherine E. Karkov and Nicholas Howe, ‘Introduction’, in Catherine E. Karkov and Nicholas Howe (eds), Conversion and Colonization in Anglo-Saxon England (Tempe, 2006), pp. xix–xx. 38 Jones, Fossil Poetry, p. 272. 33

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account of everything he experiences, but also by Cowell, the ship’s trading master, and his stories about the Māori and the great chief Te Rop’hara, also known as Te Rauparaha.39 The narrative takes an unexpected turn when the chief of the Ngāti Toa (i.e. Te Rop’hara), in exchange for the goods of his land, demands the help of the British in attacking his southern enemy, the tribe Ngāi Tahu. John Stewart, the captain of the Elizabeth, decides to accept the deal, thus making him and his crew accomplices in the atrocious end of the chief Hara-nui, also known as Tama-i-haranui or Te Maiharanui,40 and his family. Clayton builds the whole novel around the Old English poem Wulf and Eadwacer, a very ambiguous text of the Anglo-Saxon period, which to this day does not have a commonly accepted official translation. As Peter S. Baker explains in his article about the poem, ‘[…] for nearly every critic who takes on this literary puzzle either proposes yet more solutions to its many cruces or brings to our attention cruces that we were not even aware of before’.41 The Old English poem is found in the Exeter Book and may be dated to the ninth or tenth century: Leodum is minum  swylce him mon lac gife. Willað hy hine aþecgan  gif he on þreat cymeð. Ungelic is us. Wulf is on iege,  ic on oþerre. Fæst is þæt eglond,  fenne biworpen. Sindon wælreowe  weras þær on ige. Willað hy hine aþecgan  gif he on þreat cymeð. Ungelice is us. Wulfes ic mines widlastum  wenum dogode, þonne hit wæs renig weder,  ond ic reotugu sæt, þonne mec se beaducafa  bogum bilegde.˗ wæs me wyn to þon;  wæs me hwæþre eac lað. Wulf, min Wulf,  wena me þine seoce gedydon,  þine seldcymas, murnende mod,  nales meteliste. Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer?  Uncerne earmne hwelp (MS earne) bireð wulf to wuda. Þæt mon eaþe tosliteð  þætte næfre gesomnad wæs, uncer giedd geador.42 [It is though my people had been given A present. They will wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Steven Oliver, ‘Te Rauparaha’, in Te Ara - the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, (1990) [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 40 Steven Oliver, ‘Tama-i-hara-nui’, in Te Ara - the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, (1990) [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 41 Peter Baker, ‘The Ambiguity of Wulf and Eadwacer’, Studies in Philology 78:5 (1981), 39–51, at p. 40. 42 Original text taken from Anne L. Klinck (ed.), The Old English Elegies: A Critical Edition and Genre Study (Montreal, 1992), p. 92. 39

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Wulf is on one isle, I am on another. Fast is that island set among the fen. Murderous are the people who inhabit That island. They will wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Grieved have I for my Wulf with distant longings. Then it was rainy weather, and I sad, When the bold warrior laid his arms about me. I took delight in that and also pain. O Wulf, my Wulf, my longing for your coming Has made me ill, the rareness of your visits, My grieving spirit, not the lack of food. Eadwacer, do you hear me? For a wolf Shall carry to the woods our wretched whelp. Men very easily may put asunder That which was never joined, our song together.]43

At the very beginning of his book, Clayton describes the poem and its various interpretations, showing how the ambiguity derives from several different meanings that some Old English words have: ‘the Old English word for “gift” can also mean “play” or “battle”; the word for “destroy” can be used to mean “receive”; and the word for “feed” or “serve” can also mean “kill”’.44 Besides, it is not clear whether the female speaker is in a relationship with both Wulf and Eadwacer, or if they are in fact the same person, nor is the kind of relationship between them specified. However, Clayton is not interested in finding one correct interpretation for the poem; rather, he focuses on its ‘tone of lasting, bitter despair’ caused by the fact that Wulf has been captured and is being held on one island, while the speaker is helplessly longing for him on another. 45 Moving forward in time, Clayton introduces his story: ‘Almost a thousand years after […] the warrior chief Te Rauparaha of the tribe Ngāti Toa rose to dominate the tribal structure of the pre-colonial Māori in New Zealand’.46 Clayton states that ‘the novel’s narrative fairly directly maps on to the track of the original poem’;47 in fact, the whole story is full of similarities and parallelisms with the Old English poem. For instance, the great chief Te Ropʼraha is linked to the figure of the wolf, which directly connects him to the Wulf48 of the Old English poem: ‘Amongst ourselves we’d taken to calling him the Great Wolf, for the men imagined him falling upon us when our backs were turned, creating a cloak of darkness, shadowy like an animal’s hide’.49 Similarly, the figure of Edward Walker/Waka, also called the Watcher, is clearly linked to the Old English poem’s character Eadwacer. Although its meaning 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

As translated by Richard Hamer; Clayton, Wulf, p. 11. Clayton, Wulf, pp. 9–10. Clayton, Wulf, p. 10. Clayton, Wulf, p. 10. Personal communication. Wulf is the Old English form for ‘wolf ’. Clayton, Wulf, p. 13.

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is still a matter of debate, some critics consider the Old English eadwacer to be a compound made of the words ead- ‘wealth, prosperity’, and the adjective wacor ‘watchful’.50 Thus, the name Eadwacer could indicate someone ‘watchful of wealth or happiness’,51 or possibly ‘the speaker’s guardian or jailer’,52 contrary to another common belief that sees ‘the guardian of happiness’ as Wulf himself.53 In Clayton’s version of the poem, Edward Walker, due to his job as night-watcher and to his name resembling the word eadwacer, reflects the persona of the watcher of the Old English poem. Apart from the characters’ similarities to the Old English poem, another interesting analogy lies in the use Clayton makes of the word ‘gift’ throughout the novel. In Wulf and Eadwacer, the word lac is probably the one most discussed by the interpreters of the poem, because its meaning ranges from ‘battle’ to ‘sacrifice’ to ‘message’ and ‘gift’. Baker argues that the majority of its translations are merely misinterpretations, and that the word in question ‘[…] means nothing more than “gift”’.54 Following this interpretation, Clayton decided to use ‘gift’ for his own version of the poem.55 Examples of its use are plentiful and appear either as subtle allusions or as straightforward references. For instance, when approaching the New Zealand coastline the narrator describes the country stretching out ‘like a gift from the open sky before us’;56 when recalling the words of Te Rop’raha about birds being a gift from the native gods, the Watcher starts repeating the phrase ‘A gift of birds […] A gift of birds’,57 as if it were a chant. Te Rop’raha, in fact, is described making use of the term gift on multiple occasions, especially in relation to the environment: ‘He had brought them no gifts but that chain of ranges’, and again ‘He knew that when you gave a man a gift of mountainsides, you told him where he could stand, you told him where he could look’.58 When explaining the horrific part the British played in the defeat of the Māori tribe Ngāi Tahu, the narrator describes them as ‘a gift of war’,59 while Cowell explains how they were going to bring ‘Gifts for the southern tribe’.60 Such sentences might not appear relevant at first; however, if we look closely, we realize that the author is very keen on employing the word ‘gift’, even if in some instances the word could be easily replaced by clearer alternatives, or avoided completely. Surely, the repetitive use of ‘gift’ shows the intention of Clayton to put emphasis on this word because it is a direct link to the Old English poem.

Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, p. 49. Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, p. 49. 52 Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, p. 49. 53 Stanley B. Greenfield, ‘Wulf and Eadwacer: All Passion Pent’, Anglo-Saxon England 15 (1986), pp. 5–14, at p. 12. 54 Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, p. 41. 55 Here I use the term ‘poem’ to indicate the novel Wulf. I do so in order to create a direct correlation between Wulf and Eadwacer and Clayton’s story. 56 The emphasis on ‘gift’ is mine, both in this quote and in the following ones until the end of the phrase. – Clayton, Wulf, p. 16. 57 Clayton, Wulf, p. 62. 58 Clayton, Wulf, p. 85. 59 Clayton, Wulf, p. 187. 60 Clayton, Wulf, p. 187. 50 51

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The presence of ‘gift’ in Clayton’s novel is not the only Old English reference. There are, in fact, other blunter references, such as, for example, the sentence ‘Here was the alliance Te Rop’raha sought, extended in the manner of a gift’,61 where ‘in the manner of a gift’ is a direct quotation from the translation of Wulf and Eadwacer made by Bill Manhire (one of the many translations used by Clayton; among others, the novel features as foreword and afterword, respectively, the translations by Richard Hamer and John F. Adams).62 Another example is in the phrase ‘We were on our islands; wolves were on another’,63 where the references to the islands are directly linked to the Old English poem. Finally, in a note found by the narrator in Cowell’s journal: My life was a storm made out of the wind and the rain of two women. I kept them on separate islands, my women. I made gifts out of them, from the bodies of them, and I gave gifts between them, so they were passed between, from one woman to the other though they did not know it. […].64

Cowell’s story not only makes use of the word ‘gift’ but the narrative itself; that is, the two people being on two different islands recalls the setting of Wulf and Eadwacer. The novel, moreover, contains Clayton’s interpretation of the Old English Wulf and Eadwacer itself. The text appears at the end of his book, in the shape of a poem narrated by the wife of Hara-nui. Although he declared himself to be uninterested in finding a solution to this ambiguous Anglo-Saxon text, he created a version of the poem that makes sense for his novel:65 We were received but now you will devour us. Your troop has come to tear us apart. The Wolf is on one island we are on another. His island as safe as if surrounded by swamp. Made fast by his men slaughter-cruel. Now you will devour us; your troop has come to tear us apart.66

These first lines make clear that the speaker is part of the tribe Ngāi Tahu, specifically the wife of Hara-nui as we will clearly see later, while the Wolf is none other than Te Ropʼraha, who is going to the Southern Island to kill his enemies. The tone of Clayton’s poem differs greatly from the interpretations and translations of the 61 62 63 64 65 66

Clayton, Wulf, p. 87. Clayton, Wulf, p. 239. Clayton, Wulf, p. 23. Clayton, Wulf, p. 43 – Italics present in the original text. Personal communication. Clayton, Wulf, p. 232.

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Old English one, since in this scenario Wulf/Wolf is not seen as a lover but rather as a threat. The Ngāi Tahu speaker appears to be the Māori equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon one. She reveals the very same longing and despair the speaker of Wulf and Eadwacer shows: When the Wolf wanders, I suffer. When the rains came I wept for when the warrior put his strong arms around me I loathed myself for the comfort I took. Wolf. Wolf, I wanted you to come to us. But in vain I hoped and I, now, am sick with   mourning worse than hunger.67

The speaker suffers not because Wolf is far away but because she knows Wolf is coming with the intention to kill them. However, it is exactly the awareness of their inevitable death that makes her long for him: the wait for death is worse than death itself. It is this very feeling that makes her take comfort in the arms of Te Ropʼraha ‘the warrior’ when he finally arrives. The following lines introduce two other characters present in the Old English poem. The ‘eadwacer’ and the ‘whelp’ add a further aura of despair to the poem: This man watching, does he hear the heart of my wretched whelp? Can he hear the Wolf in the waka who will carry her to the woods?68

The ‘man watching’ is undoubtedly Edward Walker/Waka, while the ‘whelp’ could be the daughter of Hara-nui and his wife. As Baker explains with reference to the Old English Wulf and Eadwacer, the Old English word hwelp (whelp) could be translated as ‘child’ or could be interpreted as a metaphor for the love between Wulf and the speaker.69 Baker leans towards the former, suggesting that ‘the presence of a child might very well add poignancy to the story […]’.70 This interpretation seems to be the one adopted by Clayton as well, especially considering how Hara-nuiʼs daughter is directly referred to in the subsequent lines. In fact, at the end of Clayton’s novel, the story of the whelp is revealed. We learn through the voice of an old whaler that Hara-nui and his wife killed their daughter Nga Roimata while imprisoned on the Elizabeth to spare her from an atrocious 67 68 69 70

Clayton, Wulf, p. 232. Clayton, Wulf, p. 233. Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, 50. Baker, ‘The Ambiguity’, 50.

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death at the hands of Te Ropʼraha: 71 ‘[…] she had been strangled by her own parents to save her from a similar fate’.72 Thus, it becomes apparent that the whelp Clayton mentions in his poem is none other than the daughter of Hara-nui. The poem ends with the speaker addressing what could be seen as the decision of Hara-nui to kill his own daughter: My chief and lord would rather tear us apart. He would rather tear apart our song before it has been sung. Not easily understood, it was easily done and our lives undone.73

The chief and lord Hara-nui has decided to tear apart his wife from his daughter because he knows that Te Ropʼaraha will not simply end her life but would make of her death a macabre spectacle for his people. The ‘song’ could therefore represent the life of the daughter, who will die before she even has the chance to live, that is, before her ‘song’ (life) has been ‘sung’ (lived). Clayton does not limit his story to a modern reinterpretation of Wulf and Eadwacer; indeed, the whole narration echoes the style of Old English poetry. As he himself affirmed, the novel is heavily influenced by the formal characteristics of Old English poetry;74 in fact, it is inspired by Seamus Heaney and his translation of Beowulf.75 Clayton created the same cadences, stresses, and rhythms of Old English and made them his own, as he himself notes: […] at times poetry very obviously bursts through the surface of the text, but the debt of Old English metre and rhythm seems there to me from the first line of the whole novel, ‘I never saw a country so fresh, so harsh, so beauteous-green’. I wouldn’t have been writing like that without having read Heaney, so the voice and tone of the entire book owes a lot to Old English influences, or at least what I could make of them.76

The narrator explains how both Hara-nui and his wife were ‘cut to bits and eaten’ – Clayton, Wulf, p. 229. 72 Clayton, Wulf, p. 229. 73 Clayton, Wulf, p. 233. 74 Personal communication. 75 Seamus Heaney, Beowulf, A Verse Translation: Authoritative Text, Contexts, Criticism, ed. Daniel Donoghue, 2nd edn (New York, 2009). 76 Personal communication. 71

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Apart from that first line, there are plenty of examples in the novel that demonstrate Clayton’s statement. The entire novel is full of small poems or prose-poetry passages, which show the influence of Old English poetry, for instance: To the South its side rose steeply from the sea, as steep as the green sides of a ship whose timber sides were turned green by the sea. To the North it lay as flat as an animal that lay in the water, watching us watching it as we approached, entering its water.77

In this small poem found in the very first chapter of the book, the alliteration, so typical of Old English poetry, is easy to recognise in the repetition of the sound /s/ (south, side, steeply, sea, steep, sides, and so on) in the first stanza, and the sound /w/ (water, watching, we) in the second one. Other stylistic devices used by Clayton in his attempt to mimic the effects produced by the Old English alliterative verse are the assonance of the sound /i:/ (steep, green), 78 as well as the recurrence of the words ‘side’, ‘sea’ and ‘green’, and also ‘lay’, ‘water’ and ‘watching’. Other examples include small prose-poetry sentences such as ‘That country lay in far and unstable waters. History lay in wait for that far and unstable country’ and ‘I had been walking through gullies through the afternoon, through sheer green gullies, through wild green rooms’.79 Here, the reiteration of the same words creates that same incantatory effect Old English poetry normally achieves via stressed syllables and which gives Old English its distinct quality. Another interesting way poetry is used is to describe the narrator’s thoughts: This is what held me: a tree like a bucket, balanced on the sky and holding the sky And this is what led me: the shape of a treestump, mistaken for and making a Wolf And this is what sheltered me; the side of a hill as dry as a brother’s side, a cow’s flank in a land without cattle, as dry as the inside of a wooden ship And all of this is what drove me.80

Clayton, Wulf, pp. 15–16. Clayton relies on assonances and consonances (which recall the Old English consonantal and vocalic alliteration), and repetitions to achieve the same musicality normally given by stresses. It is also worth noting that Clayton, however fortuitously, quite frequently employs two-stress lines, which are reminiscent of Old English half-lines. 79 Clayton, Wulf, pp. 13, 17. 80 Clayton, Wulf, p. 23. 77 78

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Here again we can notice a few consonances such as ‘bucket’ and ‘balance’, ‘mistaken’ and ‘making’, or ‘cow’ and ‘cattle’, but what really is fascinating is the anaphoric ‘this is what … me’. This type of anaphora recalls the formula,81 a mnemonic device commonly used in the oral tradition, where the same sentence is used multiple times to introduce different passages. The connection between Clayton’s Wulf and the Old English poem is also made evident by three different allusions to the Anglo-Saxon period that appear in the book. For instance, when Cowell first talks about Entry Island (also known as Kopitee), he describes it as ‘a spiked Saxon shield afloat in the sea’,82 or when asked about Te Rop’raha’s beaches and how they look, he asks the crew if they had ever ‘stepped upon those unmarked burial grounds concealing the shafts of ancient war, where fossils of old Angles’ battles lay and became poetry, slowly petrifying towards a state of lore’.83 Finally, while admiring the bright light of Venus in the night sky, and the way it hangs over the Middle Island, Cowell makes a reference to Harold Godwinson dying at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, saying ‘remember that before the Saxon king fell upon his hill with a Norman arrow slanting through his eye, it was a comet that foretold the defeat of his army and the end of English kings’.84 All these references help to put Clayton’s novel in that specific context, which sees the story of Te Ropʼraha as a modern interpretation of Wulf and Eadwacer. The result is a direct cultural link between Māori history and Anglo-Saxon England, almost as if the one could be understood only through the other. Not even the title is exempt from a deeper meaning. Clayton named his novel after one of his characters, but the word Wulf is much more than just a name. What Clayton gives his readers, perhaps unintentionally, is an entirely new frame in which to view Anglo-Saxon England. The Old English word wulf/wolf has been often referred to with the term ‘border warden’. As Treharne explains, the word used to describe border in Old English ‘is the noun mearc [which] can also intimate a space that is more than the periphery of the unnamed center; mearca includes the “space marked out” – that is, the space in-between the marked. […] This seems to be reinforced by the cases of mearcstapa (“border stepper”), mearcweard (literally, “a border warden,” usually translated as “wolf ”)’.85 She continues explaining how, then, in reverse, ‘another term for a wolf is mearcweard (“boundary guardian”)’.86 She concludes: ʻFor the Anglo-Saxons, the fluidity of borders is discernible in their desire to fix them and make the space between them known, even if left unmapped. 81 Regarding the use of the formulaic style in Old English literature there are many controversial studies. Most likely, Clayton here employs the formulaic style as defined by Milman Parry in the early twentieth century. For further insights on the topic see Albert Bates Lord, The Singer Resumes the Tale, ed. Mary Louise Lord (Cornell, 1995); Anita Riedinger, ‘The Old English Formula in Context’, Speculum 60:2 (1985), 294–317; Donald G. Scragg, ‘The Nature of Old English Verse’, in Malcolm Golden and Michael Lapidge (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2013), pp. 50–65. 82 Clayton, Wulf, p. 92. 83 Clayton, Wulf, p. 169. 84 Clayton, Wulf, p. 138. 85 Elaine Treharne, ‘Borders’, in Jacqueline Stodnick and Renée R. Trulling (eds), A Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Studies (Chichester, 2012), pp. 9–22, at p. 14. 86 Treharne, ‘Borders’, pp. 15–16.

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This space is most often interpreted as “borderland,” implying a narrow strip of edge adjacent to the border; but it is often better defined as a center not a margin, an expanse of the in between, rather than abutting the boundary’.87 Hence, as the word wulf/wolf represents everything outside the border, in fact the very symbol of the in-between land, its own ‘guardian’, so does Clayton’s Wulf situate itself outside the geographical and chronological borders of Anglo-Saxon England, becoming an emblem of the perpetual and limitless potential of Old English medievalism. A Postcolonial Wulf? As shown in the analysis, Old English language and literature can be surprisingly useful tools with which to retrace New Zealand’s colonial past. Arguably, Clayton uses the Anglo-Saxon past to close that bicultural gap between the Māori and the Pākehā, that is, the discrepancy and imbalance between the two different cultures. As the early medieval history of England challenges the contemporary notion of an ‘English’ colonial supremacy,88 at the same time it connects the colonies to the ‘motherland’ in a completely new and different way. By looking at the novel through a postcolonial lens, Kennedy tell us that Clayton’s ‘imperial language’ forms a bridge of understanding connecting Te Ropʼraha’s and Stewart’s interests in war and trade:89 ‘[…] Such language of similarity construes colonial contact as a moment of recognition rather than of alienation and threatening difference’.90 At the same time, Clayton never really assumes Te Rop’raha’s point of view: ‘I was only going to write this poetic impression of the place that Te Rauparaha might have occupied in the imagination. I never get close to Te Rauparaha. You never see him’.91 Hence, Wulf is not just a historical novel but rather a mythological retelling of New Zealandʼs past: ‘Wulf mythologises history and historicises myth’.92 In Kennedy’s words: ‘The multiple and importantly unclear significations of the terms Wolf and Wulf are a distancing device that stretches the lifespan of stories, muddies the direct narratological link between imperial British and Māori, and merges history with myth’.93 Clayton shows us, indeed, a way to deal with colonial history which opposes the Treharne, ‘Borders’, p. 20. As Karkov explains: ‘The number of names by which the geographic area of England is known during the period c.400 to c.1200 CE (sub-Roman Britain, Anglo-Saxon England, Anglo-Scandinavian England, Anglo-Norman England), and the hyphenation of all of them, are indicative of the waves of conquerors and settlers who left a mark on the island and its culture. Indeed, Anglo-Saxon England might better be described as an ongoing postcolonial process than as an established culture or nation’ – Catherine E. Karkov, ‘Postcolonial’, in Jacqueline Stodnick and Renée R. Trilling (eds), A Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Studies (Chichester, 2012), pp. 149–64, at p. 152. 89 The term imperial language refers to that colonial-nuanced jargon typical of the nineteenth century. The expression is used by Kennedy as an homage to Mary-Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London, 1992). 90 Melissa Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts Before Us: Hamish Clayton’s Wulf ’, Journal of New Zealand Literature 31 (2013), pp. 150–72, at p. 160. 91 Brannavan Gnanalingam, ‘Hamish Clayton on Wulf’, [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 92 Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts’, p. 157. 93 Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts’, p. 158. 87

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common ‘contemporary quietist non-engagement’ approach of most postcolonial theorists,94 that is, the attitude employed by New Zealander writers, who, when describing historical figures as Te Ropʼraha, have a tendency to ignore ‘the negative aspects of his acts’ and rather focus on celebrating ‘the native hero as underdog’.95 Clayton challenges this notion by showing his readers a new side of the Māori chief and by distancing himself from the common postcolonial sensitivity. In order to fully understand Clayton’s attitude towards Māori history, it is important to remember that when dealing with colonialism, the focus should not be exclusively on the colonizer–colonised relationship (where the colonizer is always portrayed as the villain while the colonised are the innocent party), nor is a simple reversal of the colonial script (that is, the colonised are not seen as pure victims but rather as entities with their own flaws and incoherencies) enough to change the way the colonial past is seen and understood. Needless to say, depicting the Māori in a more realistic and historically accurate way should not take away their colonised experience because it is exactly that experience which has, over the centuries, made people realize the wrongdoings of colonialists. As bell hooks explains with regard to racism towards Black people, abandoning the ‘us-and-them dichotomies’ should not stop us from analysing the effects those dichotomies created in the first place.96 In other words, it is not by changing the point of view from abuser to abused that we can somehow stop racism but rather by disassociating the colonisers from the terror they caused: ‘Without the capacity to inspire terror, whiteness no longer signifies the right to dominate. […] We decolonize our minds and our imaginations’.97 Wulf does exactly this ‘by keeping in play both sides of the conversation’.98 Given this context, the use of an Old English poem as a neutral frame through which to analyse this kind of relationship is even more striking, especially in light of the aforementioned misappropriation by extremist groups. Moreover, such usage is an even more exemplary proof that Old English can and does exist outside its confined geographical and temporal borders and can extend itself to any kind of literary experience. If there is anything we can learn from Wulf, it is that just like Clayton changes the narrative of his country, so could medieval scholars regarding the cultural and historical misappropriations of England’s Anglo-Saxon past. Conclusion It is undeniable, at this point, that Hamish Clayton’s Wulf has demonstrated how Old English literature can be an excellent tool for a better understanding of our contemporary history and culture, even one so remote from us as the Māori: ‘You have this one culture trying to describe this strange culture that they’ve come up against, but they can’t do so except by recourse to their own stories and poems’.99 Clayton´s Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts’, pp. 164–5. Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts’, pp. 164–5. 96 bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston, 1992), pp. 177–8. 97 hooks, Black Looks, pp. 177–8. 98 Kennedy, ‘All Our Pasts’, p. 170. 99 Brannavan Gnanalingam, ‘Hamish Clayton on Wulf’, [accessed 15 Sep. 2021]. 94 95

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use of an Old English poem has not only managed to engage readers outside New Zealand, or those who might not be acquainted with Māori history, but it has also shown us, scholars, a new way to deal with Anglo-Saxon material. Now, if we return once again to the political issues mentioned at the beginning, having taken into account Clayton’s use of Old English, it appears even more clearly how the framing of Anglo-Saxon culture under a nationalistic and white supremacist banner is fundamentally flawed. This point is very well explained by Stephen Harris: he claims that the tendency of many scholars ‘to imagine that the linguistic borders of their own discipline […], and of the literature that discipline sought to explore […], corresponded to the borders of a nation’ is, simply put, a wrong one, as well as the nineteenth century idea ‘that a national literature somehow expressed the spiritual essence of a language group’s founding race(s)’.100 Indeed, if the myth of a ‘superior Anglo-Saxon race’ is inherently nationalistic, a colonial symptom, so to speak, Anglo-Saxon language and literature per se are not. Historically, they do not represent the supremacy of one race over another. Thus, in order to disassociate them from a nationalist narrative, to cleanse them from that ‘toxicity of the present’,101 it is our duty as scholars to show how Anglo-Saxon England does, in fact, transcend boundaries.102 In other words, what constitutes the literature and language of early medieval England ‘belongs properly to the mutable realm of artistic fashion rather than to the invariable realm of blood-borne race characteristics’.103 As Stephen Harris eloquently wrote, ‘The further we move into […] race, the further we move from the art of the poem’.104 As such, Anglo-Saxon England, a transitional period characterized by the coexistence of different languages and cultures, a ‘borderless land’, a timeless concept, becomes, on a literary level, the in-between place, the mearcstapa; Anglo-Saxon England becomes wulf.105

Stephen Harris, ‘Race and Ethnicity’, in Jacqueline Stodnick and Renée R. Trilling (eds), A Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Studies (Chichester, 2012), pp. 165–80, at p. 166. 101 Jones, Fossil Poetry, p. 273. 102 Tom Shippey famously stated: ‘Here, as much as anywhere in the academic world, scholars have a duty to trace connections, expose errors, and above all to make their voices heard inside and outside the academy’. T. A. Shippey, ‘Medievalisms and Why They Matter’, in Karl Fugelso (ed.), Studies in Medievalism XVII: Defining Medievalism(s) (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 45–54, at p. 52. 103 Harris, ‘Race’, p. 176. 104 Harris, ‘Race’, p. 177. 105 The author extends her gratitude to Jonathan Lench (Universität Heidelberg) for his valuable feedback. 100

4 Old English Poetry and Sutton Hoo on Display: Creating ‘the Anglo-Saxon’ in Museums Fran Allfrey

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his chapter analyses the meanings and effects of Old English poetry when presented alongside Sutton Hoo artefacts by the British Museum 2014–present, and with displays and landscapes at the National Trust Sutton Hoo site 2002–18. Old English poems in both spaces are extracts, mostly translated, mostly without reference to date or place of provenance. In one case the text is neither a medieval composition nor a translation although it is presented as such. Therefore, ‘Old English’ is used throughout this chapter as shorthand for fragmented, translated, neo, and new Old Englishes.1 Museums instrumentalise Old English as script and as replica. Poems are presented as the voices of lost individuals which direct visitors how to look. Such instrumentalisation of Old English suggests an anxiety about the capacity of objects or landscapes alone to signify – to speak – correctly, if at all, while relying on narrow readings of poetry. Resulting enmeshments of texts, objects, and place can be observed to ‘thicken’ museum spaces,2 inviting visitors to encounter early medieval culture in imaginative, embodied, affective ways. The poem most often displayed with Sutton Hoo is Beowulf, revealing how museum practices and scholarship mirror each other (consider the veritable

‘Neo-Old English’ texts here are modern compositions in Old English, while ‘new Old English’ texts are written in modern English showing linguistic, formal, and stylistic influence from Old English poetry. I make these distinctions following, respectively, the work of Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28; and Chris Jones, ‘From Eald Old to New Old: Translating Old English Poetry in(to) the Twenty-First Century’, in Tom Birkett and Kirsty March (eds), Translating Early Medieval Poetry: Transformation, Reception, Interpretation (Cambridge, 2017), pp. 13–28; Chris Jones, ‘New Old English: The Place of Old English in Twentieth and Twenty-First Century Poetry’, Literature Compass 7:11 (2010), 1009–19. 2 Gillian R. Overing and Marijane Osborn, Landscapes of Desire: Partial Stories of the Medieval Scandinavian World (Minneapolis, 1994), p. xv. 1

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subgenre of ‘Beowulf and archaeology’ work).3 As Roberta Frank documents, scholars have debated the importance of bringing Sutton Hoo and Beowulf together since the 1939 excavation of the ship-burial with its lavish grave goods, now known as ‘Mound 1’.4 Frank discusses the difficulties in the ‘marriage’, particularly their differences in time and place. Mound 1 is dated to the early seventh century and proposals for Beowulf’s composition range across 500 years, with Sutton Hoo often invoked in support of earlier dates of the poem.5 Frank’s identification of the union as a ‘marriage’ reminds us to pay attention to its emotional stakes. One such emotional stake is in how the pairing is used to make claims about past and present identities. Because the British Museum and National Trust use the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ in their displays, they are spaces which shape the valences of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ as a category in the British imaginary, as a marker of historical and ongoing nationhood or ethnicity.6 Although the Mound 1 objects are remains of a politically and culturally complex and specific group of early East Anglians who had kinship or trade connections spanning Europe, north Africa, western Asia and beyond,7 through their presentation with Old English poems they generate a limited ‘Anglo-Saxon’ world. In turn, this ‘Anglo-Saxonism’ sustains long-established ethno-nationalist myths.8

See Rosemary Cramp, ‘Beowulf and Archaeology’, Medieval Archaeology 1:1 (1957), 57–77; Hilda Ellis Davidson, ‘Archaeology and Beowulf’, in G. N. Garmonsway and Jacqueline Simpson (eds), Beowulf and Its Analogues (London, 1968), pp. 350–60; Leslie Webster, ‘Archaeology in Beowulf’, in Bruce Mitchell and Fred Robinson (eds), Beowulf: An Edition with Relevant Shorter Texts (Oxford, 1998), pp. 183–94; Catherine M. Hills, ‘Beowulf and Archaeology’, in Robert E. Bjork and John D. Niles (eds), A Beowulf Handbook (Exeter, 1998), pp. 291–310; John Hines, ‘Beowulf and Archaeology Revisited’, in Catherine E. Karkov and Helen Damico (eds), Aedifica Nova: Studies in Honor of Rosemary Cramp (Kalamazoo, 2008), pp. 89–105. 4 Roberta Frank, ‘Beowulf and Sutton Hoo: The Odd Couple’, in Calvin B. Kendall and Peter S. Wells (eds), Voyage to the Other World: The Legacy of Sutton Hoo (Minneapolis, 1992), pp. 47–64. 5 Frank, ‘Odd Couple’, p. 48. On dating Beowulf, see Leonard Neidorf (ed.), The Dating of Beowulf: A Reassessment (Cambridge, 2014). 6 On the limited early medieval uses of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ and its primary use as an ethno-racial marker after the Middle Ages, see Mary Dockray Miller, ‘Old English has a serious image problem’, JStor Daily blog, 3 May 2017 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘Misnaming the Medieval: Rejecting “Anglo-Saxon” Studies’, History Workshop, 4 Nov. 2019 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; David Wilton, ‘What Do We Mean By Anglo-Saxon? Pre-Conquest to the Present’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology 119:4 (2020), 425–54; and Fran Allfrey, ‘Ethnonationalism and Medievalism: Reading Affective “Anglo-Saxonism” Today with the Discovery of Sutton Hoo’, postmedieval 12 (2021), 75–99. 7 Martin Carver, Sutton Hoo: Burial Ground of Kings? (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 168; on the provenance of Mound 1 objects, see Martin Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story: Encounters with Early England (Woodbridge, 2017), pp. 184–7, 196–8; Frank, ‘Odd Couple’, pp. 56–7. 8 In this volume, Martina Marzullo, Karen Louise Jolly, and Joana Blanquer, Donna Beth Ellard, Emma Hitchcock and Erin E. Sweany discuss the ethnonationalist desires at work in scholarly and creative Anglo-Saxonism from the nineteenth century to the present, and Kathleen Davis and Joshua Davies, among others, have further examined Anglo-Saxonism’s long nationalist history; Kathleen Davis, ‘Old English Lyrics’, in Clare A. Lees (ed.), The 3

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Old English Poetry as Script or Replica Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett writes that ‘exhibitions are fundamentally theatrical’.9 Reading Old English poems in museums and examining the resonances of their collocations with Sutton Hoo demands attention to performance, to the ‘role of exhibition in the production of heritage’,10 and therefore to the museum’s role in the production of early medieval literature, artefacts, and places as heritage. As Jessica Moody reminds us, ‘heritage’ is not ‘a physical thing left over from the past, but an actively constructed understanding, a discourse about the past which is ever in fluctuation’.11 Following the ‘new museological’ turn of the late twentieth century, museums often encourage a dialogic production of meaning, providing facts and prompts which ask visitors to generate their own readings.12 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett explains how ‘the heritage production’ and ‘the historical actuality’ are co-constitutive, a companion to Louise D’Arcens’s argument that differentiating between ‘found’ and ‘made’ medieval things is often impossible.13 In 1997, John Niles invited medievalists to examine how Old English poems ‘shape the present-day culture that calls them to mind as artefacts’.14 I propose that Old English poems function as specific kinds of artefacts in museums, as scripts and as replicas that shape and are shaped by social, participatory processes. One of the most important ways in which museums both circumscribe meanings and encourage viewers to create their own interpretations is with labels which function as ‘scripts’ to direct how viewers look at objects.15 Such labels should be understood as a modern technology: insisting that artefacts could ‘speak’ for themselves was key to antiquarian method. However, from the mid-twentieth century museum-makers began to worry that objects are ‘mute’ for non-specialists without Cambridge History of Early Medieval English Literature (Cambridge, 2012), pp. 332–56; Joshua Davies, ‘The Middle Ages as Property: Beowulf, Translation, and the Ghosts of Nationalism’, postmedieval 10:2 (2019), 137–50. 9 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley, 1998), p. 3. 10 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, p. 7. 11 Jessica Moody, ‘Heritage and History’, in Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (eds), The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research (Basingstoke, 2015), pp. 113–29, at p. 113. See Karkov on how exhibitions at the British Museum (1991) and British Library (2018–19) created connections between early medieval poems, manuscripts, and objects, and present-day identities and politics; Imagining Anglo-Saxon England: Utopia, Heterotopia, Dystopia (Woodbridge, 2020), pp. 229–34. 12 Charles Saumarez Smith, ‘Museums, Artefacts, and Meanings’, in Peter Vergo (ed.), The New Museology (London, 1989), pp. 6–21; Deirdre Stam, ‘The Informed Muse: The Implications of “The New Museology” for Museum Practice’, Museum Management and Curatorship 12 (1993), 267–83; Eilean Hooper-Greenhill, ‘Changing Values in the Art Museum: Rethinking Communication and Learning’, International Journal of Heritage Studies (2010), 9–31. 13 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, p. 7. Louise D’Arcens, ‘Introduction’, in Louise D’Arcens (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Medievalism (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 1–13, at p. 2. 14 John D. Niles, ‘Introduction: Beowulf, Truth, and Meaning’, in A Beowulf Handbook, pp. 1–12, at p. 9. 15 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, p. 3.

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a narrative label.16 Thirty years ago, Calvin B. Kendall and Peter S. Wells also posited that a silence pervades encounters with material culture, as they evocatively called Sutton Hoo ‘one partial, mute witness of […] pagan Anglo-Saxons’.17 Poetry, on the other hand, is understood as carrying a voice or thought across time. Kendall and Wells imagine that Beowulf stands in for the ‘almost irretrievably lost’ ‘oral culture of early, pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon England’.18 In 2020, John Hines made similar claims that ‘in comparison with the mute material evidence, [early medieval] literary sources function at a quite different level to express the modes of thought – the ideologies and understandings – of the past’.19 Museums restate these ideas of mute objects and poems as voice, which prompts the question: if literary texts are understood as voices, as historical ‘modes of thought’, what sorts of stories about the past – and the present – do they speak of? Jean Baudrillard’s conceptions of the ‘precession of simulacra’ provide a useful way of thinking through how the heritage production and actuality, the ‘found and made’, are created and received. Baudrillard argues that simulacra, or representations of the ‘real’, determine or replace the ‘real’ in their reception.20 Museums are able to present something – an object, a concept – as lost, while displaying an emotive, imaginative representation of that thing, which stands in for and even becomes perceived as ‘the real’. Material replicas, dioramas, illustrations, and reenactment are all strategies for encouraging emotional and intellectual engagement, and for creating the real, and these strategies have been examined in medievalism scholarship.21 Yet the uses and effects of Old English poetry in museums have been under-theorised. As well as functioning as ‘script’ in museums, Old English poems can also perform the work of replicas. Poems are resourced to repair the corporeal, performing as the bodies and voices of damaged or lost objects and abstract concepts without surviving remains. Poems as replicas effectively and affectively encourage understanding of the past and can present ideas about mortality and human/more-than-human relationships in ways that counter anthropocentric epistemologies. As visitors engage with poems, they may even reenact early medieval ways of thinking, or movements from the narratives. However, troubling effects also arise as the poems’ status as replicas, Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, p. 9 and pp. 30–1. See also Crystal B. Lake, Artifacts (Baltimore, 2020), pp. 21–46. 17 Calvin B. Kendall and Peter S. Wells, ‘Introduction’, in Calvin B. Kendall and Peter S. Wells (eds), Voyage to the Other World: The Legacy of Sutton Hoo (Minneapolis, 1992), pp. ix–xix, at p. xiv. 18 Kendall and Wells, ‘Introduction’, p. xiv. 19 John Hines, ‘What Is the Future of the Past?’, Current Archaeology, 29 Jan. 2021 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]. 20 Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, trans. Sheila Faria Glaser (Ann Arbor, 1994), pp. 16–17. 21 See, for instance, Tison Pugh and Angela Jane Weisl, Medievalisms: Making the Past in the Present (London, 2013); Daniel T. Kline, ‘Participatory Medievalism, Role-Playing, and Digital Gaming’, in Louise D’Arcens (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Medievalism (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 75–88; and contributions to Howard Williams and Pauline Clarke (eds), Digging into the Dark Ages: Early Medieval Public Archaeologies (Oxford, 2020). 16

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linguistically and materially removed from their manuscript witnesses, is not made explicit by museums. Of course, some people will fuel exclusionary ideologies with reference to the Middle Ages no matter what stories are presented in educational or cultural spaces. However, the visions of a whole, emotionally available, homogenous, pagan-warrior-culture early medieval past created by Old English poetry in the displays analysed here risk validating an ‘Anglo-Saxon world’ that is complicit with ethno-nationalism.22 Whether or not this is intentional is not my concern. I acknowledge the increasing financial and political pressures, and the practical and pedagogical motivations, that impact upon how museums are able to tell stories; however, this chapter is most concerned with identifying effects. I identify a particular difficulty in discussing the ‘misuse’ of the early medieval past when the very institutions that are for many audiences trusted arbiters of history23 inadvertently or otherwise shape narratives that may themselves be critiqued as misuse.24 The ‘Odd Couple’ and the British Museum Today The British Museum opened The Sir Paul and Lady Ruddock Gallery of Sutton Hoo and Europe, Room 41, on 27 March 2014. The Sutton Hoo finds are displayed in a central cluster of showcases. Translated excerpts of Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf (1999) feature throughout the display: printed high up on the showcase glass and quoted within labels. They function as script and stage direction, prompting movement 22 On medieval studies’ complicity in white supremacy see Dorothy Kim, ‘Teaching Medieval Studies in a Time of White Supremacy’, In The Middle (2017) [accessed 20 Jul. 2021]; on ‘Anglo-Saxonist’ ethno-nationalisms, see Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies, Academia, and White Supremacy’, Medium, 17 Jun. 2018 [accessed 20 Jul. 2021]; Catherine E. Karkov, Anna Kłosowska and Vincent W. J. van Gerven Oei, ‘Disturbance’ in Catherine E. Karkov, Anna Kłosowska, and Vincent W. J. van Gerven Oei (eds), Disturbing Times (Earth, Milky Way, 2020), pp. 13–28; and Catherine A. M. Clarke with Adam Miyashiro, Megan Cavell, Daniel Thomas, Stewart Brookes, Diane Watt and Jennifer Neville, ‘Twenty-Five Years of “Anglo-Saxon Studies”: Looking Back, Looking Forward’, in Disturbing Times, pp. 317–50. 23 Museum workers are often ranked among the most ‘trustworthy’ professionals in Britain: Britain Thinks and The Museums Association, ‘Public Perceptions of – and Attitudes to – the Purposes of Museums in Society’ (Mar. 2013) [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; Ipsos MORI Veracity Index 2020 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]. 24 The ‘misuse’ of the medieval, and how to prevent it, continues to be discussed; see, for instance, James M. Harland, ‘“Race” in the Trenches: Anglo-Saxons, Ethnicity, and the Misuse of the Medieval Past’, Public Medievalist, 17 Feb. 2017 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; Andrew B. R. Elliott, Medievalism, Politics and Mass Media: Appropriating the Middle Ages in the Twenty-First Century (Cambridge, 2017); Matthew Gabriele and Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘The Middle Ages Have Been Misused by the Far Right. Here’s Why It’s So Important to Get Medieval History Right’, Time, 21 Nov. 2019 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; Andrew Albin et al. (eds), Whose Middle Ages? Teachable Moments for an Ill-Used Past (New York, 2019); Amy Kaufman and Paul Sturtevant, The Devil’s Historians: How Modern Extremists Abuse the Medieval Past (Toronto, 2020).

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around the space. Standing in for long-gone people, events, concepts, and artefacts rusted beyond repair, Beowulf also performs as a replica of lost or intangible things. Approaching Room 41 from the South staircase, visitors encounter another pairing of reconstruction and replica first. The restored Sutton Hoo helmet faces the entrance, with the replica helmet to the left, in profile. This juxtaposition of reconstruction and replica highlights the necessity of negotiating meaning between both kinds of things. The ‘real’ helmet, reassembled from fragments, is clearly aged, with jagged remains appearing as a brown crust upon the smooth copper-alloy support.25 The replica is shining and whole. The reconstruction does not convey the grandeur of the replica, but it holds the aura of authenticity in its decayed imperfection. Multiple helmets – the object as it once was, what it meant to its wearer and community, its process of disintegration over 1300 years of burial, and what it symbolises today – are evoked. The helmets speak of desires for continuity and completeness that stand in tension with any desire for authenticity: a replica may show the helmet as it once was, but the object as buried is irreversibly damaged. Although the helmet is a face, the empty eye-holes both suggest a presence and ‘announce the absence of any wearer’.26 Siân Echard identifies how ‘emptiness’ is a defining feature of Beowulf and Sutton Hoo visual semiotics in print, to which I would add this museum display. Echard proposes that emptiness ‘both cut[s] off and enact[s] emotional response to the poem’,27 as viewers are invited to imagine a person, while being reminded of the reality of temporal distance and decay which makes personal connection impossible. A further reason for this affective ambivalence is illuminated through Sarah Salih’s discussion about how relics work with reference to Alfred Gell, that ‘humans intuitively imagine a conscious being’ as situated within a ‘non-mind’ material enclosure.28 In other words, the very emptiness of the helmet may provoke a visitor to seek a being or voice inside of it. A clockwise viewing order is suggested, following the helmets to an introductory information panel and the gleaming silverware beyond. Above the objects are three quotations printed directly onto the showcase, each followed by the credit ‘Beowulf, translated by Seamus Heaney’: [1] They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure, / Gold under gravel, gone to earth… Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story, pp. 31–2. Siân Echard, ‘BOOM: Seeing Beowulf in Pictures and Print’, in David Clark and Nicholas Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 129–46, at pp. 137–8. 27 Echard, ‘Beowulf in Pictures and Print’, p. 144. 28 Sarah Salih, ‘In/visible Medieval/isms’, in Karl Fugelso, Joshua Davies and Sarah Salih (eds), Studies in Medievalism 25 (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 53–69, at p. 59; Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford, 1998), pp. 132–3. Madeline Walsh and Howard Williams explain the potential for Sutton Hoo’s archaeology to invite engagement even as it represents what has been lost, proposing how ‘the narrative for Sutton Hoo has developed despite, or perhaps in some regards assisted by, the lack of survival of a body’, and evocatively describe the helmet as an ‘icon’ and ‘cenotaphic carapace’, which recognises the helmet as container or shell implying a hidden interior, ‘Displaying the Deviant: Sutton Hoo’s Sand Bodies’, in Howard Williams, Benedict Wills-Eve and Jennifer Osborne (eds), The Public Archaeology of Death (Sheffield, 2019), pp. 55–72, at p. 57. 25

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[2] Far-fetched treasures / were piled upon him [3] They stretched their beloved lord in his boat, / laid out by the mast, amidships, / the great ring-giver29

While labels beneath the grave goods describe their origin, form, and material, these extracts provide scripts for the objects’ role in the burial event. In the Beowulf poem, these lines describe Beowulf ’s [1] and Scyld’s [2 and 3] funerals. But here the extracts seem to speak of a single ‘great ring-giver’. Those who did the burying and the buried man are recalled in ‘they stretched their beloved lord’. A glass panel which divides the display down the middle is etched with a design of the ship, which, combined with the poetry, re-stages the placing of the objects in the chamber. Reinforcing the observable facts of the objects – the ‘treasures’ are ‘farfetched’, they were ‘piled’ around a body ‘amidships’ – and acting as witness to the seventh-century event, the poetry also invites reflection on the processes of preservation: the museum has disrupted the intentions of the burial even as it reenacts it. Although ‘They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure’ evokes a continuous keeping, the ‘treasure’ was taken from the ground in 1939. The poetry may therefore invite visitors to consider the ethical, even spiritual, implications of archaeological excavation, as the poem describes an intimate act and an imagined eternity. The greatest quantity of poetry accompanies the most corroded, unrestorable objects: the mail-coat and spears. The artefacts as excavated are – to the untrained eye – lumps of twisted metal. They are presented alongside physical replicas and with labels that include visual illustrations. The panel titled ‘Weapons and war-gear’ imagines the values of a society where ‘violence was commonplace’ with Beowulf quoted as evidence. The panel explains: ‘Loyalty, courage and glory won in battle were highly-regarded qualities, as evoked in the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf: “it is always better to avenge dear ones than / to indulge in mourning… Let whoever can / win glory before death”’.30 The fantastical context of the quotation – that these are words spoken by a character with the strength of thirty men, urging a king to take revenge on a being that lives in a lake-hall – is not given. The ambivalence of the poem towards revenge – with its stories of cycles of violence and Beowulf ’s desire for glory leading his people to certain doom – is elided, and the quotation becomes a generic maxim.31 Above the weapons, armour, and the neighbouring feasting objects, are quotations which implicate the present and future into the poem and treasures: Where do you come from, carrying these / decorated shields and shirts of mail, / these cheek-hinged helmets and javelins? Seamus Heaney, Beowulf, as reproduced in Room 41, British Museum, London, September 2018. The quotations accord with lines 3166–7, 36b–7, 34–6a of Beowulf: A New Translation (London, 1999), ellipses as displayed. 30 Heaney, Beowulf, lines 1384b–5 and 1387b–8a, as reproduced in Room 41, ellipses as displayed. 31 The poem after all closes with the doom vision sung by a Geatish woman, lines 3150– 5; my thinking about negative cycles of revenge in Beowulf is indebted to Gillian Overing, Language, Sign, and Gender in Beowulf (Carbondale, 1990). 29

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So his mind turned / to hall-building: he handed down orders / for men to work on a great mead-hall / meant to be a wonder of the world forever…32

The opening question, ‘Where do you come from’, asked of Beowulf by a Danish watchman in the poem, becomes an invitation for visitors to imagine the past, and the relationship between past and present. Visitors may read the text as a transcription of an encounter between two people at early medieval Sutton Hoo. Alternatively, the question addresses the approaching visitors, the past speaking to the present. Perhaps the extract prompts visitors to ask questions to the Sutton Hoo objects and the people they represent, facilitating the present speaking to the past. The status of the objects as ‘wonders of the world’ is made newly legible by the shining showcases, while the elliptical ending of ‘forever…’ enacts the never-ending. The quotations invite readers to imagine the ‘forever’ of the seventh century, which became 1300 years between burial and excavation, and the conservational forever: the end of the museum being unfathomable within its own logic. The display speaks of itself with Beowulf, securing its ongoing fame. Visitors may knowingly or unknowingly experience more of the poem than the lines on display. The poem’s interests in mortality, the futility of memorialisation through treasure – but desire for remembrance nonetheless – are presented. To follow the fragments printed high on the glass, visitors must circle the showcase, gaze lifted. Such movement reenacts Beowulf ’s retainers circling his pyre and watching smoke ascending to the skies (lines 3156–77). The display becomes a new commemorative space. Visitors might glimpse each other through the glass showcase, generating a communal experience. A reminder of the difference of the past is offered in the foreignness of the lords, warriors, and battles in the poetry, and in the strangeness of confronting very old, beautiful, or corroded things which were once forgotten or unknowable. To follow such thoughts is to mirror Hrothgar attempting to understand the ancient sword hilt Beowulf takes from Grendel’s mother’s hall (ll. 1677–98), Beowulf reducing the threat of Grendel to an arm and head put on display (ll. 833–6 and 1647–50), or the poem’s narrator expressing dismay that God was unknown to people in days gone by (ll. 170–88). The quotations are also a counterpoint to the interpretation panel which insists on the limits of knowledge about Sutton Hoo, as it describes how ‘all trace of a human body dissolved in the acidic soil’, and ‘his true identity remains a mystery’.33 The panel includes an explanation of the burial and the decomposition process, a map, photographs of the mounds, and artists’ impressions of the chamber. The Beowulf extracts present the same scenes, but confidently return the lost body of a ‘beloved lord’. Similarly, while the panel notes that it is not known whether the Sutton Hoo ship had a sail,34 the quotation ‘by the mast’ above the silver display conjures one into existence. The poem functions as a replica of these disappeared (or never present) things, and speaks as witness of Sutton Hoo, creating 32 Heaney, Beowulf, lines 333–5 and lines 68b–71, as reproduced in Room 41, ellipses as displayed. 33 On the burial as cenotaph or grave, the dissolved body, and who he may have been, see Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story, pp. 35–6. 34 Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story, pp. 60–2.

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possibilities for visitors to participate imaginatively in processes of excavation, preservation, or reenactment. The affective potential of poetry seems to override the preference for facts over speculation otherwise evident in the display. The imagery and themes of Heaney’s Beowulf extracts align with stereotypes (museum practitioners call such pre-existing ideas ‘visitor entrance narratives’) of early medieval England, and so are likely to be received as authentic.35 The idea of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ England as a pagan, bellicose, masculine, insular world lives as powerfully in the modern imagination as it does in much scholarship.36 Frank demonstrates how Beowulf has shed a ‘Scandinavian, regal, and pagan color’ over Sutton Hoo scholarship, even though ‘the objects of Sutton Hoo […] belong less to the Beowulf poet’s retrospective Germania than to a European maritime culture that had for centuries imitated Roman ways’, while following the Sutton Hoo excavation ‘silver’ started to appear in Beowulf translations despite no mention of the ‘lesser metal’ in the Old English.37 Beowulf in the Museum simplifies the early medieval age, working against stated ambitions for Room 41. A 2013 press release explained that the gallery was designed to illustrate ‘significant interchanges between cultures […] the emergence and impact of Christianity and Islam’.38 Curator Sue Brunning describes how the room imagines early medieval Europe in the expanded sense, ‘from the Atlantic Ocean […] to the Black Sea […] from the Arctic Circle […] to North Africa.’39 While the poetry mentions ‘far-off treasures’, and may prompt sensitive reflection upon matters of mortality and memory, there are other parts of Beowulf – and other Old English texts – that could more clearly articulate early medieval cultural exchange, and the heterogeneity of the East Anglian community ‘so vacillating in its cultural allegiance’ that made Sutton Hoo.40 The way in which Beowulf is included in the display – and therefore how it may perform authenticity – is different to how other early medieval materials are contextualised for explanatory purposes. Photographs of the Franks Casket and Old English Hexateuch – also reproduced on the ‘Weapons and war-gear’ section to illustrate armour – are dated (700 AD and 1025–50 AD). Yet Beowulf is given a dual provenance, with emphasis on its modernity. Quotations are introduced as Zahava D. Doering and Andrew J. Pekarik, ‘Questioning the Entrance Narrative’, Journal of Museum Education 21 (1996), 20–3. 36 Echard, ‘Beowulf in Pictures and Print’, pp. 129–46; Catherine A. M. Clarke, ‘Re-Placing Masculinity: The DC Comics Beowulf Series and Its Context, 1975–6’, in David Clarke and Nicholas Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 165–82, at p. 167; Renée Trilling, ‘Medievalism and Its Discontents’, postmedieval 2:2 (2011), 216–24, at p. 217. 37 Frank, ‘Odd Couple’, pp. 56–7. 38 ‘New Gallery to Open: Sutton Hoo and Europe AD 300–1100’, British Museum (Dec. 2013) [accessed 14 Apr. 2021]. 39 Jill Hohenstein and Theano Moussouri, with Sue Brunning, ‘Narrative, Discourse and Matters of Communication’, in Jill Hohenstein and Theano Moussouri (eds), Museum Learning: Theory and Research as Tools for Enhancing Practice (Abingdon, 2018), pp. 99–135, at p. 128. 40 Carver, Sutton Hoo: Burial Ground of Kings?, p. 168. 35

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‘Anglo-Saxon poetry’ and followed by the parenthetical ‘(translation by Seamus Heaney, 1999)’. Prosaically, the Museum is avoiding a difficult question of dating Beowulf, and label writing best practice would never allow a high enough word limit to discuss the topic in detail.41 Yet the consequence of making Beowulf both ‘Anglo-Saxon’ and Heaney’s 1999 text is to render the poem of all-times and timeless. While photographs of the Hexateuch manuscript and the Casket are shown (the latter is also on display elsewhere in Room 41), nothing of Beowulf’s medieval remains are visible: no manuscript, no transcribed Old English language. The ability of the poem to function as script or replica, and to be received as authentic, relies not upon visitors understanding temporal origin, material or linguistic context, but engaging emotionally and imaginatively. Encountering Heaney’s text at the British Museum complicates how visitors may understand Sutton Hoo and Beowulf’s relationship to ‘Britishness’. Heaney wrote an ‘Open Letter’ against inclusion in the 1980s Penguin anthology of British literature, a protest against British neo-colonialism, and his engagement with Old English – beyond and including his ‘Hiberno-English Scullion-speak’42 Beowulf – has been identified as unmooring the poetry from the ethno-nationalist scholarship and translation practices which shaped its early reception.43 Some scholars read Heaney’s political–poetic practice as seeking a universalism through comparing the hyper-local across time and space: Ashok Bery argues that Heaney’s ambivalent self-defined sense of ‘through-otherness’-ness signifies an attempt to move beyond ‘establishing a sense of our own cultural or national identity as an entity distinct from others. The time of through-otherness is a time of mixing’.44 Chris Jones contends that, for Heaney, ‘the study and translation of Old English is imagined as a form of apolitical escapism’.45 Insisting on the universality of historic texts and objects is also a move frequently made in museum displays and catalogues,46 and this claim is repeated by then-director of the museum Neil MacGregor in his 2010 radio series and book A History of the World in 100 Objects. MacGregor described how the Museum’s founders sought to understand ‘our common humanity’ through

P. M. McManus (ed.), Archaeological Displays and the Public: Museology and Interpretation (Abingdon, 2016). 42 Heaney, ‘Translator’s Introduction’, in Daniel Donoghue (ed.), Beowulf: A Verse Translation (London, 2002), pp. xxiii–xxxviii, at p. xxxvi. 43 On ethno-nationalism and early scholarship, T. A. Shippey and Andreas Haarder (eds), Beowulf: The Critical Heritage (New York, 2000), pp. 37–55; David Hadbawnik surveys the reception of Heaney’s Beowulf as a – possibly overdetermined – ‘postcolonial’ text, ‘Differing Intimacies: Beowulf Translations by Seamus Heaney and Thomas Meyer’, in Daniel C. Remein and Erica Weaver (eds), Dating Beowulf (Manchester, 2019), pp. 227–53. 44 Ashok Bery, Cultural Translation and Postcolonial Poetry (Basingstoke, 2007), p. 4. 45 Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006), p. 187. 46 Catherine E. Karkov critically elucidates how claims of ‘universal value’ made in exhibitions of European medieval art simultaneously uphold ethnonationalist fantasies and perpetuate ideas that the past and its remains are politically neutral, Karkov, Imagining AngloSaxon England, pp. 229–30. 41

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objects, eliding the collection’s foundations in colonial ambition and how it continues to defend forms of nationalist and imperial power.48 100 Objects places Beowulf and Sutton Hoo complexly into dialogue with ideas about the national and the global.49 The book section ‘The Silk Road and Beyond AD 400–700’ positions the helmet between objects from Syria, Peru, Korea, and China, and therefore could encourage reflections on a global Middle Ages or challenge ideas of British exceptionalism and insularity. Yet, MacGregor conflates ‘English’ and ‘British’ throughout, a common rhetorical strategy in English identity discourses which here both imagines a simple continuum of identity from the Middle Ages and suggests English supremacy within Britishness.50 At the same time, MacGregor also insists how Sutton Hoo ‘force[s] us to think […] the British have always been part of the wider European story […] long connected to Europe and Asia’, and he notes the irony in how Beowulf ‘the foundation stone of English poetry’ has no ‘English’ characters.51 MacGregor seems to be attempting utopian gestures about a ‘common humanity’, although Europeanness, often imagined as a post-racial category in liberal thought, is deeply encoded with whiteness.52 Emotionally charged passages of 100 Objects further link the helmet, Beowulf, and ‘the Anglo-Saxons’ to contemporary ethno-nation-state identities. MacGregor describes the excavation of Sutton Hoo as a moment when ‘poetry and archaeology […] transformed our understanding of British national identity’.53 He proposes a ‘disturbing dimension’ of the pre-war context of the 1939 dig, explaining how ‘the burial itself spoke of an earlier, and successful, invasion of England by a Germanic-speaking people’.54 This was a parallel noted by some newspaper contributors in 1939, and MacGregor seems to reinscribe the xenophobic, Whiggish underpinnings of the simplistic equivalence.55 MacGregor also elides Heaney’s Irishness in his imagining of Britishness. 47

Neil MacGregor, A History of the World in 100 Objects (London, 2010), p. xvii. Stuart Frost, ‘“A Bastion of Colonialism”: Public Perceptions of the British Museum and its Relationship to Empire’, Third Text 33:4/5 (2019), 487–99; Dan Hicks, The Brutish Museum: The Benin Bronzes, Colonial Violence and Cultural Restitution (London, 2020); Alice Procter, The Whole Picture: The Colonial Story of the Art in our Museums & Why We Need to Talk About It (London, 2020). 49 Neil MacGregor, The Sutton Hoo Helmet, BBC Radio 4, 8 Jun. 2010; and 100 Objects, pp. 256–60. 50 See Rebecca Langlands, ‘Britishness or Englishness? The Historical Problem of National Identity in Britain’, Nations and Nationalism 5:1 (1999), 53–69. 51 MacGregor, 100 Objects, p. 260. 52 On the conflation of Europeanness and whiteness (and medievalism) see Patrick Geary, The Myth of Nations (New Jersey, 2002); on the contemporary entanglements of Europeanness and whiteness, see Francesca Romana Ammaturo, ‘Europe and Whiteness: Challenges to European Identity and European Citizenship in Light of Brexit and the Refugees/Migrants Crisis’, European Journal of Social Theory 22:4 (2019), 548–66. 53 MacGregor, 100 Objects, p. 256. 54 MacGregor, 100 Objects, p. 257. 55 For instance, William Linton Andrews, ‘News and Views by W. L. A.: The Thoughts of the Ancient King of the Ship’, Leeds Mercury, 16 Aug. 1939, p. 4; and Alec Brown, ‘Correspondence’, East Anglian Daily Times, 17 Aug. 1939, p. 5. On 1939 newspaper pairings of Sutton Hoo and Old English, see Allfrey, ‘Ethnonationalism’, 75–99. 47

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Quoted in the 100 Objects book, and speaking in the radio programme, Heaney reads lines 1448–54 from his Beowulf and links the poem and the Sutton Hoo helmet to a New York fireman’s helmet he was gifted in the 1980s, which ‘attained new significance’ following 11 September 2001.56 His story invites reflection on how objects can be assigned new memorial significance, and the terrible (ongoing) losses suffered by New York firefighters. Yet, bringing together Sutton Hoo and Beowulf with 9/11 cannot be only apolitical or personal. The conjured image of a timeless, heroic warrior-figure is a gesture toward imagined universal affect (Jacques Derrida reminds us that the moniker ‘9/11’ presumes ‘a supposedly universal calendar’),57 and makes uneasy equivalence between Anglo-American geopolitics in the twenty-first century and the allegiances of pre-nation-state seventh-century north-Atlantic groups. Placing Heaney’s Beowulf in Room 41 and in the 100 Objects project could be read as attempts to disrupt the colonial institution from within. Yet, the extracts chosen by the Museum are free of any ‘Scullion-speak’ Hiberno–English and facilitate imaginings of a homogenous early medieval England. The stakes of this for meanings of Old English are to position it as the voice of ‘Anglo-Saxons’ who have a straightforward link to contemporary British national identity, coding Old English as an ethno-nationalist, exclusionary heritage. Fake Old English, Real Ethno-Nationalist Myths Between 2002 and 2018, Old English featured in a nine-minute film in the Visitor Centre at the National Trust Sutton Hoo site. A female voiceover described ‘Anglo-Saxon’ society, and two male voiceovers recited neo-Old English compositions and modern English translation. What marks the text as fake Old English is that nowhere were its origins explained. Shots of the frosty mounds and of scenes filmed at the West Stow reenactment village were sound tracked with whistling winds, owls hooting, a wavering flute, and a Wagnerian horn flourish, a trove of medievalism tropes.58 The reassembled Sutton Hoo helmet first loomed into view accompanied by two voiceovers, giving the impression that here were the words of the helmet-wearer: [Male voiceover 1] Deorce wæron dagas on þissum lande ær comon [fades] [Male voiceover 2] Dark were the days of this land before my kinsmen came, across wild waters they came, across the way of the whale, their ships like seabirds singing in flight.59 Heaney, quoted by MacGregor, 100 Objects, p. 259. Heaney first connected Old English, the fireman’s helmet, the Sutton Hoo helmet, and 9/11 in his ‘Helmet’ poem, New York Review of Books, 25 Sep. 2003 [accessed 21 Aug. 2021]. 57 Giovanna Borradori, Philosophy in a Time of Terror: Dialogues with Jürgen Habermas and Jacques Derrida (Chicago, 2003), p. 86. 58 John Haines, Music in Films on the Middle Ages: Authenticity vs. Fantasy (Abingdon, 2014), pp. 45–50. With thanks to Miranda Rainbow for initially alerting me to the Wagnerian similarity. 59 Exhibition film at the National Trust Sutton Hoo, transcribed July 2018. 56

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The tone and content imitated Old English poetry, with allusions to the ‘fugle gelicost’ [boat most like a bird] (l. 218, Beowulf), or the reminiscences of the Seafarer who keeps ‘nihtwaco’ [night-watch] (l. 7) on the ‘hwæl-weg’ [whale-path] (l. 63) haunted by the ‘ganotes hleoþor’ [gannet’s chatter] (l. 20) and the ‘mæw singende’ [gull’s song] (l. 22).60 The naming of the ‘before’ times as ‘dark’ reads as an attempt to shift the ‘Dark Ages’ (still a powerful category shaping the creation and reception of history in England) to a time before the ‘Anglo-Saxon period’.61 This figuring also reads as proto-colonial, with ‘dark’ bringing to mind a void: a trope of the colonial imagination is to insist that before the colonist’s arrival there was an underused ‘empty space’.62 Although the female voiceover explains how peoples from across ‘Scandinavia, Holland, and Germany’ migrated to Britain, the conclusion that they ‘gradually came together to establish a new order: the Anglo-Saxon order’ elides the specificity of early seventh-century East Anglia, homogenising ‘Anglo-Saxon’ England. The film continued with a speech imagining pagan royal lineage overlaid with a montage of a battle and firelit feast scenes: [Male voiceover 1] The warriors here were not like we of Woden’s race, their lords did not descend from gods as kings do, thus we came, as kings, to claim the land. If we fought, we were fearsome, for bravery is beautiful in battle.

These words, spoken by a deep, resonant voice, reproduced a masculine trope of Old English medievalism, a practice influenced by Ezra Pound and his Seafarer rendition, with booming vowels and alveolar trill.63 The fake Old English provided a medieval voice to support the film’s idea of ‘the Anglo-Saxon world’, a world that the film insisted was full of contrasts – a place of violence but also revelry, wonder, and treasure. Yet even these contrasts only exist within narrow parameters. Woden can indeed be found on an eighth-century East Anglian family tree,64 and some objects in the Sutton Hoo burial may represent pagan gods.65 However, Caesar also appears in the genealogy, and other objects – such as the Romano–British hanging bowl, Merovingian coins, the silver spoons engraved with Greek, the Anastasius Dish 60 ‘The Seafarer’, in Robert E. Bjork (ed. and trans.), Old English Shorter Poems. Volume II: Wisdom and Lyric (London, 2014). 61 On ‘The Dark Ages’ in the English imaginary, and a debate about the term triggered by a 2016 exhibition at Tintagel, see Susan Greaney, ‘Where History Meets Legend: Presenting the Early Medieval Archaeology of Tintagel Castle, Cornwall’, in Howard Williams and Pauline Clarke (eds), Digging into the Dark Ages: Early Medieval Public Archaeologies (Oxford, 2020), pp. 131–2. 62 Bill Ashcroft, Post-Colonial Transformation (London, 2001), p. 153. Karkov also shows how ‘The Anglo-Saxon’ world is figured as an empty space into which nationalist preoccupations may be projected, Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, p. 26. 63 Chris Jones, ‘Recycling Anglo-Saxon Poetry: Richard Wilbur’s “Junk” and a SelfStudy’, in Sarah Salih and Julian Weiss (eds), Locating the Middle Ages: The Spaces and Places of Medieval Culture (London, 2012), pp. 213–25, at pp. 213–14. 64 Barbara Yorke, Kings and Kingdoms of Early Anglo-Saxon England (London, 1990), pp. 15–16. 65 Neil Price and Paul Mortimer, ‘An Eye for Odin? Divine Role-Playing in the Age of Sutton Hoo’, European Journal of Archaeology 17:3 (2014), 517–38.

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– speak of a variety of influences and connections, from across Christendom to southern Europe, Asia, and Africa. Furthermore, Craig R. Davies argues that genealogies manifest political–cultural ambitions and cannot be read as straightforwardly spiritual texts,66 while Eric G. Stanley warns that reconstructions of Germanic paganism through ‘false etymologies’ are driven by a ‘prejudice which turned into a predilection’ stemming from nineteenth-century romantic and nationalist ideals.67 Toward the end of the film, the value of scholarly expertise was also destabilised, which may further legitimate exclusionary Anglo-Saxonist fantasies: [Female voiceover]: it is a matter of interpretation, deciphering masses of confused and incomplete evidence. And the conclusions are often more probabilities than certainties […] you may read other stories in the objects you will see.

The invitation ‘you may read other stories’ is exemplary of new museological audience engagement techniques that can help make museums more inclusive and welcoming.68 However, the final film passage is a reminder that not all imaginative or emotional engagement is inclusive. ‘Anglo-Saxons’ were unquestioningly identified as ancestors of present-day England – linguistically, culturally, and ethnically: [Male voiceover 2] foreign, this land was at first, but now set firmly in our hearts. Here is our homeland now […] [Female voiceover] The Anglo-Saxons have gone, or perhaps we should say that they have become invisible, simply by becoming part of the British nation […] about 80 or 90 percent of our everyday words come from the Anglo-Saxons […] many of our laws […] some of our eating habits […] all came from the Anglo-Saxons, and so did the name [pause] ‘England’. The name of their country. The name, of this country. [Male voiceover 1] Habbað we þis land geeardod, nu we nellon þa [fades out] [Male voiceover 2] we have lived in this land, and we will not leave it now, even in death.

Accompanying the closing words was a trumpet flourish, the reconstructed Mound 2 green and pleasant in the sunshine, and the replica helmet fading into view, reiterating that the voice came from within. The film repeated tropes of English heritage presentation, romanticising ideas of ancestry, focusing on ‘idyllic, benign’ histories, and simplifying the cultures 66 Craig R. Davis, ‘Cultural assimilation in the Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies’, AngloSaxon England 21 (1992), 23–36. 67 Eric G. Stanley, Imagining the Anglo-Saxon Past: The Search for Anglo-Saxon Paganism and Anglo-Saxon Trial by Jury (Cambridge, 2000). 68 Jens Andermann and Silke Arnold-de Simine, ‘Museums and the Educational Turn: History, Memory, Inclusivity’, Journal of Educational Media, Memory, and Society 4:2 (2012), 1–7.

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represented by burials across Sutton Hoo. These are dog-whistle signifiers of ethno-nationalism. While such narratives may provoke moments of reflection on the self and community, they also sustain exclusionary ideologies.70 It is not surprising that such dog-whistle language found its way into a museum space. Nationalism and ‘racial exclusivity’ permeate heritage practices and perceptions in England,71 to the extent that when the National Trust has highlighted histories that expand its existing narratives (from queer stories to legacies of slavery and colonialism), rightwing media, politicians, and self-organised activists have generated a backlash.72 In September 2020, Culture Secretary Oliver Dowden reminded publicly funded bodies that ‘you should not be taking actions motivated by activism or politics’.73 The irony in a government seeing its own decrees as ‘not political’ is remarkable, yet also unsurprising, as UK right-wing actors have worked tirelessly to present their ideologies as apolitical ‘common sense’ for decades.74 The Old English in the film was written by Stephen Pollington. Pollington has published on early medieval culture and language since 1993, although Carol Neuman de Vegvar has noted that several of Pollington’s publications ‘reflect problematic methodological choices […] premised on the concept of a Germanic cultural continuum, united in its religion, mythology, and rituals from the Iron Age to the Vikings’.75 Andy Medhurst has argued that Pollington’s Anglo-Saxonism is complicit with ethno-nationalist ideologies in the Our Englishness anthology that 69

69 In their critique of the interpretation of the seventh- to eleventh-century ‘sand body’ burials at Sutton Hoo, Walsh and Williams conclude that the presentation is ‘dislocated and homogenized’ in favour of ‘idyllic, benign’ presentations of a ‘royal’ history, ‘Displaying the Deviant’, p. 66. Ben Wills-Eve also notes how ‘despite cremation dominating the “princely” burial site’, cremations ‘rarely […] featured in digital media’ created by the National Trust, quoted by Howard Williams, ‘Introduction’, AP: Online Journal in Public Archaeology 8:2 (2018), 1–24, at p. 10. 70 Ethan Doyle White, ‘Old Stones, New Rites: Contemporary Pagan Interactions with the Medway Megaliths’, The Journal of Objects, Art and Belief 12:3 (2016), 346–72. 71 Mike Crang and Divya P Tolia-Kelly, ‘Nation, Race, and Affect: Senses and Sensibilities at National Heritage Sites’, Environment and Planning 42:10 (2010), 2315–31. 72 ‘National Trust Volunteers Refuse to Wear LGBTQ Badges’, BBC News Online, 4 Aug. 2017 [accessed 12 Apr. 2021]; Luke O’Reilly, ‘National Trust Members Launch Campaign Against “Woke Agenda”’, Evening Standard, 4 Apr. 2021 [accessed 12 Apr. 2021]; Kevin Rawlinson, ‘National Trust Chair Tim Parker to Step Down’, The Guardian, 26 May 2021 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]. 73 Oliver Dowden, Letter from Culture Secretary to Arm’s Length Bodies on Contested Heritage, 22 Sep. 2020 [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]. 74 Gargi Bhattacharyya, Adam Elliott-Cooper, Sita Balani, Kerem Nişancıoğlu, Kojo Koram, Dalia Gebrial, Nadine El-Enany and Luke de Noronha, Empire’s Endgame: Racism and the British State (London, 2021). 75 Carol Neuman de Vegvar, ‘Review: Wayland’s Work: Anglo-Saxon Art, Myth and Material Culture from the 4th to the 7th Century’, Speculum 87:3 (2012), 914–16. Howard Williams found similar problems, ‘Review: Wayland’s Work: Anglo-Saxon Art, Myth and Material Culture from the 4th to the 7th Century’, The Archaeological Journal 168:1 (2011), 429–30.

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Pollington also contributed to, explaining how ‘the Englishness championed in this book is […] emphatically Anglo-Saxon and obsessed with purity [and] an un-mixed English bloodline’.76 A ‘Germanic cultural continuum’ and ‘English bloodline’ was also conjured by the fake Old English in the Visitor Centre film. Whether or not this effect was intentional, Catherine Karkov has shown how such rhetorical and imaginative strategies are commonplace in museums and perpetuate racist myths of Englishness.77 The film reveals why scholars must engage with how their subjects of study exist in public. It demonstrates why museums focused on the medieval must be adequately resourced, so that they might be empowered to present the politics of their past in nuanced, expansive ways, and engage with a diversity of scholarship about the subjects they present. The fake Old English film was contextualised by a written welcome panel. This panel proposed the role of literature in understanding Sutton Hoo while obscuring how literary narratives are preserved as specific texts: ‘At Sutton Hoo are the graves of once-famous warrior lords, they lived at the dawn of English history: we see them through archaeology and legend’. The identification of texts with medieval provenances (Beowulf, the Seafarer, Wanderer, various riddles, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, which featured across the displays) and the film’s fake Old English as ‘legends’ unmoored them from their contexts and allowed the fake Old English to enter with equal authority into the pedagogical space. The film and welcome panel exhibited qualities of ‘pseudoarchaeology’: reasoning that because of uncertain or scarce evidence all interpretations are equal;78 focusing on esoteric or old scholarship; and presenting the idea that the ‘truth’ has been kept (by gatekeeping scholars) from the public.79 Anonymous, undated annotations to a draft of the film-script and panels held in the British Museum archives indicate that someone warned the National Trust about this approach: whoever is buried in mound 1 is one of the first kings of what we [emphasis in text] perceive as the English – but that cultural identity was probably not part of contemporary perception […] tread warily when using non-contemporary material to illustrate this period and must make it very clear when this is happening – eg Beowulf.80

It is not clear if this advice was ever passed on. Old English poetry featured throughout the film and much of the Visitor Centre imagines homogenous ‘Anglo-Saxons’ that map directly to present-day Englishness.

Tony Linsell (ed.), Our Englishness (Woodbridge, 2000); Andy Medhurst, A National Joke: Popular Comedy and English Cultural Identities (Abingdon, 2007), p. 55. 77 Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 229–30. 78 Peter Kosso, ‘Introduction: The Epistemology of Archaeology’, in Garrett G. Fagan (ed.), Archaeological Fantasies (Oxford, 2006), pp. 1–22, at p. 5. 79 Garret G. Fagan, ‘Diagnosing Pseudoarchaeology’, in Archaeological Fantasies, pp. 23–46, at pp. 30–3. 80 Uncatalogued notes on a draft National Trust document by an anonymous hand – possibly Angela Care Evans – held at the British Museum, Britain, Europe, and Prehistory Study Room. With thanks to Sue Brunning for arranging access. 76

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Making a multi-sensory past Between 2002 and 2018 visitors could encounter archaeological artefacts (some as-found, some replicas), photographs, illustrations, and Old English poems in the Visitor Centre and outdoor spaces.81 Inside, enmeshments of poems and other things repaired the incomplete or made visible the formless. Across incidental spaces on site, poems encouraged reflection on life, death, and environmentalism. Old English poems were positioned to facilitate visitors’ critical inquiry, emotional engagement, and social experiences. The first written poetry in the Visitor Centre accompanied a display titled ‘A Place for the Dead’. The first panel described a seventh-century cremation excavated in 2000, including a photograph of archaeologists at work captioned a ‘cremation visible in the middle’, though ‘visible’ is an overstatement for the untrained eye.82 The panel closed with an extract captioned ‘Cremation. Translated from the Old English poem Beowulf’: The greatest of death-fires wound to the clouds, roared before the mound; heads melted away, wound-gates burst open, the body’s loathly cuts, as blood sprang forth. Flame, hungriest of spirits, swallowed all those whom battle took…83

All the poetry in the Visitor Centre was printed in a typeface evocative of handwriting, suggesting a medieval human witness rather than a modern, institutional voice. These lines, from the ‘Finnsburg Episode’ in Beowulf, recount the burning of bodies following a battle between Danes and Frisians. The quotation is presented with ellipses at line 1123b, leaving out 1124a ‘bega folces’, [from both peoples].84 Omitting these two words changes the meaning from recounting a particular battle to a maxim, from which visitors are invited to infer a homogenous ‘Anglo-Saxon’ warrior culture. To the right of this panel was a photograph of a funeral pyre burning against a black sky, watched over by a spear-clutching figure. In front was a showcase with the bronze cremation bowl with a simple label describing its burial with a comb and textile fragment. The smells and sights of the poem and the photograph of the pyre returned grimy action to the emptied and cleaned bowl. Combining poem, object, and photographs, as at the British Museum, suggests a belief

For write-ups and diagrams of the 2002–18 exhibition (but no discussion of the poetry), see David Martin, ‘A Shipshape Launch’, Museum Practice 20 (2002), 28–31; Angela Care Evans, ‘The Sutton Hoo Visitor Centre’, Minerva 13:6 (2002), 40–2; and Duncan McAndrew, ‘Whose Hoo? A Review and Critique of: “Sutton Hoo”, Sutton Hoo National Trust Visitor Centre, Sutton Hoo, Suffolk’, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 14 (2003), 136–43; Walsh and Williams, ‘Displaying the Deviant’. 82 Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story, pp. 116–17. 83 Corresponds to Beowulf, lines 1119–23. Transcribed as presented, including ellipses, on 11 July 2017. Translations uncredited in-panel; a closing panel credited translations to Stephen Pollington and interpretive text to Steven Plunkett. 84 See ‘Beowulf ’, in R. D. Fulk (ed. and trans.), The Beowulf Manuscript (London, 2010), lines 1123–4a. 81

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that such an enmeshment can more appropriately facilitate an understanding of the object’s seventh-century value, function, and meaning than the object alone. Only one caption in the Visitor Centre gave context to Beowulf: This heroic epic is set in Denmark and Sweden a hundred years before the time of Sutton Hoo. Although the only surviving copy was written down as late as 1000 AD it draws upon ancient traditions handed down by word of mouth.

This was the only point where differences in date and geography were noted between poetry and place, and the caption does not encourage interrogation into their relationship, but rather implies a homogenous Anglo-Saxon–Scandinavian world from the seventh-century Sutton Hoo burial to the ‘1000 AD’ manuscript. Calling Beowulf the product of ‘ancient tradition’ generates the same effect as when texts are named ‘legends’ as discussed above, and suggests an instability of origins that pseudo-archaeologically implies that all interpretations are equal because the truth is unknowable. In ‘The Ship’ display, several original rusted ship-rivets were gathered in a showcase, and Beowulf became the familial narrative of the community that created Sutton Hoo. One panel asked, ‘did the East Angles thus renew their ancestral myth, the story of the burial of Scyld Scefing, and of a royal dynasty founded in a new country?’ while another panel included the lines ‘Sea against sand, the currents wove… the men pushed out the bounden wood, heroes purposed upon their journey. Over the wavy sea, driven by the wind the foamy-necked one went floating like a bird’.85 Poem and place were rendered more similar by eliding the details that Beowulf was cremated or that Scyld’s ship drifted out to sea, compared to the buried ships at Sutton Hoo. The other burials at Sutton Hoo aside, there are more complex stories to be told about Mound 1: Martin Carver reads the burial not as evidence of an ancestral tradition but as an idiosyncratic political statement in a complicated world.86 Just as poetry was used to return action to the still and clean cremation bowl, here it conjured a ship from the gnarled rivets. This exciting, speculative mode could have been more complexly stretched. Further social possibilities of Old English poetry were present across the Sutton Hoo site. One panel in the Visitor Centre reproduced a selection of Kevin Crossley-Holland’s translations of the Exeter Book riddles.87 The poems were the artefacts, the focus of the display. During visits between 2016 and 2018, I observed visitors reading the riddles aloud to each other. In a group where no one seemed to have prior knowledge of the poems, visitors laughed at the ‘shocking’ solutions for the ‘onion’/ ‘penis’ riddle, and where one or more members of the party knew the riddles, they acted as guides to the rest of their group. Outside, on the walk to the burial mounds, was another riddle: ‘wonder-wrought waves water become bone!’ was carved onto six wooden ‘stepping-stones’ around one tree, with the solution Corresponding to Beowulf lines 212–18, ellipses as displayed. See Carver, Burial Ground of Kings, pp. 92–106. 87 The riddles were Kevin Crossley-Holland’s translations of the shield (5), ice (69), swan (7), onion (25) and onion seller (86), and they were scattered on a photographic panel showing a feast from above, evoking stories shared over food. The text reproduced the poems from The Exeter Book Riddles (London, 2008). 85

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‘Ice’ under another. Visitors (of all ages!) would speak the poem aloud as they moved around, and I saw one pair challenge each other to make new one-line riddles about wildlife they could see around them. The riddles provoked conversations, with visitors prompted to speak and think together. They functioned as scripts, giving stage-directions to lead visitors to experience early medieval literary culture. Meanwhile, Vercelli Homily X found a practical yet emotive use on a poster in the bathrooms: ‘“it is just like showers of rain when they fall hardest from heaven and then quickly disappear”. Before the showers disappear, we harvest the rainwater that falls over Sutton Hoo. We use this store of rainwater to flush our toilets’.89 Here, Old English prompted visitors to consider human responsibilities toward the planet. Using an old text to explain a new technology created a sense that being eco-conscious was in keeping with authentic – because aligning with historical attitudes – ways of being at the site. No contextual information was given about the riddles or homilies. The riddles are from the Exeter Book, while the homily is found in the Vercelli Book, with both manuscripts dated to the tenth century.90 Aldhelm’s late seventh-century Latin riddles would be temporally closer to Sutton Hoo, but these choices signal an investment in Old English being the language of ‘the Anglo-Saxons’.91 The instrumentalisation of only Old English obscures the multilingualism of early medieval England, even more so as most of the texts were modern English translations with little Old English language to look at or listen to. As discussed above, while the Mound 1 burial method ‘principally’ represents vernacularity and paganism, other objects speak of Christian connections, Romano–British culture, and links to Scandinavia, the Mediterranean, and beyond.92 Early medieval Latinate and vernacular textual cultures – the riddle tradition, Latin texts glossed with Old English, illuminations that combine Byzantine, Irish, and Germanic forms – might be more evocatively compared with the combination of influences embodied by the Scandinavian-made, Roman-inspired helmet. The missed opportunity to explore such interplay, and privileging of the pagan and Scandinavian, reinscribed limited meanings of ‘Anglo-Saxon’, even as some Old English texts also facilitated pleasurable, exploratory interactions. 88

Conclusion In the British Museum and at Sutton Hoo, Old English poetry may effectively direct visitors how to engage with medieval objects, or to rethink relationships between past and present, self and other, humans and the environment. The attention to human activity and senses makes the medieval knowable by facilitating visitors to 88 A translation of Riddle 69, as numbered in George Philip Krapp and Elliott Van Kirk Dobbie (eds), The Exeter Book (New York, 1936). 89 Vercelli Homily X, lines 205–6 as reproduced on a poster, Sutton Hoo site, transcribed 16 August 2016. 90 Bjork, Old English Shorter Poems, p. xi; Donald G. Scragg, ‘Homilies’, in Michael Lapidge (ed.), The Blackwell Encyclopedia of Anglo-Saxon England (New Jersey, 2013), pp. 247–8. 91 A. M. Juster, Saint Aldhelm’s Riddles (Toronto, 2015), p. xiii. 92 Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story, pp. 184–7; Frank, ‘Odd Couple’, pp. 56–7.

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use their own bodies to understand Sutton Hoo and Old English literature, whether by circling the central showcase turned new barrow at the British Museum or exchanging riddles in spaces at Sutton Hoo. Using poems as scripts, visitors may perform their own imaginative, emotive reconstructions of early medieval thought and action. Old English poems and translations are presented as artefacts and function as replicas removed from their manuscript or historical contexts. Sometimes, the result is a more expansive world, the poetry generating multiple times in a single space and enabling new understandings of self and community past and present. Sometimes, though, the presentation of fake or translated Old English fragments with Sutton Hoo eradicates complexity and forecloses questions of who today – because of ethnicity, gender, or politics – might be excluded from making personal or critical connections to the past. The ways that ethno-nationalist narratives may be veiled so that they appear to make generic appeals to ideas of community and belonging give rise to questions of how heritage organisations and scholars of Old English medievalism can recognise white supremacist complicity when it occurs. Alexandra Sterling-Hellenbrand argues that, in Germany, ‘The ways in which medieval literature is put on display […] reveal the role of medievalism in the practice of cultural memory, the creation of heritage, and the exploration of community identity’.93 In the English contexts examined here, extracts and translations of Old English poems are presented as telling a coherent story of communal identity. Each poem’s context is elided to offer a vision of a generic ‘Anglo-Saxon’ period. The fake Old English poetry imagines an explicit history of England as an ethno-state that defies historical flux. Old English is presented as a stable voice, solving the problem of lost or irreparable things that are materially fragmented or in need of conceptual reconstruction. Displays that include Old English poetry are produced by and reproduce the belief that a text is understandable because literally readable. This perpetuates a misunderstanding of both texts and objects, mistaking textual legibility for comprehensibility and erasing the potential for multiplicity between signifier and signified. This article discussed the Visitor Centre at Sutton Hoo from 2002 to 2018; however, between 2015 and 2019 a multi-million-pound project entitled ‘Releasing the Sutton Hoo Story’ redeveloped the site.94 The new Visitor Centre opened in 2019, and while there are fewer lines of poetry displayed, there is work to be done examining the heightened role of emotion and imagination. A National Trust spokesperson said the work would ‘bring both the landscape and Exhibition Hall to life’,95 and 93 Alexandra Sterling-Hellenbrand, Medieval Literature on Display: Heritage and Culture in Modern Germany (London, 2020), p. ix. 94 ‘National Trust Wins HLF Support’, Heritage Lottery Fund press release, 19 Nov. 2015

[accessed 1 Jun. 2019]; ‘Revealing the Secrets of Sutton Hoo’, HLF press release, 3 Oct. 2017 [accessed 1 Jun. 2019]. 95 ‘Releasing the Story of Sutton Hoo’, National Trust press release, undated (c. Nov. 2017) [accessed 1 Jun. 2019].

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the teaser campaign – ‘Hoo’s Waking Up’ – also promised a newly animated site. Emotional, imaginative engagement importantly enables audiences to access early medieval worlds. However, these same moves can also create space for exclusionary ideas of past and present to be legitimated. As this article was being finished, the Netflix-produced film The Dig was released, adapted from John Preston’s 2007 book, which tells the story of the 1939 Mound 1 excavation.97 Louise D’Arcens and Mary Rambaran-Olm quickly demonstrated how the film – and much of its reception in the press – implicated Sutton Hoo into nationalist and romantic ideas about ‘the Anglo-Saxon’.98 Kristen Carella’s review elucidated how the film was less interested in early medieval things – the objects are only briefly glimpsed – but rather Sutton Hoo becomes a cipher for staging discussion of contemporary spiritual turmoil.99 The Dig reveals how the early medieval as a flexible, shifting category continues to linger emotionally in the cultural imaginary. The status of Old English poems as multivalent literature belonging to specific literary–historical contexts is bypassed in their instrumentalisation in museums. This instrumentalisation raises questions of the role of disciplinarity and collaboration in how public understandings of early medieval objects and texts, and the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ world that they signify, are formed. Archaeologists, literary historians, curators, and historians all have very different ideas (even within each discipline) about what literature is, and how it may be read and used. I have shown how a homogenised early medieval world emerges from poems in museum displays and how vital future collaboration is to public history practices that resist ethno-nationalism. This is not a question of academics simply pointing out what museums have got wrong; the ways in which feminist, queer, and critical race scholarship – and indeed medievalism topics – have historically been marginalised from conferences or publications in Old English studies testify to the ways in which the discipline has been slow to recognise its own role in maintaining exclusionary cultures, so the field 96

‘A New Dawn for Sutton Hoo’, NT press release, undated http://web.archive.org/ web/20190731121256/https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/sutton-hoo/features/a-new-dawnfor-sutton-hoo [accessed 15 Aug. 2019]. 97 The Dig, film, directed by Simon Stone, UK: Netflix, 2021; John Preston, The Dig (London, 2007). 98 Louise D’Arcens, ‘The Dig’s Romanticisation of an Anglo-Saxon Past Reveals It Is a Film for Post-Brexit UK’, The Conversation, 15 February 2020 [accessed 20 Aug. 2021]. Mary Rambaran-Olm, [@ISASaxonists] (6 Feb. 2021). What’s so hard about sayin East Anglians, you motherfuckers? 1 star for inspiring a new generation of wyte nationalists. That ends my review of #thedig. [Tweet]. Twitter. ; and Mary Rambaran-Olm [@ ISASaxonists] (15 May 2021). Applicable to “The Dig”. People fall in love w/romanticized views of archaeology or look past errors to “enjoy the acting” or “the visuals” but underneath that is perpetuation of dangerous/false narratives in the absence of critique. Ethical viewing sometimes means NOT viewing. [Tweet]. Twitter. [accessed 20 Aug. 2021]. 99 Kristen Carella, ‘The Dig, dir. Simon Stone’, Medievally Speaking, 29 Jul. 2021 [accessed 14 Sep. 2021]. 96

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certainly has work to do.100 This chapter has argued for the importance of interdisciplinary work and careful reflection on how intentions, practices, and theory may differ from effect and impact. Reading Old English with Sutton Hoo in museums reveals how the meanings of texts and objects become co-constitutive, and how ‘the Anglo-Saxon’ emerges from this enmeshment.

100 See Mary Rambaran-Olm, M. Breann Leake and Micah James Goodrich, ‘Medieval Studies: The Stakes of the Field’, postmedieval 11 (2020), 356–70; Kathryn Maude, ‘Citation and Marginalisation: The Ethics of Feminism in Medieval Studies’, Journal of Gender Studies 23:3 (2014), 247–61; Clare A. Lees and Gillian R. Overing, ‘Still Theoretical After All These Years, Or, Whose Theory Do You Want, Or, Whose Theory Can We Have?’, Heroic Age 14 (2010) [accessed 20 Jul. 2021]; Michael D. C. Drout, Tom Shippey, Richard Scott Nokes and Eileen A. Joy, ‘State of the Field in Anglo-Saxon Studies’, Heroic Age 11 (2008) [accessed 20 Jul. 2021]; and Helen T. Bennett, Clare A. Lees and Gillian R. Overing, ‘Gender and Power: Feminism and Old English Studies’, Medieval Feminist Newsletter 10 (1990), 15–23.

II

Invoking Early Medieval England and Its Language in Historical Fiction

5 Creating a ‘Shadow Tongue’: The Merging of Two Language Stages Oliver M. Traxel

1. Introduction the night was clere though i slept i seen it. though i slept i seen the calm hierde naht only the still. when i gan down to sleep all was clere in the land and my dreams was full of stillness but my dreams did not cepe me still1

T

he first paragraph of Paul Kingsnorth’s historical novel The Wake immediately confronts the reader with its rather specific language. It is obviously written in a curious sort of English; it contains many forms commonly found in modern standards, but there are also several spellings and grammatical constructions that give it a rather unusual character. These occurrences can be linked to the setting of the novel: it takes place in England during the years 1066–8 and is intended to reflect some of the linguistic features that were used in late Old English. Roberto Calas, another writer of historical fiction, has commented on the risks involved with having the language conform to the medieval setting of a historical novel: Writing a medieval novel using only the language from the middle ages (even limited to dialog), would be asinine. […] No one would understand a book written that way. I understand adding medieval flavor to a book. I get that. I do a lot of that myself. And I understand making an effort to avoid expressions that are too modern, another goal of mine. But let’s face it, we aren’t going to write a book in Old English or even Middle English. And most writers don’t know enough

1

Paul Kingsnorth, The Wake (London, 2014), p. 1.

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about the language of that time period to make a convincing stab at it. My argument is that historical language should yield to clarity.2

Seemingly less interested in ‘clarity’, Kingsnorth went to greater lengths to add ‘flavor’ to his historical novel and created a ‘pseudo-language intended to convey the feeling of the old language [Old English] by combining some of its vocabulary and syntax with the English we speak today’.3 He termed the result ‘shadow tongue’ and even provided both an outline of its principal linguistic features in his ‘note on language’ and a ‘partial glossary’ to assist the reader.4 His ultimate aim was to ‘convey […] through the words of the characters, the sheer alienness of Old England […] a place at once alien and familiar’.5 The Wake is written in first-person perspective from the point of view of the character ‘Buccmaster’, a dispossessed English landowner fighting against the Norman invaders in guerrilla style. It was issued by crowdfunding publisher Unbound in 2014, after more conventional companies had rejected it, and won the Gordon Burn Prize in the same year as well as the Bookseller Industry Book of the Year Award in 2015.6 The Wake is the first volume of a trilogy with the second volume being set in the present day and the third volume being set a thousand years in the future.7 Despite its rather unconventional linguistic approach it was not the first historical novel to combine Modern English with Old English elements. A year earlier, Philip Terry had already attempted this linguistic experiment in his tapestry.8 Remarkably, both The Wake and tapestry were shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize, an award intended ‘to celebrate the qualities of creative daring associated with the College [Goldsmiths, University of London] and to reward fiction that breaks the mould or extends the possibilities of the novel form’.9 Tapestry is set in a Roberto Calas, ‘Can Language in Any Historical Novel Truly Be Authentic?’ (2013), original website no longer accessible, but archived at Wayback Machine [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 3 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. 4 Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 347–56. Such glossaries may also be found in historical novels that are set in Anglo-Saxon England and occasionally insert some Old English words into the main text, namely if they denote objects or concepts that are specific to this period, for example, Nicola Griffith, Hild (New York, 2013), pp. 541–3; cf. Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Old English Words in Modern Contexts: The Resurrection or Reforming of Extinct Lexical Items’, in Hans Sauer and Rüdiger Pfeiffer-Rupp (eds), Ihr werdet die Wahrheit erkennen / Ye Shall Know the Truth: Zum Gedenken an den Philologen / In Memory of the Philologist Ewald Standop (Trier, 2020), pp. 163–78, at pp. 165–6. 5 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356. 6 Bookseller Staff, ‘Kingsnorth’s The Wake is BIA Book of the Year’, The Bookseller (2015) [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]; Mark Brown, ‘Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake: A Novel Approach to Old English’, The Guardian (9 Sept. 2014) [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. I am grateful to Unbound for providing me with an electronic copy of the text, which made it easier to search for and count certain forms and spellings. 7 Paul Kingsnorth, Beast (London, 2016); Paul Kingsnorth, Alexandria (London, 2021). 8 Philip Terry, tapestry (Hastings, 2013). 9 [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 2

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similar time frame, namely a few years after the Norman Conquest between 1071 and 1082, and it is also written in the first person. This time, however, there is more than one protagonist, namely a group of nuns who are responsible for embroidering the Bayeux Tapestry. The language demands less of the reader than The Wake in that the text is generally more modern-looking and also uses modern punctuation, as may be illustrated by the first two sentences: ‘WEEKS AND WEEKS OF INCESSANT dull regn, which falls off the sky lyk cow piss. We haue nefer seen the lyks of it’.10 This more transparent readability may also explain why, in contrast to Kingsnorth, Terry does not provide any linguistic information. The Wake has received some scholarly attention, both with regard to its medievalism and its language.11 In fact, the two subsequent chapters in this very volume by Judy Kendall and Karen Louise Jolly deal with this novel. The most detailed linguistic discussions so far are found in an interview on the website The Toast,12 as well as in a book review published in the electronic periodical Perspicuitas.13 The case looks rather different with regard to tapestry, which has mostly been ignored by scholars, and in contrast to numerous book reviews of The Wake there are only very few.14 Whereas the language of The Wake has been called ‘shadow tongue’ by the author himself,15 there is no specific term for the language used by Terry in tapestry, though one reviewer refers to it as ‘pastiche Anglo-Saxon’.16 In a prior publication, the language of both The Wake and tapestry was classified as ‘pseudo-Old English’,17 a term also used by Gretchen McCulloch and Kate Wiles with regard to The Wake.18 The term ‘pseudo-Old English’ may also refer to the unsuccessful attempt at composing neo-Old English, which tries to follow the linguistic rules of Old English Terry, tapestry, p. 9. See, for example, Michael D. Gordin and Joshua T. Katz, ‘The Walker and the Wake: Analyses of Non-Intrinsic Philological Isolates’, in Sean Gurd and Vincent W. J. van Gerven Oei (eds), Pataphilology: An Irreader (Goleta, 2018), pp. 61–92; Jonathan Hsy, ‘Language Ecologies: Ethics, Community, and Digital Affect’, Proceedings of the Modern Language Association 131:2 (2016), 373–80; Lauryn Mayer, ‘Forged Pasts: Paul Kingsnorth’s Monitory Neo-Medievalism in The Wake’, The Year’s Work in Medievalism 31 (2016), 67–74. 12 Gretchen McCulloch and Kate Wiles, ‘Two Linguists Explain Pseudo Old English in The Wake’, The Toast, 14 Jun. 2016 [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 13 Kathrin Thier, ‘Paul Kingsnorth: The Wake (2013)’, Perspicuitas: Internet-Periodicum Mediävistik (2016) [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 14 See, for example, Leigh Kennedy, ‘tapestry: A Review’, Hastings Online Times (2014) [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]; Nicholas Lezard, ‘tapestry by Philip Terry: Review’, The Guardian, 28 May 2013 [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 15 The protagonist Buccmaster calls it ‘anglisc’. 16 Lezard, ‘tapestry: Review’. 17 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28, at pp. 316–18. 18 McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’. 10 11

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rather closely.19 The results can be seen, for example, in several entries from the otherwise neo-Old English Englisc Wikipædia.20 Following Kingsnorth’s terminology, the intentional pseudo-Old English used in The Wake and tapestry is referred to as ‘shadow tongue’ in this chapter even if the authors of both novels implement it differently. The coining of this compound is interesting as it evokes connotations with a time that has often been called the ‘Dark Ages’, namely the early medieval period.21 In addition, it also shows a connection to the phrase ‘shadow of the past’, as used, for example, in the title of J. R. R. Tolkien’s second chapter of The Lord of the Rings,22 which may not be a co-incidence but possibly a deliberate echo of Tolkien seeing that he frequently drew on the Old English language in his works.23 Moreover, Kingsnorth compares his shadow tongue to a ‘ghost image’ of a past language never spoken in this form.24 He may have also decided to include the word ‘shadow’ to depict the novel as a reflection or foreshadowing of the two subsequent books in his ‘Buckmaster Trilogy’. The term ‘shadow tongue’ is also used throughout this chapter in order to distinguish this language from various other types of pseudo-Old English, which may range from the seemingly random incorporation of linguistic elements to provide an archaic feel up to failed compositions of neo-Old English, as mentioned above. A shadow tongue never existed in the real world but has been deliberately created, for which reason it counts as a constructed language or ‘conlang’.25 As it occurs in a work of fiction it belongs to the subcategory of artificial language or ‘artlang’.26 Since it is based on

19 Cf. Traxel, ‘Reviving’, 311–16. Neo-Old English is found in various contexts, such as translations of entire modern books like Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, translated into Old English by Peter S. Baker as Hlóðwíg Carroll: Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande (Portlaoise, 2015), or inserted passages in a mostly Modern English environment, as seen in the TV series Vikings, created by Michael Hirst. Canada and Ireland: TM Productions, Take 5 Productions, Octagon Films, Shaw Media, Corus Entertainment and MGM Television, 2013–20, where we also find some neo-Old Norse. If neo-Old English passages occur in historical novels set in Anglo-Saxon England they are usually accompanied by a Modern English translation, as seen in the prologue to Stephen Baxter, Conqueror (London, 2007), pp. vii–viii. 20 Anonymous, ‘Heafodtramet’, Englisc Wikipædia, last updated 9 Jul. 2021 [accessed on 30 Aug. 2021]; cf. Christina Neuland and Florian Schleburg, ‘A New Old English? The Chances of an Anglo-Saxon Revival on the Internet’, in Sarah Buschfeld, Thomas Hoffmann, Magnus Huber and Alexander Kautzsch (eds), The Evolution of Englishes: The Dynamic Model and Beyond (Amsterdam, 2014), pp. 486–504. 21 Cf., for example, Michael Wood, In Search of the Dark Ages (London, 1981), or, more recently, Martin J. Dougherty, The ‘Dark’ Ages: From the Sack of Rome to Hastings (London, 2019). 22 J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, 3 vols (London, 1954–5). 23 Cf. Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Exploring the Linguistic Past through the Work(s) of J. R. R. Tolkien: Some Points of Orientation from English Language History’, in Monika KirnerLudwig, Stephan Köser and Sebastian Streitberger (eds), Binding Them All: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on J. R. R. Tolkien and His Works (Zurich, 2017), pp. 279–304. 24 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356. 25 David J. Petersen, The Art of Language Invention (New York, 2015), pp. 18–19. 26 Petersen, Language Invention, p. 21.

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actual linguistic evidence it can be further classified as a posteriori, in contrast to a priori languages, which are created from scratch.27 Both The Wake and tapestry conceive such a shadow tongue in different ways, though their purpose is identical, namely, to provide an atmospheric reading experience. This chapter examines the language of these novels with regard to various categories, namely spelling, pronunciation, morphology, syntax and vocabulary. It points out possible reasons or sources for some forms, discusses some of the problems in its implementation and suggests some linguistic ideas to be considered for future novels set in Anglo-Saxon or post-Conquest England. Most examples are taken from The Wake, as it shows a larger amount of linguistic creativity than tapestry, and, in contrast to Terry, Kingsnorth also provides information on his principles.28 In each of the following five sections, examples from tapestry are presented in relation to forms found in The Wake before some brief recommendations for future writers are given. These may serve as a potential guide to the devising of a conlang that is more consistent and elaborate than those used in these two novels. Such a standardised approach could be more satisfying to both lay readers and academics in that it not only pays close attention to the linguistic past but also reflects the common regularisation usually found in grammars and textbooks on historical Englishes, for which reason it could theoretically even be learnt. The primary purpose of this chapter is to provide a systematic linguistic analysis of Kingsnorth’s and Terry’s pseudo-Old English;29 the effects of this kind of language on the reader are covered by the following chapter in this contribution by Judy Kendall. The current chapter hopes to outline how, ideally, a regularised form of pseudo-Old English, as an intermediate stage between modern English and properly devised neo-Old English,30 may prevent any potential linguistic misunderstandings due to its clear presentation, which is more reader-friendly and tries to avoid ambiguities. The following sections show that the pseudo-Old English used in Kingsnorth’s The Wake and Terry’s tapestry leaves much to be desired in this respect. 2. Spelling One of the most conspicuous features of a conlang is a specifically devised orthography.31 Indeed, one of the first things that strikes the reader of a shadow tongue is its spelling: some words resemble Modern English and can be recognised without great difficulty if some of the letters are exchanged. In fact, some Old English spellings are Petersen, Language Invention, p. 22. Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 347–56. 29 The fact that Kingsnorth’s narrative in pseudo-Old English, like the authentic-looking ‘fake Old English’ texts discussed by Fran Allfrey in the previous chapter, may aid a potential misinterpretation of the Anglo-Saxon past is discussed in Anna Czarnowus, ‘Greening the Anglo-Saxons in Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake’, Kwartalnik Neofilologiczny 65:4 (2018), 531–43. 30 See the chapters by Fritz Kemmler, Denis Ferhatović and Rafael J. Pascual later in the volume. 31 Cf. Oliver M. Traxel, ‘The Spelling of Conlangs: Fictional Languages and Their Orthographic Representation’, in Klaus Johan Myrvoll and Oliver M. Traxel (eds), Spelling Identities (forthcoming). 27

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even identical to those of Modern English, for example, great and man. For these reasons, it is generally commendable to reproduce Old English spellings that do not pose any problems to the audience. It is of course not always easy to determine which Old English spellings are easily recognisable to the modern reader. In fact, Kingsnorth points out that some Old English words are offered up with their OE spellings intact. This is a rule that I found I had to break more often than I wanted to – if I had stuck to it with every word, the novel would have been ten times harder to read. I had to use my judgement as to when to use OE spellings and when to modernise them, and if so by how much.32

Some examples from The Wake are deop (‘deep’) and deorc (‘dark’), which begin with the same letter as their Modern English equivalents and are near-homophones when read out in full. The case is slightly more complex with regard to daeg (‘day’) as the reader needs to be aware that in this context represents a /j/-sound (cf. below, Section 3). The experience in this particular word could have even been enhanced if Kingsnorth had retained the Old English ash-ligature rather than splitting it into two separate letters throughout his novel, as this letter would have given it an even more archaic look while still being easily recognisable. In fact, there are instances where has been used in modern contexts to evoke a medieval feel, as seen, for example, in the spelling of the musical band Mediæval Bæbes, who both interpret authentic medieval songs and play their own compositions in a similar style.33 In tapestry, Terry does not use either, and he even avoids the digraph as well, as seen, for example, in dag (‘day’). Generally, the text contains far fewer spellings that are attested during the Old English period than The Wake, such as heafod (‘head’) and fyr (‘fire’). Indeed, one of its most typical features is the frequent use of instead of , as seen, for example, also in lyk (‘like’), theyr (‘their’) and the suffix –yng (‘–ing’), which are in fact Middle English rather than Old English forms (cf. OED, s.vv. like, adj., adv., conj., and prep.; their, adj. and pron.; –ing, suffix1 and suffix2) and may therefore illustrate change towards a new linguistic period during the novel’s setting. Generally, many of tapestry’s spellings are difficult to interpret for the average reader. A particularly noteworthy case is woe man for ‘woman’, which might suggest folk etymology but more likely has a semantic function in that it associates the attribute of woe with women.34 There is letter-doubling in watter instead of Old English ‘wæter’ or Modern English ‘water’,35 while there is letter-loss in lan instead of ‘land’, a form where Old English and Modern English even look identical. Such spellings were probably chosen as they can easily be recognised due to the Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 354. Mediaeval Baebes [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. Cf. also Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Pseudo-Archaic English: The Modern Perception and Interpretation of the Linguistic Past’, Studia Anglica Posnaniensia 47:2–3 (2012), 41–58, at pp. 47–8. 34 I am grateful to Judy Kendall, who suggested in a private communication that the woeelement could be seen either in a sympathetic way, that is, that a woman may suffer grief, or in a negative way, meaning that a woman may be the cause of trouble, as seen, for example, in Cockney rhyming slang trouble and strife for ‘wife’. 35 The modern spelling is used throughout The Wake. 32 33

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minor orthographic changes to Modern English while still giving them an unfamiliar appearance. These particular examples may have been inspired by some specific historical or modern forms found in northern English dialects or Scots (cf. DSL, s.v. wat(t)ir, -er, n.; land, n.1; OED, s.v. water, n.; land, n.1), regions that often retain more archaic forms than Standard English.36 The letter-doubling in watter may also give a clue as to the earlier quantity of the main vowel, which was short in Old English. Finally, tapestry’s spellings are often inconsistent, an aspect that it indeed shares with many medieval manuscripts. One example is the orthographic representation of [v], as illustrated by the passage: ‘We haue nefer seen the lyks of it. So heavy it es’.37 Here this sound is expressed by no fewer than three letters, namely in haue (‘have’), in nefer (‘never’) and in heavy.38 In Modern English, all three words are spelled with whereas the Old English equivalents to modern never and heavy are generally spelled with (OED, s.vv. never, adv. and int.; heavy, adj.1 and n.) and Old English forms corresponding to modern have are usually spelled with , though some occurrences of are also attested (OED, s.v. have, v.). While tapestry does not contain any authorial comment on the language used, Kingsnorth’s ‘note on language’ provides some valuable insights into his choice of spellings in The Wake.39 One of his claims is that he ‘did not use letters that did not exist in Old English’ with specific reference to , , and .40 He does not include any digraphs in his list of non-existent letters, for example, , which is actually found no fewer than 776 times in his novel. Considering that he avoids it in words like cniht (‘knight’), which retains its Old English spelling, it is unclear why he does use modern spellings in similar words like night, which could have become niht in order to make his shadow tongue more consistent in this respect. On the other hand, Kingsnorth is consistent in changing all instances of to , though, despite his claim to the contrary, is in fact occasionally found in Old English, mostly as an alternative to before a front vowel if it denotes the sound /k/.41 Terry, in contrast, does not make such efforts seeing that tapestry contains all letters that The Wake tries to avoid. Moreover, both novels alter specifically Old English letters for better legibility: besides the aforementioned change of ash to this concerns thorn and eth , which are changed to , as well as wynn , which is changed to , as is commonly done even in modern scholarly editions of Old English texts, which generally keep the other three letters.42 Cf. Katie Wales, Northern English: A Social and Cultural History (Cambridge, 2006). Terry, tapestry, p. 9. 38 Of course, /v/ is the modern phoneme not found until the Middle English period; in Old English this sound was an allophone of /f/, namely [v], and was always spelled ; cf. Christopher Upward and Charles Davidson, The History of English Spelling (Oxford, 2011), pp. 42–3. 39 Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 353–6. 40 Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 353–4. 41 Upward and Davidson, History, p. 48. Rarely, is used as an alternative to in other contexts; cf., for example, some spellings listed under DOE cneow, n.; coc, n. 42 Donald G. Scragg has argued that in contrast to the replacement of with in such editions ‘ are retained because any departure would be to supply two modern characters for a single early one, or to falsify equally radically in some other way’; Donald G. Scragg, A History of English Spelling (Manchester, 1974), p. 8 n. 1. 36 37

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One noteworthy instance where Kingsnorth does not stick to his outlined principles is his use of , which occurs seventeen times in The Wake in six different word types: josef (1), jalf (4), fjord (1), joc (7), jocs (3), job (1). The main problem here is that with the exception of a few loanwords is mostly pronounced /dʒ/ in Modern English,43 which implies this realisation also for Old English. However, this voiced affricate, which in Old English existed only in non-initial position, was there never spelled with but either with the digraphs or , or with if this sound occurred after a nasal.44 Interestingly, a form resembling , namely , is found in Old English, often in biblical names beginning with this letter, such as Joseph, Jacob and Jerusalem. There, however, it was a variant of rather than representing and may have been pronounced /i/ or /j/ (OED, s.v. J, n.). Since Joseph occurs also in The Wake, namely in the spelling josef, Kingsnorth could have spelled it with initial , thereby avoiding any possible association with /dʒ/ and bringing it closer to the likely Old English spelling and pronunciation. The other name, namely jalf, is of Old Norse origin, where it was spelled jolfr or jólfuðr (ONP, s.v. jolfr, n.). Kingsnorth could have spelled it ialf or iolf to avoid yet another association with the affricate. However, since initial in this name is common in Old Norse his retention of the letter is comprehensible. The letter is also used in fjord, a Norwegian loanword deriving from Old Norse that is not attested in English until 1674 when it occurs in the spelling fiord (OED, s.v. fiord ǀ fjord, n.; ONP, s.v. fjǫrðr, n.). Another loanword from the Early Modern English period is joke, which was apparently adopted from Latin both as noun and verb in 1670 (OED, s.v. joke, n.; joke, v.); it is found in The Wake in both these word classes, in the base form joc and as inflected jocs. The origin of job is uncertain, but like the previous cases it first appears in Early Modern English (OED, s.v. job, n.2). The role of such post-Old English words is discussed below in Section 6. With regard to orthographic suggestions for future writers it may be stated that letters and digraphs that were not used in Old English should generally be avoided, whereas letters and digraphs that existed in Old English but have been lost ever since could be included. However, while ash poses no problem to the reader, wynn should be avoided, due to its possible confusion with

, in favour of . More spelling recommendations are given in the following section as they need to be discussed in conjunction with their phonological realisations. 3. Pronunciation As the previous section has shown, the subject of spelling is closely connected to pronunciation. However, it is often not transparent to the audience of a written conlang how it is supposed to be spoken, and presumably most readers would pronounce it like Modern English unless specifically stated otherwise. In order to provide assistance, Kingsnorth has devised some guidelines as to how to pronounce Upward and Davidson, History, pp. 254–5. Richard M. Hogg, ‘Phonology and Morphology’, in Richard M. Hogg (ed.), The Cambridge History of the English Language. Vol. 1: The Beginnings to 1066 (Cambridge, 1992), pp. 67–167, at p. 93. 43

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certain letters in The Wake. For example, he writes with regard to that it ‘is always pronounced like modern “k”, never like the modern “s”’.45 Of course, in Old English this letter could also represent a voiceless palatalised affricate sound /tʃ/, which some modern editions of Old English, in particular those aimed at students, indicate by a superscript dot, namely as .46 In The Wake this affricate is usually expressed by modern , for example in much and chalc (‘chalk’), though the reader may be confused that we also find in frenc (‘French’), which according to the guidelines would have to be pronounced /k/.47 Kingsnorth does acknowledge possible palatalisation of to /j/ in certain contexts by explaining that it ‘can be pronounced both as a hard letter, as in mergen (morning), or as a soft equivalent of “y” when it appears in words like daeg’.48 As with /tʃ/ and some modern editions of Old English indicate the palatalised /j/-sound by a superscript dot as .49 In The Wake, there are also plenty of cases where words that in Old English had palatalised /j/ for are spelled with modern , for example year and yonge (‘young’). In this respect it may be noted that the first sentence of tapestry (cf. above, Section 1) contains an actual Old English spelling with palatalised , namely regn (‘rain’). In one of his rare comments on the language of the novel, none of which are mentioned in the book itself, Terry explained that he included this spelling due to its orthographic and phonological similarity to modern reign, a homophone of rain, which implies ambiguity and besides the weather could also allude to the regency after the Norman Conquest.50 However, it is generally unclear how any spellings in tapestry are supposed to sound, as Terry stays silent on this matter; presumably, any reader would pronounce these spellings according to modern pronunciation conventions. In The Wake, we often find modern digraphs that did not exist in Old English, such as and (cf. above, Section 2), for which the reader needs no guidelines. Kingsnorth does provide help for the pronunciation of specifically Old English digraphs, for example: ‘“Cg” makes a “dg” sound in words like bricg (bridge). […] “Hw” sounds like “w” in words like hwit (white)’.51 However, one of his comments is not precise enough and may cause misunderstandings with regard to the pronunciation of some words: ‘“sc” […] is pronounced “sh” – as in biscop’.52 This realisation is indeed true if represents palatal /ʃ/ in Old English, which is spelled today, but in Old English, could also represent another sound, namely /sk/, which is spelled today.53 The Wake contains several examples where the latter proKingsnorth, The Wake, p. 354. Hogg, ‘Phonology and Morphology’, p. 90. 47 It is unclear if medial in Old English frencisc had a velar /k/ or a palatalised /tʃ/ as in Middle English we find both and spellings (OED, s.v. French, adj. and n.); final was in any case pronounced /ʃ/, being part of a palatalised suffix (cf. OED, s.v. –ish, suffix1). 48 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 354. 49 Hogg, ‘Phonology and Morphology’, p. 91. 50 Kennedy, ‘tapestry: A Review’. 51 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 354. 52 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 354. Both the Old English word and the Modern English equivalent bishop contain the sound /ʃ/. 53 Hogg, ‘Phonology and Morphology’, p. 93. 45

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nunciation applies, for example, dusc, masc and tasc, as well as the specifically Old English words huscarl and scramasax, both of which are also listed in the glossary.54 Another problem is that in The Wake, /ʃ/ is also often spelled with modern , which results in spellings like fresh and short being used alongside fisc (‘fish’) and wysc (‘wish’). Consistent use of for /ʃ/ and of for /sk/ could have solved these problems and inconsistencies, even if the latter digraph is not Old English and contains controversial (cf. above, Section 2). Finally, Kingsnorth also uses the digraph by splitting Old English into two separate letters (cf. above, Section 2), but he does not provide any help for its pronunciation in The Wake. He generally uses it for words that were spelled with in Old English, where it was pronounced either /æ/ or /æ:/.55 The further developments of these sounds can vary a great deal, and a passage like ‘annis had blaec haer with all graeg in’ contains no less than three modern realisations of , namely /æ/ in blaec (‘black’), /eǝ/ in haer (‘hair’) and /eɪ/ in graeg (‘grey’).56 Other encountered possibilities are /i:/, for example, in misdaed (‘misdeed’), /ɪ/, for example, in raedel (‘riddle’), and /e/, for example, in saed (‘said’). Nevertheless, the reader can easily recognise such words both from the context and the surrounding consonants. The following suggestions complement the last paragraph in the previous section but are mentioned here as they concern both spelling and pronunciation. In future novels set during this time period, thorn could be used for voiceless [θ], alongside eth for voiced [ð], even if their orthographic distribution in Old English did not follow this rule but was arbitrary. With regard to digraphs, could be used for palatal [ʃ], while could be used for [sk]; moreover, could be used for [dʒ], which in Old English appeared only in non-initial position.57 The final recommendation here concerns the possible use of a superscript dot to indicate palatal sounds, as found in some student editions, to provide easier reading; the letters in question would appear as for [tʃ], and for [j]. All of these strategies might result in a more intense reading experience and also move the audience closer toward the actual pronunciation of Old English. 4. Morphology Any conlang must also have an underlying grammatical system that pays attention to inflectional endings. Though Kingsnorth is usually informative about the language of The Wake, there are hardly any comments on morphology. For this aspect of the language, Kingsnorth merely mentions that he ‘mutated and hammered the shape of OE words and word endings to suit [his] purpose’.58 In fact, some strategies can be observed, in particular with regard to verbal endings. With the exception of modal verbs, all present verb forms may end in –s, irrespective of person and

54 55 56 57 58

Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 349. Upward and Davidson, History, pp. 35–6. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 47. Upward and Davidson, History, p. 46. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355.

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number, though this usage is not implemented consistently: therefore inflected verbs like saes (‘says’) and cums (‘comes’) can be preceded not only by third person singular pronouns like he and she but also by I, thu, we and they.60 Of course, this –s-ending is no typical Old English feature, but in late Old English/early Middle English northern dialects it could appear in all present indicative verb forms except for the first person singular.61 In Modern English, an –s-ending for all present verb forms may be found in northern dialects, but never in conjunction with personal pronouns, which is known as the ‘Northern-Subject Rule’.62 An –s-ending throughout the present has also been employed in some modern fiction as a dialect marker, resulting in forms like ‘I says’, ‘I comes’ and ‘I takes’, where it functions as what has been called ‘historical present’ or ‘vividly reporting present’.63 For these reasons, and since northern dialects have often been considered to be archaic,64 Kingsnorth may have decided to use this –s-ending throughout The Wake, yet he does not do so consistently. There are more modern non-standard verb forms which could have inspired Kingsnorth for his shadow tongue. Similar to the regularisation of –s, there are other instances showing the simplification of paradigms.65 Examples are ‘seen’, which in some modern dialects is also used for the simple past besides the past participle, thereby replacing ‘saw’, and conversely ‘took’, which is also found in the function of past participle besides the regular simple past, thereby replacing ‘taken’. The verb ‘come’ may even occur in this particular form in both the present, the simple past and the past participle. Kingsnorth uses cum for the simple past (‘came’) and the past participle (‘come’) but inflects it as cums throughout the present (‘come’, ‘comes’). Though these ideas are certainly interesting, one problem in all of these cases is Kingsnorth’s inconsistent implementation. For example, besides the simple past seen he also uses regular saw, while besides the past participle toc (‘took’) we also find tacan (‘taken’). The past participle of ‘drunk’ even occurs in no fewer than five different spellings: dranc, dronc, droncan, drunc, druncen, the latter of which is 59

59 For example, ‘I sees’ is found 38 times, whereas ‘I see’ is found four times; see Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 15, 30, 60, 69. 60 Both Thier, ‘The Wake’, and McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’, are particularly perturbed by forms like thu is, thu has, thu does and we is, with Thier even arguing: ‘Features such as these can create an overall impression that the characters are not native speakers of the complex ancestor of modern English, but that they are imperfect learners of a second language who have been denied access to its depths and riches’; see Thier, ‘The Wake’, p. 4. 61 Lukas Pietsch, Variable Grammars: Verbal Agreement in Northern Dialects of English (Tübingen, 2005), pp. 52–3. 62 Pietsch, Variable Grammars, pp. 5–6. 63 F. Th. Visser, An Historical Syntax of the English Language. Part Two: Syntactical Units with One Verb (Continued) (Leiden, 1966), pp. 725–8. 64 Cf. Katie Wales, ‘Dickens and Northern English: Stereotyping and “Authenticity” Reconsidered’, in Joan C. Beal and Sylvie Hancil (eds), Perspectives on Northern Englishes (Berlin, 2017), pp. 41–60, at p. 57. 65 Cf. James Milroy and Lesley Milroy, Authority in Language: Investigating Standard English, 3rd edn (London, 1999), p. 71.

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the regular Old English spelling.66 Of course, he may have wanted to show that language need not be fixed and can be in a state of flux, but it is confusing to the reader and renders the idea of establishing principles for a shadow tongue questionable. The final morphological ending in The Wake to be discussed in this section is –an as it represents a number of functions: (1) the gerund, where Old English had –ung or –ing and Modern English has –ing (OED, s.v. –ing, suffix1); (2) the present participle, where Old English had –ende and Modern English has –ing (OED, s.v. –ing, suffix2); (3) the past participle of some strong verbs where both Old English and Modern English have –en (OED, s.v. –en, suffix6); (4) the simple past of some strong verbs, which may imply analogical extension from the past participle, a process already observed above in ‘seen’.67 It is unclear why Kingsnorth chose the ending –an in these cases as it is found in neither Old English nor Modern English. In fact, this ending does occur in a different context in Old English, namely in the uninflected infinitive, but infinitives in The Wake are represented without endings, as in Modern English. With regard to functions (1) and (2), it is possible that Kingsnorth used this ending to represent informal g-dropping in these contexts and that he changed the vowel to distinguish it from Modern English. But Kingsnorth could have used the actual Old English endings for all four functions as the words would still have been recognisable, especially as some of the endings are even identical to their Modern English equivalents. In fact, he does so with regard to the past participle of some strong verbs, where –en occurs alongside –an, as seen, for example, in druncen (‘drunk’), which is indeed identical to the Old English form. In contrast to The Wake, inflectional endings in tapestry are usually modern, which facilitates the reading. Probably the most striking divergence is the avoidance of in the suffix of regular weak verb past forms (OED, s.v. –ed, suffix1), namely in cases where it is not pronounced, for example, in carvd (‘carved’) or knockd (‘knocked’). Of course, this is no Old English convention, and though the original unstressed vowel has now been lost, a grapheme for this earlier sound has usually been kept in the language. Terry may also have chosen to omit it in order to create a general archaic impression; he could have been inspired by some older editions of Shakespeare’s works, where we may find an apostrophe instead of silent in such forms, for example, in ‘liv’d’ and ‘hang’d’ on the first page of the classic First Folio edition of 1623.68 A phonological rather than orthographic explanation may be that he decided to provide spellings that are clearly not Modern English but that would sound modern if they were pronounced; they are therefore easy to understand while still looking remote from our time period. Generally, any possible reasons behind Terry’s choice of forms can only be speculative due to his lack of information on this matter. In Old English it may also be preceded by the prefix ge–. In fact, druncen is found ten times, while the other four spellings are used only once each: dranc, dronc, droncan, drunc; see Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 292, 206, 242, 224, respectively. 67 Examples for all four functions are found in the first paragraph of Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 3: (1) ‘by spillan anglisc guttas’; (2) ‘those wolde be tellan lies’; (3) ‘it is well cnawan’; (4) ‘but who cnawan triewe’. 68 William Shakespeare, The First Folio of Shakespeare: The Norton Facsimile, ed. Charlton Hinman, 2nd edn, with a new introduction by Peter W. M. Blayney (London, 1996), p. 1. 66

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Future writers of a shadow tongue may want to consider the consistent use of certain morphological endings that are more in line with the Old English ones. These would not obstruct audience understanding as the stems to which these endings are attached would be kept, though occasionally in a changed orthography. With regard to verbal endings, this process could involve –th for the third person singular present indicative, –an for the infinitive, –end for the present participle, –ing for the gerund, and –en for the past participle of strong verbs. Regarding nouns, the –s-plural could be retained on most occasions, but the –n-plural could be used if it appears in Old English, for example, for constructed egen (‘eyes’; Old English ‘eagan’) and namen (‘names’; Old English ‘naman’). The mutated plural, as in men, could also be kept in transparent cases, though originally mutated plural nouns that have since moved into the –s-plural, such as Old English bec (‘books’) with a palatalised final sound, should probably be closer to their Modern English equivalents to avoid misunderstandings, in this case with beech or beach. All of these recommendations are generally easier to implement and understand than any orthographic changes. 5. Syntax Besides inflectional endings, the second important aspect of grammar is syntax. The word order of both The Wake and tapestry is generally modern, incorporating none of the specifically Old English characteristics, such as typically verb–final order in subordinate clauses.69 Instead, we find plenty of typically modern features, such as do-constructions, present perfect and past perfect forms, and the expression of the genitive function with a prepositional phrase introduced by of. In fact, Kingsnorth admits: ‘The syntax used is mine, its structure often driven by the limitations placed on me by the available vocabulary’,70 though it is unclear what these limitations are. Of course, elements like verb–final order in subordinate clauses or consistent verb– second order in main clauses, even if the verb is not preceded by a noun, would bring it closer to Old English but make for a rather difficult reading experience. However, these features would look familiar to speakers of some other modern Germanic languages, such as German, where they are still found. One major syntactical problem in The Wake is that it is often difficult to discern when a clause ends and another one begins as punctuation is used very sparingly: occasionally we find a full stop, but apparently only in cases where there could be a syntactical misunderstanding. By contrast, tapestry usually employs modern punctuation, but has one longer subsection presented as a ‘tale’ with no punctuation at all; this format was presumably chosen for artistic or poetic reasons, as it also contains caesuras, though regrettably, the precise idea behind this rather different approach remains unclear.71 The lack of punctuation makes such passages difficult Cf. Bruce Mitchell, Old English Syntax, 2 vols (Oxford, 1985), vol. 2, p. 967, §3911. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. 71 Terry, tapestry, pp. 22–32. Three other connected ‘tales’ in this book also have an unusual layout, featuring line breaks within a sentence, though their punctuation is modern; see Terry, tapestry, pp. 41–57. Playing with layout can also be observed in The Wake, for example in passages where regular font and left alignment alternates with italic font and right alignment, in particular towards the end of the novel; see Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 330–44. 69 70

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to read, but at least it brings them closer to the Old English manuscript evidence, where punctuation is also used less frequently than today as well as in different forms and for different purposes.72 Not many syntactic changes would need to be made with regard to an improved version of a shadow tongue. The most obvious suggestions would concern the avoidance of do-constructions as well as the replacement of periphrastic constructions involving the preposition of in favour of inflected genitive forms. The present perfect and the past perfect were far less frequent in Old English than in Modern English and also served different functions,73 but due to their comparable periphrastic structure they could certainly be used to represent their modern syntactic equivalents. Verb–final word order in subordinate clauses may at least be considered, though it could make reading more difficult for those unfamiliar with, for example, German. Finally, modern punctuation even within a shadow tongue would make sense as it is not only reader-friendly but is also used in most modern editions of Old English texts. 6. Vocabulary One of the most salient characteristics of a conlang is its vocabulary. The reader will always encounter words that mark such a language as distinct from others. In his linguistic note on The Wake, Kingsnorth writes: ‘I wanted to use only words which originated in Old English’.74 He even provides a ‘partial glossary’ consisting of 85 entries.75 The respective words fall into various categories, which are, however, not indicated as such: (1) extinct words, for example, ent (‘giant’); (2) extinct spellings, for example, ac (‘oak’); (3) extinct meanings, for example, ceap (‘market’);76 (4) specialist terms, for example, Danelaugh, in a rather confusing spelling, as opposed to Old English Dena lagu (OED, s.v. Dane-law, n.). In fact, the spelling laugh for ‘law’ is attested as a possibility during the Middle English period (MED, s.v. laue, n.; OED, s.v. law, n.1), but its use here evokes connotations with the modern homograph.77 Generally, this glossary is certainly helpful as it pays attention to a number of important issues regarding language change. However, though Kingsnorth is aware of the subject of semantic change, as demonstrated by the third category above, he also employs a large number of words that have been in continuous use since the Old English period, but not in the modern sense. One striking example is the high-frequency word with, which in Old English meant ‘against’ (OED, s.v. with, prep., adv., Donald G. Scragg, ‘Old English Manuscripts, Their Scribes, and Their Punctuation’, in Matthew T. Hussey and John D. Niles (eds), The Genesis of Books: Studies in the Scribal Culture of Medieval England in Honour of A. N. Doane (Turnhout, 2011), pp. 245–60. 73 Cf. Mitchell, Old English Syntax, vol. 1, pp. 280–304, §§702–43. 74 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. 75 Kingsnorth, The Wake, pp. 347–51. 76 This example also has an extinct spelling. Note that the adjective ‘cheap’ is not attested until the Early Modern English period (OED, s.v. cheap, adj., adv., and n.2), while the Old English noun has now become extinct (OED, s.v. cheap, n.1). 77 Of course, it is possible that Kingsnorth used it as a term of mockery, but as Buccmaster proudly considers himself to be ‘a free man of the eald danelaugh’ this seems unlikely; see Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 4. 72

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and conj.), while the meaning ‘with’ in Old English was expressed by mid, which is last attested in the sixteenth century (OED, s.v. mid, prep.1 and adv.1). Another example is scit (‘shit’), which in Old English denoted only a more literal sense, in particular ‘diarrhoea’, rather than having an additional use as a swearword (OED, s.v. shit, n. and adj.). A final example showing semantic change is greatness, which in Old English meant ‘stoutness’, while the senses of ‘dignity’ or ‘distinction’, as used in The Wake, are not attested until the Middle English period (OED, s.v. greatness, n.). Of course, it is very difficult to compose a modern text consisting only of words that are of Old English origin. There are purists like the nineteenth-century philologist William Barnes,78 or experimentalists like David Cowley, author of How We’d Talk if the English Had Won in 1066,79 who have attempted to modernise Old English spellings or to create new words from Old English morphemes, as endorsed by the ‘Anglish’ movement, but the results look rather odd and might even imply nationalistic overtones.80 Kingsnorth does not seem to have any connection to its proponents and their rather strict approach but explains on which occasions he needed to break his own rule of preferring Old English words: ‘The exceptions are cases where words did not exist for what I wanted to say, or where those that did were […] obscure today, or hard to pronounce or read’.81 Some of these may have existed in oral usage but were not attested in writing until after the end of the Old English period. One such case may be the verb fucc (‘fuck’), though its exact etymology is uncertain (OED, s.v. fuck, v.).82 Kingsnorth employs it as well as some derived forms both in the sense of copulating, which is first attested in the sixteenth century, and as a more general swearword or intensifier expressing annoyance, for example, in phrases like the fuccan preost (‘the fucking priest’), a usage not found until the nineteenth century (OED, s.v. fucking, adj. and adv.).83 The Wake contains a significant number of post-Old English loanwords. Some of them are justifiable as there really is no native alternative, such as the seventeenth-century Norwegian loanword fjord (OED, s.v. fiord ǀ fjord, n.; cf. above, Section 2). On other occasions any possible Old English alternatives have died out, for which reason we find the thirteenth-century French loanword duty (OED, s.v. duty, n.) instead of, for example, Old English gelast. But there are also some, mostly French, loanwords for which there is a possible semantic alternative that goes back to Old English and could have been used by Kingsnorth: examples are graef (OED, s.v. grave, adj.1 and n.5) vs. Old English eorneste (OED, s.v. earnest, adj.); guid (OED, s.v. guide, v.) vs. Old English lædan (OED, s.v. lead, v.1); beuty (OED, s.v. beauty, n.) vs. Old English fægernes in a now archaic meaning (OED, s.v. fairness, n.). There are also some native but now archaic or dialectal words that could have been chosen instead of the loans: examples are air (OED, s.v. air, n.1) vs. Old English lyft (OED, s.v. lift, n.1); suffer (OED, s.v. suffer, v.) vs. Old English þolian (OED, s.v. thole, v.); of 78 Andrew Phillips, The Rebirth of England and English: The Vision of William Barnes (Hockwold-cum-Wilton, 1996). 79 David Cowley, How We’d Talk if the English Had Won in 1066, 3rd edn (London, 2020). 80 Cf. Traxel, ‘Reviving’, pp. 319–20; Traxel, ‘Old English Words’, pp. 168–70. 81 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. 82 Roger Lass, ‘Four Letters in Search of an Etymology’, Diachronica 12:1 (1995), 99–111. 83 On its role in The Wake, see also McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’.

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course (OED, s.v. course, n., sense 37c) vs. Old English gewis (OED, s.v. iwis ǀ ywis, adj., adv. and n.). These, however, would demand more of the audience and it is perfectly understandable that Kingsnorth rather wanted to provide a good balance between atmospheric reading and lexical accessibility. The vocabulary of tapestry is predominantly Modern English and therefore also contains a large number of French loans. Some of these even occur in their Modern French rather than English spelling, for example, saison (‘season’), or resemble French more than English, for example, pais (‘peace’; French ‘paix’).84 The likely reason for their inclusion is to demonstrate the influence of the French language on English after the Norman Conquest. Though the protagonists of the novel, the embroideresses of the Bayeux Tapestry, are of Anglo-Saxon origin, they were confronted with French on a daily basis. One of them describes its influence on her own language: ‘since livyng with the beste I had taken to saying es where once I had sayd is, vou where once I had sayd you, arber where I had sayd tree, Dieu where I had sayd God’.85 In these examples, three Modern English forms are replaced by forms resembling French – is > es (French ‘est’); you > vou (French ‘vous’); tree > arber (French ‘arbre’) – while one is replaced with an actual Modern French form: God > Dieu. Of course, things get a bit confusing as es is used here to express the third person singular of be while it is also homographic with the French form of the second person singular of être (‘be’). Interestingly, es for the third person singular, as well as arber and dieu, are listed as possible spellings in the Anglo-Norman Dictionary (AND, s.vv. estre3; arbre; deu1), which Terry may have consulted for this purpose in order to provide actually attested contemporary forms, though which linguistic resources he used during the writing process is uncertain. Another problem in this passage is that the modern general usage of you throughout numbers and cases, a practice also initially applied in tapestry, never existed in Old English,86 so this word cannot have been replaced by the constructed form vou on all occasions. Besides such French connections we also find the occasional archaic or dialectal word, such as neb for ‘nose’ (OED, s.v. neb, n.), a native word which Terry had encountered in Belfast during his childhood.87 Other words are constructed to sound archaic, such as fivetoes for ‘feet’ and five-fingers for ‘hands’, which have been criticised as unnecessarily replacing proper words of Old English origin.88 Finally, there are also archaic words that did not exist in Old English but were later formations, for example, mayhap, which is first attested in 1533 (OED, s.v. mayhap, adv.). Echoing Kingsnorth’s suggestion at the beginning of this section, in a shadow tongue mainly those words should be used that existed at the time, which may also include cases that are not attested in writing but are likely to have existed in oral usage. Such words could be suggested on the basis of Early Middle English evidence

84 In fact, the earliest attested spelling of peace in the English language is ‘pais’, which is found in the second continuation of the Peterborough Chronicle (OED, s.v. peace, n.). 85 Terry, tapestry, p. 219. 86 Its subject forms were singular þu and plural ge, and its object forms were singular þe and plural eow. 87 Kennedy, ‘tapestry: A Review’. 88 Lezard, ‘tapestry: Review’.

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and/or cognates from other Germanic languages. Post-Conquest loans should only be employed in the appropriate setting. However, in addition to these suggestions, some modern dialectal or archaic words or forms could also be incorporated, for example, if they occur in Shakespeare’s works and are therefore familiar to the audience. Even if these are not of Old English origin, they would still enhance the atmosphere and result in a more intense but still unproblematic reading experience. 89

7. Conclusion The back cover to The Wake claims: ‘Paul Kingsnorth has created “a shadow tongue” – a version of Old English updated so as to be understandable for the modern reader’. However, this description is not really accurate as the construction process follows the opposite direction: we are not dealing with ‘updated Old English’90 but rather with Modern English which has some Old English, archaic and even other features imposed on it. Kingsnorth describes his conlang as ‘a tongue which no one has ever spoken, but which is intended to project a ghost image of the speech patterns of a long-dead land’.91 This is certainly a justifiable and commendable idea, but the example cases discussed in this chapter have suggested that it was not always properly thought through. One problem is the frequently inconsistent implementation of his own principles, though it must be pointed out in his defence that the scribes of Old English manuscripts also often provided inconsistent language, in particular with regard to orthography.92 The question is why both authors chose not to use regularised linguistic conventions. As argued above in Section 4 with regard to the various forms of the past participle of ‘drunk’, Kingsnorth may have wanted to show the absence of a linguistic standard even though this strategy would work against the concept of devising a ‘note on language’ in the first place. He may also have intended to stress the unstable linguistic situation in connection with the Norman invasion, thereby reflecting these troubled times also in the language. This idea might in fact lie behind Terry’s approach, since language change was even more prevalent in the years after the Norman Conquest, as commented on by one of the protagonists herself (cf. above, Section 6). But conlangs, like all languages, usually follow linguistic rules, which makes the shadow tongues used in The Wake and tapestry stand out and more difficult for the reader. They may therefore be seen as individual artistic expressions and linguistic experiments with varying principles. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that these books are intended to entertain rather than to provide a language lesson. In fact, their unusual reading experience might 89 Cf. Oliver M. Traxel, ‘The Katherine Group as a Source for the Reconstruction of Unattested Words from the Old English Period’, in Renate Bauer and Uli Krischke (eds), More than Words: English Lexicography and Lexicology Past and Present: Essays Presented to Hans Sauer on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday – Part I (Frankfurt, 2011), pp. 185–201. 90 This phenomenon takes Old English as the starting point and then changes certain features, in particular spelling, to bring it more in line with Modern English conventions; cf. Traxel, ‘Reviving’, pp. 319–20. 91 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356. 92 Cf. e.g. Donald G. Scragg, ‘Spelling Variations in Eleventh-Century English’, in Carola Hicks (ed.), England in the Eleventh Century: Proceedings of the 1990 Harlaxton Symposium (Stamford, 1992), pp. 347–54.

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even inspire the audience to look at actual Old English texts, thereby triggering an interest in their language. Besides linguistic inconsistencies there are more language issues in both The Wake and tapestry that need to be pointed out. Occasionally, we encounter modern linguistic features or entire words where older, still recognisable ones would have been available. Kingsnorth in particular certainly looked for inspiration not only in the Old English language but also in non-standard Modern English, specifically dialects, which are often associated with archaism, as mentioned throughout this chapter. But it may not just be the connection to the past which accounts for the inclusion of such non-standard forms in The Wake. They might also reflect certain character traits of the protagonist Buccmaster himself, who lost his land and status and was thereby relegated to the position of an outsider; this social fall may be shown by him not speaking a high-class standard language as well as his use of swearwords. In tapestry, on the other hand, we encounter the description of English looking towards the new ruling language Anglo-Norman as the embroideresses occupied a higher social position and came into close contact with that language, which had an influence on their native one (cf. above, Section 6). These observations show that certain linguistic forms may also be influenced by internal factors within the novels themselves. Currently, both The Wake and tapestry are unique in creating their own pseudo-language to be used in an Anglo-Saxon or post-Conquest setting, periods which are certainly popular in historical novels.93 Since both of them contain a number of linguistic problems it would therefore be worth devising a pseudo-Old English shadow tongue with consistent rules to be used as a reference guide for writers of further novels set during this time. Of course, the language would look different if the setting were, for example, during the time of King Alfred instead of soon after the Norman Conquest, in particular regarding its lexicon. But there are some general features that could be considered for inclusion in such a conlang which would make it both readable and bring it closer to Old English, thereby providing a stronger degree of authenticity. In the previous five sections, some principles for the creation process have been suggested with regard to individual linguistic categories. They were not meant to discredit both Kingsnorth’s and Terry’s achievements but are rather intended to encourage some engagement with the language. Bearing the aforementioned suggestions in mind it would be interesting to see what a novel following such principles might look like and how it would be appreciated by its audience. This conlang would certainly look different than the shadow tongues devised by Kingsnorth and Terry, whose ideas definitely paved the way for more novels to be written in pseudo-Old English.94 Cf. for example, Griffith, Hild; Carol McGrath, The Handfasted Wife (Cardiff, 2013); Julian Rathbone, The Last English King (London, 1997). Cf. also the contribution by James Aitcheson in this volume. 94 Due to the word constraints of this volume no specifically devised historical conlang with a firm set of principles could be included in this chapter, but there are currently plans to write a text that follows such rules. In the meantime it is hoped that the preceding argumentation provides some linguistic food for thought to any future writers of novels set in early medieval England. 93

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In an echo of J. R. R. Tolkien’s words (‘The invention of languages is the foundation. The “stories” were made rather to provide a world for the languages than the reverse’95), one could also argue that any conlang within a historical novel may play a key role in its world-building, even if the setting is not a fantastical one as in Middle-earth; after all, many elements of a narrative depicted in the real past may be fictional. This argumentation might seem far-fetched, but one cannot dismiss that any engagement with a story presupposes some knowledge of the language that the characters are speaking. Therefore, any type of pseudo-historical English is relevant in a number of ways. It has a crucial effect on the reader, as discussed by Judy Kendall in the chapter directly following this one (cf. also above, Section 1). Motivations for language use and narrative practices by actual writers of historical novels are addressed in the chapters by Karen Louise Jolly and James Aitcheson. Such approaches from a more literary angle are therefore complemented by the present chapter, which has a much more linguistic focus in its discussion of specific forms. It thereby also has strong affinities to the chapters later in the volume by Fritz Kemmler, Denis Ferhatović and Rafael J. Pascual, which deal with composing and translating in neo-Old English; however, these are not devoted to a conlang but rather try to evoke an impression of linguistic near-authenticity. Providing a feeling of archaism while still being comprehensible is one of the aims of writing in pseudo-Old English, and authors like Kingsnorth and Terry have paved the way for more engagement with this aspect of Old English medievalism. There are many fields related to this chapter that are worth approaching. For example, it would be interesting to write a historical novel in linguistically more sound neo-Old English, as used, for example, in the translation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.96 But in such cases, the audience would need an accompanying Modern English version as well, as is provided, for example, in the prologue to Stephen Baxter’s otherwise Modern English Conqueror, an alternate history novel set between 607 and 1066.97 A novel set during the later Middle English period written entirely in a properly devised pseudo-Middle English conlang might also be worth considering. Some of the available novels incorporate pseudo-Middle English dialogues, but as with the language discussed in this chapter, there are several issues with those.98 This particular idea, however, is no new phenomenon, and the use of pseudo-archaic English for atmospheric reasons can be traced back as far as the sixteenth century or even further.99 There are also some English-based conlangs that have been created for novels or for films or TV series set in the future, such as ‘Riddleyspeak’ in Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker or

95 J. R. R. Tolkien, The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien: A Selection, ed. Humphrey Carpenter, new edn, with the assistance of Christopher Tolkien (London, 1995), letter 165, p. 219. 96 Baker, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda. Cf. also the contribution by Denis Ferhatović in this volume. 97 Baxter, Conqueror, pp. vii–viii. 98 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Middle English in the Modern World’, in Merja Stenroos, Martti Mäkinen, Kjetil V. Thengs and Oliver M. Traxel (eds), Current Explorations in Middle English (Berlin, 2019), pp. 309–32, at pp. 319–20. 99 Traxel, ‘Pseudo-Archaic English’, pp. 43–4.

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‘Trigedasleng’ in the TV series The 100.100 In particular, a comparison between the language of Kingsnorth’s future instalment of the Buckmaster Trilogy, called Alexandria, and The Wake would be worth conducting. What may be concluded from this chapter is that the construction of a believable and comprehensible linguistic past for Anglo-Saxon England is a relatively recent phenomenon, and both The Wake and tapestry represent pioneering works in this field, even if there is room for improvement.

Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker (London, 1980). The 100, developed by Jason Rothenberg. United States and Canada: Alloy Entertainment, CBS Television and Warner Bros. Television, 2014–20; Trigedasleng Dictionary [accessed 30 Aug. 2021]. 100

6 At the Threshold of the Inarticulate: The Reception of ‘Made-up’ English in Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake (2014) Judy Kendall

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his chapter continues the interrogation of Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake (2014).1 It considers the impetus behind The Wake’s use of a ‘made-up’ English that has close links with the language of early medieval England. Responses to Kingsnorth’s made-up English are remarkably varied, as becomes evident when comparing the reactions of linguistic and literary scholars and readers. However, there has been little if any investigation into the reasons for such variation. By positioning reactions to made-up Englishes in relation to studies of reading strategies and eye-tracking research, this chapter contributes to this little-researched area. Forming an initial enquiry into this subject, it makes use of evidence from other disciplines both within and outside of early medieval studies. Such interdisciplinarity is particularly fitting in an examination and comparison of responses from readers of different disciplines and backgrounds, and it is to be hoped that this initial enquiry will both inform and in turn be further informed by scholars with more nuanced appreciation of the individual academic frameworks involved. Made-up English in The Wake and Elsewhere This chapter’s employment of the term ‘made-up English’ is deliberate. It refers to Englishes that have been altered (or made up), often individually tailored for a particular literary text. The use of ‘made-up’ foregrounds the importance of creativity both in the making and in the application of such Englishes, as well as pointing to their individually specific natures. The quality of made-upness includes permission for such Englishes to depart significantly from known frameworks and agreed conventions. Made-up Englishes are highly valuable for creative writers in that they directly affect and enrich a text’s production of meanings. Such changes can occur 1

Paul Kingsnorth, The Wake (London, 2014).

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through shifts in context, manipulation of words and syntax, or unusual collaged juxtapositions in these different Englishes. The texts written in such Englishes might also include unconventional shifts in form and layout. In each case, these changes contribute significantly to the production of the text’s meanings, both by departure from and relation to the specific English that a reader knows well. Readers of made-up Englishes can have very different reactions. On a superficial level, these different reactions are seen to stem from whether the reader is approaching the text for literary, linguistic or other purposes. Further examination of the detail and context of varying reactions and interpretation of them through the lens of pedagogical research into reading strategies provide deeper insights into why these differences occur. Kingsnorth’s made-up ‘anglisc’ offers ideal subject matter. While Kingsnorth uses ‘anglisc’ when the language is referred to internally within The Wake, his paratextual writings about the book and its process of composition refer to the language as ‘a shadow tongue’.2 The variation in name for this particular made-up English seems proleptic in that it mirrors the differences in the often strongly worded reactions later provoked in The Wake’s readers. Henceforth, when discussing the made-up English of The Wake, this chapter will refer to it as ‘anglisc’. Kingsnorth has been strikingly forthcoming and definite about his processes and purpose in terms of the composition of anglisc, both in interviews and in paratextual matter contained within the book. In ‘A note on language’ he states its purpose as being ‘to convey the feeling of the old language’, and supplements this in an interview with Rumpus with the following comment on Buccmaster, the main character in the novel. It was something that seemed necessary to me in order to really explore this man’s mind. Buccmaster is conflicted and hypocritical and confused, and he attaches himself, sometimes far too strongly, to ideas and concepts which either have no basis in most peoples’ reality or simply cannot be relevant to the time he lives in. In other words, he is like most of us, much of the time. What I found when trying to convey his inner landscape in his own language was that landscape creates language, and vice versa. This is what I mean when I say I couldn’t have written this book in contemporary English. The man does not have a contemporary mind. Why would he?3

‘A note on the language’ also itemises several rules that governed Kingsnorth’s composition of anglisc. These include only using words which originated in Old English; not using letters that do not exist in Old English; and rendering as many Old English pronunciations as possible on the page. Such forthrightness in terms of laying down rules can be seen as both foolhardy and brave, in that it left him open to the attacks he later received.

Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. Kingsnorth in Patrick Nathan, ‘The Rumpus Interview with Paul Kingsnorth’, The Rumpus, 23 Dec. 2015 [accessed 2 Aug. 2021]. 2 3

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Less forthright writers of made-up Englishes garner less adverse publicity. This is the case with Philip Terry’s tapestry (2013), although it is also worth noting that the tapestry’s lack of publicity includes not only a (perhaps welcome) lack of adverse attacks but a paucity of other critical notice – despite the fact that it reached the shortlist for the 2013 Goldsmiths Prize.4 Unlike The Wake, tapestry contains no foreword, glossary or other comment on the use or the processes of composing the ‘made-up’ English in which it is written. It is necessary to go elsewhere, to a lecture given by Terry, to find references to the language of tapestry as a ‘sampling of synthetic language’ in the manner of Hugh MacDiarmid’s ‘Synthetic Scots’ – a Scots that was constructed out of multiple local dialects together with terms drawn from dictionaries and other sources. In the same lecture, Terry describes his made-up English as ‘a layering of language upon language’, his aim being for it to remain ‘true to the competing vernaculars of its time’ such as Old English, Old Norse, Old French and so on: ‘I tried to create the texture of a language in flux which contained elements of all these warring languages’.5 In this spirit, tapestry is rife with unashamed linguistic and literary anachronisms, as in its ‘Prolog’, in which ‘mice run vertically up the trunks of trees to take refuge on the branches, where they hang in theyr hundreds, lyk strange unsaisonable fruit.’6 These words, part of a description of torrential rain, include brazen sampling from the early twentieth-century lyric ‘Strange Fruit’. Such an emphasis on flexibility and openness in language use diverges markedly from Kingsnorth’s approach in setting out strict rules for anglisc. On the other side of the spectrum is the writing of Caroline Bergvall. She mixes early and later Englishes in works such as Meddle English, published in 2011, and Drift, initially commissioned as a live voice performance but published in book form in 2014. Acclaim for her work is plentiful, receiving sustained interest from reviewers in the US and the UK, and it is connected with a number of international commissions. In addition, Meddle English has been translated into French (L’Anglais Mêlé, 2018), Drift won the 2017 Cholmondeley Prize, and the 2017 art literary prize Prix Littéraire Bernard Heidsieck–Centre Pompidou was awarded to Bergvall ‘for specific work particularly important in the field of non-book literature’.7 Like Kingsnorth, Bergvall writes at length about her process and purposes of composition of Meddle English and Drift in the works themselves. In different ways, however, she resembles Terry in the care with which she emphasises, both within her published writings and paratextually, the indefinite status of her language work. It is not unusual for Bergvall to refer in the main text of a work to its composition process. Drift details the processes that result in the decision to juxtapose sediments of texts from different languages and periods within single paragraphs, sentences 4 Thankfully, this neglect is now in part remedied by Oliver M. Traxel in this very publication. 5 Philip Terry, ‘Reflections on tapestry’, Professorial inaugural lecture, University of Essex, 3 Mar. 2014, [accessed 2 Aug. 2021]. 6 Terry, tapestry (Hastings, 2013), p. 9. 7 ‘Prix Littéraire Bernard Heidsieck - Centre Pompidou: 6 September - Centre Pompidou, Paris’, Fondazione Bonotto, [accessed 8 Mar. 2021].

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and even words. Meddle English refers to her rejection of standard homogenised English, described by her as ‘surface stiffening’ and an artificially flattened, golfturf-like ‘middling of English’. Instead she approaches language as ‘its own midden ground’, focusing on and playing with the ‘inventive and adaptive, dispersed, diversely anglo-mixed, anglo-phonic, anglo-foamic languages’ of contemporary and medieval times.8 In both Drift and Meddle English, she acknowledges the influence of literary theorist and writer Édouard Glissant, drawing on his concept of opacity, ‘a new form of expression arising from the confluence of several languages.’9 This concept, developed by Glissant in the context of colonial and postcolonial Martinique, rejects the misleading transparencies and reductions that transpire when the perspectives of Western thought and language dominate over other languages and ways of thinking in multi-cultural, multi-lingual environments. Instead, Glissant argues for opacity that is not enclosure within an impenetrable autarchy but subsistence within an irreducible singularity. Opacities can coexist and converge, weaving fabrics. To understand these truly one must focus on the texture of the weave and not on the nature of its components. For the time being, perhaps, give up the old obsession with discovering what lies at the bottom of natures. […] This-here is the weave, and it weaves no boundaries.10

The result, as is evident in Bergvall’s writing, is, to quote Terry’s phrase, ‘language in flux’.11 Kom ut av kursen hafville Secgan at come hafvillur ok darkens ok myrkr ok hafvillur ok þokur ok hafvillur Cannot pokker see through this þokur Hwær hwanon never knew hu how to steer out of this rook this moss droomly wetter stoutair mattersea thick dank shadoway Lost lost all reckoning the sea coagulated All wats not-light all wats not-dark Déadlockit Beat bells! Blow foghorns! Storm the ceiling! Set my head on fire! Lightup! this d arkness for a bearing thour pis halla12

To a greater degree than with the made-up English of tapestry, Bergvall, drawing on her own trilingualism as well as on other sources, moves in her writing between a number of languages. She is making, or translating into many languages, rather than into a single new one. In many ways, Kingsnorth’s case is markedly different from both Terry’s and Bergvall’s, and to a great extent this difference explains the range of reactions his novel later garnered. He records that he did not initially intend to write his novel in a made-up English: Caroline Bergvall, Meddle English (New York, 2011), pp. 9, 6, 14. Édouard Glissant, ‘A Word Scratcher’, in Patrick Chamoiseau, Chronicle of the Seven Sorrows, trans. Linda Coverdale (Lincoln, 1999), pp. vii–ix, at p. vii. 10 Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation, trans. Betty Wing (Ann Arbor, 1997), pp. 189–90. 11 Terry, ‘Reflections on tapestry’. 12 Caroline Bergvall, Drift (New York, 2014), p. 44. 8

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I began to write a historical novel which made me realise why I don’t read many historical novels. I couldn’t make the words fit, and I gradually began to see why: the language that we speak is so utterly specific to our time and place. Our assumptions, our politics, our worldview, our attitudes – all are implicit in our words, and what we do with them. In order to have any chance of this novel working, I realised I needed to imagine myself into the sheer strangeness of the past. I couldn’t do that by putting 21st century language into the mouths of eleventh-century people.13

It is crucial to note that only after this realisation did he elect to write in anglisc. The decision to do so allowed him not only to imagine himself into the sheer strangeness of the past but into the sheer strangeness of his main character Buccmaster’s head. Buccmaster is a free-tenant farmer who, in The Wake, is in effect bearing witness to the end of his world, narrating his experience of the aftermath of the Norman invasion of 1066, when English society was brutally broken apart, its systems turned on their head. Buccmaster is an unpleasant character and Kingsnorth has emphasised that writing in the voice of Buccmaster was itself a not altogether pleasant experience. This is an emphasis worth noting, since some reviewers have tended to attribute Buccmaster’s personality and opinions wholesale to Kingsnorth, thus muddling responses to the book and its language. I didn’t create Buccmaster: he colonized me, like a Norman, and demanded that I told his story. I didn’t know what kind of person he was until I started telling it. He is still out there somewhere. I’m not sure I’d have the strength to deal with him again. On the other hand, I rather miss him.14

Kingsnorth’s description of the development of anglisc is revealing in several ways. He emphasises the status of anglisc as a combination of Old English and twenty-first century English – neither one nor the other, but somewhere in between. This chimes with the drive to Glissantian opacity indicated in Bergvall’s careful announcements about her use of ‘anglo-foamic’ Englishes, and Terry’s emphasis on language in flux. However, unlike Terry and Bergvall, Kingsnorth also claims that what he has produced is a separate language in its own right. His inclusion of paratextual material within the physical confines of the book is mainly to reassert this point. In the first lines of his ‘A note on language’ at the back of The Wake, he refers to anglisc as a ‘pseudo-language’, and he emphasises as ‘[t]he first and most important’ of his rules that ‘I wanted to use only words which originated in Old English’.15 On the other hand, in keeping with Bergvall’s and Terry’s emphases on the in-between and indefinite status of their made-up Englishes, Kingsnorth qualifies his rules for anglisc both immediately before and after he states them. In the paragraph immediately preceding the list of rules for composing anglisc, the use of ‘attempt’ and ‘tries’ suggests a provisionality to these rules: ‘in an attempt to prevent things Paul Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book, The Wake by Paul Kingsnorth’, Unbound [accessed 8 Mar. 2021]. 14 Nathan, ‘The Rumpus Interview’. 15 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. 13

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getting entirely out of hand, I tried to hem it in with some rules’.16 Similarly, directly after stating rule one, he refers to exceptions to it, ‘where words did not exist for what I wanted to say’, were ‘obscure’ or ‘hard to pronounce’.17 Finally, the list of rules also concludes with one last injunction: ‘all of the previous rules could be overridden, if necessary […] : do what the novel needs you to do. This, in the end, was a matter of instinct’.18 Kingsnorth also makes clear, in the same piece, that the driving force in terms of the development of anglisc, and the resultant decisions he makes about that language, are informed not so much by logic or linguistic accuracy, but by sound and visual effects. He alludes, too, to the significant role played by what can best be described as aesthetic intuition – whatever ‘seemed to work’19 – and emphasises the haphazardness of this composition process, which seems to have involved the deliberate decision to ignore linguistic conventions in favour of other considerations. So I constructed, almost by accident, my own language: a middle ground between the Old English that would have been spoken by these characters and the English we speak today.20 To achieve the sound and look I wanted on the page I have combined Old English words with modern vocabulary; mutated and hammered the shape of OE words and word endings to suit my purpose, and been wanton in combining […] dialect[s] and dropping in a smattering of Old Norse where it seemed to work.21

Nevertheless, despite Kingsnorth’s several qualifications, critics have compiled what amounts to a hefty catalogue of what they perceive as linguistic errors in relation to some of these rules. The Sounds and Look of Anglisc Before considering these criticisms of anglisc, it is useful to look more closely at Kingsnorth’s purpose in terms of nearing ‘sheer strangeness’22 and also to consider what exactly constitutes the desired sound and look of anglisc and what its effects are on the book as a whole and on the reader. As Kingsnorth indicates in ‘A note on language’, anglisc mainly avoids more abstract French and Latinate words. The result is an emphasis on the concrete. In addition, its unfamiliar spellings mean those new to it have to work hard at reading it, particularly if they are also unacquainted with Old English, although, as will be shown later, this is also true to some extent of those who are acquainted with this language. The unfamiliar spellings also invite in ambiguities, again often concrete in their nature, further complicating the reading of them. These features result in differences in reading experiences and in interpretations of the text. 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 353. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book’. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book’.

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To take one example, the spelling of ‘true’ in The Wake is ‘triewe’ and the spelling of ‘truth’ is ‘triewth’. These spellings seem close to the anglisc spelling of trees as ‘treows’ growing in the forest or ‘holt’, which could lead to the consideration of a forest (‘treows’) as a concrete manifestation of truth, particularly since Old English tréow could mean either ‘tree’ or ‘truth’.23 In addition, while ‘holt’ is used to refer to a wood or forest, it also evokes a place of halt, a stopping place. Thus, a description is introduced of a place where trees lie under the water marking ‘the holt of the lost gods of angland’, a sacred and true/tree, or triewe/treow, place: ‘ofer the great blaec treows he telt me of the holt of the lost gods of angland […] these was gods of the treows’.24 It is implied that this place, where the gods halt, is for that reason invested in power. Elements of such a reading chime with Mike Bintley’s observations that Old English, unlike Modern English and Latin, retains a link between tree and cross – the cross’s arboreality being a fully realised aspect for early Christians.25 Indeed, on the same page as ‘blaec treows’, Kingsnorth includes references to ‘triewe’, to the old gods and to Christ: ‘woden cyng of the gods of angland from who all triewe anglisc cyngs is cum’. He also, again on the same page, refers to the cross as a tree, ‘treow’, on which both Woden and Christ hung: ‘before the crist he telt me it was woden what was hung fyrst on a treow’.26 It is not clear whether Kingsnorth was consciously aware of these links between tree and cross, but, as Bintley has noted, such links are in keeping with Gregory the Great’s advice in Historia Ecclesiastica on how best to realign pre-Christian beliefs and Christianity. Small steps in transition, such as that from sacred trees to The Sacred Tree, keeping that link to a live tree, enable the transition of belief from one system to another. In this manner, whether intended by Kingsnorth or not, the ambiguities inherent in anglisc’s use of ‘triewe’, ‘triewth’ ‘treows’ and ‘holt’ imbue The Wake with a satisfying depth. Another aspect of anglisc also complicates the possible readings of The Wake, although this aspect stands up less well to scrutiny among linguists. While the text is in keeping with Old English scribal conventions in its lack of capital letters and general minimal use of punctuation, it departs from those conventions in its lack of occasional marks to indicate pauses in the text. Because of this lack, in lines like ‘the night was clere though i slept i seen it’, possible readings multiply, with ‘though’ doing double duty, linking ‘i slept’ with either the preceding or the following clause.27 These two readings exist, half-finished, together. They cannot be separated. Thus, avoidance of pause markings adds rich ambiguity to the text. Similarly, the use of italics, which of course is not a feature of medieval manuscripts, enables Kingsnorth to introduce gradations in both voice and tone that again enhance the novel’s impact on the readers. In the layout of The Wake, Kingsnorth makes further use of ambiguity. In the poetic call-and-response sections that sporadically punctuate the main character Buccmaster’s narration, there are visual manipulations of the text, such as: See Bosworth-Toller, s.v. treéw. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 52. 25 Mike Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2015), p. 27; see also p. 2. 26 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 52. 27 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 1. 23

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i is ready who is the prey always thu talcs in raedels i wolde haf thu tell me what i moste do thu called me

then thu is ready ready for the hunt he is near wolde thu haf me holde thy hand cilde loc to thy self loc to the land do not loc to me go to them buccmaster go to them 28

The unusual spaced layout and use of italics imply voices in dialogue. Forming an essential strand to The Wake, these passages further complicate the reader’s experience of negotiating differences between the English we know and the unfamiliar anglisc. They also push the visual layout of anglisc a step further with the use of unfamiliar gaps, repetitions and overlapping between the two ‘voices’, reinforcing the sense of strangeness and difference and multiplying the ambiguities inherent in the text. The Reception of The Wake Like Bergvall and Terry, Kingsnorth has achieved success in literary circles: The Wake was winner of the Gordon Burn Prize 2014 and The Bookseller Industry Book of the Year Award 2015, shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize and longlisted for the Man Booker, Desmond Elliott and Folio prizes. However, this literary success has not hindered criticisms from linguistic and language scholars in periodical reviews of The Wake as well as in online discussions relating to inaccuracies and anachronisms. Language scholar Daniel J. Ransom notes that ‘a bit distressing is his treatment of grammatical forms’; Old English scholar Katrin Thier gives a detailed analysis of problematic ‘alienating features’ of anglisc that ‘obstruct understanding and obscure the flow of the prose, and ultimately detract from the enjoyment of the tale’; while early mediaevalist Tom Birkett makes more muted reference to its ‘curious imitation of Old English’ in which at times ‘the rich Old English word-hoard was done a disservice.29 The strongly worded comments from The Toast by internet linguist Gretchen McCulloch and historical linguist Kate Wiles in particular not only reinforce the observations made earlier in relation to Kingsnorth’s idiosyncratic use of punctuation, they also show a very revealing level of frustration at what McCulloch and Wiles perceive as Kingsnorth’s lack of explanation of the apparently contradictory idiosyncrasies of anglisc: Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 291. Daniel J. Ransom, ‘Paul Kingsnorth: The Wake’, World Literature Today 90:1 (2016), 60–1, at p. 61; Katrin Thier, ‘Paul Kingsnorth: The Wake’, Perspicuitas: Internet Periodicum Mediävistik (2016) [accessed 22 Jan. 2022]; Tom Birkett, ‘Shadow Tongue’, TLS: The Times Literary Supplement 5804, 27 Jun. 2014, p. 20. 28

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[Kate Wiles:] More puzzling is — with his apparent devotion to manuscript conventions that make the text harder to read — why he’s chosen to get rid of capitals and punctuation, but introduce italics and paragraph breaks. And there’s nary an abbreviation mark in sight! […] Kingsnorth uses two words for April: eosturmonth and thrimilci ‘three milkings’. But another Old English word for the same is April itself (which he doesn’t actually use), and I cannot find any reference to Ðrymylce being April — everywhere says it’s May. Not even in Clark Hall, the dictionary Kingsnorth has chosen to use despite Bosworth and Toller’s dictionary being more exhaustive, widely used and easily available online. […] [Gretchen McCulloch:] Kingsnorth takes a lot of words that end with a silent -e in Modern English, and deletes the -e entirely. Does this succeed at making the words look strange but not entirely unintelligible? Sure. But it’s strange in the wrong direction: that silent -e was once pronounced, in an earlier form of the language, and even earlier, in the actual time he’s set the book, there were even more letters that came after the -e and were also pronounced. For example, Kingsnorth renders “come” as cum — which has the vowel of Actual Old English cuman, but […] Old English actually had over a dozen different forms, such as cuman, cume, cymst, cymth, cumath, cwom, cwome, come, cum, cumende, gecumen, etc. Same goes for all the other verbs: tac (“take”) has about the same number of endings as “come”, while gif (“give”) has a small army of ’em. 30

Before looking into the levels of frustration that Kingsnorth’s anglisc seems to generate, it is worth considering further the criticisms of discrepancies between Kingsnorth’s anglisc and Old English and what these imply. As Wiles and McCulloch suggest, and Ransom and Birkett imply, these discrepancies can in part be attributed to Kingsnorth’s lack of scholarship in Old English. However, it also seems likely that Kingsnorth, in his emphasis on the ‘sheer strangeness’ of 1066, is signposting his own individual perceptions of this time and of its languages. In other words, despite what his ‘note on language’ might at times suggest, he is not intending to pose as an early medieval linguistic scholar, a point that Ransom acknowledges in his reference to the text’s ‘feel of authenticity […] using a spelling system that approximates the look of Old English’.31 The use of ‘approximates’ is key. Phrases such as ‘the catholicism of my approach to the language, old and new’ imply that Kingsnorth was not working towards an exact approximation of eleventh-century language.32 This 30 Gretchen McCulloch and Kate Wiles, ‘Two Linguists Explain Pseudo Old English in The Wake’, The Toast, 14 Jun. 2016 [accessed 4 Jul. 2021]. 31 Ransom, ‘Paul Kingsnorth: The Wake’. 32 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355.

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is similarly indicated in his word choices when discussing the process of creating anglisc, bringing his approach nearer to those taken by Bergvall and Terry. He writes of ‘dropping in a smattering of Old Norse where it seemed to work’, suggesting that, within the parameters of what ‘seemed to work’, anything is acceptable, whether it fits previous conventions or not. He chooses verbs of strong action to describe his processes of language composition. When he writes about how he ‘hammered the shape of OE words’, this implies that he was not averse to a radical reshaping of rules, borders and barriers. Other word choices in relation to the development of anglisc include ‘mutated’, ‘to suit my purpose’ and ‘wanton’.33 Kingsnorth’s phrasing thus indicates a readiness to ignore rules, break taboos, venture into excess: a licence to ‘make up’ – creative anachronism, as Ransom in part recognises. Perhaps the most curious feature of The Toast blog is that Wiles and McCulloch do not seem to have considered such possibilities. Other readers do consider them. Ransom aside, these, generally speaking, tend to be non-linguistically trained readers. This is evident not only in terms of the literary (rather than linguistic) awards The Wake has received but also in the responses of individual readers, such as the literary reviewer and novelist Adam Thorpe who calls anglisc ‘a literary triumph’, and the many readers who have posted reviews on Amazon.34 Like the linguistic scholars on The Toast, Amazon reviewers also express difficulties with The Wake’s anglisc. However, for Amazon reviewers unversed in early medieval English, their problems are different: ‘The language creates itself in your brain as you read it, it unfolds and your understanding of it becomes organic. […] if the idea of re-learning to read does not thrill you a little bit, then I couldn’t recommend this. […] Like giving your brain a cold shower’.35 While this Amazon reviewer alludes to the difficulty of the language, emphasis is placed on the thrill that occurs when engaging with it, a thrill that is connected with the experience of being confronted with new uses of language. In terms of adverse criticism, more troubling than any linguistic or cultural anachronisms is Wiles’ comment that the content of The Wake, and in particular its use of anglisc, reinforces unhelpful stereotypes of the eleventh century as dark and brutal: I suppose ‘fuck’ really works to confirm our stereotypes of this period as nasty, brutish and short and its people as crude and bodily. The reduced vocabulary, simplified syntax, and avoided punctuation/capitalization also take readers in a particular direction, making the Anglo-Saxons seem less capable of complex thought. […] the world we’re viewing is through glass that’s more cracked and warped than it needed to be.36 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. Adam Thorpe, ‘The Wake by Paul Kingsnorth Review – “A Literary Triumph”’, The Guardian, 2 Apr. 2014 [accessed 1 Jun. 2020]. 35 Rachel Walker, Amazon Customer Reviews, 30 Aug. 2014, [accessed 1 Jun. 2020]. 36 McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’. 33

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Wiles notes that Buccmaster’s frequent use of ‘fucc’ is anachronistic since it is not known as an Old English swear word. Its earliest surviving attestation, other than in surnames or place names, only goes back to the sixteenth century.37 Similar points are implied by Birkett and Thier. Birkett criticises The Wake’s ‘liberal use of “AngloSaxon” language of another kind’, and Thier refers to the swearing in The Wake as anachronistic.38 As a result, Kingsnorth’s decision to employ ‘fucc’ can be interpreted as contributing to an erroneous view of Old English society as instinctive, violent and non-intellectual. However, Wiles’ comments in particular also reveal interesting and contentious assumptions about the relation between thought and language: language mirroring thought. It seems that Kingsnorth shares this view: ‘Our assumptions, our politics, our worldview, our attitudes – all are implicit in our words, and what we do with them’.39 Nevertheless, even if, as Wiles seems to argue, the language Buccmaster uses reflects his thoughts exactly, it does not follow that anglisc offers a representation of the whole of Old English society. Instead, as its singular first-person usage indicates, it is more accurate to say that the anglisc in The Wake reflects the toxic hampered view of Buccmaster, an unpleasantly violent bully, bigot and profoundly damaged man. If the anglisc in The Wake is specific to Buccmaster, as both Kingsnorth and some of his critics indicate, it can be extrapolated that any reader’s experience of and response to anglisc is also specific. These responses range, as has been seen, from frustration to thrill. The particularities of each response are dependent on individual reading experiences, linguistic knowledge, expectations, and frames of reference, which all differ from reader to reader, from the informed early medievalist to the literary reader. To consider this in more detail, it is useful to draw on pedagogical analysis of different stages of reading. One immediate result of the novelty and difficulty of anglisc, including its unfamiliar spellings, is that it forces readers who are new to it to work hard and pay close attention to the words. Fluent readers are not accustomed to attending to their reading processes so minutely. However, an initial reading of The Wake obliges them to do just that. Its initially strange spellings invite in ambiguities for the reader which may well result in mis- or half-readings. This variety of readings multiplies the production of meanings that the text can generate. Such complex demands this makes on the reading process can result in confusion – as is ably demonstrated by Wiles and McCulloch’s reactions, but, importantly, if successful and adroitly engineered, they can also enrich the text. Reactions to The Wake suggest that readers do not always experience a sense of enrichment. One reason is because unorthodox use of Englishes can be strongly provocative, challenging the linguistic and societal status quo. Such prescriptivism is evident in the case of Englishes. Although there are many Englishes in different regions and countries of the world, the version accepted as ‘standard’ differs. In addition, within one region, different Englishes tend not to be interchangeable, and their uses can be severely circumscribed, as has been well documented in colonial 37 38 39

See OED etymological notes in its entry for fuck, v. Birkett, ‘Shadow tongue’, p. 20; Thier, ‘Paul Kingsnorth: The Wake’. Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book’.

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and postcolonial studies. A striking example can be drawn from the restrictions in colonial education systems in Africa of the use of non-standard Englishes and the punishment of any ‘offenders’.40 When a different English is positioned as standard, an alternative world is posed. This could be a world where another kind of English dominates, or it could be a world where Englishes (and peoples) co-exist differently – perhaps co-dependently, and with more complex or more flexible relations. Known frameworks and consequent hierarchical relations are shifted from those of the known ‘status quo’, and this can cause highly unpleasant adverse reactions. If, as argued here, Kingsnorth’s anglisc is aligned with other marginalised Englishes, such adverse reactions are to be expected. In addition, Buccmaster’s provocative language and domineering manner could in part be explained by Buccmaster’s position as speaker of a marginalised English in the context of Norman oppression, rather than as an evocation of early medieval English society as a whole; an evocation of Buccmaster’s character in particular; or indeed a direct representation of Kingsnorth’s sentiments towards early medieval England. This is not to say that Old English specialists who react negatively to Kingsnorth’s use of anglisc are positioning themselves in colonial judgement. However, to negotiate properly the differences inherent in made-up Englishes, it is not only fair but necessary also to negotiate with the frameworks and contexts that they inhabit. Before this can happen, the frameworks in particular need to be both detected and, to some extent at least, accepted, even if an inherent quality of the framework in question includes opacity, flux, or indeed a lack of stable framework at all. This can be very challenging for readers since they tend to gravitate to places of known and fixed orientation. A reader of a new made-up English will usually start with a familiar framework to which this new English appears to have some relation. If the new English departs too strongly from that framework, irritation, annoyance, frustration, even outrage, may occur, particularly if the reader has previously made assumptions about the direction it would take: What annoys me is the false promises that Kingsnorth’s “shadow tongue” [anglisc] sets up. Going into the book, I believed that in exchange for struggling through an unfamiliar dialect, I was going to experience from the inside a linguistic system that was as close to Old English as my non-medievalist brain could handle, with only the minimum necessary compromises — and that’s not actually what The Wake does.41

It is as if a contract has been broken. However, departure from known frameworks can result in much more positive reactions. Translation and literary scholar Rebecca Walkowitz reads anglisc as 40 For more on this subject, see Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, ‘The Language of African Literature’, in Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths and Helen Tiffin (eds), The Post-Colonial Studies Reader (London, 1995), pp. 285–90; Ezenwa-Ohaeto, Chinua Achebe: A Biography (Oxford, 1997), p. 30; also Judy Kendall, ‘Saro-Wiwa’s Language of Dissent: Translating between African Englishes’, Translation & Literature 27:1 (2018), 25–52; and Kendall’s forthcoming Where Language Thickens (Edinburgh, 2023). 41 McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’.

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challenging a variety of accepted frameworks, labelling The Wake as multilingual – because ‘there is a language inside a language’; postlingual – because of the purposeful restrictions of words and emphasis on sound and shape; intralingual – because of the layers of diction, typography and formatting; and post-press – first produced by the crowd-sourced publisher Unbound because its typographic and orthographic departures from convention rendered it less likely to receive the support of a corporate publisher.42 Many Amazon reviewers also express positive reactions, such as the reviewer who likens reading The Wake to ‘giving your brain a cold shower’.43 In the case of anglisc, the differences in reactions seem to depend on whether anglisc is considered as a stand-alone linguistic construct or as part of the literary construct of the novel. A self-avowed non-linguistically trained reader on the discussion thread relating to McCulloch and Wiles’ entries in The Toast recognises this distinction between linguistic and literary approaches to anglisc, commenting wryly that ‘I suppose I should read The Wake before learning Old English, to minimize irritation…’.44 It is apposite therefore that the current investigation of these varying reactions draws on different modes of analysis of anglisc in The Wake – not only linguistic and close literary reading but also, as the next section will consider, pedagogical research into reading strategies and eye-tracking studies. The Wake’s Made-up English and the Stages of Reading A survey of the list of Amazon reviews of The Wake shows that a considerable number of readers untrained in Old English give up reading The Wake not because of perceived linguistic inaccuracies but because of the effort involved. For these Amazon readers, anglisc presents a barrier to the reading of the novel: it makes it ‘unreadable’,45 ‘very difficult & hard work’,46 ‘too challenging’,47 too full of ‘academic arrogance’,48 with Kingsnorth too ‘taken up with his own cleverness’.49 These different reactions seem to relate to different stages of reading. When reading fluently, cognitive processes are executed automatically, with reference to an 42 Rebecca Walkowitz, ‘Less Than One Language: Typographic Multilingualism and Post-Anglophone Fiction’, SubStance 50:1 (2021), 95–115 at p. 103. 43 Walker, Amazon Customer Reviews. 44 leoboiko, June 2016, discussion thread of ‘Two Linguists Explain’. 45 Ypres, ‘Unreadable’, Amazon Customer Reviews, 8 Sep. 2018 . 46 Johnsowter, Amazon Customer Reviews, 25 Oct. 2014 . 47 Marjory Dowling, Amazon Customer Reviews, 28 Jan. 2015 . 48 Doug Mowat, Amazon Customer Reviews, 10 Oct. 2014 . 49 Dill, Amazon Customer Reviews, 21 Oct. 2014 .

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already well-established framework. Reading is quick and comparatively effortless, without the reader’s conscious attention or choice. With word recognition automatic, the reader can focus fully on comprehending the text, paying attention to the patterns that words form and the meanings these patterns impart. When reading unfamiliar made-up English, there is a physiological shift. A normally fluent reader retreats from the advanced stage of automatic reading to a stage known as the accuracy phase in which words are decoded using visual and phonetic cues, immersing the reader therefore in sensory input. STAGES OF READING Automatic reading phase (apparently effortless, quick and fluent) ↑ Accuracy phase (decoding using visual and phonetic cues: the look and the sound, slower, more laboured)

In the accuracy phase, reading is often laboured. It may rely on sounding out words or letters – ‘C-A-T’ spells ‘cat’. Steven A. Stahl has noted how such attempts to decode words when reading often involve drawing on knowledge of familiar words and also, where available, knowledge of other languages and language systems.50 There is less emphasis on an established framework, which means that a lack of such framework is less disturbing than in the automatic reading phase. There is also a slowing down of comprehension. In its place, the reader experiences an enhanced sensory immersion in the text, aided, in the case of anglisc, by its emphasis on the concrete rather than the abstract. This focus on the sound and look of the text chimes with Kingsnorth’s stated aim with anglisc: to achieve ‘the sound and the look I wanted’.51 If a reader persists, the result can be invigorating, like the Amazon reader’s apt image of the brain in a cold shower. This tendency for readers, when negotiating a new language, to fall back on what they know can, of course, cause problems: ‘It really threw me off when Kingsnorth had things like ‘cepe’ for ‘keep’, […] it should be pronounced ‘ch’ and my brain read ‘chepe’ EVERY. TIME. I can’t tell from the Author’s Note whether he didn’t know […], or just didn’t care’.52 It is Wiles’ knowledge that affects and obstructs her appreciation of the novel. She herself is aware of this, recording that when sent a review copy from the publishers, she was not able to finish it: ‘disclosure: I can’t comment on it as a novel because I didn’t get very far — I had to keep stopping to take notes. I don’t think I’m its target audience’.53 To be fair, Wiles’ approach to The Wake, as she seems to recognise, can in part be seen as steered by The Toast’s invitation to her to discuss it as a linguist. The piece is after all entitled ‘Two Linguists Explain Pseudo Old English in The Wake’. This is reinforced by the questions with which McCulloch 50 Steven A. Stahl, ‘Understanding Shifts in Reading and Its Instruction’, Peabody Journal of Education 73:3–4 (1998), 31–67 at p. 40. 51 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. 52 McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’. 53 McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’.

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starts the piece: ‘Just how accurate was this book? Would my fellow linguists with actual backgrounds in Old English think the necessary tradeoffs were totally reasonable or completely far-out?’.54 Similarly, it is likely that Wiles’ initial reading of the publisher’s review copy was also influenced by an assumption that the publishers expected her to approach it as a linguistic scholar. Whatever the case, however, it is clear that Wiles’ skills as an Old English specialist affected her reading experience. To put it more strongly, it disabled her from appreciating The Wake. This occurred because she was unable to relinquish her knowledge of other language systems and orthographies and the particular contexts in which she was accustomed to come across them. Such knowledge informed her expectations of the novel and of anglisc and also steered her towards the adoption of particular reading strategies. These strategies were different from those of the readers she presumed to be The Wake’s target audience. McCulloch’s request to consider anglisc in relation to Old English added to this effect, since it required Wiles to retain a keen awareness of how anglisc differed from the framework and conventions of Old English. Her appreciation of the book was thus inevitably affected, resulting in the frustration that her capitalised full-stopped ‘EVERY. TIME.’ so unequivocally indicates. In other words, her repeated attempts to work with an automatic reading strategy were blocked because of her reliance on an inappropriate framework. While it is too extreme to claim that this evokes exactly the intense difficulties perpetrated when colonial systems try to impose monolingualism on a bi- or multilingual community, there are undeniable similarities. In contrast, Maryaed, a contributor to The Toast’s discussion thread, reports that: ‘I enjoyed the language, not having such an in-depth knowledge of Anglo-Saxon’ – and also not having been tasked with comparing it to ‘Anglo-Saxon’’.55 The lack of any appropriate framework frees Maryaed to read more appropriately in terms of Kingsnorth’s intention. Another point on this continuum involves complete immersion in anglisc, surrendering to it. Kingsnorth reports this to be his own experience. He says of The Wake, ‘I found it very difficult to write in conventional English again for quite some time afterwards. […] I certainly find contemporary English to be an increasingly inadequate and boring language to write in!’56 In contrast to Wiles, Kingsnorth, in his creation of a made-up English, was able to relinquish knowledge of previously known ‘contemporary’, ‘conventional’ English, so as to write fluently in anglisc. In terms of reading processes, this freed him from over-dependence on a known system, which would have been problematic in that it would have prevented his full sensory immersion. Sensory immersion is important because this seems to be what is required in order to shift from an accuracy phase of reading to the automatic phase. What is being considered here can also be construed as the difference between reading and viewing text. Eye-tracking research has revealed that in reading, the eye usually fixates on a few letters at a time and then hops to another patch of the text in a mainly linear and progressive trajectory along the lines of the page. When viewing 54 55 56

McCulloch and Wiles, ‘Two Linguists’. Maryaed, June 2016, discussion thread of ‘Two Linguists Explain’. Nathan, ‘The Rumpus Interview’.

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text, the eye may still have the narrow focus of fixation but when the focus is placed not on the reading of text set in a standard layout but on text that makes radical use of space, shape, size and pattern, there is a tendency to move more widely round the page, not bound to linear progression.57 The size and readability of typeface can dictate whether it is initially viewed as shape or read as letter. If seen as shape, this results in a slight delay in transference of lexical meaning, allowing for further ambiguities to arise. This is not to say that the monolingual reads, while the bi- or multilingual views. However, approaching a text with awareness of the possibility of difference in its framework, or that it might have no set framework, has resonances with approaching a text with the awareness of the possibility of its use of different modalities. Bergvall plays with this in Drift which includes several pages of asemic writing (unreadable writing with no semantic content), and of text with progressively deleted letters and words: str ght w   Th  f  r w nd f  l d Th  w nd dr pp d Th  f v  r bl w nd dr pp d  nd th   w r  b s t b st rms s  th t th   m d l ttl  pr gr ss Th n th  w nd dr pp d  nd th   w r  b s t by w nds fr m the n rth  nd f g f r m ny d ys th y d d n t kn w wh r  th y w r  s  l ng Th  f  r w nd f  l d  nd th y wh ll  l st th  r r ck th  r r ck n ng Th y d d n t kn w fr m wh t d r ct  n D r v n h r   nd th r  Th  f g w s s  d ns  th t th y l  st  ll ss  ns  f d rrrt  n  nd l  st thr c  rs  t s   Th r  w s m ch f g  nd th  w  nds w r  l ght  nd unf  nd  nf v   r bl  They dr ft df  r  nd w d   n th  h gh s M  st  f th se   nb  rd c mpl tly l  st l  st l  st th  r r ck n ng Th  c r w h d n   d    n wh ch d r ct  n th y w r  stst  ring   th ck f  g wh ch d d n  t l  ft f r d ys The sh  p w s dr ven  fff c  rse t l  nd Th y w r   sst d  b    t  st    f r l ngt  me and f  led t r   ch th  r 58

In such extreme cases, readers have no choice but to shift from their usual reading strategies. To return to the case of The Wake, when attempting to decode the half-familiar but half-changed anglisc spellings, readers are likely to draw on their knowledge of Old English and Modern English spellings: ‘triewth. triewth there is lytel of now in this half broc land our folc wepan and greotan and biddan help from their crist who locs on in stillness saen naht. and no triewth’.59 For a modern English reader, primed 57 See Andrew Roberts, Jane Stabler, Martin Fischer and Lisa Otty, ‘Space and Pattern in Linear and Postlinear Poetry: Empirical and Theoretical Approaches’, European Journal of English Studies 17:1 (2013), 23–40, at pp. 23, 24, 35; see also Judy Kendall, ‘Jo Ha Kyu and Fu Bi Xing: Reading|Viewing Haiku’, The Haiku Foundation (2016) [accessed 10 Jul. 2021]. 58 Bergvall, Drift, p. 38. 59 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 3.

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by the previous ‘locs on’, ‘saen naht’ (‘saying nothing’) visually suggests ‘seen’: ‘crist’ may look on, but he does not see or recognise our misery. Additionally, to deal with another particular experience of reading anglisc – my own – I find myself reading ‘wepan’ initially as ‘weapon’ not ‘weeping’, and indeed weapons become an important focus in The Wake. Thus, reading this text involves engaging with what is not written on the page, and with the ambiguities that result. To draw on the analogy of colonial systems, removing the imposition of one ‘superior’ language or way of reading can free up the possibility of multiple forms of expression, articulation and interpretation – the opacity that Glissant is working for. Writers like Kingsnorth choose to engage with made-up Englishes because of the effects of such Englishes both on themselves and on their readers. When successful, the work involved in making out unfamiliar text and negotiating its new framework as writer and reader contributes to the experience of new perspectives on an unfolding world. Automatic familiarity is replaced by a hard-won, uncertain, unfolding and changing intelligence: the ‘sheer strangeness’ of anglisc equates to the sheer strangeness (to us as twenty-first century beings – more sheerly strange perhaps to some than others) of 1066.60 New unfamiliar manipulations of language can allow for the unfolding of new hitherto-unthought-of perspectives which in turn can lead to new perceptions. The result as noted earlier can be both thrilling and invigorating – hence the literary recognition that The Wake, and also Terry and Bergvall’s works, has harvested. Further to this, for the reader particularly, a defamiliarisation–familiarisation process takes place: the reading eye gradually accustoms itself to a new language, which therefore becomes more familiar, with reading more automatic again. This happens with The Wake. Such re-acquired familiarity, like reverse culture shock, brings its own disorientating effects. After grappling with new language and ways of perceiving, the reader’s previously familiar world and language becomes othered, as Kingsnorth reports in terms of his difficulties with returning to writing in Modern English after The Wake. On the Threshold of the Articulate: A Conclusion Kingsnorth’s publishers describe The Wake as ‘a post-apocalyptic novel set in 1066’.61 The view offered is from the past to a future that is itself now partly past. Anglisc, mixing Old English and Old Norse, evokes the past. However, with no translation, the reader has to read it directly. To do this successfully involves inhabiting a fictional immersive sensory present, since the accuracy phase of reading anglisc includes engaging with the physical sound and visual look of words. This ‘present’ is also informed by the knowledge of the future, of ‘what wasn’t known then’ in terms of language development and historical events.62 The result is complex: ‘a ghost image of the speech patterns of a long-dead land: a place at once alien and familiar. Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book’. Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book’. 62 For more on this, see Freud’s discussion of nachträglichkeit in The Complete Letters of Sigmund Freud to Wilhelm Fliess 1887–1904, trans. Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson (Cambridge, MA, 1985), pp. 207–8. Cited also in Nicola King, Memory, Narrative, Identity: Remembering 60 61

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Another world, the foundations of our own’.63 It is a threshold, not only between a familiar English and an unknown made-up English, and between ways of viewing and reading text, but also between the past and the present, between language and what lies beyond it. This threshold is also a threshold between what is consciously intended and what arises without bidding. It is achieved by the writer, and later the reader, letting the word patterns impart their own validity, with the patterns already laid down steering words in particular directions. In such a way the language, in this case, anglisc, helps shape situation and character, as indeed Buccmaster articulates: ‘i was walcan paths laid down for me and when the words cum i moste spec them’.64 The writer’s control resides in deciding when and how to give words their head. It is, in other words, a control that consists of relinquishing control. This is difficult territory, and the interchange of forces required is implied by Kingsnorth in his use of verbs like ‘hammered’ and ‘driven’ to describe the composition experience. Similarly, just as the writer needs to relinquish control, so does the reader. The need to exert effort also applies to both of them. The reader’s first experience of reading The Wake involves hard work and risks frustration, for all the reasons itemised above. Access to and appreciation of the ambiguities offered by The Wake depend in part on the reader’s own readiness to relinquish familiar ways of approaching and reading the language. However, in Kingsnorth’s case, as writer of The Wake, his focus remains more on ways he can manipulate and steer the language and much less on how to loosen his grip on process. It seems clear that his fixity of purpose has contributed to the adverse reactions the novel has received. Kingsnorth’s reference, in the words of Buccmaster, to walking on a track that has not been made by the walker, ‘walcan paths laid down for me’ suggests awareness of a need to relinquish ‘self ’. This is clearly communicated by Buccmaster, who views that such an experience occurs because he ‘had gifen my self to the gods to weland to my wyrd’.65 It could be read that for Kingsnorth, this ‘self ’ includes known language, ways and systems. These are to be cast off and instead there is a need to cultivate a readiness to consider new experiences, new frameworks, new rules, or lack of them. Such awareness would fit with Kingsnorth’s stated purpose of using anglisc to convey the early English world-view, which, as he notes, is impossible to articulate in contemporary twenty-first-century English: ‘[t]he early English did not see the world as we do, and their language reflects this. They speak their truth, as we speak ours.’66 So, while Kingsnorth is not always successful in his attempts to relinquish control, and indeed sometimes seems to strongly resist such relinquishing, it seems fair to require of The Wake’s literary and linguistic readers of anglisc that they remain open to the possibility of lack of control, which could mean the possibility of new frameworks, new rules or even the flouting of conventional rules. This would also fit with the Glissantian endeavour to which Bergvall subscribes: to counter the the Self (Edinburgh, 2000), p. 11; for more on how nachträglichkeit can be applied to the process of composing and reading literary texts, see Judy Kendall, Edward Thomas: Origins of His Poetry (Cardiff, 2012), pp. 129–32. 63 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356. 64 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 295. 65 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 295. 66 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356.

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reductive effects of strict adherence to a privileged group’s perspective through the deployment of a multifarious unstable and ultimately impenetrable opacity. The opacity attained brings with it the obligation to read in different ways. This is to some extent true of The Wake, and of Kingsnorth’s purposes with it. He has described anglisc as a point of entry into a part-alien other worldview or ‘ghost image’ that is otherwise inarticulate and inaccessible to twenty-first-century readers and writers.67 However, if, as Kingsnorth here seems to imply, part of his purpose is to work towards opacity, it is important as well as logical that he expend effort in not laying down rules, so as to ensure that not only The Wake’s readers and critics but also Kingsnorth himself as the language’s ‘apparent’ creator have limited access to the text. While he has not been wholly successful in this endeavour, that anglisc does offer an opaque richness, and an openness to perceiving this has been demonstrated in the reactions and responses to The Wake of some of Kingsnorth’s readers. However, this purpose is in part confounded by Kingsnorth’s strong desire to control the construction process of anglisc and also to communicate details of this control to his readers and critics in paratextual notes and interviews relating to The Wake. In contrast, Terry fully commits to opacity in the composition of tapestry. Drawing on magic realism – the creation of ‘alternative layers of history’ – and sampling from different languages and periods, he allows these processes to be led by the combinatory techniques of OULIPO, in which stochasticity is core.68 What Kingsnorth states as a retrospective meta rule – ‘do what the novel needs you to do’ is for Terry the base line of his endeavour.69 While Kingsnorth’s work often achieves an adhoc ambiguity, for Terry ambiguity lies at the heart of tapestry’s ‘language in flux’.70 This is even more strongly the case in Bergvall’s work, informed by her commitment to opacity in the context of an exploration of her own multilingual identity: Anonymity - &onymity – of the writer whose masks have fallen deeply into the pits and currents of l&guage. Rebirth of the songer. Intense magnetism of lines that go thorugh the body lik radial songs. My personal sense of linguistic belonging was not created by showing for the best English I can speak or write, but the most flexible one. To make and irritate English at its epiderm, and at my own. [p19] Something crosses over comes.71

Her writing often sports unusual combinations, sometimes mid-phrase or midword, of sediments of language from different times, places, contexts and styles, as in these lines inspired by ‘The Seafarer’: Let me speak my true journeys own true songs I can make my sorry tale right soggy truth Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 356. Ouvroir de Litterature Potentielle (OULIPO), or Workshop of Potential Literature, investigates the possibilities of verse written under a system of structural constraints in which the writer’s control of outcomes is often drastically reduced. 69 Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355. 70 Terry, ‘Reflections on tapestry’. 71 Bergvall, Meddle English, pp. 18–19. 67

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sothgied sodsgate some serious wrecan my ship sailing rekkies tell Hu ic how ache wracked from travel gedayswindled oft thrownabout bitterly 72

In the case of The Wake, while readers not well versed in the early medieval languages on which anglisc draws might find the language difficult, it is for them otherwise relatively unproblematic. However, Kingsnorth’s allusions to the composition processes of anglisc risk misleading readers who are sufficiently skilled in these languages. This specialist group of readers tends to overlook Kingsnorth’s retrospectively stated meta rule, ‘do what the novel needs you to do’,73 and focuses instead on his implied claims for the linguistic and historical validity of anglisc. Their tendency therefore is to read unresolved ambiguities and contradictions as linguistic errors. Such reactions are avoided by Terry and Bergvall because made-up Englishes in their works openly mix different layers of language, history and region, making identification of linguistic errors particular to one time zone or region clearly inappropriate. In Kingsnorth’s case, his paratextual comments at times run counter to an adoption of the more flexible approach to language, linguistic frameworks and structural coherence that anglisc demands, and therefore recognition of the appropriateness of accuracy rather than automatic reading strategies is prevented. In such cases as Kingsnorth’s The Wake, creators of the made-up English in question and their readers can learn much from the writers, readers and critics of colonial and postcolonial texts. Acknowledgement, on the part of both the creators of made-up Englishes and their readers, of the obstacles to appreciation that occur in terms of reading strategies and linguistic expectations would do much to avoid the extremes of frustration and confusion that The Wake currently evokes.

72 73

Bergvall, Drift, p. 25. Kingsnorth, The Wake, p. 355.

7 Reimagining Early Medieval Britain: The Language of Spirituality Karen Louise Jolly

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he study of early medieval Britain is at a critical juncture not only for redefining the field but also for (re-)presenting it to the general reader of historical fiction. Scholars who study what has commonly been known by the shorthand ‘Anglo-Saxon England’ continue to confront modern fallacies about the ‘dark ages’ and, curiously, its imagined ‘whiteness’. On both the scholarly and the popular fronts, the medieval–modern divide needs breaking down, particularly around issues of race, class, and gender, but also around the binary of religious versus secular, dividing soul and body, heaven from earth. Language, medieval and modern, is deeply implicated in all of these constructions and representations. This chapter examines the role of historical fiction in both reinforcing and challenging popular misconceptions of early medieval Britain while reviving a more holistic sense of the human condition. These reflections draw on the author’s experiences as a historian of early medieval Europe and pre-modern world history, as a reader of historical fiction and fantasy, and as a long-time resident among the Indigenous people of Hawai‘i (Kānaka).1 These scholarly and personal experiences inform an ongoing project of writing historical fiction set in tenth-century Northumbria. Theoretical frameworks for understanding the language of early medieval spirituality incorporated in this chapter include post-colonial Indigenous studies and post-secular theologies. The aim is to find ways to recover the spirituality of an early medieval Britain that was transcultural and translingual, in part by considering various Englishes then and now. The author uses historical fiction to explore bilingual For autobiographical acknowledgement of these influences, see Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Re-imagining Early Medieval Britain’, Revealing Words, 6 Jul. 2020 [accessed 26 Jul. 2021] and ‘Re-imagining Early Medieval Britain II: Emerging Insights’, 12 Aug. 2021 [accessed 12 Aug. 2021]. 1

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texts and translingual cultural environments that decentre standard West Saxon in favour of various Englishes, plural. Anecdotal examples range from language play in J. R. R. Tolkien, Paul Kingsnorth, and Umberto Eco to excerpts from draft chapters of the author’s novel. This novel is a fictional biography of Aldred, a tenth-century Northumbrian scribe, bilingual Latin–English glossator of the Lindisfarne Gospels, and provost of St Cuthbert’s community at Chester-le-Street. Draft chapters of the novel endeavour to recreate Christian spirituality in the translingual environment of tenth-century ‘Britain’, to use the geographic insular term instead of England, since the latter is a contested political construct that emerged only in the mid-tenth century.2 Aldred lived in a Britain of shifting polities, multiple languages, and hybrid identities, a world both familiar and connected to our own but also significantly different when it comes to spirituality. Consequently, the novel struggles to portray the real presence of an embodied deity within the gritty realities of daily life in the tenth century, a worldview where heaven and earth are not mutually exclusive realities. The question this chapter addresses is: How can interweaving various ‘Englishes’ and other languages, historic and modern, recall us to a pre-modern worldview where heaven and earth intersect each other in daily life? The chapter begins with insights from post-secular thought, then considers some precedents in medieval historical fiction, followed by examples putting these ideas into practice in the author’s novel, and concludes with some reflections on translating the languages of spirituality. A Post-secular Epistemology of Love To begin the task of re-creation requires acknowledging the post-medieval frameworks that impede our ability to imagine an early medieval worldview, and then seeking inspiration in systems of thought outside of and/or resistant to modern western binary categories. To identify ‘binaries’ is not to reject all dualities – most worldviews have them. But certain mutually exclusive binaries inherited from Enlightenment thought are often used as tools of power over others and as a means of exclusion, such as sacred versus secular, religion versus science, supernatural versus natural, heaven separate from earth. These western binarisms are not only based on a medieval–modern divide but are deeply rooted in colonialism and racism.3 However, post-colonial challenges to rigid forms of these modern western ontologies may help us recall a better sense of early medieval worldviews before the full onset of those binaries separating sacred and secular, which in turn may enliven our See Karen Louise Jolly and Britton Elliott Brooks, ‘Introduction’, in Karen Louise Jolly and Britton Elliott Brooks (eds), Global Perspectives on Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2022), pp. 1–15; Claire Breay and Joanna Story (eds), Manuscripts in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms: Cultures and Connections (Dublin, 2021), p. xv; Barry Cunliffe, Britain Begins (Oxford, 2012); and Martin Carver, Formative Britain: An Archaeology of Britain, Fifth to Eleventh Century AD (London, 2019). 3 See Kathleen Davis, Periodization and Sovereignty: How Ideas of Feudalism and Secularization Govern the Politics of Time (Philadelphia, 2008). 2

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present understanding of our common humanity. Similarly, post-secular theories are currently wrestling with the effects of these linguistic ontologies in ways that may help re-examine an early medieval worldview in light of these challenges to modernity.5 For example, in a conversation between anthropology and theology, Pacific Islands anthropologist Matt Tomlinson observes: 4

For many anthropologists, culture and society ground divinity: divinity is a figure that humans interactively create and transform. No humans, no God. For many theologians, in contrast, divinity grounds culture and society: No God, no humans.6

Barbara Newman makes a similar observation about medieval European worldviews: Sacred and secular coexist in our world, after all, just as they did in the Middle Ages. But for us, the secular is the normative, unmarked default category, while the sacred is the marked, asymmetrical Other. In the Middle Ages, it was the reverse.7

Consequently, addressing contemporary problems of modernity while reversing our modernist thinking about early medieval Britain can be enhanced by listening to alternative theologies. Theologians of colour within, and global Christians outside of, the dominant western Christian tradition offer correctives to the post-medieval binary separating bodies from souls. Likewise, post-secular theologians are exploring alternative models from different strands long ignored in the imagined monolithic and homogenous western religious tradition. In a potent critique of modernity, former Bishop of Durham N. T. Wright deconstructs the Enlightenment’s split-level epistemology, reflected in G. E. Lessing’s ‘broad, ugly ditch between the eternal truths 4 See Zoe Todd, ‘An Indigenous Feminist’s take on the Ontological Turn: “Ontology” Is Just Another Word for Colonialism’, Urbane Adventurer: Amiskwacî, 24 Oct. 2014 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]; Len Gutkin, ‘“Who Gets to Speak in Our Traditions?”: Edgar Garcia on the Canon, Indigenous Studies and Talking with the Dead’, Chronicle of Higher Education, 29 Jun. 2020 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 5 See Charly Coleman, ‘Resacralizing the World: The Fate of Secularization in Enlightenment Historiography’, The Journal of Modern History 82:2 (2010), 368–95; Arturo Escobar, ‘Thinking-Feeling with the Earth: Territorial Struggles and the Ontological Dimension of the Epistemologies of the South’, Revista de Antropologia Iberoamericana 11:1 (2016), 11–32, at pp. 15, 27; David Hanlon, ‘Losing Oceania to the Pacific and the World’, The Contemporary Pacific 29:2 (2017): 286–318; Simon O’Sullivan, ‘Myth-Science as Residual Culture and Magical Thinking’, postmedieval 11 (2020): 119–36; and Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Anglo-Saxons on Exhibit: Displaying the Sacred’, in Karen Louise Jolly and Britton Elliott Brooks (eds), Global Perspectives on Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2022), pp. 217–44. 6 Matt Tomlinson, God Is Samoan: Dialogues Between Culture and Theology in the Pacific (Honolulu, 2020), pp. 1, 106–8. 7 Barbara Newman, Medieval Crossover: Reading the Secular against the Sacred (Notre Dame, 2013), p. viii.

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of reason and the contingent truths of history’, wherein heaven and earth remain mutually opaque.8 Wright offers an alternative ‘epistemology of love’, asking historians to move away from the cold-hearted objectivity of so-called scientific history toward an active love of one’s neighbour, dead or alive, that is, in communion with ancestors to form a community of the living and the dead. 9 Similarly, and working in parallel with Wright’s theology, artist Makoto Fujimura has developed ‘a Theology of Making’ that locates human thriving in creation and creativity as a challenge to modern industrial utilitarianism and consumerism by combining together Christian theology and Japanese artistic traditions such as Kintsugi.10 Fujimura advocates for artists as leaders from the margins, calling them Grendel-like mearcstapa, ‘border-stalkers’ who can speak back into and disrupt mainstream culture.11 Medievalists are in a position to both embrace these post-colonial and post-secular approaches and offer the fruits of their studies for contemporary reflection.12 This entails acknowledging the messiness of the past while also exploring the potential for new ways of thinking and being. A worldview in which heaven and earth were not two mutually exclusive things was arguably present in early medieval Britain, as explored in a number of recent scholarly books on embodied spirituality and on liturgical communities.13 Similarly, in the emerging frame of 8 N. T. Wright, History and Eschatology: Jesus and the Promise of Natural Theology (Waco, 2019), p. 49. 9 Wright, History and Eschatology, pp. 123, 140–9, 210–17. 10 Makoto Fujimura, Art and Faith: A Theology of Making (New Haven, 2020). Kintsugi is the art of repairing ceramics not just by gluing the pieces back together but highlighting the fracture with gold to create something more beautiful (p. 42). 11 Makoto Fujimura, Culture Care: Reconnecting with Beauty for Our Common Life (Downers Grove, 2017), Chapter 7. He cites as examples of mearcstapa Grendel in Beowulf as well as Strider (Aragorn) in J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, 3 vols (London, 1954–5). Fujimura also points to the medievalist organization Mearcstapa [accessed 5 Jul. 2021]. 12 See Tarren Andrews and Tiffany Beechy (eds), Indigenous Futures and Medieval Pasts, special issue of English Language Notes 58:2 (2020); and Donna Beth Ellard, Anglo-Saxon(ist) Pasts, postSaxon Futures (Earth, Milky Way, 2019). Classics is also undergoing a rethinking of their racist histories and structures: Rachel Poser, ‘He Wants to Save Classics from Whiteness. Can the Field Survive?’ NYT Magazine, 2 Feb. 2021 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]; Dan-el Padilla Peralta, ‘Slave Religiosity in the Roman Middle Republic’, Classical Antiquity 36:2 (2017), 317–69. 13 Helen Foxhall Forbes, Heaven and Earth in Anglo-Saxon England: Theology and Society in an Age of Faith (Farnham, 2013); Johanna Kramer, Between Earth and Heaven: Liminality and the Ascension of Christ in Anglo-Saxon Literature (Manchester, 2014); Tiffany Beechy, ‘Consumption, Purgation, Poetry, Divinity: Incarnational Poetics and the Indo-European Tradition’, Modern Philology 114:2 (2016), 149–69; Stephanie Clark, Compelling God: Theories of Prayer in Anglo-Saxon England (Toronto, 2018); Jill Fitzgerald, Rebel Angels: Space and Sovereignty in Anglo-Saxon England, (Manchester, 2019); Thomas Pickles, Kingship, Society, and the Church in Anglo-Saxon Yorkshire (New York, 2018); Andrew Sargent, Lichfield and the Lands of St Chad: Creating Community in Early Medieval Mercia (Hatfield, 2020); Kate H. Thomas, Late Anglo-Saxon Prayer in Practice: Before the Books of Hours (Berlin, 2020); and Catherine E. Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England: Utopia, Heterotopia, Dystopia (Woodbridge, 2020).

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ecocriticism, scholars of early medieval literature are drawing attention to the intimate relationships between the natural, human, and spiritual realms by focusing on ‘non-human voices’.14 These new approaches invite us to consider a worldview in which heaven and earth are not divorced but can be held in tension, in conversation, and contested, as they were in early medieval Britain. They remind us that we are not forced to choose between mutually exclusive binaries but can embrace both/and, either/or.15 Medieval Historical Fiction The problem for historical fiction set in early medieval Britain is a body–soul one, contending with the effects of the Enlightenment ditch between the sacred and secular, compounded by racist nationalism. The homology of race, language, and culture produced in Victorian philology lies at the very foundation of the field of Anglo-Saxon studies and therefore needs to be dismantled linguistically.16 To decolonise our understanding of early medieval Britain is to reconstruct or re-invent the language in ways that will undermine modern binaries. Three examples of medievalising historical fiction and fantasy engaged in language play illustrate the difficulties of overcoming these linguistic hurdles: J. R. R. Tolkien, Paul Kingsnorth, and Umberto Eco.17 Although different in their medievalising, these authors’ explorations of language have triggered a rethinking of word choice in my novel, in conjunction with reflections on ways to demonstrate empathy toward fictional characters using an epistemology of love. Although not writing historical fiction, in some ways Tolkien’s fantasy Middle-earth captures some of the spirit of early medieval cultures, arguably because of his philological expertise. Kingsnorth lacks that expertise in Old English and in the process of imagining an eleventh-century English speaker for a modern audience demonstrates a high degree of empathy for a love of land while unfortunately reinforcing the notion of a pre-Conquest linguistic mono-culture that never existed. Eco, like Tolkien and unlike Kingsnorth, represents a world of complex 14 See James Paz, Nonhuman Voices in Anglo-Saxon Literature and Material Culture (Manchester, 2017); Rawitiwan Sophonpanich, ‘Noisy Isles: Sounds and Otherness in Medieval and Early Modern England’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Hawai‘i Mānoa, 2018); and Britton Elliott Brooks, Restoring Creation: The Natural World in the AngloSaxon Saints’ Lives of Cuthbert and Guthlac (Cambridge, 2019). 15 See Sarah Larratt Keefer, ‘Either/And as “Style” in Anglo-Saxon Christian Poetry’, in George Hardin Brown and Catherine E. Karkov (eds), Anglo-Saxon Styles, (Albany, 2003), pp. 179–200. 16 See references in Stephen Harris, ‘Race and Ethnicity’, in Jacqueline Stodnick and Renée R. Trilling (eds), A Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Studies (Malden, 2012), pp. 165–79; Haruko Momma, From Philology to English Studies: Language and Culture in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 2012); Eric G. Stanley, The Search for Anglo-Saxon Paganism and AngloSaxon Trial by Jury (Cambridge, 2000); and Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 199–200. 17 Many thanks to the literary and linguistic scholars among the editors, authors, and peer reviewers of this volume who made valuable suggestions for this chapter on matters outside the author’s primary area of research.

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linguistic and cultural interactions in the twelfth-century Mediterranean that can be extended to tenth-century England, albeit involving different languages. Tolkien J. R. R. Tolkien and his fellow Inklings both reinforced a Victorian romantic medievalism and resisted Enlightenment binarisms. Tolkien, along with Charles Williams and C. S. Lewis, embodies in different ways Wright’s epistemology of love, although it might be more accurate to say that Wright’s epistemology is heir to Inkling theology. The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings (LOTR) present an imagined pre-industrial beloved community of the Shire hobbits, who are seemingly those romanticised medieval villagers or British shopkeepers. Tolkien offloads the violent and imperialist ventures of Middle-earth’s heritage to the Riders of Rohan and the Roman/Byzantine Kings of Númenor and Gondor.18 In some ways, Tolkien invited his twentieth-century readers back to a pre-modern, pre-disenchanted world while locating true humanity in a utopian Shire that is nonetheless still tinged with racial elements.19 Tolkien is, moreover, a model for how languages lie at the heart of the matter: re-narrating the past to create an ethnic mythology, either through fantasy or historical fiction, requires a sensitivity to words and their embedded histories. In LOTR, Tolkien the philologist acts as a cultural translator for English speakers, starting with words:20 ‘To me, a name comes first and the story follows’.21 Many fans focus on the languages he invented for Elves, Dwarves, and Men (not to mention the ‘Black’ languages of the Orcs and Mordor, themselves studies in the inherent good and evil in linguistic expression). Tolkien seemingly put heart and soul into fashioning these languages, and then created a world for them, a world he had to translate for See Judy Ann Ford, ‘The White City: The Lord of the Rings as an Early Medieval Myth of the Restoration of the Roman Empire’, Tolkien Studies 2 (2005), 53–73. Tolkien also compared Gondor to ancient Egypt in terms of their material culture (massive buildings, tombs, crowns), but not their theology, which he called more ‘Hebraic’, while noting that it would take too long to explain the absence of overt religion: Humphrey Carpenter, The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien (Boston, 1981), Letter 211, p. 281. 19 See Maria Sachiko Cecire, Re-Enchanted: The Rise of Children’s Fantasy Literature in the Twentieth Century (Minneapolis, 2019) on the Oxford origins of the Inkling legacy and on racist elements (Chapter 4); Anderson Rearick, ‘Why Is the Only Good Orc a Dead Orc? The Dark Face of Racism Examined in Tolkien’s World’, Modern Fiction Studies 50:4 (2004), 861–74; Margaret Sinex, ‘“Monsterized Saracens”, Tolkien’s Haradrim, and Other Medieval “Fantasy Products”’, Tolkien Studies 7 (2010), 175–96; and Elizabeth Massa Hoiem, ‘World Creation as Colonization: British Imperialism in “Aldarion and Erendis”,’ Tolkien Studies 2 (2005), 75–92. 20 See Tolkien’s exploration of linguistic identities in his unfinished ‘The Notion Club Papers’, in J. R. R. Tolkien, Sauron Defeated, ed. Christopher Tolkien (Boston, 1992; repr. London, 2002), Part II, pp. 145–327; and his explanations in ‘Nomenclature of The Lord of the Rings’, in Wayne G. Hamond and Christina Scull (eds), The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion (London, 2005), pp. 750–82. On Tolkien’s place in the history of philology, see Momma, From Philology to English Studies, pp. 188–90. 21 Tolkien, Letter 165 to Houghton Mifflin (1955) in Carpenter, Letters, p. 219, with a footnote adding ‘I once scribbled “hobbit” on a blank page of some boring school exam paper in the early 1930’s. It was some time before I discovered what it referred to!’ See also T. A. Shippey, J. R. R. Tolkien: Author of the Century (London, 2000; Boston, 2002), p. xiii. 18

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his readers while giving a flavour of Middle-earth cultures via snippets of their languages. Particularly with the high-sounding Elvish, he often left the words untranslated as if they meant something more than a literal translation could render, or as if they had power in and of themselves. But a more intriguing aspect in LOTR is how Tolkien went about translating these invented languages, most importantly Westron or Common Speech, into various Englishes, utilising different historic registers and with a strong feeling for residual British/Welsh as an indigenous language base.22 Tolkien, like his Victorian predecessors, was an essentialiser, firmly believing in the homology of language and culture as tied to a sense of home identity. In Tom Shippey’s analysis, Tolkien was not just making up Middle Earth; he was ‘reconstructing’ it for an English audience that lacked a solid origin myth but which he presumed existed linguistically, if fragmentarily, as part of ‘a collective imagination’.23 As an expert in medieval languages of earlier England and its neighbours, Tolkien could evoke ethnic cultural roots with language, as he does most famously with the Riders of Rohan echoing Old English epic poetry, in particular choosing Mercian over West Saxon variants.24 In some ways, then, Tolkien’s linguistic experiment of ‘translating’ into modern Englishes a pre-modern fantasy Middle-earth could become a model for historical fiction re-creating the early medieval past for contemporary English speakers. It may be possible to decolonise global Englishes by recalling how variations first began to emerge in a specific place, the island of Britain, and the inherent hybridity of that linguistic development. In this, Kingsnorth provides an instructive example of the potential pitfalls. Kingsnorth If for Tolkien ‘a name comes first and the story follows’, Paul Kingsnorth has tried to do both simultaneously in his ambitious and experimental The Wake.25 Difficult as it is to read at first, his made-up anglisc endeavouring to use words devoid of Latin or French influence offers a ‘ghost image’ of pre-Conquest English specifically located in the landscape of his imagined Angland. As Kingsnorth explains on the book’s website: More than three years ago, I began to write a historical novel which made me realise why I don’t read many historical novels. I couldn’t make the words fit, and I gradually began to see why: the language that we speak is so utterly specific to our time and place. Our assumptions, our politics, our worldview, our attitudes – all are implicit in our words, and what we do with them. In order to have any chance of this novel working, I realised I needed to imagine myself into the sheer LOTR Appendices E and F, especially II On Translation. See Yoko Hemmi, ‘Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and His Conception of Native Language: Sindarin and British-Welsh’, Tolkien Studies 7 (2010), 147–74. 23 Shippey, Author of the Century, pp. xiv-xv; see also Hemmi, ‘Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings’. 24 Nelson Goering, ‘Old Mercian: From Beowulf to Tolkien’s Rohan’, in Nathalie Kuijpers, Renée Vink and Cecile van Zon (eds), Tolkien among Scholars (Beverwijk, 2016), pp. 105–18. 25 Paul Kingsnorth, The Wake (London, 2014). 22

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strangeness of the past. I couldn’t do that by putting 21st century language into the mouths of eleventh-century people. So I constructed, almost by accident, my own language: a middle ground between the Old English that would have been spoken by these characters and the English we speak today. The result is a book which is written in a tongue that no one has ever spoken, but which is intended to project a ghost image of the speech patterns of a long-dead land: a place at once alien and familiar. Another world, the foundations of our own. 26

The chapters by Judy Kendall and Oliver M. Traxel in this volume provide a more comprehensive analysis of The Wake, but for the purposes of this chapter, two problems surface in Kingsnorth’s experiment, one regarding a simplified English grammar and the other a myth of origins for some long-lost pure ‘Englishness’. Kingsnorth imagines an eleventh-century English that is not Old English, which, unlike Tolkien, he has not studied. Kingsnorth focused on Old English-sounding vocabulary and spelling, but for unknown reasons he mangles the conjugations, particularly the ‘to be’ verbs. Eschewing declensions of nouns from Old English makes sense insofar as adding them would have frustrated modern English readers even more. But why ‘I is’ instead of ‘I eom’, when ‘am’ is an Old-English-based verbal form in common use then and now? The impact of this choice, whether intentional or not, is to imply either a non-native speaker of the language or that this oversimplified anglisc is a stereotypical ‘primitive’ language lacking the nuances of more ‘developed’ languages. In some ways, Buccmaster sounds as if he is speaking a ‘broken English’ similar to the colonialist stereotypes of Pidgin or Creole Englishes.27 Buccmaster’s English in sounding ‘broken’ to modern ears gives the impression it is not his native language, which of course is the opposite of Kingsnorth’s point: Buccmaster’s anglisc is central to his identity as an authoritative speaker of and for the true folk of Angland. The alternative impression of an original linguistic primitivism implies that the spoken English of the eleventh century lacked conjugations when the opposite is true: Old English had a complex grammar that has since been ‘simplified’, in defiance of the modern western fallacy associating language complexity with civilizational progress. This ghost of primitivism in The Wake implies the Kingsnorth, ‘About the Book: The language’, Unbound [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 27 In the context of Hawai‘i, see the Charlene Junko Sato Center for Pidgin, Creole, and Dialect Studies at the University of Hawai‘i, [accessed 19 Jul. 2021]; Katie Drager, ‘Pidgin and Hawaiʻi English: An Overview’, International Journal of Language, Translation and Intercultural Communication 1 (2012), 61–73; Christina Higgins, ‘Earning Capital in Hawaiʻi’s Linguistic Landscape’, in Ruanni Tupas (ed.), Unequal Englishes across Multilingual Spaces (New York, 2015), pp. 145–62; Katrina-Ann R. Kapā‘anaokalāokeola Nākoa Oliveira, ‘Aloha ‘Āina-Placed Ho‘omoana ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i: A Path to Language Revitalization’, in Elizabeth Ann McKinley and Linda Tuhiwai Smith (eds), Handbook of Indigenous Education (Singapore, 2019), pp. 339–56; Nālani Wilson-Hokowhitu and Noelani Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, ‘Colonization, Education, and Kanaka ‘Ōiwi Survivance’, in McKinley and Smith (eds), Handbook of Indigenous Education, pp. 49–62; and Patricia Espiritu Halagao and Cheryl Ka‘uhane Lupenui, ‘Hawai‘i Breathes Multilingualism’, in Noelani Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Craig Howes, Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwo‘ole Osorio, and Aiko Yamashiro (eds), The Value of Hawaiʻi 3: Hulihia (Honolulu, 2020), pp. 186–93. 26

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existence of an original monolingual English before the introduction of complications and impurities from French and Latin, denying the hybridity and variations already present in eleventh-century Englishes interacting with other languages in the isles.28 The second problem is related: the effort taken by Kingsnorth to recover a ‘pure’ English identity via language and landscape, which falls into the trap of Victorian era romanticism and the myth of origins, with its dangerous racial overtones. The deeply flawed Buccmaster sees himself as embodying an ‘original’ pagan Englishness that is overtly anti-Christian and anti-French, the two equated as equally ‘foreign’ and new to his Angland in a way bordering on xenophobia. The notion that an early eleventh-century English person (not a recent Scandinavian settler) would see Christianity as a foreign ‘religion’ when various local Christianities had been deeply embedded in the landscape of Britain and the dominant practice of English-speaking peoples for 400 years is curiously strange.29 There is no denying the presence of pre-Christian folklore and euhemerised gods existing side by side and integrated with English Christianities or that popular religion in the hinterlands was a hybrid affair. Indeed, Kingsnorth’s redeployment of Weland the Smith as ancestral muse for Buccmaster works quite well.30 However, the problem in The Wake goes deeper: not only does Buccmaster retain from his grandfather a rejection of the ‘foreign’ ingenga crist amid a continuing pagan reverence for the old gods, he locates these Germanic–Scandinavian deities as ‘indigenous’ to the landscape, in his case, the fens.31 In doing so, the author elides the very real historical fact that the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes who forcefully settled Britain in the fifth and sixth centuries conquered an already Christianised British population and introduced their foreign gods to Britain. Admittedly, Buccmaster is a murderous madman and as it turns out, a patricide, so the author is not presenting him as an English hero. Nonetheless, Kingsnorth does seem to be promoting rather than undermining Buccmaster’s assertion of a pure pre-Norman English past. So The Wake is worrisome for its apparent subscription to an idea of an indigenous English identity rooted in a fictional history where simple, pagan, free and wild English people lay claim to ‘their’ land via ‘their’ gods in the landscape. By comparison, Tolkien’s homology of language and identity, and its racialised origins, at least 28 See James Milroy, ‘Some Effects of Purist Ideologies on Historical Descriptions of English’ in Nils Langer and Winifred V. Davies (eds), Linguistic Purism in the Germanic Languages (Berlin, 2005), pp. 324–42. 29 On the modern concept of ‘religion’, not present in early medieval Europe, see Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, or How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago, 2005). 30 Weland as a sword smith appears in passing in Old English poetry (Deor, Beowulf, Waldere, and the Old English Boethius Meter 10), and possibly a few place names. Weland’s story is visually referenced in the eighth-century Northumbrian Franks Casket (for a rereading of which, see Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 77–124). Kingsnorth seems to have Waldere in mind for the story of Buccmaster’s sword. 31 There are points at which Kingsnorth acknowledges the Welsh, Scots, and even a begrudging acceptance of some Scandinavians; and he does have one character near the end point out that the blood-eagle ritual he seeks to carry out on the French bishop is, if not a myth, a Scandinavian and not an English rite.

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brings out the rich linguistic complexity embedded in modern English, counting on those layers of history to evoke feelings of kinship rather than simplifying to an original pure English as Kingsnorth does. Eco An alternative model exploring historic layers in language is provided by Umberto Eco, whose fantastical fictional histories baffle and bemuse. As a semiotician, Eco knows how to manipulate signs, but he is particularly adept when it comes to translingual environments such as those found in medieval and early modern Europe, the Mediterranean, and beyond. 32 In Baudolino, Eco explores the possibilities of creole and macaronic speech in the almost but not quite incomprehensible main character Baudolino, an Italian peasant who has a gift for learning languages – or at least mashing them up when he tries to write down the story of his travels with Frederick Barbarossa.33 William Weaver’s translation of Eco’s Italian into English necessarily alters Eco’s ‘translation’ into modern Italian of Baudolino’s creole of medieval Italian, Latin, and other languages such as German. Because English is not a Romance language, it stands in a different relation to medieval Italian and Latin than the modern Italian in which Eco wrote. In the opening chapter ‘Baudolino inizia a scrivere’ (‘Baudolino tries his hand at writing’), the erstwhile multilingual scribe uses erratic spelling and grammar as well as mixed languages while describing encounters with Germans (unlike Kingsnorth in The Wake, Eco does not continue this admixture in the rest of the novel as told to/by Niketas).34 In both the Italian and English editions, German words like Frouwe are in a Gothic font (curiously in MS Word called ‘Old English Text MT’): quando o incontrato i primi alamanni della mia vita ke erano queli ke adsdiavano Terdona tutti Ciusche et vilani et dicevano rausz et min got dopo meza giornata dicevo rausz et Maingot ankio et loro mi dicevano Kint vai a cercarci una bella Frouwe ke facciamo fikifuki non importa se lei è dacordo basta ke ci dici dove sta et poi la teniamo ferma noi when I met the first Alamanni in my life who were laying siege seige secge to Terdona, all Toische and nasty and they say rousz and Myn got, before the day was over I was saying rousz and Myn got too and they woiud would say to me Kint go 32 See Eric R. Dursteler, ‘Speaking in Tongues: Language and Communication in the Early Modern Mediterranean’, Past and Present 217 (2012), 47–77. On translingual theory, see A. Suresh Canagarajah, Translingual Practice: Global Englishes and Cosmopolitan Relations (London, 2013), pp. 6–8 and 20–24; Lydia Liu, Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity — China, 1900–1937 (Stanford, 1995); and Jonathan Hsy, Trading Tongues: Merchants, Multilingualism, and Medieval Literature (Columbus, 2013), pp. 1–26. 33 Umberto Eco, Baudolino (Milan, 2000; digital edition, 2020); Umberto Eco, Baudolino, trans. William Weaver (New York, 2002). 34 Weaver’s translation of the first chapter was also published the month prior to the book’s release: Umberto Eco, ‘Baudolino Tries His Hand at Writing’, Harper’s Magazine 305:1828 (September 2002), 22–27.

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find us a pretty Frouwe and we’ll do fiki fiki even if she doesn’t wan to just tell us where she is and we’ll grab her fast

Although the untranslated German phrases set off in Gothic stick out in both editions, German words are somewhat more alien in contrast to Italian than in Germanic-rooted modern English even with post-Conquest French and Latin influence. These orthographic variations across several languages present a special challenge for the translator. Baudolino’s draft ‘chronicle’ in the first chapter of the book is rife with the kinds of variable spelling, pronunciation, morphology, syntax, and vocabulary that Traxel assesses in The Wake, but with a character self-consciously (and exuberantly) commenting on his multilingual difficulties with writing as compared to Buccmaster’s self-referential (and somewhat monotonous) monolingualism. In the first chapter of Baudolino, Weaver is faced with producing a similar set of linguistic and orthographic dilemmas that Eco has in the Italian but for which there is not an exact equivalent in English. For example: mamma mia momenti mi masavano masavano o amasavano o necabant adesso quasi schrivo Latino non è ke non capisco il latino perké ho imparato a legere su un librum latino et quando mi parlano latino capisco ma è lo skrivere ke non so come si scrivono i verba diupatàn non so mai se è equus o equum et sbalio sempre mentre da noi un caballo è sempre un chivaus et non sbalio mai perké nesuno scrive Kavallo anzi scrive proprio gnente perké non sa legere mamma mia, they like to killed me kill or necabant, now I’m writing Latin almost, not that I understand Latin even if I learned to read from a Latin librum and when they talk Latin to me, I understand but its the writing I don’t know how you write the words Goddamn I never know if it’s equus or equum and I always get it wrong while for us a horse is always a chivaus and I never get it wrong because nobody writes Horse in fact they dont write anything because they dont know how to read

Eco’s play on caballo (the Spanish spelling) versus Kavallo (Italian) for chivaus is represented in Weaver’s English as horse versus Horse. Similarly, Baudolino’s closing prayer borrowed from the opening of the Mass contains a Latin–Italian resonance between ‘gratia’ and ‘gratie’ that is not represented in the English translation: gratia agamus domini dominus in somma siano rese gratie al Siniore gratis agimus domini dominus I mean thanks to the Lord

Although ‘thanks’ and ‘horse’ in the English translation do not have the same word play between Latin and Italian, Weaver makes up for it in other ways that are equally successful in representing Baudolino’s creole and his multilingual exploits. Whether read in Italian or English, Eco’s portrait of Baudolino’s translingual cultural environment as normative for medieval Europe is instructive. It should also

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be applied to early medieval Britain, contra Kingsnorth’s origin myth of English monolingualism and more in line with Tolkien’s philological complexity. Exploring this multi- vs mono-cultural landscape opens up greater historical empathy toward human diversity while de-emphasising ethnic boundaries that were created or artificially hardened only later. Moreover, such openness to ambiguity admits the possibility of spiritualities in early medieval Europe that are not defined by some monolithic homogenous institutional religion that only arose later. Although Kingsnorth shows empathy for his flawed Buccmaster and Eco for his gregarious Baudolino, both seem to struggle against a modern disbelief in the supernatural, presenting such events as illusory or relative, real only in the disordered minds of the characters. Tolkien’s epistemology of love runs deeper in his characters’ spirituality precisely because their faith journeys are not connected to an institutional religion but are evident only in how they live and grow, love and hate, and the stories they tell. As a consequence, Tolkien’s fantasy Middle-earth looks and feels like the kind of embodied spirituality that may have existed in early medieval Britain. Examples in Practice Reflecting on these three authors’ works has helped this author of historical fiction cast a critical eye on the use of languages in a novel set in tenth-century Northumbria. By putting some of these ideas into practice, the novel aims to recover a translingual environment in early medieval Britain, one that lays bare the tensions and contradictions of Christian spirituality and that stands in contrast to Kingsnorth’s, or even Eco’s, cynicism toward medieval Christianity. More in line with Tolkien and Wright, the novel seeks to work from an epistemology of love toward the historic persons and communities being fictionalised. This process means becoming selfaware of one’s own mental landscapes in relation to those of the early medieval past. The Aldred of the novel is not meant to be the historical Aldred. Nonetheless, any author of historical fiction is responsible for imagining the character as a medieval person in a medieval body in a medieval European context, rather than as some fictional history does, putting a modern mind in a medieval body. As Kingsnorth rightly asserts, imagining a medieval mind for modern readers is fundamentally a linguistic enterprise. But at the same time and inseparable from that linguistic dislocation is the struggle to escape modern secularism and individualism: to recover how spiritual communities functioned through ritual performance and sacred languages and also to anchor souls and bodies in the physical landscape of early medieval Britain, at the intersections of heaven and earth. To do so, the novel draws on the resources of more holistic worldviews from contemporary Indigenous societies whose stories and practices interweave spiritual agencies, natural entities, and human communities as an antidote to western ontologies separating these strands from one another. This fictionalising adventure began with writing a short story, inspired by the bilingual Latin–English words of the historical Aldred in mid-tenth-century Northumbria. We know Aldred almost exclusively as a glossator and through his

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self-disclosure in two colophons. Aldred glosses Latin texts with Old English words, producing not a syntactical English text but a bilingual Latin–English reading experience. He glosses in English not only Latin texts like the Lindisfarne Gospels that might need translation for the Latin-illiterate but also liturgical texts that would not ordinarily be translated into the vernacular in Durham Cathedral Library A.IV.19 (the ‘Durham Ritual’ or ‘Collectar’). His colophons to both these manuscripts are macaronic Latin and English, calibrated linguistic code-switching, even glossing himself. Aldred likes to play with language, at least in writing, and there is a contemplative or devotional aspect to his bilingual wordplay in these manuscripts. Moreover, Aldred’s English is distinctly Northumbrian, not West Saxon, which presents a number of conundrums for modern scholars. First of all, much of the corpus vocabulary identified as Northumbrian comes from Aldred’s handiwork, so conclusions drawn about the nature of Northumbrian Old English variances and the impact of Scandinavian loan words need to take into account that it comes not only from one person but from gloss vocabulary, not syntactical Old English.36 In some cases, Aldred may have been creating English neologisms or ‘Aldredisms’. Second, Northumbrian Old English seems to have some influence on later developments in Middle English, which begs the question about the dominance of written West Saxon as promoted by King Alfred.37 The Alfredian translation project, and its reform-minded successors in the tenth century, was a political program of asserting Wessex dominance over ‘England’.38 Consequently, Aldred’s prolific glossing in Northumbrian Old English is potentially a political act of resistance. This comes through in some ways in the colophon to the Durham A.IV.19 Cuthbert prayers, where Aldred pointedly notes that he and Bishop Ælfsige were in a specific location ‘among the West Saxons’ in 970 when he recorded the prayers of their Northumbrian saint.39 The relics of St Cuthbert and his Lindisfarne bishopric at Chester-le-Street had recently been patronised by Wessex King Athelstan, suggesting collaboration between the Northumbrian bishops and the Wessex monarchy, but other evidence suggests that the political landscape in Northumbria was very much in flux between competing Scots, Scandinavian, Northumbrian, and Cumbrian elites. In the tenth century during Aldred’s lifetime, resistance to Wessex domination was not yet futile. The novel’s fictionalised Aldred extrapolates from this historical record of Aldred’s bilingual endeavours and the translingual environment of northern Britain in the tenth century. Like Kingsnorth’s reaction to historical fiction, ‘I couldn’t make the words fit’. Although the omniscient narrator of the novel speaks in modern English, it takes conscientious effort to make choices of vocabulary relevant to pre-Conquest 35

35 Karen Louise Jolly, Community of St. Cuthbert in the Late Tenth Century: The Chesterle-Street Additions to Durham Cathedral Library A.IV.19 (Columbus, 2012); Julia Fernández Cuesta and Sara María Pons-Sanz (eds), The Old English Gloss to the Lindisfarne Gospels: Language, Author and Context (Berlin, 2016). 36 See Sara María Pons-Sanz, Analysis of the Scandinavian Loanwords in the Aldredian Glosses to the Lindisfarne Gospels (València, 2000). See also Goering, ‘Old Mercian’, p. 106, on using manuscript context for understanding Old English dialects. 37 For questions on the continuity of Old to Middle English, see Milroy, ‘Some Effects of Purist Ideologies’, pp. 336–9; see also Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 212–13. 38 On Alfred’s Preface, see Karkov, Imagining Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 27–76. 39 See Jolly, Community of St. Cuthbert, pp. 60–70.

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Britain, especially when it comes to names and dialogue.40 But since the protagonist Aldred is Latin literate, Latin- and English-rooted words can be mixed a bit more freely. Sometimes the novel quotes and then summarises Latin texts as Aldred might have done for the Latin-illiterate. At other times, Old English words that still work today, such as kuyhyrde, can be left untranslated to slow the reader down and make them work harder, as Kingsnorth does, or the word can be made a subject of a linguistic discussion, as Eco does with Baudolino. To emulate Aldred’s use of Latin with English speakers, quotes of Latin blessings are embedded, sometimes with a character translating, other times using a macaronic or glossing format (words in parentheses). But in some cases, the Latin remains untranslated as a language of power beyond a human’s comprehension. Tolkien does this with Elvish in LOTR. When confronted by the deadly darkness of Shelob, both Frodo and Sam speak words of power in Elvish, Frodo not knowing what he had spoken and Sam using words in a language he did not know but may have heard in his sleep in Elrond’s hall.41 Likewise, by not translating some of the Latin, the novel tries to show how ritual performances with words spoken in a holy language had tangible spiritual meaning for the Latin illiterate. For example, the fictional child Culfre, whose grandfather was a priest, feels the Latin words: The Latin syllables had no clear meaning to her—she could not translate them into English like Master Aldred. But she could feel them, if she closed her eyes and listened. What was it she felt? Solemn, as if in the presence of a great lord, and she was a servant peeking out from behind a curtained doorway as the noble figure rode by with his troops. The way she felt sometimes in the church sanctuary here while the brothers chanted such words to an invisible God-King. Or when the Bishop stood in shimmering yellow robes lifting the sacred bread and cup while the candlelight flickered across gleaming gold and silver displayed on the altar. Maybe heaven was like that…but with a fuller stomach.42

On the other hand, the novel portrays Latin-literate women in Aldred’s family, including his mother Tilwif. In a chapter set in 942, she chants the Magnificat with her own translation into Northumbrian Old English, a translation patched together by copying the West Saxon translation of Luke’s gospel for its Old English syntax and then substituting Aldred’s vocabulary and spelling from his gloss to the Lindisfarne Gospels.43 Invaluable resources for this project include the Prosopography of Anglo-Saxon England (PASE) database [accessed 21 Jul. 2021]; Bosworth-Toller; DOE; and the OED. 41 J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, vol. 2 (London, 1954–5), Book 4, Chapters 9 and 10 (pp. 329, 338–9 in the Collector’s Edition). 42 Unpublished chapter set in 957 on the Boge hand in the Durham Gospels as the work of a young girl; see Jolly, ‘Boge Hand in the Durham Gospels’, Revealing Words, 25 Jun. 2013

[accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 43 See Walter W. Skeat, The Gospel According to Saint Luke in Anglo-Saxon and Northumbrian Versions Synoptically Arranged, with Collations Exhibiting All the Readings of All the MSS (London, 1874), pp. 22–3. 40

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Min sauel miclað ðone drihtne And min gaast gefeade in gode mine halwoende; Forðon þe he eftlocade hys ðuæs eðmodnise; Heono forðon of ðisum mec eadigo cuoeðað alle cneoreso. Forðon þe me miclo dyde seðe mæhtig is 7 his noma is halig. 7 his milt-heortnise in soð cneoreso et cneoreso hine ondredendum. He dyde mæht on his earme. He to-straegd ða oferhygdego mið ðoht his heortes. He to-sceaf ða mæhtigo of setle. 7 ða eðmodo ahof; ða hyngerendo he mið godum gefylde. 7 forleort ða idlo. He ondfeng israhel his cnæht. þæte were gemyndgad his miltheortnise; Suæ he wæs gesprecen to usra fadores abraham 7 his sede in worulde.

In addition to his mother, Aldred’s godmother abbess Bega and sister Bega, who becomes a deaconess, are familiar with Latin psalms, prayers, and hymns. Consequently, fictional Aldred writes home from Ireland letters in macaronic vernacular and Latin, a feature common in Irish writings, as well as in creole linguistic communities. In addition to glossing, historic Aldred used macaronic Latin and Old English in his c. 950 colophon to the Lindisfarne Gospels. So borrowing from early letter collections, the novel imagines a younger Aldred’s epistolary efforts: The feast of St Luke the Evangelist, xv Kalends November (18 October), in the year of our Lord 937, Glendalough To my beloved mother, bonae mulieri goodwoman Tilwif, and to my carissima sister, Bega, handmaid of Christ, from your son and brother, Aldred, devote caritatis in Christo salutem, a greeting of devoted love in Christ. My letter, per maria nauigans tellurisque spacium, sailing across the sea and an expanse of land, sends prayers for your eternal health, in the bond of spiritual love and with a holy kiss.44

Similarly, when on his own facing a text or with other Latin-literate clerics, Aldred can indulge in quite a bit of bilingual wordplay, based on his glosses where he offers alternative Old English words or invents new ones. In doing so, Aldred’s translation project emerges in the novel as essentially contemplative, connecting his earthly circumstances to the heavenly. The manuscript artefact becomes a record of an actual encounter Aldred has on a specific day and time, interacting with the text and explaining it to others in his community. For example, in the first experimental short story, Aldred corrects and glosses the work of Scribe B, named in the novel Berctwin, or Bert for short.45 Bert has problems with Latin orthography and script. But even as Aldred explains his corrections to Bert, he also explicates meaning, similar to the Carolingian dialogue between Alcuin and the young Prince Pepin.46 In another instance, Aldred explicates for Bert Unpublished chapter set in 938, borrowing from the letters of Boniface. Set in 960; Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Scribe B Draft’, Revealing Words, 21 Jan. 2013 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 46 See translation by Paul Edward Dutton in Carolingian Civilization: A Reader (Peterborough, ON, 1993), pp. 123–8. 44 45

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Latin redemptor, used to explore one of Aldred’s glossing techniques of translating phonemes to create seemingly new compounds, efltlesend for redemptor. Other passages, such as glossing the Beatitudes, connect the contemplative dimensions of their reflections on the text to the gritty realities of bodily life and spiritualty in the tenth century, including illness, hunger, and warfare, and even fighting off boredom while glossing on a cold winter morning (as indeed this modern scholar was bored transcribing his gloss!).47 In these ways, the novel attempts to convey the bilingual word play of a tenth-century scribe in terms of his physical, emotional, and spiritual circumstances. When it comes to the translingual environments of northern Britain and Ireland, things get more complicated. Unlike The Wake, and more like Baudolino, the novel’s characters interact in multiple languages with varying degrees of expertise and mutual intelligibility. Aldred is bilingual in Latin and Northumbrian Old English but interacts with speakers of West Saxon, Old Norse, Irish Gaelic, Scots Gaelic, and Cumbrian Gaelic.48 Few if any of these characters would be monolingual, but their bilingual or trilingual capacities may vary. The degree of mutual intelligibility between Old English and Old Norse is debatable, but the novel imagines speakers of both could manage with each other; similarly, the Gaelic groups could find common ground. As many fiction authors have found with their protagonists, Aldred becomes a bit like me, a bookish visual learner who sees words spelled, as is evident in his glossing activities. As a native speaker of Northumbrian English and with immersion in liturgical Latin from a young age, Aldred is an avid reader in both, giving him access to vocabulary in both the Germanic and the Latinate branches. But although he is quite literate in Latin and Old English, he struggles with hearing and speaking Gaelic tongues. More likely, Aldred would revert to Latin with his clerical brothers when he travels through Cumbria, Ireland, and Scotland, while picking up some Gaelic vocabulary along the way and relying on other multilingual folks to translate. For example, on the eve of the battle of Brunanburh in 937, Aldred meets a long-lost cousin who speaks both English and Cumbric.49 But when he encounters the Wessex forces, Aldred initially tries to hide his Northumbrian origins by speaking in Latin, then reluctantly switching to English. As today, regional variations and accents are easily detectable and consciously or not are used to assess the trustworthiness of a stranger. Inevitably, these translingual scenes include misunderstandings. For example, a Viking ship captain hears an Irish monk struggling with Old Norse introduce Aldred as a gisl, hostage, instead of a gestr, guest. Aldred, knowing the same difference in English, is not sure whether in fact he is a hostage or a guest, but does have to be redeemed on arrival at Glendalough, where he pays off his journey working as a scribe. While clergy bilingual in Latin but speaking different vernaculars could resort to Latin as a common language grounded in the vocabulary of Scripture and liturgy, this was not without problems. In 941, Aldred meets and travels with St Cathroe Unpublished chapter set in 968. See Fiona Edmonds, Gaelic Influence in the Northumbrian Kingdom: The Golden Age and the Viking Age (Woodbridge, 2019), pp. 155–84. 49 Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Brunanburh’, Revealing Words, 23 May 2014 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 47

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from Govan in Scotland to Penrith in Cumbria, and though Cathroe is dominant Gaelic and Latin compared to Aldred, who is dominant English and Latin, they manage to form a brotherly love in Latin.50 But liturgical accord breaks down in their group over different Latin versions of the Psalter, the Irish-based chanting the Gallican while others the Romanum, with Aldred knowing both from his time at Glendalough but switching back and forth depending on who is louder in which ear during the service. Similarly, macaronic speech combining Latin and Gaelic also frustrates Aldred, who then must rely on whispered translations. Along the pilgrimage with Cathroe, Aldred befriends and adopts a young Norse–English slave boy born with a shrunken arm. The character of Frith provides opportunities to explore the role of kinless wanderers, captive slaves, and those with disabilities.51 As a trilingual speaker of Norse, English, and Scots Gaelic, Frith is a useful translator and cultural mediator for Aldred with his weak Gaelic. For example, Frith translates the stories of St Cuthbert that Aldred is reciting for King Dyfnwal and his men on the saint’s feast day in Penrith. These scenes with Frith bring in a number of cultural and spiritual issues. In one instance, Aldred has an embarrassing conversation with Frith explaining eunuchs in the story of St Eugenia (Old English belisnod, which Aldred translates to geldingr, an Old Norse word beginning to be used among the English). This leads to a discussion of celibacy that reflects on the difficulties of translating Aldhelm’s views on virginity. Despite, or maybe because of, the translingual environment, the spiritual friendship between Cathroe, Aldred, and Frith grows over the course of the pilgrimage, culminating in Frith’s baptism at Easter in Chester-le-Street when Aldred is ordained deacon. What is emerging from this novel-in-progress is convergent, and therefore highly personal to the conjunctions in this author’s own experiences as a scholar and faithseeker: a sense of spiritual friendships within communities of the living and the dead, expressed through ritual performance and language; a struggle for body–soul, heaven–earth reconciliation that connects across time and place the experiences of early medieval spiritualities and contemporary Indigenous spiritualities; and an effort to not romanticise these spiritualities in some kind of new binary opposing western thought. Translating the Languages of Spirituality To accomplish this task, this chapter asks: What would it look like to use different modern Englishes – like Tolkien but global Englishes, including creoles and pidgins – in character dialogues and also in narrative and description? Disorienting like Kingsnorth? Would it help bring the spirituality alive to weave in a macaronic mode, like Baudolino, contemporary Indigenous terms that resonate with early medieval Karen Louise, Jolly, ‘941 Pilgrimage’, Revealing Words, 3 Mar. 2021 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 51 In this instance, I debated what term to use to describe Frith’s arm in a way that was both sensitive to perceptions of bodily difference in early medieval Britain and also linguistically satisfactory: shrivelled and withered sounded off, but shrunken has an OE root in scrincan. 50

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beliefs? The danger would be cultural stereotypes or appropriations. To maintain authenticity and transparency, this slow work has to come through the author as the ‘translator’ of Aldred’s world using modern intercultural linguistic experiences in relation to a personal reading of Old English texts and Latin theology.52 To translate within and between different Englishes global and historic requires some ‘reverbiaging’, a term used by Keetoowah Cherokee descendant Randy Woodley. Woodley notes the contemporary need for Christian ‘reverbiaging’ to replace baggage-laden western theological terms with alternatives from Native American thought, moved back into English. So, for example, he argues that ‘the word healing conveys a more accurate meaning than salvation in much of Scripture…. Healing is a process that requires our cooperation’.53 Knowingly or not, Woodley taps into a historic linguistic difference between Latin-rooted words and Old English-rooted words and their semantic ranges of meaning. In Aldred’s world, hāl- words overlap body and soul, combining physical, mental, and spiritual wholeness in a way that ‘salvation’ as a weighty doctrinal word does not quite capture. Woodley also prefers Creator to God for the deity, echoed in Makoto Fujimura’s Theology of Making that emphasises the central role of creativity in the image of Creator/God. Although Creator is a Latin-rooted word and God an Old English one, there is a distinction worth exploring in the ways in which Creator in relation to creature(s) functions in the liturgy: creatura refers to all living entities, natural and supernatural, created by the Creator, including water, animals, humans, and angels, in a more inclusive view of creation than found in modern western binarisms separating natural from supernatural or humans from nature. Hallowing or sanctifying material elements in the liturgy brings these two concepts of creature and healing together: Water, salt, incense, milk, honey, bread, and ‘whatever you will’ are all called creatura when they are exorcised and lovingly set apart as sacred for use in remedies and prayers, including baptism and field blessings.54 The reference to Mother Earth along with God and Mary in the Æcerbot Ritual is completely explicable if viewed within this holistic paradigm rather than as pagan versus Christian.55 In that same vein, Aldred explains to Bert Creator (SciOn ‘slow translation’, see James Paz, ‘A Slow, Deep Song of the Cosmos: Translating The Order of the World in My Own Time’, in Catherine E. Karkov (ed.), Slow Scholarship: Medieval Research and the Neoliberal University (Cambridge, 2019), pp. 31–51. 53 Randy S. Woodley and Bo C. Sanders, Decolonizing Evangelicalism: An 11:59 p.m. Conversation (Eugene, 2020), pp. 18–20. For an example of reverbiaging put into practice, see Terry M. Wildman, trans. and ed., First Nations Version: An Indigenous Translation of the New Testament (Downer’s Grove, 2021). 54 See Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Aldred’s Baptism’, Revealing Words, 28 May 2016 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. For field blessings, see Durham A.IV.19 fol. 66r1 (Jolly, Community of St. Cuthbert, p. 246); for generic “whatever you will” prayers in Durham A.IV.19, see Alicia Corrêa (ed.), Durham Collectar (London, 1992), items 595–596. 55 Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Field Research: Imagining and Re-creating Anglo-Saxon Agricultural Protection Formulas’, in C. Voth (ed.), Cultivating the Earth and Nurturing the Body and Soul: Daily Life in Early Medieval England: Essays in Honour of Dr Debby Banham (Turnhout, forthcoming); see Karen Louise Jolly, ‘Æcerbot ritual script’, Revealing Words, 22 May 2018 [accessed 5 Apr. 2021]. 52

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eppend or ‘All-Shaper’) and creature (giscæft, but see also gesceap) while glossing the St John prayer against poisonous reptiles or other demonic threats.56 In these exorcisms and blessings, the spiritual and physical cannot be separated, such that the language used in the novel to set the scene for these activities needs to reflect that reality. The crux of this linguistic and spiritual dilemma for an author of historical fiction set in tenth-century Britain is wrestling with portraying the ‘real presence’ of Jesus, an incarnate God who interacts directly with human characters inseparably from the natural or material world. To recover a better sense of divine immanence in pre-modern Christianities, modern scholars and historical fiction writers studying early medieval Britain need to continue to listen bilingually and transculturally, not only to early medieval voices but also to Indigenous and post-secular theologians ‘decolonising the Gospel’. These influences may free scholars and authors like myself from binary thinking and thereby enable a narrative voice that enters into a both/and heofon ond earða.

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8 Historical Friction: Constructing Pastness in Fiction Set in Eleventh-Century England James Aitcheson

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cholarly discussion of the Middle Ages in historical fiction has frequently been framed in terms of the ways in which authors draw upon or make use of medieval texts to inform their writing, or else has tended to focus on the historical authenticity (or lack thereof) of given works. Indeed there is a widespread popular and critical fascination with what Jerome de Groot calls the ‘historicalness’ of historical fiction: that is to say, its relationship to history and the extent to which it depicts the past in a historically faithful manner.1 Novelists themselves have often encouraged these lines of investigation by stressing their commitments and feelings of responsibility in this respect, and regularly make claims regarding the historical accuracy of their work (consistency with events and chronology) and its authenticity (sensitivity towards the texture of life in their chosen period).2 When considering how the Middle Ages are depicted in historical fiction, however, it is important to keep in mind the wider narrative strategies, approaches and objectives into which the treatment of medieval texts and history is enfolded. Critical discussion of these strategies, approaches and objectives is urgently needed, as de Groot points out: ‘It is uncommon still for scholarship to look seriously at the ways in which historical fictions might work […] research into historical fiction has been bedevilled by an overriding concern about the historicalness of such work’ (italics in the original).3 As we shall see, the visions of the Middle Ages – in this case specifically eleventh-century England – that are constructed by historical novelists 1 Jerome de Groot, Remaking History: The Past in Contemporary Historical Fictions (Abingdon, 2016), p. 3. 2 As part of this claim to historical authenticity, novelists also sometimes adopt stylistic and linguistic strategies intended to emulate past languages. See, for example, Philip Terry’s tapestry (Hastings, 2013) (one of the three novels examined in this chapter) and Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake (London, 2014). The linguistic strategies employed in these two works are discussed at greater length in the chapters by Oliver M. Traxel, Judy Kendall and Karen Louise Jolly in this volume. 3 de Groot, Remaking History, p. 3.

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frequently approach and render the period in ways that owe little to contemporary source material, and indeed are not much concerned with history in the formal, academic sense of that word. In this chapter, I bring a practice-based perspective to the study of historical fiction set in eleventh-century England, examining the various strategies by which novelists construct what I call ‘pastness’. Whereas de Groot’s term ‘historicalness’ refers to how a text embodies, represents or otherwise makes use of history, pastness can be defined as the feeling of the past generated by a work of fiction: a feeling that is characterised by the meaning(s) attributed to that past, and by the emotional and psychological effects that it exerts. I focus on three recent novels set in eleventh-century England, my own period of specialisation but one that at present is relatively underrepresented in a fiction market largely dominated by the Romans, the Tudors, and the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. All three of these novels were published during the 2010s, share a common theme of conquest and its impact upon English society, and contain stylistic and thematic echoes of Old English literature and historical sources. The first is Justin Hill’s Shieldwall (2011), which is set in the years leading up to Cnut’s conquest in 1016; the second is Philip Terry’s tapestry (2013), which imagines the stories of the nuns who worked on the Bayeux Tapestry; and the third is my own novel The Harrowing (2016), which is set in the aftermath of the Norman invasion during the Harrying (or Harrowing) of the North. I explore how each of these texts creates and communicates its own idiosyncratic vision of the period – its own idiosyncratic feeling of pastness – and show how even though these renderings of eleventh-century England are all partly inspired by Old English source material, they are not constrained by this material. I build upon the taxonomy devised by literary critic Robert Eaglestone, who identifies a number of common ‘modes’ in historical fiction. Each of these modes describes a different way of thinking about, accessing, understanding or coming to terms with the past, and involves a different set of strategies for engaging or interacting with that past.4 They include past-as-fable, past-as-memory, contrapuntal pasts, past-as-haunting, past-as-possession, and past-as-trauma, although Eaglestone stresses that this is not necessarily an exhaustive list.5 Indeed there are a number of other modes that we might wish to add, such as – for example – past-as-nostalgia, past-as-sanctuary, past-as-romance and past-as-spectacle. One of the advantages of this modal taxonomy for studies of medievalism is that it allows us to classify and make meaningful distinctions between different senses of the Middle Ages that are evoked in fiction, while avoiding difficult value-judgements of whether a given text is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, ‘commercial’ or ‘literary’, or more or less ‘authentic’, ‘accurate’, ‘historical’ or ‘truthful’ than another: none of these modes is to be regarded as inherently more or less valid than any other.

Robert Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, in Daniel O’Gorman and Robert Eaglestone (eds), The Routledge Companion to Twenty-First Century Literary Fiction (Abingdon, 2019), pp. 311–20, at p. 312. 5 Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, p. 312. 4

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However, whereas in outlining his modal system Eaglestone considers each of his exemplar texts as representative of only one given mode, I argue that modes of pastness need not be regarded as mutually exclusive; rather, they can exist in combination. As I demonstrate, in evoking eleventh-century England, Hill, Terry and I all employ different modes at different times, occasionally (but not always) deploying styles and themes inspired by Old English source material in service of these modes. These modes overlap, combine and sometimes even conflict with one another, constructing pastnesses that are complex and multi-layered and unique to each individual work. Even though my chosen novels have much in common, the depictions of eleventh-century England offered by Shieldwall, tapestry and The Harrowing are wildly different in character from one another, constituting distinctive forms of medievalism. Shieldwall The first of my three chosen texts chronologically, both by date of publication and by date of setting, is Justin Hill’s Shieldwall. Published in 2011 and named by The Sunday Times as a Book of the Year, it centres upon the historical figure of Godwin Wulfnothson (later Earl of Wessex and father of King Harold II). The novel imagines his early life and the beginnings of his political career during the years leading up to the Danish conquest of England, with the greater part of the narrative focusing on the years 1013–16. After a brief opening section in which his father is the protagonist, we follow Godwin from birth and see him grow up, become a hostage in the care of King Ethelred II, forge a friendship with the king’s sons Athelstan and Edmund, and ultimately serve the latter in battle against the invading Danes. As in the other two novels I will discuss, it is possible to identify several modes at work in Shieldwall, some of which play a more significant role than others. For the sake of concision, I have chosen to focus on what I regard as the three most dominant modes present in the novel: past-as-trauma; past-as-possession; and past-as-spectacle. Perhaps the most easily detectable of these is past-as-trauma. Hill offers the reader a vision of eleventh-century England that, as a result of perpetual conflict, is deeply and inherently traumatic. Throughout the novel, Godwin and the other principal characters are consumed by war and by making preparations for war, to the exclusion of much else in their lives; in this respect, the novel closely reflects the preoccupations of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle during these years, with its account of relentless struggles against the Danish raiding-armies.6 Indeed, Godwin’s world is framed as one locked into a cycle of violence and loss from which there is no possible escape. The novel opens and closes with scenes that closely mirror one another, as Wulfnoth and Godwin respectively sit gazing into their hearth-fires, reflecting on what they have lost and the causes of their loss. In both scenes, the former slavegirl Kendra – lover first of the father and later of the son – recites the same piece

Swanton, Michael (ed. and trans.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, new edn (London, 2000), pp. 131–53. 6

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of elegiac verse, which in its themes of grief, loss and exile is heavily reminiscent of Deor, The Wanderer and The Seafarer: The once-lord wanders Sorrow and longing as companions The solitary man awaiting God’s mercy.7

In this way trauma underscores the narrative from its first pages to its last, and the enduring psychological wounds sustained by the protagonists are foregrounded. Pleasures are few and hard-won in Godwin’s world; by contrast deaths, whether due to battle or raiding or feuding or famine, are frequent and sudden and follow hard upon one another. Early in the novel Elfhelm, ‘one of the great men of the kingdom’, is introduced with great fanfare, setting up the expectation that he will play a major role in the narrative, only for it to be revealed in the scene immediately following that he has been murdered.8 Later, the king’s son Athelstan – one of Godwin’s principal companions – passes away offstage, his sudden and untimely death at a young age only being reported some time after the event, so that the news comes as a shock to the reader, who is caught off-guard by it.9 The consequence of living through such seemingly arbitrary twists of fate, as Hill shows, is that over time the individual becomes inured to suffering. Godwin’s attitude on relating the news of Athelstan’s death is simply to shrug and observe: ‘Such was the world: a spinning wheel of chance and ill and cruelties’.10 Nor does there seem to be much hope of divine intervention bringing an end to such tribulations any time soon, as the resigned tone of the novel’s opening sentence makes clear (‘Christ did not come again that year [1013]’).11 In Hill’s vision of eleventh-century England, suffering is a constant of life, something that his characters are fated to endure and deal with however they must, without knowing when – or indeed if – respite or redemption will ever come. The cyclical nature of trauma in the world of Shieldwall also points to the presence of a second mode, which Eaglestone terms past-as-possession: a sense that the past continues to exert itself and drive events in the present.12 The novel’s characters are not only steeped in history but also burdened by it. From a young age Godwin is brought up on stories of King Alfred’s struggles against the Danes; in their childhood games he and his brother take on the roles of Alfred and his grandson King Æthelstan, pretending to cut down Danes as they slash at nettles with sticks.13 In this way Godwin not only re-enacts episodes from history but also prefigures the role he will play in the wars to come. The past maintains a hold over him; his determination to follow in the footsteps of his forebears is what drives him on as he matures. At times Justin Hill, Shieldwall (London, 2011), pp. 5, 398. The middle line resembles Deor, line 3: ‘hæfde him to gesiþþe sorge ond longaþ’ [he had sorrow and longing for his companions]: Anne L. Klinck (ed.), The Old English Elegies: A Critical Edition and Genre Study (Montreal, 1992), p. 90. 8 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 28–33. 9 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 205–6. 10 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 206. 11 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 3. 12 Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, p. 312. 13 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 24–5. 7

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the spirits of the dead even seem to inhabit the bodily persons of the living. On one occasion Kendra glimpses Godwin ‘and for a moment she thought she was looking at Wulfnoth as he was in his younger days’.14 A similar feeling is evoked when King Ethelred is introduced for the first time, in a passage that recalls the West Saxon royal genealogies in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: The history of England flowed through his veins; his face carried echoes of the kings before him. His father was Edgar, son of Edmund, son of Edward, son of Alfred, son of Ethelwulf, son of Egbert, back to Cerdic, who was a pagan and came over the seas, son of Elesa, son of Giwis, son of Freawine, son of Frithgar, son of Brond, son of Bældæg, son of Woden […]15

Hill’s principal characters, who are almost all of high social status, frequently invoke their ancestries as expressions of identity, seemingly preferring to define themselves and others not by their own deeds but rather by the reputations of their forefathers – rather as Beowulf’s eponymous hero, in his first lines of dialogue, announces himself on his arrival in Hrothgar’s country not by his own name (which he only deigns to mention some 80-odd lines later) or by his accomplishments, but by reference to his people, his king, and his father Ecgtheow, ‘well-known among men, a noble commander’.16 While trying to rally support for Edmund’s cause, for example, Godwin finds that his audience is unimpressed by his lord’s many years spent fighting against the Danes; only by making reference to Edmund’s royal ancestry is he able to win them over (‘Edmund Atheling! Descended from a long line of kings. Remember your histories! Remember how kings used to act. Edmund is like the kings of old’).17 Godwin himself is deeply conscious of his own lineage. Even at the age of seven, he is already able to announce himself proudly to a visitor as ‘son of Wulfnoth, son of Athelmar of the folk of Aelle, who came across the sea. My mother is Gytha of the Hastingas, and they are the bravest of warriors’. Moreover, he is aware of his interlocutor’s ancestry and of the connection between their two families: ‘you are the alderman of Northymbria. Your great-great-grandfather was one of the Danes that King Alfred beat. My ancestor fought there too’.18 As a grown man, Godwin is twice exhorted to remember his parentage, first by his mother in a dream and then, as he is preparing to ride out to war, by his lover Kendra.19 On multiple occasions, particularly during the latter stages of the novel, others address him not by his given name but solely by his patronymic ‘Wulfnothson’.20 For Godwin and those around him, honouring the memories of one’s father and ancestors often appears to be more important than serving one’s own wants and needs: indeed Godwin’s personal ambitions, short of serving his lord Edmund dutifully and driving the Danes from England, remain rather obscure. The struggle for England depicted in Shieldwall Hill, Shieldwall, p. 212. Hill, Shieldwall, p. 72; cf. Swanton, Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, pp. 2, 66. 16 R. M. Liuzza (ed. and trans.), Beowulf, 2nd edn (Peterborough, ON, 2013), pp. 57, 59 (lines 260–6, 343). 17 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 248. 18 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 30. 19 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 167, 254. 20 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 32, 75, 141, 146, 336, 357, 374, 383, 385. 14 15

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often seems to be enacted not so much between individual personalities as between momentous historical forces: both Godwin and his lord, Edmund, find themselves inescapably drawn into age-old cycles of behaviour, perpetuating roles that have been assigned to them by history, possessed by the past and thus never in complete control of their own destinies. The third prominent mode embodied by the novel is what we might call past-as-spectacle, which plays upon what Hilary Mantel refers to ‘as a yearning for a past which is sordid and gorgeous, both together. Purer than our age, also more corrupt’.21 Hill revels not only in the lavishness of the court and the sublime, unspoilt splendour of the pre-industrial landscape but also in the savagery of conflict and the harshness of daily life: the eleventh century in Shieldwall is paradoxically at once both more glorious and more despicable than our own age. Godwin’s first encounter with the king, for example, affords Hill the opportunity to describe in detail the grandeur of the royal hall: There were two lines of carved wooden pillars and in the shadows, from the corner of his eye, Godwin saw banners, with shields and crossed spears, and old coats of grey mail, and bright tapestries showing stories from the Old Testament, legend and the deeds of Ethelred’s illustrious ancestors. At the end of the room, sunlight streamed in from high windows, and before the king a charcoal fire was smoking lazily.22

Elsewhere, however, squalor and violence are deployed in such a way as to make the reader glad to be alive in the modern age. The novel is punctuated by extreme and sudden acts of brutality: during the siege of London we read of one victim who ‘looked about in amazement as if to check that he really was carrying his guts in his arms’ and another who ‘had a piece of his head missing’; similarly, during the battle of Sherston we are told in graphic detail how Godwin ‘rammed spear through teeth and bone and up through one man’s palate, splattered his brain out the back of his head’.23 Sometimes, too, the violence and the splendour of the past are disconcertingly juxtaposed. During one particularly notable scene near the end of the novel, an act of extreme brutality occurs in the midst of courtly revelries, as Eadric Streona is hanged as a traitor while the new king Cnut (spelt ‘Knut’ in the novel) and his retinue celebrate, treating the occasion ‘like a party’ with copious drinking and dancing, accompanied by musicians.24 What ought to be a moment of triumph for Godwin – a longstanding enemy of Eadric – is thus undercut by a feeling of unease and afforded a somewhat melancholic air. Of course, the past-as-spectacle mode can be identified in many novels set in the past. Colin Burrow argues that Mantel’s Cromwell trilogy exhibits similar characteristics, exemplifying what he calls ‘a distinctively early-21st-century heritage fiction, Hilary Mantel, ‘Reith Lecture 2: The Iron Maiden’, 2017, BBC lecture transcript at

[accessed 3 Apr. 2020], p. 3. 22 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 72. 23 Hill, Shieldwall, pp. 119, 122, 289. 24 Hill, Shieldwall, p. 390. 21

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which seeks to make the past simultaneously hateful and beautiful’. Fictions of all genres often exaggerate the good and ill that we witness in the world around us for dramatic effect: as writers and as readers we crave narratives that take us outside and beyond our immediate lived experience. Nevertheless, the sense of past-as-spectacle is particularly pronounced in Shieldwall, which presents a largely binary, almost Manichean world in which characters are most usually portrayed either as noble and heroic or else as weak and depraved, with few shades of grey in between. In Hill’s vision of early eleventh-century England, the extremes of purity and corruption, beauty and horror, and glory and indignity are all thrown into sharp relief. 25

tapestry The second of my three chosen texts is Philip Terry’s tapestry. Published in 2013 and shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize that same year – in a particularly strong field that also included titles by Ali Smith, Jim Crace and winner Eimear McBride – it is set in the aftermath of the Norman Conquest and concerns a group of English nuns at an unnamed abbey who are tasked by Bishop Odo with the creation of what we know today as the Bayeux Tapestry. The novel uses many techniques associated with magical realism and is written in a partly historicised version of present-day English that employs non-standard spelling, substitutes unfamiliar compound nouns for otherwise familiar objects and concepts (for example, prayer-hus ‘abbey’, five-finger ‘hand’), and incorporates borrowings from Old English (for example, heafod ‘head’, nebb ‘nose’), Old Norse (e.g. auga ‘eye’, fiskr ‘fish’) and French (for example, terre ‘earth’, cou ‘neck’) – all as part of a strategy of defamiliarization, rendering the eleventh-century past strange and difficult to comprehend. In structural terms it consists of a frame narrative delivered by the nun Aelthwyfe, with nine embedded sub-narratives, each told by one of her sisters as they explain to one another the hidden stories in the sections of the Tapestry on which they are each working. Perhaps the most significant mode employed in tapestry is that of past-as-fable: a sense that the narrative possesses a symbolic or allegorical meaning rather than simply a literal one. Because the location of the abbey is never explicitly identified, the narrative – in the manner of a fable – takes on something of a universal quality. References to the convent’s dedication to St Ethelfleda, to a sister house dedicated to St Mary in Winchester, and to the River Itchen being close by all suggest Terry might have in mind Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, but nowhere is this stated in the text itself.26 Since many other places are mentioned by name, this seems to be a deliberate strategy on the author’s part. Like the fictional town of Macondo in Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, we might regard the abbey in tapestry as ‘not so much a place as a state of mind’.27 By remaining vague about the precise setting of his narrative, Terry thus positions his novel somewhere between the mythic and the historical. The framing of the past as a fable is reinforced by the 25

p. 12.

Colin Burrow, ‘Charm with Menaces’, London Review of Books, 19 Mar. 2020, 11–12, at

Terry, tapestry, pp. 9, 12, 221. Gabriel García Márquez, quoted in María Alonso Alonso, Diasporic Marvellous Realism: History, Identity, and Memory in Caribbean Fiction (Leiden, 2015), p. 18. 26 27

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novel’s many and various magical realist elements, which take the narrative out of the mundane world and into one that is frequently subject to encounters with the supernatural. The novel both opens and concludes with descriptions of extraordinary deluges that inundate the lands around the abbey and invite comparisons with the Biblical Flood: ‘Stickleback and perch swim out of theyr ponds and ofer the lan and efen, at tymes, into the air […] there es no thing but watter as far as the auga can see […] Noahs drowning es on everyoons lips; talk of divine retribution; apocalypse’.28 During the second and more intense of these deluges, the water rises over the top of the perimeter wall and the abbey is lifted off its foundations and carried downstream; afterwards, the nuns look out towards what used to be hills, ‘levelld by the force of the watters’ into a flat plain.29 The floods, which uproot the nuns from their former location and reshape the very landscape, serve as powerful metaphors for the impact of the Norman Conquest, washing away the old structures and rendering England new and unfamiliar. Many of the novel’s sub-narratives also feature magical events and phenomena, such as levitation and flight (the tale of Ethelreda), transformations into animals and half-human creatures (Gunnrid, Ethelguida, Beatrice), a halter that bestows invisibility upon its wearer (Anna), wondrous beasts including double-headed snakes and dog-headed men (Geta), and Rapunzel-esque pigtails long and strong enough to serve as rope (Hilda). Together these events and phenomena establish a vision of post-Conquest England that is by turns mysterious, amusing, frightening and inexplicable. By treating the past as a fable and establishing a world in which the normal laws of nature as understood by the reader do not necessarily apply, Terry conveys a sense of disruption and disorder brought about by the coming of the Normans to England. There is also a contrapuntal aspect to tapestry, in the sense that it sets out to rewrite from alternative points of view some of the accepted narratives of the Norman Conquest that have been handed down to us. Contrapuntal novels, according to Eaglestone, typically ‘draw out narratives from those marginalised or excluded from accounts of the past’, and we see this process in action in Terry’s novel, which, to borrow Marina Warner’s phrase, ‘gives voice to the anonymous and silent makers of the Bayeux Tapestry’.30 Indeed the narrators of tapestry represent individuals who, it would seem, have been quite literally marginalised: it is upon the marginal images of the Bayeux Tapestry that Terry has based several of the nuns’ tales.31 These marginal images are not merely decorative, Terry suggests, but rather contain hidden meanings that complicate and challenge the reader’s interpretation of the Tapestry and prompt alternative readings of it. Geta, for example, explains why she has stitched certain ‘exotic bestes [beasts]’ throughout the margins; Ethelguida gives her reason for depicting half-human, half-animal, centaur-like creatures; and the abbess Terry, tapestry, p. 9. Terry, tapestry, pp. 238–9. 30 Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, p. 315; Philip Terry, ‘Reflections on tapestry’, Professorial inaugural lecture, University of Essex, 3 Mar. 2014 < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tr_ 3jHJvSQ> [accessed 1 Apr. 2021], at 3:12. 31 Several of these images are reproduced as line drawings at relevant points throughout the novel, centre-justified as if to emphasise this act of reclamation from the margins: Terry, tapestry, pp. 21, 25, 30 and passim. 28

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Aelfgyva tells the tale behind a naked, crouching male figure with enlarged genitals in the lower margin.32 At other times the novel subverts what have become standard narratives of the Conquest. The depiction of King Harold’s death on the Bayeux Tapestry is challenged by Gunnrid, who suggests that he might in fact have survived the Battle of Hastings, and relates no fewer than three contradictory rumours of his supposed subsequent exploits.33 Although Gunnrid admits that ‘no thing here can be stated with certainty’, she nonetheless holds firm to her hope that ‘oon dag [one day], oure rightful sovereign will return in triumph’.34 Further references to Harold’s survival later in the novel make clear that this hope is shared by the other nuns.35 In these ways, Terry’s novel not only works to subvert and challenge the familiar narrative offered by the Bayeux Tapestry – that most iconic and familiar artwork of the Middle Ages – but also undermines and revises what we think we know about the events of the Norman Conquest and its aftermath, suggesting that the truth is more complicated and that beneath the stories handed down to us are many more that have been obscured, suppressed or forgotten. The past-as-trauma mode is also in evidence, although it is expressed very differently in tapestry compared to the other two novels I discuss in this chapter. The violence of the Norman Conquest is only occasionally mentioned overtly or depicted in detail: when it is, it comes as a shock to the reader, as in the tale of Godgifu, which occurs around halfway through the novel. Terry’s description of her rape, imprisonment and torture at the hands of the Normans, her eventual flight through a ravaged landscape along roads ‘litterd with corpses swarming with worms’, and the damaging effects of these events upon her sanity, is both explicit and harrowing.36 These events are particularly striking because they contrast with the more fabulous and picaresque stories contained within the novel and bring into the open some of the disturbing consequences of invasion that are otherwise tangential to its frame narrative or are elided over by the novel’s other characters. Godgifu’s tale stands out precisely because it is an unusual episode in tapestry, which as a whole is less concerned with exploring the ways in which trauma is inflicted than with the lasting emotional and psychological effects it has upon its characters, and with their attempts to process it. Indeed some of the novel’s magical realist elements can be interpreted in precisely this manner. Terry is open about his intentions in this regard, drawing comparisons between his work and that of Gabriel García Márquez, Salman Rushdie and José Saramago, all of whom have similarly employed magical realism as a means of expressing allegorically the political and social upheavals of more recent history.37 Ethelreda’s tale – in which she tells of a city built by refugees in the forest’s treetops and of how she miraculously developed the power of flight, only to lose it again when the city was destroyed by the Normans – can be read as an allegory for coming to terms with the inescapable reach of the new regime.38 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Terry, tapestry, pp. 84, 109, 115, 121, 204, 226. Terry, tapestry, pp. 41–57. Terry, tapestry, pp. 55–7. Terry, tapestry, pp. 162, 201–2. Terry, tapestry, pp. 141–6. Terry, ‘Reflections’, at 23:37 and 33:21. Terry, tapestry, pp. 22–32.

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Similarly, when Anna tells of how, shortly after the murder of her husband and sons by the Normans, she witnessed on the battlefield at Hastings the ridiculous and yet tragic sight of hands, feet and heads vainly continuing to move with their own agency after being severed from their bodies, we might read this as a metaphor for her shock at the rapidity of the Norman onslaught and as an external visualisation of her own feelings of helplessness and dislocation following the sudden loss of what previously made her whole (that is, her family and her home).39 At other times, the novel’s magical realist elements can be read as a refusal to accept the reality of the Conquest. Geta tells the tale of her brother Wulfstan, who went into exile following the defeat at Hastings and sends her letters purporting to come from distant lands, with reports of marvellous beasts, a valley of diamonds, a city built entirely of glass, and many other wonders. This section of the novel appears to have been inspired by Wonders of the East and The Letter of Alexander the Great to Aristotle, two Old English texts in the Beowulf manuscript (London, British Library, Cotton Vitellius A. XV) that similarly describe marvellous beings and locations in the far-off ‘East’.40 In particular, Terry’s descriptions of hens that burn those who touch them, two-headed snakes with shining eyes, and dog-headed men with ‘a hrosses mane, tusks resemblyng those of the boar’ and breath ‘lyk a flame of fyr’ echo almost identical accounts of the same creatures in Wonders, from which they are evidently derived.41 But even though Geta would like to believe her brother’s reports of such marvels, she confesses that she has suspicions regarding their veracity: I am seizd by the giddy thought that he nefer made it ofer the herring-track at alle, and that here he has sat in som dingy tavern concoctyng the whole thing – the griffins, the dragons, the diamonds, the heat – makyng it alle up […] mayhap in a fit of madness brought on by despair, as he scrubs loorfs [floors], cleans out pisspots, carries loads from the lang-ships […]42

According to this interpretation, Wulfstan’s account is no more than an elaborate fiction conceived as a way of repressing his trauma and escaping from the uncomfortable realities of his situation in post-Conquest England. As these examples show, tapestry might not foreground the trauma of the eleventh century to quite the same extent, or confront it as directly as Shieldwall (or, as we shall see, The Harrowing). Nevertheless, the subtext of its magical realist elements reveals a novel deeply concerned with trauma and its various and lasting psychological and emotional effects on society – and especially on the individual.

Terry, tapestry, p. 70. Terry, tapestry, pp. 86–98; R.D. Fulk (ed.), The Beowulf Manuscript: Complete Texts and The Fight at Finnsburg (Cambridge, MA, 2010), pp. 15–83. 41 Terry, tapestry, p. 88; Fulk, Beowulf Manuscript, pp. 16–19 (sentences 10, 17, 27–8). 42 Terry, tapestry, p. 99. 39

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The Harrowing The final novel I have chosen to examine in this chapter is one of my own works. Published in 2016 and named by The Times as a Book of the Month, The Harrowing is, like tapestry, set in the aftermath of the Norman Conquest – specifically during the brutal campaign known as the Harrying of the North, which saw William I lay waste large tracts of northern England over the winter of 1069–70 and, according to Orderic Vitalis, ultimately resulted in the death by starvation of more than 100,000 people.43 The novel takes place over eight days in January 1070 and follows a band of five English refugees brought together by circumstance as they journey through the devastated land in search of what they believe to be the last bastion of the English rebellion. The frame narrative (third-person, present tense) that constitutes around half of the book centres upon Tova, a fifteen-year-old maidservant and freedwoman from North Yorkshire. Embedded within this frame narrative are four sub-narratives, each narrated by one of the other main characters (all in the first person, past tense) as they take turns over successive evenings to relate their individual tales to the group and to confess their various secret wrongdoings. As its very title suggests, The Harrowing is – arguably to an even greater degree than the other two texts I have examined – a novel profoundly concerned with the trauma of the past. The frame narrative in particular is defined by the refugees’ encounters with disturbing acts of violence: encounters that exert a powerful and lasting psychological impact on all five characters but particularly on Tova, the main protagonist and youngest member of the group. Everywhere they find themselves inescapably confronted with evidence of violence and destruction, for which the Normans are mostly but not exclusively responsible. Travelling through a wasted and silent land, almost entirely devoid of human activity or signs of other survivors, Tova and her companions find corpses lying in the open being picked apart by crows, skirt the edges of deserted and razed manors, witness distant plumes of smoke presumed to come from burning halls, watch on powerlessly from afar as a band of Englishmen are cut down by Norman raiders, offer comfort to a young monk who has been blinded and mortally stabbed, come across the hanged corpses of a husband and wife and their two young children, and shelter overnight in the few empty buildings that are left standing (a crumbling barn, a ransacked hall, a derelict church).44 The destruction is so total and so widespread as to seem almost apocalyptic; fears of the imminent end of the world are, in fact, overtly expressed by the disgraced priest Guthred. After citing Revelation 6:2 (‘And I looked, and there before me was a white horse’), he confesses his belief that ‘The world is hastening towards its end, and very soon it may be no more’, echoing the first sentence of Archbishop Wulfstan’s Sermo Lupi ad Anglos, which Guthred memorised when he was a student (‘Leofan men, gecnapað þæt soð is: ðeos worold is on ofste, ⁊ hit

43 Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall, 6 vols (Oxford, 1969–80), vol. 2, pp. 232–3. 44 James Aitcheson, The Harrowing (London, 2016), pp. 50, 53, 76, 164, 169–70, 261–8, 270–1, 334–5, 376–7.

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nealæcð þam ende’ [Dear people, know what truth is: this world is in haste, and it nears the end]).45 Indeed, shades of the Sermo Lupi permeate the novel: many of the sins for which Wulfstan castigates the English people are represented, such as the despoliation of churches, crimes against clergy, the humiliation of widows, theft and pillaging, fornication, betrayals of loyalty within families, and murder – including the killing of children.46 In The Harrowing’s evocation of the eleventh century, trauma is ever-present and takes many forms; moreover, Wulfstan’s assessment that ‘hit is on worolde aa swa leng swa wyrse’ [it is in the world always the longer the worse] appears to be borne out as the novel progresses, as the refugees’ numbers dwindle, the threats to their survival intensify and their situation grows ever more hopeless.47 This rendering of the Harrying of the North as a quasi-apocalyptic event was a deliberate choice on my part: one of my key influences was Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (New York, 2006), with which The Harrowing shares a number of themes, including not only violence and death on a grand scale but also survival, (mis) trust, selfishness and altruism. By consciously combining two very different literary genres – laying out what is essentially a post-apocalyptic narrative within a historical setting – I aimed to give dramatic force to the extreme suffering inflicted by the Harrying of the North, and to depict in no uncertain terms its profound impact on the lives of my protagonists. We know, of course, that the Norman Conquest did not herald the end of the world – and neither does this turn out to be the case in the novel. Nevertheless, for the characters still surviving at the story’s conclusion it represents trauma of an overwhelming, scarcely comprehensible magnitude: the end of the world they have hitherto known. As a despairing Tova says to her mistress, Merewyn, towards the novel’s climax, ‘What’s left for us? There isn’t going to be a home for us to go back to, because they’ll have destroyed everything. Everyone’s dead. Everyone.’48 The burden of her trauma inflicts an increasingly heavy psychological toll upon her, to the point that she finds herself wishing for death to arrive (‘Let them find us […] Let them do what they will. At least then we won’t have to run any more’; ‘Let it be over’).49 Also central to The Harrowing is the mode that Eaglestone terms past-as-memory.50 What is remembered and what is not – in both a personal sense and a collective one – are recurrent themes, as are the malleability of memory and its deficiencies. The four first-person sub-narratives are all autobiographical accounts (in contrast to tapestry, in which only some are), delivered orally over successive nights and told from memory by their respective narrators. These accounts are by no means complete renderings of the past but rather are by their nature selective, reflecting the unevenness and episodic nature of memory. The first of these sub-narratives, delivered by the disgraced priest Guthred, provides the best example: it begins in the 45 Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 152–3; Wulfstan, Sermo Lupi ad Anglos, ed. Dorothy Whitelock, 3rd edn (London, 1963), p. 47. 46 Wulfstan, Sermo Lupi, pp. 49–65. 47 Wulfstan, Sermo Lupi, p. 47. 48 Aitcheson, The Harrowing, p. 340. 49 Aitcheson, The Harrowing, p. 341. 50 Eaglestone, ‘The Past’, p. 312.

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1020s, abruptly skips four decades when we are led to believe relatively little of significance happened to him, and then resumes once more in October 1069.51 Sometimes characters’ memories are revealed to only be one side of the story: Merewyn in her tale refers to the matter of some stolen silver coins, and how ‘around the same time’ she was forced to intervene when her stepson was threatening to assault Tova; both she and the reader are unaware that there was a causal link between the two incidents until Tova relates her version of events much later in the novel.52 At other times memories are contested. Merewyn and Tova both recall differently how they were saved from a Norman raiding party by the warrior Beorn, who single-handedly fought and killed five men: what Merewyn remembers is his ‘anger, raw hatred’, while for Tova ‘what comes to mind is the calmness with which, one by one, he sent them to their deaths’.53 Elsewhere, the outlaw Wulfnoth, on being reunited with Guthred for the first time in decades, refers to him as ‘an old friend’ and reminisces about the jokes they shared and fun they had when they were students together – but Guthred does not recall any such friendship (‘it did cross my mind that perhaps he had me confused with someone else. […] I never liked him from the beginning’).54 In both of these cases, the novel offers no judgement about whose version of events is correct; objective truth, as Tova and her fellow refugees discover, is often hard if not impossible to come by. As Lyfing, a minor character, tells Tova near the end of the novel, ‘Memory can be a strange thing. It can play tricks on you’.55 Like memory, the vision of the past offered by The Harrowing is very often hazy and contested, fragmented and uneven, shifting and unstable, and above all subjective. A number of other modes also play a role in shaping The Harrowing’s construction of pastness, although the text does not always call attention to them overtly. The novel offers a vision of the Harrying of the North that is contrapuntal in the sense that, much like tapestry, it actively strives to reinstate the voices of the forgotten and the oppressed, granting individuality, complexity and agency to the anonymous victims of the Norman Conquest. The five main characters – a maidservant, a thegn’s wife, a priest, a warrior, a travelling poet – represent a cross-section of eleventh-century English society and hold differing perspectives on events that are partly determined by their respective statuses. In giving voice to these various points of view, the novel seeks a fuller, more affective engagement with the Harrying and the suffering it inflicted upon society than, for example, the relatively brief account offered by Orderic Vitalis, whose narrative of these events is barely four hundred words long in the original Latin and mentions no English men or women by name except for the leaders of the northern rebellion, Gospatric and Waltheof.56 Much of The Harrowing is also underscored by a sense of past-as-haunting. Four of the five main characters are haunted by guilt over various misdeeds they have committed in the recent past: for Guthred, joining a band of robbers and turning to a life of crime; for Merewyn, the dubiously justified killing of her stepson; for 51 52 53 54 55 56

Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 109–10. Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 197–202, 396–9. Aitcheson, The Harrowing, p. 161. Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 116, 120. Aitcheson, The Harrowing, p. 425. Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, vol. 2, pp. 230–4.

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Beorn, implicating children in his ill-fated revenge plot against a Norman lord; for Tova, knowingly allowing a childhood friend and that friend’s mother to take the blame and receive punishment for a theft that she herself committed. The fifth character, Oslac, is not haunted by his past in the sense of feeling guilt or remorse, but nevertheless it returns to haunt him and is one of the reasons for his demise: when it becomes known that he has been secretly working with the Normans for several years and has been deceiving his fellow travellers, they are quick to pass judgement and condemn him to death.57 As for the Normans themselves, they are rarely witnessed throughout the novel; ‘the stuff of nightmares’, according to Antonia Senior, they tend to lurk instead in the shadows, invisibly stalking the protagonists in the manner of a ‘gothic horror’.58 The novel does not ascribe individuality or humanity to the Normans; rather, they are portrayed as an unstoppable and irredeemably evil force, simultaneously present and absent, everywhere and nowhere. The vision of the eleventh-century evoked by The Harrowing is thus not only characterised by violence and trauma, as described above, but is also by turns oppressive, unsettling and nightmarish. Finally, the story delivered by Tova to the children of the refugee camp in the novel’s final scene, in which she recalls her home, Heldeby, in former days, is deeply rooted in what we might call past-as-nostalgia (‘Once, she says, not so long ago, not so very far from here, there was a green land, a peaceable land, where the barley grew tall and strong, and the wide meadows were bright with knapweed and cowslips and forget-me-nots’).59 The abrupt introduction of this new mode is particularly striking because the tone of the passage stands in stark contrast to the bleakness that pervades much of the rest of the novel.60 In this very brief description of her world before the coming of the Normans, Tova depicts life as largely idyllic and carefree, and while she acknowledges that there were occasional troubles, she downplays these substantially (‘justice was dealt, and usually it was regarded as fair, and never were the punishments harsher than they needed to be’).61 The reader knows that Tova is not being entirely truthful here: as the tale delivered by Merewyn earlier in the novel makes clear, life at Heldeby before the coming of the Normans was far from idyllic, but rather was plagued by various anxieties, tensions, perceived injustices and outbreaks of hostility. By adopting the nostalgic mode, the novel thus attempts a belated revision of its earlier rendering of the pre-Norman past. In so doing it serves up a bittersweet ending – one that resists closure – for even as this scene supplies a rare moment of brightness, it also implies that Tova still has not properly processed or come to terms with the traumas she has suffered. Even though on a rational level she appears aware that nothing of her former life remains and that Heldeby as it was is irrevocably gone, her retreat into nostalgia suggests that emotionally she is not yet ready to disengage from that past or let go of the world that she used to know. Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 359–75. Antonia Senior, ‘Harrowing Events Brought to Life’, The Times, 25 Jun. 2016, section Saturday Review, p. 18. 59 Aitcheson, The Harrowing, pp. 435–6. 60 It is also worth noting that, with these opening words (‘Once […] not so long ago, not so very far from here’), Tova frames her tale in a manner suggestive of the past-as-fable mode. 61 Aitcheson, The Harrowing, p. 435. 57

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Medievalisms as bricolages By thinking of historical novels in terms of the modes they employ, we are able to bring into focus the nuances involved in constructing pastness. As the above analysis illustrates, Hill, Terry and I all combine various and even at times seemingly contradictory strategies for conveying different senses of eleventh-century England and its meaning. That it is possible to discern multiple modes at work in these novels demonstrates that a given work of fiction’s consideration for the Middle Ages is not necessarily simple or straightforward but can be complex and multi-layered. Indeed, there are always at the very least two pasts represented in historical fiction: the one in which the main narrative unfolds (the setting) and the one belonging to the characters within that narrative (what we might call the diegetic past). The past can thus be approached, rendered and interpreted in multiple ways within the same text – ways that overlap and sometimes compete and conflict with each other – creating not only historical fiction but also what we might call historical friction. Robyn Stewart suggests the term ‘bricolage’ to describe this process of combining multiple approaches and strategies within a hybrid praxis that works both ‘within and between competing and overlapping perspectives and paradigms.’62 Stewart’s principal concern is with practice-as-research – that is, art that takes place within an academic context, where the aim is to generate new knowledge or theory – but there is no reason why the same terminology cannot be applied more generally to art created in other contexts. Thinking of historical novels as bricolages composed of multiple approaches is useful because it offers a means of broadening the discussion around medievalism in a manner that reflects more closely the aims and preoccupations of practitioners and allows for the complexity of the artistic process and its overlapping objectives. Rarely is an artwork intended to communicate a single well-defined message or meaning; indeed, the most interesting works are often those that open themselves up to multiple readings or offer more than one angle from which to view a given subject. Novels set in the Middle Ages, such as those I have discussed here, rarely promote a unified and entirely consistent vision or interpretation of the period. Instead, it is better to consider them as ‘discursive spaces’, to borrow another of de Groot’s phrases, in which conversations or debates about the meaning(s) of the medieval past – in this case, eleventh-century England – are able to take place.63 As I have shown, even though in certain respects all three of my chosen texts draw inspiration from contemporary source material, and at times make direct and indirect reference to that material, their depictions of the period are not constrained by it. Certainly, one might point to the influence of elegiac verse and the AngloSaxon Chronicle on Shieldwall to show how Hill creates the impression of a world possessed by its own past, trapped in an endless and recurring cycle of trauma and suffering. Similarly, one can detect echoes of both Wonders of the East and The Letter of Alexander the Great to Aristotle in Terry’s magical realist approach to depicting Robyn Stewart, ‘Creating New Stories for Praxis: Navigations, Narrations, Neonarratives’, in Estelle Barrett and Barbara Bolt (eds), Practice as Research: Approaches to Creative Arts Enquiry (London, 2007), pp. 123–33, at p. 127. 63 de Groot, Remaking History, p. 2. 62

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the traumatic effects of the Norman Conquest; his linguistic imitation of Old English and Old Norse also assists in this act of defamiliarization, evoking a past that is alien and difficult to comprehend. The influence of Wulfstan’s Sermo Lupi ad Anglos, meanwhile, can be detected throughout the frame narrative and sub-narratives of The Harrowing, all of which centre upon sins and traumas both personal and collective, and are underscored by a growing sense that ‘it is in the world always the longer the worse’. However, these renderings of eleventh-century England are, in each novel, complicated and even at times contradicted by the presence of alternative modes of pastness – modes that do not necessarily always owe inspiration to, build upon, make use of or otherwise refer to contemporary texts and sources, but which represent perspectives on the period from the position of the present. When considering how historical fiction portrays the Middle Ages, it is important to recognise that the role played by contemporary source material in shaping literary visions of the past is always enfolded within a much broader set of competing and overlapping narrative strategies. Fictions set in the Middle Ages are rarely straightforward dialogues between then and now; rather, they are best understood as conversations between many different and even contradictory interpretations of the period and what it means to us today.

III

Translating and Composing in Neo-Old English

9 Ge wordful, ge wordig: Translating Modern Texts into Old English Fritz Kemmler

Forecwide – Prefatory Matter

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ranslations into what is now called Old English are by no means a novelty of the twenty-first century or a pastime activity practised by ambitious literary scholars and linguistic historians, lofgeorn, ‘eager for praise’,1 in a field related to their profession. Translations of modern texts into Neo-Old English have also been undertaken on the basis of the pleasure principle, as both Peter S. Baker and Manfred Görlach have pointed out in their studies.2 The beginnings of translating foreign language texts into English are much earlier and closely linked to the early stages of literary culture in the English language – some 1300 years ago. To be sure, the list of translators whose names have come down to us is not a very long one, but it can boast of an outstanding and famous representative: King Alfred the Great. Alfred was king of the West Saxons from 871 to c. 886 and king of the Anglo-Saxons from c. 886 to 899. He and his circle of learned clerics and scholars initiated the so-called Alfredian Renaissance and actively contributed to it with a series of translations into English.3

1 Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, ed. Friedrich Klaeber, 3rd edn (Boston, 1950), p. 120, line 3182 – last word, used as a superlative: ‘lofgeornost’. 2 Peter S. Baker refers to himself as ‘one who has written a good bit of Old English for fun’. See Peter S. Baker, ‘On Writing Old English’, in Haruko Momma and Heide Estes (eds), Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Teaching 22:2 (2015), 31–40, at 31. Manfred Görlach uses a similar statement: ‘written for fun’. See Manfred Görlach, ‘Diachronic Translation, or: Old and Middle English Revisited’, Studia Anglica Posnaniensia 18 (1986), 15–35, at 16. 3 Alfred’s personal contribution to these translations is a debated issue in modern scholarship. For a well-reasoned argument in favour of the king’s personal involvement see Janet Bately, ‘Did King Alfred Actually Translate Anything? The Integrity of the Alfredian Canon Revisited’, Medium Ævum 78 (2009), 189–215.

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In the context of his ambitious project, the translation of Pope Gregory’s highly influential Latin handbook Cura Pastoralis, Alfred reflected on the difficult tasks resulting from such an undertaking. These tasks must have been especially complex and demanding since Alfred’s source text belongs to a long-standing and highly developed tradition of literary activities and culture, that is, Latin, while the target language, the West Saxon dialect of Old English, was still in the process of developing into a literary language. Commenting on the difficulties connected to his project, Alfred provided a few hints relating to his methods in his preface to his translation of Pope Gregory’s Cura Pastoralis. These methods are quite simple, to be sure – but their simplicity allows for an easy and highly flexible application to the task: ‘[wende ic ða boc] on Englisc ðe is genemned on Læden “Pastoralis” ond on Englisc “Hierdeboc”, hwilum word be worde, hwilum andgit of andgiete’ [I translated into English the book called Pastoralis in Latin and ‘Shepherd’s Book’ in English, sometimes word by word, sometimes meaning for meaning].4 Alfred also emphasised the importance of a high degree of familiarity with the source text and indicated that his understanding might have been limited: ‘Siððan ic hie ða geliornod hæfde, swæ swæ ic hie forstod ond swæ ic hie andgitfullicost areccean meahte, ic hie on Englisc awende’ [When I had learned it as I understood it and as I was able to translate it most meaningfully, I translated it into English].5 Alfred’s principles and methods guiding his translation of a Latin text into his mother tongue have been adopted for my own translations of two modern texts, Le Petit Prince and Der Struwwelpeter, into Neo-Old English. A literal translation, ‘word be worde’, could be used for lexical items such as adverbs, conjunctions, and prepositions, as well as many adjectives and verbs. By contrast, nouns expressing modern concepts and denoting modern technical objects in the two source texts required a translation based on ‘andgit of andgiete’ (see section ‘Linguistic Issues’, below). Alfred’s second reference to the important issue ‘meaning’, reflected in his use of the adverb andgitfullicost, was of particular importance in the context of my translation of the second text, a text composed in verse. The rhyming couplets of the original had to be transformed into Neo-Old English alliterative verse. In order to translate the second text ‘most meaningfully’, an approach on the basis of the concept ‘intertextuality’ suggested itself (see the two sections devoted to ‘Literary Echoes’ and ‘Proper Names’, below). The reference to Alfred at the beginning of this chapter may seem far-fetched. However, it has two important functions. It points out techniques and methods shared by the two translation projects and draws attention to the fact that there are important parallels as to the properties of the target languages in comparison with the source languages. Alfred’s West Saxon Dialect of Old English and my NeoOld English mirror early stages of linguistic development compared to the highly Quotation from Richard Marsden, The Cambridge Old English Reader (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 35–6. The translation is my own. 5 Quoted from Marsden, Old English Reader, p. 36. The (literal) translation is my own; ‘it’ refers to Gregory’s book and corresponds to hie (accusative singular feminine) in Alfred’s Old English text. 4

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advanced source language Latin on the one hand and nineteenth-century German as well as twentieth-century French on the other. In addition, translations may serve the purpose of mediating between different languages and different cultures, and this mediation is therefore a further link between Alfred’s and my translation projects – despite the temporal gap of several centuries. After these first hints relating to the translation of literary texts I will now concentrate on the main topic of this chapter: preliminary considerations, plans, methods, and strategies relevant in preparing Old English versions of two modern literary texts. The Old English version of the first text is available under the title Be þam lytlan æþelinge6 and is based on Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s famous book, entitled Le Petit Prince,7 first published in 1946, with illustrations by the author. The second text, Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan,8 is a translation into Old English alliterative verse of the nineteenth-century children’s classic Der Struwwelpeter, composed in rhyming couplets and illustrated by the physician Heinrich Hoffmann, who, in 1844, presented his work in the form of a hand-written booklet to his son as a Christmas present. Since its fifth edition, published in 1847, the booklet has consisted of a preface and ten episodes. Almost all episodes focus on the behaviour and fate of naughty children, most of them boys. The third episode is an exception since it presents the story of an unruly girl, and the fifth episode is devoted to the adventures of ‘the wild huntsman’ meeting his fate when hunting a hare. Despite its old-fashioned and highly conservative nineteenth-century ideals of education and obedience towards parents, Struwwelpeter is still one of the children’s classics in German-speaking countries and has been translated into a number of modern languages, including English.9

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Be þam lytlan æþelinge. Mid licnessum gefæged be þam writere, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010; Runic edition, 2018); hereafter cited as Æþeling. Reviews of this translation can be found in Gwendolyn Morgan, ‘[Review of] Kemmler, trans., Be þam lytlan æþelinge’, Medievally Speaking (5 Mar. 2010) [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]; and Oliver M. Traxel, ‘[Review of] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: Be þam lytlan æþelinge. Mid licnessum gefæged be þam writere. Awend of Frenciscra gereorde on Engliscgereord be Fritz Kemmler. Neckarsteinach: Edition Tintenfaß 2010 [and] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: The litel prynce. With sondry ymages of the auctour. Drawen out of Frensshe on Englissh speche by Walter Sauer. Neckarsteinach: Edition Tintenfaß 2008’, Perspicuitas. Internet-Periodicum für mediävistische Sprach-, Literatur- und Kulturwissenschaft, 9 Mar. 2011, [accessed 28 Oct. 2021], pp. 1–4. 7 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince. Avec des aquarelles de l’auteur (Paris, 1946, repr. 1999); hereafter cited as Le Petit Prince. 8 Heinrich Hoffmann, Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan. Myrge mæþelword ge lustbære licnessa, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010); hereafter cited as Siward. A review of this translation can be found in Bettina Bildhauer, ‘Beastly tales: Heinrich Hoffmann, Struwwelpeter’, TLS: The Times Literary Supplement 5664, 21 Oct. 2011, p. 8. 9 The German original as well as six translations of the text are conveniently available in Heinrich Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, ed. Walter Sauer (Neckarsteinach, 2008). 6

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Preliminary Considerations and Decisions Translating a modern text into a medieval language requires a series of preliminary considerations. Ideally, these will result in important decisions crucial for the process of translation. With reference to the target language, an important decision had to be taken in view of the several varieties of Old English.10 Even though a modern translation into Old English can hardly attain the linguistic status of the original texts, it should mirror the most important features of the target language. The linguistic model chosen for the two translations is ‘“Late West Saxon”, which is above all exemplified in the works of Ælfric (c. 1000)’.11 The specific properties of the two source texts necessitated a further decision in so far as Le Petit Prince as well as Struwwelpeter offer two levels of information: text and illustrations. Therefore, a decision concerning the relevance and importance of the illustrations for the translation of the text had to be taken. Since the illustrations in Le Petit Prince relate to specific details of the narrative developed in the several chapters of the book, the decision was taken to disregard the illustrations in the process of preparing a translation of the text. It must be pointed out, however, that the illustrations of the original French text are reproduced together with the Old English text. In both versions, they are certainly helpful for the process of reception, assisting readers in their visualisation of certain details and themes of the narrative, such as the hero’s sojourn on the asteroid described in chapter three of the book. The illustrations in Struwwelpeter, by contrast, are of crucial importance in so far as they constitute an important second layer of the narrative and in a few instances set a fixed frame for certain parts of the text itself (see Fig. 1). As will be pointed out below, apparently minor details of a particular illustration were found to be important for major features of the Old English text in terms of both content and style.12 Since the two translation projects under discussion here are based on modern texts published as books, a further consideration was deemed necessary. This consideration concerns the titles of the two modern texts. A direct translation of the modern titles appeared to be inappropriate against the background of the medieval practice of incipits usually preceding texts transmitted in manuscripts and performing the function of a modern title page. For both translations, a title beginning with the preposition be ‘about’ was therefore chosen, with the preposition signalling that the book itself is concerned with the topic specified after the preposition. In the planning phase of both projects, questions relating to the possible audience and potential readers of the two translations also had to be considered. With reference to Æþeling, it was next to impossible to differentiate the community of dedicated collectors of foreign language editions of Le Petit Prince. That such a community exists is proven by the numerous foreign language editions of de Saint-Exupéry’s text listed in the catalogue of the publishers of Æþeling. Whether readers belonging to this group possess a good working knowledge of Old English is an unresolved issue. A second and well-defined community of users of the Old English 10 A concise overview of the varieties of Old English, traditionally called dialects, can be found in Alistair Campbell, Old English Grammar (Oxford, 1959), sections 6–21, pp. 4–11. 11 Campbell, Old English Grammar, p. 9. 12 See section ‘Intertextuality: Literary Echoes’, below.

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text has been suggested by Dominika Ruszkiewicz. In her study, she explores the use and emphasises the utility of Neo-Old English texts like Æþeling in translation classrooms. A third group is indicated by Oliver M. Traxel, who refers to Æþeling and Siward in his study of different ‘Old Englishes’ in our time, and this reference clearly signals a community of scholarly users.14 Ideas about the potential readership of Siward, by contrast, were very concrete in the early stage of the translation project. Since Siward is a translation of the German text with its rhymed couplets into Old English alliterative verse, the ideal reader of Siward possesses a good working knowledge of Old English, is familiar with the narrative and stylistic conventions characteristic of Old English verse and has also read a selection of original Old English poems. This ideal reader is capable of recognising and appreciating literary echoes in the Old English version of the source text and will also enjoy short additional passages that are not part of the original. As will be seen, the numerous literary echoes in Siward are intended for the purpose of introducing unexpected and surprising story elements which even experienced readers will not expect in an illustrated nineteenth-century booklet narrating and demonstrating the adventures and fates of naughty children, especially boys. Probably the most important of the preliminary considerations addressed here concerns the radically different cultural contexts of the source texts on the one hand and the target language on the other. Even though a complete and detailed reconstruction of the social and cultural context of the target language cannot be achieved, one aspect pertaining to this topic may be considered as a fact. Modern texts refer to material objects and employ names and concepts that were not known in the Middle Ages – and for these, no lexical items are available in the target language. A decision was therefore taken to create new words not recorded in dictionaries compiled for Old English. It was further decided that neologisms coined for the two translations should be based on the conventions and mirror important patterns of Old English word formation. After these preliminary remarks, the following sections of this chapter will be devoted to the topics Linguistic Issues, Modern Narratives and Old English Verse, followed by two sections concerned with aspects of intertextuality: Intertextuality and Literary Echoes, and Intertextuality and Proper Names. 13

Linguistic Issues Linguistic accuracy is certainly one of the most important aspects of translation in general. A translation of modern texts into an older stage of a particular language involves additional difficulties. When translating into a living language it is possible to rely on the evidence and expertise of informants. These sources of information 13 Dominika Ruszkiewicz, ‘“Chaque jour j’apprenais quelque chose”: Using Le Petit Prince and Its Translations to Teach Old and Modern Languages’, in Renata Krupa and Iwona Piechnik (eds), Saint-Exupéry relu et traduit (Krakow, 2018), pp. 157–69, at pp. 164–5. 14 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28, at pp. 311–2. See also Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Pseudo-archaic English: The Modern Perception and Interpretation of the Linguistic Past’, Studia Anglica Posnaniensia 47:2–3 (2012), 41–58, at p. 54.

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are not available when the target language chosen represents an early stage of that language. For Old English, this deficit is compensated by useful and, in general, reliable guidelines to linguistic accuracy available in a wide selection of historical grammars, guides, textbooks, and historical dictionaries. With reference to the translator, a high degree of familiarity with and extensive reading in the target language are certainly a must. It is well known that texts transmitted in late West Saxon display a certain degree of variation as to spelling conventions. Among these, the increasing use of the letter for earlier and has to be mentioned. Late West Saxon spelling conventions also include the variation between and in words such as and/ond, land/lond, etc. This variation is the result of the influence of nasal consonants when preceded by the vowel ‘a’. This diversity in spelling can also be found in Æþeling.15 An important, and probably surprising, linguistic issue relates to the occurrence and use of numbers and figures, especially large figures, in the source text and their rendering in the target text. It is well known that modern Arabic figures cannot be found in manuscripts transmitting Old English texts. As there are many references to numbers and figures in the text of Le Petit Prince, some of which are indeed quite large, a convincing solution for their rendering in the translated text had to be found. In chapter thirteen, with its presentation of the story of the businessman occupied with numbers, sums, and figures, a particularly large numeric expression occurs among many others: ‘cinq cent un millions six cent vingt-deux mille sept cent trente et un’ (501,622,731).16 How can this and other large figures and sums be expressed on the basis of the system of Roman number symbols found alongside Old English numerals in manuscripts transmitting Old English texts?17 A direct lexical solution on the basis of either Latin or Old English numerals was impossible, since the word million found its way into the English language via French rather late, in the course of the fourteenth century.18 A solution on the basis of Roman number symbols finally suggested itself: large numbers are split up into groups (thousands, hundreds and so on) and these groups are connected by the conjunction and, with the first group signifying the largest portion. Groups are opened and closed by a period, setting off numbers and sums expressed in letters from the surrounding text. The large figure quoted from Le Petit Prince results in the sequence ‘.di.m.m. and .dcxxii.m. and .dccxxxi.’, that is, 501,000,000+622,000+731.19

15 The conjunction ‘and’ twice appears as ond on p. 9 but eight times as and on p. 12. In the entire text of Æþeling, the noun ‘land’ occurs with a total of twelve -spellings as against six with . 16 Le Petit Prince, p. 51. 17 To be sure, large figures can be found in Old English texts, for example ‘Ða asende god his engel to þam syriscan here and ofsloh on anre nihte an hund þusend manna and hund-eahtatig ðusend and sumne eacan ðærto’ [Then God sent his angel to the Assyrian host, and slew in one night one hundred and eighty thousand men, and some more besides]. See Ælfric, Lives of Saints, ed. and trans. Walter W. Skeat (London, 1881), ‘XVIII Sermo excerptus de libro regum’, pp. 408–9. The translation is Sweet’s. 18 Cf. OED, s.v. million. 19 For the context, see Æþeling, p. 47. Note that ‘.d.i.m.’ and .dcxxi.m.’ in the printed text should read ‘d.i.m.m.’ and ‘dcxxii.m’.

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Apart from large numbers and sums, names and technical terms also require special consideration when modern texts are translated into a medieval language. In Le Petit Prince a great variety of modern names and terms can be found in the twenty-seven chapters of the book, terms often referring to objects.20 On the basis of their meaning and use in specific contexts, a single method for their transfer into Old English was found to be impossible. This difficulty will be addressed and illustrated on the basis of some examples. In chapter five of Le Petit Prince, the vocabulary item ‘baobabs’ (plural),21 the name of an African tree, required special attention. Of course, it would have been possible to retain the original expression in the Old English version. However, in order to avoid the use of a strange vocabulary item with the ‘foreign’ digraph in an Old English text, a special approach based on a third language was considered to be a better option. This approach was suggested by the German word for ‘baobab’: Affenbrotbaum, lit. ‘apes’-bread-tree’. The German word is a compound which can easily be related to typical patterns of Old English compounds. The result of this adaptation is the Neo-Old-English compound apenahlaftreow.22 The first element of this new compound is a marked genitive plural, ending in -ena, with the reference of the genitive, hlaf ‘loaf ’, in second position. This compound consisting of two nouns can supply the basis for a further compound by adding a third noun in final position. It should be pointed out that Old English texts are quite rich in compounds involving a noun inflected for the genitive plural as a first element, for example, witenagemot, lit. ‘meeting of wise men’. Compounds, it should be noted, were used more frequently in Old English than in Modern English. In a few instances, modern names designating countries and landscapes were retained for the Old English version of Le Petit Prince since there was no possibility of substituting these by suitable circumlocutions or fitting neologisms. Thus, China and Arizona, mentioned in chapter one,23 can also be found in the Old English text. There, they are part of a phrasal construction: ‘þæt land China gecweden fram þæm lande þe is nu gecweden Arizona’ [the country called China from the country that is now called Arizona]. The proper name Sahara in chapter two has also been retained but is embedded in a relative clause, an addition to the original text. Where the French text reads ‘dans le désert du Sahara’, the corresponding Old English text is ‘on þære westene þe is nu Sahara gecweden’ [in the desert which is now called Sahara].24 A term denoting a modern technical item occurs as early as chapter one: avions ‘airplanes’.25 The semantic field invoked by avion and supplemented by corresponding German lexical items such as Luftfahrt ‘air travel’ and Luftfahrzeug lit. ‘air travelling device’ suggested the basis Luft ‘air’ and its Old English equivalent lyft as a possibility for an adequate and satisfactory solution. Old English does have several

20 21 22 23 24 25

See Æþeling, ‘Translator’s Note’, p. 96. Le Petit Prince, p. 25; see also the pertinent illustration at p. 29. See Æþeling, p. 21. See Le Petit Prince, p. 14: ‘la Chine de l’Arizona’; Æþeling, p. 10. See Le Petit Prince, p. 15; Æþeling, p. 11. See Le Petit Prince, p. 14.

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compounds with lyft in first position. Browsing a dictionary of Old English,26 lyftfloga seemed to be the most appropriate and fitting of these. A literal translation of lyftfloga into Modern English will result in ‘air-flyer’ – a term highly appropriate for avion with its Latin base avis ‘bird’. It should also be noted that lyftfloga occurs in line 2315 of Beowulf as a reference to the dragon figuring in the Old English epic. The term lyftfloga27 used as a literary echo therefore establishes a link between Æþeling and the Old English literary tradition, constitutes an instance of intertextuality, and also contributes to the pleasure of reading the translation, at least for readers familiar with Old English literature. Modern terms denoting technical items and professions can be found in chapter twenty-two of Le Petit Prince. One of these is aiguilleur ‘switchman’ or ‘pointsman’.28 A translation of this term on the basis of a single vocabulary item proved to be impossible, and therefore other approaches, preferably along the lines of King Alfred’s famous ‘andgit of andgiete’,29 had to be considered. Thinking of both the effect of, as well as the action performed by, a switchman or pointsman, a phrasal approach suggested itself as a useful solution, a solution that is also in harmony with the patterns of Old English phrasal expressions involving a noun followed by a genitive plural. Aiguilleur therefore appears as ‘wisa þara paþa’ [director of the tracks or routes] in the Old English text.30 The technical item ‘trains’ in chapter twenty-two necessitated a different approach. Since an elegant circumlocution did not suggest itself, an Old English noun was considered appropriate to convey the meaning of ‘trains’: færeld.31 In Old English, this noun, in addition to its basic meaning ‘journey’, also denotes the concepts ‘vehicle’ as well as ‘power of locomotion’.32 In Siward, by contrast, there are only a few modern concepts and technical items difficult to translate into Old English. In the fifth episode, which tells the story of the unfortunate ‘wild hunter’ defeated at the hands of his prey, the hare, two terms denoting modern inventions can be found: ‘gunpowder’ and ‘gun’. On the basis of the German term Schießpulver lit. ‘shooting powder’, scotmelu was coined as a neologism. German also provided the basis for a further neologism for the translation of the noun ‘gun’. The German noun Schießeisen lit. ‘shooting iron’ suggested the new compound scotisen,33 and this new compound is modelled on the Old English noun scotspere ‘dart’ or ‘javelin’. In the same episode, entitled ‘Soþspell be huntan þam wildan’ [The true story of the wild huntsman],34 two references to coffee can be found: a cup of coffee and the drink itself. Since coffee was not known in Old English times, the word ‘cup’ provided a suitable solution: ‘geneat þære cuppan’ J. R. Clark Hall, A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary. With a Supplement by Herbert D. Meritt, 4th edn (Cambridge, 1960). 27 See Æþeling, p. 10. 28 See Le Petit Prince, p. 78. 29 ‘Meaning for meaning’; see Marsden, Old English Reader, p. 36. 30 See Æþeling, p. 74. 31 See Le Petit Prince, p. 78; Æþeling, p. 74, 32 See Hall, A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, s.v. færeld. 33 See Siward, p. 19. 34 See Siward, p. 19. 26

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[enjoyed the cup], even though the contents of the cup are not mentioned in this phrase. For the second occurrence of coffee in this episode, an indirect reference to heat in the final couplet of the original story suggested a phrasal solution: ‘se hata drync’ [the hot drink].36 In the tenth episode, narrating the story of a boy walking about in storm and rain, a solution had to be found for the term umbrella, ‘Regenschirm’ in German. Since an umbrella is used as a protection against rain, the Old English noun scield37 with its many shades of meanings was chosen for the translation of the German noun. In sum, the stories in Struwwelpeter feature only a few modern terms, and in most instances, these can be translated on the basis of single words, compounds and short phrases appropriate to the narrative context in which they occur. Before addressing a selection of specific problems that had to be solved in the process of translating Struwwelpeter, a note on the chief differences between modern narrative texts and Old English alliterative verse is called for. 35

Modern Narrative Texts and Old English Alliterative Verse One of the basic problems in translating modern narrative verse into Old English alliterative verse is the absence of formulaic expressions from modern texts. Formulaic expressions, one of the chief characteristics of Old English alliterative poetry, were readily available to medieval poets familiar with and working in the oral tradition. From a rich store of formulaic expressions these poets could choose a great variety of alliterative patterns as well as important stylistic means and devices. For the modern translator, the absence of such patterns, devices, and means from modern source texts as well as her or his limited command of, and familiarity with, these means of composition, considerably increases the difficulty of finding and choosing appropriate alliterative patterns and stylistic means for the two half-lines linked by alliteration and resulting in the long line of Old English alliterative poetry. For Neo-Old English narrative verse, the properties of the traditional alliterative long line as well as traditional stylistic means and devices must also be employed by the translator. An additional difficulty in the context of translating Struwwelpeter into Old English alliterative verse was to find a balance between this nineteenth-century narrative with its generally swift narrative pace and the more reflective mode of narration in Old English poetry.38 This difficulty is further increased by the illustrations accompanying the texts in Struwwelpeter. The highly limited printing space available for the text in some of the episodes was therefore an additional and very important issue in planning an Old English version of the German text. This See Siward, p. 21, where ‘cuppe’ (nominative) should read ‘cuppan’ (genitive). Both indirect references to coffee, the cup and the hot drink, can be traced back to Alexander Pope’s poem ‘The Rape of the Lock’, Canto III, line 110: ‘While China’s Earth receives the smoking Tyde.’ Quoted from Alexander Pope, The Poems. A One-volume Edition of the Twickenham Text with Selected Annotations, ed. John Butt (London, 1963), p. 229. 37 See Siward, p. 31. 38 See Görlach, ‘Diachronic Translation’, 34: ‘PS. I am not going to translate Struwwelpeter.’ – I did! 35

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limitation of space is also the reason why two of the most important stylistic properties of Old English alliterative poetry had to be excluded: variation and parallelism. An example will suffice as an illustration. The preface to Struwwelpeter, with its ten lines in rhyming couplets and surrounded by a series of images which depict all textual elements as well as other details characteristic of the feast of Christmas, is an extended conditional construction. And this construction, with its three ‘ifs’ and the corresponding ‘thens’ omitted, is developed in a swiftly moving narrative: Wenn die Kinder artig sind, / kommt zu ihnen das Christkind [If children are well behaved / Christ-child will come to them] Earniaþ beagas   eaþmode childru, wenn sie ihre Suppe essen / und das Brot auch nicht vergessen, [if they eat their soup / and don’t forget the bread] Briw willaþ etan,  brucan þæs hlafes, wenn sie, ohne Lärm zu machen, / still sind bei den Siebensachen, [if they, without being noisy, / stay quietly with their seven things] Plegaþ eac stille  stiþe on stede, beim Spaziergehn auf den Gassen / von Mama sich führen lassen, [walking along the lanes / allow mother to guide them] Modra handa eac  healdaþ on wege: bringt es ihnen Gut’s genug / und ein schönes Bilderbuch. [it will bring them plenty of good things / and a beautiful picture book.] Cristcild on Geole  boc him agifþ.39

For this mode of narration a suitable rendering had to be devised. The Old English text therefore starts with a simple statement, reversing the argument structure of the original conditional construction: ‘Earniaþ beagas eaþmode cildru’ [Obedient children receive presents] with ‘obedient’ taking over the function of the condition signalled by ‘Wenn’ in line one of the German text. The term Christkind, in the second line of the German text, had to be moved to the a-verse of the last line of the Old English translation: Cristcild, supplemented by on Geole ‘at Christmas’ in order to signal that the Christ-child is the bringer of Christmas presents. The illustrations surrounding this preface, in German called ‘Vorspruch’, forecwide in the Old English version, and in particular the two Christmas trees, clearly signal the feast of Christmas and are a reminder of the original function of the booklet and its use as a Christmas present. An Old English poet would certainly have developed the central concept beagas in the alliterative a-line of the preface by introducing at least one variation for beagas. A variation like this would result in an additional line, for example,

Quoted from Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 7. The Old English version quoted from Siward, p. 7. The literal translation of the German original into modern English is my own. See also Siward, ‘Translator’s Preface’, pp. 5–6, for an alternative version of the preface rejected in favour of the version quoted above. 39

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Earniaþ beagas eaþmode cildru, Hringas onfoþ, feos genoh

with hringas ‘gifts’, lit. ‘rings’, and feos ‘money’ constituting the variation based on beagas. Unfortunately, this important stylistic feature of Old English poetry could not be used in the translation because of the highly limited space available for the text in many of the episodes of Struwwelpeter. As a compensation for this absence of highly characteristic stylistic features of Old English verse texts, the integration of literary and cultural echoes in the Old English version suggested itself. Some of these echoes will be discussed in the two sections devoted to intertextuality. In addition to literary and cultural echoes, expanded titles for some of the episodes were devised as a further means of compensation; see, for example, episode three: ‘Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feuerzeug’ lit. [The quite sad story of the lighter], with the title expanded to ‘Sarspell ge sorgleoþ be grislicum fyrstane’ [Sad story and sorrowful tune about the horrible flint].40 The title of the seventh episode, ‘Die Geschichte vom Suppen-Kaspar’ [The story of Casper and his soup], has been expanded into an alliterative long line: ‘Be Brihtrice þæs briwes oferhogan’ [About Brihtric, the despiser of pottage].41 Intertextuality: Literary Echoes Literary echoes are among the outstanding features in the second story of Siward, entitled ‘Her onginneþ þæt stær be Stigande þam styrnan’ [Here begins the story of Stigand the stern one].42 The story itself is about a little tyrant, called Friederich in German, who is keen on inflicting harm, displays cruelty in every quarter and ends up in bed after having been bitten by a dog he attacked when it was drinking water from a well. On the level of the action – the naughty boy ending up in bed, attended by the physician insisting on bitter medicine as a cure – a fine potential for a comic development is given. In planning the translation of this episode, a close look at both image and text was of immense help. As can be seen in the specimen page,43 the text is printed in the window opening of the wall and the surrounding details refer to the major constituents of the text. After a close look at the first part of the story of Stigand and after an analysis of the numerous details shown in the image, the following elements were considered to be of essential importance for the Old English version of this part of the first episode. First, the depiction of the hero who raises a broken chair and the dead birds on the floor (top). Second, the hero with a fly in his right hand and showing his ‘booty’, See Siward, p. 13. The two translations are my own. See Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 47 and Siward, p. 24. The modern English translations are my own. 42 See Siward, p. 10; my translation. The title of the second episode in Struwwelpeter is considerably shorter: ‘Die Geschichte vom bösen Friederich’ [The story of wicked Friederich]. The significance of the proper name Stigand, chosen for the hero of this episode, will be explained in the next section. 43 See Fig. 1, reproducing Siward, p. 10. 40 41

Fig. 1.  Specimen page of Heinrich Hoffmann, Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan. Myrge mæþelword ge lustbære licnessa, trans. Fritz Kemmler (Neckarsteinach, 2010), p. 10. © Edition Tintenfass, used with permission.

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one of the wings of the captured insect, with his left hand. Third, the dead cat lying on the floor (left-hand bottom corner) and, finally, the hero in the process of using his whip on the female figure covering her face with a handkerchief (right-hand bottom corner). The story of the German text starts with a repetition of the name of the hero in the first line of the opening couplet: ‘Der Friederich, der Friederich, / Das war ein arger Wüterich!’ [Friederich, Friederich, / He was terrible in his fury!].44 The contents of the first two lines were considered to be superfluous for the Old English version since the first couplet is immediately preceded by the title: ‘Die Geschichte vom bösen Friederich’ [The story of wicked Friederich].45 By excluding the contents of the first couplet, space for the inclusion of literary echoes became available right at the beginning of the second episode. These echoes will be analysed and discussed in the following paragraph. The story of Stigand opens with the interjection hwæt, followed by the first-person-plural pronoun we – and this phrase is an echo of the first two words of the famous Old English epic Beowulf.46 The a-verse of the opening alliterative long line also contains an adjective which was added with the intention of signalling the mock-heroic mode adopted for parts of the story of Stigand. This mode, based on Chaucer’s famous tale of ‘Sir Thopas’ in The Canterbury Tales, is signalled by the adjective lustbære ‘funny, comic’: Hwæt we lustbære stær  be Stigande Þæm styrnan  on stafum gefrunon Hu he ierremod fleogum  feþerhaman ateah [What! The funny story of Stigand, the stern one we have discovered in writing, how he, the angry one, pulled out the wings of flies]47

In contrast to the oral-formulaic context signalled by the predicate gefrunon in the opening lines of Beowulf, the same predicate in the b-verse in line two in the quotation above shows that the story of Stigand belongs to a much later literary and cultural context since the story has been found in written form – ‘on stafum gefrunon’. Line 3a offers a further echo from Beowulf: ierremod ‘angry’.48 In Beowulf, this adjective expresses Grendel’s state of mind when he enters Hroðgar’s hall Heorot for a new attack, meeting his fate at the hands of his opponent Beowulf. Grendel’s enemies in Beowulf are the hero himself as well as Hroðgar’s retainers and therefore truly formidable opponents. Stigand’s enemies, by contrast, are but harmless flies. Line 4a of the Old English version, based on the first line of the third rhyming couplet in the German text, refers to the broken chair and the killed birds displayed prominently in the illustration: ‘Stolas ofsloh, fugelas eac’, a half-line closely modelled on the original: ‘Er schlug die Stühl und Vögel tot’, lit. [He killed both Quoted from Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 11. The translation is my own. See Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 11. 46 To be sure, not only Beowulf starts with the interjection hwæt. Further instances of this opening formula can be found in The Dream of the Rood, Andreas, and Exodus. 47 See Siward, p. 10 and Fig. 1. The translation into modern English is my own. 48 See Beowulf, l. 726a (ed. Klaeber, p. 28); there, the spelling is yrremod. 44 45

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chairs and birds].49 The use of ofsloh ‘killed’ with its reference to chairs constitutes an instance of ‘zeugma’, a figure of speech with a high potential for comic effect, eminently suitable for a mock-heroic context. The mock-heroic mode, based on literary echoes and employed in the first episode of the story of Stigand, is further amplified in the b-verse of the third alliterative long line which is devoted to the story element of the cats mentioned in the second line of the third rhyming couplet in the original text. The b-verse in line three develops the original ‘Die Katzen litten große Not’, lit. [The cats suffered terribly]50 in an unexpected direction, a direction that was suggested by the image showing a dead cat. Three Old English poems, Beowulf, The Battle of Brunanburh, and The Battle of Maldon, can be pointed out in the context of this literary echo. The echo itself is constituted by the adjective fæge ‘doomed’ in combination with feallan ‘fall’, an image used in the three poems just mentioned as a reference to warriors doomed to die in battle. However, those doomed to die in the story of Stigand are not warriors but harmless cats: ‘fæge feollon cattas’.51 As to the translation of the fourth story element, the hero using his whip on the female figure depicted in the right-hand corner of the image, the first line of the final couplet of the original text has been omitted. This line, with its direct address to the audience, is a kind of introduction to the more important content of the second line of the final couplet, in which a particularly evil act of the hero is pointed out: ‘Und höre nur, wie bös er war: / Er peitschte seine Gretchen gar!’ [And just listen to his cruelty / He would even whip his Gretchen].52 The corresponding alliterative long line in the Old English version is based on the second line of the rhyming couplet: ‘Wolde Þeodhild þenestran þearle swipian’ [He would cruelly whip Þeodhild, the handmaiden]. It should be noted that the name ‘Gretchen’ in the German text, ‘Þeodhild’ in the Old English version, is further specified in the translated version by referring to her as a handmaiden – þenestre. Apart from offering a third instance for the alliterative pattern of the entire long line, this addition is in perfect harmony with the image. In the image, the female figure is depicted with an apron, a signal of her occupation. It should be noted that þenestre is an indirect reference to the additional meaning of the German name ‘Gretchen’, a shortened form of Margarete, in Latin margarita ‘pearl’. In German, the word Perle ‘pearl’ can be found in association with the concept ‘household’. Thus, ‘seine Gretchen’ is an indirect reference to the concept Haushaltsperle, ‘household jewel’ in modern English, and this is signalled by the noun þenestre in the Old English text. The third episode in Siward, the story of the girl burned to ashes in the process of playing with a lighter, offers additional literary echoes. The first of these occurs in the title of the episode. The German title, ‘Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feuerzeug’ [The quite sad story about the lighter], has been amplified and expanded See Siward, p. 10 and Fig. 1. The translation into modern English is my own. See Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 11, line 6. The translation into modern English is my own. 51 See Siward, p. 10 and Fig. 1. The concept fæge ‘doomed’ occurs in lines 12 and 28 in The Battle of Brunanburh and there are four instances of the concept in The Battle of Maldon, lines 105, 119, 125, and 297. Beowulf offers a total of nine instances of fæge and its inflected forms. 52 See Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 11, lines 7–8. 49 50

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for the translation. In the Old English text the title reads ‘Sarspell ge sorgleoþ be grislicum fyrstane’ [Sad song and sorrowful tune about the horrible flint].53 The literary echo is based on the noun sorgleoþ, adapted from Beowulf, line 2460. The second literary echo is constituted by the name chosen for the heroine of this episode, Æþelþryþ – a name which can be found in at least two literary texts, one in Latin, the second in Old English (see next section). Intertextuality: Proper Names This section will address the major criteria underlying the choice of proper names used in Siward. Whereas Le Petit Prince, except for the preface, hardly contains any personal names, in Struwwelpeter, personal names – first names, to be precise – constitute an important story element. Since most of these names are typical of German, their retention in the Old English translation was considered to be totally inappropriate. Therefore, the decision was taken that names found in the English literary tradition, and therefore current in Old English, should be selected and used for Siward. For the selection of names occurring in Old English texts, the index in the second volume of Plummer’s edition of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was of immense help.54 In summary, it can be stated that except for Nicolaus in the fourth story, all names used in Siward refer to persons mentioned in the Old English historical records and therefore function as important literary and cultural echoes. In addition, most of these names were chosen with the intention that they are part of the alliterative pattern of the long line in which they occur. Guiding readers of this chapter through the list of proper names in Siward, detailed commentaries will be provided for two names: Æþelþryþ (third episode) and Siward (the title of the translation and the hero in the very short first episode). Prior to the discussion of the significance of the proper names Æþelþryþ and Siward, the other names chosen for the text of Siward will be briefly contextualised and their significance explained. Aþulf, the hero of the ninth story, in alliteration with eagum, was one of the bishops of the diocese of Hereford. Brihtric, used in the seventh story and in alliteration with briwes, was one of the kings of the former kingdom of Wessex, and Coenred, one of the kings of Mercia and in alliteration with cwæþ, is the hero of the sixth episode. Frealaf, mentioned in the tenth story and alliterating with ferode, was the father of Frithuwald who is mentioned in connection with the heathen deity Woden. Grimbold, one of the characters in episode four, is a reference to one of King Alfred’s advisors and teachers, mentioned by the king in the preface to his translation of Gregory’s Cura Pastoralis. As to the other characters in episode four, Harold, in alliteration with heold, should be interpreted as a reference to Harold Godwinson, the last English king before the Norman Conquest, killed in the battle of Hastings. Hroðgar, in alliteration with hringas, is borrowed from Beowulf, whereas Rædwald (episode eight) was one of the kings of the former See Hoffmann, Der polyglotte Struwwelpeter, p. 17; Siward, p. 13. The translation into modern English is my own. 54 Charles Plummer, ed., Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel. With Supplementary Extracts from the Others. A Revised Text, 2 vols (Oxford, 1892; repr. 1972), vol. 2, pp. 319–463. 53

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kingdom of East Anglia. The name Nicolaus, used in the fourth episode of Struwwelpeter, has been retained for the Old English version since Nicholas was a saint familiar in Anglo-Saxon England, as the impressive number of churches devoted to this patron saint indicates. Stigand, figuring in episode two and in alliteration with styrnan, is a reference to one of the more important clerical dignitaries during the last decades of the rule of the English royal line before the Conquest: Stigand was archbishop of Canterbury. The female name Þeodhild, adopted for the servant maid in episode two and in alliteration with þenestran and þearle, was current in Scandinavia and also occurs in an Old English royal charter. With respect to literary echoes and intertextuality on the basis of personal names, a considerably more interesting name is Æþelþryþ, the heroine figuring in episode three, with its forty-eight lines one of the longer episodes in Siward. The choice is based on St Æþelþryþ (Audrey in Modern English), a well-known and widely venerated female saint in Anglo-Saxon England. Æþelþryþ’s biography can be found in the fourth book of Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum,55 where she is called Aedilthryd. In his Lives of Saints, Abbot Ælfric elaborated on Bede’s famous account of the abbess of the monastery of Ely, and it is Ælfric’s version that prompted the choice of Æþelþryþ, the heroine in episode three. In Ælfric’s text, Æþelþryþ states that the tumour on her throat, burning like fire, is a punishment for her former way of life as a queen, adorned by neck-chains and other jewels: ‘and me is nu geþuht þæt godes arfæstnyss þone gylt aclænsige þonne me nu þis geswel scynð for golde and þæs hata bryne for healicum gymstanum’ [and now me thinketh that God’s justice may cleanse my guilt, since now I have this swelling, which shineth instead of gold, and this scorching heat instead of sparkling gems].56 Bryne ‘fire’ provides the link to the story of Æþelþryþ in Siward. In this story, a young girl, dancing around the room, catches sight of matches lying on a table and immediately lights one of them, despite her parents’ warning. She sets herself on fire, causes her own death by burning and is lamented by her two cats chanting a dirge. Literary echoes not only from Old English but also from Early Modern English times can be associated with the name Siward, which, together with sidfeaxe, was chosen for the title of the Old English version of Struwwelpeter. Siward, it should be noted, is also the name of the hero in the very short text of episode one. The adjective sidfeaxe ‘long-haired’, in alliteration with Siward, also has the quality of an echo, an echo that can be traced back to a famous medieval work of art. The choice of sidfeaxe, which is not a direct translation of the German struwwel ‘shaggy’, was prompted by the depiction of the English in the Bayeux Tapestry. This monumental work of art commemorates the events leading up to the Battle of Hastings as well as the greater part of the battle itself. According to Wolfgang Grape, the difference between the English and the Normans depicted in the Tapestry is signalled by their haircut: ‘in the first half of the Tapestry, but not thereafter, the Normans can be

See Beda Venerabilis, Historia ecclesiastica gentis anglorum, ed. Charles Plummer, 2 vols (Oxford, 1896; repr. 1975), IV.17, vol. 1, p. 243: ‘coniugem nomine Aedilthrydam’ [a wife called Aedilthryda]. 56 Ælfric, Lives of Saints, (ed. Skeat, pp. 436–7). The translation is Skeat’s. 55

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reliably identified by the close-cropped backs of their heads’. The English, by contrast, are depicted with long hair covering their necks. This can be seen especially in the second scene of the Tapestry, showing Harold’s ride to Bosham preceding his journey to Normandy: ‘Here, for the first time, a distinguishing mark of nationality becomes evident: the Anglo-Saxons wear moustaches, unlike the Normans and Bretons in subsequent scenes (who, in addition, have the backs of their heads shaven)’.58 The adjectival compound sidfeaxe, suggested by the depictions in the Bayeux Tapestry, with sid ‘ample, vast’ modifying feaxe ‘hair’, is close to the meaning of struwwel in the German text and, based on the evidence provided by the Tapestry, also mirrors a hairstyle typical of late Old English times. As far as the proper name Siward, accompanied by the adjective sidfeaxe, is concerned, Plummer’s index lists quite a few names beginning with Si-.59 Looking at this list, Sigebryht, king of the West Saxons and predecessor of Cynewulf, one of the minor characters figuring in the first short story in the English language,60 would have been a good choice. However, Siward is an even better choice, since the Northumbrian earl is not only mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as one of the opponents of the Scottish king Macbeth61 but is also one of the dramatis personae in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Taking a look at Shakespeare’s famous tragedy, we find the name Siward in close association with hair: ‘Had I as many sons as I have hairs, / I would not wish them to a fairer death’.62 Siward, accompanied by, and in alliteration with, sidfeaxe, is therefore a highly appropriate choice, rich in associations as well as providing fine literary echoes. 57

Conclusion Planning this chapter more than ten years after the completion of the two translation projects and finishing it in the early months of the sixth year of my retirement from university and also under the conditions of the Covid pandemic with limited access to library facilities has been quite a challenge – but a challenge I enjoyed very much. After the presentation and discussion of a considerable number of details relating to the two translations, a presentation that is by no means complete, aspects neglected in the presentation should be addressed in this conclusion. One of these Wolfgang Grape, The Bayeux Tapestry. Monument to a Norman Triumph (Munich, 1994), p. 33. 58 Grape, The Bayeux Tapestry, p. 92. 59 See Charles Plummer (ed.), Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel. With Supplementary Extracts from the Others. A Revised Text, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1892; repr. 1972), vol. 2, pp. 437–8. 60 The reference is to the ‘Cynewulf and Cyneheard’ episode recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle under the year 755; it is one of the standard pieces in readers for Old English. 61 See MS D of the Old English Chronicle for the year 1054: ‘Her ferde Siward eorl mid miclum here on Scotland ægðer ge mid scyp here [and] mid landfyrde. [And] feaht wið Scottas. [And] aflymde þone kyng Macbeoðen’ [In this year Earl Siward led a great army, both navy and infantry, to Scotland and fought against the Scots, putting King Macbeth to flight]. The quotation is from Plummer, Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel, p. 185; my translation. 62 William Shakespeare, Macbeth, The Arden Shakespeare. Complete Works, ed. Richard Proudfoot, Ann Thompson and David Scott Kastan, rev. edn (London, 2002), 5.9, lines 14–15. 57

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aspects is the question of why such translation projects should ever have been undertaken. A request from the publisher of the many foreign language translations of Le Petit Prince for an Old English version of de Saint-Exupéry’s story is one part of this answer. A certain degree of satisfaction resulting from the opportunity of approaching Old English from an angle different from teaching this medieval language to undergraduates and advanced students as well as academic publications on the subject are also part of this answer. The desire to motivate dedicated readers to engage with medieval texts can be named as the third part of the answer. Translations of modern texts into a medieval language may help to overcome the language barrier often associated with the study of medieval texts. Such translations can also help to increase students’ interest in courses in medieval studies, courses involving the reading and study of medieval texts in their original language, not just in translation. A conclusion also offers an opportunity of looking briefly at the work undertaken in retrospect. The two source texts, Le Petit Prince on the one hand and Struwwelpeter on the other, not only differ as to their general mode of composition, that is, prose and verse. They also differ in so far as Le Petit Prince, with its swiftly moving dialogue, hardly allows the translator to depart from the text of the original in order to introduce additional material, such as literary echoes, or modify the overall tone and structure of the original narrative. By contrast, Struwwelpeter, despite its limited space available for the translated text, easily allows for slight departures from the original text for the purpose of entertaining academically trained readers of the Old English version. Judging from the reviews of my translations of two highly different modern texts into Old English and the academic interest they have received so far, my pastime activities during the last few years of my professional career appear to have been successful.

10 Fruit, Fat and Fermentation: Food and Drink in Peter Baker’s (Neo-)Old English Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Denis Ferhatović

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n 25 May 2018, the Medievalists of Color website published a short text by Peter S. Baker, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies after Charlottesville: Reflections of a University of Virginia Professor’.1 It was prefaced by short remarks by Mary Rambaran-Olm, a scholar who has been at the forefront of the efforts to push the discipline to confront its racist history and fight white supremacy, including an initiative for the name change to early medieval English studies.2 ‘After Charlottesville’ refers to the ‘Unite the Right’ event organised by neo-Nazis and similar extremeright groups on 11 and 12 August 2017 that took place in the town in Virginia where Baker lives and works. Baker speaks in the reflection about his introductory Old English class shortly afterwards: ‘I told my students that we were working in an area that had a long history of being exploited by racists, Nazis, and others whose views I found abhorrent’.3 Despite the success of the class, his ‘most diverse’ to date, Baker reports being unable to escape ‘a sense of failure’ that the entire discipline, his university4 – founded by the slave-owning US president, Thomas Jefferson, with the labour of enslaved Africans – and academia itself, were entangled in white supremacy.5 Baker ends the text with a call to change our field of study, ‘Not just relabeling Peter S. Baker, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies after Charlottesville: Reflections of a University of Virginia Professor’, Medievalists of Color, 25 May 2018 [accessed 28 Mar. 2021]. 2 See, for example, Mary Rambaran-Olm, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies [Early English Studies], Academia and White Supremacy’, Medium, 27 Jun. 2018 [accessed 28 Mar. 2021]. 3 Baker, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies’. 4 A personal note: I earned my bachelor’s degree at the UVA, where I took my first Old English class with Professor Baker in the autumn of 2001. 5 Baker, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies’. 1

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it, but adjusting its boundaries in space, time, theoretical approach, and who knows what else, changing the kind of space it is’.6 This chapter does not present any specific suggestions regarding either the burning down or remodelling of the discipline, two possibilities with which Baker concludes. Rather, it reads his translation of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland into Old English from 2015 as a small but intriguing contribution to the project of ‘adjusting [the] boundaries [of early-medieval England] in space, time, theoretical approach, and who knows what else’. Translation from modern languages into dead or historical ancestors of living languages comes with its own set of challenges and delights. Taking into consideration their relatively modest readership today, one wonders about their purpose and effect. Scholars identify a pronounced didactic promise in such versions that cast a later text into an earlier idiom. Writing about translations of Le Petit Prince into Old and Middle English, Oliver M. Traxel uses strict linguistic criteria to determine their usefulness for teaching older language varieties. Traxel does not neglect the ‘dulce’ half of the Horatian exhortation dulce et utile ‘sweet and useful’,7 concluding that the books ‘show us that there is much to be enjoyed in dealing with past stages’.8 Drawing on Traxel’s argument for pedagogical utility, Dominika Ruszkiewicz further suggests that the Old and Middle English versions of The Little Prince enable productive conversations about traductological methods and philosophies: ‘The translations into older varieties [...] have the added advantage of generating problems […] such as how to render concepts which came into existence long after Old English and Middle English went out of wider use’.9 Pondering these texts, students sharpen their skills of historicisation along with intertextual recall. They might note that the phrase lyftfloga ‘air-flier’ in Be þam lytlan æðelinge, which renders a post-medieval Baker, ‘Anglo-Saxon Studies’. Quintus Horatius Flaccus, commonly known as Horace in English, states in his Ars Poetica or Epistle to the Pisos that poetry should ideally contain both of these elements. 8 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘[Review of] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: Be þam lytlan æþelinge. Mid licnessum gefæged be þam writere. Awend of Frenciscra gereorde on Englisc gereord be Fritz Kemmler. Neckarsteinach: Edition Tintenfaß 2010 [and] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: The litel prynce. With sondry ymages of the auctour. Drawen out of Frensshe on Englissh speche by Walter Sauer. Neckarsteinach: Edition Tintenfaß 2008’, Perspicuitas. Internet-Periodicum Mediävistik, 9 Mar. 2011 [accessed on 28 Mar. 2021], pp. 1–4. 9 Dominika Ruszkiewicz, ‘“Chaque jour j’apprenais quelque chose”: Using Le Petit Prince and Its Translations to Teach Old and Modern Languages’, in Renata Krupa and Iwona Piechnik (eds), Saint-Exupéry relu et traduit (Krakow, 2018), pp. 157–69, at p. 158. This dynamic is not unique to translation into dead languages, being present to some extent in all translations because every culture possesses certain concepts that resist an easy transfer into another context. Historicising translations highlight the significant temporal distance, estranging a culture from a moment often imagined within it as its earlier stage. For some discussion of ‘Culture-Specific Items’ (CSI) in translation of present-day texts, dealing with food, see Josep Marco, ‘The Translation of Food-Related Culture-Specific Items in the Valencian Corpus of Translated Literature (COVALT) Corpus: A Study of Technique and Factors’, Perspectives: Studies in Translation Theory and Practice 27 (2019), 20–41; and Angela Turzynski-Azimi, ‘Constructing the Image of Japan as a Tourist Destination: Translation Procedures for Culture-Specific Items’, Perspectives: Studies in Translation Theory and Practice 29 (2021), 407–25. For an essay on the challenge of translating medieval food words into a modern language (Middle Irish into Modern English), refer to Lahney Preston-Matto, 6 7

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invention (avion ‘aeroplane’), is a kenning for the dragon in Beowulf. Another benefit to students is the opportunity to comprehend that some terms that seem at first glance identical might not correspond exactly.11 A salient example mentioned by Ruszkiewicz is the Old English verb drincan for Modern French boire ‘to drink’. She states that the former in its time ‘did not immediately connote a social pathology – drinking was seen as “a symbol of social cohesion”, as Hugh Magennis observes’.12 Baker’s ‘neo-Old English’13 Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande teaches and delights, bringing to the reader’s attention the difference between the nineteenth-century world of the original novel and the eleventh-century context of his rendition. The straightforward classroom use that Traxel and Ruszkiewicz envision for The Little Prince might not apply for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, a self-consciously difficult, often disorientating book. Yet its ambivalence, playfulness, and knottiness have a considerable pedagogical appeal. These elements help teach the readers to take a more complex approach to the past and even to question teaching – in keeping with what we know of early medieval education and reading practices from scholars like Irina Dumitrescu and Erica Weaver.14 This chapter focuses on Baker’s treatment of food and drink, themes crucial for Carroll’s novel that dramatise the issue of appetite, where ‘all the problems with Alice’s body begin and end with her mouth’.15 The Old English translation does more than remind us that turkeys, pineapples, and tea came to Britain and Europe after the Middle Ages. First, it shows us the strangeness of the everyday phenomena from early medieval England that does not immediately meet the eye. The words that survive into Modern English, like apple and beer, turn out to denote a wider range 10

‘Aislinge Meic Conglinne: Challenges for Translator and Audience’, in Tom Birkett and Kirsty March-Lyons (eds), Translating Early Medieval Poetry: Transformation, Reception, Interpretation (Cambridge, 2017), pp. 109–21. 10 Ruszkiewicz, ‘Chaque jour’, p. 165. See also Fritz Kemmler’s contribution to this volume, which explains the reasoning behind his choice: that Old English features similar compounds containing lyft and that ‘air-flyer’ corresponds well to avion which comes from the Latin for bird (avis) (pp. 179–80). Fritz Stieleke in his recent textbook gives seolforfugol ‘silverbird’ for ‘aeroplane’. Fritz Stieleke, Wordwynn: Wynsum weg to ealdum Englisce/ An Enjoyable Way to Old English (Düsseldorf, 2021), p. 163. 11 Ruszkiewicz, ‘Chaque jour’, p. 165. 12 Ruszkiewicz, ‘Chaque jour’, p. 165. 13 The term is from Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28, at p. 312. 14 Ambivalence and knottiness: ‘I have argued […] that Anglo-Saxon writing also betrays a more intimate concern with pedagogy, a complex engagement with the difficult emotions that are part both of the process of learning and of the relationship between master and disciple. […] These scenes are shaded by fear, pain, confusion, and sexual temptation, and occasionally illuminated by moments of bright recognition or liberation.’ Irina Dumitrescu, The Experience of Education in Anglo-Saxon Literature (Cambridge, 2018), p. 157. Playfulness: ‘Even at its most theological […], their reading practices [of Aldhelm’s Enigmata] are raucous and ricocheting. In premodern cultures, theological reading entailed play – even judicious wandering and devilish encounters.’ Erica Weaver, ‘Premodern and Postcritical: Medieval Enigmata and the Hermeneutic Style’, New Literary History 50:1 (2019), 43–64, at p. 60. All of these ideas work well with the action of Carroll’s novel. 15 Nancy Armstrong, ‘The Occidental Alice’, Differences 2:2 (1990), 3–40, at p. 16.

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of fruit types and a different, sweeter recipe for an alcoholic beverage, respectively. The ‘DRINK ME’ potion, the flavours of which Baker translates with an even greater restraint than historically necessary (as compared, for instance, to his Gothic counterpart),16 strangely resonates with an attested early medieval medical recipe. Second, the Old English version of Carroll’s classic estranges some commonplaces about pre-Conquest England in popular imagination and scholarship. Baker’s decision to turn the mad tea party into a beer party uncovers a wider range of attitudes towards alcohol use than some accounts of Beowulf put forth, like Magennis’s observation of its predominant role as ‘a symbol of social cohesion’ mentioned by Ruszkiewicz. Third, the re-reading in Old English of an episode in Chapter 6 that features an extraordinary use of pepper brings to mind a passage from the Wonders of the East about fantastic pepper-hoarding snakes called Corsiae. Pepper was precious but increasingly common in early medieval England, the only condiment imported from far distances that was widely used.17 The final part of the chapter underlines the importance of the fantastic, impossible, or impossibly copious edibles and potables for the imagination. If we foreground only what we can reconstruct from the material remains and more practical textual sources such as wills and tax records, we will have a partial image of the rich mental involvement of the early-medieval English with food and drink. We will consider them, invariably, set in their bland and unadventurous tastes relative to their most immediate neighbours on the Continent or those cultures that preceded and followed them in Britain.18 The image of the pre-Conquest English that emerges after looking at the Old English terms that Baker employs to render Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland helps counter some simplistic and dangerous notions of the ‘pure’, ‘Germanic’ nature of the early medieval English.19 This chapter does not argue about the translator’s intentions and purpose per se but rather seeks to show certain effects of his thoughtful yet rather restrained choices. Even if some of the nuances of the Old English version might escape a modern educated reader of the language, taken together and carefully examined, they readily lend themselves to a pedagogical project of uncovering an early medieval English world that is more globally aware than Lewis Carroll, Balþos Gadedeis Aþalhaidais in Sildaleikalanda, trans. David Alexander Carlton (Portlaoise, 2015). All the subsequent quotations of the Gothic Alice refer to this edition and include parenthetical page numbers. 17 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon England 41 (2012), 373–406, at p. 396. 18 Alban Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, pp. 402, 393, 403. Gautier makes an exception for the elite in the later early-medieval period in England, which he permits had something close to ‘cuisine’. He concludes the study with the statement, ‘What definitely did not exist was gastronomy’ (406). See more on these points on page 205 of this essay. 19 For a rigorous, nuanced examination of the danger of applying the label ‘Germanic’, including the case for dispensing with the term altogether (that, nevertheless, does not reflect the thinking of all the contributors to the volume), see James M. Harland and Matthias Friedrich, ‘Introduction: The “Germanic” and Its Discontents’, in Matthias Friedrich and James M. Harland (eds), Interrogating the ‘Germanic’: A Category and Its Use in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Berlin, 2021), pp. 1–18. Harland and Friedrich warn about the persistence of the label in recent research using DNA analysis (at p. 3) and its potential role in dystopian scenarios involving ‘ethnonationalist and eugenicist ideologies of extermination’ enabled by multinational capitalism and highly advanced technologies (at p. 9). 16

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often assumed today, and unexpectedly strange and distinct in its approach to a seemingly basic matter like food and drink. ‘DRINC ME’ As Æðelgyþ ‘Alice’ obeys the mysterious bottle in Chapter 1 which instructs her, through an inscription, to drink from it, the narrator describes the complex flavour of the concoction: ‘on þam wæron þa swæccas gemengde gebærnedes hlafes mid buteran and hunigæppla and cirisæppla and wealhhnuta and streawbergena and medwes’ [in it were the mixed tastes of burnt bread with butter and honey-apples and cherries and walnuts and strawberries and mead].20 The original is far more lavish: ‘a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast’.21 Baker begins with the item at the end of Carroll’s list, and he plausibly renders ‘buttered toast’ as burnt bread with butter. The Dictionary of Old English cites a passage from Bald’s Leechbook II, a medical text, that possibly speaks of toasted bread as ‘gebærned hlaf ’.22 Bread occupies a special position in the culture of early medieval England, as often demonstrated by the etymologies of hlaford ‘lord’ and hlæfdige ‘lady’ as ‘bread guardian’ and ‘bread kneader’.23 The privileged position of the buttered toast in Baker’s version might also result from the fact that dairy products provided most animal protein for the majority of pre-Conquest English people;24 it could anticipate a later appearance at the mad tea party, as the dairy product is mentioned again when the Mad Hatter argues with the March Hare about its application on his pocket watch.25 Butter played the role that olive oil had in the southern part of Europe, as articulated by Ælfric in a homily: ‘hy man gaderað and wringð, and man et þone ele, swa swa we etað buteran’ [they gather and press them {the olives}, and they eat the oil, just as we eat butter].26 The buttered toast, the most basic of the delights enumerated, is the only item that makes it intact through the historical– linguistic transfer. Here we encounter Baker’s tendency not to create neologisms in Old English. David Alexander Carlton, who translated Alice’s Adventures into the related dead Germanic language Gothic, and whom Baker thanks for help in his Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande, trans. Peter S. Baker (Portlaoise, 2015), p. 14. All the subsequent quotations of the Old English Alice refer to this edition and will include parenthetical page numbers. 21 Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland: A Norton Critical Edition, ed. Donald J. Gray (New York, 1992), p. 11. All the subsequent quotations of the original Alice refer to this edition and will include parenthetical page numbers. 22 DOE, s.v. hlāf, sense 1.d.viii. 23 Christina Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures: Food and Drink’, in Maren Clegg Hyer and Gale R. Owen-Crocker (eds), The Material Culture of Daily Living in the Anglo-Saxon World (Exeter, 2011), pp. 142–56, at p. 146. Alban Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 392, points out that we should be careful to distinguish different types of bread in terms of their prestige. Also, he adds that ‘during the late Anglo-Saxon period’, because of the wider availability of mills and ovens, bread could have lost much of its previous importance. 24 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 152. 25 Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. 70 26 The passage is quoted from Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 394. 20

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foreword, invents ‘riqizis hlaibs’. According to Carlton’s glossary, the phrase means ‘toast, lit. bread of darkness’, the most Gothic way to imagine toast.28 None of the other foodstuffs from the nineteenth century exist in the eleventh-century setting of Æðelgyðe Ellendæda. The words tart and custard are attested only in the later Middle Ages, as borrowings from French.29 The dishes they name feature sugar as a sweetener, which was not available in Northern Europe until the thirteenth century.30 Toffee, first recorded in the nineteenth century, cannot be made without sugar. Christina Lee explains that ‘[t]he only way to sweeten cakes was to add fruit or honey.’31 Baker’s choices align closely with scholarship. Still, while not crustade – apparently the Middle English form that will give us custard32 – an egg dessert might not have been inconceivable to a historically accurate Æðelgyþ. Ann Hagen mentions potential desserts that sound rather tantalising: ‘[s]weet omelettes containing flowers or fruit’ and ‘egg custard mixtures’ as well as ‘[s]ummer puddings which use bread to contain fruit, often blackberries, raspberries or whortleberries’.33 A fruit loaf of some sort, like ‘kirsohlaibs’ or ‘cherry bread’ in Carlton’s Gothic version (Balþos Gadedeis, 13), could also have worked. Many early-medieval English had a sweet tooth, and, without access to sugar, managed to create delightful desserts. Readers judging an entire time period on now-canonical literary texts like Beowulf and the Exeter ‘elegies’ would miss an important aspect of it. Pineapple and turkey came relatively late to Europe following the Conquest of the Western Hemisphere. Instead of ‘pine-apple’, Baker gives a variety of fruits, two of them with æppel in their names, almost as a distant echo of the modern text. The DOE reveals that this word, which nowadays means a specific kind of fruit (of the tree scientifically called Malus domestica), could also have the general sense of ‘fruit, tree-fruit’.34 Indeed, it is often hard to tell how broad or particular the referent is in the vernacular sources, and the lexicographers of the DOE point out that, similarly, the classical Latin pomum occasionally means ‘apple’ in medieval Latin, while malum ‘usually “apple”, can also mean “tree-fruit” such as pomegranate, quince, etc.’.35 In choosing the form that contains the æppel component where he could have simply used ciris ‘cherry’, Baker draws the readers’ attention to an interesting change in English nomenclature. This would be a teachable moment of 27

Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. xi. Lewis Carroll, Balþos Gadedeis Aþalhaidais, pp. 13, 126. Fritz Stieleke, Wordwynn, pp. 162–3, demonstrates different ways of creating Old English words for modern objects (loanword, loan translation, loan rendering, loan creation, and loan meaning) with five of his equivalents of ‘toaster’: tōstere, brūnere ‘browner’, hlāfbrūnere ‘loafbrowner’, hlāfwurpe ‘loafthrower’, and bæcere ‘baker’ or bæcestre ‘female baker’ (Wordwynn, pp. 162–3). 29 OED, s.vv. tart, n., custard, n. 30 Bruno Laurioux, ‘Medieval Cooking’, in Jean-Louis Flandrin, Massimo Montanari and Albert Sonnenfeld (eds), Food: A Culinary History, trans. Clarissa Botsford, Arthur Goldhammer, Charles Lambert, Frances M. López-Morillas and Sylvia Stevens (New York, 1999), pp. 295–301, at p. 299. 31 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 154. 32 Crustade and the earliest instances of custard refer to ‘[a]ny dish baked in a crust; a pie or patty (of meat, fish, eggs, etc.)’. MED, s.v. crustāde, n. 33 Ann Hagen, Anglo-Saxon Food and Drink (Ely, 2010), p. 298. 34 DOE, s.v. æppel, sense 2. 35 DOE, s.v. æppel. 27

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the kind that Traxel and Ruszkiewicz discuss : now we think of the apple as a type of fruit, but in early-medieval England it was the fruit. The OED records that certain fruits, particularly those that resemble that of Malus domestica, continue to be called apples ‘[f]requently with distinguishing word’ even into the modern period.37 ‘Apple Punic’ is a now-obsolete name for pomegranate,38 itself containing the French word for apple, pomme; ‘apple of love’ used to refer to both tomato and aubergine;39 and ‘apple of paradise’ signified banana or plantain.40 ‘Pineapple’ originally meant ‘pine tree’ and ‘pine cone’, with the tropical fruit of Ananas comosus likely receiving the name because of its resemblance to the latter.41 English is a rare European language that does not use ananas, a borrowing from Tupi-Guarani.42 May Plouzeau, the translator of Alice’s Adventures into Old French verse, substitutes ‘[p]omes grenates’ for pineapple,43 a solution that Baker could have applied as well, since ‘affricanisc / gecyrnled / read æppel’ [African / seedy / red apple] appears in Old English glosses for malum punicum/granatum.44 Wealhhnutu ‘walnut’ carries foreignness in its name, since wealh means ‘foreign, Welsh’. Items from farther away usually hold more prestige than the locally grown. Debby Banham points out that the nut indigenous to Britain, the hazelnut, was the main type consumed.45 In Old English it is hæselhnutu. Walnuts were found in the Scandinavian settlements in York in the tenth century, and walnut wood ‘was provisionally identified’ in some ‘timbers from a ninth-century well at North Elmham’, Norfolk.46 Still, most walnuts and their oil must have come from France.47 The 36

Traxel, ‘[Review of] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’; Ruszkiewicz, ‘Chaque jour’. OED, s.v. apple, n., sense 2.a. 38 OED, s.v. apple, n., sense 2.a. 39 OED, s.v. apple, n., sense P3.c. 40 OED, s.v. apple, n., sense P3.d. 41 OED, s.v. pineapple, n., senses I.1, I.2 and I.3. 42 OED, s.v. ananas, n., claims ananas comes from ‘a South American Indian language of Peru’. Not to focus solely on the OED and English language and to illustrate that many food terms belong to a wider European and Mediterranean context, this chapter occasionally gives etymologies of the same word from dictionaries in other languages. Le Nouveau Petit Robert and Nişanyan give the wider language group: ‘mot tupi-guarani’, ‘Tupi/Guarani’. Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey (eds), Le Nouveau Petit Robert (Paris, 1993), s.v. ananas. Sevan Nişanyan, Nişanyan Sözlük: Çağdaş Türkçenin Etimologisi [Nişanyan’s Dictionary: Etymology of Contemporary Turkish], [accessed 28 Mar. 2021], s.v. ananas. 43 Lewis Carroll, La geste d’Aalis el Païs de Merveilles, trans. May Plouzeau (Portlaoise, 2017), p. 20. All the subsequent quotations of the Old French Alice refer to this edition and include parenthetical page numbers. 44 DOE, s.v. æppel, sense 2.a.i. For another way of approaching a non-European plant whilst translating into Old English, see Kemmler’s discussion of his decision to create a new term apenahlaftreow ‘apes’-bread-tree’ for ‘baobab’ in Le Petit Prince that parallels the modern German term Affenbrotbaum with the same components (p. 179 in this volume). 45 Debby Banham, ‘Food and Drink’, in Michael Lapidge, John Blair, Simon Keynes and Donald Scragg (eds), The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Anglo-Saxon England (Hoboken, 2013), pp. 195–6, at p. 195. 46 Hagen, Anglo-Saxon Food and Drink, p. 61. 47 Hagen, Anglo-Saxon Food and Drink, p. 61. 36 37

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DOE gives another name for walnut as Frencisc hnutu ‘French nut’.48 In that short passage from Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, Baker then does not supply goods that needed to be imported from considerable distances, such as the Mediterranean or the Middle East, but he does include one that comes from across the Channel. The didactic power of translations into old languages, indicated by Traxel and Ruszkiewicz, comes through in yet another item of the list. Baker’s omission of any type of meat from the passage stands out. Carlton plausibly substitutes ‘hanon brasondon’ [roasted chicken] in Gothic, for ‘roast turkey’ (Balþos Gadedeis, 13). In Middle English, Brian S. Lee has ‘rostëd swan’ (The Aventures of Alys, 15) and Plouzeau, ingeniously, ‘Chapon farci qui norriz fu en Inde’ [A stuffed capon that was raised in India] (La geste d’Aalis, 20), a play on the modern French dinde (< d’Inde ‘from India’), ‘turkey’.49 We know from archaeological findings that people in pre-Conquest England hunted many species of wild fowl such as ‘swans, mallards, geese and pigeons […] herons, thrushes and lapwings’.50 ‘Wild birds were also high-status food’, and lower ranks could have hunted them for themselves and the aristocrats alike.51 A roasted swan could have worked, anticipating the swans of Chapter 8 which serve as medievally correct croquet mallets instead of Carroll’s flamingos. Alban Gautier informs us that elite archaeological sites in Britain and the Continent incorporate ‘immature animals, more varied assemblages and rare foodstuffs’. A prime example of such a location in Flixborough, North Lincolnshire, contains the bones of multiple domesticated and wild creatures of the land and the sea.52 A more modest bird would have fit, too. In the ‘Middle AngloSaxon period’, town-dwellers likely raised ducks and chickens.53 Chickens in some form appear in three Exeter enigmas.54 Indeed, Alice’s identity as an omnivore ruffles some feathers in Wonderland, notably when a bird in Chapter 5, ‘Se Culfre’, ‘the Pigeon’, accuses her of being a snake because she eats eggs. Baker tends to simplify the elements of the potion, not incorporating elaborate desserts, exotic fruits, or delectable fowl even if the historical context would allow for them. He does not need to make things up; the past reality, at the level in which we can reconstruct it, appears as strange as the upside-down world that Alice accidentally enters. Food, like many things in Old English, may at first glance appear most ordinary, least surprising, and falling in line with the least imaginative stereotypes about the ‘Dark Ages’. Yet after further investigation, it turns out to be deeply perplexing. Moreover, the readers of Æðelgyðe Ellendæda form the impression that early medieval English people would savour unexpected strangeness. Anyone even DOE, s.v. frencisc, sense 1.a.iii. Lewis Carroll, The Aventures of Alys in Wondyr Lond, trans. Brian S. Lee (Portlaoise, 2013), p. 15. 50 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 150. 51 Banham, ‘Food and Drink’, p. 196. 52 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 388. 53 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 150. 54 Riddle 13 depicts ten chickens running around a yard; Riddle 42 offers its solution in runes as ‘cock and hen’; and Riddle 81 has an inedible metallic version of a rooster, a weathervane. George Philip Krapp and Elliott Van Kirk Dobbie (eds), The Exeter Book (New York, 1936). All the Old English quotations of the Exeter riddles come from this edition, with the line numbers appearing parenthetically. 48 49

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cursorily familiar with, for example, the Exeter riddles would agree with this idea. In a fairly unostentatious way, Baker communicates both the wonder and reconstructed material reality of the past context. The various flavours of Baker’s ‘DRINC ME’ potion make it resemble a medicine for digestion recorded in Bald’s Leechbook that asks for honey, wine, pepper, and fruit (identified by the general word æppla). Gautier wonders whether the concoction could have served the double purpose of treating the ill and delighting a rich person who liked sweets.55 Baker’s translation, like that rich, intoxicating drink, appeals to our literary sweet tooth and is good for us. It estranges the world of pre-Conquest England, often considered sombre, heroic, stoic, or – in keeping with the worst present-day fascist fantasies – culturally isolationist and ‘pure’. ‘Se Woda Gebeorscipe’ [The Mad Banquet] A common problem that several modern translators into medieval languages address is rendering tea, a postmedieval global commodity par excellence and the putative rationale behind the Mad Hatter’s party in Chapter 7. Baker speaks about his decision in the foreword, pointing out that he does not ‘simply make up’ a neologism for the beverage because the rendition does not seek to expose ‘a new audience’ to the essentially ludic work.56 He continues: I substituted beor ‘beer’; and “The Mad Tea-Party” became “Se Woda Gebeorscipe”. The word gebeorscipe (‘banquet’, literally ‘beership’) will be familiar to all who have read the frequently anthologized “Story of Cædmon” […] my students often translate it ‘beer-party’ and find in it an amusing intersection of the culture of the American college campus with that of Cædmon’s monastery. Thus “The Mad-Tea Party” has become a hybrid satire—a send-up of three different cultures.57

This passage elegantly points out the temporal hybridity of humour in Æðelgyðe Ellendæda. Three time periods – the early Middle Ages, the Victorian era of Carroll’s writing, and our own – come together for multidirectional mockery. What does it mean to see the Mad Hatter and his company as a heroic male gathering from Bede’s account of Cædmon gone (more)58 awry and/or a disorientatingly eccentric American frat party? The madness of the feast easily reads as anti-heroic and anti-social. It also uncovers the oppressive gender dynamic of the Mad Hatter and his male guests, who expect the younger female guest to follow their baffling rules. Æðelgyþ memorably declares, ‘Þæt is gebeorscipa se stuntosta þara þe ic æfre æt wæs mines lifes!’ [That is the stupidest beership that I ever was at in my life!].59 Beer for tea is not an unusual substitution in Old Germanic-language versions of Alice’s Adventures. Carlton has midus ‘mead’, midausþigg ‘mead-thing’ (‘thing’ in the sense of an Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 402. Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. vii. 57 Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. vii. 58 Caedmon prefers to spend time with animals in the stable. 59 Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. 77. Cf. Carroll’s Alice who proclaims ‘It’s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life’ (Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures, p. 61). 55

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assembly, as in the Icelandic Althing) and midausaurkeis ‘mead-jug’ in Gothic for ‘tea’, ‘tea party’, and ‘tea pot’, respectively. The trio who translated the book into Old Norse, Victoria Condie, Alexis Lansbury, and Richard Munro, report that whilst ‘[t]he most common beverages at any sort of feast would have been ale or beer’ in medieval Iceland, they decided ‘to try to transpose some of the paradox of the original’ and create laufdrykkr ‘leaf-drink’, ‘something that in its alien quality may be read mythologically’.60 Beer seems plain, basic, gratifyingly ‘Germanic’ or heroic in our modern imaginings of the Middle Ages, but the situation is more complicated. Strictly speaking, beor does not constitute the same drink as the one we call beer today. The DOE gives the definition ‘an alcoholic drink brewed from various fruits often using honey; beer’, and warns in a smaller font underneath that ‘[t]he etymological connection with ModE beer need not imply identity of OE beor with, or similarity to, modern beer in ingredients or mode of manufacture’.61 Gautier explains, taking his evidence from texts such as Bald’s Leechbook, that the potable was sweet, possibly made of fermented fruit juice with a high alcohol content. Brewers likely added honey to the wort62 to incite fermentation and produce a strong beverage; indeed, some glosses confuse beor and mead.63 Gautier concludes, ‘Le résultat devait être une boisson douce et sirupeuse, titrant comme l’hydromel entre 15° et 18°’ [The result must have been a sweet, syrupy drink ranging between 15 and 18 ABV like mead].64 Banham calls the drink ‘mysterious’, and introduces the possibility that it ‘may have included cider’, but quickly creates doubt, indicating that cider could have arrived later with the Normans.65 Beor in Baker’s translation not only communicates the satire of a socially sanctioned gathering with intoxicating substances but also works well with the madness of the surroundings and the sticky sweetness of the well of honey – treacle in Carroll’s original – in the Dormouse’s story of the three sisters. In another essay, Gautier explains that ‘Anglo-Saxons valued inebriating beverages’ because they offered them an uncommon and therefore much desired sensation of ‘sugariness’ along with ‘the usual dizziness and warming effect of alcohol’.66 In addition to the unhinged energy, a certain mystery pervades the scene in Æðelgyðe Ellendæda. There might be some sense to the madness, and to historical reconstruction of longlost consumables, if only we could reach it. Our tastebuds nowadays are simply different because of our exposure to sharper, more intense flavours, such as spicy, Victoria Condie, Alexis Lansbury and Richard Munro, ‘On the Old Norse Translation of Aðalheiðr’, in Jon. A Lindseth and Alan Tannenbaum (eds), Alice in a World of Wonderlands: The Translations of Lewis Carroll’s Masterpiece. Volume One: Essays (New Castle, 2015), pp. 425–8, at p. 427. 61 DOE, s.v. bēor. 62 ‘A sweet liquid produced by steeping ground malt or other grain in hot water, which is then fermented to produce beer and distilled malt liquors’; OED, s.v. wort, n.2, sense 1. 63 Alban Gautier, ‘Entre cuisine, médecine et magie: l’historien de l’alimentation face à quelques textes anglo-saxons’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 93:2 (2015), 287–302, at p. 300. This is also indicated in the DOE, s.v. bēor, sense e. 64 Gautier, ‘Entre cuisine, médecine et magie’, p. 300. 65 Banham, ‘Food and Drink’, p. 196. 66 Alban Gautier, ‘Sweetness and Bitterness: The Sense of Taste in and around AngloSaxon England’, in Maren Clegg Hyer and Gale R. Owen-Crocker (eds), Sense and Feeling in Daily Living in the Early Medieval English World (Liverpool, 2020), pp. 54–69, at p. 65. 60

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sweet, salty, and sour; in brief, ‘despite all our efforts of re-enactment, we will never “feel” what they felt’.67 Modern readers facing Old English texts sometimes feel like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea table. What fare are we being served and what does it mean? This chapter suggests that this feeling is a matter of course, and, furthermore, that pre-Conquest English audiences might have felt similarly when encountering some literary products of their own culture. Despite some common ideas about drinking in the hall in poems such as Beowulf, alcohol does not only have positive connotations. Its charge depends on the genre of a text and the exact situation in a text in which it appears. Take Exeter Riddle 27: the speaker describes being collected from all over, ‘of bearwum […] burghleoþum, / of denum ond of dunum’ [from groves {…} sides of hills, valleys and mountains], and carried in the air on ‘feþre’, ‘feathers’, ingeniously translated by Kevin Crossley-Holland as ‘corbiculas’,68 to a roofed dwelling. After being washed in a tub, it turns into ‘bindere / ond swingere, sona [weorpere]69 / esne to eorþan, hwilum ealdne ceorl’ [a binder and a swinger, soon a thrower of a youth {or: servant} on the ground, sometimes an old man {or: peasant}] (Riddle 27, lines 6–8). A wrestling match of sorts ensues, with the speaker’s opponent eventually finding himself flat on his back. He loses his strength more generally and, more specifically, the control of his mind, feet, and hands (Riddle 27, lines 12–15). The generally accepted solution of the riddle is mead, though Helen Price prefers a more panoramic view, emphasising the process described by the enigma: ‘the poem is presented in the first person voices of two, or potentially three, different actants – those of nectar, honey, and mead’.70 The significance of honey in Baker’s translation, its addition to fruit and fermented beverages, corresponds to scholarly reconstructions of the historical situation through textual sources and, to a much lesser extent, archaeology (because of the perishable nature of honey and skeps).71 In her commentary to her translation on the academic website Riddle Ages, Wendy Hennequin indicates that the riddle shows an image of alcohol consumption rather different to that encountered in the celebration of the heroic, homosocial feasting in Beowulf and The Wanderer. She writes, ‘Riddle 27 emphasizes that overindulgence in mead is foolish […] and that it is a choice’. Furthermore, she suggests that an intoxicated warrior endangers his own life since he cannot fight to the best of his ability.72 Richard Fahey argues in a forthcoming essay that the riddles exhibit a Gautier, ‘Sweetness and Bitterness’, p. 63. ‘< Latin corbicula, diminutive of corbis basket. Entomology. A part of the hinder leg of a bee adapted to carry pollen’; OED, s.v. corbicula, n.. Kevin Crossley-Holland (trans.), The Exeter Book Riddles (London, 2008), Riddle 27, p. 30. 69 I restore the manuscript reading that Krapp and Dobbie emend to ‘weorpe’. 70 Helen Price, ‘A Hive of Activity: Realigning the Figure of the Bee in the Mead-Making Network of Exeter Book Riddle 27’, postmedieval 8 (2017), 444–62, at p. 448. Price’s fascinating ecomaterialist analysis of the riddle also contains much useful background on early-medieval apiculture and the value of honey and wax, essential bee products, in England. 71 Price, ‘A Hive of Activity’, p. 449. 72 Wendy Hennequin, ‘Commentary for Exeter Riddle 27’, The Riddle Ages: Early Medieval Riddles, Translations and Commentaries, ed. Megan Cavell, with Matthias Ammon, Neville Mogford and Victoria Symons, 2 Sep. 2014 [accessed 28 Mar. 2021]. 67

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‘range of attitudes on inebriation’, depicting it as ‘both wondrous and monstrous’,73 qualities easily found in both Old English poetry and the Alice books. The Beowulfpoet not only depicts the Danes who cannot withstand Grendel’s depredations, as Hennequin points out,74 but also praises his hero for not executing his thanes under the influence of alcohol: ‘nealles druncne slog / heorðgeneatas’ [not at all did he, drunken, slay his hearth-companions].75 One wonders at such an understated compliment. How common was this behaviour in the universe of the poem? Another riddle that presents the chilling consequences of overindulgence in alcohol is Riddle 11, in which ‘wine […] takes control of human minds’.76 Old English and Latin enigmas alike often depict a drinking cup as a dextrous sex-worker leading men astray.77 Intoxication implies dangers galore. The first thing served but not present at the Mad Hatter’s ‘gebeorscipe’ is wine, as in Carroll’s original novel. The March Hare offers, ‘Þige wines sum’ [Take {have} some wine], and when his perplexed guest observes, ‘Ic ne geseo nan win’ [I do not see any wine], he replies ‘Nis nan win’ [There is no wine].78 The lack of this particular substance works well as a joke about early-medieval England where, as scholars agree, wine was a significant luxury item. It had a deep symbolical meaning because of its classical background and place in the Christian ritual and was probably imported for the Eucharist even before the weather conditions allowed for growing grapes in the ninth century; the secular use, more widely spread as time passed, was reserved for those who could pay for it.79 Like with other goods, the pre-Conquest English preferred sourcing their wine from shorter distances. Light wines from the Paris Basin and Rhineland predominated, with no evidence of any type that originated further south or southeast.80 Leonard Neidorf even argues that the foreignness of the commodity ‘remains lodged in the word itself ’, win in Old English and the cognates in other Germanic languages being borrowed from Latin vinum at an early stage.81 He lists terms associated with wine-making in such languages, all clearly Latinate.82 Cheese and butter, and their 73 Richard Fahey, ‘The Wonders of Ebrietas: Drinking and Drunkenness in Old English and Anglo-Latin Riddles’, in John A. Geck, Rosemary O’Neill, and Noelle Phillips (eds), Beer and Brewing in Medieval Culture and Contemporary Medievalism (forthcoming June 2022). The quoted parts come from the summary [accessed 28 Mar. 2021]. 74 Hennequin, ‘Commentary for Exeter Riddle 27’. 75 R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork and John D. Niles (eds), Klaeber’s Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 4th edn (Toronto, 2008), lines 2179–80. 76 Corinne Dale, The Natural World in the Exeter Book Riddles (Cambridge, 2017), p. 154. 77 Mercedes Salvador-Bello, ‘The Nursemaid, the Mother, and the Prostitute: Tracing an Insular Riddle Topos on Both Sides of the English Channel’, in Megan Cavell and Jennifer Neville (eds), Riddles at Work in the Early Medieval Tradition: Words, Ideas, Interactions (Manchester, 2020), pp. 215–29, at pp. 228–9 n. 39. 78 Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. 68. 79 Banham, ‘Food and Drink’, pp. 195–6. 80 Gautier, ‘Entre cuisine, médecine et magie’, p. 299. 81 Leonard Neidorf, ‘Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxon Postcolonial Imagination: Wine, Wealth, and Romanitas’, Modern Philology 117:2 (2019), pp. 149–62, at p 158. The Latin word is the source for the word for ‘wine’ in most other European languages, including those belonging to the Celtic and Balto-Slavic families; OED, s.v. wine, n.1. 82 Neidorf, ‘Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxon Postcolonial Imagination’, p. 158.

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Old English ancestors cyse and butere, likewise come from Latin, but no one would argue against their full assimilation into the vernacular cultures.83 Besides, English speakers throughout North America and the British Isles know that taco and sushi, vodka and chai do not originally come from English but Spanish, Japanese, Russian, and Hindi (ultimately Chinese), respectively; yet they would not automatically consider foreign the food and drink designated by these words – much would depend on their personal background and consumption habits. When Banham states that ‘wine occurs a good deal more in Anglo-Saxon literature than in the diet’,84 we should keep in mind that a commodity does not have to be plentiful or easily available to play a crucial role in a people’s imagination. ‘To Micel Pipor’ [Too Much Pepper] Æðelgyþ enters a kitchen in Chapter 6 where she encounters the Duchess, or Hlæfdige ‘Lady’ in Old English, who is holding a baby. Also present are a cat and a cook. The cat is the famous Cheshire Cat, exactly translatable into Old English as Ceasterscire Catt: se coc ofer þam fyre ahylde, micelne citel hrerende, se wæs, swa Æðelgyðe þuhte, broðes ful. “Gewislice to micel pipor is on þam broðe,” cwæð Æðelgyþ hire selfre, swa heo betst meahte for þam fnoran. Þær wæs to gewisse to micel pipor on þære lyfte.85

The translation closely follows Carroll’s original, which reads: the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup. ‘There’s certainly too much pepper in that soup!’ Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. There was certainly too much of it in the air.86

Baker follows the Modern English as closely as he can. The passage quoted above demonstrates nicely the difference in Old English syntax. The verb forms ‘ahylde’ and ‘hrerende’, [leaned] and [stirring], come at the end of their clauses. ‘[W] hich seemed’ needs a more explicit formulation in the older linguistic variety: ‘as it seemed to Alice’. Four food-related words travel almost seamlessly from the modern descendant: cook/coc, cauldron/citel, soup/broð, and pepper/pipor. All the words except for broð are borrowings from Latin. According to the DOE, cytel (the main form in the DOE, which also notes the spelling that Baker uses, citel) comes from catillus and is the ancestor of kettle,87 and coc, the predecessor of cook, derives The sound changes evident in cyse (from caseus) indicate that it was an early loanword. OED, s.v. cheese, n.1. The author thanks one of the editors for pointing this out to him. 84 Banham, ‘Food and Drink’, p. 196. 85 Lewis Carroll, Æðelgyðe Ellendæda, p. 59. 86 Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures, p. 47. 87 DOE, s.v. cytel. 83

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from coquus. The etymology for pepper/pipor goes far back to the east, but it is not clearly traceable. The OED states that it comes from classical Latin piper, in which it was borrowed from an Indian language. The Greek equivalent πέπερι is also a borrowing from a similar source. Finally, the dictionary adds, whilst claiming no direct influence: ‘compare Sanskrit pippalī long pepper’.89 Most European languages have some form of the word from Latin. Turkish has biber from Greek.90 The Arabic ‫ فلفل‬fulful (from which derives one of the popular delicacies par excellence of Arab cuisine, falafel) and Persian ‫ پلپل‬pilpil seem to come from an Indian language, too, since Nişanyan offers, like the OED, the Sanskrit पिप्पल pippalī ‘meyvecik, biber’ [a little fruit, pepper] for comparison.91 The etymology of food words like wine and pepper in Old and Modern English indicates the connectedness of England with the Mediterranean region and Asia at an early stage. The availability of pepper in pre-Conquest England changes over time. According to Lee, ‘Some of the more exotic ingredients, such as pepper, may not have been widely available for cooking, but merchant ships brought a number of foreign foods to English markets. These included spices such as ginger and cinnamon, wine, olive and walnut oils […], coriander, cardamom, and nutmeg’.92 Aldhelm has a pepper riddle that shows both a fascination with the subject and its spread in the late seventh/early eighth century: it is black in colour and possesses ‘interius candentem […] medullam’ or, in A. M. Juster’s rendition, ‘a glowing core within’; it occurs in luxury food and commoner fare.93 Gautier points out that in a later period, pepper became ‘a more common, if still semi-precious and distinctive, commodity’.94 Yet a text surviving in a later compilation, The Wonders of the East, speaks about excessive amounts of pepper. It may have become easier to obtain than other spices, but still, in large quantities it inspired awe. The extraordinary, horned versions of ordinary animals such as donkeys and snakes that live in the Orient elicit the same sense of wonder as the enormous supply of pepper that the serpents take for themselves: 88

On sumon lande eoselas beoð acende þa habbað swa micle hornas swa oxan. […] Þa bugað to þæm Readan Sæ, for þara nædrena mænego þe in þæm stowum beoð þa hatton corsias. Þa habbað swa micle hornas swa weðeras. Gif hy hwilcne man sleað oþþe a æthrineð, þonne swylteð he sona. On þam landum bið pipores genihtsumnis; þone pipor healdaþ þa næddran on heora geornfulnysse. Þone pipor mon swa nimeð þæt mon þa stowe mid fyre onæleð, ond þa nædran þonne of dune on þa eorþan þæt hi fleoð; forþon se pipor bið sweart.95 DOE, s.v. cōc. OED, s.v. pepper, n. 90 Nişanyan, s.v. biber. 91 Nişanyan, s.v. biber. 92 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 154. 93 I take the Latin text and the English translation from Aldhelm, Saint Aldhelm’s Riddles, trans. A. M. Juster (Toronto, 2015), pp. 22–3. 94 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 396. 95 ‘In a certain land donkeys are born that have horns as big as [those of] oxen. […] They run away to the Red Sea because there are many snakes in those places that are called corsias. They have horns as large as [those of] rams. If any man hits or touches them, then he dies right away. In that land there is a great plenty of pepper. The snakes hold the pepper in their 88

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Here we have a possible parallel with the dragon in Beowulf, a hoarder of treasure. In both cases, terrifying reptilians are drawn to accumulated commodities precious to humans. The text does not make clear what the snakes do with the pepper. Paul Freedman identifies the trope of pepper-hoarding serpents in Isidore of Seville and gives other examples of ophidian guardians of goods like frankincense and balsam in Herodotus and Pausanias.96 Our particular combination comes from ‘a varied and reasonably complicated set of ideas about the East imagined as both fortunate and strange, where monsters and valuable substances proliferate’.97 In Alice’s Adventures, the soup in the cauldron is overly peppery – indeed, the air is saturated with the spice – rendering it inedible for a regular human being like the heroine. Monstrous otherness in the early Middle Ages, the nineteenth century, and today goes hand in hand with ‘improper’, ‘excessive’ use of foodstuffs. Conclusion: The Power of and Need for Imaginary Food Historians focusing on pre-Conquest England and more generally on Europe conclude that the food situation in the early Middle Ages differs from common perceptions of the ‘Dark Ages’ as a time of deprivation: ‘the examination of skeletal remains [shows] that although the diet of most of the population might have been bland, it was generally sufficient’;98 ‘[i]ntegration between animal and vegetable resources guaranteed […] a substantially balanced diet as is confirmed by archaeological studies of human remains found in early medieval sites’.99 Gautier on the one hand argues that a certain refinement existed in England, especially in later periods, allowing even for a kind of ‘cuisine’, the existence of professional cooks, kitchens as separate spaces, and luxury ingredients for higher ranks, as opposed to mere ‘cooking’.100 On the other hand, compared to their German contemporaries, who relished ‘new spices, acid and sharp preparations, low fat cooking’, their food culture seems ‘rather traditional’, even characterised by a certain ‘coarseness’.101 Hugh Magennis must have been right: the early-medieval English just did not make a big deal out of food.102 Yet, as with visual art, vernacular poetics, and sex, one must look beyond rather sparse explicit references in Old English literature. A subtle, complex eager possession. People take the pepper this way: they set fire to the area, and the snakes then flee from the mountain to the ground. That is why the pepper is black’. The Old English text comes from R. D. Fulk (ed.), The Beowulf Manuscript: Complete Texts and The Fight at Finnsburg (Cambridge, MA, 2010), p. 18. 96 Paul Freedman, ‘Spices and Late-Medieval European Ideas of Scarcity and Value’, Speculum 80:4 (2005), 1209–27, at pp. 1209–10. 97 Freedman, ‘Spices and Late-Medieval European Ideas’, p. 1217. 98 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 142. 99 Massimo Montanari, ‘Production Structures and Food Systems in the Early Middle Ages’, in Jean-Louis Flandrin, Massimo Montanari and Albert Sonnenfeld (eds), Food: A Culinary History, trans. Clarissa Botsford, Arthur Goldhammer, Charles Lambert, Frances M. López-Morillas and Sylvia Stevens (New York, 1999), pp. 168–77, at p. 175. 100 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, pp. 405–6. 101 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, pp. 402, 393, 403. 102 Gautier, ‘Cooking and Cuisine’, p. 405. He is referring to Magennis’ findings in his Anglo-Saxon Appetites: Food and Drink and Their Consumption in Old English and Related Literature (Dublin, 1999).

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discourse in all these areas flourishes beneath the surface.103 Reconstructing the material reality of food in this period matters, and literary works should be balanced carefully with archaeological findings and a wider range of texts such as tax records and wills.104 Nevertheless, the role of difficult, impossible, and imaginary food and drink should not be neglected in a discussion about attitudes towards eating and drinking in pre-Conquest England. For instance, Beowulf and (its neighbour in the compilation) The Wonders of the East prominently incorporate luxury items (wine and an abundance of pepper, respectively), but they also obsess over a delicacy much less consumed in reality: human flesh. Heather Blurton has demonstrated the centrality of cannibalism for prose and poetic components of the Beowulf-manuscript.105 Irina Dumitrescu and Aaron Hostetter have written about the close relationship between anthropophagy in the Old English Andreas and its poetics, such as its cannibalising of its predecessor, Beowulf.106 Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Baker’s Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande invite the readers to envision edibles and potables beyond the concrete and recoverable. They also suggest more disturbing aspects of consumption, typically unacknowledged in polite society. Culinary appetites do not stop at even the most delectable wine, pepper, honey, fruits, or roasted birds. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s argument about sexuality applies to the appetite for food, especially her insight that our most intense and influential fantasies may be the ones that we would never wish to realise.107 A person may not be able to stop thinking about cannibalism, but they would probably not want to eat a human being, barring unbearable starvation. At the same time, again following Sedgwick, we may not be aware of the things that motivate us the most in the culinary realm. Food, like sex, qualifies as ‘an area that is if anything notoriously resistant to the claims of common sense and introspection’.108 Prisoners of the twentieth-century concentration camps recorded recipes for food they fantasised about while dying of hunger. Cara De Silva published a collection of them from Terezín/Theresienstadt, present-day Czech Republic,

See, for instance, Catherine E. Karkov, The Art of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2011); Denis Ferhatović, Borrowed Objects and the Art of Poetry: Spolia in Old English Verse (Manchester, 2019); Glenn Davis, ‘The Exeter Book Riddles and the Place of Sexual Idiom in Old English Literature’, in Nicola McDonald (ed.), Medieval Obscenities (York, 2006), pp. 39–54. 104 In addition to several articles by Gautier cited above, see also Allen J. Frantzen, Food, Eating and Identity in Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2014). Frantzen argues that ‘Texts are only part of the story. Their testimony is more than matched by that of the ordinary objects archaeologists have unearthed. Unlike the texts, the object survivals are democratic’ (p. 2). 105 Heather Blurton, Cannibalism in High Medieval English Literature (New York, 2007), pp. 35–58. 106 Irina Dumitrescu, ‘Spoiled and Eaten: Figures of Absorption in Medieval English Poetry’, in Irina Dumitrescu and Eric Weiskott (eds), The Shapes of Early English Poetry: Style, Form, History (Kalamazoo, 2019), pp. 215–36; Aaron Hostetter, Political Appetites: Food in Medieval English Romance (Columbus, 2017), pp. 32–65. 107 Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley, 1990), p. 25. 108 Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet, p. 26. 103

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in which the creators attempted to ‘let fantasy run free’. The same is true of the imaginary tulumbe110 made of five kilogrammes of sugar and ten kilogrammes of flour in a concentration camp in Bosnia-Herzegovina in the 1990s.111 Although such extreme hunger may not have struck early-medieval England, occasional ‘periods of extreme hunger’112 or even periods of unavailability of certain ingredients could have inspired dreaming. This chapter consciously puts together the twentieth-century European Jews and Muslims and the early-medieval English Christians in the same paragraph. They all dreamt of food; food has always been complicated, not merely a metabolic affair. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland presents a world for which nobody had – or could have – prepared the heroine, and in which rules might exist but it is hard to decipher them. The textual and archaeological traces of early medieval England perplex readers today, experts included. Combining two strange universes, Baker’s Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande serves a double dose of stimulating bafflement. The focus of this chapter, food and drink of an ancient island people, often characterised as less sophisticated than those of their neighbours across the Channel, still holds many surprises. The most ordinary words like ‘apple’ and ‘beer’ that seem to travel little changed into Modern English mean something different. This distant past is not straightforward. The ideas so beloved by the extreme right wing (to use a euphemism), of an England cut off from the European Continent, the Mediterranean, the Middle East, India, and further, are untenable when we realise the provenance of even the most common goods and terms like ‘wine’ and ‘pepper’.113 It is not enough to conclude with the much bandied-about quotation from L. P. Hartley that ‘[t]he past is a foreign country: they do things differently there’.114 Frustrated with the frequent inconsistency and paucity of historical record, scholars sometimes imagine that the original audiences of Old English texts, whoever they were, held the knowledge that would make the literature that perplexes us today transparent. All or at least most of the mysteries would be conclusively solved. Let us remember that when the past was the present, it was a foreign country for people who lived in it, too. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland attests to that reality, as do 109

109 Cara De Silva (ed.), In Memory’s Kitchen: A Legacy from the Women of Terezín, trans. Bianca Steiner Brown (Northvale, 1996), p. xliii. 110 Singular tulumba. The word is a borrowing in Bosnian from Turkish. It came into Turkish from the Italian tromba ‘hunting trumpet’, ‘water hose (on ships)’, related to trumpet. Nişanyan, s.v. tulumba. The dessert consists of ridged, cylindrically shaped fried dough drenched in syrup. 111 Semezdin Mehmedinović, ‘Mali životopisi: Recept za tulumbe’ [Small Life Stories: The Tulumba Recipe], Žurnal, 9 Jan. 2021 [accessed 29 Apr. 2021]. 112 Lee, ‘Earth’s Treasures’, p. 143. 113 For a critique of the British Museum’s exhibition of Sutton Hoo treasures that downplays ‘kinship or trade connections [of the creators of Mound 1] spanning Europe, north Africa, western Asia and beyond’, and questioning the claims to universalism by Neil MacGregor that seem to embrace the global interactions without addressing the particular colonialist history of the British Museum, see Fran Allfrey’s contribution to this volume (pp. 72, 80–1). 114 L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between (New York, [1953] 2002), p. 17.

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the Exeter riddles and The Wonders of the East. Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande and the marvellous yet restrained feast provided by the Old English translator demonstrate that our own present, too, is a foreign country, whose boundaries need constant adjustment.115

115 The author would like to express his gratitude to the editorial trio of the collection; the anonymous reader; Caroline Palmer; and Ariella Rotramel for their stimulating feedback. An earlier version of this chapter was presented virtually at Bilgi University in March of 2021 at the invitation of F. Nihan Ketrez Sözmen, whom the author thanks along with Özge Öz and Rana Tekcan.

11 The Fall of the King and the Composition of Neo-Old English Verse Rafael J. Pascual

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n his famous essay on ‘The Alliterative Metre’, C. S. Lewis memorably declared: ‘A man who preaches a metre must sooner or later risk his case by showing a specimen’.1 The number of my public writings on the technicalities of Old English verse composition is now considerable (others would no doubt prefer to call it excessive),2 and so I believe it is time for me to risk my case and present The Fall of the King, my most serious attempt so far at composing neo-Old English verse. This ninety-eight-line poem in Old English retells in classical metre and idiom King Théoden’s death at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and the encounter between Éowyn and the Witch-king of Angmar as narrated in The Return of the King.3 My poem is thus a tribute to J. R. R. Tolkien, who has been described as ‘one of the most prominent composers of neo-Old English’.4 I would like it to be read as the C. S. Lewis, ‘The Alliterative Metre’, Rehabilitations and Other Essays (London, 1939), pp. 117–32, at p. 128. 2 See, for example, Rafael J. Pascual, ‘Three-Position Verses and the Metrical Practice of the Beowulf Poet’, SELIM: Journal of the Spanish Society for Medieval English Language and Literature 20 (2013–14), 49–79; Rafael J. Pascual, ‘Ælfric’s Rhythmical Prose and the Study of Old English Metre’, English Studies 95 (2014), 803–23; Rafael J. Pascual, ‘Manuscript Evidence and Metrical Authenticity: A Response to Seiichi Suzuki’, Journal of Germanic Linguistics 29 (2017), 89–99. 3 Warm thanks go to the Tolkien Estate for granting me permission to base my poem upon Tolkien’s literary work (The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien © The Tolkien Estate Limited 1955, 1966) and to publish it in this collection. I am grateful also to R. D. Fulk and Nelson Goering, who read a draft of this chapter and proposed satisfactory alternatives for a number of technical infelicities, and to Rachel A. Fletcher, Thijs Porck, and Oliver M. Traxel, whose valuable feedback improved its readability. 4 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28, at p. 312. Tolkien composed not only Old English verse but also alliterative poetry in modern English. For an appreciation of his production, see, for example, T. A. Shippey, ‘Tolkien’s Development as a Writer of Alliterative Poetry in Modern English’, in Julian Eilmann and Allan Turner (eds), Tolkien’s Poetry (Bern, 1

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manuscript copy of the lay that a bard from Rohan (an individual with a learned mind and a gentle heart) composed after the War of the Ring upon realizing that the enemy that Théoden dared to confront was of a more evil nature than his lord could ever have suspected. The publication of The Fall of the King, it is to be hoped, will encourage others to try their hand at the noble art of Old English versification. Before showing my poem and discussing verse composition, however, a few words are in order about the value of this creative activity for students and scholars of Old English poetry. Latin verse composition has traditionally been seen by many as a central component of classical education.5 After a decline in popularity that started in the second half of the twentieth century, it is now experiencing a resurgence among teachers of Latin, thanks in part to the notable success of the active Latin movement.6 That this should be the case is hardly surprising. Experience tells us (and in this receives ample support from numerous studies in the field of second-language acquisition) that learners learn best through creative interaction with their objects of study.7 The beneficial effects that verse-making has had on generations of students of Latin poetry are well-known and have been discussed elsewhere.8 In Anglo-Saxon England, the marriage between monastic Latinity and the vernacular tradition of alliterative verse gave rise to a body of classical poetry that is comparable in dignity, universal appeal, and stylistic finesse to that produced by some of the most distinguished Roman poets. It is therefore natural that students of Old English have shown a greater interest in poetry than in prose, and that the work of the poets has occupied a more central place in the curriculum than that of the prose authors. This traditional preference for the study of the poetry, however, has been paradoxically at odds with the marginal place that metrics has had within the field in the last few decades. Recent years have witnessed encouraging signs that the situation is changing and that versification is now beginning to be seen not only as an area with which all serious scholars of Old English poetry should be well acquainted but also as a discipline that is accessible and worth teaching to students.9 One can only wish that in this new context teachers of Old English literature will consider incorporating basic verse composition into their classes so that enthusiastic learners of Old English are not deprived of this first-hand (and hence unforgettable) experience of poetic art that students of Latin often enjoy.

2013), pp. 11–28; Geoffrey Russom, ‘Tolkien’s Versecraft in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings’, in George Clark and Daniel Timmons (eds), J. R. R. Tolkien and His Literary Resonances (London, 2000), pp. 53–69; and Nelson Goering, ‘The Fall of Arthur and The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún: A Metrical Review of Three Modern English Alliterative Poems’, Journal of Inkling Studies 5 (2015), 3–56. 5 See, for example, Tom Keeline, ‘Latin Verse Composition: An Introductory Lesson Plan’, The Classical Journal 114:2 (2018), 216–41. 6 See Keeline, ‘Latin Verse Composition’, p. 217. 7 See Keeline, ‘Latin Verse Composition’, p. 218, n. 8. 8 See Keeline, ‘Latin Verse Composition’, and the references therein. 9 As witnessed, for example, by the publication of Jun Terasawa’s pedagogical guide, Old English Metre: An Introduction (Toronto, 2011), and by the large number of publications on the subject that have appeared in recent years.

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The practice of verse composition can be beneficial not only to students. As David K. Money puts it on the website of the Inter Versiculos workshop: There are also tangible academic benefits for Latin scholars at all levels of study. The demands of thinking as a poet, rather than merely as a reader, refines understanding of both meter and language. One can gain new insights into the reasons why poets have chosen particular vocabulary or word order. While many scholars may grasp such insights without themselves composing verse, these practical details come more easily and naturally to those who have engaged in the challenges of the actual discipline of writing. As with many art forms, one of the best ways to understand how others have done it is to try to do it oneself.10

This is as true of Old English versification as it is of Latin. Classical Old English poets, inspired by the technical sophistication of Latin verse, set their hands to the task of refining the methods and tightening up the style of alliterative verse composition that they inherited from oral tradition.11 Most of the Old English poetry that survives thus offers a world rich in metrical diversity and formal accomplishment, and there is nothing like the hands-on experience furnished by verse-making to get an insider’s view of it. I for one can confirm this to be case. Having spent hours trying to arrange the elements of a verse clause in a metrically coherent way, I can now see the arcane-sounding Satzpartikelgesetz, or Kuhn’s law of sentence particles,12 as nothing more than the natural consequence of highlighting the alliterating words within the line for the audience. Verse composition has made me realize that the formula him seo wen geleah (‘that expectation played it false’) – the quintessential expression of the theme of ironic reversal that the classical poets loved – is particularly compelling for being cast in the rising-rising rhythm of a Type B verse.13 After having struggled to avoid metrico-syntactic monotony in a work of less than a hundred lines, I cannot but wonder at the stupendously large amount of rhythmical variety attained in Beowulf (a belletristic tour de force!). The Fall of the King is now presented, along with a modern English translation. Metrical scansions of hemistichs are given alongside each line.14 Only long vowels 10 David K. Money, ‘Rationale’, Inter Versiculos: Workshops in Latin Verse Composition, c. 2021 [accessed 19 Apr. 2021]. 11 A. Campbell, ‘The Old English Epic Style’, in Norman Davis and C.L. Wrenn (eds), English and Medieval Studies: Presented to J. R. R. Tolkien on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday (London, 1962), pp. 13–26. 12 Kuhn’s law of sentence particles is the basic rule of Old English word order in poetry. According to this rule, the metrical behaviour of words of intermediate stress, or particles (finite verbs; demonstrative adverbs, mostly monosyllabic; personal pronouns; and demonstrative pronouns), is determined by their position within the clause. For more on Kuhn’s law, see Terasawa, Old English Metre, pp. 95–97. 13 For a literary analysis of this formula and its use in Old English poetry, especially Beowulf, see Richard N. Ringler, ‘Him sēo wēn gelēah: The Design for Irony in Grendel’s Last Visit to Heorot’, Speculum 41 (1966), 49–67. 14 For an explanation of the different metrical types and subtypes, see John C. Pope and R. D. Fulk (eds), Eight Old English Poems, 3rd edn (New York, 2001), pp. 129–58, especially 140–8. An italicized letter in the metrical label indicates that the corresponding verse is filled by a single word.

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of syllables that receive metrical stress have been marked. Hyphens and interpuncts indicate respectively descending and ascending rhythm. Thus, the prefix un- should be pronounced with primary stress in line 25b (wiht un-fǣġer) but unstressed in line 32b (un·hȳre lēoht).15 Usage of þ and ð has been regularized, so that they stand respectively for a voiceless and voiced sound.16 The poem displays the dialect mixture that is so typical of Old English verse texts.17 It is followed by a series of notes, the purpose of which is to show the interaction between research and recreation that is a chief concern of this volume. The chapter concludes with a section offering advice to teachers of Old English literature who may be considering incorporating basic verse composition into their classes (or to anyone who would like to take up the challenge of producing their own neo-Old English poetry). The Fall of the King

5

10

15

Hwæt! We Þēodnes  þrīst-cyninges

A3|D3

ellen-dǣda  eorles ġe·frugnon,

A1|A1

hu he dyrstiġ wiþ·stōd,  dryhten mēara,

B2|A1

atolum eġesan  eald-ġe·winnan,

A1|A1

æfter dōgres cyme.  Þæt wæs dēor cyning!

B1|C3

Nales wæs se gomela  galdre be·wunden,

A3|A1

sāriġ ond sorhful,  saru-bendum fæst,

A1|E

þa him be Hwīt-byrịġ  heaðo-rǣs for·nam,

A3|E

eafoþ un-cūðes.  Up-heofon wearþ

D1|E

be·þeaht mid þȳstrum,  þuxodon rodoras,

A1|A1

þa se Wiċċe-cyning  un·wāc-līċe

B1|C1

to campe be·cōm.  A·cwacodon þā

B2|B1

māgas ond mēaras,  mīne ġe·frǣġe,

A1|A1

ond hi hie þa oþ·bǣron,  blancan a·fyrhte

A3|A1

heora rīd-wigan,  rincas holde,

C3|A1

frēo-dryhtne feor,  syððan se for-worhta,

E|C1

lāð-ġe·nīðla  on lyft-flogan

A1|C3

15 In the text of the poem, a circumflex indicates decontraction (that is, disyllabic rather than monosyllabic pronunciation); underpunctuated vowels should be elided during recitation. 16 Note that in Old English manuscripts þ and ð are used interchangeably. The adverb þa, for example, can thus appear as either þa or ða in manuscripts, but it should always be pronounced with a voiceless rather than a voiced dental fricative at the beginning (for which reason it is here systematically given as þa). On the importance of correct pronunciation for the appreciation of Old English literature, see Eric Weiskott’s eloquent piece: ‘A Plea for Pronunciation’, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Teaching 22 (2015), 41–2. 17 For a pithy account of Old English dialects and of the poetic κοινή, see R. D. Fulk, An Introductory Grammar of Old English (Tempe, 2014), pp. 118–31.

The Fall of the King and the Composition of Neo-Old English Verse

20

25

30

35

40

45

50

213

selfa æt·ȳwde.  Snāw-mane stōd

A1|E

ateliċ eġesa,  ær earh þurh·wōd

A1|B1

fǣġe feorh-hūs  frēa-dryhnes ēos,

A2b|E

hilde-nǣdre  þa þe hettend ġe·scēat.

A1|B2

Wǣpne for·wundod  þæt wicg ġe·crang;

A1|B1

lēod under līċe  lim-wēriġ fēol,

A1|E

helm Eorlinga  henġeste be·nyðan.

D1|E

  Þa com of wolcnum  wiht un-fǣġer

A3|D1

flēogan of·dūne,  oþ þæt hit on flǣsce stōd

A1|B1

un-lyfiġendum  æðelan horses.

D1|A1

Þa þæm wulfe wearþ  wēn a·lumpen

B1|A1

wæles ond wist-fylle,  ond se wanna ġe·feah

D*1|B2

hræfn on heofone,  þa þæm hete-grimman,

A1|C2

þæm scinn-sceaðan  ond scucc-frêan,

C3|C1

under heoloþ-helme  un·hȳre lēoht

C2|B1

of ēagum stōd.  Þæt wæs eġesliċ cyning!

B1|B1

Mynte þæt he ġe·dǣlde  dȳran Þēodnes,

A3|A1

gryreliċ ġylp-sceaða,  gomelan dryhtnes,

D*2|A1

līf wiþ līċe,  ac his ġe·limp ne wæs

A1|B1

þæt he hine a·fȳlde,  fēond un-clǣne,

A3|D1

oþþe þæt he hine handum  hrīnan sceolde.

A3|A1

Hleahtor heaðu-torht  hlynede swīðe,

A2b|A1

þa Dyrne-helm,  dēagol cempa,

B1|A1

sōðan æðelo  sweotule cȳðde,

A1|A1

ond him of dyde  ēawesċ-līċe

C3|A1

helm of hafelan.  Þā ġe·hlīfode

A1|C3

Ēowynn ælf-scȳne,  Ēomundes bearn,

D*1|E

ides Eorlinga  æġ-lǣċan on·ġēan!

D1|E

  Þa þæs myrðran mōd  miclum ġe·twēode,

B1|A1

inwit-fullan,  þa he Ēowynn ġe·seah.

A1|B2

Fleah þa se grǣġ-hama,  gūþ-fugọl þone

C3|A2a

þære fǣmnan word  a·flīemdon þonan,

B1|B1

bealdan fǣmnan.  Heo bēot nẹ a·lēh!

A1|B1

Hyrde iċ þæt beado-lēoma  ful beorhte scān,

C2|B1

heard hilde-bil.  Heo hēafde be·ċearf

D4|B2

flēogende fīfẹl  fāge mēċe,

E|A1

hefigum hafelan,  swa se hete-þoncla,

A1|C2

214

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65

70

75

80

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Rafael J. Pascual

se þe on lyft-flogan  ġe·lōme sæt,

C3|B1

fēoll on foldan.  A·ras þa fēond-sceaða,

A1|C3

eald-ġe·winna  yrringa slōh,

A1|E

hearde mid hamere,  þæt hire hilde-rand,

A1|B1

holt-wudu hyrsted  hlynsịende to·bærst,

A2a|E

ond idese earm,  Ēowynnes lim,

B1|E

to·brocen ġe·wearþ:  bona un-met nēah!

B1|E

Ac ne wæs þæt wyrd þa·ġēn  þæt se werġa gǣst

B1|B1

cyne-wyrðe cwēn  cwellan mōste.

E|A1

A·sah þa se hete-grimma  þa hindan slōh

C2|B1

ārfæst healfling  un-wēnunga

A1|D1

wiċċan hamme.  Wyrd oft nereþ

A1|A2a

an-fǣġe ides  þonne hire ellen dēah!

E|B1

  Þa wæs sǣl cumen  siġe-cwēne tō;

C3|E

ides ellen-heard  eornoste slōh

D4|E

þone scinn-scaðan  scearpe sweorde,

C3|A1

þæt his helm ġe·wand,  seo hēafod-beorg,

B1|B1

forþ on flōre.  Læġ þær þæt fūle scrūd,

A1|B1

hleostor hrǣġl-ġe·wǣd,  ond hlūde wōþ,

D*4|B1

lēoþ lāð-wende  ġe·lēoðode þā

D1|B2

hindeman sīðe,  hete-þoncla song,

A1|E

þa gryre-ġiestes  gāst ellor hwearf

C2|E

under næssa ġe·nipu,  nyðer-hrēosende.

B2|D1

Oft ed-wenden  ofer-mōdgum cymeþ

C1|E

þæm þe þurh an-mēdlan  up a·stīgeþ,

C1|A1

gǣlsan miċelne.  Þær þæt ġyfeþe wearþ

A1|B1

idese Eorlinga  þæt heo æġ-lǣċan,

D*1|C1

orde ġe·rǣhte,  ond þone eald-hlāford

A1|C1

fēond ne a·fȳlde.  Þæt wæs frēcne cwēn!

A1|B1

Ġe·spræc þa se mōdga  mēara dryhten,

A3|A1

baldọr Eorlinga,  se þe brōgan ne flēah,

D1|B2

wæl-gǣst wôn;  wisse he ġearwe

A2a|A1

þæt he scolde of·lǣtan  his līf-dagas,

A3|C3

worolde wynna:  wyrd swīðe nēah!

A1|E

  ‘Sona sceal iċ eald-fæderas  ealle grētan,

C1|A1

mǣġ-cynren mīn,  nu iċ mēðe eom,

E|B1

lama ond lim-wēriġ,  ac iċ mines līf-fæces

D*1|C3

The Fall of the King and the Composition of Neo-Old English Verse

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215

scamiende ne bēo,  þeah þe hie scīre sȳn.

E|B1

Iċ þone frum-gār  fēores ġe·twǣfde,

A3|A1

Swertinga lēod,  saru-nīðas flēah,

E|E

web Wyrm-tungan,  worold-strenġo ġe·ċēas,

D1|E

swa iċ þæm scuccan,  to ġe·scæp-hwīle,

A3|C1

dwimor-lāce nẹ oþ·fōr.  Dēaþ biþ sēlla,

E|A1

eorla ġe·hwelcum  þonne edwit-līf!’

A1|B1

[Indeed, we have heard of the courageous deeds of Théoden, the nobleman, the brave king, how he, daring lord of horses, withstood the terrible fear of an ancestral enemy after daybreak. That was a bold king! By no means was the old man bound by the spell, sad and sorrowful, constrained by cunning clasps, when the storm of combat, the strength of a stranger, destroyed him by the White City. The lofty heaven was covered with shadows, the skies darkened, when the Witch-king arrived majestically in the battlefield. Then trembled the kinsmen and the steeds, as I have heard say, and the scared horses carried away their riders, loyal warriors, far from their dear lord, after that malefactor, that loathly foe, showed himself on an air-flyer. There arose in Snowmane a terrible fear before an arrow, the battle-adder that the enemy shot, penetrated the doomed body of the lord’s warhorse. The steed fell mortally wounded by the weapon; the weary man fell under the corpse, the protector of the Eorlingas under the stallion. Then from the clouds came the uncanny creature flying downwards, until it stood on the dead carcass of the noble horse. The expectation of slaughter and of a plentiful meal then arose in the wolf, and the black raven rejoiced in the sky, when the eyes of the fierce one, ghostly enemy and spectral lord, emanated an unpleasant light under the helmet of invisibility. That was a frightening king! He, a terrible and arrogant enemy, intended to separate body from soul of the dear king, of the old lord, but it was not his fate that the unclean foe should defile or touch him with his hands. A battle-loud laughter resounded exceedingly when Dernhelm, mysterious warrior, clearly declared his true origin and openly stripped off the helmet from his head. Éowyn, Éomund’s offspring, woman of the Eorlingas, stood high against the assailant! The mind of the murderer, of the deceitful one, doubted greatly when he saw Éowyn. Then the grey-coated one fled, the bird of war was put to flight by the words of the maiden, of that brave woman. She did not neglect her vow. I heard that the battle-light, hard war-sword, shone very brightly. She cut off the head, the heavy scalp of the flying monster, with her decorated blade, so that the hostile one, he who used to sit on the air-flyer, fell to the ground. Then that dire foe arose, the ancestral enemy angrily struck, hard with his hammer, so that her battle-shield, decorated wood of the forest, burst asunder making a noise, and the woman’s arm, Éowyn’s limb, got broken: the slayer was incalculably near! But it was not then the case that the accursed creature should kill the royal lady. The cruel one fell down when the virtuous Halfling unexpectedly struck the

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witch’s knee from behind. Fate often saves an absolutely doomed woman if her courage is strong! There was then an opportunity for the victorious lady; the brave woman zealously struck the spectral foe with her sharp sword, so that his helmet, that cover for the head, rolled forth on the ground. The foul garment, the dark clothes, lay there, and a loud cry, a pernicious song, a hostile melody, sounded then for the last time when the soul of that dreadful stranger departed elsewhere, falling down under the cliff ’s gloom. A change of fortune often comes to the arrogant who swells through self-importance, through great pride. It was then allotted to the lady of the Eorlingas that she hit her opponent with the sword, and that the fiend did not defile her dear lord. That was an audacious woman! Then spoke that courageous lord of horses, the protector of the Eorlingas, he who did not flee from the terror, from that wicked, slaughtering spectre; he knew very well that he should leave his life-days, these worldly joys: his destiny was very near! ‘Soon I will greet all my forefathers, my lineage, now that I am weary, crippled and exhausted, but, even if they are glorious, I will not be ashamed of my life. I killed the leader of the Swertings, I got away from the treacheries, the nets of the Wormtongue, and chose worldly strength, so that I, at the appointed time, did not flee from the ghost, from that spectral delusion. Death is better for everyone than a miserable existence!’]

Notes 6–7.  The reference here is to Saruman’s influence over Théoden. The fact that the scribe did not substitute searo for dialect saru in line 7b (and also later in line 94b) is a happy coincidence. 9.  Théoden and Éowyn would seem to be unaware of their adversary’s true identity. The poem thus resembles Beowulf, in which the characters’ ignorance of the origin of the monsters starkly contrasts with the superior knowledge of the audience. 10.  The prefix be- is anacrustic. In the off-line, þuxodon, a finite verb, takes alliterative precedence over a noun. Alistair Campbell thought this feature to be much more typical of the pre-literary lay than of the book-epic, although some examples occur in Beowulf (for example, line 1441b, Ġyrede hine Bēowulf).18 13.  A formula (cf. Beowulf, lines 776, 837, 1955…) 21. hilde-nǣdre. A kenning for arrow. 24–25.  An uninflected infinitive, flēogan, depends on a verb of motion (com). This construction was frequently used by poets to organize their plots into smaller segments. Its occurence here marks the beginning of a new scene (the descent of the Witch-king from the sky). Cf. Beowulf lines 702–3, 710–11, and 720. 27.  æðelan. The weak form of the adjective is here used without a demonstrative (also in lines 34b and 35b, for example). This archaism is typical of Beowulf. 28–30.  The poet has introduced the traditional theme of the beasts of battle. The wolf and the raven are later on scared away by Éowyn’s words and laughter (lines 48–9).

18

See Campbell, ‘Old English Epic Style’, p. 16.

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31.  scucc-frêan ‘spectral lord’. A nonce compound. The word frēan stands here for older and disyllabic *frawun (otherwise the verse would consist of three positions only, which is unmetrical). 32.  heoloð-helme. The devil occasionally wears a helmet of invisibility in Old English verse (Genesis B, line 444a, The Whale, line 45a; see also Juliana, line 470b). 39.  hleahtor. Disyllabic hleahtor is here necessary rather than monosyllabic *hleahtr. In lines 8, 48, 53, and 85, however, epethentic vowels must be ignored in scansion: -byriġ, -fugol, fīfel, and baldor are metrically monosyllabic. 41. cf. The Battle of Maldon, line 216, when Ælfwine reveals his origin. 43–5. Cf. Judith, line 14. 59.  holt-wudu hyrsted. A Kaluza 1 verse, with resolution of wudŭ under secondary stress. 61.  un-met. On scribal substitution of uniġmetes and unġemete for authorial unmet, see Nelson Goering’s essay.19 67. an-fǣġe. Cf. Beowulf, line 573a, un-fǣġne eorl. It has been persuasively argued that negative un- at this point is scribal for an-.20 78–79.  A central theme of the poem thus seems to be the reversal of fortune that is often experienced by the arrogant. 89–98.  The other central theme of the poem is revealed in the king’s speech: the shift from passivity to heroic bravery. The Composition of Neo-Old English Verse The composition of neo-Old English verse should be attempted only after a basic knowledge of both grammar and vocabulary has been acquired. This, however, does not mean that it should be reserved only for those students who excel in language study. Verse-making is in fact an excellent way to improve one’s linguistic skills.21 But there is more to it than language practice. The ultimate goal of the activity is to create a direct experience of Old English poetry for the students, an experience that will leave them with a happy memory of the subject, and so the process is far more important than the outcome. Few of those who try will forget the day when they composed their own Old English poem (regardless of its degree of grammatical accuracy or technical accomplishment).22 The main value of basic verse composition thus is the positive emotional effect that it is likely to exert on those who engage

Nelson Goering, ‘Old Saxon unmet, Genesis B 313b ungemet, and Unmetrical Scribal Forms in Germanic Alliterative Verse’, Studia Neophilologica 93 (2021): 24–33. 20 See Thijs Porck, ‘Undoomed Men Do Not Need Saving. A Note on Beowulf ll. 572b–3 and 2291–3a’, Notes and Queries 67 (2020), 157–9. 21 On the pedagogical value of neo-Old English composition in general, see Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Old English in the Modern World: Its Didactic Value’, OEN 46:3 (2016) [accessed 19 Apr. 2021]. 22 I had the opportunity to learn much about the process of verse composition during a session of a graduate seminar in Old English literature held at Harvard University in 2016, under the guidance of Daniel Donoghue, to whom warm thanks are due for a memorable and highly educational experience: each of the participants in the seminar was entrusted with no less a task than composing their own reconstruction of The Ruin! 19

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in it. In what follows, I will give a series of guidelines and pieces of advice that should make the exercise feasible. First, one should become familiar with the three-fold classification of words according to their semantic relevance, since words in verse will have to be scanned (and hence recited) one way or another depending on which of the three groups they belong to.24 Stress-words, which include nouns and adjectives (that is, words that carry a substantial amount of meaning), are always pronounced with a full stress on their main syllables. Proclitics, which are words that carry very little meaning of their own (prepositions, conjunctions, definite articles, and similar function words), will almost always be pronounced unstressed. The third group, that of particles, includes words that occupy a middle-tier between stress-words and proclitics in terms of semantic relevance, such as finite verbs, pronouns, and adverbs (especially those of just one syllable). Because of the intermediate status of particles, their scansion is variable: they can be either stressed or unstressed depending on context. Naturally, then, it is particles that pose the greater difficulties for verse composition. As a rule of thumb, we will cluster them at the beginning of the clause if we want them to be unstressed. For example, in the clause fleah þa se grǣġ-hama ‘then the grey-coated one fled’ (l. 48a), the particles fleah (finite verb) and þa (an adverb) are unstressed because they start the clause. If a particle appears removed from the beginning of the clause, then it will be given full stress in recitation, as in se þe brōgan ne flēah ‘he who did not flee from the terror’ (l. 85b). Here, the finite verb flēah does not appear at the beginning of the clause alongside se þe, and so it must be emphatically recited. When it comes to handling particles, students will thus need to be sensitive to their variable scansion: are they clause-initial or not?25 Familiarity with this three-fold classification, which is essential to learn how to versify in Old English, can be easily gained with a very simple exercise. Students could be asked to classify all the words from a given passage of poetry according to their degree of semantic relevance. The passage should of course be taken from a poem with which they are already familiar. This same passage could then be used in order to teach the three main rules of alliteration: (1) the first stress of the on-verse alliterates with the first stress of the off-verse; (2) the second stress of the off-verse is strictly prohibited from the alliteration; (3) the second stress of the on-verse (when there is one) may or may not alliterate.26 Students should at this point be reminded or made aware that alliteration in Old English verse is the exclusive property of stressed syllables. Thus, when asked to detect the alliterating sounds within a given 23

The phrasal parallels between The Fall of the King and Beowulf will be apparent to many. Verse composition furnishes an excellent opportunity for students to get a first-hand experience of the utility of formulas. 24 For dependable introductions to the principles of verse construction, see Terasawa, Old English Metre, and Pope and Fulk, Eight Old English Poems, pp. 129–58. For a shorter but useful account, see Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English, 8th edn (Oxford, 2012), pp. 156–62. 25 For a useful summary of word order in verse, see Terasawa, Old English Metre, pp. 92–100. 26 Verses of just one stress are possible in the first half-line. This verse type is known as Type A3, of which there are several examples in The Fall of the King. In Type A3 verses, it is obviously the verse’s single stress that carries the alliteration. 23

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passage (underlined in the passage below), they should be on the lookout for stresswords and non-clause-initial particles only: Þa þæm wúlfe wéarþ  wḗn a·lúmpen wǽles ond wíst-fylle,  ond se wánna ġe·féah hrǽfn on héofone,  þa þæm héte-grímman, þæm scín-scéaðan ond scúcc-fréan, under héoloþ-hélme un·hȳ ́ re lḗoht of ḗagum stṓd.  Þæt wæs éġesliċ cýning! (ll. 28–33) [The expectation of slaughter and of a plentiful meal then arose in the wolf, and the black raven rejoiced in the sky, when the eyes of the fierce one, ghostly enemy and spectral lord, emanated an unpleasant light under the helmet of invisibility. That was a frightening king!]

Here one can see that the alliteration is carried systematically either by stress-words or, in the case of line 28a, by a particle that occurs in the middle of the clause (wearþ, a finite verb). Proclitics and particles that occur clause-initially (for example, the adverb þa in 28a and 30b, the finite verb wæs in 33b) are unstressed, and so they can be safely ignored when analysing alliteration. The second stress of the off-verse must always interrupt the alliterative pattern of the line. This interruption marks the boundary between one line and the next. In line 29b above, the second stress of the off-verse falls on a finite verb (ġe·feah) because it does not appear at the beginning of its clause alongside ond, also in line 29b. Next, students could be introduced to the five types and the four-position principle (the most basic rule of verse composition). The vast majority of half-lines in Old English poetry will evince one of five possible rhythms, listed here:27 Type A

falling-falling

dryhten mēara

/x/x

Type B

rising-rising

on flōdes ǣht

x/x/

Type C

clashing

þæs mann-cynnes

x/\x

Type D

falling by stages

fēond mann-cynnes

//\x

Type E

fall and rise

mann-cynnes fēond

/\x/

What these five patterns have in common is that each consists of four syllables. It would be impossible, with fewer than four syllables, to achieve one of these five rhythms, and so students should be told to avoid in a systematic way the composition of verses of three syllables or fewer. It will often be the case, however, that students will need more than the required minimum of four syllables in order to express a particular idea. This is perfectly fine (it is in fact desirable) as long as the verse still features one of the five basic rhythms. How can this be achieved? Here is where the four-position comes into play. A verse is regular, regardless of its number of syllables, as long as it consists of exactly four rhythmical constituents, or positions. There are two rules at our disposal that allow us to use more than four syllables in 27

For a similar table, see Mitchell and Robinson, Guide to Old English, p. 160.

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a way that is rhythmically acceptable: resolution and drop expansion. Resolution is the process whereby a stressed position, or lift (/), is occupied by a light stressed syllable (that is, one that ends in a short vowel or diphthong) and its unstressed successor rather than by a single heavy stressed syllable. Line 4a, atolum eġesan, consists of six syllables (a-, -to-, -lum, e-, -ġe-, -san), but both a- and e- are stressed and short. This means that each of them undergoes resolution with its unstressed successor (-to- and -ġe-, respectively), so that ato- and eġe- occupy single lifts (that is, they scan /, not / x). The rhythmical pattern of this six-syllable verse is thus the same as that of the four-syllable dryhten mēara: / x / x, or Type A. According to the other rule (drop expansion), several unstressed syllables occupy a single unstressed position, or drop, as long as they are adjacent to each other. For example, in line 28a, þa þæm wulfe wearþ (a five-syllable verse), the clause-initial adverb þa and the proclitic þæm are adjacent. This five-syllable verse is thus rhythmically identical to on flōdes ǣht (x / x /, or Type B), because þa and þæm count as a single ‘x’ by virtue of their being unstressed and adjacent. Finally, two stylistic features of Old English verse should be considered. One is rhythmical variety across the caesura. If an on-verse has the falling-falling rhythm of a Type A, then the off-verse should ideally have any of the other four rhythms. Thus, verse couplings like that in line 94 above (Type E with Type E) are not ideal. Audiences of Old English poetry found the contrast of rhythms within a single line aesthetically pleasing.28 (In fact, when reciting Old English poetry out loud, one should make sure to take a noticeable pause of a few seconds at the caesura so that the contrast between the two rhythms is clearly perceived.) The other feature is the employment of poetic vocabulary. As R. D. Fulk eloquently put it in connection with both Old English and Old Saxon poetry: West Germanic verse of course contains a great deal of vocabulary that is not found in prose, or has a different meaning there. We should be very surprised if the Parker Chronicler had written any such thing as ond þā hilde æfnde sē sigedryhten Æþered wiþ þāra sinfrēana hyssas. The words hild ‘war’, æfnan ‘wage’, and hyse ‘youth’ do not appear in prose; and though sigedryhten and sinfrēa, both poetic synonyms for ‘king’, are made up of prosaic elements, nominal compounding in prose is generally restricted to the expression of important conceptual distinctions, as with sciphere ‘fleet’ and hægstealdnis ‘virginity’, rather than with the generation of synonyms. What the Chronicle actually says, then (s.a.871), is ond þā gefeaht sē cyning Æþered wiþ þāra cyninga getruman ‘and then King Ethelred fought against the kings’ troops’, in which pedestrian (ge)truma, though sufficiently attested in prose, is foreign to verse. [note] The marshaling of such poetic diction as hild, æfnan, and hyse is the foremost poetic effect of West Germanic verse, and although it cannot be said to function in quite the same way as varieties See A. J. Bliss, The Metre of Beowulf (Oxford, 1967), pp. 135–8; A. J. Bliss, ‘The Appreciation of Old English Metre’, in Davis and Wrenn, English and Medieval Studies, pp. 27–40 at p. 29; Rafael J. Pascual, ‘The Study of Old English Metrical Style’, in Miguel Ángel Martínez-Cabeza, Rafael J. Pascual, Belén Soria Clivillés, and Rocío G. Sumillera (eds), The Study of Style: Essays in English Language and Literature in Honour of José Luis MartínezDueñas (Granada, 2019), pp. 29–39 at pp. 30–2. 28

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of metaphor in the classical languages, it nonetheless has an equivalent function as chief aesthetic effect.29

The corollary, of course, is that in order for a piece of neo-Old English verse to sound authentic it should contain specifically poetic diction (including some poetic compounds). A poem might be composed in correct grammar and metre, but if it lacks a good amount of poetic vocabulary, then it will not look like classical Old English verse. Mark Griffith’s list of poetic words in Old English, published as an appendix to his essay on the Paris Psalter, is a useful resource.30 Students should give particular attention to avoiding the insertion of exclusively prosaic words like (ge) truma into their pieces (something that the classical poets would have abhorred). It is thus advisable that only dictionaries of poetry are relied upon for verse composition. I use mostly Henry Sweet’s and J. B. Bessinger’s dictionaries.31 The poetic dictionary developed by Andy Orchard at CLASP, A Consolidated Library of Anglo-Saxon Poetry, is now available online.32 Exclusive use of these dictionaries, as opposed to dictionaries of Old English at large, will prevent unwanted prosaic words from entering and spoiling our compositions. Another valuable resource is Jane Roberts and Christian Kay’s conceptually arranged Thesaurus of Old English, which they describe as ‘an inside-out dictionary, with meanings first and then words’.33 The thesaurus marks poetic words with a small ‘p’. Glossaries of editions of Old English poems that mark poetic words and compounds (such as that in the fourth edition of Klaeber’s Beowulf) will also be of help.34 Let us conclude by envisioning an exercise in which students would need to put these guidelines into practice. They could be asked to generate two simple sentences of heroic theme in modern English. For example: ‘The lord gave eight horses to the loyal warriors. The warriors then went riding to the battlefield’. The next step would be to translate them into Old English, avoiding prosaic words and making sure we use some poeticisms. Here is a possibility: ‘Se hlāford ġeaf eahta mēaras þæm holdum rincum. Þa rincas þa ġe·witon rīdan to campe’. These two clauses now need to be arranged in a way that makes sense from the point of view of rhythm and alliteration. First, we accumulate all the particles at the beginning of each clause: ‘Ġeaf se hlāford eahta mēaras þæm holdum rincum. Þa ġe·witon þa rincas ridan to campe’. Next, we tentatively divide the clauses into lines and hemistichs: 29 R. D. Fulk, ‘Rhetoric, Form, and Linguistic Structure in Early Germanic Verse: Toward a Synthesis’, Interdisciplinary Journal of Germanic Linguistics and Semiotic Analysis 1:1 (1996), 63–88, at p. 64. 30 M. S. Griffith, ‘Poetic Language and the Paris Psalter: The Decay of the Old English Poetic Tradition’, Anglo-Saxon England 20 (1991), 167–86, at pp. 183–5. 31 Henry Sweet, The Student’s Dictionary of Anglo-Saxon (Oxford, 1897); J. B. Bessinger, A Short Dictionary of Anglo-Saxon Poetry (Toronto, 1960). The forms in these dictionaries are normalized to Early West Saxon. If the typical dialect mixture of Old English verse is to be achieved, some of the words will have to be put in non-West Saxon and in Late West Saxon. 32 Andy Orchard, Word-hord: A Lexicon of Old English Verse (Oxford, 2020), [accessed 14 Mar. 2022]. 33 Jane Roberts and Christian Kay with Lynne Grundy (eds), A Thesaurus of Old English (Glasgow, 2017) [accessed 19 Apr. 2021]. 34 See R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles (eds), Klaeber’s Beowulf and The Fight at Finnsburg, 4th edn (Toronto, 2008).

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Ġeaf se hlāford  eahta mēaras þæm holdum rincum.  Þa ġe·witon þa rincas rīdan to campe.

There of course remains a number of issues, which will now be addressed on a verseby-verse and line-by-line basis. Line 1a has an irregular three-position pattern (x / x) and the line lacks alliteration (which, judging by the first stress of the off-verse, eah-, should be on vowels). Substituting the compound eald-hlāford for the simplex hlāford would solve both problems (the on-verse would now have a four-position Type C rhythm and the line would alliterate on vowels). Line 2a is too long. The stressed syllables hol- and rin- are too heavy to undergo resolution, and so this verse features a five-position pattern: x / x / x. Deletion of þæm makes for an acceptable Type A rhythm without compromising sense. Line 2b is too short. The particles þa and ġe·witon are clause-initial, and hence unstressed. Unstressed þa and ġe·witon and the proclitic þa, all of which are adjacent, constitute a single unstressed position. As it stands, this verse has three positions: x / x. It is possible to add a position of stress to this verse by removing the adverb þa from its unstressed, clause-initial location and placing it at the end of the half-line: Ġe·witon þa rincas þā (now a four-position Type B verse: x / x /). The two halves of line 2 would now be rhythmically acceptable, but the line would still lack proper alliteration: holdum rincum. | Ġe·witon þa rincas þā. If the order of holdum and rincum is reversed (which is grammatically possible), then the alliteration is fixed. Finally, in order to complete the last line, we could move rīdan to campe to the second half and introduce in the first half a verse that stands in variation to rincas in the previous line: Ġeaf se éald-hlā ́ ford  éahta mḗaras C|A ríncum hóldum.  Ġe·witon þa ríncas þā ́ A|B rṓfe cémpan,  rīdan to cámpe. A|A

This may not be the most sophisticated piece of neo-Old English verse, to be sure, but as said above the real value of composition is in the creative experience it affords students. A reading knowledge of Old English, coupled with an introduction to the basics of versification, suffices for a learner to use Old English verse as a mode of expression. This is too good a pedagogical tool to let it lie idle. It is to be hoped that teachers of Old English literature will incorporate verse composition into their classes, so that future generations of scholars approach the study of such an important subject as versification with confidence and optimism.

IV

Approaching Old English and Neo-Old English in the Classroom

12 Mitchell & Robinson’s Medievalism: Echoes of Empire in the History of Old English Pedagogy1 Joana Blanquer, Donna Beth Ellard, Emma Hitchcock and Erin E. Sweany

I

n the Foreword to his 1965 first edition of A Guide to Old English, Bruce Mitchell explains that Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer and Anglo-Saxon Reader (alongside Alistair Campbell’s Old English Grammar)2 are two of three textbooks that have ‘been my almost daily companions in the class-room and study.’3 He declares that ‘they have so influenced my teaching and my thinking that echoes of them cannot fail to appear in my work’ and continues: ‘while hoping that the echoes are not so strong that they deafen my own voice completely, I acknowledge my debt to them humbly, gratefully, and sincerely.’4 Mitchell’s (and, later, his co-author Robinson’s) indebtedness to the Victorian Sweet, especially, endures across all eight editions of the Guide as it expands from a slim 160 pages in 1965 to a hefty 400+ as of its most recent, 2012, eighth edition.5 Thus, Mitchell & Robinson’s relationship to Sweet The authors of this chapter would like to extend our thanks to our colleagues in the Disinventing Old English scholarly collective for providing the space and support to ask challenging questions of our field. We would especially like to thank Tarren Andrews, Mary Kate Hurley, and Thomas Klein for reading an earlier draft of this chapter and providing invaluable feedback. 2 Henry Sweet, An Anglo-Saxon Primer, with Grammar, Notes, and Glossary (Oxford, 1882); Henry Sweet, An Anglo-Saxon Reader in Prose and Verse: With Grammatical Introduction, Notes, and Glossary (Oxford, 1876); Alistair Campbell, Old English Grammar (Oxford, 1959). 3 ‘ Anglo-Saxon’ is a compound that is troubled at its ninth and nineteenth century temporal ends. Used by Alfred to suggest an English empire to come, and by the Victorians to suggest an empire finally realized, it is a word that is never far from colonial ideology. We recognize and reference these aspects of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ in Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer and Reader and, as a sign of recognition, leave this compound in its original spelling. 4 Bruce Mitchell, A Guide to Old English (Oxford, 1965), p. viii. 5 Mitchell’s Guide is not indebted to Sweet only, but also to a series of textbooks from the 1950s (see discussion below) that he pays tribute to in his Foreword. Being that these textbooks are also highly indebted to and influenced by Sweet’s textbooks, this chapter will 1

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evidences a tight connection between late-nineteenth and mid-twentieth-century understandings of Old English language and language-learning pedagogy that continues into the present day. This chapter examines the influences of Sweet’s Primer and Reader on Mitchell & Robinson’s Guide, arguing that in Sweet’s textbooks Old English is subjected to a Victorian medievalism that has significant afterlives not only in mid-twentieth-century Old English textbooks but also in ones of the present day. We first explore the educational, cultural, and intellectual values of Sweet and the colonial moment in which he lived, which are encoded in his textbook architecture. Specifically, we discuss the principles that guide Sweet’s treatment of phonology and his emendation and organisational practices, arguing that these are undergirded by British ideologies of empire. Mitchell & Robinson’s Guide, which openly acknowledges its debts to Sweet, necessarily if unconsciously folds both Sweet’s pedagogy and colonial ideology into itself. Thus, Mitchell & Robinson’s Guide presents an Old English that is medieval and medievalism. In the Guide, Old English is an artifact of early medieval England and of the English language but, also, in the hands of Sweet and his inheritors, it is a mediated and modern product that has been efficiently ‘normalized’, to use Sweet’s term. Although it is a medieval language, normalized Old English is also a product that has been and continues to be, in Louise D’Arcens’s words about medievalisms, ‘pressed into the service of modern political and ideological interests’, and, we argue, the medievalism that Mitchell & Robinson inherit from Sweet positions Old English as a language of easy access to ideologies considered as part of the modern alt-right.6 Pedagogical Innovations, Scientific Positivism, and the Education of Henry Sweet Henry Sweet’s thoughtful pedagogical principles, the influences of which can be traced to his early education, have allowed his Old English Reader and Primer to outlast many other elementary textbooks of his generation. From 1855 through 1861, Sweet attended Bruce Castle school, one of a new generation of schools which responded to middle class educational desires by stressing utilitarian education.7 Bruce Castle emphasised a variety of foreign language study, science, and engineering over Greek and Latin; and it discouraged corporal punishment and rote

focus primarily on the relationship between Sweet and Mitchell & Robinson. 6 D’Arcens points out that medievalisms of all sorts have always been put to ideological and political use because their ‘elasticity makes [them] equally amenable to the politics of both the traditional Left and Right, as well as to progressive and conservative ideological positions.’ Louise D’Arcens, ‘Introduction’, in Louise D’Arcens (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Medievalism (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 1–13, at p. 4. This is not to say that every instance of medievalism appeals equally to all political perspectives but rather to underscore the point that a particular instance of medievalism, like Sweet’s normalized Old English, is shaped by the cultures and politics that produce it. 7 W. A. C Stewart, Progressives and Radicals in English Education, 1750–1970 (London, 1972), pp. 55–6.

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memorization in favour of internally motivated learning that proceeded from easy to difficult subject matter.8 In 1861, Sweet enrolled at King’s College School, London, another school that was remarkably liberal for its time. Here, he met Revd Thomas Oswald Cockayne,9 whose Romantic approaches to language study and philology may have fostered Sweet’s interest in Old English and Old Icelandic.10 It was also at King’s College that Sweet was a witness to and advocate for an upheaval in scientific methodology that resulted in the ascendance of scientific positivism. Scientists of the early nineteenth century were mainly in the thrall of the intellectual principles of the Romantic era, which considered the scientific method to be a rational, but subjective, intervention by an expert observer. During Sweet’s time at King’s, scientists began to remove the appearance of subjectivity from the representations of their findings.11 This so-called ‘mechanical objectivity’ aimed to record the ‘truth’ of material reality that was free from the observer’s fingerprints. By occluding the mechanisms by which scientific questions were investigated, this new generation of scientists rendered the subjectivity and cultural context of scientific findings invisible. The result: scientific positivism. In German universities, philologists began to extend scientific positivism to the study of languages.12 Practitioners of the new scientific philology wished to ‘seve[r] ties to the Romanticism that midwifed it, formulating their scholarly questions with methodological precision and emotional ice’.13 Sweet studied under one such phonetician, Adolf Holtzmann, when, in 1863, he enrolled for a year at the University of Heidelberg. Holtzmann’s work on vowel 8 See Bruce Castle School, Sketch of the System of Education, Moral and Intellectual, In Practice at Bruce Castle School, Fourth Edition (London, 1852). Notably, Sweet’s educational experience was in stark contrast with the privileged English public-school mentality, best represented by Thomas Arnold, the dean of Rugby from 1828 to 1841, who explicitly regarded corporal punishment as character-building and feared that without a classical education, ‘the mass of the community’ would not be ‘fitted to discharge so important a trust’ that was the suffrage granted to them by the 1832 Reform Act. Joseph John Findlay, Arnold of Rugby: His School Life and Contributions to Education (Cambridge, 1897), p. 213. For further reading see Joshua Fitch, Thomas and Matthew Arnold and their Influence on English Education (London, 1897), pp. 186–7. 9 Cockayne is now best known for his publication of the three-volume Leechdoms, Wortcunning, and Starcraft of Early England, 3 vols (Oxford, 1864–66). In their biographical article on Cockayne, Daniel F. Kenneally and Jane Roberts quote Frank Miles and Graeme Cranch, who characterise King’s College School as having a ‘strikingly liberal syllabus’ and ‘exceptional opportunities […] to study subjects outside the ordinary academic range of the time’. Daniel F. Kenneally and Jane Roberts, ‘Oswald Cockayne (c. 1808–1973): Clerk in Orders, Schoolmaster, Scholar’, Poetica: An International Journal of Linguistic-Literary Study 86 (2016), 107–38, at p. 109. 10 M.K.C. MacMahon, ‘Sweet, Henry (1945–1912), phonetician and comparative philologist’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, 28 Sep. 2006 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. 11 Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, Objectivity (New York, 2010), p. 48. 12 Haruko Momma, From Philology to English Studies: Language and Culture in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 2012). 13 James Turner, Philology: The Forgotten Origins of the Modern Humanities (Princeton, 2014), p. 132.

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gradation refined understandings of the Germanic umlaut and breaking;14 like comparative philologists Franz Bopp, Jacob Grimm, and Rasmus Rask, Holtzmann used ‘scientific’ methods to propose structural changes to the grammar and phonology of languages. Kathleen Biddick frames this as a moment when medievalists inflicted the ‘disciplinary wound’ of attempting to distinguish ‘medieval’ from ‘medievalism’: ‘In order to separate and elevate themselves from popular studies of medieval culture, the new academic medievalists of the nineteenth century designated their practices, influenced by positivism, as scientific and eschewed what they regarded as less-positivist, ‘nonscientific’ practices, labelling them medievalism.’15 However, despite their scientific methods, these scholars still ‘tended to see the history of language as a declension from a purer past’.16 They quietly held on to Romantic sentiments, which can be traced back to the colonial origins of comparative philology;17 these sentiments ‘now inhabited a transformed science: empirically much more meticulous, methodologically vastly more rigorous’.18 Henry Sweet’s Primer and Reader: Elementary Pedagogy, Linguistic Science, and Colonialism From Bruce Castle to the University of Heidelberg, Sweet’s educational environments privileged pedagogies of self-motivated learning and incremental difficulty; and methods that discarded Romantic subjectivity in favour of scientific accuracy, precision, and positivism. These pedagogical and methodological principles are put to work in Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer. In his 1882 first edition of the AngloSaxon Primer, Sweet explains why he presents Old English according to early West Saxon spellings: The spelling has been made rigorously uniform throughout on an early WestSaxon basis. Injurious as normalizing is to the advanced student, it is an absolute necessity for the beginner, who wants to have the definite results of scholarship laid before him, not the confused and fluctuated spellings which he cannot yet interpret intelligently. Even for purely scientific purposes we require a standard of Adolf Holtzmann, Über Den Umlaut: Zwei Abhandlungen (Carlsruhe, 1843). Kathleen Biddick, The Shock of Medievalism (Durham, NC, 1998), pp. 1–4. ‘Medievalism’ in this nineteenth-century usage refers to a sentimental view of the Middle Ages. In this chapter, we are working with a wider definition of ‘medievalism’ than were the Victorians. However, it is also the case that many twentieth-century scholars do claim the objectivity of scientific positivism. 16 Turner, Philology, p. 133. Furthermore, one of the uses of the folk version of linguistic positivism, ‘purism’, is to ‘support the formation of a national and cultural identity’. Nils Langer and Winifred Davies, ‘An Introduction to Linguistic Purism’, in Nils Langer and Winifred Davies (eds), Linguistic Purism in the Germanic Languages (Berlin, 2004), pp. 1–17, at p. 6. James Milroy’s contribution to Linguistic Purism in the Germanic Languages argues that ‘[historical language description is] particularly likely to be affected by ideological positions’. James Milroy, ‘Some Effects of Purist Ideologies on Historical Descriptions of English’, in Langer and Davies, Linguistic Purism in the Germanic Languages (Berlin, 2004), pp. 324–42, at p. 324. 17 See, for example, Momma, From Philology to English Studies, pp. 34–40. 18 Turner, Philology, p. 133. 14 15

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comparison and classification…The spelling I here adopt is one I should recommend for dictionary purposes. From the early West Saxon it is an easy step both to late W.S. and to the Mercian forms from which Modern English is derived…19

Sweet spells all paradigm words and emends his reading selections according to early West Saxon spelling conventions. While Sweet explains that his choice to ‘normaliz[e]’ Old English is a decision based on sound pedagogical practices and ‘purely scientific purposes’, immediately below these statements, Sweet makes a passing comment that signals a second reason for choosing early West Saxon as the Primer’s dialectal standard for Old English: ‘That I give Ælfric in a spelling slightly earlier than his date is no more unreasonable than a classical scholar to print Ausonius (who doubtless spoke Latin with an Italian pronunciation) in the same spelling as Virgil’.20 Sweet’s analogy draws parallels between late Latin and late West Saxon, and between Ausonius and Ælfric. It then contrasts these languages and literary figures of the later Latin and Old English periods with a second, partial analogy that parallels classical Latin and early West Saxon, and Virgil and (by implication) Alfred.21 Sweet’s analogy reframes his pedagogical and scientific motives for normalising Old English according to an early West Saxon standard. Ausonius was a fourth-century Gallic provincial aristocrat: a rhetor, grammarian, and tutor to the young Gratian. He is also known as a derivative and unoriginal, yet popular, poet who Gibbon – an author in high regard during Sweet’s Victorian period – disparages as an indicator of the ‘declining’ tastes of the late Roman empire.22 Alongside Ausonius, Ælfric looks to be the uninspired grammar master, whose prolific writings stand as testament to the literary–linguistic decline of English in the years prior to the Norman invasion.23 Ausonius and Ælfric cut poor figures against Virgil and his unnamed complement, Alfred, who represent the so-called ‘Golden Ages’ of classical Latin and the English dialect that Sweet initially terms ‘classical’ West Saxon in his Reader but reframes as ‘early’ West Saxon in his Primer.24 Sweet’s analogy of pre-Conquest England to Ancient Rome, and thus to all of its accompanying Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Primer, p. vi. Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Primer, p. vii. 21 While Sweet makes no such association in his Primer, his Reader positions early West Saxon in relation to ‘Alfred’s reign’ and calls it ‘classical’ West Saxon. Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Reader, pp. v, xii. 22 Gibbon calls Ausonius ‘a professed Pagan’, then writes, ‘The poetical fame of Ausonius condemns the taste of his age’, in The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire With Notes by the Rev. H. H. Milman, 6 vols (London, 1838), vol. 5, Chapter XXVII, fn 1. 23 With this analogy in mind, it is notable that only select sentences from Ælfric’s homilies are included in Sweet’s first edition Primer, despite Ælfric’s express investment in Old English pedagogy and his student-friendly Colloquy. 24 Note that the first (1876) edition of Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader begins ‘This book is intended to provide the student with a series of texts in the classical West-Saxon dialect of Old English’ (p. v). Yet by the time his second edition was published in 1879, the word ‘classical’ had been omitted from this statement. Given the above statements in Sweet’s Primer and in his Reader, we do not suggest that Sweet recanted his opinion of early West Saxon as the standard language of an early English nation–empire. Rather, he preferred to assess Old English from outside the orbit of classical philology. 19

20

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implications of colonial power, gestures towards a Romantic and sentimental medievalism that interprets the language arts produced in Alfred’s ninth-century Wessex as the national precursors to the literature of imperial Britain. It fuels his readers’ classificatory intuitions and Romantic imaginations, inviting them to connect classical values with ‘Anglo-Saxon’ ones and to celebrate the cultural moment in which an English nation-state emerges.25 The analogy demonstrates the entanglement of language pedagogy, linguistic science, and the ideological presumptions of the later Victorian period. In so doing, it unveils an unspoken ideological undercarriage that supports Sweet’s pedagogical and scientific methods. When Sweet promises that normalised early West Saxon is the only way a ‘beginner, who wants to have the definite results of scholarship laid before him’26 can approach learning Old English, we now see that ‘definite results’ are certainly linguistic, but they are ideological as well.27 As Joseph Errington writes, ‘linguists can be regarded as a small, rather special group of colonial agents’.28 Like British missionaries and colonial officials, their documentary approaches to the languages of colonial subjects were meant to articulate ‘a reformed, recognizable Other’29 by creating separate and enumerable inventories of non-European languages that ‘purify’ their dialects, ‘fix’ their presumably unstable spoken character with orthography and create grammars from which ‘the natives’ were taught a standardized version of their own language.30 Sweet’s use of early West Saxon as a dialectal standard of Old English performs this work, albeit 25 We cite here Sweet’s nineteenth-century usage of the term and reference OED, s.v. Anglo-Saxon, sense A.1.a. Notably, Sweet’s substitution of Old English for Latin recognizes the importance of Latin in the colonially minded British public school system and desires to position Old English as its successor-replacement. Likewise, Sweet’s connection between Rome and England capitalizes upon associations between Roman empire-building and Britain’s contemporary imperial efforts across the world. 26 Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Primer, p. vi. 27 Importantly, Sweet writes A Second Anglo-Saxon Reader: Archaic and Dialectal (Oxford, 1887), which is a selection of texts in variants other than West Saxon. These nonWest Saxon variants, Sweet claims, are ‘of equal—if not even more—value to the historical student of English’ and reflect his genuine interest in the totality of Old English (p. iii). However, Sweet calls these variants ‘archaic’ and ‘dialectal’, adjectives that position West Saxon as the implicit Old English standard around which other variants orbit and against which they can be assessed. Likewise, Sweet specifies that, on account of the limited number of textual examples written in non-West Saxon, the importance of his second Reader is ‘mainly for linguistic students’ and ‘of no use except for advanced students’ (p. iii). These statements expose how disciplinary divisions between philology (and, later, literature) and linguistics fall along the dialectal boundaries of Old English and, arguably, language skill. Notably, despite Sweet’s insistence upon the ‘necessity’ of a Second Anglo-Saxon Reader, it is never revised or reprinted, suggesting that in most pedagogical environments this dialectal diversity was not deemed necessary or useful. 28 Joseph Errington, Linguistics in a Colonial World: A Story of Language, Meaning, and Power (Malden, 2008), p. 4. 29 Homi Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse’, October 28 (1984), 125–33, at p. 126. 30 On these points, see Judith T. Irvine and Susan Gal, ‘Language ideology and linguistic differentiation’ in Paul V. Kroskrity (ed.), Regimes of Language: Ideologies, Polities, and Identities (Santa Fe, 2000), pp. 35–83; and Judith T. Irvine, ‘Subjected words: African linguistics and the colonial encounter’, Language & Communication 28:4 (2008), 323–43.

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without a ‘native’ Old-English-speaking populace to impose it back onto. Moreover, Sweet’s 1877 Presidential Address to the Philological Society telegraphs his investment in both the project of colonialism and its attendant linguistic practices: ‘the vastness of our empire, which brings us incessantly in contact with innumerable languages…’ should enable Britain to ‘send out yearly hundreds of thoroughly and specially trained young men, whether as missionaries, civil or military officers, or professed philologists…who can note down sentences in strange tongues with unerring certainty’.32 Sweet’s insistence upon normalising Old English spelling on pedagogical and scientific grounds enacts a version of linguistic colonialism that extends from the Preface of Sweet’s Primer to the Grammatical Introduction of his Reader, beginning with the Primer’s first two sections: ‘Sounds’ and ‘Phonology’. This seven-page discussion identifies twenty-one different Old English vowels and vowel combinations, duplicated in two different tables. These are followed by paragraph-long explanations for eight Old English consonants and twenty-six vowel and consonant mutation patterns.33 This exhaustive phonics lesson is a component of Sweet’s normalising agenda. It maps the phonological universe of Old English according to a system of diacritic marks of Sweet’s own devising, which reorganise Old English letter forms based on Old Icelandic orthography and irregular Old English orthography. Sweet uses glyphs ‘systematically employed in… Old Icelandic orthography’ and only ‘occasionally’ and ‘irregularly…written in the oldest English MSS’ and applies them ‘everywhere without regard to MS authority, to help the learner.’34 Thus, Sweet ‘denotes the open sounds of e and o’ with ‘two new letters, ȩ and ǫ… ȩ standing for ae, ǫ for ao’; and he marks all long vowels with ‘the accent ´ ’.35 This glyph system is 31

These national–imperial ideologies appear in plain and audible terms in Old English grammars of the Romantic era, which Sweet’s Primer is meant to replace. In his 1823 Elements of Anglo-Saxon Grammar, Joseph Bosworth presents Old English as the heir to Latin, in a narrative of empire that is apparent in his outline of the progression of scripts in England from the ‘Roman Saxon’ to the ‘Elegant Saxon’ (p. 17.) Likewise, Benjamin Thorpe’s 1830 translation of Rasmus Rask’s A Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue declares the goal of standardizing any Old English spelling ‘which is of rare occurrence, or the result of carelessness’ is to preserve only ‘that which is essential and correct’ with ultimate ‘correctness’ being measured by adherence to the model of standardization set by Latin orthography. Rasmus Rask, A Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue: With a Praxis, A New Edition Enlarged and Improved by the Author, trans. Benjamin Thorpe (Copenhagen, 1830), pp. 1–2. 32 Henry Cecil Wyld, Collected Papers of Henry Sweet (Oxford, 1913), pp. 9–12. In Sweet’s time, languages are equated with living beings which are born, live, and die and are subjected to the laws of evolution. In ‘Words, Logic, and Grammar’, Sweet likens the interest in dead languages to palaeontology (rather than zoology), thus ‘refus[ing] to trouble itself with the investigation of living species, except when it promises to throw light on the structure of extinct ones’. The notion that every language is a kind of species, which evolves through time, and each new iteration causes the death of its less evolved parent had already been used by German philologists such as August Schleicher to provide an evolutionist justification of the superiority of European people over colonized ones. For a review of the evolutionist reading of history in German philology, see Errington, Linguistics in a Colonial World, pp. 70–92. 33 Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Primer, pp. 1–7. 34 Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Reader, pp. xii, xiii. 35 Sweet, Anglo-Saxon Reader, p. xii. 31

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employed in all texts of Sweet’s Reader as well as in the Old English grammar and texts of Sweet’s Primer. In a further effort to classify, organise, and arrange the soundscape of Old English into its smallest and most precise phonetic units, Sweet turns to the range of modern languages that he likely presumed would already be known to some degree by his audience. In both the Primer and Reader, Sweet’s pronunciations for Old English vowels and consonants are explained to the learner by comparison with ‘standard’ English, German, French, and Italian words. In so doing, Sweet diverges from the approach of his forerunner Rask (1830), whose section on pronunciation references Icelandic, German, English, Danish, and Swedish words that approximate Old English vowel sounds. Rask’s project is to trace how these languages ‘introduced’ and ‘borrowed’ various spellings to and from one another, in order to reveal the ‘true’ pronunciation of Old English. This search for a version of the Middle Ages unsullied by later ages is characteristic of some Romantic, sentimental nineteenth-century medievalisms. Sweet’s pronunciation guide forgoes the attempt to make the philological claims that Rask’s focus on cognates does; instead, it makes liberal use of modern languages for the sake of modern accessibility to Old English phonology. Thus, Sweet diverges from Rask in method and aim, but both designate an Old English that is both a medieval language and a medievalism.36 The pronunciation guides of Sweet’s Primer and Reader are followed by sections on grammatical inflection. In these sections, Sweet creates a comprehensive introduction to nouns, adjectives, pronouns, and verbs by way of an extensive series of tables that organise early West Saxon morphology according to inflectional categories that are explained via paradigm words. Sweet’s use of tables and paradigms to organise Old English is not innovative. It is a hallmark of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Latin and Greek grammars that carries over into the textbook design and organisation of Sweet and the Old English grammarians who precede him. While tables (and their paradigm words) are a helpful organisational tool, especially for students of case-based languages, tables are not merely a practical mechanism for organising information. They are also a value-laden field of meaning and communicators of visual rhetoric. Tables are a type of Cartesian grid, which, in the eighteenth century ‘comes to represent…the process of rational thinking itself ’.37 Information organised and inserted within grids, such as the inflectional tables of Sweet’s Primer and Grammar, signals a rational, scientific practice that asserts an illusion of control over a field of linguistic knowledge. Furthermore, in relation to grammar manuals, Chris Stray remarks that the ‘tabular grid pattern used to present linguistic forms… has powerfully authoritarian overtones in its blend of representation and restraint… In the grammar it is a rhetorical device which presents language as systematically ordered’.38 Sweet’s inflectional tables – a rolling series of grid after grid after grid of paradigm nouns, adjectives, pronouns, and verbs – take up the entirety of this section, to the point that very little explanatory prose accompanies them. They Rask, A Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue, p. 18. Jack Williamson, ‘The Grid: History, Use, and Meaning’, Design Issues 3 (1986), 15–30, at p. 20. 38 Chris Stray, ‘Paradigms Regained: Towards a Historical Sociology of the Textbook’, Journal of Curriculum Studies 26 (1994), 1–29, at p. 23. 36 37

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represent early West Saxon as a Cartesian language of ‘rational thinking’, ‘authoritarian overtones’, and ‘representation and restraint’—characteristics that entangle late-nineteenth-century pedagogy, linguistic science, and colonial ideology. Importantly, however, the explanatory statements that support these tables are concerned with accounting for the many phonological environments that cause ‘irregularities’ to the spelling and appearance of Sweet’s paradigms. Thus, despite their Cartesian principles, Sweet’s tabular grids cannot hermeticise Old English inflectional categories and therefore become, instead, tabular ‘excesses’. They attempt but cannot account for the phonological particularities of early West Saxon. As Haruko Momma writes, Sweet’s interest in phonology was motivated in large part by a desire to account for dialectal variation. Momma posits that Sweet’s work was guided by several propositions, including: ‘laws and hypotheses might have their place in language studies, but philologists should always bear in mind that their objects of enquiry were utterances made by individual speakers and sentences put down by particular writers’;39 and ‘from a rigorously scientific point of view… we cannot speak of languages at all, but only of groups of dialects, each group shading off by indefinite gradations into its neighbouring group’.40 Yet Sweet pursues these goals via methods that collapse early and late Old English manuscript diacritics, Old English and Icelandic diacritics, Old English and modern language phonology, and morphological variations such that Sweet’s Primer and Reader become what Ana Deumert and Anne Storch, in their discussion about colonialism and linguistics, call a ‘mimetic excess’: ‘a compulsion to create similarities and to repress difference’ that results in ‘discourses of standardization and normativity…which presen[t] language as codifiable…[and] particular views of how ‘language’ should be represented…’.41 Consequently, the phonology and morphology that emerge in Sweet’s Primer exceed, yet fall short of, Old English as a spoken language.42 It aims Momma, From Philology, p. 172. Momma, From Philology, pp. 174–5. 41 Ana Deumert and Anne Storch, ‘Introduction: Colonial Linguistics—Then and Now’ in Ana Deumert, Anne Storch, and Nick Shepherd (eds), Colonial and Decolonial Linguistics: Knowledges and Epistemes (Oxford, 2020), pp. 5–6, author italics. Furthermore, Richard Hogg, in his discussion of Sweet’s dialectology in The Handbook of the History of English, sees in Sweet’s dialectology the beginning of a narrative of English nationality, pointing out that Sweet, in his description of four neat dialects of Old English (Mercian, Northumbrian, Kentish, and West Saxon) ‘suggests stability and lack of change, with each dialect sharply differentiated from each of the others’ (p. 396). Hogg goes on to connect the history of English philology to the history of English national identity, explaining that Sweet is writing in an ‘age … of high Victorianism and the ideological concerns of the period. Both reflect the new concept of the nation state, and furthermore, albeit anachronistically, attempt to invest much earlier ages with that same concept. In our context this led, for example, to the concept of an Anglo-Saxon heptarchy which could be transformed, despite the caveats of the editors of the OED, into a nation state of its own’. Richard Hogg, ‘Old English Dialectology’, in Ans van Kemenade and Bettelou Los (eds), The Handbook of the History of English (Malden, 2006), pp. 395–416, at p. 397. 42 Note that Sweet claims that ‘the real strength and originality of English work lies… in phonology and dialectology’, a ‘living philology’ in comparison with the comparative philology of Germany, which is based in Latin and Greek. Wyld, Collected Papers of Henry Sweet, p. 91. 39

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to help beginning students pronounce early West Saxon sounds with the scientific precision of a gifted and devoted phonetician as well as to comprehend the grammatical information present in those sounds. However, Sweet’s scientific and pedagogical methods are underwritten by partial statements, unspoken assumptions, and suppressed enthusiasm about language that derive from an ongoing history of colonial encounters and colonial ideologies. Sweet maps the phonic universe of Old English according to hyper ‘normalized’ early West Saxon phonological categories. To do this, Sweet criss-crosses the manuscript histories of different times and languages, he creates a glyph system that supersedes the letter forms of Old English, and he organises Old English pronunciations against a group of cosmopolitan modern European languages. He also enthusiastically adopts tables to teach morphology, which, even though they are the most common organisational tool for inflectional languages, inevitably convey the authoritative and rational attitudes discussed above. Sweet’s honest desire for responsible pedagogy and his impressive attention to the scientific method are entangled, nonetheless, in an Old English phonology of mimetic, colonial excess. Medieval and medievalism, indeed.43 Bruce Mitchell’s A Guide to Old English and the ‘Echoes’ of Colonization As Mark Atherton writes, ‘authors of textbooks can be remarkably influential: consciously and intentionally they popularize new ideas and set the tone for future scholarship, while subconsciously their writings embody the culture and ideas of a whole period. Such is the case with the Victorian scholar Henry Swee[t]…’.44 While Atherton is expressly concerned with the influence of Sweet’s Reader on modernist poetic practices, his statement rings true for the impact of Sweet’s Primer and Reader on future Old English textbooks.45 The 1905 eighth edition of Sweet’s Primer and the 1922 ninth edition of Sweet’s Reader, both published at the height of Britain’s empire and of British imperialism, remained the most current versions of these textbooks until just after World War II, when new, revised editions by Norman Davis and C.

43 Milroy, ‘Some Effects of Purist Ideologies’, p. 333, explicitly associates Sweet with the sort of standardization of historical forms of English that selectively and deceptively represents changes in the English language as a result of ‘smooth and uninterrupted’ transmission (p. 338) and that this is done to ‘give the language an ancient pedigree’ and to associate ‘the identity of language with race or nation’ (p. 337). Milroy regards this sort of standardization as an insertion of social ideology into language history and description, and while he only touches on the relationship of linguistics and colonialism (specifically in regard to structuralism), the associations between colonialism and seeking to impose a pure and untroubled trajectory onto English to lend it prestige are inescapable. 44 Mark Atherton, ‘Priming the Poets: The Making of Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader’, in David Clark and Nicholas Perkins (eds), Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 31–50, at p. 31. 45 Sweet revised his Primer eight times between 1882 and 1905, always beginning with the first edition Preface, in which Sweet positions his analogy between Latin and Old English below his discussion of pedagogy and scientific process. Regardless of the changes Sweet makes to his text throughout the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, his Preface continues to signal silent entanglements with colonial ideology.

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T. Onions were published in 1953 and 1946, respectively. The post–1945 era was characterised by the dramatic collapse of the British Empire. In 1947, India successfully declared independence, and British forces withdrew from Palestine. In 1952, a new revolutionary government took power in Egypt, forcing British troops to evacuate the Suez Canal zone. In 1956, Sudan declared its independence from Britain, leading a wave of twelve former African colonies that asserted their sovereignty by 1965. As the British Empire continued to contract, Sweet’s Primer and Reader continued to be revised by Davis and Onions. Yet these revisions never deviate from Sweet’s pedagogical and scientific methods, and thus from Sweet’s colonial investments: taking early West Saxon as the dialectal standard; placing emphasis on the sprawling phonological world of Old English; and organising Old English inflectional paradigms according to the visual rhetoric of tabular grids. Thus, to borrow the language of Atherton, Sweet’s Primer and Reader ‘subconsciously…embody the culture and ideas’ of the late Victorian period and ‘set the tone for’ Davis’s and Onions’s future scholar[ly]’ revisions to Sweet in a post–war, postcolonial era. Sweet’s newly revised Primer and Reader evidence a trend in Old English textbook publication during this time. As Britain’s empire falls apart throughout the 1950s and 1960s, a cluster of new Old English textbooks appear in print.47 These Old English language textbooks widen the cultural territory of the English language and act (perhaps unconsciously) as cultural, intellectual, and ideological bulwarks against England’s geopolitical reality by sweeping Sweet’s colonial ideological positions into an unfolding postcolonial future. Among them is Bruce Mitchell’s 1965 A Guide to Old English, a textbook that openly acknowledges its debts to Sweet.48 The Foreword to Mitchell’s Guide expresses its genuine pedagogical impulses: ‘the Guide aims at making easier the initial steps in the learning of Old English. It 46

C.T. Onions revised Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader from the 1922 ninth edition through the 1959 fourteenth edition. 47 Rather than confining themselves to students of philology, the books of the 1950s strive to cast a wider net. Subsequent to Davis’s 1953 revised edition of Sweet’s Primer, three more textbooks are published: G. L. Brook’s 1955 An Introduction to Old English (Manchester, 1955) is for ‘First Year university students reading for an Honours degree in English’ (p. ix); Randolph Quirk and C. L. Wrenn’s 1957 An Old English Grammar (New York, 1957) pitches itself to ‘the literary student of English, who has long been neglected in favour of his philologically inclined colleague’ (p. vii); and Alistair Campbell’s 1959 Old English Grammar. To these four Old English textbooks of the 1950s we can add Leslie Blakely’s 1964 Teach Yourself Old English (London, 1964) and Bruce Mitchell’s 1965 A Guide to Old English. 48 It is worth noting aspects of Bruce Mitchell’s biography that articulate associations with the British Empire. Mitchell was born in 1920, in postcolonial New South Wales, Australia, and studied part-time at the University of Melbourne until he was commissioned to serve in the Australian Imperial Force during World War II. In 1952, he received an academic scholarship and began a DPhil at Oxford, and, in 1955, he was appointed to a permanent lectureship at Oxford’s St Edmund’s Hall, remaining at Oxford for the rest of his career. See Susan Irvine, ‘Bruce Mitchell Obituary’, The Guardian, 29 Mar. 2010 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. As an Australian and as a member of Australia’s Imperial Force, like many men of his generation, Mitchell’s personal history was textured by Britain’s crumbling empire. He arrived in Oxford, the intellectual centre of Britain’s empire, at the start of its imperial decline, and by the time he had become a faculty member at St Edmund’s, Britain had retreated from many of its former colonies as these new nations asserted their sovereignty. 46

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is intended for beginners….In general, the Guide devotes more space than usual to the simple explanation of difficult points and to ways of reducing rote learning and of solving problems which arise for the reader of Old English texts’.49 Mitchell’s earnest interest in making Old English accessible was a lifelong passion and one of many reasons his Guide became a classroom standard during the late-twentieth century. Yet, Mitchell’s passion for pedagogy and his 1965 Guide belong, nonetheless, to the milieu of Davis’s and Onions’s revisions to Sweet’s Primer and Reader and to the geopolitical realities of the 1950s and 1960s. Notably, Mitchell did not look towards new models for student learning, nor did he consider emerging pedagogies of second-language acquisition. Rather, Mitchell looked backwards to Old English textbooks and pedagogical figures of earlier eras, concluding his Foreword with the following paragraph: Those familiar with three Oxford books—Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer revised by Norman Davis, Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader revised by C. T. Onions, and A. Campbell’s Old English Grammar—will perceive even more readily than I do the enormity of my debt to them. They have been my almost daily companions in the class-room and study, and it is not too much to say that without them this book would probably never have appeared. They have so influenced my teaching and my thinking that echoes of them cannot fail to appear in my work. While hoping that the echoes are not so strong that they deafen my own voice completely, I acknowledge my debt to them humbly, gratefully, and sincerely.50

Sweet’s Primer and Reader, alongside Campbell’s Grammar, have been Mitchell’s ‘almost daily companions in the class-room and study’. They have ‘so influenced [his] teaching and thinking’ that he owes ‘an enormity of debt’ to them. As a consequence, Mitchell alerts the reader to ‘echoes’ of their writings that can be heard across his Guide so loudly that they may ‘deafen [Mitchell’s] own voice completely’. The long-standing relationship between philology and scientific positivism means that Old English textbooks rarely speak their political persuasions in bold and unmistakable terms. However, as this chapter has argued, these textbooks may uncritically accumulate an indistinct but persistent buzz of ideologies. Governed by positivistic principles, which value logical deductions and eschew subjective, moral reasoning, Sweet’s Victorian Primer and Reader, nonetheless, make their politics known. The mid-century editions of Davis and Onions, which employ and maintain Sweet’s language despite their revisions to his textbooks, carry forward colonial investments into a postcolonial era. Consequently, when Mitchell claims to ‘echo’ this work, he articulates not only Sweet’s pedagogical methods but also the repeated mumblings of Victorian colonialism, recited by others during the postcolonising 1950s and the postcolonial 1960s. In the first section of the Guide, titled ‘Preliminary Remarks on the Language’, Mitchell turns immediately to Sweet, addressing Sweet’s steadfast concern with providing the beginning student with an easy entry point into the dialectal difficulties of Old English: 49 50

Mitchell, Guide, p. vii. Mitchell, Guide, p. viii.

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After 900 West-Saxon was increasingly used as a standard written language. It is for this reason that, initially, at any rate, you learn West-Saxon….Most OE primers therefore attempt to make things easier for the beginner by ‘normalizing’, i.e. regularizing, the spelling by eliminating all forms not belonging to the WestSaxon dialect. But difficulty arises because two stages can be distinguished—early West-Saxon (eWS), which is the language of the time of King Alfred (c. 900), and late West-Saxon (lWS), which is seen in the works of Ælfric (c. 1000). Professor Davis, in revising Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer, followed Sweet and used eWS as his basis…since there are some disadvantages in the use of lWS, the paradigms are given here in their eWS forms and the sound laws are discussed with eWS as the basis.51

Mitchell echoes Sweet’s word ‘normalizing’ to describe his turn to early West Saxon spellings as an ‘absolute necessity for the beginner’.52 Throughout the Guide, Mitchell acknowledges the fact that Old English manuscripts contain many orthographic and dialectal variations. However, his use of the word ‘normalizing’ permits him to dismiss dialectal variation on pedagogical grounds as a ‘difficulty’ to students who have just begun to learn Old English, and to assure the reader that orthographic differences will ‘scarcely trouble you’, because he, like Sweet (and Noman Davis and C. T. Onions), has standardised the Old English of his textbook.53 While Mitchell does not necessarily perceive the link between imperial and pedagogical motives, his turn to ‘normalizing’, a term that has for nine editions of the Primer held in orbit a constellation of colonial-as-scientific practices, acts on Mitchell’s Guide. It wedges Old English into a position of cultural coloniality, upholding colonial ways of thinking and being in a world when England’s many former colonies are asserting national independence and political sovereignty. Following this echo of Sweet, other signs of coloniality are dispersed throughout the language and the visual rhetoric of the Guide’s first edition. Mitchell denotes some endings as ‘normal’ and others as ‘abnormal’, value-laden terminology that also populates Sweet’s philological discussions. Mitchell explains i-mutation and other phonological phenomena such as breaking and Grimm’s Law and Verner’s Law by way of grids and tables, sound pedagogical devices which nonetheless draw a line between the ‘authoritarian overtones’ of systematic linguistic representation and colonialist nineteenth-century pedagogical and philological praxis.54 Mitchell, Guide, p. 9. In Norman Davis’s new Preface to Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Primer, 9th revised edn (Oxford, 1953), he uses Sweet’s term ‘normalizing’ to note that he has ‘followed Sweet’s practice of normalizing on a conventional Early West Saxon basis’ (p. vi). Davis justifies this by peppering value-laden superlatives into the very first lines of Sweet’s Grammar section, adding that early West Saxon is ‘the best foundation for further study’ and ‘the most important for the study of literature’ (pp. vi, 1). He further links an early West Saxon dialect to the literature and language of King Alfred, drawing a line between early West Saxon, literary value, and national–imperial horizons. Davis’s editorializing traces associations between normalized early West Saxon and the best, earliest, oldest, and most important language of empire, drawing Mitchell, Davis’s reader, into Sweet’s colonial consciousness. 53 Mitchell, Guide, p. 9. 54 Stray, ‘Paradigms Regained’, p. 123. 51

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Mitchell & Robinson’s Expanding 3rd–8th Editions After a second edition was published, Fred Robinson joined Bruce Mitchell to revise the Guide for a third time, and this third edition appeared in print in 1982, the year in which Britain took a final military action of its empire in the Falklands War against Argentina. Mitchell and Robinson’s third-edition Guide was a large undertaking. It added readings for translation and a complete glossary, and as a consequence, it could, for the first time, be considered a comprehensive, stand-alone classroom textbook. In the Foreword to their 1982 edition, Mitchell and Robinson explain that they continue the practice of ‘normalizing’, a persistent echo of Sweet’s colonial consciousness that has now extended its focus from the Old English presented in grammatical discussions to the Old English texts meant for student translation.55 Teaching the skill of translation by offering texts that have been curated to require no knowledge of dialectal variation is a sound pedagogical choice but is nonetheless symptomatic of a ‘compulsion to create similarities and to repress difference’,56 a colonial resonance from Sweet’s Primer and Reader that has passed, unspoken, into a postcolonial milieu. This compulsion, and the mimetic excess it creates, become more apparent as Mitchell and Robinson continue to describe their curatorial intentions: ‘The Glossary is extremely detailed, with heavy parsing of words recorded.… So full an apparatus may seem at times to encumber the student with more help than he needs, but our intention is to make it possible for the student to begin reading Old English from the outset…’57 We need not object to the proposition that Mitchell and Robinson’s extensive apparatus of glosses and notes is an aid to the elementary learner to point out that it also constricts the interpretive possibilities available to the learner. A student who translates a text using Mitchell and Robinson’s glossary and notes is not only provided with a limited semantic field for each vocabulary word but also with a certain solution to each grammatical ambiguity; they are fed a particular way that the text should be interpreted. As Mitchell and Robinson conclude their explanation of the principles that guided their selection and curation of texts, this prescriptivist tendency reaches its height: The prose texts are on the whole those which have traditionally been offered to beginning students to read. We have resisted the temptation to substitute novel selections for the familiar ones: such passages as King Alfred’s Preface, the story of Cædmon, the conversion of Edwin, and Cynewulf and Cyneheard, have been chosen by generations of teachers and scholars as the appropriate introductory texts precisely because these are the essential ones for the proper orientation of beginners towards both the literature and culture of Anglo-Saxon England.58

In addition to the four texts listed, the third edition of the Guide also includes ‘The Fall of Man’ and ‘Abraham and Isaac’ from the Old Testament, Ælfric’s ‘Colloquy on the Occupations’ and ‘Preface to Genesis’, ‘Selections from the Anglo-Saxon 55 Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English: Revised with Texts and Glossary, 3rd edn (Oxford, 1982), p. 9. 56 Deumert and Storch, ‘Introduction: Colonial Linguistics’, pp. 5–6, author italics. 57 Mitchell and Robinson, Guide to Old English, p. vii. 58 Mitchell and Robinson, Guide to Old English, p. viii.

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Chronicle’, and ‘The Goths in Rome: Parallel Texts of the Prose and Verse Tellings in the Old English Boethius’. By prescribing this selection of texts as ‘the essential ones for the proper orientation of beginners towards both the literature and culture of Anglo-Saxon England’, Mitchell and Robinson create for the learner a totalizing universe of Old English. Not only do the Guide’s glossary and notes provide the reader with particular interpretations of these texts, but the texts are selected because they ostensibly paint the most accurate picture of early medieval England – a picture that centres on King Alfred’s newly converted Christian nation and its imperial inheritance from Rome. As Mitchell and Robinson’s volume balloons in size and establishes itself as the ‘course book which will be useful for all English departments still sensible enough to include an introductory course in Old English in their syllabuses’,59 it claims to aggregate the expertise of the ‘generations of teachers and scholars’ that came before it, without acknowledging the dangerous ideological grounds on which this collective expertise is founded. In the context of the movements towards the accepted postcolonialism that characterised the England of the 1980s, Mitchell and Robinson’s inclination to prescribe an imaginary early medieval England that reinforces a narrative of empire can be read as an act of coloniality, an attempt to carve out imperial boundaries in a postcolonial world. It is not until the 2001 sixth edition that Mitchell and Robinson remove the statement that their chosen texts ‘are the essential ones for the proper orientation of beginners towards both the literature and culture of Anglo-Saxon England’,60 replacing it with a brief, nine-line Foreword that says simply that the Guide’s ‘aims and general shape remain unaltered because they seem to satisfy readers’.61 The removal of the blatantly prescriptivist language is not accompanied by an acknowledgement nor an amendment of the content and apparatus to which it referred but rather by a declaration that their coursebook has become the new status quo. The Guide’s reception history suggests that this is indeed the case. While reviewers of the first and second editions are polarised by Mitchell’s hand-holding and colloquial language,62 the 1982 third edition of the Guide received positive reviews in upwards of ten scholarly journals.63 These reviewers laud Mitchell and Robinson’s pedagogy, dubbing the Guide ‘the easiest and most comprehensive introduction to Old English studies’,64 and just a few years later, Jane Roberts’s review of the fourth edition exclaims, ‘the 1986 Guide is bigger and better than Mitchell and Robinson 1982: bigger because a sizeable selection of poetry is now included; and therefore better… even loyal partisans of the old introductory texts of past undergraduate days may Matti Rissanen, ‘Review of A Guide to Old English, Revised with Texts and Glossary, by Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 85 (1984), 523–4, at p. 524. 60 Mitchell and Robinson, Guide to Old English, p. viii. 61 Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English, 6th edn (Oxford, UK; Malden, MA, 2001), p. viii. 62 Reviewing the first edition in Medium Aevum, R.I. Page remarked that ‘it is written for someone rather slow of understanding’. R. I. Page, ‘Review of A Guide to Old English, by Bruce Mitchell’, Medium Ævum 35 (1966), 175–6, at p. 175. 63 Including Speculum, Notes and Queries, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen, and Medium Aevum. 64 Rissanen, ‘Review of A Guide’, p. 523. 59

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at last be seduced from Sweet’s Reader as the mainstay of their survey courses’.65 Today, nearly four decades after Roberts declared that Mitchell and Robinson’s text had successfully subsumed Sweet’s, the Guide has remained almost unchallenged as the standard Old English textbook; reviewers continue to praise its ‘user-friendly’ approach and the totalising universe of Old English that it presents.66 Conclusion This chapter traces a genealogy of thought between Sweet’s Primer and Reader and Mitchell & Robinson’s Guide, the standard textbook in the Old English classroom over the last forty years. We have argued that while Sweet’s texts for the beginning student are well-intentioned in their pedagogical approach, this approach is built upon colonial ideologies masked by the reasoning of scientific positivism. Sweet’s attempt to normalise the dialects of Old English according to an early West Saxon standard, his replacement of Old English orthography with a system of modern glyphs and diacritics, and his presentation of Old English inflectional patterns from within the visual rhetoric of an authoritarian system of grids ultimately transforms the messy, ungovernable, and living medieval language of Old English into a homogenized language of medievalism that was tuned by and thus attuned to colonialism. Sweet’s normalized and homogenised early West Saxon form of Old English therefore shelters the implicit promise of England-as-imperial-power. Consequently, to return to the beginning of this chapter and recall Louise D’Arcens’s warning that medievalisms are malleable for a variety of ideologies,67 as we have likewise argued, Sweet’s brand of linguistic medievalism did not remain static. It has been on the move, deposited within and echoed throughout the many editions of Mitchell and Robinson’s Guide, which have been published across the postcolonial twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and reshaped for political ideologies rooted in, but distinct from, English colonialism. Yet, just as scientific positivism claims an objectivity that refuses to acknowledge its own social and cultural underpinnings, the Old English medievalism of Sweet, Mitchell & Robinson, and the textbooks that have come after them, may also be blind to their own subjectivity. Consequently, while Old English pedagogy has, since at least the postcolonial textbooks of the 1950s and 60s, regarded itself as strictly language instruction (with a smattering of early medieval English culture), it speaks (in) the ‘normalized’ dialect of colonial desire. Sweet left a Victorian imperialist legacy to Old English pedagogy, and Mitchell & Robinson have passed on that legacy throughout the twentieth and, now, twenty-first centuries. Given the embeddedness of this legacy, how do we dismantle the 65 Jane Roberts, ‘Review: B. Mitchell, and F. C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English, 4th edn Rev. with Prose and Verse Texts and Glossary’, Notes and Queries 35 (1988), 349–5, at p. 349. 66 Maria Angeles Ruiz-Moneva, ‘Review of A Guide to Old English. (7th edn)’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 111 (2010), 115–17; Richard Marsden, Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English, 7th edn (2007); and Peter S. Baker, Introduction to Old English, 2nd edn (2007)’, Nottingham Medieval Studies 52 (2008), 257–60. 67 D’Arcens, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–13.

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imperial desires that echo through the standardized spellings, inflectional paradigms, and intellectual apparatus of Mitchell–Robinson’s Guide and other Old English textbooks that also employ these instructional strategies? Is it possible to keep early West Saxon and the paradigms – which do contribute, for many, to good Old English pedagogy – while silencing their colonial baggage? One thing is for sure: homogeneity, normalization, and standardization are at the conceptual heart of an alt-right fantasy of the Middle Ages, and these are also, historically, the pedagogical anchors of Old English instruction in both textbooks and classrooms. Throughout this chapter we have demonstrated the ways that colonial ideologies appear and persist in Old English textbooks even though there is little evidence that the textbook authors themselves, especially those authors who proceeded Sweet, were conscious of these colonial echoes of nineteenth-century philology. Given the insidiousness of these echoes, it is imperative that Old English instructors ask ourselves how we and our teaching materials unconsciously perpetuate them and thus make Old English a subject that does not explicitly challenge alt-right ideologies.

13 The Magic of Telecinematic Neo-Old English in University Teaching Gabriele Knappe

1. Introduction

T

oday, the Middle Ages speak to us in many voices and through different media.1 In the telecinematic medium, this trend manifests itself in an approach to the Middle Ages which attempts to be as authentic as possible within the general framework of the productions of telecinematic fiction. This is visible in the depicted architecture, costumes and hairstyles, for instance, but also linguistically. The focus of this chapter is neo-Old English, that is, Old English speech created on a modern academic basis.2 In particular, it concentrates on neo-Old English in telecinematic discourse, which is defined as discourse in film productions for television and cinema.3 The TV series Merlin, for instance, originally broadcast between 2008 and 2012, is set in the early Middle Ages in ‘Albion’, with a protagonist

Special thanks for a variety of input are due to the students of my lectures ‘Old and Middle English then and now’ and ‘Linguistic Medievalism’ (an interdisciplinary lecture co-taught with my colleague Patrizia Noel from German Studies), and of my seminar ‘Exploring Medieval English’, all held at the University of Bamberg in the summer terms of 2019 and 2020. In particular, I would like to thank my students Angela Eder, Berit Ellies and Janina Lupprian and my colleagues Inge Milfull, Patrizia Noel and Valentin Werner. I would also like to mention my gratitude to the anonymous reviewers for their careful reading and thought-provoking suggestions. Needless to say, all remaining shortcomings are my own. 2 For the terminology, see Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage: Modern Takes on Old English’, in Michiko Ogura and Hans Sauer with Michio Hosaka (eds), Aspects of Medieval English Language and Literature (Berlin, 2018), pp. 309–28. 3 Telecinematic discourse has received increased scholarly attention in recent times, including corpus-based studies; see Monika Bednarek, Marcia Veirano Pinto and Valentin Werner, ‘Corpus Approaches to Telecinematic Language’, International Journal of Corpus Linguistics 26:1 (2021), 1–9, at p. 1; Valentin Werner, ‘A Diachronic Perspective on Telecinematic Language’, International Journal of Corpus Linguistics 26:1 (2021), 38–70. The term covers scripted language in movies and television films or series. Werner’s corpus study of the development of expressions of emotionality and informality in North American movies 1

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who casts his magic spells in (neo-)Old English.4 The focus here is not on judging the correctness of the translations or specific acting skills. Rather, it will be argued that profiting from the popular appeal of the magic of the telecinematic revival of a past language stage is a rewarding challenge in the context of academic teaching. On the basis of a brief overview of current telecinematic projects involving Old English (Section 2) and a discussion of the current convergence of two popular trends, namely (linguistic) realism in telecinematic productions and medievalism (Section 3), the focus will shift to a reflection on the challenges (Section 4) and profits (Section 5) of teaching Old English with the help of telecinematic neo-Old English. It will be discussed how the students can experience first-hand that Old English was once a fully functional medium of communication – as it still is in its neo-Old English form – and not something dead and purely academic. This might kindle their interest in investing energy in its deeper study. Starting from chosen examples provided on the screen, teaching resources such as Peter S. Baker’s website ‘Old English Aerobics’ for phonology, morphology and syntax and research resources such as the Thesaurus of Old English and the Oxford English Dictionary for lexicology and semantics are introduced as aids in learning to understand, and maybe even create, (neo-)Old English.5 2. What? – Taking Stock of Neo-Old English on the Screen Neo-Old English is no new phenomenon. Several well-known books from the modern era, such as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Prince, have been translated into Old English, and there are translations of poems, too.6 In addition, webpages have been created in Old English, and it is also used in audio format. Oliver M. Traxel provides a detailed overview, to which neo-Old English in video games and songs could be added.7 His point of view that ‘all available neo-Old English resources are of some value in the classroom’ is also the basic assumption of this chapter.8

and television productions over the past sixty years shows that this cover term is warranted for language on TV and in movies. He found that language in movies is more experimental; see Werner, ‘Diachronic Perspective’, p. 65. 4 Merlin, TV series, created by Julian Jones, Jake Michie, Johnny Capps and Julian Murphy. UK: Shine TV and BBC Wales, 2008–12. As has been noted before, this is an historically incorrect decision, as Merlin would have spoken a Celtic language; see, for instance, Thijs Porck, ‘Old English Is Alive! Five TV Series and Movies that Use Old English’, personal blog, 5 Nov. 2015 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 5 Peter S. Baker, Old English Aerobics [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]; Jane Roberts, Christian Kay with Lynne Grundy (eds), A Thesaurus of Old English (Glasgow, 2017), [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]; OED. 6 See the contributions by Fritz Kemmler and Denis Ferhatović in this volume. 7 Traxel, ‘Reviving a Past Language Stage’; cf. also some of the projects by Christopher Monk, ‘Projects & Publications’, personal website, 2020 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 8 Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Old English in the Modern World: Its Didactic Value’, OEN 46:3 (2016) [accessed 28 Oct. 2021].

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More specifically, the focus lies on the direct, lifelike encounter with an otherwise dead language stage through several recent television series and movies in which actors are made to speak neo-Old English. These magic spells, speeches and dialogues are embedded in dramatic storylines, and many viewers are fascinated by the stories, the acting, and the alien languages alike. Cases in point are the Old English magic spells in the recent TV series Merlin, and especially the numerous dialogues and ritualised utterances such as orders, prayers and incantations in several medieval vernaculars, including Old English, and also Latin in the TV series Vikings.9 Many undergraduate university students are familiar with these series, and in particular with Vikings, which they confirmed to be appealing to their age group. While Merlin aims at a younger audience (the age rating is 12, or 6 for a few episodes), Vikings should not be watched by children under the age of 16 – and some seasons even received a BBFC rating of 18. Vikings thus addresses a more mature audience. Some know Robert Zemeckis’ Beowulf (2007) or Dome Karukoski’s Tolkien (2019) – movies which feature spoken Old English and neo-Old English passages.10 Thijs Porck lists five movies and TV series in his blog post ‘Old English Is Alive!’, including, aside from Beowulf, Vikings and Merlin, Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred in Peter Jackson’s adaptation of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, extended edition, and De Schaduw van Bonifatius [The Shadow of Boniface], a Dutch experimental film featuring Old English, Old Frisian and Latin.11 Given the relative wealth of resources, telecinematic neo-Old English thus promises to be a fruitful teaching resource in a university context. 3. Why? – Medievalism Meets Linguistic Realism in Telecinematic Language The surge of recreated earlier language stages in the telecinematic medium appears to have sprung from the lucky marriage of at least two converging trends in recent times. The first is well known as ‘medievalism’, the second can be labelled ‘linguistic realism’. Medievalism will here be described with Richard Utz as ‘the ongoing and broad cultural phenomenon of reinventing, remembering, recreating, and reenacting the Middle Ages’.12 With regard to the study of the Middle Ages at universities, scholarly medieval studies should, according to Utz, not be limited to academia but rather be

Vikings, TV series, created by Michael Hirst. Canada and Ireland: TM Productions, Take 5 Productions, Octagon Films, Shaw Media, Corus Entertainment and MGM Television, 2013–20. The examples for this chapter are taken from the first five seasons. 10 Beowulf, film, directed by Robert Zemeckis. UK and USA: Paramount and Warner Bros., 2007; Tolkien, film, directed by Dome Karukoski. USA: Chernin Entertainment, 2019. In Tolkien, spoken Old English features in an academic context only, in the form of Old English recitations. Thus, it will not provide examples for the analyses in this chapter. 11 Porck, ‘Old English Is Alive’; The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, extended edn, film, directed by Peter Jackson. New Zealand and USA: New Line Cinema and WingNut Films, 2002; De Schaduw van Bonifatius, film, directed by Thijs Schreuder. The Netherlands: Nederlandse Filmacademie, 2010. 12 Richard Utz, Medievalism: A Manifesto (Kalamazoo, 2017), p. 81. 9

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‘research that reaches out, gives back, and transforms’.13 This kind of ‘reaching out’ happens, for instance, when Old English is taught – and indeed also when historical linguists agree to translate scripts into neo-Old English for popular telecinematic purposes. As linguistic medievalism is still in the process of development,14 while medievalism with a focus on literature and culture is thriving, these neo-Old English passages are still awaiting scholarly attention. The second and more recent trend may be called linguistic realism in telecinematic language. The turn to linguistic realism has been observed from about the beginning of this millennium, when telecinematic language was granted increased ‘cultural legitimacy’15 and also received serious scholarly (including linguistic) attention. With regard to Present-Day English varieties as they are depicted on the screen, the aim of producers and directors is to provide authenticity and a ‘representational illusion of accuracy’:16 the language must be perceived as authentic rather than accurately represent the complex world.17 In the case of Old English conversation, the original is elusive anyway, and the possibilities to recreate authenticity are limited to the degree of accuracy which scholarly reconstruction can attain. When neo-Old English is spoken on the screen, a multilingual situation arises. Again, the main function of multilingualism in telecinematic language use is not to present naturally occurring speech but rather to create realism, humour, and character, as well as scene enrichment.18 Some years after the turn to linguistic realism set in, film producers and directors ventured into extending this increased cultural legitimacy of telecinematic language to earlier, dead language stages within medieval settings. Judging from the success of the productions, the producers’ daring step has been rewarded: it may be hypothesised that the audience, by then acquainted with the authentic turn, are now willing to meet the challenge of listening to conversations in medieval vernaculars such as Old English. Modern English subtitles, of course, mitigate the challenge in most 13 Utz, Medievalism: A Manifesto, p. 85. Cf. also Jiři Lach, ‘Who and Where Are the Audiences for History Today?’, in Marcel Arbeit and Ian Christie (eds), Where is History Today? New Ways of Representing the Past (Olomouc, 2015), pp. 13–26. 14 Cf. also Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Middle English in the Modern World’, in Merja Stenroos, Martti Mäkinen, Kjetil V. Thengs and Oliver M. Traxel (eds), Current Explorations in Middle English: Selected Papers from the 10th International Conference on Middle English (ICOME), University of Stavanger, Norway, 2017 (Berlin, 2019), pp. 309–32, at p. 324. 15 Jason Mittell, Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling (New York, 2015), p. 37. 16 Mittell, Complex TV, p. 221. Cf. also Monika Bednarek, Language and Television Series: A Linguistic Approach to TV Dialogue (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 70–3. 17 On a discussion on authenticity in the representation of present-day varieties in film, cf. also Shane Walshe, Irish English as Represented in Film (Frankfurt, 2009), pp. 9–14, who argues for the notion of (perceived) accuracy in this context. 18 Cf. Miriam A. Locher, ‘Multilingualism in Fiction’, in Miriam A. Locher and Andreas H. Jucker (eds), Pragmatics of Fiction (Berlin, 2017), pp. 297–327, at pp. 306–12; Lukas Bleichenbacher, Multilingualism in the Movies: Hollywood Characters and Their Language Choices (Tübingen, 2008). See also Evans’ discussion of the sensitive use of Old Norse poetry in Vikings along similar lines: Gareth Lloyd Evans, ‘Michael Hirst’s Vikings and Old Norse Poetry’, in Tom Birkett and Kirsty March-Lyons (eds), Translating Early Medieval Poetry: Transformation, Reception, Interpretation (Cambridge, 2017), pp. 199–212.

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cases. Still, the old language stage becomes part of a conceived socio-historically accurate recreation of the medieval past. In addition, Old English in these series and movies is part of epic drama, with fallible heroes perfectly equipped for sympathy and identification. The scholars working for the film team thus do indeed meet the demands of those historians and medievalists who stress that academics should take pains to address a broader public outside academia. Old English as represented in telecinematic language may therefore in fact engender a threefold fascination in the audience: with medieval times, conceived authenticity and identification with the characters. Taken together, it appears that this fascination has the power to override alienation and, in doing so, lead to deep audience immersion. 4. How? – From Script to Screen: Challenges Neo-Old English has to meet several challenges on its way from script to screen. These must be identified and taken into account in teaching. It is apparent that the people who wrote most neo-Old English are academic experts, such as Mark Faulkner, who translated the spells in Merlin; Kate Wiles, who worked for Vikings; David Salo, who created Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred; and Rolf H. Bremmer Jr, who provided the Old English words in De Schaduw van Bonifatius. It is very unfortunate that, apart from Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred, the official scripts are not publicly available.19 In this chapter, however, we will work on the premise that the neo-Old English scripts are in line with the grammatical and lexical rules of Old English. This neo-Old English usually reflects the West Saxon variety of most of our transmission, but Northumbrian speakers seem to use Northumbrian word forms at times. The first challenge pertains to the aims and effects which the producers and directors wanted to achieve. In the case of Vikings, the old languages are part and parcel of and even hold a major position in the recreation of history. One of the directors, Ken Girotti, reports a strategy by the producer Michael Hirst in his choice of the old languages: Michael Hirst almost always chooses a language to base a scene around, and it’s not always Old Norse. In cases like that, one side speaks in the ancient language and whoever’s point of view we happen to be in with the scene speaks English. But in rare cases we’ve had all characters speaking in foreign tongues, and that’s fun.20 On fan transcripts of the Old English spells in Merlin, see fn. 26, below. Justin Pollard, The World of Vikings (San Francisco, 2015), p. 136. Hirst admits that historical accuracy was not necessarily his aim. This is reported by Tom Gilbert, ‘Vikings Come Ashore in a New Light’, The New York Times, 22 Feb. 2013 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. Hirst took the scarcity of the records as a license to adapt history to his purposes. Hirst’s bottom line, according to Gilbert, ‘Vikings Come Ashore’, was: ‘We want people to watch it. A historical account of the Vikings would reach hundreds, occasionally thousands, of people. Here we’ve got to reach millions’. But still, academics were employed to make the recreations of the old languages as authentic as possible; cf. the latest report by Keegan McGuire, ‘What Languages Are They Really Speaking on Vikings?’, Looper, 26 Mar. 2021 WORM) would have been judged bathetic’.25 Thus, alienation and otherness rather than a didactic, straightforward familiarisation with a strange language (stage) appear to be important aims in Merlin. what-languages-are-they-really-speaking-on-vikings/> [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. Another influential factor is the individual director’s propensity for the old languages, which varies widely. 21 The format of the reference is ‘season number x episode number in this season’. Battle cries and songs are partly modelled on Old Norse poetry and thus add layers of deeper meaning. An example is Floki’s war chant in 3x07 (40:24–40:31), as Evans, ‘Michael Hirst’s Vikings and Old Norse Poetry’, pp. 203–4, shows. 22 For instance, the bishop’s Old Norse prayer during Elsa’s coronation in the animated Walt Disney production Frozen, film, directed by Chris Buck and Jennifer Lee. USA: Walt Disney Pictures and Walt Disney Animation Studios, 2013 (at 0:18:40–0:18:58), shows that the authentic turn has reached even the youngest viewers. The scene is available online: ‘FROZEN – Old Norse Language (subtitled) in Elsa Coronation Scene’, YouTube clip, 21 Oct. 2014 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 23 The first five seasons of Vikings feature about 130 occasions in which medieval vernaculars, excluding Latin, are spoken. Their full analysis is outside the scope of this chapter. Viewers have variously commented on confusion due to the language mix, cf. ‘Is Anyone Else Bothered by the Language Inconsistencies?’, Reddit thread, c. 2015 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 24 Christopher Monk, ‘Merlin’s Magic Words Were Actually Mark’s’, The Medieval Monk, 22 Nov. 2014 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. Christopher Monk’s pseudonym at the time of the interview was ‘Anglo-Saxon Monk’. 25 Monk, ‘Merlin’s Magic Words’.

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Another challenge concerns the lack of reliable teaching material, and this is a serious problem. It may actually pose an insurmountable obstacle for university teachers. Some fan pages provide scene transcripts, such as Merlin Wiki for Merlin’s Old English spells.26 These are certainly useful but not necessarily correct. Therefore, the detailed linguistic analyses of the spells in Ivana Radman’s Diploma thesis, which are based on Merlin Wiki, have to be taken with a pinch of salt.27 The scene transcripts of Vikings seem to render Present-Day English exclusively,28 and in the other cases no such transcripts seem to be publicly available at all. Teachers have to make do with the modern subtitles and their own ability to make sense of the words which they hear on the screen, or discuss different possibilities in class. So, if academic instructors attempt to produce their own Old English transcripts, maybe in cooperation with advanced students, the results might vary with regard to reliability. The combined challenges of bad acoustics – often because of background noise or music – and the international casts’ varying success in speaking the old tongues endanger the success of this endeavour. One crucial scene in Vikings 1x03 (‘Dispossessed’) is a case in point.29 It is the first scene with extensive dialogue in the old languages, and it adds emphasis to the cultural barrier between the Northumbrians and the Vikings. Ragnar and his men have just landed on the Northumbrian coast and meet the Northumbrian sheriff, an official of King Ælle, and his men on the shore. The background noise is immense: at first the waves are crashing against rocks and onto the shore; a little later the imminent threat and the developing dramatic turn are foreshadowed by a musical theme which increases in volume. Poll Moussolides, the language coach of the series, reports that ‘[w]e shot on a beautiful and secluded Irish beach, but with noisy waves in the background it was almost impossible for the actors to hear their cues. I ended up crouching behind the cameras coordinating and waving at actors when it was their turn to speak’.30 In addition, the quality of the actors’ performance is quite varied, although pains were taken to optimise it. Poll Moussoulides, not claiming expertise in the old languages as such, describes his task for Vikings thus: The historians translate [writer and executive producer] Michael Hirst’s lines and send them to me, sometimes with audio, sometimes without. I print them out for the actors and then spend time making sure they’re comfortable speaking ‘Spells’, Merlin Wiki [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. Ivana Radman, ‘Old English Spells in BBC’s Merlin’ (Unpublished Diploma thesis, University of Zagreb, 2014). 28 See, for example, ‘Vikings Transcripts’, Forever Dreaming (2000–21) [accessed 8 Apr. 2021], where the old languages are merely indicated or the Present-Day English subtitles are given. The same holds for the 52 texts with 135,319 words from Vikings included in Mark Davies, The TV Corpus (2019) [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 29 The scene features also on YouTube: ‘Vikings (2013) – Ragnar’s Army Meets AngloSaxons’, YouTube clip, 25 Mar. 2013 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 30 Pollard, World of Vikings, p. 136. 26 27

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them. We give them up to a week to learn the lines, and there are no last-minute rewrites!31

While some actors try to speak Old English clearly and with careful pronunciation, such as the two Northumbrian soldiers in this and in other scenes, Travis Fimmel, who plays the leading character Ragnar, addresses his problems with Old English and Old Norse quite frankly when he says: I would, hands down, be the worst on set with the languages. I have enough trouble remembering the English lines. I have to fix all my stuff in post when it comes to Saxon [sic] and Old Norse. Hirst knows this and tries not to give me much, thank the gods.32

Fimmel’s Old English performance in the scene under discussion varies from a clear Northumbrian claim Wē sind Norþmen [We are Northmen] to a muddled Hē forþencð þē [He doesn’t trust you] – at which point he surrenders to the language and simply mutters He so sexy.33 Again, Colin Morgan, who plays the title character in the TV series Merlin, has his problems, too, for instance in the spell Hors, berīde þā heofna[s]! [Horse, take possession of the skies!] (2x07 ‘The Witchfinder’), where he pronounces Old English berīde in a post-Great Vowel Shift fashion as /bɪˈraɪd/ rather than as /bəˈri:də/.34 Scenes such as these would not be fit to function as direct Old English pronunciation models for students, but they do have their value in initiating critical discussion in class. 5. To What End? – From Screen to School: Profits A careful selection of the scenes for the classroom can overcome some of the challenges so that telecinematic neo-Old English can play out its full potential as an aid in achieving competencies formulated in module handbooks. These are, primarily, knowledge of older language stages, an overview of English language history and the ability to analyse and explain Present-Day English language structures historically. The concomitant aims of telecinematic neo-Old English in academic teaching are to develop the students’ competence to grasp the basics of Old English on the major linguistic levels (phonology, morphology, lexis, semantics, syntax, pragmatics), to understand Old English as a precursor of Present-Day English (and not as an isolated language stage, which the formerly used term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ might evoke),35 Ileane Rudolph, ‘How Vikings Dialect Coach Brings Old Norse Back to Life’, TV Insider, 16 Apr. 2015 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]; square brackets in the original. 32 Pollard, World of Vikings, p. 136. 33 Pollard, World of Vikings, p. 19. 34 ‘Merlin-Merlin magic/powers s2’, YouTube clip, 23 Jul. 2019 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 35 Furthermore, the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ as such has an image problem: it is traditionally male-dominated and comes with racist connotations; see, for example, Mary DockrayMiller, ‘Old English Has a Serious Image Problem’, JSTOR Daily blog, 3 May 2017 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. Therefore, after heated debates, the academic association ‘International Society of Anglo-Saxonists’ has 31

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to comprehend the relevance of historical linguistics for a potential career as teachers of English in schools,36 and also to acknowledge Old English as a medium of communication. In selecting the scenes, the teacher should first of all focus on passages with clear pronunciation, slow speaking and little background noise. When the material is less ideal, different solutions can be tested together with the students. In doing so, the learners improve their ability to use academic reference works competently – and, in a next step, maybe even creatively. Selected examples of these strategies will now be addressed, with a focus on online resources and the ability to understand, rather than create, (neo-)Old English. The strategies are aimed primarily at students who have been provided with a basic overview of the Old English language but are still beginners. Several exercises may of course be adapted for more advanced students. This will be indicated at the appropriate places.37 In order to find out whether neo-Old English functions like a living language, as original Old English once did, classroom discussion of selected scenes can centre on an analysis of the major speech, or communication, functions, taking Roman Jakobson’s well-known and often-taught model as a practical guideline.38 These functions and their respective focus may be summarised thus: 1. referential:

CONTEXT

→ something / someone spoken of (‘third person’)

2. emotive:

ADDRESSER

→ speaker’s attitude (‘first person’)

3. conative:

ADDRESSEE

→ for example, vocative, imperative (‘second person’)

4. phatic:

CONTACT

→ for example, ritualised formulae

5. metalingual: CODE

→ for example, asking about language

6. poetic:

→ message for its own sake

MESSAGE

The claim is that all of these major speech functions are realised in neo-Old English as represented in telecinematic discourse, and the following subsections are an attempt to show how the students can become acquainted with the old language through their analysis. recently been renamed ‘International Society for the Study of Early Medieval England’; see Colleen Flaherty, ‘It’s about More than a Name’, Inside Higher Ed, 20 Sep. 2019 [accessed 28 Oct. 2021]. 36 Gabriele Knappe and Astrid Alvarado-Sieg, ‘Englisch ist ein europäischer Mix. Vom Mehrwert des historischen Blicks in der Schule’, in Katharina Beuter, Adrianna Hlukhovych, Benjamin Bauer, Konstantin Lindner and Sabine Vogt (eds), Sprache und kulturelle Bildung: Perspektiven für eine reflexive Lehrerinnen- und Lehrerbildung und einen heterogenitätssensiblen Unterricht (Bamberg, 2019), pp. 79–119. 37 The teaching strategies are described in a rather general fashion, seeing that teaching programmes vary considerably between universities and countries. They will have to be adapted individually. For instance, some programmes offer special introductions to Old English, while in other programmes such introductions will be part of more general courses. To give another example, case and gender systems do not need to be extensively explained to German-speaking students who are familiar with these concepts. 38 Roman Jakobson, ‘Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics’, in Thomas A. Sebeok (ed.), Style in Language (New York, 1960), pp. 350–77. As the focus is solely on the practical guideline, critical evaluations of the model will not be addressed in this chapter.

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Referential Function A crucial scene in the context of King Egbert granting land to the Vikings through a charter in Vikings 4x20 (‘The Reckoning’) can serve to show that the major task of numerous messages is to speak about something. In this case, these are the charters which a learned monk hands over to King Egbert, stating that Hēr sindon Ēast Englena landbēċ [Here are the charters in which East Anglian land is granted].39 The scene continues with the king addressing the monk thus: Ġēa, iċ ðanciġe ðē. Bist ðū getrēow, rihtlīċ and ǣfæst fēolaga [Yes, I thank you. You are a trustworthy, righteous and law-abiding fellow]. The passage may serve to discuss several aspects of lexis and grammar. To start with, the students can compare the official subtitles with the translations suggested above. The subtitles read: [My Liege, here are the legal deeds of transfer to the lands of East Anglia] and [Thank you. You are an honest, legal and good fellow]. As can be seen, the official subtitles are not always literal translations, and the discussion could involve the use of the additional address ‘My Liege’ which expresses the relationship of the characters to each other. Concepts and translations that could be discussed in this context are, for instance, landbōc, rihtlīċ, ǣfæst and fēolaga. Turning to original Old English, students can practise working with Bosworth Toller’s Anglo-Saxon Dictionary Online (Bosworth-Toller) and the Dictionary of Old English (DOE),40 and a look at the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), s.v. fellow, will reveal that Old English fēolaga is a borrowing from Old Norse. Why would King Egbert use a Viking term?41 Does he wish to express his bond with the Norsemen? Which alternatives could he have chosen from? The students can find out about synonyms in A Thesaurus of Old English (TOE)42 by just typing the Present-Day English word fellow into the search field. This gives the following category results: 06.01.06.02.03.02|01.02 n Understanding, knowledge, cognizance :: Discipleship :: A disciple :: A fellow disciple 06.02.07.04|03 n Will, determination, resolution :: Obstinacy :: A stubborn fellow 12.02.03|03.01.03 n A society, guild, association :: A member of a guild :: Guild-membership :: Fellow members Since this chapter focuses on the teaching context, length marks and other diacritics are provided as pronunciation aids in the Old English examples throughout. The transcriptions correspond to the words as they are entered in dictionaries of Old English while the words may actually sound somewhat different on the screen. 40 Bosworth-Toller; DOE. 41 In the context of Old Norse loanwords in Vikings it may be mentioned that upon his encounter with the Norsemen in 1x03 (‘Dispossessed’), the Northumbrian sheriff uses the word tacan repeatedly. The students can discuss this usage with recourse to the etymology section in the OED, s.v. take, v. The word is a borrowing from Old Norse and gradually supersedes the native word niman in Middle English. Thus, its use in this passage cannot be explained by deliberate choice but appears to be a straightforward anachronism. 42 Roberts, Kay and Grundy, Thesaurus of Old English. 39

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12.04.01.02 n A fellow, companion, associate, comrade :: A fellow traveller, companion 14.03.02|04.02 n A legislator :: A judge :: An assessor, fellow judge 15.04|02.01 n A debt, due :: A debtor :: A fellow debtor 16.02.01.08.03.01|02.04 n Faith :: New Testament persons :: An apostle :: A fellow apostle 16.02.03.02.05|06 n The church (as temporal/spiritual body) :: A bishop :: A fellow bishop 16.02.03.02.07.01|01 n The church (as temporal/spiritual body) :: A priest of a church or minster :: A fellow priest 16.02.03.03.02|01 n The church (as temporal/spiritual body) :: A monk :: A fellow monk

The scene suggests that ‘fellow, companion, associate, comrade’ (at TOE category 12.04.01. n) would probably be the closest semantic choice, under which heading sixteen vocabulary items are offered: efenhēafda, efenhēafodling (o), efenling (g) (o), efenwiht, gefara, gefēra, greþe (g), hēafodling (g), hēafodgemæcca, gehlēþa (p), gehlyt(t)a (g), gemaca, geselda/gesetla, gesīþ, gesīþa (g), sīþmann

The seven items either marked (g) ‘only found in glosses/glossaries’, (o) ‘occurs only once or infrequently’ or (p) ‘only found in poetry’ would not be expected in such a conversation.43 Nine items are left for further consideration. In addition, from the dozen subcategories which supplement these more general lexical items,44 trēowgeþofta in the subcategory ‘faithful/trusty companion’ is probably best suited to express the relationship between the king and his trusted man of letters. Apart from sīþmann and trēowgeþofta – and also gemaca, geselda/gesetla and gesīþ45 – the words can be checked in the DOE, which (in April 2021) covers the letters A to I: efenhēafda (3 occurrences) ‘equal, fellow, comrade’46 efenwiht (3 occurrences) ‘equal, fellow, associate; a. ? specifically: one of equal condition or class’47 43 The choice of words for everyday conversation could be contrasted with the choice of words for magic spells in Merlin, where rare or poetic words may be expected and were actually preferred by the producers, as we learn from Mark Faulkner. 44 These are: 1) partner, colleague; 2) ally, comrade, friend; 3) old comrade; 4) namesake, comrade; 5) fellow-worker, co-operator; 6) close companion; 7) constant companion; 8) pleasant companion; 9) faithful/trusty companion; 10) companion in need; 11) companion, comrade, one in same troop; 12) companion in war. 45 The words gemaca, geselda/gesetla and gesīþ cannot be looked up in DOE yet but will probably be entered at the alphabetic point of their stems in later volumes. 46 DOE, s.v. efen-hēafda. 47 DOE, s.v. efen-wiht.

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gefara (2 occurrences) ‘fellow-traveller, companion; a. specifically: ally’48 gefēra (c.450 occurrences) ‘1. companion, comrade, friend’; to geferan ‘as (a) comrade(s), friend(s)’; also figurative; 1.a. frynd / freond and geferan ‘friends and companions’; magas and geferan ‘kinsmen and friends’; 1.b. in direct address: (my) comrade, (my) friend; 1.c. in plural, referring to ferial regulars (in Byrhtferth); 1.d. grammatical, of an adverb: wordes gefera ‘companion of a verb’ (in Ælfric’s Grammar); 2. associate in work, partner; also figurative, of things; 2.a. specifically: associate in office or rank, colleague; (freond and) gefera and gefylcea ‘(friend and) colleague and ally’; 2.b. in direct address: (my) comrade; 3. with negative connotation: confederate, accomplice (in a crime, sin, etc.); 3.a. specifically of an associate of Judas; 4. fellow member of an association / a community, etc.; 4.a. fellow-cleric; 4.b. fellow-warrior, comrade in arms; 4.c. glossing condiscipulus ‘fellow-pupil’, referring in plural to the disciples (cf. sense 8.a); 4.d. glossing conservus ‘fellow-servant’; 5. associate living close by; 5.a. fellow-citizen; 6. associate in an undertaking, one who shares a responsibility, participant; also figurative; 6.a. participant in (something gen.); 6.b. participant in (something; prep. and dat.); 7. spouse, consort, mate; to geferan ‘as a mate’; 8. disciple, follower, attendant; also figurative; 8.a. in plural, of the disciples; 8.b. disciple of the devil49 hēafodgemæcca (6 occurrences) ‘one of the same rank, age, class, etc., an equal, fellow, companion’50 gemaca ‘mate, an equal, companion; par, socius’51 geselda/gesetla ‘one of the same dwelling, a companion, comrade; contŭbernālis, sŏcius’52 / ‘one who sits with another’53 gesīþ ‘companion, fellow, companion or follower of a chief or king; socius, comes’54 sīþmann ‘gesith;’ comes’55 trēowgeþofta ‘faithful comrade, trusty companion’56

The words gefēra, gesīþ, and trēowgeþofta seem to be obvious choices, while the others appear less suited semantically. The rare word gefara and the secondary formation sīþmann (gesīþ being the more common word) are less likely choices, too. The word fēolaga is listed in the subcategory ‘partner, colleague’ in TOE and is glossed as ‘partner, associate; fellow, comrade’ in the DOE. The word was still rare in Old English, with only four attested occurrences, and it does not seem to fit too well in this context. The translator Kate Wiles might have given this word preference over more suitable ones because it has a Present-Day English equivalent and thus can be more readily recognised by the audience. This strategy contrasts with the preference for unfamiliar words in Merlin as discussed in Section 4 above. 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

DOE, s.v. ge·fara. DOE, s.v. ge·fēra. DOE, s.v. hēafod-ge·mæcca. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. ge-maca. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. ge-selda. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. ge-setla. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. ge-síþ. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. ge-síþman. Bosworth-Toller, s.v. treów-geþofta.

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Regarding grammar, the passage may serve to show that Old English word order is less restricted than word order in Present-Day English, although in tendency it is close to present-day usage in neo-Old English. In the king’s second sentence (Bist ðū getrēow, rihtlīċ and ǣfæst fēolaga), however, the order of the constituents is Verb – Subject – Subject Complement, which would be impossible in English today. Emotive Function In one of Grendel’s speeches in Zemeckis’ movie Beowulf, we find a prime example of speech with an emotive function. This means that the speech is mainly, or exclusively, centred on the speaker. Grendel’s whining that his ears hurt from the mirth emerging from Heorot can be classed as a ‘direct expression of the speaker’s attitude towards what he is speaking about’.57 Grendel complains, like a little child, that Man hearmede mē, hearmede mīne … hearmede mīne ēaran [People hurt me, hurt my … hurt my ears], and he draws out the words in a painfully long way.58 Robert Zemeckis took many liberties with the original epic poem, and this might be a good starting point to discuss the differences, such as new motivations for the storyline that offer obvious motivations for the actions and seem to be tailored to a modern audience. Thus, King Hrothgar emerges as Grendel’s father and Grendel’s ears hurt because he suffers from a physical defect, namely enlarged eardrums. The monster Grendel has no voice in the medieval poem, but in the movie he speaks; and ‘It speaks!’ is indeed what Beowulf calls out in surprise.59 Conative Function Jakobson suggests that the orientation towards the addressee which defines the conative speech function can extend to a magic, incantatory function. This happens when the absent or inanimate ‘third person’ (the person or thing spoken of) is converted into a direct addressee.60 Merlin’s spells are examples of this function, as for instance the telekinetic spell to summon a key ring by the words Cǣġa cumaþ hēr! [Keys, come here!]. The Merlin Wiki quotes the spell in the wrong form: Cǣġa cume hēr!.61 Radman, following this source, criticises the missing number agreement of the noun and the verb (and cum rather than cume would be the expected singular form),62 but in fact her criticism is aimed at the fan transcript rather than the Old English translation or its rendering by the actor. Comparing this with original Old English morphology, the students can be asked to find out about the correct imperative verb endings in Old English grammars. At this point, the teacher could introduce Peter S. Baker’s ‘Magic Sheet of Old English Inflections’, printable in different formats, which supplements the third edition of his Introduction to Jakobson, ‘Closing Statement’, p. 354. ‘Grendel’s Old English | Beowulf (2007) Movie Clip’, YouTube clip, 14 Mar. 2019 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]; Beowulf, Robert Zemeckis, at 0:13:15–0:13:22. 59 Cf. also Porck, ‘Old English Is Alive’. 60 Jakobson, ‘Closing Statement’, p. 355. 61 ‘Telekinesis’, Merlin Wiki [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 62 Radman, ‘Old English Spells in BBC’s Merlin’, p. 23. 57

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Old English and is readily available online.63 It shows that with the ending -a in the nominative plural, the word cǣġ ‘key’ must be a feminine noun. The spells can also serve to explain Old English phonology, in particular the difficult question of how to pronounce the letter in Old English. Baker’s exercise ‘The Four Gs’ could be a welcome addition at this point.64 As a final class activity, the spell can be cast by the whole group together. This has turned out to be an appreciated occasion for lively communal activity. Phatic Function This function serves to establish contact between the participants of a conversation to hold the channel open and also to close it. Vikings provides us with several examples of addresses in greeting, two of which shall be compared at this point. One is rendered by the Northumbrian sheriff in the scene referred to above (1x03 ‘Dispossessed’) when he greets the Viking seafarers. He says [god?]65 gōde men (the subtitle reads ‘Good people, welcome’). When later in the series (3x03 ‘Warrior’s Fate’) Lagertha establishes closer contact with King Egbert (the language barrier is topicalised at several places in this encounter), she addresses the king upon his arrival at a Wessex farmstead with Gōd dæġ, æþele cyning! [Good day, noble king]. King Egbert is surprised and replies in Present-Day English, ‘So you speak our language now!’ She reacts by honouring the people in Wessex for the help they have given her to become acquainted with the way of life in early medieval England, including their language. The students can start by comparing the phonology of the two utterances in a transcription practice. The result might look like this: Northumbrian sheriff: [ˈgoːdə men], Lagertha: [gud dai ˈaθələ ˈkuniŋg]. There does not seem to be a pronunciation problem in the sheriff ’s greeting, but Lagertha’s pronunciation of Old English should be something like [goːd dæj ˈæðələ ˈkyniŋg]. These could be intentional mispronunciations by a learner of Old English, and the discussion with the students could focus on the question of whether the TV audience would be able to notice that difference. In effect, Lagertha’s halting manner of speaking is probably indication enough to signpost that she is no native speaker of Old English. In a second step, the endings of the adjectives gōde and æþele in the two speakers’ addresses can be assessed. Both of the Old English words for ‘good’ and ‘noble’ could have the endings of weak adjectives because the referents are identifiable in direct address, as seen in Wulfstan’s address ‘Lēofan men’ with which he begins his famous Sermo Lupi ad Anglos.66 The matter is, however, more complex, and strong

63 Peter S. Baker, ‘The Magic Sheet of Old English Inflections (A4 Format)’, Old English Aerobics [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]; cf. Peter S. Baker, Introduction to Old English, 3rd edn (Oxford, 2012). 64 Peter S. Baker, ‘The Four Gs’, Old English Aerobics [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 65 The syllable before gōde men is difficult to understand. 66 At this point, Baker’s Anthology is helpful as it provides a fully glossed text: Peter S. Baker, ‘Sermo Lupi ad Anglos’, Old English Aerobics [accessed 8 Apr. 2021].

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adjectives are attested in this position, too. Thus, the sheriff ’s gōde men, with a strong adjective ending, is in line with Old English practice. Likewise, the adjective æþele shows a strong adjective ending, too, to which ‘æþele ġefēra’ in the poem The Battle of Maldon can be compared.68 The students can start from the ‘Magic Sheet of Old English Inflections’, but the intricacies of this analysis demand deeper morphological knowledge and the teacher’s help. The passage also lends itself to a brief analysis of Old English phraseology, with the help of the lexical resources referred to earlier. The first occurrence of good day is recorded in the early thirteenth century in a full syntactic form (‘Habbeð alle godne dæie’), and as a greeting formula no earlier than the fourteenth century (‘O Thomas freend good day’), according to the OED.69 So, Lagertha’s greeting is somewhat ahead of its time, whereas the sheriff ’s gōde men is ‘[u]sed as a respectful form of address, typically between equals’ in Old English, for instance in ‘and cwæð, La, wel gedo ðe, goda man’.70 From here, the students can explore typical Old English greetings in TOE (using the search term ‘greeting’). At 11.05.02.02.01 n., subcategory 09 int. ‘Hail!’, for instance, they will find the expressions bēo/wes þū hāl, hāl, hāl wes þū, welga, and wel gesund, and in the following subcategory 10 int. ‘Welcome!’ the greeting wilcume. Taken together and viewed within the setting, the sheriff as a native speaker of Old English uses more correct pronunciation and phraseology, but the learner Lagertha matches him in morphology. This finding might then be explored further in a discussion of the reduction of morphological suffixes in late Old English and the potential role in this process of the contact situation between speakers of two closely related languages in the Danelaw. 67

Metalingual Function Communication may be labelled metalingual when speakers refer to the linguistic expression itself, making the verbal code the central theme. This happens, for instance, when a speaker asks the listener ‘Do you know what I mean?’, or, vice versa, when the listener asks the speaker, ‘What do you mean?’. In the scene in Vikings 1x03 (‘Dispossessed’), referred to above, the Northumbrian soldiers ask one another twice what the Vikings are saying, and the Viking warriors, for their part, repeatedly ask Ragnar, who speaks Old English in this scene, to let them know what is being said. At this point the class can discuss the reality of multilingual encounters in the early Middle Ages. They can work out the differences between such encounters in a learned setting, in which Latin functioned as the lingua franca, as opposed to the (non-)communication between speakers of closely related languages, such as Northumbrian Old English and Old Norse. Ragnar seems to be able to master Old English rather well, with the help of the fictional character Athelstan, who acts as a 67 Bruce Mitchell, Old English Syntax. Vol. 1: Concord, the Parts of Speech and the Sentence (Oxford, 1985), § 114, pp. 1245–7. 68 Baker’s anthology is once more very useful to introduce original Old English texts for comparison: Peter S. Baker, ‘The Battle of Maldon’, Old English Aerobics [accessed 8 Apr. 2021], line 280. 69 OED, s.v. good day, n. and int., senses A.1 and B.1. 70 OED, s.v. goodman, n., sense 1.

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mediator between the cultures and the languages.71 The students can work out how a lack of understanding and trust leads to mortal combat in this scene. Also, the scenes can be compared to their historical models in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,72 and online facsimiles, especially of the British Library in London, are helpful for teaching units on the original transmission of Old English texts.73 Poetic Function Whenever language serves a poetic function, it is focused on the message for its own sake and becomes a work of art. An epic poem such as Beowulf fulfils such a function, and for the creation of neo-Old English it can serve as a model. This scenario is the background of Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred in Peter Jackson’s adaptation of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, in the extended edition. In Miranda Otto’s deeply emotional performance, it becomes a fine example of the poetic function of neo-Old English.74 The text below follows the text as printed in The Annotated Score,75 with the repetition of bealo added, changed to , and to . A literal translation is supplied on the right. The series centres on the famous legendary figure Ragnar Loðbrok, known from chronicles of the period and the later transmission of Norse sagas alike. The figure of the great warrior–hero Ragnar, at the junction of myth and history, provided a flexible setting for Michael Hirst’s semi-historical telling of his story and the story of his followers. Comparisons with the historical sources, of course, reveal anachronisms and other liberties. Thus, the fictional character Athelstan was captured at the raid of Lindisfarne in the series although historically this raid in 793 postdates the encounter with a sheriff (by the name of Beaduheard according to Æðelweard’s chronicle), which took place in Wessex in 789 – and Ragnar would have to be dated to the ninth century and not to the eighth. 72 A translation of the passage featuring the encounter between the Vikings and the Northumbrian sheriff can be found, for example, in Michael Swanton (ed. and trans.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, new edn (London, 2000), p. 54, entry for the year 787 [789] of the Winchester manuscript (Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 173, fols 1v–32r). For the raid of Lindisfarne, see pp. 54, 56 in the same edition, entry for the year 793 in the Canterbury Manuscript (British Library, Cotton Domitian A viii, fols 30–70). 73 British Library, Digitised Manuscripts [accessed 8 Apr. 2021]. 74 ‘The Two Towers ~ Extended Edition ~ Theodred’s Funeral HD’, YouTube clip, 29 May 2013 [accessed 8 Apr. 2021], The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Peter Jackson, Disc 1, Scene 21, at 1:21:34–1:22:09; see also Porck, ‘Old English Is Alive’ for further information and especially the insightful details in Oliver M. Traxel, ‘Exploring the Linguistic Past through the Work(s) of J. R. R. Tolkien: Some Points of Orientation from English Language History’, in Monika KirnerLudwig, Stephan Köser and Sebastian Streitberger (eds), Binding Them All: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on J. R. R. Tolkien and His Works (Zurich, 2017), pp. 279–304, at pp. 282–3. 75 Philippa Boyens and David Salo, ‘The Funeral of Théodred Known as Lament for Théodred’, in Doug Adams (ed.), The Annotated Score: A Companion Piece to ‘The Music of the Lord of the Rings Films Part II: The Two Towers’ Packaged with ‘The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. The Complete Recordings’ (Los Angeles, 2006), p. 32. I am indebted to Oliver M. Traxel for sharing this source with me. Its attributions ‘Text by Philippa Boyens’ and ‘Old English translation by David Salo’ do not seem to do justice to the way in which the neo-Old English product emerged, as the lines are so closely modelled on Beowulf. Kristin Thompson, The Frodo Franchise: The Lord of the Rings and Modern Hollywood (Berkeley, 2007), p. 95, reveals that David Salo composed the text himself, inspired by the laments in Beowulf. 71

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[…]  Bealocwealm hafað

[...] Evil death has

frēone frecan  forð onsended.

the noble warrior forth sent.

Ġiedd sculon singan  glēomenn sorgiende

Song shall sing minstrels sorrowing

on Meduselde  ðæt he manna76 wǣre

in Meduseld, that he of men was

his dryhtne dīerest  and maga dēorost.

to his lord dearest and of kinsmen bravest.

Bealo […]

Harm […]

One possible way of basing teaching units on this song is to introduce the students first to Beowulf as a poem, then to J. R. R. Tolkien’s closeness to Beowulf and to make sure that they understand that the Rohirrim (to which Éowyn belongs) have close affinity to the West-Germanic inhabitants of early medieval England in Tolkien’s fictional world.77 This could also be the place to talk about the function of dirges in Old English poetry,78 such as in Beowulf, lines 3150–82, or in Guthlac B, lines 1348–79.79 Instruction could then proceed to the Old English poetic line, in particular to alliteration which binds two half-lines together, and then perhaps to a discussion of the metre.80 For reasons of space, alliteration only will be discussed at this point. Its principles should first be explained with the help of line 2266 from Beowulf. This line, together with line 2265b, is the obvious model for the beginning of Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred:81 […]   bealocwealm hafað

[…] Evil death has

fela feorhcynna  forð onsended

82

many of the living forth sent

The poem is composed in long-lines. Line 2266 shows that a long-line consists of two half-lines, called a-line or on-line, and b-line or off-line, with two stresses each and separated by a caesura, which is indicated by spacing in modern editions but 76 The words that Miranda Otto sings at this point are mā nō rather than manna, which reduces the quality of the Old English lines considerably. 77 Mark Atherton, ‘Old English’, in Stuart D. Lee (ed.), A Companion to J.R.R. Tolkien (Oxford, 2014), pp. 217–29; Thijs Porck, ‘The Bones in the Soup: The Anglo-Saxon Flavour of Tolkien’s The Hobbit’, in C. van Zon (ed.), Lembas Extra 2012 (Beekbergen, 2012), pp. 65–74. 78 See Herbert Pilch and Hildegard Tristram, Altenglische Literatur (Heidelberg, 1979), Index, s.vv. fūslēoð ‘dying song’, sorhlēoð ‘sorrow-song’. 79 For editions of Beowulf that lend themselves to academic instruction, see below. Guthlac B is edited in George Philip Krapp and Elliott Van Kirk Dobbie (eds), The Exeter Book (New York, 1936), pp. 72–88. 80 See, for example, the short account in Bruce Mitchell and Fred C. Robinson, A Guide to Old English, 8th edn (Oxford, 2012), pp. 156–62. 81 See also the discussion of sources in Traxel, ‘Exploring the Linguistic Past’, pp. 282–3; Porck, ‘Old English Is Alive’. 82 Kevin Kiernan (ed.), Electronic Beowulf, programmed by Emil Iacob (2015) [accessed 8 Apr. 2021], lines 2265b–6. Line numbers will follow in parentheses in subsequent references to the same text.

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is not original in the manuscript.83 This is typical not only of Beowulf but of other Old English poetry, too. The teacher can easily show the original manuscript online, making use of the web-based resource Electronic Beowulf.84 This project provides facsimile pages with a facing edition featuring on-demand line translations, word definitions, grammatical notes, a glossary and a critical edition to boot. In trying to find the stressed syllables, the students can rely on their knowledge of Present-Day English because its stress allocation rules are similar to those of Old English. Finding the alliteration involves looking for the first stressed word in the off-line, which is forð. Its first sound repeats the initial sound of one or both stressed words in the on-line, here fela and feorhcynna. The second stressed syllable in the off-line, the [s] of onsended, does not alliterate. For the four complete lines of the neo-Old English song, the alliteration is on [f] (forð), on [ɣ]/[ʝ] (glēomenn),85 on [m] (manna) and on [d] (dēorost). The last line, however, poses a problem. The alliteration should be [m] because maga is the first stressed word in this off-line. This line violates the Old English alliteration rules. The exercise could be extended to deduce the half-lines and alliteration in the complete neo-Old English poem as found in The Annotated Score, of which only the latter part is sung in the movie. The text can be presented in a run-on form, thus reproducing manuscript layout and making the students adopt the role of editors. The complete neo-Old English poem (with length-marks added and followed by a literal translation) reads: Nū on ðēostrum licgeð Ðēodred se lēofa hæleða holdost. Ne sceal hearpan swēġ wīġend weċċean; ne wīnfæt gylden guma sceal healdan, ne gōd hafoc ġeond sæl swingan, ne se swifta mearh burhstede bēatan. Bealocwealm hafað frēone frecan forð onsended. Ġiedd sculon singan glēomenn sorgiende on Meduselde ðæt he manna wǣre his dryhtne dīerest and maga dēorost. Bealo […]86

First, the class could listen to Miranda Otto’s performance to find out where she pauses, followed by a discussion of the likelihood of caesuras and line-breaks. The result would probably look like this, with alliterating sounds underlined: Nū on ðēostrum licgeð  Ðēodred se lēofa The stichic system of West-Germanic verse usually employs run-on lines with new elements introduced at the beginning of the off-line; cf. F. Klaeber (ed.), Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, 3rd edn (Boston, 1950), p. lxx. This technique is employed both in this example and in the Lament for Théodred. 84 Kiernan, Electronic Beowulf. 85 The alliteration of early Old English [ɣ] in glēomenn with [ʝ] in ġiedd can be found elsewhere in Old English poetry and has been studied by Donka Minkova, Alliteration and Sound Change in Early English (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 114–20. She argues that such an alliteration is possible because we should work on the assumption of a gradual rather than a categorical satisfaction of the identity requirement of the sounds and that the alliteration is based on the phonetically mediated surface similarity (fricativity) of two separate sources. 86 Literal translation: ‘Now in darkness lies Théodred, the dear, of fighters the most loyal. Not shall harp-sound the warrior wake; nor wine-cup golden the man shall hold, nor good hawk through hall fly, nor the swift horse courtyard beat. Evil death has the noble warrior forth sent. Song shall sing singers sorrowing in Meduseld, that he of men was to his lord dearest and of kinsmen bravest. Harm […]’. 83

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hæleða holdost.  Ne sceal hearpan swēġ wīġend weċċean; ne wīnfæt gylden guma sceal healdan,  ne gōd hafoc ġeond sæl swingan,  ne se swifta mearh burhstede bēatan.  Bealocwealm hafað frēone frecan  forð onsended. Ġiedd sculon singan  glēomenn sorgiende on Meduselde  ðæt he manna wǣre his dryhtne dīerest  and maga dēorost. Bealo […]

From this point, models for the lines can be searched in Beowulf, either together or in groups. A possible resource for the first approach can be Benjamin Slade’s webbased edition with facing translation, followed by searching the Electronic Beowulf to consolidate the findings.87 The most obvious parallels emerging from such a search are, as can be expected, in the context of death and loss: 1) The ‘Lament of the Last Survivor’ in Beowulf was the model for the following lines: Beowulf

Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred

   Næs hearpan wyn

    Ne sceal hearpan swēġ wīġend weċċean;  ne wīnfæt gylden

gomen glēobēames,  ne gōd hafoc

guma sceal healdan,  ne gōd hafoc

ġeond sæl swingeð,  ne se swifta mearh

ġeond sæl swingan,  ne se swifta mearh

burhstede bēateð.  Bealocwealm hafað

burhstede bēatan.  Bealocwealm hafað

fela feorhcynna  forð onsended.

frēone frecan  forð onsended.89

88

2) Merging with the passage above, the harp is said to wake warriors in Beowulf, in the speech of the messenger to the Geats: ‘nalles hearpan sweġ / wiġend weċċean’ [not at all the harp’s sound [shall] warriors wake] (Beowulf, lines 3023b–4a).

87 Benjamin Slade (ed. and trans.), Beowulf: Diacritically-Marked Text and Facing Translation (2002–20) [accessed 28 Apr. 2021]; Kiernan, Electronic Beowulf. 88 Literal translation: ‘There was no harp’s delight, game of glee-wood, nor good hawk through hall flies, nor the swift horse courtyard beats. Evil death has many living forth sent’ (Beowulf, lines 2262b–6). 89 Literal translation: ‘Not shall harp-sound the warrior wake; nor wine-cup golden the man shall hold, nor good hawk through hall fly, nor the swift horse courtyard beat. Evil death has the noble warrior forth sent’.

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3) There is a loose similarity between the notions of meduseld in Beowulf, ‘meadhouse, house in which feasting takes place’,90 and the hall which bears the same name in Tolkien: Beowulf

Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred    þonne leng ne mæġ, on Meduselde  ðæt he manna wǣre

mon mid his magum,  meduseld būan.91 his dryhtne dīerest  and maga dēorost.92

4) The half-line ‘his dryhtne dīerest’ [to his lord dearest] recalls Deor, lines 35–7, a poem set in a first-person narrative told by a court singer who has been driven away by his lord: Deor

Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred

þæt iċ bi mē sylfum  secgan wille, þæt iċ hwīle wæs  Heodeninga scop, dryhtne dӯre;93

his dryhtne dīerest

5) ‘Ġiedd sculon singan / glēomenn sorgiende’ seems to reflect words in a line following the scop’s song about Finn during a feast. A little later, another short passage in the same context is reminiscent of Éowyn’s lament: ‘ne wīnfæt gylden / guma sceal healdan’. The word wīnfæt is a word only found in glossaries. Apparently it came in handy for alliteration: Beowulf

Éowyn’s Lament for Théodred

       Leoð wæs asungen,

Ġiedd sculon singan  glēomenn sorgiende94

glēomannes gyd95        byrelas sealdon

ne wīnfæt gylden  guma sceal healdan96

wīn of wunderfatum

97

Bosworth-Toller, s.v. medu-seld. Literal translation: ‘when longer not is able to, a man with his relatives, the mead-hall occupy’ (Beowulf, lines 3066b–7). 92 Literal translation: ‘in Meduseld, that he of men was to his lord dearest and of kinsmen bravest’. 93 Quoted from Anne L. Klinck (ed.), The Old English Elegies: A Critical Edition and Genre Study (Montreal, 1992), p. 91. Literal translation: ‘that I by my self say want, that I once was Heodenings’ scop, to the lord dear’ (Deor, lines 35–7a). 94 Literal translation: ‘Song shall sing singers sorrowing’. 95 Literal translation: ‘Song was sung, singer’s tale’ (Beowulf, lines 1158b–9a). 96 Literal translation: ‘nor wine-cup golden the man shall hold’. 97 Literal translation: ‘cup-bearers offered wine from wondrous vessels’ (Beowulf, lines 1160b–1a). 90 91

The Magic of Telecinematic Neo-Old English in University Teaching

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Afterwards, the students can be introduced to ways in which Old English poetry might have been performed. A captivating performance was, for instance, recorded by Benjamin Bagby in 2006.98 The teaching unit may end with a discussion of the neo-Old English composition and performance in the light of the original Old English text. In studying these major functions of neo-Old English speech, we understand that around one thousand years ago people used their language like we do today: they passed on messages, expressed their emotions and attitudes, tried to order or persuade others to believe or do certain things, they used speech formulae in ritualized contexts, enquired about the language and employed it to produce pieces of art. In all these respects, Old English was as alive as Present-Day English is today. Written transmission in its artful, mostly poetic, style is not able to tell us this story in its entirety. Neo-Old English on the screen, however, breathes spoken life into the written word and helps us to understand Old English more fully as a system of communication and as the root of the English that we speak today. 6. Conclusion This chapter is a plea to embrace the potential of neo-Old English in the telecinematic medium in academic teaching. Several movies employ neo-Old English in some of their scenes, such as Beowulf and The Lord of the Rings. What is more, many students are familiar with the popular TV series Merlin and especially Vikings through streaming services or DVD, and their involvement with these series can be the starting point for instruction in Old English. The discussion in this chapter addresses some of the issues of this approach, among which the lack of reliable screenplays is certainly the most serious one. In its main part, examples of telecinematic neo-Old English employed as an actual means of communication, demonstrated by the speech functions according to Jakobson,99 show how this medium can support the teaching of Old English – which, as is well known, in no way discloses itself easily to modern learners – on all linguistic levels. In this way, the chapter hopes to provide some incentive for teachers to open a door to students’ appreciation of the original language, literature and the historical background of the early medieval period in England. There is no doubt an intrinsic value in studying neo-Old English in its own right. This also helps to avoid judging neo-Old English in comparison with the original tradition, searching for shortcomings and thus developing a deficit perspective.100 In this context it is important to stress, in Richard Utz’s words, that medievalism in general should not be reduced to a ‘necessary boarding drug leading to reading and researching “real” medieval texts and artefacts’.101 However, for the majority of students who experience a medieval vernacular functioning like a real, living Benjamin Bagby, Beowulf, film, directed by Stellan Olsson, recorded live at Dunkers Kulturhus, Helsingborg, Sweden (Jan. 2006). USA: Koch Vision, 2007. 99 Jakobson, ‘Closing Statement’, pp. 350–77. 100 On this notion, see Bednarek, Veirano Pinto and Werner, ‘Corpus Approaches to Telecinematic Language’, p. 1. 101 Utz, Medievalism: A Manifesto, p. 85. 98

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language, neo-Old English may have the potential to convince them that it is worthwhile investing time and energy in a far-away language stage and then, hopefully, spark a scholarly interest in the original language and literature of the time, too. In this sense, neo-Old English may be considered a legitimate ‘boarding drug’. To be able to master the original would certainly be incentive enough for those students with advanced academic interest in Old English language and literature. Experience shows, however, that they, too, enjoy modern audio-visual elements in teaching. To fail to grasp the potential of the recent developments of neo-Old English in popular telecinematic productions would seem to waste a fruitful opportunity in university teaching.

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Index Æcerbot 152 Ælfric  195, 229 Colloquy on the Occupations  13, 229 n.23, 238 De temporibus anni 13 language of  176, 229–30, 237 Lives of Saints  178 n.17, 188 Preface to Genesis 239 Aitcheson, James The Harrowing  156, 165–8, 170 Albert, Edoardo The Northumbrian Thrones series 58 Aldhelm  89, 151, 193 n.14, 204 Aldred  136, 146–53 Alfred the Great  158–9, 173, 187, 225 n.3, 229, 238 Alfredian renaissance  147, 173–4 language of  112, 147, 174–5, 229–30, 237 Preface to Gregory’s Pastoral Care  147 n.38, 174, 180, 187, 238 alt-right  55, 191, 199, 207, 226, 241 anachronism  11, 117, 122, 124–5, 192–3, 252 n.41, 258 n.71 Andreas  185 n.46, 206 ‘Anglo-Saxon’, controversy over terminology  2–3, 15 n.39, 55–6, 72, 75, 79–80, 89, 135, 139, 225 n.3, 250 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle  110 n.84, 157, 159, 169, 187, 189, 220, 238–9, 258 archaeology  3 n.7, 72–81, 83–6, 198, 201, 205–6, 207 Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla 1 Atlakviða 11 Auden, W. H.  2, 20–5, 29, 33 n.32, 34–5, 57 Juvenilia: Poems 1922–1928  23, 34 The Age of Anxiety  21–2, 23, 25, 35

The Dyer’s Hand 20–1 audience  11, 14, 74, 84, 88–9, 111–12, 122–31, 176–7, 199, 232, 245–7, 254, 255, 256 Augustine, St  50 authoritarianism  232–3, 237, 240 Baker, Peter S. see translations into Old English (Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande) Battle of Hastings  66, 163, 164, 187–8 Baxter, Stephen  Conqueror  98 n.19, 113 Bayeux Tapestry  97, 110, 156, 161, 162–3, 188–9 Bede  188, 199 Ecclesiastical History  86, 121, 188 Beowulf  20–1, 74, 138, 143 n.30, 159, 173, 180, 193, 194, 196, 201–2, 205, 206 adaptations  10, 11, 12–13 film adaptations  14, 245, 255, 263 and Sutton Hoo  71–2, 75–82, 86–8 Klaeber’s Beowulf 221 manuscript  164, 206, 260 poetry inspired by  24 n.13, 46–8, 185–7, 211–17, 218 n.23, 258–63 translations see under Heaney, Seamus Bergvall, Caroline  6 n.21, 117–19, 122, 124, 130, 131, 132–4 Drift  117–18, 130, 134 Meddle English  117–18, 133 Bolland, G. J. P. J. ‘Se Gleomann’  10 n.29 Borges, Jorge Luis  6 n.21, 20, 37 n.1, 45 ‘Pierre Menard, author of the Quixote’ 39 ‘The Immortal’  39–40 bricolage 169–70 British Museum see museums

290

Index

Carroll, Lewis Alice in Wonderland see translations into Old English (Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande) Chaucer, Geoffrey The Canterbury Tales 185 Chingonyi, Kayo ‘Ginnel’ 5–6 Christianity  23, 79, 89, 121, 136–8, 143, 146, 152–3, 202, 207, 239 Clayton, Hamish Wulf 53–69 Cockayne, Thomas Oswald  227 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor  40, 51 ‘Christabel’ 45 ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’  41, 45, 46 colonialism  68, 80–3, 85, 126, 129, 131, 134, 135, 136–8, 142, 225 n.3, 226, 228–41 neo-colonialism 80–1 see also post-colonial theory compound words  30–1, 42 n.30, 52, 61, 150, 161, 179–81, 189, 193 n.10, 217, 220–2 conlangs 95–114 Conybeare, John  45, 51 Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry 45 Cornwell, Bernard The Last Kingdom Series 58 Crossley-Holland, Kevin The Exeter Book Riddles  88–9, 201 Cynewulf Juliana 217 ‘Dark Ages’  82–3, 98, 135, 198, 205 Davis, Norman  234–7 Deor  143 n.30, 158, 262 dialects modern English  5–6, 52, 101, 105, 109–11, 112, 117, 120 Old English  147 n.36, 176 n.10, 212, 230 n.27, 233 dialect mixture  212, 216, 221 n.31, see also normalisation Kentish  233 n.41 Mercian  141, 229, 233 n.41 Northumbrian  147–8, 150, 233 n.41, 247, 250, 257

West Saxon  136, 141, 147, 148, 150, 174, 176, 178, 221 n.31, 228–30, 232–7, 240–1, 247 Dodds, Jeramy  29–35 Crabwise to the Hounds 30–1 Drakkar Noir 32 Poetic Edda  29, 31–2, 33 n.32, 34 Durham Ritual  147, 152 n.54 Early Modern English  102, 108 n.76, 188 Eco, Umberto Baudolino  144–6, 148 ecology  27, 89, 138–9 Eliot, T. S.  23 epistemology of love (N. T. Wright)  136–8, 139, 140, 146 etymology  5, 21, 24, 84, 100, 125, 195, 197, 200, 202–4, 252 n.41 Exodus (OE poem)  5 n.19, 185 n.46 ‘fake’ Old English  82–6 see also pseudo-Old English films  1, 243–64 De Schaduw van Bonifatius  245, 247 Sutton Hoo Visitor Centre film 82–4 The Dig 91 The Lord of the Rings  245, 258–63 Tolkien 245 see also YouTube; film adaptations under Beowulf font  26–7, 107 n.71, 144–5 food and drink  191–208 Franks Casket  79–80, 143 n.30 French  103, 109, 110, 117, 120, 141, 143, 145, 161, 176, 193, 196, 197, 198 ‘fuck’  109, 124–5 Furnivall, Frederick  42, 45 Gaelic 150–1 García Márquez, Gabriel  163 One Hundred Years of Solitude 161 Genesis B (OE poem)  217 German  107, 108, 144–5, 175, 179–81, 185–7, 189 Germanic culture  84–6 glossaries  117, 238–40 Gothic (language)  194, 195–6, 198, 199–200 Graham, W. S.  38 Grahame, Kenneth  37–52

Index Pagan Papers 41 The Wind in the Willows 40–52 Gregory the Great  174 Cura Pastoralis  174, 187 Guthlac B 259 Headley, Maria Dahvana The Mere Wife 54 Heaney, Seamus  20 n.2, 37 Beowulf  1, 5, 64, 71–2, 75–82 ‘Bone Dreams’  4–5, 8 ‘Helmet’ 82 heritage see museums Hill, Justin Shieldwall  156, 157–61, 169 historical authenticity  75–6, 79–80, 82, 89, 155, 156, 246–7 historical fiction  8–10, 54, 135–6, 139–41, 146–7, 153, 155–70, 243, 257, 259 Hoffmann, Heinrich Der Struwwelpeter see translations into Old English (Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan) Holtzmann, Adolf  227–8 Hopkins, Gerard Manley  37, 52 intertextuality  174, 176, 177, 180, 183, 185–8 Isidore of Seville  205 Italian  144–5, 207 n.110 Judith (OE poem)  217 Keats, John  40 Kemble, John Mitchell  50 Kemmler, Fritz see translations into Old English (Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan; Be þam lytlan æþelinge) Kenney, Richard  37–8 kennings  5, 27, 83, 216 Kingsnorth, Paul  115–34, 139, 141–4, 146, 147–8, 151 Alexandria  96, 114 Beast 96 The Wake  1, 8, 58, 95–114, 115–34, 141–4 Komunyakaa, Yusef  3

291

language contact  257 see also multilingualism Latin  121, 187, 196, 201 n.68, 229, 230 n.25, 231 n.31, 234 n.45, 245 composition of  210–11 medieval  144–5, 148–51, 202, 257 translation of  174–5, 178 with Old English glosses  89, 147 words derived from  102, 120, 141, 143, 148, 152, 180, 186, 193 n.10, 196, 202–4 lexis  27, 29, 31–2, 108–11, 250, 252–4, 257 Lindisfarne Gospels  136, 147–9 McCarthy, Cormac The Road 166 MacGregor, Neil A History of the World in 100 Objects  80–2, 207 n.113 magical realism  161, 162, 163–4 Magnússon, Eiríkr  43–4 Maxims I 22 Merlin (TV)  243–5, 247–50, 253 n.43, 254, 255, 263 Middle English  110–11, 113, 147, 192, 196, 198 Sawles Warde  21 n.5, 22 Mitchell, Bruce  235 n.48 A Guide to Old English  225–6, 235–41 mock-heroic 185–6 Monk, Christopher  10 Morgan, Edwin  38 morphology  104–7, 244, 250, 255, 256–7 Morris, May  43 Morris, Sharon  6 n.21 Morris, William  2, 27, 42–4, 52 Sigurd the Volsung 43 The Saga of Sigurd the Jerusalem Farer 43–5 movies see films multilingualism  89, 127, 142 n.27, 144–5, 150, 246, 257 translingual  135–6, 144–7, 150–1 museums The British Museum  72, 75–82, 207 n.113 The National Trust Sutton Hoo Visitor Centre  72, 82–92 music  10,13, 82

292

Index

nationalism  2–3, 14–15, 139, 230, 233 n.41 Britishness 80–1 Englisc nationalist movement  3 Englishness 81–6 ethno-nationalism  72, 75, 80–2, 85, 90–1 National Trust see museums neologism  147, 177, 179, 180, 195, 199 neo-Old English  2, 10–11, 12–13, 82–6, 97–8, 173, 174, 177, 179, 212, 217, 221–2, 243–64 Nolan, Clive Song of the Wildlands 10 normalisation 226–41 Norman Conquest  103, 110, 111, 119, 126, 139, 141, 145, 147–8, 161–4, 165–8, 170, 187, 188 Old English Boethius  143 n.30 Old English Hexateuch  79–80 Old English poetry  206 composition of  10 n.29, 11, 181–9, 209–22 in museums  71–92 inspired by  2–6, 19–35, 45–50, 58–67, 141, 181–9, 209–22, 258–63 teaching  217–22, 258–63 see also individual poems; kennings; poetry Old Norse  117, 120, 124, 131, 150–1, 257 influence on modern poets  21–22, 24, 25, 29 n.23 neo-Old Norse  98 n.19, 170, 200, 246 n.18, 247–8, 250 translation of  11, 43–4 words derived from  102, 151, 161, 252 Onions, C. T.  234–5, 236 opacity  131, 133 oral-formulaic 185 Orderic Vitalis  165, 167 orthography  99–102, 127, 130–1, 145, 149, 161, 226–41 see also normalisation OULIPO 133 paganism  74–5, 79, 83–5, 89, 143, 152 Pan  40–1, 51 paradigms  229, 232–3, 235 Parker, Matthew  3 pastiche 22

pastness, modes of  156–7, 169–70 Patton, Christopher  25–9, 34–5 Curious Masonry: Three Translations from the Anglo-Saxon 26–7 Jack Pine 25 Ox 25 Unlikeness is Us: Fourteen from the Exeter Book  26, 27 philology  139–40, 146, 227–9, 231, 233, 236, 241 phonology  102–4, 244, 250, 256 Pickering, William  27 poetry alliterative verse  5, 20–2, 24–5, 31–2, 37, 47, 51, 57, 65, 174–5, 177, 181–3, 185–9, 210–11, 218–22, 259–60 cynghanedd 37 metre  5, 22, 24–5, 29, 30, 32, 34, 37, 40, 45, 64–5, 209–11, 217–22, 259 drop expansion  220 five types  219 resolution  217, 220, 222 see also individual poets; Old English poetry Pope, Alexander  181 ‘The Rape of the Lock’  181 postcolonial theory  64, 67–8, 80, 118, 126, 134, 135, 136–8 Pound, Ezra  37, 38 ‘The Seafarer’  83 pronunciation see phonology pseudo-Old English  1, 82–6, 95–114 racism  2–3, 14–15, 56, 68, 81, 85–6, 136, 138 n.12, 139, 140 see also alt-right; colonialism; nationalism Rask, Rasmus  228, 231 n.31, 232 readership see audience reading, stages of  125–31 re-enactment  74, 77–9, 82 replicas  73–8, 80–4, 87, 90 Revard, Carter  3 rhizome theory  38–9 riddles, Old English  11, 27–9, 32, 88–9, 198 n.54, 199, 201–2, 208 Robinson, Fred C., see Mitchell, Bruce (A Guide to Old English) Romanticism  143, 227–8, 232 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel  40

Index Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de Le Petit Prince, see translations into Old English (Be þam lytlan æþelinge) Scott, Walter  45, 51 Shakespeare, William  189 Macbeth 189 songs  10, 13, 244, 248 n.21, 258–62 speech functions  251–63 spelling see orthography Stevenson, Robert Lous  40 Sutton Hoo helmet  76–7, 81–2, 84, 89 see also museums Sweet, Henry  221, 226–8 Anglo-Saxon Primer  13, 225–6, 228–38, 240 Anglo-Saxon Reader  13, 225–6, 232–6, 238–40 First Steps in Anglo-Saxon 12–13 syntax  24, 25, 27, 29, 107–8, 116, 124, 145, 148, 211, 218, 244, 250 teaching  12–14, 192–3, 196–7, 210, 212, 222, 225–41, 243–64 Tennyson, Alfred The Battle of Brunanburh 51 The Charge of the Light Brigade 51 Terry, Philip  117–19, 122, 124, 131, 133–4 tapestry  95–114, 117–18, 133, 156, 161–4, 169–70 The Battle of Brunanburh  150, 186 The Battle of Maldon  20 n.2, 186, 217, 257 The Dream of the Rood  21, 185 The Letter of Alexander the Great to Aristotle  164, 169 The Ruin 26 The Seafarer  21, 23, 26, 40, 45, 46, 49, 83, 86, 158 The Wanderer  21, 22, 23, 26, 27, 46, 49, 86, 158, 201 The Whale 217 Theology of Making (Makoto Fujimura)  138, 152

293

Thomas, Dylan  37 Tolkien, J. R. R.  11, 20–1, 56, 113, 139–42, 146, 148, 151, 209 The Lord of the Rings  11, 98, 140–1, 209, 210 n.4 see also under films translation  31, 34, 59, 62, 64, 141, 144–5, 149, 151 from Old English  20 n.2, 26–9, 147, 244 translations into Old English  10, 246–7, 248, 249 Æðelgyðe Ellendæda on Wundorlande (Alice in Wonderland)  54, 58, 98 n.19, 113, 191–208 Be Siwarde þam sidfeaxan (Der Struwwelpeter)  174–7, 179–83, 185–8, 190 Be þam lytlan æþelinge (Le Petit Prince)  54, 58, 174–80, 187, 190, 192–3, 197 n.44 Turner, Sharon  50 Vercelli Homilies 89 Vikings (TV)  1, 98 n.19, 245, 246 n.18, 247–8, 249–50, 252, 256–8, 263 vocabulary see lexis Völsungasaga 43 Welsh  37, 141, 143 n.31, 197 Whitmann, Walt Song of Myself  40, 45 Woden 83 see also paganism Wonders of the East  164, 169, 204–5, 208 Wordsword, William The Prelude  41, 45 Wulf and Eadwacer  27, 53–4, 59–64, 66 Wulfstan Sermo Lupi ad Anglos  165–6, 170, 256 Yeats, W. B.  37 YouTube 13 Yu, Timothy  3 zeugma 186

Medievalism I Anglo-Saxon Culture and the Modern Imagination edited by David Clark and Nicholas Perkins II Medievalist Enlightenment: From Charles Perrault to Jean-Jacques Rousseau Alicia C. Montoya III Memory and Myths of the Norman Conquest Siobhan Brownlie IV Comic Medievalism: Laughing at the Middle Ages Louise D’Arcens V Medievalism: Key Critical Terms edited by Elizabeth Emery and Richard Utz VI Medievalism: A Critical History David Matthews VII Chivalry and the Medieval Past edited by Katie Stevenson and Barbara Gribling VIII Georgian Gothic: Medievalist Architecture, Furniture and Interiors, 1730–1840 Peter N. Lindfield IX Petrarch and the Literary Culture of Nineteenth-Century France: Translation, Appropriation, Transformation Jennifer Rushworth X Medievalism, Politics and Mass Media: Appropriating the Middle Ages in the Twenty-First Century Andrew B. R. Elliott XI Translating Early Medieval Poetry: Transformation, Reception, Interpretation edited by Tom Birkett and Kirsty March-Lyons XII Medievalism in A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones Shiloh Carroll

XIII William Morris and the Icelandic Sagas Ian Felce XIV Derek Jarman’s Medieval Modern Robert Mills XV François Villon in English Poetry: Translation and Influence Claire Pascolini-Campbell XVI Neomedievalism, Popular Culture, and the Academy: From Tolkien to Game of Thrones KellyAnn Fitzpatrick XVII Medievalism in English Canadian Literature: From Richardson to Atwood edited by M. J. Toswell and Anna Czarnowus XVIII Anglo-Saxonism and the Idea of Englishness in Eighteenth-Century Britain Dustin M. Frazier Wood XIX Subaltern Medievalisms: Medievalism ‘from below’ in Nineteenth-Century Britain edited by David Matthews and Michael Sanders XX Medievalist Traditions in Nineteenth-Century British Culture: Celebrating the Calendar Year Clare A. Simmons