Water and fire: The myth of the flood in Anglo-Saxon England 9781526129659

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Water and fire fire The myth of the Flood in Anglo-Saxon England

DANIEL ANLEZARK

WAT ER A N D FI R E

J. J. ANDERSON, GAIL ASHTON

series editors

This series is broad in scope and receptive to innovation, bringing together a variety of approaches. It is intended to include monographs, collections of commissioned essays, and editions and/or translations of texts, with a focus on English and English-related literature and culture. It embraces medieval writings of many different kinds (imaginative, historical, political, scientific, religious) as well as post-medieval treatments of medieval material. An important aim of the series is that contributions to it should be written in a style which is accessible to a wide range of readers. already published Language and imagination in the Gawain-poems J. J. Anderson

Water and fire The myth of the Flood in Anglo-Saxon England

D A N I EL A N L E Z A R K

Manchester University Press MANCHE S TER AND NE W YORK

distributed exclusively in the USA by Palgrave

Copyright © Daniel Anlezark 2006 The right of Daniel Anlezark to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester m1 7ja, Uk www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data is available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available ISBN 978 0 7190 6399 2 paperback First published by Manchester University Press in hardback 2006

The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any 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.

Contents

1

2

3

Acknowledgments

vii

Abbreviations

ix

Introduction

1

Myth The Bible and myth The classical tradition Early Germanic tradition Replacing myths

1 3 7 11 13

‘You see the water, you see the wood’: The Bible and the Fathers

21

The Old Testament The New Testament Patristic interpretation

23 31 35

A manifold mystery: Bede on the Flood

44

Audience Bede and the Flood Ark and Church Flood and baptism The Flood in history Flood and apocalypse Noah and Christ Noah the preacher The Flood and the foolish giants Conclusion

45 52 53 58 67 73 84 96 99 103

Learning the lesson of the Flood

112

Niall and Noah The Annals of St-Bertin

114 121

vi

4

5

6

Contents

Alcuin and the Vikings Alfred and the Flood Ælfric and the Flood Before the Flood: Noah and his generation The Flood in history The Church in the world Translation and commentary Eschatology Conclusion

127 131 138 139 141 144 148 158 163

Flood, covenant and apocalypse in Old English poetry

174

Genesis A Exodus Andreas The flooding of the city Conclusion

175 195 210 223 230

Planting Noah’s seed

241

The genealogies Sceaf and Wessex Reactions Conclusion

245 262 273 282

Beowulf and the myth of the Flood

291

Creation to Flood Ancient work of giants Grendel’s mere Grendel and the underworld Wulf’s field The dragon Beowulf’s death Beowulf and Andreas Conclusion

298 304 311 315 323 333 343 347 358

Conclusions

368

Bibliography

375

Index

393

Acknowledgments

A work of this size and endurance necessarily incurs many debts of gratitude on the part of the author. My first and greatest debt is to Malcolm Godden, who supervised the doctoral dissertation which lies behind a number of elements of this book. I thank Heather O’Donoghue and Andy Orchard, the examiners of the same dissertation, for their comments and criticisms which have led to certain transformations from which I hope this book has benefited. I also owe a great debt to my first teachers of Old English, Audrey Meaney and Ruth Waterhouse, whose learning and expertise was an early inspiration, and whose dedication to a field of study under threat in Australian universities was heroic. Many undergraduate and graduate students of Old English at Trinity College Dublin and the University of Durham have also contributed to this book through their forthright expressions of opinion and questions seeking clarification, especially when reading Beowulf. This book would not have been completed without a term of research leave granted to me by the University of Durham in 2005. This project has been helped by the interest and practical support of many friends and fellow scholars over the past few years. Those to whom I owe the most thanks are Jason Puskar, Andrew Bailey, Richard Gartner, Brian Deveney, Takako Fujii, and of course Laura Merino i Pastor. My last debt is to the anonymous reader for Manchester University Press, whose suggestions and queries have helped me to clarify and explain where before there was obscurity. Any ambiguities and errors which remain are, of course, my own. Daniel Anlezark Durham

Abbreviations

ASE ASPR ASSAH CCSL CH 1 CH 2 CSASE CSEL EEMF EETS os EETS ss EHD ES GCS HE JEGP LS 1 LS 2 MGH MLN MLR NM

Anglo-Saxon England Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The First Series: Text, ed. P. A. M. Clemoes, EETS ss 17 (Oxford, 1997) Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The Second Series: Text, ed. Malcolm Godden (London, 1979) Cambridge Studies in Anglo-Saxon England Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile Early English Text Society, original series Early English Text Society, supplementary series English Historical Documents, ed. D. Whitelock (Oxford, 1979) English Studies Griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte Bede, Historia Ecclesiastica, ed. B. Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors (Oxford, 1969) Journal of English and Germanic Philology Ælfric’s Lives of Saints, ed. W. W. Skeat, vol. 1, EETS 76, 82 (London, repr. 1966) Ælfric’s Lives of Saints, ed. W. W. Skeat, vol. 2, EETS 94, 114 (London, repr. 1966) Monumenta Germaniae Historica Modern Language Notes Modern Language Review Neuphilologische Mitteilungen

x

NQ ns PG PL PMLA RES

Abbreviations

Notes & Queries new series Patrologia Greca, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols. (Paris, 1857–86) Patrologia Latina, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols. (Paris, 1844–64) Publications of the Modern Language Association of America Review of English Studies

Introduction

The story of Noah and the Flood in the book of Genesis is the best known example of many ancient flood myths from a range of cultures. The story of the Flood, inherited by the AngloSaxons in the course of their conversion to Christianity, was transformed by them into a vital myth through which they interpreted the whole of history and their place in it. In works as diverse as the epic poem Beowulf and the biblical commentaries of the Venerable Bede, the Flood was understood as an event of universal and local significance. As the point of origin of the regenerate human race, the Flood was seen as a crucial moment in history by many Anglo-Saxon authors in a range of contexts. The destruction of the giants in the Flood provided a lesson of how the Creator would deal with rebellious creatures, but God’s covenant with Noah also offered a sign of hope for those who submitted humbly to the Creator’s will. The dual character of the myth, with the opposition between threatened destruction and hope of renewal, presented commentators with a potent historical metaphor, which they exploited in their own changing historical circumstance. This book explores the use of this metaphor in the writings of the Anglo-Saxons, and concludes with a detailed discussion of the significance of the Flood myth in Beowulf. Myth This book presents a discussion of the biblical myth of the universal deluge in and its integration into the culture of the AngloSaxons. The discussion of this culture is focused on literary representations, though the Flood story is also found illustrated

2

Water and fire

in Anglo-Saxon manuscript art. Finding a precise defi nition of myth is difficult, though the general characteristics of a narrative classed as a myth can be articulated. This book is not about the theory of myth, but the integration of a well-known biblical story into the historical and cultural self-definition of a people converted to Christianity and its worldview. I use the word ‘myth’ to mean that type of story which accounts for an event of primeval time, concerned with the origin of the created world, and especially of human life in it. Myth in this broad defi nition characteristically accounts not only for universal origins, but also for patterns of relationships between creation, and especially human beings, and a god or gods. Myth can be distinguished from legend by legend’s more historical, geographically rooted character, concerned with a certain people, at a certain place, at a certain time.1 Mythology is as much a social and ideological phenomenon as a product of the human imagination, and its social orientation extends beyond the limits of creative manifestations of the collective unconscious. In place of a hierarchy of cause and effect, characteristic of scientific thought, in myth there is hypostasis, ‘a hierarchy of mythological forces and beings that possesses its own semantic and axiological significance. . . . Science posits that structures precede events, whereas in mytho-logic structures are generated by events themselves.’2 In place of linear, historical progression, mythical time is cyclical and presents a recurrent pattern of events. Mythological thought differs from scientific thought in its key interests – birth, death and destiny – which are not science’s central concerns, and myth is more concerned with understanding than explaining. To do this, myth filters events that are difficult to understand through those that are understood, the incomprehensible through the comprehensible. In this way, myth does not represent a conscious effort to explain the world in terms analogous to science, nor is it based in an abstract curiosity about the world. At the heart of the desire for meaning expressed in myth is a wish for harmony, so that myth seeks to transform chaos into order; this harmonious order includes all the axiological and ethical aspects of life. Myth is not a denial of chaos, but incorporates chaos into a frame of reference which makes it intelligible.

Introduction

3

Myth is a highly symbolic mode, and its symbols function in a way by which individual and social behaviour are reinforced in a model, created by the imaginative narration of past events, which is seen to underpin a given culture: myth does not question the order, but reinforces the status quo. The relationship between the individual and society is one aspect of myth; for the group, myth has a different function: it is about reconciling the individual with society, and society with the natural world. As societies are not static, myths can be made to do service against changing social realities as important changes are projected back into the past against the backdrop of mythical time, making change part of a narrative history within a stable semantic system focused on the past. In this way the historical dimension is subordinated to mythic time, and the adventures of culture heroes and ancestors form a metaphoric code that structures the social and natural order of the universe, so that in mytho-logic what happened in the beginning is the reason for, rather than the cause of, everything that comes after. In myth the ancient past is not a ‘long ago’ in scientific chronological terms, but a time before empirical time, an age which marked the appearance of the first actions of moral importance. The Bible and myth With this broad definition in mind, this study explores the incorporation of the myth of the Flood, one of human culture’s greatest myths, within Anglo-Saxon self-understanding as this is expressed in a range of literature, including the writings of Bede, King Alfred, Anglo-Saxon homilists and a range of poetry, fi nishing with a detailed discussion of the place of the Flood myth in Beowulf. For the medieval Christian, the Flood story in the Bible was presented as history, grafted as it is onto a more or less continuous narrative of the history of the world from creation to the end of the first century of the Christian era.3 Nevertheless, the broad sweep of this history, focused as it is mostly on the dealings of God with one nation – the Jewish people – serves only to emphasize the mythic significance of the Flood, set in a time before the tower of Babel, when, according to medieval belief, earth’s nations divided among the three continents and claimed descent from each of Noah’s three sons.

4

Water and fire

For more than two millennia, first the Jewish and later – through wholesale borrowing of a scriptural inheritance – the Christian tradition did not, and to a large degree could not, distinguish between theological and scientific truth concerning the origins of the universe. The scriptural text, divinely inspired, was ‘true’ in every way, and commentators searched the Bible, and especially Genesis, not only for an understanding of the mysteries of the meaning of life, but also for explanations of natural history – animal and plant life, geology and geography. The Flood was an important part of this: fossils in layers of sediment apparent on hillsides, for example, could be explained as its residues.4 The accidental European discovery of the Americas, and the Copernican revolution soon after, seriously undermined the medieval biblical world view. What did two new continents and their inhabitants mean for the story of Noah’s sons, progenitors of the peoples of the old three – Africa, Asia and Europe? The blow to the authority of the great book, which sustained the old cosmos, led to a distinction between (what were increasingly perceived to be) scientific and theological matters.5 The geological record, with its many layers, not one, was eventually to prove the downfall of the Flood as science, and shatter old understandings of creation. The advent of a scientific explanation of the geological record, which exploded into Western culture with the publication of Charles Darwin’s theories, signalled the beginning of the end for a scientific rationalization of the Flood. The apostolic fervour with which these ideas and their implications were spread by Darwin’s supporters, and the general acceptance they inevitably gained, led to a reconsideration of the ideological basis of Western culture.6 Nevertheless, the story of the Flood has not gone away. Much affection remains in Western culture for Noah, centuries old when God tells him to build a ship big enough to contain all animal and bird life. Since Darwin, writers have continued to draw on the story in a way which suggests it is still a potent narrative. The multitude of authors who have used the story of the Flood cannot be counted, but two examples can suffice: Patrick White’s The Tree of Man includes (along with the Edenic title) episodes of cataclysmic flood and apocalyptic bushfire – Noah’s story can be rediscovered as the archetypal settler narrative, and also represents humanity’s tenuous hold on life when over-

Introduction

5

whelmed by nature;7 Jeanette Winterson’s Boating for Beginners presents a parodic retelling of the story from a feminist point of view – the inherent antifeminism of a story which names all four men in the ark, and none of the women, is a great cultural narrative which can fruitfully be subverted.8 The enduring significance of a story so thoroughly discredited by science cannot simply be accounted for in terms of a residual interest among writers engaging their literary inheritance. Indeed, the fact that a Flood myth is not uniquely a feature of Jewish and Christian tradition, but is found throughout the world, suggests that the story has deeper resonances. The assault on biblical science did not, naturally enough, lead to the end of the Bible’s religious authority. For scholars a new question emerged. If the account of Noah’s Flood was not a historical recollection passed through the generations to Moses, the supposed author of the earlier books of the Bible, then how did it come to be there? Answers would come from the application of new methods of textual scholarship to the Bible, which studied the composition of scriptural texts against the historical, political and social background of the ancient Near East. The discovery of a range of Mesopotamian flood myths, most famously that in the Epic of Gilgamesh, revealed a wide cultural background to the story of the universal deluge found in Genesis.9 However, more than a textual tradition is evident, and the first decades of the twentieth century saw the publication, by ethnographers and students of myth, of a multitude of comparable flood stories from across the world. The Flood gained pride of place among biblical stories as the one with the most widespread analogues in the history of religion: Reim found 302 comparable texts, Frazer assembled 250 from across the world, while Winternitz identified 73 flood stories proper, alongside a countless number which involve other catastrophes.10 No shared textual tradition could account for such a diffusion, and the myth’s origins cannot be defi ned geographically. Attempts to reconstruct a single real event which could have given rise to all the flood stories around the world have proved fanciful, especially in the face of the reluctance of the geological record to validate their impossible synchronization.11 No great historic or prehistoric flood emerges as a part of the shared experience of humanity, but the story itself exists

6

Water and fire

as a part of the shared mythological inheritance: ‘We can say at once that the flood narrative like the creation narrative is part of the common property of humanity. It is humankind’s basic expression of its being-in-the-world, of the threat to human existence and at the same time of its permanence.’12 In the Jewish and Christian traditions, the Flood also comes to signify the end of this uncertainty, in the certainty of the world’s ultimate destruction, when it is expected that the ancient judgment on Noah’s contemporaries will be re-enacted for a fi nal time. The history of the flood myth may suggest that it was originally situated in a ritual celebration intended to ward off a recurrence of natural catastrophe. This ritual aspect is evident in some elements of the Christian tradition in a more abstract way: the Flood narrative came to form an integral part of the Christian Easter liturgy, where the Flood story was recounted, and symbolically re-enacted in the sacrament of Baptism. Here there is no desire to ward off any actual catastrophe, though the desire for fi nal deliverance in the ultimate destruction at the Judgment forms a key part of the meaning of the ritual action; these ideas permeate many Anglo-Saxon literary treatments of the Flood. Their survival suggests that flood myths retained vitality in a range of disparate cultures in the course of long historical change. It is no doubt significant that all flood stories are of primeval time, and that the number of motifs in them is few. These shared motifs include: the link to a creation story; the decision of god or gods to destroy and the modification of this decision; about one-third include the element of human revolt; a small group include the element of sacrifice after the flood; about half the stories omit any warning of the flood, an element linked to the possibility of effecting a deliverance through use of technology, such as building a ship; stories with this technology generally include the fitting out of the ship with provisions, and the inclusion of a family; amazingly, the inclusion of birds testing the receding waters is very widespread, and appears as an indispensable detail enabling the return of an element from the reappearing earth to the ship;13 the narratives share the goal of restoring humanity in a new creation; the conclusion of the narratives often includes an etiological element, tracing the descent of nations from the survivors, or identifying geographic features formed in or identified with the flood story; the story can con-

Introduction

7

tinue in localized rites, especially around fissures where floodwaters are believed to have receded; a rainbow often ends the story as a sign of hope. Almost all purport to account for a common experience of the human race rather than that of isolated groups. The flood stories can be more clearly seen in this way to present not an event, but the subordination of a recurrent kind of event – in the ever-present threat of natural disaster – into a narrative type. The flood becomes the archetype of the human experience of catastrophe, and so has been formed into a narrative with a mythic dimension, balancing the hope of continuity through the individual with the fear of collective extinction. The classical tradition In addition to the famous resemblance to the flood story in Tablet 11 of the Epic of Gilgamesh, there are a number of Sumerian, Babylonian and Assyrian versions of the flood myth, with ancient Greek texts of the flood narrative showing links to the Mesopotamian tradition.14 The Bible, while lacking the epic setting of the more urbane and cosmopolitan Mesopotamian versions, does offer Noah as a type of hero. The Middle Ages knew the Greek story in Latin translations, but were unaware of Mesopotamian myth, and so I shall pass over Gilgamesh, Atrahasis, and Sumerian flood narratives, except to note that like the biblical account, they also include the element of divine punishment for human sin. However, similarities between the biblical story and the Greek myth of Deucalion (son of Prometheus) and Pyrrha had been noticed from antiquity. That this connection was of interest to the Anglo-Saxons is shown by the inclusion of a reference to the parallels between the two stories in the Old English translation of Orosius’ World History. The fable of Deucalion’s regeneration of the world after a flood sent by Jupiter is presented as a false version of Noah’s survival with his family: On þæs Ambictiones tide wurdon swa mycele wæterflod geond ealle world, 7 þeah mæst in Thasalia ‘Creca byrig’ ymb þa beorgas þe man hæt Parnasus, þær se cyning Theuhaleon ricsode, þæt forneah ealle þæt folc forwearð, and se cyningc Theuhaleon ealle þa þe to him mid scypum oðflugon to þæm beorgum he hi þær onfengc, 7 hi þær afedde. Be þæm Theulaleon wæs gecweden, swilce mon bispel sæde, þæt he wære moncynnes tydriend, swa swa Noe wæs.

8

Water and fire [In the time of Ambiction there was so great a flood throughout the whole world, and particularly in Thasalia, a Greek town, near the hills called Parnassus, where King Deucalion reigned, that almost all the folk perished. And the king, Deucalion, received and fed all those who fled to him for refuge in ships to the mountains. It was said of this Deucalion, as if one told a fable, that he was the progenitor of the human race, as Noah was.] 15

This closing comment was probably not found in the translator’s Latin source.16 The tradition of identifying Noah with Deucalion, the natural candidate for such a parallel in Greek mythology, dates back to the Hellenizing Jewish theologian Philo of Alexandria, who was followed by some early Christian commentators, but this view never won universal acceptance.17 The Anglo-Saxon translator of the ‘Orosius’ does not offer much detail about the classical legend, though the description of the account as a bispell (‘fable’) may indicate knowledge of a fuller version of the myth.18 The Anglo-Saxons certainly knew the biblical story of an ancient flood – which will be discussed in Chapter 1 – and the classical story was apparently known by at least some. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the myth of Deucalion is recounted early in Book I, after the description of the creation of the world and the ages of gold, silver, bronze and iron. The work was known in AngloSaxon England, and so presents the only alternative version of the flood myth that we can be confident at least some AngloSaxons knew. The iron age is characterized by lawlessness both on earth and in heaven (I.151–7):19 Neve foret terris securior arduus aether, adfectasse ferunt regnum caeleste gigantas altaque congestos struxisse ad sidera montis. tum pater omnipotens misso perfregit Olympum fulmine et excussit subiecto Pelion Ossae. obruta mole sua cum corpora dira iacerent, perfusam multo natorum sanguine Terram [That heaven might be no safer than the earth, they say that the giants essayed the very throne of heaven, piling huge mountains, one on another, clear up to the stars. Then the almighty father hurled his thunderbolts, shattered Olympus, and dashed Pelion down from underlying Ossa. Those dread bodies lay overwhelmed by their own bulk, and they say Mother Earth was drenched with their streaming blood.]

Introduction

9

The blood of these giants gives rise to a violent race which further angers Jupiter, already enraged against humanity for the cannibalistic feasting practised by Lycaon, who had tried to deceive the god himself. In a council of the gods, Jupiter announces his desire to destroy the human race (I.182–4, 187–9): ‘non ego pro mundi regno magis anxius illa tempestate fui, qua centum quisque parabat inicere anguipedum captivo bracchia caelo. [. . .] nunc mihi qua totum Nereus circumsonat orbem, perdendum est mortale genus: per flumina iuro infera sub terras Stygio labentia luco!’ [‘I was not more troubled than now for the sovereignty of the world when each of the serpent-footed giants was trying to lay his hundred hands upon the captive sky. [. . .] But now, wherever Old Ocean roars around the earth, I must destroy the race of men: I swear it by the infernal streams that glide beneath the earth through Stygian groves.’]

After some dissension among the gods, concerned that there will be no one to offer them sacrifice, Jupiter resolves first to destroy the world with fiery thunder, but – remembering the prophesied destruction of the heavens by fire – sends rain instead (I.253–61). With these rains and the help of Neptune’s oceans, the flood covers the earth, killing all except two (I.313–23): Separat Aonios Oetaeis Phocis ab arvis, terra ferax, dum terra fuit, sed tempore in illo pars maris et latus subitarum campus aquarum. mons ibi verticibus petit arduus astra duobus, nomine Parnasos, superantque cacumina nubes. hic ubi Deucalion (nam cetera texerat aequor) cum consorte tori parva rate vectus adhaesit, Corycidas nymphas et numina montis adorant fatidicamque Themin, quae tunc oracla tenebat: non illo melior quisquam nec amantior aequi vir fuit aut illa metuentior ulla deorum. [The land of Phocis separates the Boeotian from the Oetean fields, a fertile land, while it was a land. But at that time it was but a part of the sea, a broad expanse of sudden waters. When here Deucalion and his wife, borne in a little skiff, had come to the land – for the sea had covered everything else – they fi rst

10

Water and fire worshipped the Corycian nymphs and the mountain deities, and the goddess, fate-revealing Themis, who in those days kept the oracles. There was no better man than he, none more scrupulous of right, nor was any woman more reverent to the gods than she.]

Deucalion’s rectitude parallels Noah’s, and Jupiter sees in these two survivors a virtuous couple, and so ends the flood. The two repopulate the world – following the instruction of Themis – by throwing stones behind their backs, so producing a new human race, born from the earth, which also gives rise to new animals as the sun gives its warmth. The story of Deucalion and Pyrrha diverges from the Mesopotamian tradition in one very important point, which suggests a close similarity to the biblical tradition. Where the Mesopotamian stories reveal confl ict among the gods about sending the flood, in the Greek it is the one god Zeus who both destroys and saves. Zeus decides to send the flood, and on his deliverance Deucalion offers sacrifice to Zeus as his saviour, though Ovid in his version makes much of the discussion in heaven before the flood is sent. The new creation of the human race after the flood suggests another common element with the Bible, though this obviously takes on a different shape. The raising of life from the soil suggests, as with the biblical version, an agricultural element in the myth, connected with annual flooding. While the agricultural element is present in the story of Noah, universal catastrophe dominates. Catastrophic natural events are interpreted as a divine intervention in human affairs, the essential element in the constitution of myth, granting the Flood not only a context which can be interpreted, but ultimately a transcendent meaning. These myths are also originary in character, and oppose the chaos of paradoxically life-giving waters with the land; a cataclysmic event in nature becomes the occasion of the re-founding of the human race and society.20 As recent events have shown, myths of the sea rising to annihilate may well have a basis in experience – a large-scale natural disaster could easily require such a new beginning.

Introduction

11

Early Germanic tradition The disruption of the old worldview and biblical authority in the nineteenth century had a parallel many centuries earlier in the cultural revolution which took place in England in the course of the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity. Conversely, the course of the seventh and eighth centuries saw the arrival of biblical authority and Christian accounts of the origin of the world, which displaced the pagan Anglo-Saxons’ own mythology. Given the universality of flood myths, it would not be surprising if the Anglo-Saxons had their own, but any myth independent of the Christian tradition which they inherited has been lost, though traces may remain. Tribes who lived on the banks of rivers in what is now Northern Germany and the Netherlands cannot have been strangers to floods, a fact especially true for those living at the mouths of rivers from the Rhine to the Elbe. There is archaeological evidence of the desertion of mound settlements in the Weser estuary in the course of the fifth century in the face of rising populations and the encroaching sea, and Myres is tempted ‘to connect this desertion with the possibility of movement overseas to Britain’.21 Such floods would almost certainly have been integrated into a cosmology; nevertheless, this has been lost. While no flood narrative has survived from the descendants of these wetland migrants, an alternative northern myth has. The earliest surviving Germanic flood myth is found in Old Norse in the Gylfaginning: Synir Bors drápu Ymi jøtun. En er hann fell, þá hljóp svá mikit bló ór sárum hans at með því dretku þeir allri ætt hrímþursa, nema einn komsk undan með sínu hýski. Þann kall jøtnar Bergelmi. Hann fór upp á lúðr sinn ok kona hans ok helzk þar, ok eru af þar, ok eru af þeim kommar hrímþursa ættir. [The sons of Borr slew Ymir the giant; where he fell there gushed forth so much blood out of his wounds that with it they drowned all the race of Rime-Giants, save that one, whom giants call Bergelmir, escaped with his household; he went upon his vessel, and his wife with him, and they were safe there.] 22

The killing of the Rime-Giants recalls elements of the story of Deucalion as much as it does the biblical Flood. The Prologue

12

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to the Prose Edda tells the story of the Flood in a straightforward way, and it is possible that the Gylfaginning account represents an independent version of a widespread myth.23 There is no evidence that the Anglo-Saxons shared this particular legend. An account survives from Anglo-Saxon times of a curious ritual that took place on the Thames in flood and that might suggest the trace of a flood myth. This is described in the unlikely context of a quarrel involving the monks of the monastery of Abingdon during the reign of King Edmund (941–6).24 This story tells of a dispute between the monks and a local nobleman over the possession of land at Iffley in Oxfordshire. The monks, appealing to God to settle the claim, placed a sheaf with a lighted taper upon a round shield which they allowed to float down the swollen river. By its movement when it reached the disputed ground this vessel would indicate the boundaries of the monastic lands. Thanks to what appear to be seasonal floods the shield is able to navigate around the disputed field which has been made into an island by the waters, miraculously vindicating the monks’ claim.25 Although the Abingdon Chronicle, which describes the ritual, dates from the thirteenth century, Chadwick argues that the mention of the round shield places the origin of the story firmly in the Anglo-Saxon period.26 Similar stories of floating corn deities from around the Baltic may suggest a shared flood myth associated with fertility cults and annual spring floods, and may point to the importation of the story at the time of the migration. Such traditions would not have been out of place in the continental homelands of the tribes who became the Anglo-Saxons after their migration to Britain, and local English customs of drenching the last sheaf, often by floating it down a river, survived into the modern period.27 The strange account from Abingdon is not directly associated with the harvest, apart from the obvious presence of the sheaf.28 The great importance of this story will be discussed in Chapter 5, which examines the traditions of the legendary ‘Sceaf’ (‘Sheaf’). In a tradition unique to the Anglo-Saxons, this Sceaf appears both at the beginning of Beowulf and in the genealogies of the royal house of Wessex, where he is the ark-born son of Noah, and may well point to a bridging of the gap between biblical and non-Christian flood traditions.

Introduction

13

Replacing myths The aim of this book is to examine the way the Flood myth was integrated into the Anglo-Saxons’ sense of themselves as participants in a universal history which took the Bible as authoritative and normative, not only in matters of faith and morals, but also – and especially in the case of Genesis – as defi ning the true origin and, from an etiological and mythic perspective, the ultimate purpose of the world. The conversion of the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity was mostly accomplished within the course of the seventh century, by the end of which the official acceptance of the Christian faith by all the kingdoms was complete. The rapidity of this change in affiliation from the old set of beliefs in a Germanic pantheon to a new monotheism, with its cultural origins on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean, certainly disrupted traditional social practices. This disruption was most evident in relation to marriage, and churchmen’s efforts over the centuries to shift cultural assumptions about sex and inheritance are well documented.29 Glimpses of the evolution of popular perceptions about the origin and ultimate end of the world are more difficult to catch. Whatever myths the Anglo-Saxons may have had concerning their origins, we can be certain that the arrival of Christian missionaries, and the biblical myth of origin they brought with them, ushered in a period of cosmological reorientation. The AngloSaxon missionary Boniface, working among the continental Germans in the eighth century, uses ‘ignorance’ of the ultimate origins of the world as a sharp evangelical tool. Writing to Boniface, Bishop Daniel of Winchester advises him to use the problem of explaining the origins of the universe to persuade the German pagans of the truth of the Christian message:30 Cum vero initium habere deos utpote alios ab aliis generatos coacti didicerint, item interrogandi, utrum initium habere hunc mundum an sine initio semper exstitisse arbitrentur. Si initium habuit, quis hunc creavit? Cum procul dubio ante constitutionem saeculi nullatenus genitis diis inveniunt subsistendi vel habitandi locum; mundum enim non hanc visibilem tantum caelum et terram, sed cuncta etiam extenta locorum spatia, quae ipsi quoque pagani suis imaginare cogitationibus pussont, dico. Quodsi sine initio semper extitisse

14

Water and fire mundum contenderint, quod multis refutare ac convincere documentis argumentisque stude. [Then, when they have been compelled to learn that their gods had a beginning, since some were begotten by others, they must be asked in the same way whether they believe that the world had a beginning, or was always in existence without a beginning. If it had a beginning, who created it? Certainly they can fi nd no place where begotten gods would dwell before the universe was made. I mean by ‘universe’ not merely this visible earth and sky, but the whole vast extent of space, and this the heathen can imagine in their thoughts. But if they argue that the world always existed without a beginning, you should strive to refute this and to convince them by many documents and arguments.]

Daniel, writing in 723 × 724, implies that the task might not be easy, though the strategy of reverting to documents seems designed to assert the superiority of Christian cosmology by associating it with the technology of the written word. The evangelical strategy of emphasizing the inadequacies of the traditional belief system for explaining the universe and the place of the human person in it, clearly worked in the case of Edwin of Northumbria, whose counsellor points out to him – in Bede’s version of events, written a few years after Daniel’s letter – one basis of the superiority of the new religion: Vnde, si haec noua doctrina certius aliquid attulit, merito esse sequenda uidetur (‘If this new doctrine brings us more certain information, it seems right that we should accept it’).31 The biblical texts, the documents that provided Boniface with the best information concerning the Flood, are the focus of Chapter 1, and this overview is accompanied by a brief survey of the main lines of patristic discussion of the importance and meaning of the Flood story – a full study of the Fathers on the Flood would in itself be a work of some volumes.32 The story in Genesis is well known, but references to the Flood are also found throughout the Old and New Testaments. Long before the Christian writers of the New Testament adopted him as a key typological figure, Noah – and the Flood – had been the focus of theological and historical reflection among the prophets and writers of wisdom literature. Patristic commentators on Noah universally take as their starting point the New Testament association between the Flood and baptism and the series of typological identifications this invited. While interest is shown in

Introduction

15

interpreting the letter of the text of the Flood account, the emphasis is almost always on the mystical association between the ark, baptism and the Church. The first and greatest Anglo-Saxon scholar to interpret the meaning of the Flood for his compatriots was Bede, who is firmly located within the patristic tradition of biblical exegesis. Bede self-consciously wrote for a young church at a crucial stage in its development, in the generations after conversion. In the case of his commentary on Genesis this emphasis is manifest in a work expressly written for the training of the clergy. Through In Genesin, and other commentaries written with a similar purpose, Bede provides an insight into what those clergy whose role was to consolidate Christian belief in Northumbria were supposed to be thinking. In the case of the Flood, which with the story of Cain and Abel makes up the material of Book II of the commentary, Bede found the perfect metaphor for this young church. While Bede shows some interest in explaining the letter of the text where this is difficult, he is more interested in explaining to his readers the mystical meanings the story contains, all of which are focused on their mission in the Church. I examine Bede’s thought on the Flood under a series of headings, which allows the exploration of his use of the Flood theme across a range of works. Bede’s interest in the Flood centres on ecclesial analogies, and principal among these is the association with baptism. This mystical reading is complemented by the historical meaning of the Flood as an event in time; Bede’s interest in time and chronology was profound, and his reflections on the ages of the world reveal a desire to harmonize the mystery of time with the unfolding of historical events. Also grounded in the New Testament was the understanding that the Flood, as an ancient revelation of God as avenging judge and also of the fragility of creation, showed in allegorical figure the expected fiery conflagration, the flood of fire which would overtake the world before the Last Judgment. The tradition which saw Christ’s fulfilling antitype in Noah’s prophetic type is of great interest to Bede in his reflections on the priesthood, and of direct relevance to his Anglo-Saxon clerical audience. This reading complements the emphasis on both the Church and eschatology: the eternal rest offered by Christ through the new covenant perfects the comfort given by Noah to those who survived the Flood in the bosom of the ark. For those who found Bede’s learned allegorizing difficult to follow, the letter of

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the text can be seen to offer a simple moral lesson: God will punish his latter-day foolish and disobedient creatures as surely as he punished the rebellious giants in the Flood. Where Bede’s biblical commentaries point to an exclusively clerical audience, works by later vernacular writers were generally designed for lay reception. Chapter 3 discusses the developing application of the Flood myth as a moral lesson and warning to the human race, across two centuries of Anglo-Saxon writing, mostly in Old English prose. Noah emerges as an archetypal preacher in two Sunday Letter homilies concerned with the apocalyptic vision of an Irish deacon called Niall. The Sunday Letter – an apocryphal text claiming to be written in the hand of God and sent to the world threatening punishment if the Sabbath is not better observed – was widely condemned by churchmen in the early Middle Ages. The apocalyptic material in the two closely related Old English homilies has its origins in unorthodox texts circulating in Northumbria in the early ninth century, which saw parallels with the time of Noah before the Flood in contemporary catastrophes. The Noachic apocalypticism stimulated by the Viking attacks is also evident in more orthodox discussion of their early raids in letters by Alcuin of York. King Alfred’s late-ninth-century reflections on the early ages of the world and the origins of kingship also draw on this apocalyptic tradition, but reveal a greater interest in biblical myth in his discussion of the uses and abuses of power, and the need for rulers to practise wisdom. The highly orthodox monastic author Ælfric of Eynsham, writing around the turn of the millennium, draws on established patristic interpretations, but reflects a desire not to develop mystical readings beyond those already found in the New Testament. Nevertheless, in his concise reworking of a series of questions on Genesis by the eighth-century Anglo-Saxon scholar Alcuin of York – Ælfric’s only work expressly designed as a biblical commentary – we have evidence that he was willing to develop more complex readings if his readers required them. Ælfric’s treatment of the Flood, like Bede’s, centres on ecclesial typology: the ark of the Church journeys through time on the way to salvation, which will be realized at the Last Judgment. The relatively simplistic treatments of the Flood articulated by prose writers contrast with the handling by Anglo-Saxon

Introduction

17

poets, whose work suggests an audience of much greater theological sophistication. Both the literal elements of the Flood story, and the mystical truths the text could be seen to conceal, could become for poets a rich series of metaphors to be exploited for audiences who could catch their significance. Three Old English narrative poems give prominence to the Flood theme. A close study of Genesis A, Exodus and Andreas reveals a consistency of treatment based not only on the traditional lines of patristic exegesis, but also on the way they recast the Flood in the battle idiom of Old English heroic poetry. The theological inheritance is developed differently according to the poems’ various narrative modes. Genesis A presents a more or less straightforward retelling of the story of the first book of the Bible down to the sacrifice of Isaac, and departures from the text demanded by the needs of translation are only occasionally augmented by added commentary. The expected allusions to baptismal and ecclesial typology are found, but are complemented by an emphasis on the theme of covenant. The attention to the theme of covenant and loyalty parallels an interest in the casting of the Flood as a battle between God, very much the lord in Anglo-Saxon cultural terms, and the giants who rebel against him. The same thematic interests appear in Exodus, where a recollection of the Flood story opens a digression away from the principal narrative’s telling of the Israelite exodus from Egypt. The departure at the narrative level is not in evidence at the metaphoric or thematic levels, as the Flood episode develops the theme of covenant which resonates throughout the poem, not least in the accompanying digression on the sacrifice of Isaac. The traditional typologies of the Flood story, centred on baptism and the Church, also complement traditional readings of the mystery of the exodus. The metaphor of the Flood is particularly apt, however, as the Hebrews are about to cross the sea, in which the poet presents God annihilating the pledge-breaking Egyptians in a battle of the waters in language paralleling Genesis A. As a legendary saint’s life heavily influenced by the Greek romance tradition and biblical typology, Andreas presents an almost baroque treatment of the Flood, the typological associations of which underpin the poem’s sea journey and a climactic flood in the pagan city of Mermedonia. This flood purges the

18

Water and fire

community of its wickedness and leads it to faith. As in Genesis A and Exodus, covenant is an important theme, and the language again casts the Flood as God’s victorious battle against his enemies. All three poems, each in its own way, build the eschatological theme on the myth of the Flood in these similar terms. Chapter 5 presents a detailed study of a peculiarly AngloSaxon response to the myth of the Flood in the creation of a fourth son for Noah: the ark-born Sceaf. The Flood in the Bible presents myth as history, and an important element in this historicization of the Flood is the genealogical tables, which carefully trace the line of descent of the Hebrews from Adam and Eve, through Noah, to Abraham. The descent of some other nations is accounted for through Noah’s three sons, but nowhere, naturally enough, is there mention of the Anglo-Saxons. After the conversion, the most ancient biblical past became the AngloSaxons’, but this did not account for their origin or importance among the nations of the world. The creation of a carefully traced direct link to Noah through the fanciful creation of the ark-born son signals not only a desire for royal status, but also points to the deepening of the influence of an Anglo-Saxon Christian culture: the de-deified Germanic gods feature in genealogies which privilege biblical history and myth over these same displaced gods. The inclusion of Sceaf in the genealogies is traceable to ninth-century Wessex, and such an extension should be expected at a time when the West Saxon monarchy was in the ascendant. It would seem that Sceaf, probably a figure from folk tradition, himself had a particular meaning in Wessex, not easily apparent to other Anglo-Saxons, and misunderstanding surrounding the figure was widespread. By far the most enigmatic and striking use of the myth of the Flood in the literature of the Anglo-Saxons is in the epic poem Beowulf. The Flood constitutes a mythical underpinning of the action in a poem which, like Genesis itself, fuses mythical and historical perspectives. The poet’s use of biblical myth has generated much critical discussion. After a brief overview, Chapter 6 takes as its point of departure the literary associations of Grendel’s watery home, the focus of the poet’s reflection on the myth of the Flood through the mysterious giant sword discovered in it. A detailed discussion of Beowulf and Solomon and Saturn II attempts to tease out the importance of the myth of the Flood in understanding the two poems, and also the nature

Introduction

19

of the relationship between them. Grendel’s lake and the sword found in his hall beneath it are examined as a part of the pattern of water and fire running through the Beowulf, and culminating in Beowulf’s battle with the fiery dragon. These two elements, inseparable in the medieval imagination from the twinning of ancient Flood and future apocalypse, are presented in the poem as a mythic backdrop against which Beowulf’s own struggles must be understood. The discussion of Beowulf concludes with an exploration of the relationship between the use of the Flood myth here and in the poem Andreas. Notes 1 See D. Rosenburg, Folklore, Myths, and Legends (Lincolnwood, IL, 1997), p. xxvi. 2 This discussion of myth draws on E. M. Meletinsky, The Poetics of Myth, trans. G. Lanoue and A. Sadetsky (London, 2000), pp. 152–6; see also R. A. Sega, Theorizing about Myth (Amherst, MA, 1999); L. Coupe, Myth (London, 1997). 3 For recent discussion on the Flood myth see A. Dundes, ed., The Flood Myth (Berkeley, CA, 1988). 4 See Norman Cohn, Noah’s Flood: The Genesis Story in Western Thought (New Haven, CT, 1996), pp. 73–93; Adrienne Major, The First Fossil Hunters: Paleontology in Greek and Roman Times (Princeton, NJ, 2000), pp. 210–11. 5 See R. Vermij, ‘The Flood and the Scientific Revolution: Thomas Burnet’s System of Natural Providence’, in Interpretations of the Flood, ed. F. García Martínez and G. P. Luttikhuizen (Leiden, 1999), pp. 150–66. 6 See, for example, T. H. Huxley, Address Delivered at the Anniversary Meeting of the Geological Society of London (London, 1862). 7 Patrick White, The Tree of Man (London, 1956). 8 Jeanette Winterson, Boating for Beginners (London, 1985). 9 See A. Heidel, The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels (Chicago, 1949). There have been efforts to discover a more localized cataclysm which might explain the Flood stories shared in the Near East; see, for example, Ian Wilson, Before the Flood: Understanding the Biblical Flood Story as Recalling a Real-life Event (London, 2001). 10 See Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11: A Commentary, trans. J. J. Scullion (Minneapolis, 1984), pp. 398–406. See M. Winternitz, ‘Die Flutsagen des Altertums und der Naturvölker,’ Mitteilungen der anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien, 31 (1901), 305–33; Georg Gerland, Der Mythos von der Sinfl ut (Bonn, 1912); James Frazer, Folk-lore in the Old Testament: Studies in Comparative Religion, Legend and Law (London, 1918); J. Reim, Die Sintfl ut in Sage und Wissenschaft (Hamburg, 1925). 11 See L. R. Bailey, Noah: The Person in the Story, in History and Tradition (Columbia, SC, 1989), pp. 28–115. 12 Westermann, Genesis, p. 395; my discussion of the Flood story in Genesis draws on this study.

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13

See Anna Birgitta Rooth, The Raven and the Carcass: An Investigation of a Motif in the Deluge Myth in Europe, Asia and North America (Helsinki, 1962). See E. G. Kraeling, ‘Xisouthros, Deucalion and the Flood-Traditions’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 67 (1947), 177–82. The Old English Orosius, ed. Janet Bately, EETS ss 6 (London, 1980), I.vi, p. 24, line 32 to p. 25, line 6. See Pauli Orosii Historiarum adversus paganos libri VII, CSEL 5, pp. 53–4; for a discussion of the problem of identifying the Latin text used by the Old English translator, see Bately, Orosius, pp. lv–lxi. See J. P. Lewis, A Study of Noah (Leiden, 1978), pp. 106–8; the identification was supported by Justin Martyr, Apologia secunda pro Christianis, 2.7.2 (PG 6: 455). Bately, Orosius, p. 215, suggests a number of possible sources. Ovid, Metamorphoses, ed. G. P. Goold, trans. F. J. Miller, 2 vols., 3rd ed. (Cambridge, MA, 1984). See Meletinsky, Poetics of Myth, p. 231. J. N. L. Myres, The English Settlements (Oxford, 1986), pp. 51–2. Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, ed. A. Faulkes (Oxford, 1982), p. 11, lines 22–6; The Prose Edda, trans. A. G. Brodeur (New York, 1929), p. 19. For a discussion of this passage see R. D. Fulk, ‘An Eddic Analogue to the Scyld Scefing Story’, RES, 40 (1989), 313–22; see also M. S. Lane, ‘Remembrance of the Past in Beowulf’, In Geardagum, 21 (2000), 41–59. See Snorri, Edda, ed. Faulkes, p. 3, lines 1–12. See H. M. Chadwick, The Origin of the English Nation (Cambridge, 1924), pp. 260–78; see also R. W. Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction to the Study of the Poem (Cambridge, 1959), pp. 83–4. Joseph Stevenson, ed., Chronicon Monasterii de Abingdon, Rolls Series 2 (London, 1858), I, p. 89; see Chapter 5 below, pp. 265–71. Chadwick, Origin, p. 278. Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, pp. 84–5, 299–303. A spring, rather than a harvest, custom – but one that suggests a closer parallel to the Abingdon story than any other – is reported by Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, p. 302: ‘In Sætersdale, in Norway, when the ice broke up in the spring, and was driven ashore, the inhabitants use to welcome it by throwing their hats into the air, and shouting “Welcome, Corn-boat.” It was considered a good omen if the “Corn-boats” were driven high up on the land.’ See Margaret Clunies Ross, ‘Concubinage in Anglo-Saxon England’, Past and Present, 108 (1985), 3–34. M. Tangl, ed., Die Briefe des Heiligen Bonifatius und Lullius, MGH, Epistolae selectae 1 (Berlin, 1916; repr. 1955), no. 23, p. 39, lines 14–24; E. Emerton, ed. and trans., The Letters of Saint Boniface, No. XV (Tangl 23) (New York, 1940), p. 48. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. B. Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors (Oxford, 1969), Book 2, ch. 13; hereafter HE. The Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, 15 vols. (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1903–46), provides a valuable resource.

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30

31 32

1 ‘You see the water, you see the wood’: The Bible and the Fathers

A range of cultures from across the globe tell stories of floods survived by ancestral figures. Despite some efforts to harmonize these accounts to prove the historical truth of the biblical account of Noah’s flood, the myths and legends from the Americas, the Pacific, Asia, Africa and Europe present a range of incompatible details. They suggest the universality of the mythic theme, rather than the memory of one ancient cataclysm that overwhelmed the globe. Paralleling the many accounts of floods – which destroyed anything from an ancestral homeland to the whole world – are legends of catastrophic fires, which also had to be endured by ancestral figures.1 Various explanations have been offered for the popularity of these stories, but undoubtedly the real difficulties of surviving a hostile environment which occasionally threatened the continuation of family or tribe, if not nation, account for their ubiquity. It is also possibly the case that for many legends and myths a remembered natural disaster on a grand scale, such as a flood – a disaster which might also be expected to recur – lies behind the inherited story. In the account found in Genesis, which tells of the origins of the whole human race, the Flood myth is stripped of pagan gods found in Mesopotamian analogues, and has a strong moral character. The Flood in the Bible is clearly a punishment, though the sin is not so well defi ned, and forms part of a historical pattern of sin and punishment extending back to Eden, and carried forward through the sin and exile of Cain. The biblical Flood is presented as no local disaster, but as a universal calamity. The story of the Flood presented in Genesis is essentially cyclical in character: it begins with a decision by God to destroy

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humanity, and ends with the decision not to do so again.2 The basic structure of the narrative parallels the creation narratives, revealing that the Flood is a story appended to the creation account. What was created to be good is not: humanity is wicked (6:5–6) and the earth corrupt (6:11–12). The Flood also represents a new insight tied to the creation narrative: human beings cannot take for granted their existence in the world. Despite the threat to destroy all of humanity, no tension builds in the story around this possibility, because, if the obliteration had been successful, no memory would have been passed on. The interest in the unfolding story is therefore the question how and why the race survived; in the biblical narrative, as in most versions, this is because of the decision to save one individual and his family. The presence of human beings throughout the story also gives it a character different from creation stories. In the Flood story, narration is predominantly from the human perspective because human beings are present throughout, making it both a primeval and a historical event. The strong dose of historicism in biblical mythology is one of its striking elements, and a unique one in the context of other Mediterranean mythologies; it has also severed links with nature myths and develops an abstract conception of monotheism.3 ‘Before the creation’ is an unknowable mystery from the human point of view, as is the reason for it; before the Flood and after the Flood are both part of the human story, and the reasons for the Flood are known, and therefore clearly defi ne a new element in humanity’s relationship with God. The drama of the Flood narrative is developed in the tension between destruction and preservation – most will be destroyed, a small few saved, and so the Flood becomes two stories emerging from a twofold divine decision. After the judgment has been passed, the story of those destroyed is not told at all: there are no cries, laments or pictures of their suffering. Those shut inside the ark did not witness this moment, and the story of those obliterated is destroyed with them; their perspective on the action is negated as thoroughly as they are. Noah’s story is fully told because as both the survivor and the reason for survival, he is of much greater interest. He alone receives the prophetic warning

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of the Flood, he responds, and successfully comes through the ordeal. This response is inseparable from his salvation: Noah is the one who survives to walk on the earth, and to make a sacrifice. The Old Testament The biblical account of Noah and the Flood begins at the end of Genesis 5 and continues, with reference to his descendants, into Genesis 10.4 Modern biblical scholarship has determined that the details of the Flood narrative in Genesis present a combination of two accounts from the so-called Yahwist and Priestly authors, and this can give the story a repetitive character at times; medieval readers were aware of the problem, though not the reason.5 Noah is named by his father Lamech (Gen 5:28–9) – the Hebrew etymology of the name suggests Noah is one who will give ‘comfort’ or ‘rest’. In prophesying Noah’s future role, Gen 5:29 plays on a Hebrew verb with a similar root – nacham (‘comfort’, ‘relieve’).6 The derivation of the name was widely appreciated and commented upon by Christian commentators, and is reflected in the Vulgate: vocavitque nomen eius Noe, dicens: iste consolabitur nos ab operibus et laboribus manuum nostrarum, in terra cui maledixit Dominus. [And he called his name Noah, saying: This same shall comfort us from the works and labours of our hands on the earth, which the Lord has cursed.] 7

Noah was the tenth generation after Creation, and after his 500th year he had three sons – Shem, Ham and Japheth (Gen 5:32). The biblical description of Noah’s character is pivotal to the development of the Flood narrative: in a world fallen into evil (Gen 6:1–7),8 he alone fi nds grace, and is described as ‘just’ in the midst of this evil generation (Gen 6:9). When God decides to destroy all creatures living on the earth, in a cataclysmic Flood, only Noah, his three sons and their four wives, are to be saved in the ark for the regeneration of the human race, along with all kinds of clean and unclean animals (Gen 6–9). The biblical instructions for the building of the ark,

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and the numbering of the animals, are closely detailed (Gen 6:18–7:5). The Genesis account also provides an elaborately detailed chronology: Noah was 600 years old when the Flood began (Gen 7:6), the waters of the Flood came seven days after the entry into the ark, which took place on the seventeenth day of the second month (Gen 7:10–11), the rains falling for forty days and forty nights (Gen 7:12). This careful elaboration of the passing of time continues all the while Noah and his family are in the ark, notably in the episode of the sending out of the dove.9 After the departure from the ark, Noah offers sacrifice from among the clean animals, a holocaust which is pleasing to God (Gen 8:20–1), who then lifts his curse from the earth, allowing for regular seedtime and harvest (8:22). In the context of the sacrifice, God makes his first promise not to repeat the annihilation, even if man’s nature is evil. The theme of the restoration of bountiful nature suggested by the regularity of the seasons is complemented by God’s repeated injunction to the survivors of the ark to increase, multiply and fill the earth (Gen 8:17, 9:1, 7). The impression that creation is making a new beginning is reenforced by the dominion which mankind is given over all living things, closely echoing the wording of Gen 1:26–8, where this dominion had been granted to Adam and Eve. The reference to the change in diet for the human race – where from the beginning of creation this had been vegetarian (Gen 1:29), it would now include the meat of animals (Gen 9:3) – provides another close echo of the creation story, and the new dietary provision also emphasizes the sense that humanity is making a fresh start under a new dispensation. Whereas Adam and Eve had been ejected from Eden under a curse, Noah and his family leave the ark and receive promises of blessing. With the new dietary allowance comes the prohibition against eating the blood of animals (Gen 9:4), and the command against shedding human blood (Gen 9:5–7), with a reminder that man was first made in the divine likeness (Gen 1:27; 9:6). After the divine command to fill the earth, and the commandments relating to blood,10 the narrative moves on to the establishment of a covenant, not only between God and Noah and his sons, but with all living things which had been aboard the ark (Gen 9:8–11):

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Haec quoque dixit Deus ad Noe, et ad filios eius cum eo: ecce ego statuam pactum meum vobiscum, et cum semine vestro post vos, et ad omnem animam viventem, quae est vobiscum, tam in volucribus quam in jumentis, et pecudibus terrae cunctis, quae egressa sunt de arca, et universis bestiis terræ. Statuam pactum meum vobiscum, et nequaquam ultra interficietur omnis caro aquis diluvii, neque erit deinceps diluvium dissipans terram. [Thus also said God to Noah, and to his sons with him: Behold I will establish my covenant with you; and with your seed after you. And with every living soul that is with you, as well in all birds as in cattle and beasts of the earth, that have come forth out of the ark: and in all the beasts of the earth. I will establish my covenant with you; and all flesh shall be destroyed no more with the waters of a flood: neither shall there be from henceforth a flood to waste the earth.]

This first covenant between God and his creatures in the Old Testament, and the guarantee that no second flood of water would obliterate the earth, is commemorated by the sign of the rainbow (Gen 9:12–17). The tone and thematic focus of the biblical narrative changes markedly after the description of the significance of the rainbow, as Noah the farmer (Vulg. agricola, Gen 9:20) plants the first grapevine, and is the first to experience the effects of its fermented fruit. Integral to this shift in narrative interest is the first designation of Noah’s three sons as the ancestors of the nations of the earth, and in particular the characterization of Ham as the father of Canaan (Gen 9:18–19). The episode of Noah’s drunkenness, in which Ham’s laughter at his father’s nakedness is contrasted with his two brothers’ piety, is introduced by this genealogical reference, and concluded with the much fuller genealogy of Genesis 10, which leads into the story of Babel (Gen 11:1–10). This framework provides the context for the blessing of Shem and Japheth, and the cursing of Ham, whose Canaanite descendants will serve the offspring of his brothers (Gen 9:24–7). Noah lives another 350 years after the Flood, dying at the age of 950 (Gen 9:28–9). As a key figure in the history of the world, Noah is mentioned in a number of biblical books. Some of the references to him, both in the Old and New Testaments, are simply genealogical (1

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Chron 1:4; Luke 3:36). In other places, again in a tradition extending across both Old and New Testaments, Noah is treated as a great saint of the ancient past. In Sirach [Ecclesiasticus] 44:17–19, Noah is listed between Enoch and Abraham as one of the ‘men of mercy, whose godly deeds have not failed’, and whose posterity is ‘a holy inheritance’. Noah’s particular role in history and his virtue are described: Noe inventus est perfectus, iustus, et in tempore iracundiae factus est reconciliatio. Ideo dimissum est reliquum terrae cum factum est diluvium. Testamenta saeculi posita sunt apud illum, ne deleri possit diluvio omnis caro. [Noah was found perfect, just: and in the time of wrath he was made a reconciliation. Therefore was there a remnant left to the earth, when the Flood came. The covenants of the world were made with him, that all flesh should no more be destroyed with a Flood.]

Noah’s role in universal history is inseparable from his role in salvation history: he provided the remnant which facilitated the survival of the human race, and with him the first covenant was established. Furthermore, his call to this salvific role was inseparable from the patriarch’s virtuous character. In the summary of the deeds of the heroes of the past found in the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews, this virtuous character comes to the fore in the author’s discussion of the nature of faith before the Law. The Letter explains the faith that characterised this epoch and justified the patriarchs (Heb 11:1–3): Est autem fides sperandarum substantia rerum, argumentum non parentum. In hac enim testimonium consecuti sunt senes. Fide intellegimus aptata esse saecula verbo Dei, ut ex invisibilibus visibilia fierent. [Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things that appear not. For by this the ancients obtained a testimony. By faith we understand that the world was framed by the word of God: that from invisible things visible things might be made.]

The author discusses the faith shown by Abel and Enoch (Heb 11:4–7), before turning to the example set by Noah (Heb 11:7): Fide Noe, responso accepto de his quae adhuc non videbantur, metuens aptavit arcam in salutem domus suae, per quam damnavit mundum, et iustitiae quae, per fidem est heres est institutus.

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[By faith Noah, having received an answer concerning those things which were as not yet seen, moved with fear, framed the ark for the saving of his house: by which he condemned the world and was instituted heir of the justice which is by faith.]

The author then moves on to a much fuller account of the life of Abraham.11 The list of patriarchs found in Hebrews suggests a parallel to the praise of Old Testament heroes found in Sirach 44, the ‘men of mercy and good deeds’. The letter to the Hebrews ‘updates’ the patriarchs, and by re-iterating their virtue in a polemic arguing the priority of faith, helped to establish them as objects of Christian hagiographic veneration. This rereading of the Old Testament also helped in fostering the anachronistic view, which would gain currency in the patristic and medieval period, that the faith of the patriarchs was an explicitly Christian one.12 The book of Wisdom presents a wide-ranging and enigmatic commentary on a number of events of the Old Testament, including the Flood, which is mentioned in two separate passages alluding to Wisdom in her feminine personification (Wisdom 10:3–5; 14:6): Ab hac ut recessit iniustus in ira sua, per iram homicidii fraternitatis deperiit. Propter quem cum aqua deleret terram iterum sanavit sapientia, per contemptibile lignum iustum gubernans. Haec et in consensu nequitiae cum se nationes contulissent, scivit iustum et servavit sine querella Deo, et in fi lii misericordia fortem custodivit. [. . .] Sed ab initio cum perirent superbi gigantes, spes orbis terrarum ad ratem confugiens, remisit saeculo semen nativitatis quae manu tua erat gubernata. [But when the unjust went away from her in his anger, he perished by the fury with which he murdered his brother. For whose cause, when water destroyed the earth, wisdom healed it again, directing the cause of the just by contemptible wood. Moreover, when the nations had conspired together to consent to wickedness, she knew the just, and preserved him without blame to God, and kept him strong against the compassion for his son. [. . .] And from the beginning also when the proud giants perished, the hope of the world, fleeing to a vessel which was governed by your hand, left to the world seed of generation.]

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The first of these references to the Flood comes in the context of a summary of what Wisdom did in the past for a series of patriarchs, tracing the origin of the Flood to Cain’s murder of Abel, while the reference to the Flood is followed by a mention of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, the great test of his obedience. The second discussion of the Flood comes in the context of a long attack on the idolatry of the nations (Wisdom 12:24–14:31), condemning the emptiness of the practice, but also providing a rationalization of its origins in the folly of the pagans. The more immediate context for the allusion to the Flood is a discussion of shipbuilding and the practical utility of wood (14:1–7), which is contrasted to the making of wooden idols (14:8 ff.). Both Wisdom 10:4 and 14:6 emphasize the element of hope that the Flood represents. The treatment of the Flood in the book of Wisdom will be returned to in chapters 4 and 6, in discussion of the Old English Exodus and Beowulf. An eschatological application of the story of the Flood developed in the Old Testament period, especially in prophetic writing. Isaiah makes a direct comparison between the destruction wrought by the Flood and the contemporary sufferings of God’s people. God promises that mercy will return to the punished Israel (Isa 54:9–10): Sicut in diebus Noe istud mihi est, cui iuravi ne inducerem aquas Noe ultra super terram; sic iuravi ut non irascar tibi, et non increpem te. Montes enim commovebuntur, et colles contremescent; misericordia autem mea non recedet, et foedus pacis meae non movebitur. [This thing is to me as in the days of Noah, to whom I swore that I would no more bring in the waters of Noah upon the earth: so have I sworn not to be angry with you and not to rebuke you. For the mountains shall be moved, and the hills shall tremble: but my mercy shall not depart from you, and the covenant of my peace shall not be moved.]

The influence of this generously merciful application of the Genesis story is found in later Christian circles, though Christian writers came to favour the application of an apocalyptic allegory linking the original cataclysm to the complete destruction of the world expected on Doomsday. A sterner application of the analogy of the Flood is found in Ezekiel 14. The prophet

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names Noah among three famous just men – types of the just man not born into the chosen people – who will be spared in future destruction (Ezek 14:13–14, 20): Terra cum peccaverit mihi, ut praevaricetur praevaricans, extendam manum meam super eam . . . et interficiam de ea hominem et jumentum. Et si fuerint tres viri isti in medio eius, Noe, Danihel, et Iob, ipsi iustitia sua liberabunt animas suas, ait Dominus exercituum. . . . et Noe, et Danihel, et Iob, fuerint in medio eius, vivo ego, dicit Dominus Deus, quia fi lium et fi liam non liberabunt, sed ipsi iustitia sua liberabunt animas suas. [When a land shall sin against me, so as to transgress grievously, I will stretch forth my hand upon it and will . . . destroy man and beast out of it. And if these three men, Noah, Daniel and Job, shall be in it: they shall deliver their own souls by their justice, says the Lord of hosts. . . . And Noah and Daniel and Job shall be in the midst of it: as I live, says the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter, but they shall only deliver their own souls by their justice.]

These emphases drawn out of the Flood narrative – the mercy shown by God to the just, and the destruction of sinners – would later be given a particular interpretation by Christian writers awaiting the return of Christ as judge at the end of the world. The Old Testament contains other passages which may or may not have been intended by their authors as references to the Flood, but in any case were often later associated with this event by both Jewish and Christian commentators. The numerous references in the Psalms to those in peril on waters could be associated with the ark,13 and sometimes these waters are described with the Lord hovering protectingly above (Ps 28:3, 10; 103:3); these were as often taken to be images of creation.14 Job 22:15–16 contains a warning against following the path of the wicked, and evokes their destruction in the Flood: Numquid semitam saeculorum custodire cupis quam calcaverunt viri iniqui? Qui sublati sunt ante tempus suum et fluvius subvertit fundemantum eorum. [Do you desire to keep the path of the ages, which wicked men have trodden? They were taken away before their time, and a flood has overthrown their foundation.]

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In addition to the clear reference to Noah and the Flood already noted, Isaiah elsewhere creates an image of future destruction, which draws on the imagery of the cataclysmic Flood (24:18–21): Et erit qui fugerit a voce formidinis cadet in foveam, et qui se explicuerit de fovea tenebitur laqueo, quia cataractae de excelsis apertae sunt, et concutientur fundamenta terrae; confractione confringitur terra contritione conteretur terra, commotione commovebitur terra; agitatione agitabitur terra sicut ebrius, et auferatur quasi tabernaculum unius noctis, et gravabit eam iniquitas sua et corruet et non adiciet ut resurgat; et erit in die illa visitabit Dominus super militiam caeli in excelso, et super reges terrae qui sunt super terram. [And it shall come to pass that he who flees from the sound of terror will fall into the pit, and he who climbs out of the pit will be caught in the trap, because the cataracts on high will be opened, and the foundations of the earth shaken. The earth will be broken asunder, the earth will be crushed, the earth will be shaken apart. The earth will stagger like a drunk, and will be packed away like a one-night tent. And its iniquity will be heavy upon it, and it will fall and not rise again. And it shall come to pass that on that day the Lord will punish the host of heaven on high, and punish the kings of the earth on earth.]

The Flood is evoked in another passage soon after, in a recollection of its fi nal destruction of the giants (Isa 26:14): Morientes non vivant gigantes non resurgent; propterea visitasti et contrivisti eos et perdidisti omnem memoriam eorum. [Let not the dead live, let not the giants rise again; therefore you have visited and destroyed them, and have destroyed all memory of them.]

An important element of these passages is the tendency they demonstrate among apocalyptic writers in the Old Testament period to exploit imagery associated with the Flood to convey a perception of looming eschatological disaster, grounded in a historical warning of the consequences of sin. This tendency was to develop and grow among the Christian writers of the Apostolic era and beyond.

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The New Testament The use of imagery associated with the destruction wrought by the Flood was particularly popular in Jewish circles in the century before Christ, and this popularity continued into the first century of the Christian era among both Jewish and Christian writers.15 New Testament authors were also concerned with the fate of a just person living in a sinful world, a world which they expected would be destroyed for its wickedness, even if not by water. The suddenness with which the apocalyptic moment was expected to cut across day-to-day living was also used as a moral warning to the complacent. Two synoptic texts, Matthew 24:35–9 and Luke 17:26–37, are closely related in the way they use the Noah story to describe the return of the Son of Man in judgment at the end of time. In Matthew’s gospel, Christ himself warns (Matt 24:35–9): Caelum et terra transibunt, verba vero mea non praeteribunt. De die autem illa et hora nemo scit, neque angeli caelorum, nisi Pater solus. Sicut autem in diebus Noe, ita erit et adventus Filii hominis. Sicut enim erant in diebus ante diluvium comedentes et bibentes, nubentes et nuptum tradentes, usque ad eum diem quo introivit in arcam Noe, et non cognoverunt donec venit diluvium, et tulit omnes; ita erit et adventus Filii Hominis. [Heaven and earth shall pass: but my words shall not pass. But of that day and hour no one knows: no, not the angels of heaven, but the Father alone. And as it was in the days of Noah, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. For, as in the days before the Flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up until the day in which Noah entered into the ark: And they knew not till the Flood came and took them all away: so also shall the coming of the Son of Man be.]

Matthew goes on to give examples of the activities which will be pursued up till the end, as the just are saved and the sinful left behind for destruction. The example of Noah is a particularly useful one for the early Christian – Noah’s Flood was sudden for sinners, if not for Noah himself – though the question of whether or not Noah had warned others was to become controversial. In any case, many to whom the early Christians preached ignored their warning of coming destruction. Luke says much the same

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as Matthew, but includes a reference to the story of the rescue of Lot from the destruction of Sodom (Luke 17:28–32) to further emphasize both the suddenness and destructiveness of the future judgment. The association between Noah, Flood imagery and the coming end of the world is further elaborated in the Second Letter of Peter. The author develops an eschatological interpretation of the Noah story, establishing an imaginative typological use of Noah which was to become widely popular among later commentators and preachers.16 The eschatological application of the Flood – which is only suggested in the Gospels’ account of the preaching of Christ – is taken much further here, where the author warns his audience against false teachers, and promises a coming destruction by fire (2 Pet 2:4–6, 9): Si enim Deus angelis peccantibus non pepercit, sed rudentibus inferni detractos in tartarum tradidit in judicium cruciatos reservari; et originali mundo non pepercit, sed octavum Noe iustitiae praeconem custodivit, diluvium mundo impiorum inducens; et civitates Sodomorum et Gomorraeorum in cinerem redigens, eversione damnavit, exemplum eorum qui impie acturi sunt, ponens; . . . novit Dominus pios de temptatione eripere, iniquos vero in diem iudicii cruciandos reservare. [For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but delivered them, drawn down by infernal ropes to the lower hell, to torments, to be reserved for judgment: and spared not the original world, but preserved Noah, the eighth person, the herald of righteousness, bringing in the Flood upon the world of the ungodly. And reducing the cities of the Sodomites and the Gomorrhites into ashes, condemned them to be overthrown, making them an example to those that should after act wickedly . . . the Lord knows how to deliver the godly from temptation, but to reserve the unjust for the day of judgment to be tormented.]

The passage in 2 Peter augments the pattern linking of the destruction wrought by the Flood, and the annihilation of the cities of the plain, to the future judgment found in Christ’s eschatological preaching in Luke 17:28–32. The passage also presents to Christian readers the tradition that Noah announced the coming destruction to the sinful world, drawing a parallel between this ancient warning and the eschatological preaching of the early

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Church.17 Peter’s second epistle itself is an example of such preaching, warning against complacency in the face of the delayed return of Christ. It is in this context that the description of the coming destruction is introduced (2 Pet 3:6–7, 9–10): Per quae, ille tunc mundus aqua inundatus periit. Caeli autem qui nunc sunt, et terra, eodem verbo repositi sunt, igni servati in diem iudicii et perditionis impiorum hominum. . . . non tardat Dominus . . . sed patienter agit propter vos, nolens aliquos perire, sed omnes ad paenitentiam reverti. Adveniet autem dies Domini ut fur; in qua caeli magno impetu transient, elementa vero calore solventur. [Whereby the world that then was, being overflowed with water, perished. But the heavens and the earth which are now, by the same word are kept in store, reserved for fire on the Day of Judgment and the perdition of ungodly people . . . The Lord delays not . . . but deals patiently for your sake, not willing that any should perish, but that all should return to penance. But the day of the Lord shall come as a thief, in which the heavens shall pass away with great violence and the elements shall be melted with heat.]

Comparable imagery of the ultimate destruction of the world by fire is found elsewhere, notably in the Book of Revelations (Rev 15:2; 20:9–15; 21:8).18 Noah also makes an appearance in the first letter of Peter. Here the Flood receives no explicitly eschatological interpretation, but rather the author develops a typological reading of the deliverance of the patriarch and his family, a reading which proved fundamental for many orthodox interpretations of the Flood among the Church Fathers.19 Here an explicit link is made between the rescue of the eight souls in the ark and the salvific effect of baptism, both of which are associated with the death and resurrection of Christ (1 Pet 3:18–21): Quia et Christus semel pro peccatis mortuus est, iustus pro iniustis, ut nos offerret Deo, mortificatus carne, vivificatus autem spiritu, in quo et his, qui in carcere erant, spiritibus veniens praedicavit, qui increduli fuerant aliquando, quando expectabant Dei patientia in diebus Noe, cum fabricaretur arca, in qua pauci, id est octo animae salvae factae sunt per aquam: quod et vos nunc similis formae salvos facit baptisma, non carnis depositio sordium, sed conscientiae bonae interrogatio in Deum per resurrectionem Iesu Christi.

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Water and fire [Because Christ also died once for our sins, the just for the unjust: that he might offer us to God, being put to death indeed in the flesh, but enlivened in the spirit, in which coming also he preached to those spirits that were in prison: which had been for some time incredulous, when they waited for the patience of God in the days of Noah, when the ark was being built: wherein a few, that is, eight souls, were saved by water. Similarly baptism, being of the like form, now saves you also: not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but by the examination of a good conscience towards God through the resurrection of Jesus Christ.]

The passage is obscure, but the establishment of typological associations between the waters of the Flood and the waters of baptism, and between Noah and Christ, is clear enough. Later patristic and medieval commentators developed and exploited these links in much greater detail, often with close reference to the Genesis narrative.20 By the close of the New Testament period, the major applications and interpretations of the character of Noah and the event of the Flood, which would be developed by patristic and medieval commentators, had emerged in nascent form. At the literal level, the Flood suggests an image of hope – God does not wish to obliterate humanity, and indeed after the Flood enters into a covenant promising that the destruction of the world by water will never be repeated. This optimism for the whole of humanity is refi ned by the Old Testament prophets to become the basis of optimism for the virtuous and the just, and in New Testament authors becomes a hope for the just who have been baptized into Christ. This baptism itself is mystically linked to Noah’s salvation in 1 Peter, and the basis of the hope of salvation by faith is associated with Noah’s faith in the Letter to the Hebrews. And ultimately it is this faith, hope and baptism which will save the justified Christian at the end of time, in a cataclysmic event which will come as suddenly for the wicked as did Noah’s Flood, but which the Church, like Noah, awaits patiently. This collection of images and theological associations was to provide the Fathers of the Church, and their AngloSaxon heirs, with fertile ground for the application of the story of Noah and the Flood.

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Patristic interpretation A variety of interpretations of the character of Noah and the details of the Flood story were developed and expanded in the early Christian era. Most simply, though not without controversy, Noah was venerated at the literal level as a just man who had become the second father of the human race. The book of Genesis itself describes Noah as righteous (Gen 6:9) and, were it not for the problematic episode of his drunkenness (Gen 9:21), early commentators might never have entered into dispute as to the nature of his righteousness. From the biblical text it is clear that Noah is a friend of God – he is described as walking with him (Gen 6:9) – and is chosen as an agent, as well as a recipient, of divine mercy. Justin Martyr, writing in the second Christian century, and following in the tradition of Hebrews 11, maintained that – although uncircumcised – Noah had pleased God.21 Ambrose is representative of a tradition which praised him as a wise, just, temperate and brave man.22 However, Origen and Jerome repeat a Midrash tradition that Noah’s righteousness was only relative to the sinful time in which he lived.23 The pivotal biblical text here, ‘in generationibus suis’ (Gen 6:9), was interpreted in a less controversial way by Augustine as meaning that Noah was as perfect as anyone could be in this life, but that this perfection could not be compared with the angels of God, an interpretation Bede repeats in his commentary on Genesis.24 The praise of Noah’s virtue by many commentators is hardly surprising in the light of the New Testament presentation of the patriarch as a type of Christ. Origen, one of the key figures in the development of an elaborate Christian typological reading of the Old Testament, did not see Noah’s claim to righteousness as uncategorical, and he separated the literal Noah from the Noah who presented an allegorical typology of Christ. For him Christ is ‘our Noah who is alone truly just and perfect’.25 Noah’s distinguishing characteristic as a type is his anticipation of Christ as the perfect rest for souls, based on the etymology of the name given to him by Lamech (Gen 5:29), and the rest he provides in the ark.26 The etymology of Noah’s name was universally interpreted in the Latin West as requies (‘rest’).27

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Genesis contains no reference to Noah preaching to his contemporaries, but the idea was not unknown in Jewish circles, and Jewish legend portrays Noah preaching for 120 years, exhorting sinners to repent and warning them of a coming Flood, while they deride him.28 This understanding of Noah’s antediluvian role is found in the biblical commentary of early Church Fathers, who perceived their own eschatological preaching in similar historical terms. The two ideas, Christ’s preaching to those tormented in Hell’s flames and the destructive fire of the last days, were understood in the early Church to be already linked in the eschatological scheme of the Petrine epistles, and the general trend until the fourth century was to follow where St Peter had led. In the second century, Clement of Rome preached that each generation was given the opportunity to repent, and saw his own function as a preacher continuing a tradition extending back to Noah, who preached repentance and the coming birth of a new world.29 This simple message attributed to Noah by early Christian writers was elaborated upon in subsequent centuries, with Noah promising happiness and rest from evil to those who heeded his warning. According to Augustine, his preaching lasted one hundred years but was to no effect, though commentators – concerned with the implications of Noachic typology – would later retreat from the idea that Noah preached, and Bede flatly rejected the tradition.30 While the general consensus remained that the Flood typologically anticipated the coming destruction of the world, and that Noah riding the waters with his companions in the wood of the ark promised salvation to the faithful inside Christ’s Church at the ultimate destruction of the world by fire, too detailed an identification of Christ with Noah fell out of favour among theologians, particularly in the West. This was especially true with regard to Noah’s role as the ‘herald of righteousness’. The episode of Noah’s naked drunkenness presented patristic commentators with a problem frequently encountered when discussing the character of Old Testament figures. The problematic relationship between Noah’s perfection and his inebriation is handled differently by various Fathers. While drunkenness is condemned, the overall trend was to excuse Noah who, as the fi rst vintner, was ignorant of the power of wine. Often, the

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condemnation of drunkenness and the exoneration of Noah are found side by side in the works of the same author.31 Allegorical elements were also discerned in the episode from early in the patristic period, building on and strengthening the association between Noah and Christ. Links could be seen between the Genesis episode and Christ’s passion, which is described as a bitter cup in Gethsemane, and Christ’s crucifi xion after being stripped and mocked.32 This typology incorporates an allegorical reading of the blessing and cursing of Noah’s three sons, and gives them a typological character directly opposed to the literal meaning of the text: Ham, the ancestor of Canaan, anticipates the Jews who reject Jesus, while Shem, the biblical ancestor of the Jews, represents Christian believers who honour him.33 The significance of the ark itself received the close attention of commentators from very early in the Christian period.34 Even among the earliest of these, the ark and every aspect of its description and construction were understood as representative of the Christian Church. Jerome attributed this ecclesial typology to the Petrine epistles.35 The argument that there was only one ark, and so one Church – outside which there is no salvation – was widely used against schismatics, and incorporated by Augustine into his catechetical instruction.36 In a tradition originating in the works of Philo of Alexandria, many Christian commentators saw a mystical significance in the dimensions of the ark. These dimensions were taken to represent the ideal human figure, characteristics of the soul, or particular episodes in the life of Christ.37 The measurements were also interpreted in terms of ecclesial typology, and for Augustine they were ‘all symbols of something in the Church’.38 For example, on the literal level it is necessary for the security of the ark in the Flood that somebody outside close the door and seal it. Justin Martyr, whose polemical writings in the second century represent the origins of the idea of the Old Testament Christ, used the story to fi nd the Logos at work in the Old Testament before his incarnation in the New, arguing that Christ himself had physically closed Noah and his companions in the ark from the outside (Gen 7:16).39 This perception of the eternal Christ at work in the Old Testament is linked to, but should not be confused with, typological interpretation. Patristic thought

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and biblical commentary were far from systematic, but it is necessary to distinguish between the God who acts as a character within Old Testament stories, and the more mysterious presence of God perceived in their allegorical and typological patterning. The former is found performing physically necessary tasks such as closing the ark door, but it is in the latter, allegorical sense that the Old Testament Christ closing the door of the ark is mystically interpreted as Christ separating his elect from the world, anticipating a similar separation at the Last Judgment.40 In a complex overlapping metaphor, Augustine depicts the door in the side of the ark as the wound in the side of the crucified Christ, through which the faithful enter the Church, and also as the sacraments which lead into the Church. Other popular readings interpreted of the pitch sealing the ark as symbolising the need for internal and external purity,41 and the many kinds of animals as representing the nations of the world to be saved in the Church.42 The Gnostics saw a representation of their Ogdoad in the mystical number of the eight saved in the ark.43 Orthodox commentators followed Justin Martyr, who understood the eight as signifying the eighth day of the week on which Christ rose from the dead and restored creation.44 The wood of the ark, unsurprisingly, suggested the wood of the cross to the patristic and medieval exegetical mind, an association which became a theological commonplace.45 The waters of the Flood became something of a multivalent symbol in early Christian exegesis, read allegorically as representing anything from the persecution of the Church to heresy inside it, from the passions to impiety.46 The dominant tradition, derived from the Petrine epistles, was that the waters of the Flood typologically represented the cleansing waters of baptism. Justin Martyr is a key figure in the early development of this application – just as the new world emerged from the Flood, the new person emerges cleansed from the baptismal font, and Christ, like Noah, is the head of a new race generated by him through water.47 Amplifications and variations on this theme are found throughout the writings of the Fathers.48 Another interpretation of the spiritual meaning of the waters of the Flood was in terms of their eschatological significance. We have already seen how the motif of the Flood became a theme in Old Testament and New Testament apocalypticism,

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giving the weight of historical precedent to prophecies of imminent punishment, and the belief that the coming Judgment would be accompanied by fiery destruction. The link between the two, leading to the notion of a flood of fire, is already found in the works of the Jewish theologian Philo of Alexandria.49 The idea is also suggested in the apocryphal Book of Adam and Eve, where Adam predicts that the world will be destroyed twice, once by water and once by fire.50 The gospel analogy between the laxity of those who perished in Noah’s day, and those who fail to repent before the return of Christ, coupled with the Petrine warning of a coming conflagration typologically linked to Noah’s Flood, served to confirm the doctrine of the flood of fire, even if the canonical scriptures never exactly defi ne it. Patristic applications of the idea generally taught, with differences of emphasis on minor allegorical details, that the baptized inside the ark of the Church would be delivered from the flood of fire by the saving wood of Christ’s cross, as Noah had delivered a remnant by the wood of the ark in the original Flood of water.51 The birds released from the ark by Noah also inspired imaginative interpretations. Noah’s dove, a potent symbol in the New Testament, and found in the account of Christ’s baptism (Matt 3:16; Mark 1:10; Luke 3:22), prompted commentators to develop typological associations of the bird with baptism and the Holy Spirit. Ambrose succinctly states the inescapable nature of the conclusions which must be drawn: Vides aquam, vides lignum, columban aspicis, et dubitas de mysterio? (‘You see the water, you see the wood, you see the dove, and do you hesitate as to the mystery?’).52 The most popular understanding of the allegory of the dove was developed in a manner consistent with the wider typology of the Flood from very early in the Christian period: the dove may be read as an anticipation of the gift of the Holy Spirit to the Church, and also to each Christian at baptism.53 The episode also attracted less typological and more speculatively allegorical discussion. Augustine, for example, describes the Christian faithful as doves in the ark of the Church, who can fi nd no rest in this world.54 The other bird featured in the Genesis story, the raven, does not fare so well. Ambrose compares its leaving the ark to the expulsion of sin from life of the Christian,55 while Augustine likens it to those who harbour corrupt desires and long for impurity outside the Church.56

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The importance of the mystery of the Flood in the development of sacramental and eschatological thought in the patristic era is undeniable. Such an emphasis is not surprising given that more space is given in Genesis to the Flood and its aftermath than to the creation and fall. Recurrent references to the Flood throughout the scriptures confirm the status of the episode as one crucial in advancing the understanding of the relationship between Creator and creature. In a development in keeping with the mythical origin and character of the story, the Flood came to emblemize a recurring pattern in this relationship with the ongoing threat of destruction for disobedient creatures. The return of chaos, in the overwhelming force of the waters to destroy the world completely, would not happen – of this there was a divine guarantee. But chaos was an enduring aspect of the ordered world, and obedience to God is sometimes difficult for those he made, who often forget him. The interest in the Flood story and the person of Noah in wisdom literature reveals an awareness of the theme, embedded within the myth, of the desire to return to harmony between God and his creatures, a recurrent concern of sapiential authors. Ezekiel’s recollection of the just Noah at a time of national crisis makes it clear that the pattern of punishment and redemption continues within the course of history: sinners will be destroyed not only individually, but collectively. The full-blown eschatological expectation extrapolated from the Flood story in the Petrine letters develops the parallel between the past Flood and future Judgment, a theme which formed an important part of the teaching of Jesus. Patristic authors did not doubt that the words attributed to Jesus in the gospels were certainly his own. Both the gospels and the epistles emerge from the Jewish apocalypticism of their time, and the Petrine typologies reveal a debt to the exegetical tradition derived from Philo of Alexandria. While the Church Fathers would develop allegories from the multifarious details the Flood story offers, these are invariably within the parameters of the eschatological ecclesiology established in the New Testament, and the opposition between the eternal damnation awaiting sinners and the future salvation of the Church. These thematic interests – reflected perfectly in the theological understanding of the Flood developed by the greatest interpreter of scripture for the Anglo-

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Saxon reader, the Venerable Bede – are examined in the next chapter. Notes 1 J. G. Frazer, Folk-lore in the Old Testament: Studies in Comparative Religion, Legend and Law, 3 vols. (London, 1918), I. 2 See Westermann, Genesis, pp. 393–4. 3 Meletinsky, Poetics of Myth, p. 235. 4 For contemporary scholarship on the Flood story, see Westermann, Genesis; Gerhard von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary, trans. John H. Marks (rev. ed. London, 1972); Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 1–15, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 1 (Waco, TX, 1987). 5 Westermann, Genesis, p. 194. 6 See Wenham, Genesis 1–15, p. 128; A. Strus, Nomen-Omen (Rome, 1978), pp. 66, 158–62; Westermann, Genesis, p. 360, argues the Yahwist author has Noah’s discovery of wine in mind, and discusses the rest provided by Noah as a contrast to the curse of work endured by Adam (Gen 3:17). 7 The text of the Vulgate used is Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam versionem, ed. R. Weber (4th ed., Stuttgart, 1994), but punctuation has been added; translations are based on the Douay–Rheims version, The Holy Bible (Rheims, 1582; Douay, 1609; London, 1914). 8 The ambiguities of this passage in the original Hebrew are carried over into Jerome’s translation; see Wenham, Genesis 1–15, pp. 135–47. 9 See further: Gen 7:17, 20, 24; 8:3–6, 10, 12–14. 10 See Wenham, Genesis 1–15, p. 193. 11 See William L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, Word Biblical Commentary 47 (Dallas, 1991), pp. 313–23. 12 See Lane, Hebrews 9–13, pp. 316–17, 339–41, 346; see also Burton L. Mack, Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic: Ben Sira’s Hymn in Praise of the Fathers (Chicago, 1985), pp. 202–8. 13 See, for example, Ps 17:16; 64:5–8; 68:3. 14 See, for example, Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 103.1.9 (CCSL 40:1481). 15 See, for example, The Book of Jubilees 5–7, trans. O. S. Winterbottom, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, 2 vols., ed. James H. Charlesworth (London, 1985), II, pp. 35–142. 16 For a discussion of the development of this typological scheme, see Jean Daniélou, From Shadows to Reality: Studies in the Biblical Typology of the Fathers (London, 1960), pp. 69–102. 17 See Richard J. Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, Word Biblical Commentary 50 (Waco, TX, 1983), pp. 250–1. 18 See Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, p. 299. 19 See Daniélou, Shadows to Reality, pp. 80–3. 20 See Daniélou, Shadows to Reality, pp. 94–7. 21 Justin Martyr, Dialogus cum Trypho Judaeo 92.2 (PG 6:694–5). 22 Ambrose, De Noe et arca 1 (PL 14:361–2); see also his De offi ciis 1.121 (PL 16:59); Lactantius Divinae Institutiones 2.13 (CSEL 19:160).

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23

Origen, In Numeros homilia 9.1 (GCS 30:56); Jerome, Hebraice Quaestiones in Libro Geneseos 6.9 (CCSL 72:10); see also Lewis, A Study of Noah, p. 159. Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 48:493); Bede, In Genesin, ed. C. W. Jones, CCSL 118A (Turnhout, 1967), II, 1034–49; references to In Genesin are by book and line number. See also the discussion by A. N. Doane, ed., Genesis A: A New Edition (Madison, WI, 1978), pp. 258–9. Origen, Homilia in Genesim 2.3 (GCS 29:30). See Lewis, Noah, p. 160; Origen, Hom. in Gen. 2.3, 5 (GCS 29:31, 34). See, for example Jerome, Hebraice Quaestiones in Libro Geneseos, 5.29 (CCSL 72:9); Isidore, Etymologiarum sive originum, ed. W. M. Lindsay, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1911), 7.6.15. See Josephus, Jewish Antiquities (Cambridge, MA, 1926–65), 1.3.1–2; Sibylline Oracles, trans. J. J. Collins, in Old Testament Pseudigrapha, ed. Charlesworth, II, pp. 317–412, at p. 338: 1.127; Ginzberg, Louis, The Legends of the Jews, 7 vols. (Philadelphia, PA, 1909–38), 1.153; 5.174–5, n.19; Doane, Genesis A, p. 262. 1 Clement, in The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation ed. and trans. J. K. Elliott (Oxford, 1993), 7.6, 9.4; see Lewis, Noah, p. 102. See Augustine, De catechizandis rudibus, ed. I. B. Bauer, CCSL 46 (Turnhout, 1969), 19.32; and Chapter 2 below, pp. 96–8. See Jerome, Epistola 69.9 (CSEL 54:696), Epistola 22.8 (CSEL 54:155); Ambrose, Epistola 68.27 (PL 16:1248), Epistola 58.12 (PL 16:1231). See, for example, Ambrose, Epistola 58.12 (PL 16:1231); not all commentators viewed the episode from such a favourable typological perspective, see Lewis, Noah, p. 177. Augustine, De ciuitate Dei, 16.2 (CCSL 40:498–9). See Lewis, Noah, p. 161; catacomb representations of the ark as a coffi n develop the associative link between the rest provided by Noah in the ark, and the rest of the just soul in death in Christ. Jerome, Epistolae, ed. Hilberg, CSEL (Vienna, 1910–80), 123.11 (CSEL 56:84–5); Adversus Jovinianum, 1.17 (PL 23:211–338, at 247). Augustine, De catechizandis rudibus 27.53 (CCSL 46:175–6); see also Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 48: 494); Jerome, Epistola 15.2 (CSEL 54:63–4). Origen, Hom. in Gen. 2.5–6 (GCS 29:33–9); Ambrose, De Noe et arca 6.13–14 (CSEL 32/1:422–3); Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 40.2:116–17); Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem 3.22 (CCSL 1:539). De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 48:493–4). See Justin Martyr, Apologia 2.10, 13 (PG 6:459–62, 465–8). An allegorical application of this idea is found in Wulfstan’s outline of the clerical orders in his Institutes of Polity: Seofon cyriclice hadas syn: Hostiarius, Lector, Exorcista, Accolitus, Subdiaconus, Diaconus, Presbyter. Ælces hades getacnung belimpð to Criste, forðam eall he hit gefylde on him sylfum. Crist wæs hostiarius, þa he beclysde Noes arce wið þone gestendan fl od and eft untynde. (‘Seven ecclesiastical orders are: Hostiarius, Lector, Exorcista, Accolitus, Subdiaconus, Diaconus, Presbyter. The significance of each order is from

24

25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

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40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

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Christ, because he fulfi lled all of them in himself. Christ was a hostiarius [door-keeper] because he locked the door of Noah’s ark against the raging Flood and afterwards opened it.’) Wulfstan, Die ‘Institutes of Polity, Civil and Ecclesiastical’, ed. K. Jost, Swiss Studies in English 47 (Bern, 1959), p. xxiv; ‘De gradibus’, in Wulfstan, Institutes pp. 225–6. See, for example, Bede, In Genesin, II, 1591–1608. Origen, Hom. in Gen. 2.4 (GCS 29:33). Origen, Hom. in Gen. 2.5 (GCS 29:36); Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 48:494). See Lewis, Noah, p. 166. Justin Martyr Dialogus cum Trypho, 138 (PG 6:794); see also Augustine, Contra Faustum 12.15 (CSEL 25:345). The direct link is fi rst found in the writings of Justin Martyr, Dialogus cum Trypho, 138 (PG 6:794); see also Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.26 (CCSL 48:494), De catechizandis 19.32; 20.34 (CCSL 46:156–9). Lewis, Noah, pp. 167–8; 4 Maccabees 15:31–2 (trans. H. Anderson, in Pseudepigrapha, ed. Charlesworth, vol. 2, pp. 531–64). Justin Martyr, Dialogus cum Trypho, 138 (PG 6:794). See, for example, Ambrose, De Sacramentis 2.1.2 (CSEL 73:25–6); Jerome, Epistola 10.1 (CSEL 54:35); Augustine, De catechizandis 20.34 (CCSL 46:158–9); see also Lewis, Noah, pp. 168–9. Lewis, Noah, pp. 169–72, discusses the Jewish origins of this motif. Life of Adam and Eve 49:3 (trans. M. D. Johnson, in Charlesworth, Pseudepigrapha vol. 2, pp. 249–94); Lewis, Noah, p. 170, notes this text is a Christian production, but clearly has Jewish antecedents. See Lewis, Noah, pp. 172–3; Augustine, De civitate Dei, 20.18, 24 (CCSL 48: 729–30, 745); De catechizandis 19.32 (CCSL 46:156–7). Ambrose, De Mysteriis 10–11 (CSEL 73:93). Lewis, Noah, p. 174; Tertullian, De baptismo 8 (CCSL 1/1:283). Augustine, In Ioannis Evangelium Tractatus CXXIV 6.2 (PL 35:1426); Contra Faustum 12.20 (CSEL 25:348). Ambrose, De Mysteriis 11 (CSEL 73:93). Augustine, Contra Faustum 12.20 (CSEL 25:348). An application of this moral opposition between the raven and the dove is found in the Old English version of Alcuin’s De virtutibus et vitiis: Nu gyf þu cwetst, ‘Cras, cras’, þæt is þæs hræfenes stefne. Se ræfen ne gecerde na to Noes arca, ac seo culfre cerde. Gyf þu þonne wylt don dædbote, þonne þu synegian ne miht, þonne forlæteð þe þine synnen. (‘Now if you say, “Cras, cras” [‘Tomorrow, tomorrow’], that is the voice of the raven. The raven did not ever return to Noah’s ark, but the dove returned. If you wish then to make amends, so that you might not sin, then abandon your sins.’) R. D-N. Warner, Early English Homilies from the Twelfth Century MS. Vespasian D.XIV, EETS os 152 (London, 1917), p. 103, lines 29–32; see also The Prose Dialogues of ‘Solomon and Saturn’ and ‘Adrian and Ritheus’, ed. J. E. Cross and T. D. Hill (Toronto, 1982), pp. 37, 145–6.

2 A manifold mystery: Bede on the Flood

The Venerable Bede (d.735) was the most prolific scriptural commentator of his time. His commentaries on the sacred books are informed by his wide reading of earlier commentators and a sophisticated awareness of grammar and rhetoric, and reveal an intelligent mind sensitive not only to the nuances of the biblical word but also to the needs of his readers. For Bede the historian, the Flood was a key event in the earlier history of the world; for Bede the theologian, the Flood was an event replete with mystical significance. These two disciplines were inseparable for him – all of history was full of spiritual meaning. But some events, especially an epoch-defining event like the Flood, presented the careful reader of scriptural history with profound insights into God’s careful design for the destiny of his creation beyond time into eternity. In reading the Flood in this way, Bede was self-consciously following in the footsteps of the great patristic commentators who had gone before him, especially the four doctors of the Church – Augustine, Jerome, Gregory and Ambrose – whose works he always had ready at hand.1 Principal among his writings which discuss the Flood is book II of his commentary on Genesis, though Bede also commented on the Flood story in other writings, occasionally in surprising contexts. The major themes are familiar from the patristic tradition: the ark as an allegory of the Church, the Flood as a type of the spiritual regeneration of the Christian faithful in the sacrament of baptism, and the agent of the historical renewal of creation through the destruction of the wicked generation of the world’s first age. Bede also places particular emphasis on the Flood and its aftermath as a typological anticipation of the final destruction of the world and the end of all Ages.

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Noah, the righteous man chosen to lead the chosen remnant into the sacred vessel, is a model for those who lead the Church, and in his ‘perfection’ is the type of Christ. Always orthodox and conservative, Bede draws on the works of the Fathers in his discussion of the Flood, but is not slavishly dependent upon them, and in recasting their discussions he develops his own literary interests. Bede nevertheless has his immediate audience in mind, and his writing reflects his role as the careful teacher of a flock who might not see the implications for orthodoxy of correctly reading the sacred text. Audience At the end of his Ecclesiastical History (completed 731), and aware that he was coming to the end of his life, Bede provides us with a rare autobiographical comment:2 Ex eo tempus uitae in eiusdem monasterii habitatione peragens, omnem meditandis scripturis operam dedi, atque inter obseruantiam disciplinae regularis, et cotidianam cantandi in ecclesia curam, semper aut discere et docere aut scribere dulce habui. . . . Ex quo tempore presbyteratus usque ad annum aetatis meae LVIIII haec in Scripturam sanctam meae meorumque necessitati ex opusculis uenerabilium patrum breuiter adnotare, siue etiam ad formam sensus et interpretationis eorum superadicere curaui. [I have spent all my life in this monastery, applying myself entirely to the study of the Scriptures; and amid the observance of the discipline of the Rule and the daily task of singing in the church, it has always been my delight to learn or to teach or to write. . . . From the time I became a priest until the fi fty-ninth year of my life, I have made it my business, for my own benefit and that of my brothers, to make brief extracts from the works of the Fathers on Holy Scripture, or to add notes of my own to clarify their sense and interpretation.]

In the accompanying list of his works he gives pride of place to his scriptural commentaries. This desire to learn and to teach provides an important insight into Bede’s motivation as a scholar. The two are of course not incompatible, but Bede tells us that he worked first for his ‘own benefit’, and his commentaries contain many passages evocative of personal rumination on the scriptures informed by reading the Church Fathers.

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Throughout his life, but especially in his later work, Bede was conscious of his special role in the Church as a learned teacher.3 The role of doctor was as much a spiritual gift as a labour, and Bede wrote as a member of an educated spiritual elite and for his fellow teachers, making scripture accessible for priests and preachers who lacked time or inclination to study patristic commentaries. To appreciate Bede’s own commentaries fully, it is necessary to keep this audience in mind. Holder has suggested that ‘the primary audience for Bede’s biblical commentaries was that select group of preachers and teachers which included the members of the ordained clergy as well as all others holding some form of spiritual authority.’4 Such a group would have been mostly monastic, though not exclusively so. In his discussion of the Flood we occasionally fi nd Bede very specifically addressing the importance of the text for the priest or religious, offering insights from his own experience of the monastic life reflected in and sustained by the spiritual meaning of the sacred text. Ultimately, though, his idea of his ‘own benefit’ suggests the desire for his own salvation, and Bede’s desire to teach is also directed to the salvation of souls, in particular those in the north of England at the beginning of the eighth century.5 The commentary on Genesis was written, in several stages, at the request of Acca, originally a companion of Wilfrid and later bishop of Hexham, who asked for the book from one who had the time to glean the important teachings of the Fathers from his library for the use of those who did not have the time or the skill.6 A number of Bede’s works are written for this purpose, and Mayr-Harting has suggested that this varied audience gives Bede’s works a special character – as a writer his ‘great strength was in this sphere where doctrine and the practical life of the Christian met.’7 The commentaries also fit into Bede’s wider educational programme for an Anglo-Saxon monk and/or priest. As a good teacher Bede knew that the understanding of the scriptures required an elementary education in grammar, rhetoric and arithmetic, as well as science. The reader must understand the way the sacred text expresses meaning in its exact wording, the way its numbers are reckoned and the physical cosmology it presents.8 This is especially true of the hexameral section of the

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commentary on Genesis, where the expression is so dense and numbers are so potent, and for which Bede’s De natura rerum served as a scientific companion.9 Despite the occasional difficulty of the text of Genesis, Bede believed that the books of the Bible had been written to be read, and – as Jones has noted – ‘one of Bede’s firmest principles’ was a belief in the ‘miraculous adaptation of Scriptures’ to the ‘slowest and lowest intellects’.10 Acca was preoccupied with the establishment of his church at Hexham and needed concise practical works on scripture with which to educate his clergy. Judith McClure has suggested that In Genesin represents the kind of material desired by a bishop with experience of missionary activity, material written ‘with the express purpose of informing Anglo-Saxon priests and monks, who had learned Latin but not very much more, on a scriptural text fundamental to any teaching they would be called upon to give about creation, the fall, and the promise of salvation’.11 Whether or not ‘missionary’ work was being undertaken at the beginning of the eighth century around Hexham is difficult to determine, but catechesis and the ongoing work of conversion would have been part of the daily work of Acca’s priests. It seems that the demands Acca made on Bede for commentary material disrupted the programme of writing which Bede had either formally or informally set out for himself. The result of these conflicting demands on the scholar is evident in the three stages of writing the Genesis commentary, with the first part of book I, Bede’s Hexameron, appearing first (c.703–9) when Acca requested the commentary. This was later augmented with swathes of material from Augustine’s De genesi ad literram to complete the book up to the Fall and expulsion from paradise.12 Bede intended even at this stage to return to the work, but apparently chose first to complete his commentary on Ezra and Nehemiah, and later (certainly after 721) added the three subsequent books, completing his commentary on Genesis up to the expulsion of Ishmael (Gen 21:9–10).13 The organization of the completed commentary on Genesis into four books reveals the strong sense of structure in Bede’s thought and in his understanding of the divine patterning of creation and history. Book I covers the creation, temptation, and fall, and Bede’s critical interest in discussing the problems pre-

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sented in the first three chapters of Genesis is mainly, though not exclusively, literal.14 Bede’s comments on the Fall present the least original writing in the whole work, though his selective treatment of his sources gives this section the imprint of his thought.15 In the letter to Acca prefacing the first recension, Bede indicates that he is drawing on the works of Basil, Ambrose and Augustine, the greatest authorities on this early part of the history of the world.16 He was well aware that he was not the first writer to cover this material, and rather than add to the number of expansive works on the subject, he proposed to write in a way that would instruct the beginner (rudis), but also include discussion that would enable the learned (eruditis) to progress; needless to say, both the ‘rude’ and erudite would have been clergy.17 Bede caters for both, explaining difficult passages as well as occasionally noting the differences between the Vulgate and other versions.18 The following three books are more carefully crafted, though paying less attention to the needs of the rudimentary student, and this may suggest some change in Bede’s intention in writing. Book II begins with Cain’s murder of Abel and ends with the death of Noah, and covers the beginning of the second age of the world and the first covenant between God and humanity; book III begins with the chaos introduced into human society at Babel, and ends with Melchisedech and Abraham, treated by Bede as prototypes of Church and state; book IV is concerned with the promises made to Abraham, and focuses on the meaning of Ishmael, representing the old dispensation, and Isaac, the new; the choice to end the commentary at Gen 21:10, a few verses before the sacrifice of Isaac, gives a particular emphasis to the election of the gentiles, and the English in particular. Book II is more allegorical in character, though the signalling of this treatment varies; after discussing the letter of the text, Bede sets apart a special section for an interpretatio mystica of the story of Cain and Abel, but later does not provide a special rubric for an extended mystical discussion of the Flood (II, 294–455). Bede’s discussion of many aspects of the Flood generally presupposes a literal understanding of the text, and from this point seems to lean more to the advanced scholar than the beginner, though he again provides a specially marked off section for the interpretatio mystica for the story of the tower of Babel.19 It

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is difficult to understand Bede’s occasional neglect of the rudis; it is possible that he assumed some parts of Genesis had already been covered by the beginner, and so passed more quickly onto more complex interpretation.20 By the time Bede came to write the last three books of In Genesin he was well practised in the art of biblical commentary. His earliest commentaries had followed the form of verse-byverse explication favoured by most medieval commentators, and there is a tendency among these earlier works to concentrate on explaining the more literal and historical aspects of the text, following the format of a Latin grammaticus.21 For example, Bede’s commentary on the seven Catholic epistles lacks the allegorical flights of his later explanation of the tabernacle, though his first commentary, on the Apocalypse (c.703–9), exploits this way of reading.22 Bede’s discussion of the Flood, as a part of his mature work, contains many extended mystical passages. For Bede, commentary on scripture was not a form of speculative theology, but literary criticism, and the reader was charged with understanding the full meaning of the text by practising criticism.23 Bede’s employment of biblical examples in his De schematibus et tropis (written c.701/2) clearly demonstrates his conviction that ‘Scripture employs the same artistic devices as are found in any literature, but it is first with the best’.24 Bede’s normal practice was to provide a close, accurate reading of the text – usually the Vulgate version exemplified by the Codex Amiatinus – explaining any anomalies, and where necessary introducing variant readings from other versions.25 Bede’s methodological principle is inspired also by Roman rhetorical models of inventio, in which detailed discussions of place, person and time were considered basic material for discussion of any historical topic.26 Having ascertained what happened or what was said according to the letter of the text, Bede often relates the passage under discussion to comparable or related passages elsewhere in the Bible, emphasizing the unity of the word of God. Reflections on the links between the Old and New Testaments usually take the form of allegorical or mystical interpretation. Bede is particularly fond of figurative expression in the sacred text, which invites non-literal reading, and also enjoys explaining the mystical significance of any numbers he fi nds. Bede, like Augustine, was inspired by Wisdom 11:21: omnia mensura et

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numero et pondere disposuisti (‘you have ordered all things in measure, and number and weight’).27 Bede outlines in various places what became known as the four senses of scripture: historical, tropological (moral), allegorical (typological) and anagogical.28 Bede’s advocacy of the fourfold method of interpretation can be misleading. In his discussion of the tabernacle he interprets the four feet of the table described in Exod 25:26 as representing the four senses of meaning found in sacred scripture.29 This enumeration of senses seems to emerge from Bede’s role as teacher, carefully outlining rules and norms for the student, rather than from his own practice. Elsewhere in his De tabernaculo Bede expounds a threefold interpretation,30 and – despite his own indications to the contrary in a number of commentaries – Bede can safely be considered to have distinguished only two senses, one literal (or historical) and a higher one, which he variously called ‘spiritual’, ‘typic’, ‘sacramental’, ‘mystical’, figurative’ or ‘allegorical’, without a clear differentiation between these terms.31 Bede’s conservative approach to exegesis maintains the importance of both the text’s literal meaning and its mystical meaning, which emerges from the letter. He is careful not to abandon the letter in his allegorizing (In Genesin, I, 29–31), but is equally concerned not to read in what he called ‘the Jewish fashion’, without proceeding to the higher sense.32 Despite his assertions that the sense of the letter must not be lost, Bede – like Gregory the Great – is ‘constantly on the watch for scriptural verses on which [he] can peg this or that idea. What ultimately counts is less the incongruity of the pegs than the insistence and frequency with which we fi nd this or that theme being repeated.’33 Such incongruities emerge most often in the use of allegory and, like the authorities he uses, Bede is fond of allegory. Bede’s thinking on allegory is derived from Augustine’s distinction between allegoria quae factis fit (allegory in historical events or deeds) and allegoria quae uerbis fit (allegory in words or language).34 Both kinds of allegory can be applied to figure future events of sacred history; sometimes allegory reveals a typological link between the Old Testament and the New, or a moral (tropological) lesson, or can point anagogically to heavenly realities. Bede himself articulates the didactic advantage of figures:35

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Quia solent artius multo et aliquando dulcius inhaerere cordibus audientium ea quae figurarum antiquitate praemissa sic demum noua spiritaliter explanatione dilucidantur quam quae sine ullis figurarum exemplis simplici tantum narratione credenda uel agenda monentur. [When things sent in advance in the former figurative way are at last spiritually clarified by a new explanation, such things have a tendency to be implanted in the hearts of hearers much more firmly, and sometimes more sweetly, than things which we are admonished to believe or to do without any figurative examples, but only by simple telling.]

Often, especially in the interpretation of the Flood, these senses can overlap to form a unified mystical meaning, and in Genesis we often fi nd history figured through history (per historiam historia figuratur).36 His taste for mystical reading places Bede in the tradition of the Western Fathers, but he also warns that allegory should never be a fl ight of fancy: Quisque sensibus allegoricis stadium impendat, quatenus apertam historiae fi dem allegorizando derelinquat (‘Whoever expends effort on the allegorical sense should not leave the plain truth of history in allegorizing’).37 The patristic sources cited by Bede suggest that his library contained many works in the Alexandrian tradition of allegorical exegesis, of which Gregory the Great was fond, and it may be that Bede became a disciple of the Alexandrian method because of Gregory’s wide-ranging influence over him.38 This way of reading the Old Testament is encouraged by Paul in the New, in a passage Bede is fond of (1 Cor 10:11): Haec autem omnia in figura contingebant illis, scripta sunt autem ad correptionem nostram (‘Now all these things happened to them in figure, and they are written for our correction’). Bede expresses this sentiment succinctly in In Genesin (III, 1611–14): Cuncta sacri eloquii series mysticis est plena figuris, nec tantum dictis et factis, sed et ipsis in quibus agitur locis ac temporibus (‘The entire series of sacred utterance is replete with mystical figures, not only in words and deeds, but things such as times and places’).39 The fi nal product of this approach also reflects the monastic practice of lectio divina, whereby the text is scrutinized, meditated upon and personally applied to the reader. So, while Bede is very careful to under-

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stand and explain the letter as clearly as possible, he does not imagine that any event, number, person or place is a bare historical fact. Bede and the Flood For Bede, the Flood was a historical event of the most profound mystical significance, made even richer in meaning by the character of Noah, described as perfect, and by the miraculous vessel of the ark. The universal importance of the Flood was an obvious historical fact as its waters reached over the whole world, and the universality of its mystical meaning could not be doubted either. The chapters of Genesis describing the Flood are echoed throughout the Bible, and Bede exploits these resonances. Throughout In Genesin and in other works, Bede returns repeatedly to certain themes that he summarizes in his discussion of Gen 6:13–14, a key moment in his commentary on the Flood and the first in a series of extended comments on various aspects of the mystery of the Flood (II, 1054–66). Here, when Noah is first commanded to build the ark, Bede departs from his verse-by-verse commentary, and presents a full elaboration of his ideas on the reason the Flood was sent, the meaning of the ark and the importance of Noah’s role, emphasizing their unified mystical significance. The reader is alerted to the importance of the passage by the opening sentence (II, 1060–1): Multiforme in fabrica arcae ac superuentu diluuii continetur mysterium (‘The mystery is encompassed in many ways in the structure of the ark and the coming of the Flood’). Bede has not yet discussed any of the textual problems in the passage surrounding the building of the ark or its size, but chooses to give precedence to the mystical meaning of the structure in a way which, in context, presumes a prior knowledge of the story among his readers, if not of the detailed problems he will treat later in verse-by-verse comment. The mystical themes he singles out are the ark and the Church (designet ergo arca ecclesiam), baptism (designet diluuium fontem baptismi quo abluitur), the ultimate destruction of the world (designet finem) and Noah’s figuring of Christ (Noe fabricator arcae uel ipsum Dominum . . . typice denuntiat), which are all drawn together

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in the broad historical framework of the ages of the world. Nevertheless, Bede never forgets the simple moral lesson that the punishing Flood teaches. Ark and Church For Bede, as for his predecessors, the Church is found in the mystery of the ark, and baptism in the waters of the Flood. These two ideas are not easily separated in Bede’s tightly woven discussion; depending on the perspective the reader adopts, details of the story reveal different meanings. In this way the waves which beat the outside of the ark can represent both the earthly tribulations of the Church and the baptismal bath. The ark lifted up on the waters is a figure rich in contending meanings (Gen 6:13–14; II, 1127–32): Designet ergo arca ecclesiam, designet diluuium fontem baptismi quo abluitur, designet fluctus mundi temptantis quibus probatur, designet fi nem in quo coronatur. Porro Noe fabricator arcae uel ipsum Dominum ac saluatorem nostrum uel unumquemque deuotum eiusdem sanctae ecclesiae rectorem typice denuntiat. [The ark can represent the Church, the deluge represents the font of baptism in which one is washed, the surge is the temptations of this world which prove, it represents the end in which one is crowned. Moreover, Noah, the builder of the ark, prophesies by type either our Lord and Saviour himself, or similarly each devout leader in the Church.]

Reflection on the ark leads Bede into recollection of associated biblical images of the Church. The Church is a house built on stone (Matt 7:24–7), and Noah’s ark is like the house with a firm foundation, the house of faith, while those outside the ark are compared to those who build on sand (II, 1118–22). Bede develops the allegorical meaning of many of the details of the ark’s structure, occasionally explaining the literal meaning of difficult passages. In some cases, the problems of the letter and the mystical meaning are intertwined: one example is the size of the ark, and the apparent impossibility of fitting a vast

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multitude of animals inside it. This was an old problem for commentators, and its commonsensical nature suggests that it might have arisen among Bede’s own audience and their congregations. In the first part of his treatment of the passage, Bede follows Augustine in using the solution offered by Origen, who reckoned the size of the ark according to larger Egyptian cubits; but, while these make the ark bigger, they do not necessarily make it big enough (II, 1218–22; 1370–1435).40 As a good teacher, Bede compares the dimensions of the ark to those of the tabernacle and the Temple to give his readers a sense of proportion (their mystical association he discusses elsewhere).41 If the reader’s doubts about the truth of the letter of the text continue, Bede suggests such a reader is faithless, and should consider the miraculous nature of the structure (II, 1410–12): De arca ergo Noe altius animaduertendum, quod omnia quae in ea uel erga eam gesta sunt divinae uirtutis erant plena miraculis (‘In the wonders of Noah’s ark, therefore, all that which is in it or pertaining to it, is exhibited divine perfection according to higher perception’). As the ark is already a miracle, its capacity to hold not only eight people, but also all the animals and birds of the world (with their food and waste: II, 1417–20), ought not to be questioned. The ultimate proof offered is that the ark is a historical fact, and God does not leave his chosen to chance, but provides and saves, so that the food in the ark is miraculously sufficient for its inhabitants, just as those in the Church are provided with sacramental food sufficient for their journey, and those in the ark, like those in the Church, enjoy rest until they are ready to leave (II, 1427–35). With a deft turn, Bede uses readers’ doubts to assert the moral value of the text’s ambiguity for the faithful. A different kind of problem with the letter of the text relates to the interior configuration of the ark as described in Gen 6:16, one of the most problematic and mystically potent verses in the Genesis Flood account. The description of the rooms of the ark as arranged bicameratam et tricameratam could be ambiguous (II, 1314–46). But the letter of the text is not too difficult – Bede has already explained that the many rooms of the ark were necessary to house the diverse creatures it will contain (Gen 6:14, II, 1151–65). The shift to the allegorical sense is smooth; these rooms represent the diverse orders of the Church (II, 1153–7):

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Et in ecclesia multi sunt ordines institutionum pro diversitate eorum qui ad fidem ueniunt. Neque enim una eademque debet esse uita uel conuersatio coniugatorum et continentium, peccatorum et rectorum. [And in the Church many are the stations in its structure allowing for the diversity of those who come to faith. Nor indeed should life be one and the same for all, the relationship of the married and the chaste, of the sinners and of the Church leaders.]

Not all in the Church are perfect, or can be, and the radical requirements set for entry into the kingdom of God by Christ of selling all one has (Matt 19:17–18, 21), alluded to by Bede, are difficult for the many to follow. The figure of the ark suggests a more hopeful and inclusive model, and Bede relates its many rooms to another Gospel passage (John 14:2; II, 1162–6): Dominus ait, In domo patris mei mansiones multae sunt. Ergo mansiunculae sunt in arca, quia non unum in Ecclesia meritum omnibus nec idem in fide profectus est. Licet omnes intra unam fidem contineantur eodemque baptismate diluantur. [The Lord said, ‘There are many rooms in my father’s house’. Therefore the small chambers are in the ark, because there is not only one merit in the Church for all, nor is the same accomplished in faith. Even so all are contained within one faith and washed by the same baptism.]

Bede’s reading is not original, but – coupled with his constant emphasis on the eschatological significance of the Flood – such an interpretation maintains a hopeful note for the many who find spiritual perfection impossible. The more elaborate reading of Gen 6:16 continues the emphasis on the inclusiveness of the ark (II, 1336–46): Sed bicameratam eam dixit ut significaret in ecclesia circumcisionem et praeputium, Iudeos et Grecos, esse saluandos. Tricameratam uero propter triplicem seminis euangelici fructum, tricenum, sexagenum, centenum, ut in infi mo habitet pudicitia coniugalis, supra uidualis, atque hac superior uirginalis. Dicit autem Origenes quod in inferioribus arca bicamerata sit facta, ut infi ma regio stercora reciperet, secunda conseruandis pabulis deputaretur; in superioribus uero tricamerata, ut in prima harum parte bestiae cubilia, in secunda mansuetiora animalia stabula, in suprema homines sedem haberent.

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The ark has room for all the world’s nations and all stations of life. Bede’s theology of salvation throughout In Genesin could generally be categorized as inclusive – while Bede is often focused on the individual soul, one of the work’s major themes is the election of the gentile nations to salvation. This idea is taken up later in another of Bede’s lengthy discussions, on Gen 6:21, where he focuses attention on God’s command to Noah that he take all he can into the ark (II, 1363–1435). Again inverting his normal practice, Bede begins with the allegorical sense before turning to the literal, and develops the allegory of the Church, which is described as being filled with a variety of spirits, the spiritual athletes as well as others, all of whom look to the rewards of heaven. In Gen 6:16 the two rooms refer to the salvation of the Jews and the Greeks, while the three rooms are interpreted in relation to another gospel passage with ecclesial and eschatological significance. The varying yields of seed planted in the field of the kingdom, which give a harvest of either thirty-, sixty- or one-hundred-fold, are interpreted by Bede as referring to the married, widowed and virginal. What is important here is not the hierarchy, but that all are saved in the ark–Church. Gen 6:16 mentions the only window to be built in the ark, which also invites lengthy discussion (II, 1232–64). Bede first points out the literal importance of the window: Noah will have to send out the birds to test the waters (II, 1233–7), and the window will also let in light (lumen caeli). This ‘light of heaven’ becomes a prism for a series of mystical interpretations. In Hebrew, instead of ‘window’ the reader finds meridianum (‘south’, ‘southern’), and the window signifies the fullness of revelation

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for the baptized faithful because the light of the sun comes from the south; in relating both images to the Church, Bede may also have ecclesiastical architecture in mind. The close relationship between the literal and spiritual explanation is seen in Bede’s discussion of the location of the window and the dimensions of the ark (II, 1240–4): Quod etiam sacramentis spiritalibus aptissime congruit, nam fenestra quae non nisi transacto diluuio inhabitatores archae splendore meridiani solis inlustravit, illam celestium arcanorum scientiam, quae baptizatis fidelibus plenius reuelatur insinuat. [So also the mysteries of the spirit most aptly come together, for instance, not only conveyed in the Flood to the inhabitants of the ark, enlightened by the splendour of the sun from the south, that heavenly knowledge of mysteries, but these are also fully revealed to the baptized faithful.]

This light is now related to, and builds on, the allegory of the internal arrangement of the ark: those who are higher up are the more spiritual and enlightened, those lower down the more carnal, while the enlightening sun allegorically enlightens the Church with the kinds of mysteries the text itself contains. Continuing on Gen 6:16, Bede discusses the meaning of the closing of the door of the ark ‘from the outside’ in terms of ecclesial allegory, with no mention here of the letter of the text (II, 1265–1313). The One God closes the door in the side of the ark, signifying the hole made in the side of the crucified Christ, from which issued blood and water, and this hole is also the entrance into the Church. The association between Christ’s body and the ark is an obvious one if the reader keeps in mind that mystically the Church is also Christ’s body. Bede, freely developing this rich series of mystical affi nities, extends this association of Christ’s crucified body, the Church and the ark, and introduces the Flood’s baptismal symbolism (II, 1273–4): per quae sacramenta singuli quique fidelium in societatem sanctae Ecclesiae tanquam in arcae interiora recipiuntur (‘through which mystery individually each one of the faithful is received into the society of the holy Church, as if into the inside of the ark’). The focus on the idea of the ‘door’ and the symbolism of entering in the ark–Church is maintained.

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Once inside the ark, Bede returns to the many rooms (mansiones) it contains, with each of the Church’s members fi nding an appropriate habitation. The notion of the ‘Father’s house’, creating a mystical link between the rooms of the ark and those described in John 14:2, is developed into an association of the ark–Church with the Temple of Solomon, a structure Bede has previously associated with the ark, and the ark’s ‘southern’ window parallels the south-facing door of the Temple.42 This complex of associations reaches its mystical climax with a reference to Christ’s promise to rebuild the Temple in three days should it be destroyed (John 2:19). The ark, like the Temple, is Christ’s crucified body, with the door in its side; it is by entering here that souls fi nd eternal rest (II, 1307, ad aeternam requiem animarum in uita futura transeamus, ‘we are brought to the eternal rest of our souls in the future life’). Bede, in an interpretative tour de force closes this passage with the mystical association between Christ and his type, Noah, fulfilling the promise of rest first offered in Noah’s name, and taking this rest into eternity through Christ’s resurrection (II, 1224–32). Flood and baptism Intimately connected with the mystical association between the ark and the Church is the theology of baptism, which for Bede, along with ecclesial allegory, is the fundamental meaning to be found in the Flood story (Gen 6:13–14; II, 1096–9): Iuxta aliam vero interpretationem aeque piam et catholicam, arca Ecclesiam, diluuium aquam baptismi, qua ipsa ecclesia in cunctis suis membris abluitur et sanctificatur significat. [Also in another way it signifies a true interpretation both pious and catholic, the ark is the Church, the Flood the water of baptism, and the same Church is washed and made holy in all its members together.]

Bede recalls that this spiritual truth is found in the New Testament (1 Pet 3:20–1), where scripture itself reads the Flood as prefiguring resurrection and baptism, and – importantly for Bede’s numerical symbolism – introduces the mystical number eight. The eighth day is significant as the day of the resurrection (1 Pet 3:20–1; II, 1099–1109):

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Petrus apostolus exponens ait: Quando expectabat Dei patientia in diebus Noe cum fabricaretur arca, in qua pauci, id est octo, animae salvae factae sunt per aquam, quod et uos nunc similis formae saluos facit baptisma, non carnis depositio sordium, sed conscientiae bonae interrogatio in Deum per resurrectionem Iesu Christi. Quod autem ait per resurrectionem Iesu Christi nos esse in baptismate saluatos, breuiter exponit quid octo animarum quae saluae factae sunt per aquam numerus mystice designet. Dies etenim dominicae resurrectionis a die quidem passionis eius tertius, sed a die primae conditionis octauus est. [Peter the apostle says by way of explanation: ‘When they waited for the patience of God in the days of Noah, when the ark was being built: wherein a few, that is, eight souls, were saved by water. Similarly baptism, being of the like form, now saves you also: not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but by the examination of a good conscience towards God through the resurrection of Jesus Christ.’ Which in addition says that we are saved in baptism by the resurrection of Jesus Christ, briefly explaining what the number of the eight souls who were saved by water mystically designates. And indeed Sunday, the day of the resurrection, is the third day from the day of the passion, but is the eighth from the first day of creation.]

The connection between Flood, baptism and resurrection is an obvious one for the Christian commentator following in the tradition of the apostle Peter, and Bede develops the theology of baptism in relation to the Flood throughout book II of In Genesin and in other works. The inclusion of the believer into the community of the Church is achieved by baptismal washing, though the washing itself is not enough (Gen 6:17–18; II, 1347–62): Ecce ego adducam diluuii aquas super terram ut interfi ciam omnem carnem, in qua spiritus uitae est subter caelum. Vniuersa quae in terra sunt consumentur. Ponamque foedus meum tecum, et ingredieris arcam, tu et filii tui, et cetera. Adductae super terram aquae diluuii omnem carnem quae extra arcam reperta est interfecerunt, Noe uero et quae in arca fuere cuncta saluata sunt. Lauans mundum aqua baptismatis quoscumque in unitate sanctae ecclesiae fideliter manentes reperit saluat; qui uero extra ecclesiam ab hereticis siue schismaticis baptisma accipiunt, nisi ad catholicam unitatem redeundo resipiscant intereunt. Item ueniente articulo nouissimi examinis, quicumque in sancta ecclesia fide et actione perseuerantes inueniuntur, in aeternum saluantur; qui ab ecclesia uel fide uel opere uel utroque separati, pereunt.

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Given Bede’s comments elsewhere on the inclusiveness of the ark–Church, his reference here to the damned is striking. Bede does not focus on the damnation of pagans or non-believers. The missionaries of the generations before Bede had done their work in leading the pagan English into the Church. While the exclusion from the community of the elect was no longer a national problem for Bede’s Northumbria, the threat of heresy lingered. Throughout Bede’s works the reader can detect his much greater anxiety about the threat to salvation presented by heresy than the threat from relapse into pagan superstition. In his many works, Bede makes mention of a number of heresies and is particularly concerned with perceived schismatic tendencies in the British church and the divisive practices of the Irish church: opposed to these is the single communion represented by the figure of the ark.43 Bede’s treatment of baptism in the commentary hovers between the mystical heights and the practicalities of writing for those engaged in pastoral care and catechesis. Where heresy is concerned, baptism itself is not a simple pledge of salvation, and nor does the inclusion in the Church which it signifies make holy all those who are washed.44 The distinctions among the baptized are explained by Bede in his comments on the variety of animals found in the ark, male and female, clean and unclean, in groups of two and of seven (Gen 6:2–3; II, 1441–68). Bede first explains the letter of the text – all this variety was necessary for the regen-

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eration of animal life, to provide a mother and father for each species and to save their seed. In a characteristic way, Bede then goes on to develop the significance of the numbers and the distinctions they imply in terms of baptism and the Church (II, 1458–68). Through their baptism, the Church contains both the pure and impure; animals brought into the ark sevenfold are the clean, enjoying the seven-fold gift of the spirit, while those included in pairs signify the duplicity of the spiritually unclean, the false Christians who participate in the sacraments of the Catholic Church. These may even desire salvation, and outwardly appear on the way to redemption, but of them James 1:8 warns: vir duplex animo inconstans in omnibus viis suis (‘A doubleminded man is constant in all his ways.’) Another episode in the Flood story replete with baptismal significance is the second journey of the dove from the ark, at the end of which it returns faithfully bearing an olive branch to Noah. Bede offers no literal reading – the sense is not difficult here – but moves directly to a spiritual interpretation (Gen 8:10– 11; II, 1817–27): Ramus enim olivae foris inuentus et ore columbae in arcam inlatus. Typum gerit eorum qui extra ecclesiam quidem baptisma percipiunt, sed pinguedine caritatis fructuosi, et pia intentione uelut foliorum sunt uiriditate integri; quorum plurimi posteriore tempore quasi ad uesperam reconciliatione spiritalium uirorum uelut ore columbae reuocantur ad ecclesiam, quod bene post septem dies ex quo foris ipsa requiem non inuenit columba fecit. [Therefore the olive branch is brought in from the outside, and led into the ark in the mouth of the dove. It carries the type of those who receive baptism outside the Church, but rich in faithful charity, and pious intention just as with leaves in their greenness they are made whole; concerning whom very much later in time, as if in the evening, with the reconciliation of spiritual men, as if by the mouth of the dove, they are called back to the Church, and likewise after seven days they do not fi nd the same rest outside, like the dove.]

Those baptized outside the Church by heretical schismatics are not without hope, and the return of the dove symbolizes the hope of their return to the Catholic Church at the end of their lives.

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The dove’s fi nal journey out again, from which it does not return, signifies those who leave the world for heaven and do not wish then to come back (Gen 8:11–12; II, 1847–66). The association of the dove with baptism is a commonplace of Christian tradition which Bede discusses fully in his homily for the Feast of the Epiphany,45 where the returning dove is also associated with the dove that appeared at Christ’s baptism (Matt 3:16). The homily focuses on the humility Jesus showed in submitting to baptism, and in turn on John’s obedience to Christ. The intended audience for Bede’s homilies overlaps with that for his Genesis commentary; while expressly written for Acca, In Genesin was no doubt used in Bede’s own community. The homilies, however, were written principally for the monks of Bede’s monastery, for whom obedience was a fundamental spiritual virtue, and the pastoral implications of a theology of baptism not as important.46 Early in the homily Bede, in what appears a simple explanation of how God might be pleased or displeased, uses a dense association of biblical ideas to relate the words heard at Christ’s baptism to the origins of the Flood: 47 Quod ait uox paterna, Hic est filius meus dilectus in quo mihi conplacui, ad conparationem terreni hominis dicit in quo peccante quodam modo sibi displicuisse Deus conditor insinuat cum ait: Paenitet me hominem fecisse in terra. [What the Father’s voice said, ‘This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased’, it said in relation to earthly man, in whom, when he was sinning, God his maker suggested that he was in some way displeased, when he said, ‘I repent that I have made man upon the earth.’]

This displeasure, shown in the Flood, is changed to pleasure in Christ, who submits to the baptism which the Flood allegorically anticipated. Bede’s homily continues, warning his listeners of the need for spiritual vigilance, drawing on images associated with the Flood story: the waters of baptism have extinguished for the faithful the fiery sword closing paradise, but they must be like the simple dove rather than have the fraudulent and deceitful heart of the false-toothed serpent. The warning against spiritual complacency recalls Bede’s explanation of the variety of animals in the ark representing the range of virtue found in the Church.

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Bede goes on to develop the symbolism of the dove in detail, drawing on the full range of the bird’s scriptural associations. These are brought together at the end of the homily: 48 Haec de natura columbae septem uirtutis exempla commemorasse sufficiat. Et recte fortasse quia spiritus sancti qui in columba descendit septiformis est gratia. Verum ex omnibus quae de eius natura moraliter interpretanda humana potest conperire solertia praestat unum quod de eius actu mystico sacra narrat historia. Cum enim dominus in figuram futuri baptismatis originalis mundi scelera diluuii aquis ablueret transacta inundatione scire uolens Noe qualiter se facies terrae haberet emisit coruum qui ad archam redire contempsit significans eos qui abluti licet unda baptismatis nigerrimum tamen ueteris habitum hominis emendatius uiuendo deponere neglegunt et ne sancti spiritus unctione renouari mereantur statim ab intima catholicae pacis et quietis unitate exteriora, id est saeculi desideria, sequendo desciscunt. Et misit post eum columdam; at illa uenit ad eum uespere portans ramum oliuae uirentibus foliis in ore suo. Animaduertitis credo, fratres, et me loquentem uestro intellectu praeuenitis ramum oliuae uirentibus foliis gratiam esse spiritus sancti uitae uerbis abundantem de cuius plentitudine super Christum requiescente psalmus ait: Vnxit te Deus, Deus tuus, oleo laetitiae prae consortibus tuis. De cuius dono consortibus Christi dato loquitur Iohannes: Vos unctionem habetis a sancto et nostis omnia. Et pulcherrima conparatione umbra ueritate concinit. Rarum oliuae columba corporalis ablutam diluuii aquis detulit in archam, spiritus sanctus in specie columbae corporalis baptizatum aqua Iordanis descendit in dominum. Nos quoque Christi et ecclesiae membra quos non solum homines qui erant in archa cum Noe sed animantia quae archa continebat et ipsa quoque ligna ex quibus eadem facta est archa figurant post acceptum undae regeneratricis lauacrum; per unctionem sacri chrismatis gratia spiritus sancti signamur quam conseruare in nobis intemeratam dignetur ipse qui dedit Iesus Christus dominus noster qui cum Deo patre omnipotente in unitate eiusdem spiritus sancti uiuit et regnat Deus per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen. [Let it suffice to say that we have recorded these seven examples of virtue concerning the nature of the dove. And perhaps this is rightly done because the grace of the Holy Spirit, who descended as a dove, is sevenfold. But of all the things human resourcefulness

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Bede alludes to many of the associations developed in the Genesis commentary: his anxiety about heresy and the need to return to the fold; the Flood as baptism and the ark as the Church; the ark as Christ’s body; the dove symbolizing the gift of the spirit given

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to the faithful. Nevertheless, in this homily Bede presumes knowledge of his fuller discussion among the audience: the link between Christ’s body and the ark in particular would seem to assume an audience familiar with the clearer explanation of this complex association found in In Genesin. For Bede the association with baptism is particularly intense at the moment of the exit from the ark (Gen 8:15–18; II, 1899– 1946). At God’s command Noah and all the crew leave the ark, an action requiring long comment replete with the mystical reading of the flood and ark (II, 1906–8): Multifarie multis modis eadem Christi Ecclesiae mysteria saepius iterata significatione repetuntur (‘Likewise, by foretelling in a number of manifold ways, the mysteries are repeated in the Church of Christ’).49 Noah, led by Christ, goes out onto the earth made clean by the waters of the Flood with people and animals, as the baptized come out of the font to do good works in public. In an interpretation which recalls Bede’s clerical audience, he links this to Christ’s command – which closes Matthew’s Gospel – to teach and baptize the nations (Matt 28:19–20; II, 1914–21): Euntes, inquit, in mundum, docete omnes gentes, baptizantes eos in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Quod est figurate dicere, ‘Cuncta animantium genera in arcam aquis diluenda inducite.’ Statimque adiunxit, Docentes eos servare omnia quaecunque mandaui uobis, quasi typice diceret, ‘Et egressa post diluuium animantia de arca ingrediantur in nouam terrae faciem, nouis uernantem floribus, ibique multiplicentur et crescant.’ [‘Go’, he said, ‘into the world, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’ Which figuratively is to say, ‘Lead into the ark together all species of living things through the washing waters.’ And at once is added, ‘Teaching them to observe all those things I have commanded you,’ as if typologically it had been said, ‘And at the departure from the ark after the Flood living things are going onto the face of the earth, renewed with flowers like in spring, and there they should multiply and grow.’]

This concern with the salvation of the nations runs throughout In Genesin, and climaxes in book IV when the promise of their salvation is given to Abraham. The books of the commentary each have their own emphases, but all conform to this governing

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theme, crucial to Bede’s theological reflection on the Christianization of the English nation and the incorporation of all stations in life into the ark–Church. In his discussion of the exit from the ark Bede notes that almost a full solar year has passed since the entry of Noah and his family into the sacred vessel (II, 1926). For Bede, a student of time and the seasons, this observation of the letter becomes the launching point for an exploration of the symbolism of the cycle of the year and its relationship to the mystical meaning of the Flood. Key to this reading is the identification of Christ as Sol Iustitiae (‘Sun of Justice’; II, 1934–46): Annum ergo totum erant in arca, id est, quousque sol, transcurso circulo signifero50 per duodecim suos menses omnes mundi plagas illustraret, ut sicut aqua orbem totum operiens diluebat, ita uelut cooperans illi sol eodem temporis spatio totum circuiens orbem luce sui fulgoris inradiaret. Quomodo autem ‘fons uitae’ Dominus sic et ‘sol iustitiae’ solet figurate uocari – ‘fons’ quia regenerat, ‘sol’ quia nos inluminat, iuxta illud psalmographi, Quoniam apud te est fons uitae, et in lumine tuo uidebimus lumen. Et anno solis integro erat Noe cum his quae saluanda erant per diluuium animantibus et hominibus in arca, quia Dominus per totum huius seculi tempus perque omnes orbis plagas Ecclesiam suam et unda lauacri salutaris abluit, et gratia sui Spiritus inlustrat. [Therefore they were a whole year in the ark, that is, how long the sun running through the zodiac and its twelve months should bring to light all the injuries of the world, just as the water covering the orb washed them away, so working together in that whole interval of time the orb should be splendidly irradiated simultaneously by the sun circling with its light. In the same manner, further, the Lord is by custom figuratively called “the fount of life” and “the sun of justice” – “the fount” because he regenerates, “the sun” because he illuminates us, as it says in the psalm: ‘Because with you is the fount of life, and in your light we shall see light’ (Ps 35:10). And for a whole solar year Noah was with those who were saved through the Flood, with animals and people in the ark, because likewise the Lord through all this age of the world washes his Church of all the world’s ills in the waves of the cleansing bath, and enlightens us with grace of his spirit.]

Using the psalm, Bede shows that the fons uitae (‘fount of life’) who washes the world clean is to be identified with the sol iusti-

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tiae (‘sun of justice’). In this way the washing of the earth through the solar cycle represents the cleansed cosmos, and even the cleansing of time itself, while the solar cycle (the number 366) mystically signifies those who all their lives faithfully obey the Lord (II, 861–5).51 The image of light also recalls and builds on his treatment of the significance of the ark’s south-facing window, illuminating those on the ark–Church’s highest deck. These two images perfectly encapsulate Bede’s spiritual understanding of the Flood as a perfect metaphor for the initiation and sanctification of the Christian faithful in the Church. The image of the solar cycle complements this symbolism, and illuminates the mystery at the heart of all biblical typology, that of time itself.

The Flood in history This temporal imagery is intimately associated with another of Bede’s great interests, and an idea that permeates his treatment of the Flood – its place in the unfolding of the great plan of history.52 This sense of historical purpose is presumed in the typological treatment of the Flood, which is also a turning point in the scheme of the six ages of the world.53 Bede, as historian and chronographer, is particularly attracted to this aspect of the Flood.54 Bede’s interest in time is wide-ranging, from scientific ways of measuring time to the mysteries of the meaning of time itself, which he understood ‘as a crux of Christian doctrine’.55 Bede refers so often in his commentary on Genesis to the idea of the ages of the world that it may be considered as one of the work’s underlying unifying structural principles.56 This is particularly evident in the earlier hexameral part where Bede – in a specially marked section – summarizes the mystical relationship between each of the six days of creation and its corresponding age of the world. The creation of the waters is naturally associated with the age of the Flood (Gen 1:6, 7:11; I, 1114–18):57 Secundo die factum firmamentum in medio aquarum; et secunda aetate seculi arca, in qua reliquiae generis humani et semen, ut ita dixerim, sequentium seruabatur aetatum, posita est in medio aquarum quas certatim hinc rupti fontes omnes abyssi, inde apertae caeli cataractae fundebant.

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The previous evening had ended with God promising the destruction of the sinful world, except for the meritorious in the ark (I, 1110–13). As O’Brien O’Keeffe has noted, this passage on the ages represents a suspension ‘of the orderly sequence of commentary’58 and also suggests both a unity of purpose in Bede’s work, despite the number of years he took to complete it, and his sense of the all-embracing harmony of the sacred text. Bede presents the precise moment of the exit from the ark as the beginning of the second age, noting the verbal echoes in the biblical passage which connect the beginning of the second age with the beginning of the first, at both the literal and the mystical level (II, 2083–5); he also notes the more auspicious character of the world’s second start (Gen 9:1–3; II, 2084–5). The mystery of days and their relationship to the ages of the world is also touched on by Bede in his discussion of Noah’s completion of the ark. In a long passage on the allegorically charged event of the closing of the ark, Bede dwells on the relationship between different ways of imagining the division of history into ages, and a series of symbolic numbers focused on the date the Flood began – the seventeenth day of the second month (Gen 7:16–17; II, 1544–1608). In an extended passage the first of the mystical numbers he notes is eight, a number which signifies the day of the Lord’s resurrection, the first day of the new dispensation. When the ark is closed ‘from the outside’, eight days have passed since the construction of the vessel had been completed and all was perfected. But before Bede treats the importance of this number, he turns to the number of the month (II, 1547–8): Ex quo constat quod arca in magno mysterio eiusdem secundi mensis decimo die facta est (‘Which by a great mystery the ark agrees with the same [number] of the tenth day of the second month on which it was made’). The two months represent the peoples of the Old and New Testaments, and in a fundamental division these are two ages of the world. Across these there are many mystical parallels:

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the first is the age of the Decalogue, the other of the seven-fold grace of the Holy Spirit; these are represented in the first ten days of the month added to the next seven, giving seventeen, the day of the second month in which the Flood lifted up the perfect ark (II, 1562–8). These waters themselves are full of the symbolism of these two ages: the sources of the waters, abyssi magnae (‘of the great abyss’, II, 1778) designate the Old Testament, while the cataractae caeli, the windows of heaven, are the effusion of the Gospels and apostolic preaching (II, 1583). This image of the waters as the word of salvation is joined seamlessly to the symbolism of the waters of baptism which accompany the conversion to the word of God. These images also fuse with the ubiquitous theme of spiritual rest and the image of the ark as the Church (II, 1571–6): Possumus et ita recte intelligere quod arca septimo decimo die mensis et non ante diluuio perfusa sit, quia singulos quosque fidelium primo in fide percipiendae uerae quietis et denarii celestis, id est imaginis regis aeterni, catherizari oportet, et sic in societatem ecclesiae per lauacrum regenerationis intromitti. [We can rightly understand that the ark should be wet on the seventeenth day of the month and not before the Flood, because each and every one of the faithful first possessing in faith the true rest and the heavenly denarius, that is the image of the eternal king, is fit to be instructed, and so afterwards is introduced into the society of the Church by the bath of regeneration.]

Bede’s imagery is dense. The neophyte Christian receives faith before baptism, as the law was received before grace, but with faith comes true rest. Denarius (‘a tenth’) can mean either ‘the Decalogue’ or simply a coin, but Bede uses both meanings; the Law was received before grace, and the new Christian receives the reward of faith, a coin bearing the image of Christ the king. These gifts come before the baptismal washing. Nor is the eschatological significance of the number eight ever far from Bede’s mind in his treatment of the ark, and reflection on the eighth age is linked to his reflections on the coming judgment. Bede’s comment shortly after returns the reader to the symbolism of the number eight, anticipating the eternal rest of the age of the resurrection (Gen 7:20; II, 1652–64):59

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Water and fire Quindecim cubitis altior fuit aqua super montes quos operuerat. Septem quippe et octo quindecim faciunt. Septem autem ad requiem animarum quae post mortem futura est pertinent, quia nimirum Dominus septima Sabbati in sepulcro quieuit; quia uero post sabbatum, id est octaua die, resurrexit a mortuis, octo rectissime tempus nostrae resurrectionis insinuant. [‘The water was fi fteen cubits higher than the mountains which it covered.’ Seven plus eight makes fi fteen. The seven then pertains to the future rest of souls after death, because without doubt the Lord rested in the tomb on the seventh day, the Sabbath; because truly after the Sabbath, that is the eighth day, he rose from the dead, the number eight most plainly refers to our time of the resurrection.’]

In this complex of tightly bound scriptural passages and images, among which Bede moves with deceptive ease, the meanings which the ark and Flood suggest for the end of time lead into reflection on the closing of the door of the ark as an anticipation of the fi nal moment of history (Gen 7:16, Matt 25:10; II, 1595–1601): Sed et in die iudicii Dominus Noe cum habitatoribus arcae deforis includit, cum electis suis secum in domo patris sui collocatis, ianuam regni a perditorum ingressu, tametsi sero penitentium, in perpetuum praestruit, iuxta illam in Euangelio parabolam decem uirginum, ubi dicitur quia quae paratae erant intrauerunt cum eo ad nuptias, et clausa est ianua, et cetera. [Not only in the day of judgment does ‘the Lord close’ Noah ‘in from outside’ with the inhabitants of the ark, but also his elect are placed with him in his Father’s house, the entrance through the door of the kingdom closed to those who are lost, notwithstanding late penitence, prepared in perpetuity; the gospel parable of the ten virgins explains concerning this is, where it is said also ‘and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding, and the door was closed,’ and so on.]

Bede brings together a series of analogies with the ark which he has been developing up to this point: the Church–ark is the many-roomed house of the father, a house we have been told is built on solid foundations. But now the door to this house has become the gate of the kingdom, and in an allusion to the parable of the wise and foolish virgins (Matt 25:10–12), this is also the

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house in which the eschatological wedding banquet will be celebrated, excluding those shut outside. The importance of the eschatological banquet as an image of the consummating fi nal moment of world history underlies another of Bede’s treatments of the six ages theme, which also includes a full discussion of the meaning of the Flood. In his homily for after Epiphany, on the wedding feast at Cana (John 2:1–11), Bede opens with an attack on the heretics ‘Tatian, Marcion, and the rest who disparage marriage’ (Tatiani et Marciani ceterorumque qui nuptiis detrahunt perfidia quam sit damnabilis insinuat).60 The defence of the institution is implicit, Bede notes, in Christ’s attendance at the wedding, but as Bede goes on ‘there is a more profound gladness in the heavenly figural meanings’ (sed altior est caelestium laetitia figurarum).61 One image which Bede develops is that of Christ as the bridegroom, promised across the ages of the world: 62 Quia nimirum incarnatio nostri saluatoris ex quo patribus coepit promitti multis sanctorum est lacrimus et luctu semper expectata donec ueniret. Similiter ex quo post resurrectionem ascendit in caelum omnis sanctorum spes ad eius pendet reditum. . . . Sponsus ergo Christus sponsa eius est ecclesia fi lli sponsi uel nuptiarum singuli quique fidelium eius sunt. [From the time when the incarnation was first promised to the patriarchs, it was always awaited by many of the saints with tears and mourning till he came.63 Similarly, from that time when, after his resurrection, he ascended to heaven, all the hope of the saints hangs on his return. . . . Therefore the bridegroom is Christ, the bride is the Church, and ‘the friends of the bridegroom’ [Matt 9:15; Luke 5:34] or ‘of the marriage’ [Mark 2:19] are each and every one of his faithful.]

Bede first explains this time of waiting according to the scheme of the three ages (the patriarchs, the law and the gospel): the feast takes place three days after the events previously described in John’s gospel, and so this marriage is identified with the last of the three, in which Christ came to marry himself to the Church.64 Bede then turns to the more popular division of world history into six ages to explain the mystical meaning of the six stone hydrias, in which water is changed to wine at Christ’s command. Water takes on a special significance in this miracle: 65

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Water and fire Aqua autem scripturae sacrae scientiam designat quae suos auditores et a peccatorum sorde abluere et diuinae cognitionis solet fonte potare; uasa sex quibus continebatur corda sunt deuota sanctorum quorum perfectio uitae et fidei exemplum recte credendi ac uiuendi proposita est generi humano per sex saeculi labentis aetates, id est usque ad tempus dominicae praedicationis. [Water represents knowledge of sacred scripture, which both cleanses its hearers from the stain of sins, and gives [them] drink from the font of divine cognition. The six vessels in which it was contained are the devout hearts of the holy, whose perfection of life and faith was set before the human race as an example of believing and living properly through the six ages of the transitory world, up to the time of the Lord’s preaching.]

It should not be forgotten that Bede is speaking here to his own monastic community, and others educated in a deeper understanding of the scriptures. This short comment, and the summary of scriptural history which follows it, provides a summary of Bede’s own understanding of the mystical purpose of his biblical commentaries which aid this ‘divine cognition’. In the case of the second age the imagery of water is most appropriate: 66 Secunda aetate saeculi inchoante deletus est aquis diluuii mundus ob peccatorum magnitudinem, sed solus Noe est propter iustitiam cum domo sua liberatus in archa. Huius plagae audita uastatione horribili paucorumque liberatione mirabili quisquis emendatius uiuere coeperit liberari desiderans cum electis timens exterminari cum reprobis hydriam profecto aquae qua mundaretur uel reficeretur accepit. At uero dum altius aspicere coeperit et in archa ecclesiam in Noe Christum in aqua diluente peccatores aquam baptismi quae peccas diluit in omnibus uel animalibus quae archa continebat multifariam baptizatorum differentiam in columba quae post diluuium ramum oliuae intulit in archam unctionem spiritus sancti quo baptizati inbuuntur intellexerit uinum profecto de aqua factum miratur quia in ueteris historia facti suam ablutionem sanctificationem iustificationem prophetari contemplatur. [As the second age of the world began, the world was destroyed by the waters of the Flood because of the great number of sinners, and only Noah, together with his household, was delivered in the ark on account of his righteousness. If upon hearing of the horrible

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devastation of this disaster, and the marvellous deliverance of a few, one begins to live more faultlessly, desiring to be delivered with the elect and fearing to be exterminated with the condemned, one unquestionably has received a hydria full of water by which one may be cleansed and refreshed. But one may begin to see at a more profound level, and come to an understanding of the ark as the Church; of Noah as Christ; of the water which washed away sinners as the water of baptism, which washes away our sins; of all the animals which the ark contained as the multifarious differences among the baptized; of the dove which brought the olive branch to the ark after the Flood as the anointing of the Holy Spirit, with which the baptized are imbued. [One who has this deeper understanding] unquestionably marvels at wine made from water, for in the history of ancient deeds he contemplates his own cleansing, sanctification, and justification being foretold.]

The waiters who fill these vessels are the prophets and holy men of each age, who fill them to the top, and Bede’s listeners are guests at the wedding of Christ and Church.67 In contemplating this great event of sacred history Bede follows a familiar interpretative pattern. The letter informs us of the rescue of Noah and his family, and from this easily emerges a simple moral lesson for those who wish to be delivered among the elect, who in response will live more faultlessly. But – as Bede points out briefly in the homily, and at length in In Genesin – more profound meanings can be found, tying the mysteries of the Church to the prophetic ancient events in a mystical relationship between the world’s past and the individual’s present. This contemplation of past and present in the context of the wedding feast of Christ and the Church places the contemplation of the ages in its proper eschatological context, looking forward to the fi nal consummation of history. This apocalyptic perspective is not only the key to understanding Bede’s homily on Cana, but also his whole treatment of the Flood. Flood and apocalypse A sense of eschatological urgency is found at the very beginning of Bede’s mystical reflections on the Flood in his discussion in In Genesin of Gen 6:13–14. One of the first aspects of the deluge which Bede discusses is the significance for his readers of the sudden arrival at the end of the first age: the last age will end just

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as suddenly. However, such an interpretation is strikingly at odds with the letter of the text, which indicates the building of the ark took one hundred years. Bede does not present this as a period in which Noah warned his contemporaries, as other commentators did, but even so the advent of the Flood was hardly sudden. But Bede is not interested in the letter of the text here – his focus is on the eschatological meaning of the Flood, and it is Christ, in his warning to his own generation, who authoritatively interprets the Flood as arriving suddenly (Luke 17:26–7; II, 1061–9): Sicut Dominus ipse ostendit, per inundationem diluuii repentinam improvisa nouissimi examinis hora designatur: Et sicut factum est, inquit, in diebus Noe, ita erit et in die filii hominis. Edebant et bibebant, uxores ducebant et dabantur ad nuptias, usque in diem qua intrauit Noe in arcam. Et uenit diluuium et perdidit omnes. Fabricatio enim arcae quae per centum annos agebatur, uniuersum tempus significat huius seculi quo et ecclesia sancta construitur, atque ad fi nem perfectum deducitur. [Just as the Lord himself promises, by the sudden unforeseen inundation of the Flood is designated the hour of the last judgment: ‘And as it came to pass’ he says ‘in the days of Noah, so shall it also be in the day of the Son of Man. They ate and they drank, they married their wives and wives were given in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark and the Flood came and destroyed them all.’ The building of the ark which was carried out for one hundred years therefore signifies the entire interval of this age in which the holy Church is constructed, and which will be carried out to its perfect end.]

The recollection of the Flood in Matthew 24:38 presents from the Saviour’s own mouth its eschatological meaning for those living in this last age of the world.68 Bede does not ignore the one hundred years, only their literal meaning: one hundred is a full number (ten tens) which links the building of the ark to the building of the Church in the sixth age; the Church is ten squared, indicating its four-square perfection (II, 1067–79). Bede suggests there is no doubt about the perfection of the numbers which fill the divine words (nulli enim dubium; II, 1069–70) and makes much here, as he does elsewhere, of the significance of changing

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hands when counting to one hundred in the method of fi nger reckoning.69 One hundred is the number which in finger reckoning requires the transfer from the left to the right hand, signifying both the change from this life to the next, and the Last Judgment when those on the right hand of God are counted among the elect.70 From the outset Bede establishes a clear link between the opposing fates of those inside and outside the ark, and the whole of humanity at the end of time, with the eschatological emphasis again giving priority to the figure over the letter (II, 1074–81): Sicut autem, facta arca et inlatis in eam omnibus quae erant saluanda, uenit diluuium et tulit omnia quae extra eam erant, sic ubi omnes qui praeordinati sunt ad uitam aeternam ecclesiam intrauerint ueniet fi nis mundi, et peribunt omnes qui extra ecclesiam fuerint inuenti. Et juxta hunc sensum manifeste arca ecclesiam, Noe Dominum qui ecclesiam in sanctis suis aedificat, diluuium fi nem seculi uel iudicium designat extremum. [Just so also, with the ark made and all who were saved led into it, the Flood came and destroyed all who were outside it, so also when all who are predestined to the life eternal should have entered the Church when the end of the world comes, and all will perish who are found outside the Church. And according to this sense the ark is manifestly the Church, Noah the Lord who builds the Church in his saints, while the Flood designates the end of the world or the Last Judgment.]

The idea of election here and elsewhere is a very broad one, though it is more finely tuned later in the commentary; Jones has suggested that for Bede ‘any soul belonging to a race or gens which God has chosen and who is baptized is electus.’71 Discussion of who will be numbered among the elect (omnes qui praeordinati sunt), becomes increasingly important in In Genesin, especially in book IV, culminating in the election of the true sons of Abraham, the gentile nations, though Bede fi nds room for Jew as well as Greek in the ark. For Bede there is no limitation imposed on the number of the elect; only those outside the Church are damned. Bede seldom touches on who is to be counted as being outside the Church, but – as has been seen – his emphasis when he does is on those who ought to be in the Church, but

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have separated themselves through heresy.72 Bede’s focus is practical and pastoral, and the implication is that he perceives schism as a greater threat to the Northumbrian church than apostasy. This eschatological perspective also forms an important part of the background to the Flood in In Genesin (Gen 4:18–20; II, 495–519). The Flood is interpreted as a judgment on the generation of Cain and his offspring to the seventh generation, which in Bede’s numerical imagination leads into an association with the ages of the world (II, 498–518): Progenies Cain usque ad septimum generationem computatur, et in hac ipse a Lamech occisus, septem uindictis quas diutissime miser gestabat, absolutus est. In hac tota quae de illo nata erat soboles (postquam ad augmentum maledictionis etiam adulterio Lamech polluta est) ingruente diluuio periit. In sexta quidem generatione adulterio foedata, in septima uero diluuio deleta. In quo spiritaliter insinuatur quod impiorum ciuitas, id est societas tota reproborum, in sex huius saeculi aetatibus se corruptura sceleribus, in septima autem, quae est in futuro, in aeternum sit peritura. Sicut enim septimus ab Adam Enoch raptus est in paradisum, et non uidit eum homo quia uiuit in pace cum Deo, ita septimus a Cain Iabel, qui interpretatur ‘mutatus’, cum suis fratribus et uniuersa progenie deletus est diluuio. Et non uidit eum homo quia, aeterna morte mulctatus et ab ea quam dilexerat gloria seculi, illam quam non praeuidebat est mutatus in poenam. In quibus aperte designatur, ut diximus, quod sancti post huius seculi sex aetates ad requiem in alia uita, et reprobi tendant ad supplicium, ut etiam, narrante Domino, Lazari pauperis et diuitis superbi manifeste probat historia. [The progeny of Cain is counted to the seventh generation, and in the same generation he was struck down by Lamech – in the seventh is brought to an end by revenge what a very long time before the wretch had given birth to. For this, all who from that one were born of that stock (which later, making the curse worse, was polluted by the adultery of Lamech) perished in the cruel Flood: in the sixth generation certainly polluted by adultery, in the seventh truly annihilated by the Flood. In which is spiritually discerned that the city of the impious, that is the society of all reprobates, in the six ages of this world corrupted itself among the wicked, in the seventh, however, which is in the future, it will be destroyed in eternity. Indeed, just as Enoch, the seventh from Adam, was seized up into paradise, and man does not see him

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because he lives in peace with God, so Iabel the seventh from Cain, who is interpreted ‘removed’, was wiped out with his brothers, and the whole lineage of Cain, by the Flood. And man does not see him because in eternal death is the penalty for the one who has delighted in the glory of the world, that one who did not foresee is removed to punishment. By which things is clearly designated, as we say, that after the six ages of the world the saints go to rest in another life, and the reprobate stretched out in punishment, as the Lord explains concerning the beggar Lazarus and the proud rich man, and manifestly proves in that story.]

The elect living among Cain’s descendants had nothing to do with their sin, as the elect now await the Judgment with faith, rejecting sin and living as pilgrims in this world (II, 540–8). Bede traces the occupations of this sinful generation, reflecting his own bias towards the virtue of the agrarian life over the vice and industry of cities (II, 532–62).73 He does not condemn the arts invented in the age before the Flood, only the evil use of them: music, for example, can be employed to praise the Lord, the use of metal is not evil, but what is done with it can be (II, 553–8). Just as these evil works were wiped out by the Flood, so those who use the creative arts sinfully in this sixth age of the world will be swept away on the Day of Judgment (II, 558–62). This wicked generation serves as a warning to all future generations about how they use their skills (Matt 24:38–9; II, 562–9): Sed cauendum solertius ne nos huiusmodi rebus ultra modum irretitos ultimus dies inueniat, cum etiam Dominus de die iudicii loquens commemorato hoc tempore, ad cautelae nos studium incitet, dicens: Sicut enim erant in diebus ante diluuium comedentes et bibentes, nubentes et nuptum tradentes usque ad eum diem quo intrauit Noe in arcam, et non cognouerunt donec uenit diluuium et tulit omnes. Ita erit et aduentus Filii Homini. [Yet taking care of the skill lest with this sort of thing we ourselves are found further ensnared at the last day, as also the Lord spoke of the Day of Judgment, mindful of that time, as a warning encouraged us zealously, saying, ‘For as in the days before the Flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, even till that day on which Noah entered the ark, and they did not know till the Flood came and took them all away. So shall the coming of the Son of Man be.’]

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This Gospel passage, Matt 24:38, which reappears as one of Bede’s favourites, is crucial to understanding the Lord’s own teaching on biblical typology, and also the fundamental eschatological meaning of the Flood. Bede had alluded to this same verse many years before, in his commentary on the Apocalypse, in a way which clearly assumes his audience fully understands the connection to the future Judgment: Jaspidus color aquam, sardis ignem significant, quibus duobus iudicium nouimus celebrari. Sicut enim, inquit, in diebus Noe ita erit et aduentus Filii Hominis. [The colour of the jasper signifies water, of the sard fire, and we know that the Last Judgment is represented by these two. ‘For, As it was’, He says, ‘in the days of Noah, so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be.’] 74

In In Genesin Bede develops in detail the commonplace medieval association of the Flood of water of Noah’s day with the fi re which will come at the end of time.75 It is noteworthy that, in his earliest scriptural commentary, Bede is confident his audience will understand the association of the judgments of water and fi re in his otherwise cryptic comment on the colour of jasper and sard. Bede makes no other comment than this, stating that this connection is shared knowledge (‘we know’), suggesting the link was already a commonplace in the young Northumbrian church. Such an assumption is perhaps not surprising, and it is more than likely that an explanation of the origins of this world was a part of missionary preaching, an account which would have included not only the creation, but the coming Judgment. Given the purpose of missionary preaching – saving souls – it is certain that the neophyte Anglo-Saxons were introduced early to the idea of a future judgment, at which those who had not accepted the Christian faith and baptism would be damned and destroyed like the sinful generation of Noah’s day (II, 574–8). In Bede’s later works, ideas on this Flood of fire are further developed, incorporating Bede’s scientific, as well as his theological, learning. This complex of learning is evident in one of a number of long passages on the Flood in Bede’s commentary De tabernaculo:76

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Circuli quia neque initium habere neque fi nem uidentur non numquam in scriptura sacra pro aeternitate poni solent. Et apte uelum quo caelum figuratur per circulos suspensum esse perhibetur uel quia in aeterno erat consilio diuinitatis quando mundus crearetur in quo primium atque eximium locum habet natura caelestis uel quia ita factum est firmamentum caeli ut numquam eius factura soluatur. Nam quod dominus ait, Caelum et terra transibunt, de caelo est aerio accipiendum de quo Heiremias, Miluus, inquit, in caelo cognouit tempus suum. Illud namque caelum in iudicio igne periturum est quod in diluuio constat aquis esse perditum Petro attestante qui ait: Caeli erant prius et terra de aqua et per aquam consistens uerbo Dei per quae ille tunc mundus aqua inundatus periit, caeli autem qui nunc sunt eodem uerbo repositi sunt igni seruati in diem iudicii. [In Holy Scripture it is often customary to use rings to express eternity, because they appear to have neither beginning nor end. And aptly is the curtain by which heaven is figured said to have been hung up with rings, either because it was in the eternal counsel of the Divinity at the creation of the world, in which the nature of heaven has the first and most distinguished place, or else because the firmament of heaven was made in such a way that its fashioning could never be undone. For when the Lord says, ‘Heaven and earth shall pass away’ [Matt. 24:35], this is to be understood as referring to that atmospheric heaven concerning which Jeremiah says, ‘The kite in heaven has known its time’ [Jer 8:7]. For that heaven which is to perish by fire at the [Last] Judgment is that which is known to have been destroyed by the waters of the Flood, as Peter bears witness when he says: ‘By the word of God heavens existed in former times, and the earth was formed out of water and by means of water, through which the world of that time was deluged with water and perished, but by the same word the heavens which now exist have been reserved for fire, being kept until the Day of Judgment’ [2 Pet 3:5–7].]

The reference to the Gospel passage which overtly links the future fire to the ancient Flood exemplifies Bede’s belief in the perfect harmony of scripture, one which includes all aspects of the text’s letter and spirit. Bede’s comments on this apocalyptic fire certainly reveal a scientific interest in cosmology, but the emphasis here is on eschatology. In his discussion of Gen 8:22, Bede uses his observation that the earth has been through a full revolution of the heavens during the Flood, and looks forward to

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the time when these also will partly be destroyed when the world is consumed by fire (2 Pet 3:5–7; II, 2064–75): Nec tamen defuturum tempus quando, cessante hac labentium rerum uicissitudine quae annuatim geritur, orbis uniuersus cum animantibus sit igne periturus. Petro adtestante . . . Vbi notandum quia ‘caelos’ quos uel aqua perditos uel igni perituros dicit, non alios quam turbulentum hunc aerem qui terrae proximus est accipere debemus, a quo ‘uolucres caeli’ quod in eo uolitent, cognominantur. Non enim aetherei aut siderei caeli igne consumendi sunt, sicut nec aqua consumpti sunt. [Not yet the future time when the ceasing of these waves of annually changing things is accomplished, when the orb together with living things shall be destroyed by fire. To this Peter attests [2 Pet 3:5–7] . . . Where it mentions that the ‘heavens’ are either lost in water or destroyed by fire, we should understand them as no other than this windy air that is next to the earth, from which the ‘birds of heaven’ which fly in it are named. And indeed neither the ether nor the stars of heaven are to be consumed by fire, just as they were not consumed by water.’]

Bede’s scientific discussion in both the later commentaries draws on the purely scientific discussion of the same 2 Pet 3:5–7 presented in his much earlier commentary on the seven Catholic epistles, where the question of how far the future fire would reach into the spheres had been discussed without the mention of any spiritual significance.77 In one striking passage Bede comments on Gen 9:8–11, which describes the making of the covenant between God and Noah (II, 2202–29). After Noah has offered his sacrifice, and God has given him the commandments of this first covenant, Noah is promised that God will never again send a Flood to destroy the world. Bede, in keeping with patristic tradition, warns that this promise means only that no flood of water will be sent, and that in fact at the end of time the world can expect an all-consuming flood of fire (II, 2207–8). The warning is clear, but Bede explores more complex issues concerning the fiery demise of the world. He warns his readers against succumbing to a heresy which very few of them can have been exposed to (II, 2208–11): Crebraque repetitione redarguitur ac damnatur haeresis Origenis, qui reuolutiones seculorum infi nitorum eodem ordine semper currentium, dogmatizare praesumpsit.

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[And frequently and repeatedly the heresy of Origen is refuted and damned, who presumed to teach authoritatively that the same revolution of infi nite ages is always running in succession.]

The heresy is mentioned, as a heresy, by both Jerome and Augustine, but it is unlikely that Origen’s doctrine of the perpetual regeneration of the universe in a revolution of ages had reached Bede’s Northumbria.78 This is not a heresy like Pelagianism, of which Bede routinely suspects its well-spring, the British church; certainly his own detailed articulation of an Augustinian doctrine of grace reflects a genuine anxiety over the spread of Pelagius’s pernicious teaching.79 But, while it is unlikely that the heresy of regeneration was spreading under Origen’s name, it is quite possible that many of those among whom Bede’s readers were engaging in pastoral care and preaching continued to adhere to a primitive Germanic cosmology – which can be glimpsed through Old Norse mythology – in which the cosmos was destroyed and regenerated in a fiery conflagration. The pagan Germanic belief in the eternity of the material universe is also referred to by Daniel of Winchester (Quodsi sine initio semper extitisse mundum contenderint, ‘But if they argue that the world always existed without a beginning’), who advises Boniface to use documents and arguments to counter this assertion in the mission field.80 Daniel’s carefully articulated strategy implies experience in using this line of argument, and his letter written in the mid-720s is contemporary with Bede’s commentary on Genesis; both documents suggest the ongoing need to counter an inherited pagan cosmology in the post-conversion period. While it is difficult to determine with certainty the extent of the influence of Christian cosmology on Old Norse traditions of the world’s end before these themselves came to be committed to writing, other evidence strongly suggests that pre-Christian Germanic peoples shared certain apocalyptic beliefs. In the Völuspá’s account of the doom of the gods, and Snorri’s Ragnarok, the great winter is to be followed by various cataclysmic events, when the serpent will leave the sea, causing the earth to be overwhelmed by water, after which the giants will battle the gods, destroying themselves and the monsters, before Surt destroys earth and heaven with fire.81 At the close of the

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Völuspá a new earth should rise from the sea, and the sons of the gods recall the past as in a dream. While the destruction by water and fire might invite the suspicion of Christian influence, such motifs seem more likely to have been a part of a common mythology shared across northern Europe. In the Germanic tradition the world’s fiery destruction seems to have been associated with the enigmatic figure of Mudspell, while Strabo reports that the Druids taught that one day fire and water would prevail on the earth. Such inherited beliefs may well have made easier the work of Christian missionaries preaching the coming end, but only if this shared expectation could be detached from the pagan belief in the ongoing regeneration of the world, and installed as the prelude to a fi nal Judgment. Such a background gives added meaning to Bede’s emphatic assertion that scripture’s promised fi nal conflagration will be just that – fi nal.82 Bede returns in a different way to the association of fire and water towards the end of his comments on Gen 9:8–11. Baptism lifts the ancient curse and confers the blessing of eternal life, and in this way the sacramental waters have the same purging effect as those of the Flood. This ancient purgation prefigures the cleansing flood of fire, and those who rejoice in their eternal redemption will sing in heaven (Ps 65:12; II, 2117–18): Transiuimus per ignem et aquam, et induxisti nos in refrigerium (‘We have passed through fire and water, and you have brought us into refreshment’). Bede also returns to the dual imagery of fire and water in his comments on the rainbow (Gen 9:12–15), which immediately follows his discussion of the covenant (II, 2230–69). The rainbow is the sign set in the heavens as the reminder of the covenant between God and Noah, as a promise that the flesh of the world will not be destroyed again by water. Bede opens his comment with an exclamation (II, 2235–6): Arcus in caelo usque hodie quoties uidetur! (‘In heaven the rainbow is seen so often even until today!’). Bede’s sense of wonder that the sign of the covenant is seen to the present day carries the implication that the covenant itself is also in force – indeed, God will send no other flood – but this sign itself also contains the promise of an apocalyptic flood of fire (II, 2236–40):

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Signum nobis diuini foederis quod non sit ultra terra diluuio perdenda in memoriam reducit; sed et futuri iudicii quod per ignem est mundo futurum, si bene consideretur, signum nobis ante oculos praetendit. Neque enim frustra ceruleo simul et rubicundo colore resplendet, nisi quia ceruleo colore aquarum quae praeterierunt, rubicundo flammarum quae uenturae sunt nobis testimonium perhibet. [The divine covenant, by which no fl ood should again cover and destroy the earth, is recalled to memory; but also we recall the future judgment for the world which is in the future fi re, and so that it be well contemplated a sign was placed before our eyes. And not vainly does it shine with the colour blue at the same time as red, because blue is the colour of fl owing water, red of the future fl ames, which are placed as a testimony for us.]

Both the sense of wonder conveyed by Bede and his interpretation of the ongoing significance of the rainbow reveal the teacher at work. Each time the Christian sees the rainbow in the natural world, both God’s mercy and the need for repentance are called to mind. This complex of associations apparently converges in the unusual Old English inscription surviving over the south porticus at St Mary’s Church, Breamore, in Hampshire: ‘HER SWUTELAÐ SEO GECWYDRÆDNES ÐE’ (‘Here the covenant is made manifest to you’). Gameson’s suggestion that the positioning of this inscription over an arch might have been designed to remind a viewer of the arcus revealed to Noah is very plausible, and a southfacing door itself had strong symbolic associations with Noah’s ark, as indeed did the nave (navus) of any church entered through such a door.83 The rainbow is simultaneously symbolic of the baptism which the Flood represents, the means of entry into the community of the saved, as well as the sign of God’s mercy in the fi rst covenant with the whole human race, and the future Judgment when the same baptism promises the hope of salvation. For Bede the connection between salvation in the ark and the promise of salvation in the rainbow also recalls the imagery of the light of Christ, running through Bede’s discussion of the Flood (Ps 35:6; II, 2243–9):

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Water and fire Apte autem arcus celestis, quem irin uocant, in signum diuinae propitiationis ponitur. Arcus quippe ille resplendere solet in nubibus et radiis solis quo roscida inlustratur obscuritas, grata quodammodo confessione respondere. Sol ergo justitiae Christus est, nubes ab illo inlustratae sancti, quorum nomina scripta sunt in caelo, et de quibus psalmista, Domine, in caelo misericordia tua, et ueritas tua usque ad nubes. [It is fitting that the celestial rainbow, which they call irin, is placed as a sign of divine favour. To be sure it is the custom of the rainbow to shine in the clouds, and the darkness is enlightened by dewy beams of the sun, and to respond thankfully in certain acknowledgement. The sun of justice, therefore, is Christ, the clouds enlightened by him are the saints, whose names are written in heaven, and of whom the psalmist says, ‘Lord, your mercy is in heaven, and your truth reaches even to the clouds.’]

Christ is the sun of justice (sol iustitiae), the arcus is the promise to the faithful who meditate on the heavens, and a symbol of the prayers of the saints, just as the ark symbolizes their heavenly fellowship. Bede does not discuss the terms of the covenant in detail here, other than to say God will remember it, and the human race is constantly invited to remember it too. Noah and Christ Bede, in keeping with the tradition of patristic interpretation, understood Noah as prefiguring Christ: Noah’s perfection is not that of the angels, but he is as perfect as is possible in this pilgrim life (II, 1034–49). The typological association focused in particular on the meaning of Noah’s name, suggested by Lamech’s prophecy at Noah’s birth (Gen 5:25–9; II, 884–919). This prophetic utterance is first of all to be understood in its immediate context (II, 889–92): Prouidit Lamech spiritu prophetico qualis suus filius, quantae uirtutis esset futurus, quodque in diebus eius impiorum natio exterminanda, et per ipsum esset transacto diluuio generatio restauranda fidelium. [Lamech foresees by a prophetic spirit a certain quality in his son, how much future virtue there is to be, and that in his days the race of the impious race will be exterminated, and through the same act the Flood should be passed over and the generation of the faithful restored.]

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The prophecy – of the consolation to be brought by Noah – is interpreted literally by Bede, as Noah’s preservation and restoration of the human race comes through his faith, echoing the treatment of the Flood in Hebrews 11:7. This faith becomes a key element in Bede’s discussion, which first explains the letter of the text: the consolation will be for Noah and those with him, saved when the Flood destroys the world. Bede, however, is rarely satisfied with the historical sense, and the promise of consolation in Noah is immediately interpreted within the eschatological framework that the Flood story suggests (II, 899–902): Nam et hoc tempore consolatio bonorum est, cum uiderint crebrescentibus mundi ruinis adpropinquare diem iudicii, in quo, consumpta uniuersitate prauorum, ipsi cum Domino noua futuri seculi regna possideant. [For that time is the consolation of the good, when those of the world crowded together should have seen the ruin, the coming day of judgment, in which the wicked will be consumed altogether, and the good will possess the kingdom with the Lord in a new future age.]

Just as the ruin of the world in Noah’s age anticipates the fi nal destruction of the world before the Judgment, so he promises the consolation of the new age in the kingdom of God. However, the Vulgate’s etymological play on Noah as ‘consolation’ was not the only available tradition, as Bede points out to his readers in a piece of textual criticism which incorporates allegorical reading (II, 902–11): Pro eo autem quod nostra editio habet ‘consolabitur’, antiqui interpretes dixerunt, Iste requiescere nos faciet ab operibus nostris, quod nomine Noe magis conuenire uidetur. Noe quippe ‘requies’ interpretatur. In quo iuxta litteram illud potest intellegi quod temporibus eius omnia retro opera hominum quieuerint per diluuium; iuxta sensum uero spiritalem, eadem est requies quae et consolatio sanctorum intueri uidelicet adpropinquante mundi termino et interitum impiorum et suorum adesse tempus praemiorum. [However where our edition has ‘will be given consolation’, ancient interpreters said, ‘He will give us rest from our works’, which is more often come across for the meaning of the name ‘Noah’. ‘Noah’ to be sure is interpreted as ‘rest’. Furthermore, then, according to the letter here it is possible to understand that at his time all the

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Water and fire past works of men were laid to rest by the Flood; according truly to the spiritual sense, the same rest and consolation of the saints is to be contemplated clearly, as the end of the world approaches with the destruction of the impious and their works, and the time of rewards comes.]

Bede’s interest in textual variants is greater when they suggest enhanced mystical meanings; he is not an editor and tends not to point variants out for their own sake. Noah is literally ‘rest’ because he quieted the previous sinful works of the human race in the Flood; and in the spiritual sense Noah, the tenth generation from Adam, mystically completes the Law (which the number ten symbolizes) and promises the prize of eternal rest for the elect as the end of the world approaches (II, 911–15). The eschatological significance of Noah’s name is only fully realized in his identification as a type of Christ (Gen 6:13–14, Matt 11:28–9; II, 1081–92): Verum excepta arcae fabrica, etiam in eo Noe, quia ‘requies’ interpretatur, et requiem daturus hominibus siue consolaturus, praesagabatur homines ab operibus et laboribus manuum suarum quiescere, in terra cui maledixit Dominus, Domini Saluatoris imaginem tenet. Ipse enim consolatur nos per inlustrationem Spiritus sui, qui propterea paraclitus, id est consolator, uocatur. Ipse eripuit nos de maledicto legis, factus pro nobis maledictum. Ipse uocat ad requiem laborantes, Venite, inquiens, ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis et ego refi ciam uos. Tollite iugum meum super uos, et discite a me quia mitis sum et humilis corde, et inuenietis requiem animabus uestris. [In this – certainly expressed by the structure of the ark, and also in this Noah, because he is interpreted ‘rest’, and gives rest or consolation to people – is the presaged rest for people from the works and labours of their hands, on the earth which the Lord cursed, and it has the image of the Lord of salvation. The same indeed consoles us through the enlightenment of his Spirit, who on that account is called Paraclitus, that is, ‘Consoler’. The same one rescues us from the curse of the Law, made for us a curse. The same Lord calls labourers to rest, saying ‘Come to me, all you that labour and are burdened, and I will refresh you. Take up my yoke upon you and learn from me, because I am meek and humble of heart, and you shall fi nd rest for your souls.’]

Both Adam’s curse and the curse of the Law are lifted in Christ, as prefigured by Noah, and the Holy Spirit lightens the task of

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seeking perfection. Bede also emphasizes the lightness of Noah’s literal task throughout; one striking example is his discussion of the entry of the animals into the ark, where Noah did not have to work, because the animals simply came to him (Gen 7:13–15; II, 1527–43). The literal, though not self-evident, fact that Noah’s task was light (II, 1533, non laborauit ea multo labore, ‘he did not work too strenuously’), is accompanied by the mystical link to Matthew’s gospel that the idea suggests. Noah figures the Lord and Saviour, but in reiterating Noah’s role as requies and consolatio, Bede notes that Christ not only lifts the curse of the Law, but also sends the Holy Spirit, enhancing the element of hope in the eschatological motif. Bede now also quotes fully the text which underpins the typological identification of Noah’s and Christ’s rest (Matt 11:28–9). Noah prefigures Christ, who is truly perfect and sinless, anticipated in Noah’s own lesser perfection. Bede’s discussion of Noah’s perfection ‘in his generation’ does not qualify or limit its meaning by comparing Noah with his wicked contemporaries, but expands to include the whole congregation of the saints (II, 1093–6). The person of Noah is the focus of profound numerical interpretation at the moment he is to enter the ark with his company (Gen 6:5–7; II, 1469–98). Particularly important is Noah’s age (600) on his entry into the ark. For Bede, this number – six multiplied by ten – presents a great mystery concerning those who enter the Church, and who by faith will persist and come to rejoice in eternal life. Six is the number of the formation of the world (created in six days), while one hundred involves the transfer from left hand to right in reckoning, signifying the favourable future judgment. The meaning of one hundred, and the gesture used in hand-reckoning which calculates it, is explained by reference to the Judgment foretold by Christ in the Matt 25:34, where the sheep will be sorted from the goats, and those saved will pass to the right of the Judge into the kingdom (Venite, benedicti patris mei, percipite regnum, ‘Come, those blessed by my Father, take possession of the kingdom’). Noah’s age and the meaning of his name prefigure both the ‘Last Judgment’ (ultimi examinis; II, 1494) and the perpetual rest with the Lord after it. Bede’s next comment, on Gen 7:10, continues the theme of rest in relation to the mystical numbers the text contains (Gen 7:10; II, 1499–1512):

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Water and fire Cumque transissent septem dies, aquae diluuii inundauerunt terram. Septima dies sabbatum, id est requiem, indicat uitae futurae. Cum ergo diluuium aquam baptismi significat, apte post septem dies ex quo arca facta est uenit, quia in spe perpetuae quietis baptizamur. Cum uero fluctus temptationum aquae diluuii figurant, merito etiam tunc post septem dies ueniunt, quia propter fidem ad spem futurorum bonorum, persecutionem iusti patiuntur . . . At uero diluuium cum aduentui nouissimi examinis assimilatur, etiam sic congruenter post dies septem terram inundat, quia tunc electi omnes qui iugum Christi suaue et onus leue portauerunt inueniunt requiem animabus suis. [‘And after the seven days were passed, the waters of the Flood overflowed the earth.’ The seventh day, the Sabbath, that is ‘rest’, indicates the life of the future. Therefore just as the Flood signifies the water of baptism, it is apt that it comes seven days after the ark was made, because we are baptized in the hope of perpetual rest. While truly the waters of the Flood prefigure the surge of temptations, rightly also then that they come after seven days, because on account of faith in the hope of the future of the virtuous, the just suffer persecution . . . Yet truly the Flood is made like the coming Last Judgment, and also so appropriately the earth is flooded after seven days, because then rest comes for their souls to all of the elect who have carried the easy yoke and light burden of Christ.]

The waters of the Flood signify baptism, which is apt because in the hope of perpetual rest the faithful are baptized. The sevenday wait signifies the time of waiting and temptation before the end, and Bede again links the Flood to the Judgment and its final examination, after which the elect will be relieved (with another reference to Matt 11:28) of their light burden and enter into eternal rest. This rest is also explained in numerical and eschatological terms in the explication of Gen 7:20, which states the waters of the Flood were fifteen cubits over the highest mountain (Gen 7:20; II, 1652–64). Fifteen is the sum of seven and eight; the sabbatical number seven indicates the future rest of souls after death, while Christ rested in the tomb until the eighth day, when he rose from the dead, giving this number the mystical meaning of the everlasting age of the resurrection. Those who have passed through the baptismal bath (the Flood) have a hope of this eternal rest which surpasses all earthly knowledge (the highest mountain) (Gen 7:24; II, 1665–72).

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The eschatological character of Noah’s rest frames Bede’s discussion of the Flood, and its meaning is further explained as Noah leaves the ark. The theme of the ages of the world, the rest which Noah promises and the fiery consummation of the world the Flood anticipates are brought together by Bede in a passage focusing on Noah’s role as a priest. This emphasis is important for our understanding of Bede’s priestly audience, participating in the priesthood of Christ. As was perfectly fitting for the uir iustus (‘just man’), Noah’s first action after exiting the ark was to construct an altar (Gen 8:20; II, 1947–53). His saintly act provides a moral example close to the letter of the text: Noah has been favoured by God and returns his thanks. In the following passage Bede provides an important insight into the structure of his commentary on Genesis, and also into his understanding of the whole of history and the importance of the Flood in it (II, 1953–2034). From the very beginning, God in his foreknowledge provided a holy man for each future age; in his comments on Gen 8:21, Bede takes Noah as an outstanding example of the type of the holy man whose sacrifice is key in defi ning and delimiting the ages of the world. Abel with his sacrifice was the priest of the first age, and now at the beginning of the second age, as God lifts his curse, the world is consecrated by Noah’s sacrifice to God. The third age begins with Melchisedech’s sacrifice (Gen 14:18–24), the fourth with David and Araunah the Jebusite (2 Sam [2 Kings] 24:18–25), and the fifth with the great priest Zorobabel (1 Ezra 3:2–3), on the altar restored after the destruction wrought by the Chaldeans. These all foreshadow (and accompany) Christ, the priest of the sixth age (II, 1964–7): Quae cuncta figuram praetulere summi Regis ac ueri pontificis nostri, qui initium sextae aetatis, immo totam sextam aetatem, hostia sui corporis et sanguinis in altari sanctae crucis Deo dicaret. [Which together in figure present everything concerning the king who is also our true high priest, who at the beginning of the sixth age, indeed for the whole sixth age, consecrated the sacrifice of his body and blood on the altar of the holy cross to God.]

For Bede’s audience, living in this sixth age, Christ is the true high priest who initiated the age with the sacrifice of his body – a

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body which Bede has identified with both the ark and the temple – on the cross. Noah’s offering is important as it comes from his pure heart and virtuous spirit, and gives the sacrifice its pleasing smell. For the priests in Bede’s audience this is particularly important (II, 1976–9): Iuxta mysticos uero sensus aptissime post diluuium immolat Noe, quia et hic est ordo nostrae in Christo consecrationis, ut primo fonte uitae lauemur, ac deinde ad sacrum altare dominicae oblationis libamine reficiamur. [According truly to the mystical sense most aptly Noah sacrificed after the Flood, because this is our order by consecration in Christ; as soon as we are washed in the font of baptism, then immediately at the holy altar we remake the offering with the oblation of the Lord.]

The example of Noah is exploited with special poignancy for Bede’s fellow priests (ordo nostrae), a number of whom may have gone through their own conversion and/or baptism as adults, washed like Noah in baptismal waters, before celebrating the sacrifice. This concept of priesthood is extended to include all Christians participating in Christ’s sacrifice, a link Bede makes with reference to 1 Cor 6:11: Sed abluti estis, sed sanctificati estis, sed iustificati estis (‘But you are washed, but you are sanctified, but you are justified’). Bede sums up with a rhetorical flourish of assonance and alliteration the mystery of salvation contained in the Flood (II, 1981–2): abluti uidelicet in baptismo, sanctificati hostia salutari, iustificati bonis actibus (‘clearly washed clean in baptism, sanctified by the saving sacrifice, justified by good works’). To fully appreciate Bede’s discussion of Noah’s emergence from the ark it should not be forgotten that he was writing for a young church, which also had emerged only recently from the font. Bede develops the ecclesial image for his young church further: the clean animals sacrificed after the Flood figure the martyrs, and Northumbria had known a few, who serve but also spill their blood for the Lord. The altar of the sacrifice is the heart of the elect, built by Noah, who is Christ, and the fire is his spirit (II, 1994–5), quem misit in terram et uoluit uehementer accendi, caelitus imbutum (‘which [he] cast on the earth and eagerly wished to be kindled, begun from heaven’).84 While

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Christians are many and diverse, Christ is the one holocaust, and the various birds signify the martyrs from all nations, races and ages, including Bede’s (II, 2000–1, de omnia natione, de omni hominum genere, de omni aetate, ‘from every nation, from the whole human race, of every age’). The purity of these martyrs is the same purity of all Christians who ascend from the baptismal bath. Not all are called to the palm of martyrdom, but all those who are baptized receive the seven-fold gift of the spirit, not only to believe in Christ, but to suffer for him too (II, 2020). Bede’s extension of this idea to the life of consecrated virginity is clearly aimed at a very narrow audience, and is the fruit of his own reflections on the religious life he lived.85 The glory of this way of life also requires the perseverance of the martyrs, and is couched by Bede in the same apocalyptic language (II, 2020– 3). The life of virgins is also symbolized in Noah’s offering, and their holocaust is the offering up of a chaste life in the fire of love, an action whose eschatological dimension is enhanced with an allusion to Rev 14:4 (Gen 8:21; II, 2030–4): Offerente autem Noe holocausta, odoratus est Dominus odorem suauitatis, quia uel passionem beatorum martyrum uel uitam fidelium uirginalem per Christi gratiam sibi consecratam atque oblatam Deus pater gratanter accipit. [With Noah therefore offering the sacrifice ‘the Lord smelled a sweet odour’, because both the passion of the blessed martyrs and the lives of the faithful virgins consecrated through the grace of Christ himself are an offering God the Father gratefully accepts.]

Bede’s florid apocalypticism unites the priesthood of Noah with that of Christ, and the lives of his own Anglo-Saxon contemporaries in the consecrated life with both the mystery of Christ’s priesthood and the historical events which prophesied it. This association of Noah and Christ as priests with the work of their successors in Northumbria is developed in other ways by Bede. He concludes his comments on the command to build the ark with a detailed discussion of the mystical significance of the material from which Noah is instructed to build it: fac tibi arcam de lignis leuigatis (‘make yourself an ark from smoothed [or ‘lightened’] wood’, Gen 6:14; II, 1132–3). In another allusion to the inclusiveness of the ark, Bede develops his ecclesiology in relation

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to the lightness and smoothness of the wood which Noah must work and build the ark from (II, 1133–45): Non solum homines qui in arca saluati sunt sed et animantia quae eam pariter intrarunt, ipsa etiam ligna de quibus facta est fideles sanctae ecclesiae mystice denuntiant. Ligna ergo de quibus facta est ‘leuigata’ esse iubentur, quia quicumque in fabrica ecclesiae ad fidem ueniendo imponitur, necesse est ut, abscissus primo a radice priscae conuersationis per eruditionem uel castigationem eorum qui in Christo praecesserunt, omne quod sibi noxiae tortitudinis ac deformitatis inesse deprehenderit eruat, atque ad regulam catholicae fidei ac ueritatis tota se mente et actione componat, quatenus in ordine aedificii celestis suo loco ac tempore nouus homo creandus opportune possit imponi. [Not only were people saved in the ark, but also the animals which entered together with them, and the ark and the wood from which it was made mystically proclaim the faithful of the holy Church. The wood, then, from which it was made is designated ‘smooth’, because for whoever comes to be placed in the structure of the Church, it necessary that they be cut off first from the root of old habits through their erudition or castigation from which they are cut off in Christ, all that which is in the twistedness and deformity of sin will be detected and rooted out, and set more in order to the rule of the Catholic faith and the fulness of truth in thought and action, in its place according to its role in the celestial building, and in time it is possible to place the new believing person appropriately.]

The Church is not for the perfect, but for making its members perfect, all of whom will fi nd a place. Bede simultaneously develops the implicit association between Christ and Noah: Noah must use smoothed wood in his building of the ark, and those in the Church must have all their moral twists and deformities smoothed away by learning and discipline, and this work is carried out by Christ. The literal resonates with the mystical throughout: most of the church buildings being constructed in Northumbria at the time would also have been wooden, and the physical construction parallels the spiritual. Bede’s discussion of the Church in book II emerges easily from a text traditionally associated with ecclesial typology, but its significance for his readers who were working to establish the Church in furthest Northumbria should not be forgotten. The

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clergy are brought into Bede’s interpretation of the Flood in many ways, but missionaries and their work become the focus in the discussion of the exit of Noah and his family from the ark (Gen 9:1–3; II, 2076–126). Noah and his sons are understood as Christ and the apostles, and the dominion given to them is interpreted as the command to preach to all the nations of the world (Mark 16:15; II, 2106–8): ait discipulis Dominus, ‘Euntes in mundum uniuersum praedicate Euangelium omni creaturae’, id est omnibus gentibus (‘the Lord says to the disciples, “Go into the whole world and preach the gospel to all creatures”, that is to all nations’). The animals that Noah and his family are now given to eat similarly represent the command to baptize the nations (Gen 9:1–3, Matt 28:19; II, 2117–20): postquam mundo Dominus donum lauacri salutaris adtulit, cunctis etiam nationibus hoc ministrari uoluit dicens apostolis, Euntes ergo docete omnes gentes, baptizantes eos in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti. [after the Lord brought to the world the gift of the bath of salvation, he also wished to minister this collectively to the nations, saying to his disciples, ‘Going therefore, teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’]

The interpretation that eating animal flesh equates with preaching the gospel to the nations is intelligible only in the light of Peter’s dream in Acts 10, where the lifting of Jewish dietary law, and the command to eat all kinds of animals, is directly related to the preaching of the gospel to the gentiles (Acts 10:13; II, 2120–5): 86 Dantur enim haec filiis Noe in escam iuxta hoc quod Petro ostensis in linteo mystico cunctis quadrupedibus ac reptilibus terrae dicitur, Surge, Petre, occide et manduca; id est, exstingue gentiles ab hoc quod male uixerant ueritatem praedicando, et infer in ecclesiae membra sacris mysteriis initiando. [These sons of Noah are given indeed as food the same things which were mystically stretched out before Peter in the linen cloth, all quadrupeds and creeping things of the earth all together, where it is said, ‘Rise Peter, kill and eat’; that is, kill the wrong way of living among the gentiles by preaching the truth, and make them members of the Church by initiating them into the holy mysteries.]

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Bede’s reference to the episode in Acts is not accidental. Peter’s vision comes in the context of the debate in Acts over the place of the gentiles in the Church, culminating in Acts 15 in the council at Jerusalem which decided to forbid to converts the consumption only of meat sacrificed to idols or containing blood (Acts 15:29). This reference is included by Bede shortly before he discusses the prohibition in the Noachic covenant against the consumption of blood, which he treats as binding on his AngloSaxon Christian audience (II, 2127–42). Bede, neither a slave to the letter of the text nor a wild allegorizer, carefully preserves not only the harmony of the literal and mystical reading of the text, but the unified sense of purpose of the whole of scripture. One point at which the mystical sense completely swamps the literal sense is in Bede’s treatment of the problematic episode of Noah’s shameless drunkenness (Gen 9:20–5). Bede is not interested in explaining the moral problems presented and moves directly into the received allegory, which interpreted the episode as representing the passion of Christ (II, 2270–93). Noah’s drinking represents Christ accepting the cup of suffering, his nudity Christ stripped before the Jews, who are represented by Ham, who mock him (II, 2294–331); Noah’s waking represents the resurrection (II, 2332–45). The reason for Bede’s inclusion of the allegory becomes clear in his interpretation of the outcome of the episode, which focuses once again on the mission to the gentiles, and he ties this episode to the emphases developed in his comments on the exit from the ark. The blessing of Shem is the blessing of the primitive Church, and out of him came the people of Israel, while the blessing of Japheth represents the election of the nations (II, 2349–50): in Iapheth minimo filio electionem gentium quae secuta est esse designatum (‘in Japheth the youngst son the election of the gentiles, which comes later, is designated’). Bede’s readers can identify with both: building a young church, they work to include the gentile English within it. The destiny of these descendants of Japheth (the ancestor of all the Europeans) is treated by Bede in a way which makes it difficult to determine where allegory and letter separate. His long comment on Gen 9:27 focuses on the election of the nations (II, 2356–406), and here the equation of Shem with his Jewish descen-

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dants and Japheth with the righteous nations becomes an assumption (II, 2357–60): In tabernaculis quippe Sem habitat Japheth, quia in fide patriarcharum et prophetarum, in Scripturis propheticis, in sacramentis legalibus spiritaliter intellectis, peregrinatur Ecclesia in terris. [In the tents indeed of Shem lives Japheth, because in the faith of the patriarchs and prophets, in the prophecy of scripture, in the sacraments which are in the laws spiritually understood, the Church is a pilgrim on earth.]

The mystery of how Japheth’s gentile descendants will come to displace Shem’s Jewish descendants is the major theme of book IV, and the note on which In Genesin ends. The discussion of the division of Abraham’s two sons, however, is fully anticipated by Bede at the end of book II, where Bede the historian deliberately fuses the mystical interpretation and the historical reading of who the descendants of Shem and Japheth are (Gen 9:27; II, 2401–6): Dilatiuit quoque Deus Iapheth, ut habitaret in tabernaculis Sem, et esset Chanaan seruus eius, cum Greci siue Romani, exorti utique de genere Iapheth, regna Asiae, in quibus posteri Sem habitabant, possiderent, et inter alia Chananeos quoque sibi tributarios facerent. [God delighted also in Japheth, so that he will dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan should be his servant, likewise the Greeks or Romans, certainly rising from the race of Japheth, have possessed the kingdom of Asia, in which the posterity of Shem dwell, and to whom among others the Canaanites themselves also paid tribute.]

For Bede the election of the nations was something realized in history, but this idea is taken further here: the historical supremacy of Rome and Greece has nothing to do with conversion, but evokes a view of history which saw in pagan Rome’s supremacy the expectation of Christian Rome’s triumph. Far from Noah’s Christ-like virtue being diminished by the drunkenness episode, in Bede’s discussion Noah’s inebriation becomes the climactic focus of the mystical relationship between the patriarch and Christ. Noah is the type of the Saviour and his ark of the Church; the Flood is the perfect type of baptism, which Bede’s priestly audience will bring with their own preaching to

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their contemporaries. This Anglo-Saxon audience not only continues the historical evangelical mission of the disciples, but is mystically at one with Noah the priest, and the plan of salvation set down by God in the earliest ages of the world. Noah’s perfection for Bede is exemplified in the profound mystery of the holy numbers which pattern the patriarch’s life, and it is with a summary of this pattern, commenting on the death of Noah (Gen 9:28–9; II, 2407–43), that Bede ends book II. Noah’s 350 years after entering the ark, which happened when he was 600 years old, give a sum of perfect holiness. Three hundred, represented by the Greek letter T, the cross, represents Christ, whom Noah signifies, but the mystery of Noah’s life is more profound still. Three hundred signifies his patient suffering of life in the (sinful) world, to which is added hope (fi fty), to give his number of years after the beginning of the Flood; 350 is also the product of the grace of the spirit (seven) and hope (fifty) (II, 2434–6).87 The congruence between the etymology of Noah’s name and the pattern of his post-diluvial years, including the sabbatical seven, lead him to the eternal rest in heaven (II, 2439–40). The hope the book ends on is of Noah as the model of the perfect Christian, living out his life of virtue in hope after the washing of baptism (II, 2440–3): Felix qui mortem uidebit carnis, immo de morte transiet ad uitam, quae sola uera est uita dicenda, qui cursum uitae praesentis tali perfectionis summa compleuerit. [Happy the one who lives dead to the flesh, who indeed from death passes to life, speaking only about the true life, who has so completed the sum of perfection in the course of the present life.]

Noah the preacher One traditional aspect of Noah’s identification as a type of Christ is, however, uncategorically rejected by Bede, who maintains that the historical Noah never preached a message of conversion to his contemporaries. Noah as model preacher certainly would have had a direct appeal to the audience of In Genesin, but Bede is careful to avoid the implication in his discussion. Elsewhere, Bede, always a careful exponent of the literal sense of the scripture, feels an obligation to account for the literal sense of 2 Peter 2:5, where Noah is called ‘herald’. His compromise is a little

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forced with regard to the Petrine text, but is based on the account of the Flood found in Genesis: 88 Iusititiae autem praeconem Noe cognomit quia iustitiae opera faciens cunctus intuentibus qualiter coram domino uiuendum esset ostendit neque enim uerbo quempiam docere repperitur, quippe cuius nec unus sermo repperitur ad deum prolatus uel hominem, sed quo maximae uirtutis est in tota archae fabrica, in aduentu diluuii, in sequentis aeui primordiis, ore quidem silente sed cordis deuotione promptissima iussus obtemperare caelestibus. [He calls Noah, however, the herald of righteousness, because by doing righteous works he showed to all who saw him how life ought to be lived in the Lord’s sight. For he is never found to have taught anyone by words, in truth not one utterance of his is found made to God or man, but what is of the greatest virtue, in the whole building of the ark, in the coming of the Flood, in the beginning of the following age, to obey the heavenly orders with a most silent mouth indeed but with most ready affirmation of heart.]

Bede’s praise of the virtue of silence, and the example of good works, would have been appropriate for a monastic audience, which Bede probably has in mind. But the force with which Bede refutes the notion that Noah preached indicates a deeper concern not only for an orthodox adherence to the literal word of scripture, but also an awareness of the typological implications of such a role for Noah. In his comment on 1 Peter 3:19–20, two ambiguous verses found in the Biblical passage introducing the typological associations between the Flood and the ark on one hand, and the death and resurrection of Christ and the role of the Church on the other, Bede also states that Noah must be understood as preaching only by his actions. In fact, it is Christ himself who is to be understood as preaching ‘to those spirits that were in prison’ waiting in the days of Noah, through the virtuous behaviour of some before the Flood: 89 Qui nostris temporibus in carne ueniens iter uitae mundo praedicauit, ipse etiamante diluuium eis qui tunc increduli erant et carnaliter uixerant spiritu ueniens praedicauit. Ipse enim per spiritum sanctum erat in Noe ceterisque qui tunc fuere sanctis et per eorum bonam conuersationem prauis illius aeui hominibus ut ad meliora conuerterentur praedicauit.

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After a discussion of the range of possible interpretations of the ‘prison’, representing the body or this world, Bede refers to one traditional reading of the passage, but points out the contradictions it presents to more fundamental orthodox teaching. The reader is left in no uncertainty as to what should be believed:90 Quidam hunc locum ita interpretatus est quod consolationem illam de qua dicit apostolis dominus: Multi prophetae et iusti cupieruntuidere quae uos uidetis et non uiderunt et audire quae auditis et non audierunt, de qua et psalmista: Defecerunt, inquit, oculi mei in eloquium tuum dicentes, Quando consolaberis me [Matt 13:17] sancti quiescentes in inferno desiderauerunt quod haec descendente in inferna domino etiam his qui in carcere erant et increduli quondam fuerunt in diebus Noe consolatio uel exhortatio praedicata fuerit. Haec ille dixerit. Sed catholica fides habet quia descendens ad inferna dominus non incredulos inde sed fideles solummodo suos educens ad caelestia secum regna. [A certain person has interpreted this passage as follows, that the saints resting in the lower world longed for that consolation about which the Lord says to his apostles, Many prophets and righteous persons have longed to see what you see and did not see it and to hear what you here and did not hear it . . . and that this consolation and encouragement was preached by the Lord when he went down in to the lower world, even to those who were in prison and were once in the days of Noah unbelievers. He may have said this. But the Catholic faith holds that when the Lord went down into the lower world and brought his own out from there, it was the faithful alone and not the unbelievers whom he took with him to the heavenly kingdom.]

Bede’s reading hinges on stripping Noah of his literal role as preacher, which is in complete opposition to the mystical reading of Noah’s life presented in In Genesin. This stripping is particularly necessary in the passage in 1 Peter, which brings to the fore the mystical reading of the Flood and in so doing had invited

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more adventurous commentators to build up elaborate typological schema. The unorthodox result of such a reading could be the belief that those who had brought destruction on the entire world by their sins could be saved, and the associated belief that all – pagan and Christian – could be saved at the Last Judgment. Bede eliminates the literal role of Noah as preacher, and clearly defines the prison not as the unharrowed hell, but the prison of the body. The complexity of his position and the subtle differentiation that he introduces to Noah’s role had a mixed reception, and this reading seems not to have caught the popular imagination.91 The Flood and the foolish giants The perfection of Noah, the note on which book II of In Genesin ends, provides a balance to the human imperfection all too evident in Cain, with which it began. This structural symmetry recalls the underlying moral lesson passed on by Bede: the faithful should seek the wisdom personified in Noah, and shun the folly presented by Cain and his offspring.92 The wicked generation punished by the Flood is the product of the marriage of the sons of God and the daughters of men, mentioned in a difficult verse which Bede interprets as the mixing of the races of Cain and Seth (Gen 6:1–2; II, 932–60). Bede discusses the problematic expression ‘sons of God’ which the Vulgate presents, and notes a textual variant of this which describes them as ‘angels of God’ (II, 946–50), anticipating the problems that the expression ‘sons of God’ might cause for his readers. Bede’s discussion of the giants who are the product of this union is conventional. If Bede was aware of more esoteric traditions concerning this generation, he shows no interest in communicating them to his audience, and he downplays the giants’ monstrosity (Gen 6:4; II, 982–9): Gigantes autem erant super terram in diebus illis. Gigantes dicit homines inmensis corporibus editos ac potestate nimia praeditos, quales etiam post diluuium, id est temporibus Moysi uel David multos fuisse legimus, qui nomen habent Grece ex eo quod illos iuxta fabulas poetarum terra genuerit. Videntur autem tunc fuisse progeniti, cum posteri Seth de stirpe Cain uxores sibi gratia pulchritudinis contra ius suae dignitatis elegerant.

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Bede notes that giants are simply men with large bodies – they are not the offspring of the devil – and some of these were still around in the days of Moses and David (Deut 2:20; 2 Kings 21:18, 23:13). Bede’s reference to the fabulas poetarum (‘fables of the poets’) and the Greek myth of the creation of the gigantes – literally: ‘made from the earth [gaia]’ – conveys in simple terms concepts which reveal his own linguistic and theological sophistication, and hints at wider knowledge of classical pagan traditions, though his dismissive reference to ‘fables’ follows Augustine.93 This is true also of his treatment of the meaning of the word ‘giant’ in the second half of Gen 6:4 (II, 990–1006): Postquam enim ingressi sunt filii Dei ad filias hominum, illaeque genuerunt. Isti sunt potentes a seculo uiri famosi. Notandum autem quod hoc in loco pro ‘gigantibus’, in Hebraeo ‘cadentes’, id est, ‘annasilim’, leguntur; facilisque atque absolutus est sensus, quia cadentes erant in terram homines in diebus illis, id est terrenis concupiscentiis adherentes, amisso statu Deo deuotae rectitudinis. Gigantes autem illorum lingua proprie ‘Raphaim’ nominantur. [‘For after the sons of God went in to the daughters of men, they brought forth children, and these are the mighty men of old, men of renown.’ However it should be noted that in this place for ‘giants’, in the Hebrew is read ‘falling ones’, that is ‘annasilim’; and the sense is clear and simple, because in those days men were falling into the earth, that is, adhering to earthly delights, having lost the condition of righteous devotion to God. However, in their language giants are properly called ‘Raphaim’.]

Bede suggests it is easy to understand how ‘giants’ is substituted by ‘falling ones’, and quickly moves to the allegorical sense of the passage: the men of the age before the Flood clung to earthly concupiscence. This return to the ‘earth’ from which the giants came complements Bede’s reference to the poets’ fables and the

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giants’ earthly origins, reinforcing his reading of their sin. Turning to the Hebrew word, Bede notes that the meaning of Raphaim is ‘powerful’, and their earthliness and their power place them in direct opposition to the humbly obedient Noah, lifted up to towards the heavens in the ark by the waters of the Flood. The contrast between those in the ark and the giants is given a contemporary ecclesial dimension in a passage already discussed, where Bede compares the ark to a series of images of the Church from scripture. The Church is built on a firm foundation, the giants identified with those who build on sand (Gen 6:13–14; II, 1125–7): extra arcam corrupta gigantum mens atque in terram procliuis, hoc in domo perfidiae congesta exprimit arena (‘outside the ark [is] the corrupt mind of the giants inclining towards the earth, like the house built by the perfidious lifted up on sand’). The image is most apt, as the storm comes and sweeps away the giants and their works; for Bede, notably, their principal sin is in the corruption of their minds. In Bede’s complex of interwoven literal and metaphorical readings, those with the gigantum mens are the proud, overwhelmed by the mountains covered by the waters of the Flood (Gen 7:18–19; II, 1636–67): Montes superbos quosque et in huius saeculi gloria se extollentes significant (‘the mountains signify each of the proud ones exalting themselves in the glory of this world’). This concern with the allegorical meaning of the giants is also found in Bede’s discussion of the prohibition against eating flesh with blood (Gen 9:4; II, 2127–42):94 Excepto quod carnem cum sanguine non comedetis, ‘sanguis’ namque carnalia desideria carnalemque sensum merito designat. . . . ferunt autem quod in hoc maxima fuerit praeuaricatio gigantum, quia cum sanguine carnem. [‘Saving that flesh with blood you shall not eat’, for truly blood rightly designates carnal desire and carnality of the senses . . . in collusion the giants take further what should already have been the worst, because they ate flesh with blood in it.]

Bede’s reference to this particular sin of the giants is not Biblical in origin, and may suggest a familiarity with the text of 1 Enoch where this sin is described, though the tradition was transmitted through other channels and became a commonplace. Bede’s

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greater interest is in the symbolism of consuming blood with meat, which signifies the carnal life, inappropriate for the baptized. Those who live the carnal life can expect to be extinguished like the sinful giants (Gen 9:4; II, 2127–41); humanity, made in the image of God, should avoid sin and preserve this likeness (Gen 9:6; II, 2189–201). Bede’s treatment of the mens gigantum is interwoven with the ultimate reason for the Flood: human folly. In his comment on the first mention of the Flood in the book of Genesis (6:6–7), Bede refers to Proverbs on the pain caused by a foolish son to his father (Gen 6:6–7; Prov 19:13, 17:25; II, 1022–30):95 Et tactus dolore cordis intrinsecus, Delebo, inquit, hominem quem creaui a facie terrae, ab homine usque ad animantia, a reptili usque ad uolucres caeli; penitet enim me fecisse eos. Humano etenim more dolore dicitur Deus, cum homines quos ipse creauit hosti potius maligno peccando, quam sibi pie uiuendo adherere considerat, iuxta illud Salomonis: Et dolor patris filius stultus; et iterum, Ira patris filius stultus, et dolor matris quae genuit eum. [‘And being touched inwardly with sorrow of the heart he said, I will destroy man whom I have created, from the face of the earth, from man even to the beasts, from the creeping thing even to the birds of the air, for I repent that I have made them.’ Sorrow for human folly indeed says God, when men whom he created had rather observed the wicked sinning of an enemy than to stick to pious living, concerning which Solomon wrote, ‘A foolish son is the grief of his father’, and further, ‘A foolish son is the anger of his father, and the sorrow of the mother that bore him.’]

The prominence given to this reason for the sending of the Flood ties the folly of the giants to the folly of Cain, whose sin, adding to the sin of his parents, Bede describes earlier in the commentary (II, 197–222). Cain adds to the sins of his parents by the murder and his arrogant folly, and for this reason is exiled. Bede’s commentary on the dialogue between Cain and God after the murder of Abel characterizes the exchange as one between an errant son and his wise father. Cain’s denial of any knowledge of the whereabouts of his brother is described caustically by Bede in the simplest terms (Gen 4:9; II, 152–9): stulta pariter et superba responsio (‘an equally foolish and proud reply’). This folly and pride are the attributes inherited by Cain’s offspring, and char-

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acterize the gigantum mens of those annihilated by the Flood. The waters cover the impious, and are passed over by the just, who are also humble (II, 1779). The mind of the elect is unlike that of the giants, and is symbolized by the dove, which passes through the ark’s illuminating window (Gen 8:8–9; II, 1803–7): Columba, ut diximus, spiritalem ac simplicem designat mentem electorum, qui, patefacta sibi fenestra supernae contemplationis, tanto cautius quae in infi mis uoluuntur omnia spernunt, quanto altius ea quae perpetuo manent gaudia cernunt. [The dove, as we say, spiritually and simply represents the mind of the elect, who, with a window of supernal contemplation thrown open, so heedful of what they ponder below, they spurn all, how much higher that which they await continually and contemplate with joy. Emphasis added.]

Bede’s discussion of the mind of the elect draws attention to his own role as a teacher in the process of building the Church and making the ‘new man’, and his very purpose in writing In Genesin for the rudis and the eruditis, the elect whose minds he is educating (II, 1130–45; as discussed above). Bede’s interest in the mind of the elect can only be understood with reference to his comment earlier in this same section on the minds of those who were wiped out by the Flood and who will fi nd themselves damned at the end of time (II, 1125–7). Those whose minds are corrupt and perfidious are fools like the proud giants (gigantum mens), and excluded from the salvation to be found in the ark–Church; those whose minds are formed by humble teachers free of heresy – such as Bede himself – will be numbered among the elect.96 Conclusion Bede’s project of scriptural commentary was ambitious in scope, but not in theological innovation. Like the Fathers whose works he summarizes and annotates, Bede’s principal interest in his comments on the Flood is in developing the mystical association between the ark and the Church in the multitude of ways authorized by the theological tradition. This emphasis is not surprising: Bede is writing at a time when the young Northumbrian church must have been reflecting on the nation’s recent incorpo-

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ration into this wider spiritual community. This communion had a dual character in history and eternity, and the note on which book II of In Genesin ends firmly locates the English church within both contexts. Through the baptism which all Christians receive, the English church is connected through the mystery of time with the same saving grace which delivered Noah, and so will be delivered into heaven at the Last Judgment. History is also important: Noah is the father of the whole human race, and his sons are the founders of the peoples of three continents, the seventy-two nations of the world – a fact which would later generate much interest among Anglo-Saxon royal genealogists and is discussed closely in Chapter 5. Bede’s sense of the unity of Genesis gives book II of the commentary a fi ne literary balance: the book begins with a conflict between two sons, but in the sinfulness of only one of them, and Cain’s pride and folly leads to the Flood; in Ham this foolish impiety reasserts itself. The closing section of the fourth and fi nal book will also focus on the separation of two sons, Ishmael and Isaac, and crucially on the promise of salvation for all the nations of the world in God’s covenant with Abraham. The election of the English nation and its incorporation into the Church – discussed in theological terms in the commentary – form the guiding principle of the Ecclesiastical History, the most famous of Bede’s writings and the product of many years of research. Bede’s discussion of the Flood in a range of works, but especially in In Genesin, complements the Ecclesiastical History and reveals both the deeper meaning of the inclusion of the English into the ark–Church, and the ancient promises of salvation which this election fulfils. Later generations of teachers seem to have found the commentary unsuitable to their needs, and apparently it did not achieve the same wide circulation as other works.97 Bede wrote with priests and religious in mind at a particular moment in history, and throughout he seeks to inspire the work of the young church with reflections on its timeless mystical mission. How much of his commentary could be put to practical instructional use is difficult to say – what Bede’s erudition could have meant to the lay-folk of Northumbria is difficult to imagine. Surely only the most basic and necessary elements of the meaning of the story of the Flood would have been passed on to a lay audience: the Flood as punishment for pride long ago, and promise of apoca-

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lypse and Judgment for all believers. The sense of urgency which the eschatological expectation of a fiery flood and the coming Judgment must have given to the ongoing mission in Northumbria is ever-present in the work, and as will be seen in the following chapter, this promised end could easily stir the imagination of later generations in the northern Anglo-Saxon kingdom, and beyond. Notes 1 See A. G. Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition of Patristic Exegesis’, Anglican Theological Review, 72 (1990), 399–411, at p. 404; Bede was the fi rst to name these four as Fathers of the Latin church (In Lucae evangelium expositio, ed. D. Hurst, CCSL 120, Turnhout, 1960), Prologus, p. 7, lines 98–100. Bede read widely among other Fathers, especially Cyprian, Hilary of Poiters, Isidore of Seville and Cassiodorus, and the Greek Fathers Origen, Basil of Caeserea, Gregory Nazianzus and John Chrysostom. See also M. L. W. Laistner, ‘The Library of the Venerable Bede,’ in Bede: His Life, Times, and Writings, ed. A. Hamilton Thompson (Oxford, 1935), pp. 237– 66, and his ‘Bede as a Classical and Patristic Scholar’, TRHS, 4th series, 16 (1933), 69–94, reprinted in The Intellectual Heritage of the Early Middle Ages, ed. Chester G. Starr (Ithaca, NY, 1957), pp. 93–116. Paul Meyvaert, ‘Bede the Scholar’, in Famulus Christi: Essays in Commemoration of the Thirteenth Centenary of the Birth of the Venerable Bede, ed. Gerald Bonner (London, 1976), pp. 41–69, at pp. 41–4, discusses Bede’s originality within the tradition. 2 HE, 5.24; Benedicta Ward, The Venerable Bede (London, 1990), p. 19. 3 Bede variously calls such teachers ‘the spirituales magistri, the sancti praedicatores, the rectores or doctores ecclesiae’, see Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, p. 400. 4 Bede: On the Tabernacle, trans. Arthur G. Holder (Liverpool, 1994), p. xiv. 5 Not all members of Bede’s community appreciated his didactic role; see Ward, Venerable Bede, p. 14. 6 Bede, In Genesin, Praefatio, lines 24–33. 7 Henry Mayr-Harting, The Coming of Christianity to Anglo-Saxon England (London, 1972), p. 219. 8 See Ward, Venerable Bede, p. 41; see also Judith McClure, ‘Bede’s Notes on Genesis and the Training of the Anglo-Saxon Clergy’, The Bible in the Medieval World: Essays in Memory of Beryl Smalley, ed. Katherine Walsh and Diana Wood (Oxford, 1985), 17–30, at p. 21. 9 George Hardin Brown, Bede the Venerable (Boston, 1987), p. 36. See, for example, In Genesin, II, 1513–26, commenting on Gen 7:11–12. 10 C. W. Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks on Bede’s Commentary on Genesis’, Sacris Erudiri, 19 (1969–70), 115–98, at p. 155; see In Genesin, II, 1017–21.

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McClure, ‘Bede’s Notes on Genesis’, pp. 18–19, 41. See Jones, ed., In Genesin, vi–viii. Three manuscripts of this recension survive; see M. L. W. Laistner, A Hand-list of Bede manuscripts (Ithaca, NY, 1943), p. 41. 13 In Genesin, Praefatio, 33–45; Jones notes, In Genesin, p. ix, that Bede follows his usual practice in not suppressing material already released when publishing a new manuscript ‘but he seized the opportunity to add a short passage copied from Augustine which at once closed the book on a more instructive note and replied to some unknown caviller, possibly a judaizing millennarian’. Plummer’s suggestion of a date around 720 is ruled out by the reference to the Saracens at IV, 250–6 (on Gen 16:12), which points to a date after 721, after the fall of Narbonne (Jones, In Genesin, pp. ix–x). 14 See Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s Writings on Genesis in Alcuin’s Interrogationes’, Sacris Erudiri, 23 (1978–9), 463–83, at p. 466. 15 See Jones, In Genesin, p. x, and Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 121. 16 Jones, In Genesin, p. iii, notes that, unlike in his commentaries on Mark and Luke, Bede supplies no marginal source marks. 17 Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 132–3. 18 O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s Writings’, p. 467. 19 See Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe, ‘Three English Writers on Genesis: Some Observations on Aelfric’s Theological Legacy’, Ball State University Forum, 29 (1978), 69–78, at p. 70; see also O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s Writings’, pp. 467–8, and Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 159. 20 See McClure, ‘Bede’s notes on Genesis’, pp. 22–3. 21 An exception is In regum librum XXX quaestiones Aliquot quaestionum liber, ed. D. Hurst, CCSL 119 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1972), pp. 289–322; also (PL 93:455–62). See Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, 406; Roger Ray, ‘What do we know about Bede’s commentaries’, Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale, 49 (1982), 5–20, at p. 12, note 38. 22 See Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 59. 23 D. Bernard Capelle, ‘Le rôle théologique de Bède le Vénérable’, Studia Anselmiana, 6 (1936), 1–40, at p. 16; this assessment has not been disputed, see Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 151; Brown, Bede the Venerable, pp. 48–9; Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, p. 407. 24 Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 142. Jones also notes that, though generally the unintelligible is not to be blamed on the human (p. 154), Bede is ready to blame any residual textual inconsistencies or problems on Moses’s authorship or Ezra’s editing. 25 See Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 20; M. L. W. Laistner, Thought and Letters in Western Europe, A.D. 500 to 900 (revised edition, London, 1957), pp. 161–2; W. F. Bolton, ‘An Aspect of Bede’s Later Knowledge of Greek’, Classical Review, ns 13 (1963), 437–45; A. C. Dionisotti, ‘On Bede, Grammars, and Greek’, Revue Bénédictine, 92 (1982), 11–141; and Kevin M. Lynch, ‘Bede’s Knowledge of Greek’, Traditio, 39 (1983), 432–9. It is agreed Bede had no direct knowledge of the Hebrew text of Genesis; for his depen-

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26 27 28

29 30 31

32 33 34 35

36 37 38

39 40 41 42

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dence on Jerome for his citations of Hebrew terms, see E. F. Sutcliffe, ‘The Venerable Bede’s Knowledge of Hebrew’, Biblica, 16 (1935), 301–6. Ray, ‘Bede’s commentaries’, pp. 16–18, argues that Bede had studied Cicero’s De inventione or a similar manual of Roman rhetorical theory; see also On the Tabernacle, trans. Holder, pp. xvii–xviii. See In Genesin I, 972–3, and Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 119, 171–4. See Brown, Bede the Venerable, pp. 46–9; Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 146; in his commentary on the Apocalypse Bede had explained and applied the seven Tyconian rules, whose influence is not great in In Genesin; see Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 138, 145–6. Henri de Lubac, Exégèse médiévale: les quatres sens de l’Écriture, 4 parts, 2 vols (Paris, 1959–64), vol. 1, pt 2, p. 422; see Holder, On the Tabernacle, p. xviii. De Tabernaculo, 2.13 (CCSL 119A), p. 91, lines 1956–60. See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 151–5, on Bede’s critical vocabulary. Sr. M. Thomas Aquinas Carroll, The Venerable Bede: His Spiritual Teachings (Washington, DC, 1946), showed that mysterium normally means to Bede simply ‘hidden meaning’ or ‘anything below the superficial.’ See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 157; Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, p. 407; Ray, ‘Bede’s Commentaries’, p. 18. Meyvaert, ‘Bede the Scholar’, pp. 45–6. Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 34. Opera homiletica, ed. D. Hurst, CCSL 122 (Turnhout, 1955), 1, 16:237– 42 (referred to by series, homily and line number); Bede the Venerable, Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Lawrence T. Martin and David Hurst (Kalamazoo, MI, 1991), pp. 164–5. See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 142. In Genesin, I, 30–1; see also In Lucae evangelium expositio, ed. D. Hurst, CCSL 120 (Turnhout, 1960), 3, 10:29; Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 46. See Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, pp. 405–6; Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 132; J. F. Kelly, ‘Bede and the Irish Exegetical Tradition on the Apocalypse’, Revue Bénédictine, 92 (1982), 393–406; M. L. W. Laistner, ‘Antiochene Exegesis in Western Europe’, Harvard Theological Review, 40 (1947), 19–32; Beryl Smalley, Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1952), pp. 1–26. Holder suggests that some of the moderation in Bede’s allegorical tendency is probably due to influence of the later works of Jerome; see also Paul Meyvaert, Bede and Gregory the Great (Jarrow Lecture, 1964), reprinted in Benedict, Gregory, Bede and Others (London, 1977), and Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 133–5. See also Bede, De Tabernaculo, CCSL 119A, 1, p. 5, lines 5–6; see Brown, Bede the Venerable, pp. 44–5; Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, p. 409. See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 155. See, for example, De Tabernaculo, II, iii (line 443), on Exod 36:14–15. Compare In Esdram, II, viii (PL 91, 854A), and In regum librum XXX quaestiones. I, 12 (PL 91, 722C) (cited Jones).

108 43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51 52

53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64

Water and fire See Peter Hunter Blair, The World of Bede (New York, 1970), pp. 25–6, 97. See also Bede’s discussion of the raven (Gen 8:7), II, 1786–97. The gospel text is Matt 3:13–17; see Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 49. Compare Bede’s homily for the feast of the Purification, 1, 18:56–7, on Luke 2:22–35: Columba ergo simplicitatem turtur indicat casitatem (‘A dove indicates simplicity, and a turtledove chastity’, Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 181). 1, 12:141–5; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 118. 1, 12:243–77; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 122. Compare II, 1060–1: Multiforme in fabrica arcae ac superuentu diluuii continetur mysterium. In the context of a discussion of figurative representation Bede is playing on the dual significance of signifero, which can simply mean ‘the circle of the zodiac’, or more literally ‘bearing figures’. See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 174. Bede’s sophisticated understanding of the ages of the world was not always appreciated by his contemporaries; see his Epistola ad Pleguinam, in C. W. Jones, ed., Beda Opera de Temporibus (Cambridge, MA, 1943), pp. 305–15, where Bede defends his orthodoxy in calculating 3952 years from creation to Christ, who was ‘therefore’ born in the fi fth age, and not at beginning of the sixth. See Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 38, on Bede’s fondness for the theme of the six ages of the world. See Gerald Bonner, Saint Bede in the Tradition of Western Apocalyptic Commentary (Jarrow Lecture, 1966), pp. 14–15. Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 115. Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, notes the majority of references to the six ages in In Genesin are in book II; see also O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s Writings’, p. 468. Bede had commented on the letter of the text concerning the waters in book I: the fi rmament is a stellar heaven with stars fi xed on the bottom, as if pasted, and above this are the crystalline waters, which he suggests can be observed in nature (I, 252–9); the idea that the waters were gathered together in one place at creation suggests that the Ocean and the great Sea and even landlocked lakes are actually one, joined by underground caverns, as well-diggers demonstrate when they strike water, which has its source in the sea (I, 342–50); see Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 119. See O’Keeffe, ‘Three English Writers on Genesis’, p. 73. See also his discussion of Gen 7:24 (II, 1665–72), which immediately follows. 1, 14:5–6; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 134. 1, 14:16; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 135. 1, 14:24–33; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 135. The comment recalls the saints awaiting Christ in prison, mentioned in 1 Pet 3:19, a key passage in the development of Christian Flood typology. 1, 14:45–53.

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1, 14:98–104; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, pp. 136–7. 1, 14:152–67; Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst, p. 140. For discussion of imagery of inebriation, see Hugh Magennis, Anglo-Saxon Appetites: Food and Drink and Their Consumption in Old English and Related Literature (Dublin, 1999), pp. 137–43. 68 See also Luke 17:26–7. 69 See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 173. 70 On Bede and hand-reckoning, see Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 39, and On the Tabernacle, trans. Holder, p. 96, note 5; Bede explains the system in De temporum ratione 1, CCSL 123B:268–73; he also develops the mystical significance of the gesture in his On the Tabernacle (on Exod 27:9–10): ‘It is well known that in the Scriptures the number one hundred, which in counting on fi ngers is transferred from the left hand to the right, often contains a figure of the heavenly life, which is as rightly preferred to the present [life] as the right hand is to the left. Surely the mystery of this number is frequently found in the Divine Writings. Noah completed the building of the ark in the hundredth year, because in the [life] to come the Lord perfects the Holy Church which he builds during the time of this life.’ The allusion to both the reckoning system and Noah’s life here may illuminate the relative chronology of Bede’s works. Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 52, dates the stages of the composition of In Genesin: ‘It is conjectured that Ia was written about the time of his Commentary on the Apocalypse, between 703–9, Ib around 725, and books II–IV after In Esdram but before 731’; he dates De tabernaculo to about 721. Holder (On the Tabernacle, p. xvi) notes that – with no prologue or topical references – dating is difficult, but suggests De tabernaculo can probably be assigned to the period c.721–5, and prior to In Marc and De Templo, because it is mentioned in them (In Marc CCSL 120:464, 1060–2; De Templo 2 CCSL 119A: 232, 1575–7). The reference in De Tabernaculo to Noah’s age, surprising in this context, may suggest that book II of In Genesin was under way. 71 Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, pp. 122, 124; see also In Genesin II, 1258–61, 1336–8, 1838–46. 72 See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 117. 73 See Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 130. 74 Bede, Expositio apocalypseos, ed. R. Gryson, CCSL 121A (Turnhout, 2001), on Rev 4:3; [Bede], The Explanation of the Apocalypse by the Venerable Beda, trans. E. Marshall (Oxford and London, 1878), p. 30. 75 See Bonner, Bede in the Tradition of Western Apocalyptic, pp. 8–10. 76 On the Tabernacle, trans. Holder, pp. 80–1, on Exod 26:33. 77 Bede, Commentarius in epistolas VII catholicas, ed. D. Hurst, CCSL 121 (Turnhout, 1983), pp. 276–7. 78 Jones, ed., In Genesin, p. 134, suggests Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 21.17 (CCSL 48, p. 783), and Jerome, Ep. 124, 5, as sources. 79 Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 117, comments on Bede’s characteristic refutation of heresy, even though the famous heretics such as Arius and Pelagius do not form part of the discussion of grace in earlier parts of In Genesin; see also McClure, ‘Bede’s Notes on Genesis’, p. 24.

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80 See Introduction above. 81 See H. R. E. Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe (Harmondsworth, Middx, 1964), pp. 202–10. 82 Another heresy to which Bede alludes here is the practice of re-baptizing; for him the unique Flood points to the uniqueness of the sacramental act (II, 2211–13). Bede makes no mention of heretics who had advocated rebaptism, but may be simply reinforcing a doctrinal point for his readers involved in pastoral care. For a discussion of Bede’s interest in local issues see Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 130. 83 See Elisabeth Okasha, Hand-list of Anglo-Saxon non-Runic Inscriptions (Cambridge, 1971), no. 15, who dates the inscription as ‘tenth to eleventh century’; see also R. and F. Gameson, ‘The Anglo-Saxon Inscription at St Mary’s Church, Breamore, Hampshire’, ASSAH, 6 (1993), 1–10, and Catherine Karkov, Text and Picture in Anglo-Saxon England: Narrative Strategies in the Junius 11 Manuscript, CSASE 31 (Cambridge, 2001), p. 94. 84 Bede’s recollection of Luke 12:49 (Ignem veni mittere in terram et quid volo si accendatur, ‘I have come to cast fi re on earth, and how I wish it were burning’) reveals not only his own easy familiarity with scripture, but the density of allusion which he expects his more sophisticated readers to follow. The passage in Luke links baptism and fi re (Luke 12:50, baptisma autem habeo baptizari et quomodo coartor usque dum perfi ciatur, ‘I have a baptism with which I am to be baptized, and how am I constrained until it is accomplished’), in the context of an apocalyptic discourse promising suffering (Luke 12:35–59). 85 See also II, 1717–38, on Gen 8:4, on the coming to rest of the ark on the Armenian mountains (II, 1735–8): Requieuit autem super montes Armeniae quia calcato apice pompae mundialis, etiam in hac peregrinatione uitam ducens, celestibus gaudiis animo propinquat. The theme of the earthly pilgrimage runs throughout the commentary. On the element of Bede’s commentaries directed more exclusively to those in religious life, see J. N. Hart-Hasler, ‘Bede’s Use of Patristic Sources: The Transfiguration’, Studia Patristica, 28 (1993 for 1991), 197–204, at p. 198; see also Brown, Bede the Venerable, p. 20, note 41. 86 Bede had made a similar analogy in his much earlier commentary on Acts: see Expositio Actuum Apostolorum, Retractio in Actus Apostolorum, ed. M. L. W. Laistner, Mediaeval Academy of America, no. 35 (Cambridge, MA, 1939), sub verso. 87 See [Bede], Bede: The Reckoning of Time, trans. Faith Wallis (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), p. 12, where he lists the Greek letters’ numerical equivalents. Bede does not say – at least in In Genesin – why fi fty represents hope. 88 CCSL 121:271; [Bede], Commentary on the Seven Catholic Epistles, trans. David Hurst (Kalamazoo, MI, 1985), p. 138. 89 CCSL 121:248; Catholic Epistles, trans. Hurst, pp. 103–4. 90 Catholic Epistles, trans. Hurst, p. 102. 91 See also Bo Reicke, The Disobedient Spirits and Christian Baptism (Copenhagen, 1946).

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92 See Judith N. Garde, Old English Poetry in Christian Perspective: A Doctrinal Approach (Cambridge, 1991), p. 36. 93 Augustine, De ciuitate Dei 15.9 (CCSL 48, pp. 489–90); see Andy Orchard, Pride and Prodigies: Studies in the Monsters of the ‘Beowulf’-Manuscript (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 77–8. 94 Jones suggests no source for this comment on the giants (Gen 9:5–6; II, 2142–88). Bede argues that the blood is not to be equated with the soul or life-force, but that it represents this (cf. Lev 17:14: Anima enim omnis carnis in sanguine est, II, 2152–3), after the mode of signification which scripture often adopts (non quod hoc erat, sed quod hinc signifi cabatur, II, 2154–5), referring to an invisible thing in terms of the visible. He links this to the Judgment, and notes that the way scripture talks of blood and the soul is appropriate because we will be raised in our bodies. 95 Bede makes the same comparison between the foolish race extinguished by the Flood and the foolish son in his commentary on Proverbs: ‘Dolor patris filius stultus. Deus qui in sua natura impassibilis semper est, et placidus, dolere tamen nostro more dicitur, cum homines, quos ad se credendum laudandumque creavit, hosti potius maligno, quam sibi servire considerat. Unde et Moyses de illo, Poenituit, inquit, eum, quod hominem fecisset in terra. Et tactus dolore cordis intrinsecus, Delebo, inquit, hominem, quem creavi, a facie terrae’ (Super parabolas Salomonis allegorica expositio, Liber secundus, Pars II, Caput XIX: PL 91, 994A); the parallel seems more apt in In Genesin, and suggests the prior composition of this part of the commentary at least, if not the whole work. 96 See also II, 1878–81, on the mystical meaning of the opening of the window of the ark, an allegory of the role of teachers; and Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, p. 149. 97 In Genesin was not among Bede’s more popular works, and achieved only a limited continental circulation, though its popularity in pre-Conquest England is difficult to determine (Jones, In Genesin, p. iii); see also Laistner, Hand-list, pp. 10–13.

3 Learning the lesson of the Flood

The achievements of Bede as a theological writer were never to be matched by another Anglo-Saxon. In the generations after Bede the works of Alcuin of York – who left Northumbria for Charlemagne’s court in the early 780s – rank him highly among Anglo-Saxon writers, though his many preoccupations precluded a literary effort on the scale of Bede’s. Indeed, within Alcuin’s lifetime the beginning of the Viking invasions would have a profoundly disruptive effect on all aspects of English life, and devastate the Northumbrian church in particular. In a time of such upheaval, apocalyptic sentiment could flourish, and in such a time – fundamentally different to Bede’s era of ecclesial consolidation – the character of Noah offered a different model. In troubled times Noah could be understood as the ‘herald of righteousness’, preaching an urgent message of repentance in anticipation of a cataclysmic universal Judgment. The inherent tension between destruction and rebuilding, which the myth of the Flood presents, is reflected in a range of works written against the background of the varying fortunes of the English nation, from the end of the ninth century to the beginning of the eleventh. An immediate and pressing apocalypticism is an important element in two homilies in the so-called ‘Sunday Letter’ tradition. The heterodox ‘Sunday Letter’, which claimed to have been written by the hand of God and delivered to St Peter’s in Rome, threatened dire consequences for failed sabbatical observance. The two closely related homilies, found in manuscripts of the eleventh century, validate the authority of the letter by appealing to the visionary experience of the ninth-century Irish deacon, Niall. The homilies draw on an apocalyptic tradition with its roots in the north of England in the first half of the ninth century,

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and ultimately a lost heretical book which was circulating in Northumbria in the 830s. This was a time when the intensity of the Viking raids on the foundering kingdom of Northumbria seems to have inspired a degree of apocalyptic fervour, and a key element of this eschatological preaching was the portent of the Flood. I will argue that Flood typology also informs the interpretation of the earliest Viking attacks, in letters written by Alcuin in the 790s to the king of Northumbria and the monks of Lindisfarne. The eschatological anxiety that connected the Viking raids with a fiery punishment from heaven touched the consciences of kings, and also influenced Alfred’s reflections on tyranny in his Old English adaptation of Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae at the end of the ninth century. The theological and literary sophistication achieved by Bede in the early eighth century would hardly have been possible in the ninth, and King Alfred himself, in the Preface to his translation of the Pastoral Care, looks back to Bede’s time across decades of social decay and educational disruption.1 It is unsurprising that the interpretation and application of the myth of the Flood in the little writing which survives from the turbulent ninth century should have little in common with Bede’s time, when consolidating the Church in the newly elect nation led to an emphasis on more hopeful typological interpretations of the story. It was not until the late tenth century, in the context of the renewal of the Anglo-Saxon church under the influence of the Benedictine revival, that England produced in Ælfric an author whose social vision and literary output might be compared to the writers of the earlier flourishing of Anglo-Saxon Christianity. When looking to the works of Ælfric, however, one difference is immediately obvious – the vast majority of his works were written in the vernacular. The tenth and eleventh centuries saw the production of a great number of vernacular homilies by various authors, mostly anonymous, many more of which must have been lost, though many survive. Certainly the apocalyptic Niall homilies enjoyed some popularity, probably due to the resumed Viking attacks around the turn of the millennium. The first part of this chapter discusses the Flood in the Niall homilies in relation to their presumed source, the lost book of the early-ninth-century Northumbrian priest Pehtred, before

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moving on to a examination of more orthodox treatments of the Flood motif in Alcuin’s letters, and King Alfred’s original treatment of the Flood in his ‘Boethius’. This discussion is followed by a detailed exploration of aspects of Ælfric’s presentation of the Flood story, mainly in the Catholic homilies, which he wrote for wide dissemination, but also in works written for a more focused audience. Despite their differences, all these writers share a common theme: the need to learn the lesson taught by the Flood. Niall and Noah The complexity of Bede’s position – on preaching before the Flood, and the subtle differentiation he introduces to Noah’s role – seems not to have caught the popular imagination. In Genesis A, which appears in a manuscript of about 1000, but may well have been composed before Bede wrote any of his commentaries,2 Noah certainly announces the coming Flood to some people (1314–19): Noe fremede swa hine nergend heht, hyrde þam halgan heofoncyninge, ongan ofostlice þæt hof wyrcan, micle merecieste. magum sægde þæt wæs þrealic þing þeodum toweard, reðe wite. hie ne rohton þæs. [Noah did as the Saviour commanded him; he obeyed the holy king of heaven and quickly began to build the vessel, a great sea-chest. To his kinsmen he said that a terrible thing was about to happen to the people, a cruel punishment. They paid no attention to this.]

The preaching to his relatives (magum) may seem anomalous considering Noah’s immediate family was saved, but the expression probably suggests that the poet imagined Noah preaching to other descendants of Seth, the patriarch’s kin, led astray by the race of Cain. The poem clearly alludes to the tradition of a time of repentance in which Noah preached before the Flood, but steers clear of the exegetical problems that Gen 6:3–4 contains, though the poet is either ignorant of, or indifferent to, Bede’s careful rationalization of Noah’s role.

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This attitude is shared by two homilies mostly concerned with the apocryphal Sunday Letter, and develop the motif of Noah as apocalyptic preacher in detail. Furthermore they predict both an imminent flood of fire as a warning to their sinful contemporaries, and imply that the Judgment is not far off. The homilies recount the visionary experiences of the Irish deacon Niall, who (they claim) returned from the dead to prove the validity of the Sunday Letter.3 In these two closely related texts an analogy is drawn between Niall’s apocalyptic preaching, promising a divine retribution by fire for those who fail in their dominical observance, and Noah’s preaching before the Flood. The Niall homilies (Homily A and B), the survival of which in manuscripts of the eleventh century attests to a tradition extending back to the early ninth century, show no impact at all of orthodox teaching.4 Bede’s position is directly contradicted in the two homilies, which are introduced with a brief account of the visionary experience of Niall, who is known from a number of sources.5 The historical reference to Niall most pertinent to this study is found in a letter from Ecgred, Bishop of Lindisfarne (r. 831–46), to Wulfsige, Archbishop of York (r. 830–7). The letter is principally concerned with the activities of a priest called Pehtred (who is otherwise unknown), and a book which he had written. The letter (831 × 837) must be a reply to Wulfsige from the Lindisfarne bishop, and gratefully acknowledges the receipt of information about the heterodox and previously unknown Sunday Letter which Pehtred’s work was promoting, along with other dubious theological opinions. It is in this connection that Niall is mentioned, citing Pehtred’s use of the deacon’s vision to confirm the veracity of the letter sent from heaven, an authority which is to be rejected on a number of grounds: 6 non Pehtredi assertionibus obtemporare, qui stulta falsitate refert Nialum diaconum septem ebdomadas mortuum fuisse, et iterum reuixisse, nihilque alimentorum postea percepisse, aliaque perplura que idem Pehtred siue per se siue per Nialum uel alios falsiloquos, de uetero et nouo testamento delirando mendaciter prompsit, omnia abicienda, ac nullo modo ulli orthodoxo sequenda sunt. Et si tales litterae manu Dei auro scriptae super sepulchrum beati Petri in diebus Florentii pape uenerunt, quare non ab apostolica sede per populos christianos

116

Water and fire diuulgata est talis legatio? uel quid de illa agendum fore, si uera esset? In nostris enim scriptis ubi nomina pontificum apostolice sedis habemus, nomen Florentii pape non inuenimus. De die iudicii uel hora, Domino attestante, quis scit nisi ille solus? 7 [and not to comply with the assertions of Pehtred, who says with foolish falsehood that Niall the deacon was dead for seven weeks and came to life again, and partook of no food afterwards, and many other things which the same Pehtred, whether through himself or through Niall or other liars, has given out with mendacious raving concerning the Old and New Testaments, all of which are to be rejected and by no means followed by any orthodox person. And if such letters written in gold by the hand of God had arrived upon the tomb of the blessed Peter in the days of Pope Florentius, why was not such a message divulged throughout the Christian peoples by the apostolic see? Or what should be done about it, if it were true? For in our documents where we have the names of the pontiffs of the apostolic see, we have not found the name of Pope Florentius. Concerning the Day of Judgment and the hour, who, by the attestation of the Lord, knows but He alone?]

No mention of the contents of Pehtred’s lost book survives, apart from this episcopal letter, which as Whitelock demonstrates must be contemporary with it – Pehtred is certainly living, as Ecgred recommends his excommunication if he fails to retract his errors.8 Whitelock plausibly suggests that the two Old English homilies which mention Niall and his vision are variant versions of a single lost homily, and there seems little doubt that their common exemplar was ultimately derived from Pehtred’s heretical book, though he is not mentioned by name in either Old English text. This homiletic exemplar must have been composed some time before the surviving manuscripts, but perhaps not before 962, as the evidence of both versions shows that it defined Sunday in the precise words of Edgar’s law, as lasting fram nontide þæs sæternesdæges oð ðæs Monandæges lihtung (‘from the noon-time of Saturday until the first light of Monday’).9 However, Janet Bately has argued persuasively that elements of the two homilies can be dated to the 920s or earlier.10 It is difficult to speculate on the transmission of the text between the time of Pehtred and the late tenth century, but the differences between the two texts suggest the possibility that the homily had a wide circulation some time

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around the turn of the millennium, at a time of national anxiety about the renewed Viking attacks. Both Old English homilies open with an introductory section recounting the story of Niall, and narrate part of the content of his visionary experience. Central to this is the deacon’s account of the coming of a great fire from the north-west, and both homilies attempt to validate his message by making a comparison between Niall’s preaching of a coming retribution and Noah’s preaching, warning of the ancient Flood. Homily A presents the longer and more detailed account:11 Her sægð on þisum drihtnes ærendgewrite, þæt fyr cymð sume þissa hærfesta ofer manna bearn. and hit gefeald ærest on Sceotta land, and hit þær forbærnð ealle ða fyrenfullan, þa ðe nu god gremiað mid sunnandæges weorcum and sæternesdæges ofer non. and hit þonne færð on Brytwealas and gedeð þær þæt ilce. and þonne hit færð on Angelcynn and gedeð þær þæt ilce, þe hit dyde þam oðrum þeodum twam. ðonne hit færð suð ofer sæ geond þæt þeodland, and hit þær forbærnð þæt mancyn, swa hit her ær dyde. Forðam, men þa leofestan, geþencan we, þæt an diacon wearð forðfered on Sceotlande, and he wæs fif wucan dead and onwoc þa eft of deaðe and spræc to mannum; and he sæde fela wundra, þe he geseah on ðære oðre weorulde, and næs ænig word, þæt ænig man on hine funde, buton hit wære eall soð, þæt þæt he sæde. and næs syððan, þæt he æniges eorðlices metes abyrigde ne he næfre syððan butan cyrcan ne com. and þæs diacones nama wæs Nial haten. and se diacon sæde fram þysum fyre, emne swa we rædað on sunnandæges spelle, ðæt drihten sylf gewrat iu gewrit, þæt he wolde ealle synfulle men forbærnan. and þonne sæde se diacon, þæt þæt fyr cymð forðan ofer manna bearn, þy þe men gelefað to hwon drihtnes sylfes ærendgewrites, þe he sylf to Scs Petrus cyrican asende. ac heo him wiðsacað, swa sume men iu geara dydon þam heahfædere, þa he ðone miclan flod bodade menniscum cynne huru hundtwelftigum wintrum, ær he come and ealle men adrende butan ehte mannum. ðonne Noe þis mannum sæde be ðam flode, þæt he wolde ealle synfulle men adrencan, þonne hlogen men his worda on bysmerend cwædon, þæt he luge. swa þonne wenað nu manige men, þæt þes diacon leoge be þam fyre, þe drihten sylf hine secgan het manna bearnum. ac men him nellað gelefan þe ma, þe heo Noe dydon, ær þæt fyr heom on sitt, swa þonne iu men ne woldon gelefan Noes worde, ær ealle wolcnu and ealle heofones

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Water and fire þeotan wæron mid wætere gefylde, and ealle eorðan æddre onsprungon ongean þam heofonlican flode. and hit þa ongan rinan feowertig daga and feowertig nihta tosomne þy mæstan rene; and seo eorðe weoll ongean þam heofonlican flode swa swyðe, oð ðæt þæt wæter wæs heahre, þonne ænig munt æfre wære. and þa forðam adruncon ealle wihte cwice, þe betwyx heofonan and eorðan wæron butan ehta mannum (ðæt wæs Noe and his wif and heora þreo suna, Sem and Cham and Jafeth, and heora þreo wif) and ælces cynnes twa gemacan, þæt þeos weoruld mihte of hym awæcnian. ac þæt is lang and wundorlic to sæcganne, hu þa wurdon generede in þære Noes earce, þa ðe þær to lafe oðstodon. ðonne nu gegangeð þam mannum, þe þyses fyres cyme nellað gelefan, þæt heo ealle forbeornað. hwæt, Crist sylf hine to ðan geeadmedde, þæt he wrat gewrit on seofoðan heofone swyðe eorlicum wordum for sunnandæges weorcum and sæternesdæges ofer non. forðan se an dæg wæs swiðe of gehalgod eallum godes gesceaftum to reste butan deoflum and hæðenum sawlum, þa næfre reste ne onfoð and þis he awrat eall mid gyldenum stafum menniscum cynne. [Here it says in this Lord’s letter, that fire will come around this harvest over all the children of men, and it will fall first on the land of the Irish, and there it will burn all the sinful, those who now grieve God by working on Sunday and on Saturday afternoon. And then it will travel over the Welsh, and will do the same there. And then it will travel over the English nation and will do the same there, which it did to the other two nations. Then it will go south over the sea throughout that country, and there it will burn up that people, as it did here earlier. Therefore, dearest people, let us consider, that a deacon passed away in Ireland, and he was dead for five weeks and then woke after death and spoke to people. And he told of many wonders which he saw in the other world, and there is not any word that was found in him, but that it was completely true, that which he said. And afterwards he did not taste of any earthly food, and he never went to any place but church. And the deacon said concerning this fire, even as we read in Sunday’s lection, that the Lord himself wrote ancient writ, that he would burn up all sinful people. And then the deacon said, that that fire will come therefore over all the children of men, so that in this way people should believe the Lord’s own letter, which he himself sent to Saint Peter’s church. But they will reject him, as certain people formerly did the patriarch, when he preached the great Flood to the human race, indeed for one hundred and twenty years, before

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it came and drowned all people except for eight. When Noah said this to the people concerning the Flood, that it would drown all sinful men, then people laughed at his words and mockingly said that he lied. So when many people now think that this deacon lies about the fire, which the Lord himself promised to the children of men, but people will no more believe him, than they did Noah, before the fire is sitting on them, so then formerly people would not believe Noah’s word, before all the clouds and all the cataracts of heaven were filled with water, and all earth’s springs burst out towards the heavenly flood so quickly, until the water was higher than any mountain ever was, and then, therefore, drowned all living things who were between heaven and earth, except eight people (that was Noah and his wife and their three sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, and their three wives) and of each species two mates, so that this world could reawaken from them. But that is long and wondrous to explain, how they were saved in Noah’s ark, those who there stood as a remnant. So now it will go with the people who will not believe in the coming of this fire, that they will all be burnt up. Indeed, Christ himself condescended, so that he wrote a text in the seventh heaven in very noble words about working on Sundays and Saturday afternoons. Because one day was greatly hallowed for all God’s creation to rest, except for devils and heathen souls, which never cease nor start, and this he wrote all with golden letters for the human race.]

Homily B presents much the same account of both Niall and Noah, without some of the material in Homily A, but it also includes material which Homily A does not contain. For example, where Homily A is content to describe the Flood as covering the highest mountain, Homily B provides the detail of the height it reached – sixteen cubits above the highest peak.12 Homily B opens in the same sudden way as A, declaring that þisan drihtnes ærendgewrite (‘this letter of the Lord’) warns of a fire that will come at hærfeste (‘harvest’). Homily B, however, specifies that the fire will burn only Ireland and England. After this, Homily B then also turns to the comparison between Niall’s preaching and Noah’s, the promised fire and Noah’s Flood.13 Homily B, like A, then continues with Sunday Letter material. As Whitelock comments, the original English homilist may have made some alterations to Pehtred’s book, but the contents of Ecgred’s letter show that some material in the homilies came from the original condemned work.14 The homilies make explicit the implied connection

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between Niall’s return to life some time in the 820s, in order to attest to the genuineness of the Sunday Letter, as well as telling of wonders he had seen in the other world.15 Of particular interest is the punishment of fire which the Sunday Letter promises for those who fail in their dominical observance, which does not form a part of the body of the Sunday Letter, and serves as a link between Niall’s and Noah’s preaching. Whitelock, who does not discuss this re-arrangement or the inclusion of the Flood story, comments that Homilies A and B both predict the fire will come ‘in the autumn’, while the closely related Irish Epistle of Jesus (which does not mention Niall or Noah) suggests the time of the Feast of Saint John; Homily B specifies the time as ‘about the months which are called September and October’. Whitelock suggests it is the Irish author who has introduced St John’s Day for the coming of the fire, and that this is in keeping with the Irish text’s ‘vivid and imaginative’ style.16 Another detail found in the Old English homilies but not in the Irish text is the geographic progression of the coming fire. Whitelock suggests that ‘it may be Pehtred or the English homilist who added to the English version that it would first fall on the land of the Irish, then (in Homily A only) on the Welsh, then on the English nation, and finally on the Continent.’17 The question of the date of the coming of the fire, and its inclusion in the section comparing Niall and Noah, may also throw some light on Ecgred’s comments about the interest in the Day of Judgment in Pehtred’s book. Whitelock understands the bishop’s statement – that ‘the day and the hour of the Judgment’ are known to God alone – as implying that Pehtred’s book contains such a precise reference; certainly the two Niall homilies do not.18 However, the relevant part of Ecgred’s letter – De die iudicii uel hora, Domino attestante, quis scit nisi ille solus? – need imply only that Pehtred, or Niall, or both, preached the world’s imminent end, though not necessarily predicting the precise moment. It may be no coincidence that Ecgred’s recollection of the commonplace that neither the day nor the hour of the end are known, except to God, echoes the passage in the gospels which introduces Christ’s comparison between the days before the Flood and the times leading up to the Last Day (Matt 24:36– 9). Given the universal association between the Flood of Noah’s day and an expected flood of fire at the end of the world, assum-

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ing such an intuitive association in Ecgred’s mind is not unreasonable. This association is further suggested by the explicit connection, made by Niall, between his preaching of the coming fire and Noah’s warning (the ‘herald’ of 2 Peter) to his generation concerning the Flood. The conventional typological associations whereby a great fire was anticipated by the Flood may have been made even stronger in Pehtred’s book, which (the homilies suggest) already included a comparison between Niall’s eschatological preaching and Noah’s. Whitelock points out that it is impossible to prove interest in the Sunday Letter between Pehtred’s time and the late tenth century, but suggests that ‘there may well have been a revival of interest in some circles especially in the unhappy reign of Æthelred the Unready’; it must be added, however, that transmission of at least part of Pehtred’s own text has presumably taken place. The Niall homilies are also striking in their focus on national, rather than personal, religious observance, and only on nonobservance of Sunday. The Irish Epistle of Jesus refers to captivity by heathen as one of the punishments for non-observance of Sunday, as does Homily B.19 It is likely that the Irish author intended this as a reference to the Vikings, and later AngloSaxon audiences probably understood the reference in the same way. Such an assumption is supported by the connection made between the apocalypticism of the Sunday Letter tradition, other-world visions, the scourge of the Vikings and God’s castigation of his errant people, in an account almost exactly contemporary with Ecgred’s letter to Wulfsige of York. The Annals of St-Bertin The record for 839 in the Annals of St-Bertin preserve an account of apocalyptic anxiety at an unnamed English royal court, probably in Wessex:20 Verum post sanctum pascha imperatori in Francia rependanti rex Anglorum legatos misit, postulans per Franciam pergendi Romam orationis gratia transitum sibi ab imperatore tribui, monens etiam curam subiectorum sibi erga animarum salutem solicitius impendendam, quoniam visio cuidam apud illos ostensa non minimum animos eorum terruerat. Cuius seriam visionis imperatori mittere studuit, habentem hunc modum:

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Water and fire Visio cuiusdam religiosi praesbiteri de terra Anglorum, quae post natalem Domini ei rapto a corpore ostensa est. Quadam nocte cum idem religiosus praesbiter dormiret, quidam homo ad eum venit, praecipiens illi, ut eum sequeretur. Tunc ille surgens, secutus est eum; ductor vero illius duxit eum in terram sibi ignotam, ubi varia et mira aedificia constructa vidit, inter quae aecclesia facta erat, in quam ille et ductor eius introivit ibidemque plurimos pueros legentes vidit. Cumque ductorem suum interrogaret, an inquirere auderet, quinam pueri essent, respondit ei: ‘Interroga quod vis, et libenter tibi indicabo’. Et cum ad illos adpropinquaret, ut videret quod legerent, perspexit, libros eorum non solum nigris litteris, verum etiam sanguineis esse descriptos, ita videlicet ut una linea nigris esset descripta et altera sanguineis. Cumque interrogassem, cur libri illi sanguineis lineis descripti essent, respondit ductor meus: ‘Lineae sanguineae, quas in istis libris conspicis, diversa hominum christianorum peccata sunt, quia ea quae in libris divinis illis praecepta et iussa sunt minime facere et adimplere volunt. Pueri vero isti qui hic quasi legendo discurrunt animae sunt sanctorum, quae cotidie pro christianorum peccatis et facinoribus deplorant et pro illis intercedunt, ut tandem aliquando ad poenitentiam convertantur; et nisi istae animae sanctorum tam incessanter cum fletu ad Deum clamarent, iam aliquatenus fi nis tantorum malorum in christiano popula esset. Recordaris, quia anno praesenti fruges non solum in terra, verum etiam in arboribus et vitibus habundanter ostensa sunt, sed propter peccata hominum maxima pars illarum periit, quae ad usum atque utilitatem humanam non pervenit; quod si cito homines christiani de variis vitiis et facinoribus eorum non egerint poenitentiam et diem dominicum melius et honorabilis non observaverint, cito super eos maximum et intolerabile periculum veniet: videlicet tribus diebus et noctibus super terram illorum nebula spississima expandetur, et statim homines pagani cum inmensa multitudine navium super illos venient et maxima partem populi et terrae christianorum cum omnibus quae possident igni ferroque devastabunt. Sed tamen, si adhuc veram poenitentiam agere volunt et peccata illorum iuxta praeceptum Domini in ieiunio et oratione atque elemosinis emendare studuerint, tunc has poenas et pericula per intercessionem sanctorum evadere poterunt.’ [Now after Easter when the emperor was heading back into Francia, the king of the English sent envoys to him to ask the emperor to grant him permission to travel through Francia on his

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way to Rome on pilgrimage. He also warned the emperor to devote even more attention and concern to the salvation of the souls of those subject to him. For the minds of the English had been quite terrified by a vision that one of them had seen. The king took pains to send the emperor a detailed account of this vision, which went as follows: The vision of a certain priest of the land of the English, revealed to him after Christmas while he was transported out of his body. One night when that pious priest was asleep, a certain man came to him and told him to follow him. So he got up and did so. This guide then led him to a land he did not know at all and there he saw many wonderful buildings standing. One was a church into which he and his guide went and there he saw a lot of boys reading. He asked his guide if he might be so bold as to enquire who these boys were. The guide replied: ‘Ask what you like and I will gladly show you.’ When he got so close to them that he could see what they were reading, he saw that their books were written not only in black letters but also in letters of blood; it had been done so that one line was written out in black letters, the next in bloody ones. He asked why the books were written out like that with lines of blood and [his] guide answered: ‘The lines of blood you can see in those books are all the various sins of Christian people, because they are so unwilling to obey the orders and fulfi l the precepts in those divine books. These boys now, moving about here and looking as if they are reading, are the souls of the saints who grieve every day over the sins and crimes of Christians and intercede for them so that they may fi nally be turned to repentance some day. And if those souls of the saints did not cry out to God with incessant weeping, there would already have been an end to so many men in the Christian people some time ago. You’ll recall that this very year, fruit came forth in abundance on the land and on the trees and vines too, but because of the sins of men most of this fruit perished and never came to be consumed by anyone. If Christian people don’t quickly do penance for their various vices and crimes and don’t observe the Lord’s Day in a stricter and worthier way, then a great and crushing disaster will swiftly come upon them: for three days and nights a very dense fog will spread over their land, and then all of a sudden pagan men will lay waste with fire and sword most of the people and land of the Christians along with all they possess. But if instead they are willing to do true penance immediately and carefully atone for their sins according to the Lord’s command with fasting, prayer and alms-giving, then they may escape those punishments and disasters through the intercession of the saints.’ Emphasis added.]

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The motif of the visionary returned from the dead – or at least an out-of-body experience – to warn the living of the consequences of their sin, is not uncommon. But the visionary’s reference to the particular sin of not correctly observing the Lord’s Day points to an association with the contents of Pehtred’s book. That this affiliation might be close is suggested by their proximity in time: the letter can be dated only by the episcopates of Ecgred and Wulfsige, placing it in the period 831–7; it is implied that the vision of the ‘English priest’ took place at Christmas in 838 (the one preceding the sending of the account). Furthermore, the episcopal correspondence suggests that the ‘Sunday Letter’ is new to England, and implies that Pehtred’s work is the channel through which it has been introduced from Ireland. It is impossible to say how much the anonymous English priest’s vision might owe to Pehtred’s lost account of Niall’s vision. The detail of the record, attributed by the annalist to the great anxiety of the English, is different from that found in the two homilies; and the condemned book presents – as do the homilies – an Irish deacon, not an English priest – though apart from this detail there is no contradiction between the texts. Furthermore, it is difficult to know how faithful the St-Bertin annal is to its source, and there is little detail from the book of Pehtred – an English priest – preserved in either Ecgred’s letter or the later homilies. Given the similarity of content and proximity in date of the book implied by the homilies and episcopal letter on the one hand, and the annal on the other, the possibility remains of confusion – accidental or deliberate – in the annal between the author Pehtred and the visionary Niall. It is possible that we have one vision, not two, associated with the Sunday Letter and arousing interest in the 830s. Whether or not the two visions are one, there was clearly widespread apocalyptic anxiety in England, from Northumbria to Wessex, in the 830s, which associated an imminent punitive fire with a national failure to observe a Sunday rest. Given the commonplace association between Noah and rest, the link with Sunday rest advocated by Niall in the homilies may have been more elaborate still in the lost Latin source. As we saw in Chapter 2, Bede also constantly develops the association between the mystery of the Flood, sabbatical rest and the day of the resurrection.21

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Apocalyptic anxiety was also felt across the Channel in the late 830s. The inclusion of the vision is in keeping with the apocalyptic tone of the entire Frankish Annals entry for 839, which enhances this mood with reference to historical events.22 The entry begins by recounting the confl ict between the emperor and his son Louis, the kind of strife between father and son which Mark 13:12 suggests is one of the signs of the end time. This is followed by the curious story of the apostasy – another phenomenon of the end-time – of the learned deacon Bodo who converted to Judaism, a fact the emperor could believe only after long persuasion. The next event described is a great flood:23 Praeterea die septimo Kalendas Ianuarii, die videlicet passionis beati Stephani protomartyris, tanta inundatio contra morem maritimorum aestuum per totam paene Frisiam occupavit, ut aggeribus arenarum illic copiosis, quos dunos vocitant, fere coaequaretur, et omnia quaecumque involverat, tam homines quam animalia caetera et domos, absumpserit; quorum numerus diligentissime conprehensus duorum milium quadringentorum triginta septem relatus est. Acies quoque in caelo igneas colorumque aliorum mensis Februarii, sed et stellas igneos crines emittentes crebro videri contigit. [Furthermore, on 26 December, that is St Stephen’s Day, a great flood far beyond the usual coastal tides covered nearly the whole of Frisia. So great was the inundation that the region became almost like the mounds of sand common in those parts which they call ‘dunes’. Every single thing the sea rolled over, men as well as all other living creatures and houses too, it destroyed. The number of people drowned was very carefully counted: 2,437 deaths were reported. Then in February an army of fiery red and other colours could often be seen in the sky, as well as shooting stars trailing fiery tails.]

There is as much art as history in the arrangement of the 839 annal. The war against Louis junior brings us to Lent, when we hear about the conversion in the ‘meanwhile’ of the deacon Bodo to Judaism, after which is described the flood on the feast of Stephen (26 December) – exploiting the ironic parallel with a deacon converted from Judaism and martyred by Jews. It is in

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this context that the annalist recounts the English priest’s vision, also associated with Christmas. This juxtaposition creates a thematic association between these events, giving them the status of signs, running from Christmas to Lent, all pointing to apocalyptic anxiety in the kingdom of the Franks, whose own troubles with the Vikings are reported later in the same annal. This careful crafting of the order of events in the annal might also lead us to question the exact timing of the English vision it reports. Some of the Annals’ signs associated with the advent of the Vikings are shared with English writers; the Annals mention fire in the sky, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 793 details a source for such fire:24 Her wæron reðe forebecna cumene ofer Norðanhymbraland. And þæt folc earmlice bregdon; þæt wæron ormete ligræscas, and wæron geseowene fyrene dracan on þam lyfte fleogende. þam tacnum sona fyligde mycel hunger. And litel æfter þam þæs ilcan geares on vi idus Ianuarii earmlice heðenra manna hergung adiligode Godes cyrican. in Lindisfarena ee. þurh reaflac. and mansleht. [Here cruel warning signs were coming over Northumbria. And wretchedly afflicted that people; these were immense flashes of light, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the sky; great famine immediately followed these signs. And a little after this in the same year on the sixth Ides of January [recte: June] harrying of heathen men wretchedly destroyed God’s church on Lindisfarne island, through plundering and murder.]

It is not difficult to understand the increased anxiety of the English in the 830s. In Northumbria, where Pehtred was causing anxiety for orthodox bishops, the Vikings were causing much greater problems for the population, and their continuing attacks would have given Pehtred’s millennialism a popular appeal greater than any episcopal concern for theological exactness could dispel. As Whitelock points out, Ecgred’s letter ‘is one of the last surviving records of the Church of Northumbria before the devastations of the Viking invasions of the second half of the ninth century’. In such an environment, she observes, ‘we cannot wonder that the episcopate found it impossible to stamp out such legends, when we see how impressed King Æthelwulf was with a vision of this kind’.25

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Alcuin and the Vikings The unnamed English king’s concern with the vision and its message, and his fraternal communication of its contents to Louis, emphasize the special interest of rulers in such warnings. While the vision calls for a general penitence, the role of a monarch in provoking Divine punishment, and so his personal need to lead the return to Divine favour, is pivotal. This connection is made clear by Alcuin of York in his letter to Ethelred, King of Northumbria, soon after the raid on Lindisfarne:26 Attentius considerate, fratres, et diligentissimie perspicite, ne forte hoc inconsuetum et inauditum malum aliqua inauditi mali consuetudine promereretur. Non dico, quod fornicationis peccata prius non essent in populo. Sed a diebus Aelfwaldi regis fornicationies adulteria et incestus inundaverunt super terram, ita ut absque omni verecundia etiam et in ancillis Deo dicatis hec peccata perpetabantur. Quid dicam de avaritia rapinis et violentis iudiciis? dum luce clarius constat, quantum uibque hec crimina succreverunt et populus testatur spoliatus. Qui sanctas legit scripturas et veteres revolvit historias et seculi considerat eventum, inveniet pro huiusmodi peccatis reges regna et populos patriam perdidisse. Et dum aliena potentes iniuste rapuerunt, propria iuste perdiderunt. [Consider carefully, brothers, and examine diligently, lest perchance this unaccustomed and unheard-of evil was merited by some unheard-of evil practice. I do not say that formerly there were no sins of fornication among the people. But from the days of King Ælfwold fornications, adulteries and incest have poured over the land, so that these sins have been committed without any shame and even against the handmaids dedicated to God. What may I say about avarice, robbery, violent judgments? – when it is clearer than day how much these crimes have increased everywhere, and a despoiled people testifies to it. Whoever reads the Holy Scriptures and ponders ancient histories and considers the fortune of the world will fi nd that for sins of this kind kings lost their kingdoms and peoples their country; and while the strong unjustly seized the goods of others, they justly lost their own.]

The importance of apocalyptic signs and visions in this pattern of God’s treatment of his Christian people is emphasized by

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Alcuin as he continues, reminding the king that there had been warnings:27 Signe enim huius miserie precesserunt, alia per res inconsuetas, alias per mores insolitos. Quid significat pluvia sanguinis, qui quadragessimali tempore Euboraca civitate, in ecclesia beati Petri principis apostolorum, que caput est totius regni, vidimus de borealibus domus sereno aere de summitate minaciter cadere tecti? None potest putari a borealibus poenas sanguinis venire super populum? quod in hoc facto nuper ingruente super domum Dei incepisse videri potest. . . . Ecce iudicium a domo Dei, in qua tanta luminaria totus Brittaniae requiescunt, cum magno ingruit terrore. Quid de aliis estimandum est locis, dum huic sanctissimo loco iudicium non pepercit divinum? Non arbitror illorum hoc esse, qui in eo habitant loco, tantummodo peccatum . . . Defendite patriam precibus assiduis ad Deum, iustitiae et misericordiae operibus ad homines . . . Omnes oportet nos stare ante tribunal Christi, ut ostendat unusquisque monia, que gessit, sive bonum sive malum. Cavete tormenta gehenne, dum vitari possunt. [Truly signs of this misery preceded it, some through unaccustomed things, some through unwonted practices. What portends the bloody rain, which in the time of Lent in the Church of St Peter, Prince of the Apostles, in the city of York, which is the head of the whole kingdom, we saw falling menacingly on the north side from the summit of the roof, though the sky was serene? Can it not be expected that from the north there will come upon our nation retribution of blood, which can be seen to have started with this attack which has lately befallen the house of God. . . . Behold, judgment has begun, with great terror, at the house of God, in which rest such lights of the whole of Britain. What should be expected for other places, when the Divine judgment has not spared this holy place? I do not think this sin is theirs alone who dwell in that place. . . . Defend your country by assiduous prayers to God, by acts of justice and mercy to men. . . . We must all stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, and each must show all that he did, whether good or evil. Beware of the torments of hell, while they can be avoided.]

Not only the apocalypticism, but also the presumption of sexual sin in particular as having provoked the Divine punishment, places such concerns within the tradition of reading the Flood, conventionally believed to have resulted from the sexual sins of

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Noah’s contemporaries. This theme is augmented by Alcuin’s language, which describes the fornication and incest as ‘inundating’ the land (inundaverunt) – a flood of sin complemented by the bloody rain falling on the house of God. For Alcuin, though, the ruler’s personal morality is more important than that of his subjects, whom he should lead in penitence. As others have noted, the idea that God will punish his people when they turn to sin is found in Insular writers from Gildas to Wulfstan; but not all authors focus on the role of kings so explicitly.28 Alcuin’s letter to Higbald, Bishop of Lindisfarne, interprets the raid in a slightly different way. In gentler voice he consoles the community:29 Aut hoc maioris initium est doloris aut peccata habitantium hoc exigerunt. Non equidem casu contigit, sed magni cuiuslibet meriti iudicium est. . . . Si quid corrigendum sit in moribus mansuetudinis vestre, citius corrigite. Patronus vestros ad vos revocate, qui vos ad tempus dereliquerunt. Non defuit illis potestas apud Dei clementiam. Sed, nescimus cur, tacuerunt . . . Nolite in ebrietate verba orationum vestrarum delere. Non exeatis post luxurias carnis et avaritias seculi; sed in servitio Dei et regularis vitae disciplina firmiter permanete, ut sanctissimi patres, qui vos genuerunt, vobis protectores esse non cessent . . . Amemus eterna et non peritura. Veras diligamus divitias et non caducas, sempiternas et non transitorias. [Either this is the beginning of greater tribulation, or else the sins of the inhabitants have called it upon them. Truly it has not happened by chance, but it is a sign that it was merited by someone. . . . If anything ought to be corrected in your Grace’s habits, correct it quickly. Call back to you your patrons who have left you for a time. They lacked not the power with God’s mercy; but, we know not why, they kept silence. . . . Do not in drunkenness blot out the words of your prayers. Do not go after luxuries of the flesh and worldly avarice, but continue steadfastly in the service of God and in the discipline of the regular life, so that the most holy fathers, who begot you, may not cease to be your protectors. . . . Let us love what is eternal, and not what is perishable. Let us esteem true riches, not fleeting ones, the eternal, not the transitory.]

History is not governed by fate – historical events are meaningful signs, not the chance happenings of fate. The letter to King Ethelred reminds him that God’s acts are purposeful, and makes frequent reference to temporal judgments, and fi nishes with a

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reminder of the Last Judgment. When writing to Bishop Higbald, Alcuin alludes to the possibility of a ‘greater tribulation’, which should not be read simply as an expectation of more raids. The tone of the letters and the signs Alcuin reads in and around events suggest he is willing to consider the attack, and these accompanying signs, as a portent of the end of the world.30 The only way for the Lindisfarne community to discover the attack’s true meaning is by searching out their consciences, and regaining the support of the patron saints, an idea also prominent in the anonymous English priest’s vision described in the Annals of St-Bertin. It is impossible to say whether the vision recounted in the annals derives from Pehtred’s account of the Irish deacon Niall. But we can be confident that the vision’s focus on Sunday observance situates the two in the same cultural milieu, in which anxiety over the intensification of the Viking attacks sought explanations for God’s treatment of his Christian people. We can be almost certain that Pehtred’s book taught that the end of time had come, as this notion is directly refuted by Ecgred of Lindisfarne. The association between Pehtred’s book, with its account of Niall’s vision, and the English priest’s vision might not be a direct one. But, if it is not, their shared images and ideas are more striking still; the visionary’s reference to the great fi re brought by the Vikings may suggest that the later Old English homilies’ account of Niall’s promise of a flood of fi re ultimately descends from widespread eschatological expectation in the 830s. Evidence for an association between the Vikings’ fire and Niall’s conflagration is also suggested by the course of the fire mentioned in the Old English Homily A, which warns of its spread from Ireland to Wales, and thence to England and on to the Franks, a progression which more closely parallels the progress of the Vikings’ devastation in Niall’s and Pehtred’s time than in the late tenth century. The equation of the Viking invasions and the apocalyptic flood of fire would not require a great leap of the imagination, as the apparent return to popularity of the letter and Niall’s vision around the time of the late-tenth-century Viking raids indicates. The warnings they contained may even have derived some authority from the fact that to a large extent the predicted cataclysmic punishment came about, not long after Pehtred’s book was condemned.

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Alfred and the Flood In an extended discussion of worldly power, in his Old English translation of Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae, King Alfred makes an enigmatic comment (in chapter 16) that imaginatively associates latter-day wicked rulers with the Flood of Noah’s day and fiery punishment:31 Þa se Wisdom þa þis leoð asungen hæfde, þa ongan he eft spellian and þus cwæþ: Hwæt mæg ic þy mare secgan be þæm weorðscipe and be þæm anwealde þisse worulde? For ðæm anwealde ge eow woldon ahebban up oð ðone heofen, gif ge meahten. Þæt is forðæmþe ge ne gemunon ne eac ne ongitað þone heofoncundan anweald and þone weorðscipe; se is eower agen, and þonan ge comon. Hwæt, se eower wela þonne and se eower anweald, þe ge nu weorðscipe hatað, gif he becymð to þam eallra wyrrestan men, and to þam þe his eallra unweorðost bið, swa he nu dyde to þis ilcan þeodrice, and iu ær to Nerone þæm casere, and oft eac to mænegum hiora gelicum, hu ne wile he ðonne don swa hi dydon and get doð, ealle ða ricu þe him under bioð oððe awer on neaweste, forslean and forheregian, swæ swa fyres leg deð drigne hæðfeld, oððe eft se byrnenda swefel ðone munt bærnð þe we hatað Etne, se is on Sicilia ðæm ealonde; swiðe onlic ðæm miclan flode ðe giu on Noes dagum wæs. [When Wisdom had sung this song, then he began to speak again, and said: What more can I say to you concerning the dignity and concerning the power of this world? For power you would raise yourselves up to heaven if you were able. This is because you do not remember or understand the heavenly power and dignity which is yours, or where you came from. What then, with regard to your wealth and your power, which you now call dignity, if they should come to the worst of all men, and to him who is unworthiest of all of it, as it recently did to this same Theodoric, and also formerly to Nero the Caesar, and often also to many like them? Will he not do as they did, and still do, slay and destroy all the powerful who are under him, or anywhere near him, as the fl ame of fi re does the dry heath field, or as the burning brimstone burns the mountain which we call Etna, which is in the island of Sicily, very like the great Flood which happened formerly in Noah’s days?]

This puzzling reference to Noah’s Flood comes in the context of a discussion of the arrogance of tyrants – Theodoric, Nero and

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Tarquin – which follows a long reflection on the peace of the Golden Age. There the destructive fires of Mount Etna, the supposed location of an entrance to hell, were used by Alfred as a metaphor for the covetous man. As far as I can ascertain, this comparison between Etna’s fire and the Flood has no parallel in any commentary on Boethius’ work. Furthermore, the complex of ideas and the lack of a clear explanation of the Flood connection suggest that Alfred presumes the link is obvious in the context of his discussion. An insight into Alfred’s thinking comes from Wisdom’s statement: ‘For power you would raise yourselves up to heaven if you were able.’ The comment anticipates the later discussion (in chapter 35) of the Titans and Nimrod, building mountains and a tower in their respective challenges to heaven’s power. Indeed, the connection in Alfred’s mind between the discussions is clearer from this historical perspective: the Golden Age – in classical mythology, the world’s first – concluded with the Titans’ rebellion. The account of the revolt is introduced by a discussion of the folly of such defiant gestures, as the only real power in the world is God’s:32 Ða cwæð he: Nis nan gesceaft þe tiohhie þæt hio scyle winnan wið hire scippendes willan gif hio hire cynd healdan wille. Ða cwæð ic: Nis nan gecynd þe wið hire scippendes willan winne buton dysig mon, oððe eft þa wiðerweardan englas. Ða cwæð he: Hwæt wenst ðu? gif ænegu gesceaft tiohhode þæt hio wið his willan sceolde winnan, hwæt hio meahte wið swa mihtigne swa we hine gereahtne habbað? [Then he said: There is no creature which attempts to contend against its Maker’s will if it wishes to retain its nature. Then I said: There is no creature which contends against its Maker’s will except foolish man, or, again, the rebellious angels. Then he said: What do you think? If any creature determined that it would contend against his will, what could it do against one so powerful as we have proven him?]

It would seem from chapters 16 and 35 that there are two kinds of creatures, apart from the fallen angels, which foolishly strive against the authority of God: tyrants and the giants. The story of the Titans’ war is treated in some detail by Alfred: 33

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Ða cwæð he: Hwæt, ic wat þæt ðu geherdest oft reccan on ealdum leasum spellum þætte Iob Saturnes sunu sceolde bion se hehsta god ofer ealle oðre godu, and he sceolde bion þæs heofenes sunu, and sceolde ricsian on heofenum. And sceolden gigantes bion eorðan suna, and ða sceolden ricsian ofer eorþan; and þa sceolden hi bion swelce hi wæren geswysterna bearn, forðæmþe he sceolde beon heofones sunu, and hi eorðan. And þa sceolde þæm gigantum ofþincan þæt he hæfde hiera rice; woldon þa tobrecan þone heofon under him; þa sceolde he sendan þunras and ligeta and windas, and toweorpan eall hira geweorc mid, and hi selfe ofslean. ðyllica leasunga hi worhton, and meahton eaðe seggan soðspell, gif him þa leasunga næren swetran, and þeah swiðe gelic ðisum. Hi meahton seggan hwylc dysig Nefrod se gigant worhte; se Nefrod wæs Chuses sunu; Chus wæs Chames sunu, Cham Noes. Se Nefrod het wyrcan ænne tor on ðæm felda ðe Nensar hatte, and on ðære þiode ðe Deira hatte, swiðe neah þære byrig þe mon nu hæt Babilonia. þæt hi dydon for þam ðingum þe hi woldon witan hu heah hit wære to ðæm heofone, and hu ðicce se hefon wære and hu fæst, oððe hwæt þær ofer wære. Ac hit gebyrede, swa hit cynn was, þæt se godcunda wald hi tostencte ær hi hit fullwyrcan mosten, and towearp ðone tor, and hiora monigne ofslog, and hiora spræce todælde on tu and hund seofontig geþioda. Swa gebyreð ælcum þara þe winð wið ðæm godcundan anwalde; ne gewyxð him nan weorðscipe on ðæm, ac wyrð se gewanod þe hi ær hæfdon. [Then he said: I know that you have often heard in old fables, that Jove, the son of Saturn, should be the highest god above the other gods; and he should be the son of heaven, and should reign in the heavens; and the giants should be the sons of the earth, and should reign over the earth; and then they should be as if they were sisters’ children, for he should be the son of heaven and they of the earth. Then it should seem to the giants that he possessed their kingdom. Then they wished to break heaven under him. Then he should send thunder, and lightning, and wind, and with that overturn their work, and kill them. Such fictions they invented, and might easily have related the true story, if the fictions had not been sweeter to them, and yet very similar to these. They might have related what foolish Nimrod the giant did. Nimrod was the son of Cush, Cush was the son of Ham, and Ham of Noah. Nimrod gave the order to erect a tower in the field which is called Shinar, and in the country which is called Deira, very close to the city which is now called Babylon. They did it for these reasons: that they wished to know

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Here there is no mention of the Flood, but rather of events taking place in the generations immediately after Noah. Alfred juxtaposes two accounts of an ancient act of defiance towards heaven: one account is false; the other, sanctioned by scripture, is true. But for Alfred the parallels are inescapable, and it is in Alfred and not Boethius that Wisdom recalls that such accounts have been heard oft. As Alfred points out, the proud biblical giant Nimrod – grandson of Ham – built his tower in a lust for knowledge, while the Titans’ rebellion aimed to overthrow heaven. Nor does it escape Alfred’s attention that the Titans’ war with Jove also suggests a close parallel with the proud rebellion of Lucifer, and his account of Babel develops this demonic association. It is doubly curious that Alfred should include the story of the Titans at all. Critics have long noted that Alfred makes numerous alterations and additions in his version of Boethius’s De consolatione: arguments are often reconstructed, and he adds allusions to Germanic, biblical and classical legend. In the case of classical legend, most noteworthy are this account of the war of Jove and the Titans, the elaboration of the Orpheus metre and the elaboration of the story of Ulysses and Circe. All three take a corresponding reference to classical mythology in Boethius’s Latin text as their starting point, which Alfred amplifies with genealogical or other information.34 The starting point for Alfred’s digression on the Titans’ war with Olympus is a one-line reference by Boethius to what the Latin author can assume is the well-known story of the Titans’ rejection of heaven’s power. This heavenly power is associated with the figure of Philosophia, who explains to a contrite Boethius why she always wins their arguments:35 ‘Accepisti’, inquit, ‘in fabulis lacessentes caelum gigantas; sed illos quoque, uti condignum fuit, benigna fortitudo disposuit.’

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[‘You have read’, she said, ‘in stories of the giants challenging heaven; but those, too, as was wholly right, a kindly strength put in their proper place.’]

Alfred is aware of the falsehood of pagan legend, but justifies the use of ‘fables’ in the introduction to his Orpheus story:36 Ðeah we nu scylen manega and mislica bisna and bispell reccan, ðeah hangað ure mod ealne weg on þæm þe we æfterspyriað. Ne fo we no on ða bisna and on ða bispel for ðara leasena spella lufan, ac forðæmðe we woldon mid gebecnan þa soðfæstnesse, and woldon ðæt hit wurde to nytte ðam geherendum. [Although we must now recount many and various stories, yet our mind is always focusing on what we are searching out. We do not use examples for love of those false stories, but because we wish to signify the truth with them, and wish it to be of use to listeners.]

Boethius’s passing allusion to the episode is turned by Alfred into a full narrative of the mythological battle between the giants and heaven. Alfred outlines the biblical story of the Tower of Babel which, he claims, might have been used to convey the same message as the falsehood concerning the Titans. Alfred, balancing the two accounts of early world history, also tries to understand how the perverted version could have arisen, while still containing elements of what for him was historical truth: Ðyllice leasunga hi worhton, and meahton eaðe seggan soðspell, gif him þa leasunga næran swetran, and þeah swiðe gelic ðisum. [Such were the false stories they made up; they could easily have told true stories, and yet very like these, if false ones had not been sweeter to them.] 37

In terms of his later apology for using such pagan falsehoods, it would seem that Alfred is being inconsistent here: in this case there is in fact no need to tell in detail the story of the Titans – Boethius alludes only to ‘giants’ – and Scripture, as he points out, furnishes us with the true story, deliberately distorted by pagan authors; furthermore, the scriptural story furnishes the same moral.38 Alfred is probably following the lead of a commentary here, as a link between the two stories is made in both

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the Remigian and St Gall commentaries.39 Beside Consolation book III, prose 12, ‘the giants challenging heaven’, some manuscript texts with commentary include the remark: 40 Loquitur secundum fidem gentilium vel veritatem tangit, quando divisio linguarum facta est. [It is said according to the faith of the gentiles and also touches on the truth, when the division of the languages was made.]

This is followed in the commentaries by Augustine’s discussion of the incident and his calculation of the number of languages which derived from Babel. But Alfred’s discussion does not follow Augustine’s, and it would seem that his reference to the division of tongues is only as a consequence of his primary point of interest: the rebellion of the giants.41 A defi ning characteristic of Nimrod, in Alfred’s account, is the giant’s folly. In his De ciuitate Dei (15.9), Augustine discusses biblical giants in relation to those described in pagan sources, and quotes Baruch 3:26 to demonstrate that men of great stature were called giants even after the Flood, which was supposed to have destroyed them: 42 Ibi fuerunt gigantes illi nominati, qui ab initio fuerunt staturosi, scientes proelium. Nos hos elegit Dominus, nec uiam scientiae dedit illis; sed interierunt, quia non habuerunt sapientiam, perierunt inconsiderantiam. [There were those called giants, who were from the beginning of great stature, expert in war. The Lord chose them not, neither did they fi nd the way of knowledge. Therefore they perished. And because they did not have wisdom, they perished in their folly.]

Neither this verse, nor its wider scriptural context, specifies whether it is speaking of giants before or after the Flood. The folly of the giants noted by Augustine – and given (as we have seen in Chapter 2) a structural emphasis in Bede’s commentary on Genesis – is also crucial in Alfred’s dialogue between Wisdom personified and the mind. But the dysig Nimrod (‘foolish Nimrod’) was remembered not only as a giant; Isidore notes another distinction: 43 Nembroth interpretatur tyrannus. Iste enim prior arripuit insuetam in populo tyrannidem, et ipse adgressus est adversus Deum impietatis aedificare turem.

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[Nimrod is interpreted as a tyrant, for he was the first to seize unaccustomed tyranny over a people, and he strove against God in building a tower of impiety.]

As Andy Orchard has shown, the parallel between giants and human tyrants was not unusual.44 The link between gigantism and tyranny helps elucidate Alfred’s earlier allusion to the Flood, and indicates the seams along which the myth of the Flood was integrated into his historical imagination. The tyrants Theodoric, Nero and Tarquin provide excellent examples of bad kingship, and Alfred clearly associates sinful and foolish failings not only with Babel, but also with the ancient evil which saw the whole world punished with the Flood. Alfred’s invocation of the Flood parallel, from the mouth of Wisdom, suggests a complex pattern of ideas: hu ne wile he ðonne don swa hi dydon and get doð, ealle ða ricu þe him under bioð oððe awer on neaweste, forslean and forheregian, swæ swa fyres leg deð drigne hæðfeld, oððe eft se byrnenda swefel ðone munt bærnð þe we hatað Etne, se is on Sicilia ðæm ealonde; swiðe onlic ðæm miclan flode ðe giu on Noes dagum wæs. [Will he not do as they did, and still do, slay and destroy all the powerful who are under him, or anywhere near him, as the flame of fire does the dry heath field, or as the burning sulphur burns the mountain which we call Etna, which is in the island of Sicily, very like the great Flood which happened formerly in Noah’s days?]

The comparison is between the divine retribution by water in Noah’s day and the great fires used as punishment in later times, with the swefel (‘sulphur’, ‘brimstone’) echoing the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Furthermore, the Flood of Noah’s day contains the apocalyptic warning of the burning fire that one day will consume the whole world. Alfred’s development of the idea also reflects the commonplace assumption, exploited by Alcuin, that wicked and foolish kings themselves can be the instruments of similar punishments within history, even if the promise of their own ultimate destruction is implicit. It is unlikely that Wisdom’s rhetorical question derives from a commentary; rather, it assumes a more complex and integrated understanding of the relationship between foolish pride, foolish kings and the foolish giants, and the relationship

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of all three to the mythic age of the Flood, which established God’s way of dealing with fools. Alfred’s wider interest in his discussion is not in giants as tyrants or monsters, but in arguing the monstrous nature of tyrants who share their arrogant folly. Alfred, however, is not a moralist, but a moral philosopher, and the very purpose of his ‘Boethius’ is to interrogate the wisdom that he as a king must use, under God, to wield power. The ‘time of Noah’ for Alfred includes not only the Flood, but the events immediately after it, a mythic time when giants walked the earth and strove with God. But the pattern of God’s response to giants and their moral like was set out in this primeval mythic time, and repeated throughout the ages. In using the Flood motif in this way, Alfred’s reading of history is in harmony with the Old Testament prophets and their Christian successors in the New. Sinful kings, as Alcuin had also pointed out, can expect divine retribution if they do not amend their ways, and cruel pagans may well be the weapon wielded against them. It seems that in the decade before Alfred’s birth the court of Wessex was alarmed by visionary warnings, as the Annals of St-Bertin report, and was warned that punishment would come as a flooding fire, by the sword and flame of heathen invaders. It would be surprising indeed if the young Alfred, whose whole life was shaped by the fulfilment of this warning, had not heard of the vision. The realization of the prophecies in the near national annihilation, which only Alfred’s wise rule averted, can only have demonstrated to the king and his contemporaries the veracity of the apocalyptic way of reading history that the myth of the Flood presented. Ælfric and the Flood Almost exactly one hundred years after Alfred’s literary output of the 890s, the monk Ælfric of Eynsham produced a vast and programmatic corpus of works in an extension of the ecclesiastical renewal fostered by the Benedictine revival. Ælfric was a product of the great educational centre of Winchester, one of the centres of the reform led by his teacher Æthelwold. But the audience for Ælfric’s vernacular sermons and treatises was different: whereas Bede’s Latin commentaries were produced for the training of priests, and his homilies for his monastic community,

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Ælfric’s Old English works were aimed at a wider audience, including the laity.45 However, Ælfric’s English works were the focus of his creative and didactic energies in an age when the education of the laity outside the cloister, especially of the nobility, had emerged as a crucial part of Church renewal. The typology of the ark is well suited to Ælfric’s sense of his own moment in the history of the Anglo-Saxon church. His cycles of homilies and saints’ lives are not simply a product of the Benedictine revival, but an extension of its aim of ecclesial renewal beyond the monastic enclosure. His dedication of the two series of Catholic homilies to Sigeric, Archbishop of Canterbury, reveals a national purpose in the catechesis offered by the homilies.46 Ælfric’s theological extrapolation of the meaning of Noah and the ark is strictly orthodox, providing a model of communal hope, and presenting a metaphor of salvation for many made possible by the holiness of one. Ælfric self-consciously wrote as a part of the tradition of Anglo-Saxon theological writing, and his works assert both an orthodoxy and a continuity with Patristic traditions concerning the Flood, and where possible as this was passed on by Bede and Alcuin. However, Ælfric’s writing career incorporated other great upheavels, and the return of large-scale war with the Vikings after a century of relative stability led to a development in his interpretation of the Flood for his national audience. Before the Flood: Noah and his generation The identification of Noah as holy, even perfect, is a notion with the authorization of scripture, but – as seen in Chapter 1 – this idea presented early Christian commentators with an interpretative problem. Positively, for the Christian writer, this virtuous man from the time before the Law could be used to demonstrate the saving power of faith, and God’s election of those who never practised the Law, but perfection was surely, as many asserted, an attribute only of Christ himself. In the simplest of readings of the sinful world before the Flood, Noah could be regarded as providing a good moral example in the face of adversity.47 Ælfric’s treatment of Noah’s holiness in the midst of wickedness is far more orthodox than the Niall homilies, of which he may well have been aware – Ælfric’s Noah never preaches.

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In his sermon On the Memory of Saints, Ælfric also praises Noah beside other righteous heroes of the Old Testament (LS 1, 16:22–4): 48 Noe eac for his rihtwisnysse ofer-com þæt miccle flod þe ealne middan-eard ofer-eode. swa þæt ðurh hine wearð eft eall mancynn geedstaðelod. [Also, Noah because of his righteousness came over the great Flood which covered all the world, so that through him all humanity was later re-established.]

Here there is no echo of patristic debates on his sanctity relative to his generation, but only the straightforward recollection that Noah’s virtue made possible the regeneration of the human race. Ælfric’s allusion to the Flood and the occupants of the ark in his Prayer of Moses also focuses on the virtue of Noah, who exemplifies the way righteousness leads to salvation (LS 1, 13:184–9): God gewræc fram frymðe mid witum his foresewennysse. ærest on ðam ænglum þe unrædlice modegodon. and siððan on adame þa þa he gesyngod hæfde. Eft on noes dagum ðaða menn dysgodon to swyðe. and mid forligre gegremedon god ælmihtigne þearle. swa þæt he sende flod. and besencte hi ealle butan noe anum mid his agenum hiwum. forðan þe he ana wæs of him eallum riht-wis. [‘From the beginning God avenged dishonour towards him with punishments, first upon the angels who ill-advisedly exalted themselves, and later on Adam when he had sinned. Later in the days of Noah then again men acted too foolishly, and greatly angered Almighty God with fornication, so that he sent the Flood, and drowned them all, except Noah alone with his household, because among all of them he alone was righteous.’]

Ælfric stresses the opposition between the sinful first father of the human race and the virtuous second, but also presents Noah’s virtue in the context of the drift towards disobedience (especially in the form of sexual sin) which characterized the first age of the world. Malcolm Godden has discussed the apocalyptic character of this homily (written probably not long after 995), suggesting that Ælfric here ‘attempts to place the Viking attacks in terms of the divine will and the end of the world’ in what is ‘one of the most

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politically charged of all Ælfric’s writings, though much of the charge is just below the surface and the implications are at times puzzling and naïve.’49 The homily is principally designed to create a paradigmatic parallel between the Church and state and the collaboration of Moses as petitioner and Joshua as war-leader, an arrangement which helped the Hebrews defeat enemies in battle. Nevertheless, ‘Ælfric limits himself to a more restricted message’, stating that, if God does not help us, it is because ‘we have previously angered him with our evil deeds.’50 In this way famine, disease and the pagan army are interpreted as punishments for the English nation’s sins, especially its mistreatment of the Church (LS 1, 13:147–77).51 The list of Old Testament figures headed by Noah is deployed for comparison with Moses’ intervention on behalf of the people, though the examples of Noah and Abraham (in his prayer for Sodom) do not present the best examples of sinners who are spared God’s punishment if intercession is made on their behalf, as only close kinsmen are saved in each case (LS 1, 13:215–17). It may be that Ælfric does not wish to sever completely the link between personal virtue and benefiting from the prayers of others, but it is significant that Ælfric is not the first Anglo-Saxon to associate the Flood with people’s sinfulness and the Viking raids, though a full development of apocalyptic Flood typology is not found in his vernacular homilies until later in his career.

The Flood in history The focus on the Flood as a punishment for the sexual sins of Noah’s contemporaries is developed fully in one of Ælfric’s earliest surviving Old English works, the first of his Catholic homilies (written 990 × 5), De initio creaturae (‘On the origin of the created world’), where he sets out the pattern of salvation history from creation to Judgment.52 The concise description of the Flood is based on the account found in Genesis 6–9. Ælfric’s abridgment of the story focuses on the role of Noah, and his relationship with God (CH 1, 1:177–89): þa wearð þa hrædlice micel mennisc geweaxen, and wæron swiðe manega on yfel awende; and gegremodon god mid myslicum leahtrum, and swiðost mid forligere; þa wearð god to

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Water and fire ðam swiðe gegremod þurh manna mandæda þæt he cwæð þæt him ofþuhte þæt he æfre mancyn gesceop; Ða wæs hwæþere an man rihtwis ætforan gode, se wæs noe gehaten; þa cwæð god to him; ‘ic wille fordon eal mancyn mid wætere, for heora synnum; Ac ic wille gehealden þe ænne, and þin wif, and þine þry suna, sem, and cham, and iafeð, and heora þreo wif, for ðon þe ðu eart rihtwis, and me gecweme. Wyrc þe nu ænne arc, þreo hund fæðma lang, and fi fti fæðma wid, and þritig fæðma heah; gehref hit eal, and geclæm ealle þa seamas mid tyrwan, and ga in syððan mid þinum hiwum; Ic gegaderie into ðe of deorcynne and of fugelcyne symle gemacan, þæt hi eft to fostre beon; Ic wille sendan flod ofer ealne middaneard.’ [Then it came about that the population rapidly increased, and very many were turned to evil, and angered God with numerous crimes, and mostly with fornication. Then God became so very angered for humanity’s sins that he said that he regretted ever having created the human race. However, there was one man righteous before God, who was called Noah. Then God said to him, ‘I will destroy the whole human race with water for their sins, but I will protect you alone, and your wife, and your three sons, Sem, Ham and Japheth, and their three wives, because you alone are righteous and acceptable to me. Now make yourself an ark, three hundred fathoms long, and fifty fathoms wide, and thirty fathoms high: roof it completely, and close all the seams with tar, and afterwards go inside with your household. I will gather in to you from animalkind, and bird-kind with mates for each, to be cared for afterwards. I will send a Flood over all the middle earth.’]

The righteousness attributed to Noah by both the narrator and God is borne out by the patriarch’s immediate and obedient response (CH 1, 1:189–202): he dyde þa swa him god bebead, and god beleac hi bynnan þam arce, and asende ren of heofonum feowertig daga togædere, and geopenode þærtogenes ealle wylspryngas and wæterþeotan of þære miclan nywelnysse; þæt flod weox ða, and bær up þone arc; and hit oferstah ealle duna, wearð ða ælc þing cuces adrengt, buton þam ðe binnan þæm arce wæron; of ðam wearð eft gestaðelad eal middaneard; þa behet god þæt he nolde næfre eft eal mancyn mid wætere acwellan, and cwæð to noe, and to his sunum; Ic wylle settan min wed betux me and eow, to þisum behate; þæt is þonne ic oferteo heofenas mid wolcnum, þonne bið ætywed min renboga, betux þam

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wolcnum, þonne beo ic gemyndig mines weddes, þæt ic nelle heonunforð, mancyn mid wætere adrencan; Noe leofode on eallum his life, ær þan flode, and æfter þæm flode nigan hund geara and fi ftig geara, and he þa forðferde. [He did as God commanded him, and God locked him inside the ark, and sent rain from the heavens continuously for forty days, and opened as well all the well springs and water torrents of the great abyss. That Flood grew then and lifted up the ark, and it climbed over all the hills. All living things were drowned, except those who were within the ark; from them all the earth was later re-founded. Then God promised that he would never again destroy the whole human race with water, and said to Noah and his sons: ‘I will set my covenant between me and you to show this promise: that is, when I spread the heavens over with clouds, then I will be mindful of my covenant, that I will henceforth drown humanity with water.’ Noah lived in all his life, before the Flood and after the Flood, nine hundred and fi fty years, and then he passed away.]

Ælfric’s summary of the Flood is essentially historical, with almost no interpretative gloss. He retains only those elements of the biblical story essential to a concise narrative, without omitting details of fundamental theological import, though these are not discussed. Ælfric, at the very beginning of what was to become his vast homiletical and catechetical project, is concerned to present the clear truth of history, though biblical history is not without its moral lessons. This moral commentary, not far from the literal sense of the text, is the only interpretation Ælfric provides: the Flood was sent as a punishment for the sexual sins of the human race, though no such specific suggestion is made in Genesis, while Noah and his family were spared because of the patriarch’s righteousness. This righteousness is characterized by the simplicity of the relationship between God and Noah: the command to build the ark, with its basic design and dimensions, is described succinctly (compare Gen 6:14–16), and Noah is told to gather the animals.53 Ælfric’s simple comment that these commands were carried out places Noah’s obedience at the centre of the episode, and suggests his virtue freed him from the contamination with the sexual licence of his generation, which may also be implied by the order of his family arrangements.54

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The Church in the world Ælfric’s First Series homily for the twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost – adapted from a homily by Gregory the Great on the parable of the wedding of the king’s son, which the invited guests fail to attend (Matt 22:1–14) – moves beyond the moral lesson of the Flood, and develops allegorical aspects of the story. In his homily Gregory insists that the parable shows that only very few will be redeemed: many are called to salvation, but not many chosen at the Last Judgment. Ælfric inserts the allegory of Noah’s ark into Gregory’s severe soteriology, with the purpose of explaining the paradoxical presence of sinners in the Church (CH 1, 35:259–80): Ne sceole we beon ormode þeah ðe on þyssere andweardan gelaþunge fela syndon yfele. and feawa gode; for þan ðe noes arc on yþum þæs micclan flodes hæfde getacnunge þyssere gelaþunge. and he wæs on nyþeweardan wid; and on ufweardan nearo; On ðære nyþemystan bytminge wunedon þa reþan deor and creopende wyrmas. On oðre fleringe wunedon fugelas. and clæne nytenu On þære þriddan fleringe wunede Noe mid his wife and his þry suna mid heora þrim wifum; On þære bytminge wæs se arc rum þær ða reþan deor wunodon; and wiðufan genyrewed þær ðære manna wunung wæs; for þan ðe seo halige gelaðung on flæsclicum mannum is swiðe brad. and on gastlicum nearo; heo tospræt hire bosm þær ðær ða reþan wuniað on nytenlicum ðeawum; and heo is genyrwed. on þone ende þe ða gesceadwisan wuniað, on gastlicum ðeawum drohtniende; for þan swa hi haligran beoð on þyssere andweardan gelaþunge swa heora læs bið; Micele ma is þæra manna þe lybbað be agenum lustum; þonne ðæra sy þe heora lifes þeawas æfter Godes bebodum gerihtlæcað; ðeahhwæþere symle bið haligra manna getel geeacnod þurh arleasra manna wanunge; Nis þæt getel Godes gecorenra lytel; swa swa crist on oþre stowe cwæð. manega cumað fram eastdæle and fram westdæle and sittað mid þam heahfædere. abrahame. and isaace. and iacob. on heafonan rice;’ [Nor must we despair, though in this present community many are evil and few good; because Noah’s ark on the waves of the great Flood had the signification of this community, and it was wide underneath, and narrow above. On the nethermost ground floor dwelt the fierce animals and the creeping serpents. On the second floor dwelt birds and clean animals. On the third floor dwelt Noah

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with his wife, and his three sons with their three wives. On the ground floor the ark was roomy, where the fierce animals dwelt, and above narrowed, where the dwelling of the people was. Therefore the holy community is very broad among carnal people, and among the spiritual narrow. It spreads out its embrace there where the fierce dwell in bestial practices and is narrowed at the end where the temperate dwell, living together according to spiritual practices; because the holier they are in this present community, so there are fewer. Much greater is the count of people who live according to their own desires, than is of those who regulate life’s practices after God’s commands; nevertheless the count of holy people is always amplified through the waning of wretched people. The count of God’s chosen is not little, just as Christ said in another place: ‘Many will come from the eastern part and the western part and will sit with the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven.’]

Max Förster thought it probable that Ælfric had taken the allegory of Noah’s ark directly from Bede, who was certainly fond of the theme, though James E. Cross demonstrated that the allegory of the ark used here is taken from another of Gregory’s homilies (no. 38).55 The interpolation by Ælfric at this point, however, is crucial to his homily’s impact; his theology is more fi nely balanced and pastorally practical than Gregory’s, and reflects a more inclusive model of salvation based on the ark metaphor.56 Like Bede, Ælfric also makes the association between the salvation of the gentiles anticipated in the Flood, and promised in the Abrahamic covenant. Ælfric preserves the threat of damnation but keeps the hope of salvation within reach, insisting that the mixed community of the Church will reveal its saints, in great number, only at the Last Day. Ælfric’s approach reflects the needs of his audience, and his more hopeful theology combines pastoral concern with sound exegesis. Ælfric’s deployment of the Flood theme in this eschatological context draws on, but does not dwell upon, a network of associations found throughout the writings of the Fathers: the ark is a type of the Church, tossed on the waves of this world, awaiting Judgment and salvation. Ælfric’s attention to consistency in his treatment of the Flood story, and his acute awareness of his vernacular audience, does not mean he shies away from complex theological readings over and beyond simple ‘moral’ treatments. The spiritual significance

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of the Flood, and of the protection of Noah and his companions, is discussed in further depth in Ælfric’s Second Series homily for the second Sunday after Epiphany, based on Bede’s homily for the same occasion.57 The Gospel text tells the story of the wedding feast at Cana, and the commentary develops the allegory of the six jars of water transformed into wine as the six ages of the world (CH 2, 4:111–29): on ðære oðre ylde þissere worulde wearð eal middaneard mid flodes yðum adylegod for synna micelnysse. buton ðam rihtwisan Noe anum. and his seofon hiwon. þe on ðam arce belocene wæron to anes geares fyrste. and hi siððan eal mancyn gestryndon; Gif we gleawlice æfter gastlicum andgite tocnawað. þæt se swymmende arc getacnode godes gelaðunge. and þæt se rihtwisa noe getacnode crist. and þæt yðigende flod þe ða synfullan adylegode. gebicnode þæt halige wæter ures fulluhtes. þe ure synna adilegað. þonne gewisslice bið us awend þæt oðer wæterfæt to wunderlicum wine. for ðan ðe we geseoð ure clænsung and halgunge and rihtwisnysse gewitegode on ðære ealdan gereccednysse; Witdolice ða eahta menn þe se arc on his bosme abær wurdon ahredde wið þam yðigendum flode. and ealle oðre eorðlice gesceafta þæt brade wæter adydde; Swa eac nu ða ðe on godes gelaðunge geleaffulle ðurhwuniað. beoð gehealdene wið woruldlicum yðum. and dwollicere deopnysse. ða ungeleaffullan þe buton godes gelaðunge dwollice drohtniað. untwylice forwurðað on ecnysse; [‘In the second age of this world all the middle earth was destroyed because of the magnitude of sins, except the righteous Noah alone, and his seven companions, who were locked in the ark for the space of a year, and afterwards they begot the whole human race. If we understand wisely according to the spiritual meaning that the swimming ark signified God’s assembly, and that the righteous Noah signified Christ, and that the inundating Flood which destroyed the sinful betokened the holy water of our baptism which destroys our sins, then certainly the second water vessel will be changed wonderfully to wine for us, because we see our cleansing, and hallowing, and righteousness prophesied in the ancient narrative. Clearly the eight persons, whom the ark carried in its bosom, were rescued from the inundating Flood, and the broad water did away with all other earthly creatures. So now also, those who persevere faithful in God’s assembly, are protected against worldly waves and the abyss of error. The unfaithful, who continue in error outside God’s assembly, undoubtedly will perish in eternity.’]

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Writing for a wider audience than Bede, Ælfric has nevertheless retained most of his spiritual interpretation of the Flood, but has re-arranged the material to remove the gradation of spiritual meanings which Bede outlines in the Latin homily.58 The letter of the text is hardly developed at all, and the allegory leads to an image of almost mystical intensity. Ælfric focuses on the central motif of salvation in the story of Noah and the Flood: not just the salvation of Noah and his family, but of all the faithful of all time, including his own Anglo-Saxon audience.59 This central theme is tied to Noah’s obedience, and is enhanced by the deeper understanding of how these ancient events typologically represent the sacrament of baptism, the salvific role of the Church and ultimately Christ’s intervention in the life of the individual Christian, who, like Noah, must obey God’s commands without doubt or hesitation. Across his homilies Ælfric’s discussion of the Flood become increasingly complex, and for those following the homiletic cycle a further level of the mystery of the miraculous ark is revealed in the significance of Noah and the ark in God’s plan of salvation history. His treatment in this homily for the second Sunday after Epiphany suggests a greater confidence on the author’s part in the theological sophistication of his audience, as he draws them into an understanding of the timeless role of the sacred text itself in their salvation: for ðan ðe we geseoð ure clænsung and halgunge and rihtwisnysse gewitegode on ðære ealdan gereccednysse (‘because we see our cleansing, and hallowing, and righteousness prophesied in the ancient narrative’). The entire Christian experience of salvation, in the sacrament of Baptism, in obedience to God’s commands in daily life, and participation in the life of the Church as the community of the saved, is seen to be a part of God’s plan of salvation set out in the world’s earliest age, when the models and types of the Christian faith were already being laid down to be recorded in the sacred text. In a sequence of ideas drawn together by the use of assonance and alliteration, the mysteries of the ealdan gereccednysse (‘old narrative’) apply eac nu (‘also now’) and will apply on ecnysse (‘in eternity’). The metaphor of drinking the wine of knowledge, which Ælfric retains from Bede’s homily, with obvious Eucharistic overtones, takes the audience’s intellectual sharing in knowledge into the realm of spiritual participation in the mystery.60

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Translation and commentary Like Bede, as a good teacher Ælfric prefers to communicate doctrine by citing scriptural examples, rather than by presenting his readers with either the unadorned text or abstract formulations. This preference is implicit in his statement of his reservations about translating the Bible into English in his preface to Genesis; while the Genesis translation was expressly made for the nobleman Æthelweard, Ælfric’s preface assumes that it will circulate more widely.61 Noah’s example did not present to the vernacular audience the same problems of sexual conduct found among the later patriarchs in Genesis, though his drunkenness can hardly have been an episode which appealed to Ælfric as a translator.62 Nevertheless, when asked by his patron for a translation of Genesis,63 Ælfric could not easily refuse. Critical discussion of the translation, which covers Genesis 1–24, has focused mainly on the relative literary merits of the text.64 In some ways this text is what it purports to be – a simple translation from Latin into Old English of the narrative of Genesis to Isaace, not enhanced by interpretative comment, though absence of ornament does not imply lack of art.65 Ælfric pares down the biblical text, but while removing repetitive material he does not lose theologically significant details or disrupt narrative flow. His description of the entry into the ark demonstrates his technique well: Eac swylce ða nytenu of eallum cynne 7 eallum fugolcynne comon to Noe in to ðam arce, swa swa God bebead. Þa on ðam eahtoðan dæge, ða ða hi inne wæron 7 God hi belocen hæfde wiðutan, ða yðode ðæt flod ofer eorðan. On ðam oðrum monðe, on ðone seofonteoðan dæge ðæs monðes, ða asprungon ealle wyllspringas ðære miclan nywelnysse 7 þære heofenan wæterðeotan wæron geopenode. 7 hit rinde ða ofer eorðan feowertig daga 7 feowertig nihta on an. Wæs ða geworden micel flod 7 ða wæiteru wæron gemenifylde 7 ahefdon up ðone arc. [Also likewise the beasts of all kinds and all kinds of birds came to Noah in the ark, just as God commanded. Then on the eighth day, when they were inside and God had enclosed them from outside, then the Flood swept over the earth. In the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month, then all the wellsprings and the great abyss and the floodgates of heaven were opened. And it rained then continually for forty days and forty nights. Then the great Flood

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happened on the earth and the waters were plentiful and lifted up the ark.]

In contrast to his source, the account is concise and nonrepetitive. The radical nature of Ælfric’s alterations is evident from a comparison with the biblical original (Gen 7:8–17). The original account supplies elaborate, often repetitive, details and descriptive comments which can hinder the flow of the story. In his abridgement, probably guided by liturgical treatment of the same passage, Ælfric has omitted all the details italicized in the Vulgate passage below, producing a more concise and freely flowing narrative: De animantibus quoque mundis et immundis, et de volucribus, et ex omni quod movetur super terram, Duo et duo ingressa sunt ad Noe in arcam, masculus et femina, sicut praeceperat Dominus Noe. cumque transissent septem dies, aquae diluvii inundaverunt super terram. Anno sexcentesimo vitae Noe, mense secundo, septimodecimo die mensis, rupti sunt omnes fontes abyssi magnae, et cataractae caeli apertae sunt; et facta est pluvia super terram quadraginta diebus et quadraginta noctibus. in articulo diei illius ingressus est Noe, et Sem, et Cham, et Iafeth, filii eius; uxor illius, et tres uxores fi liorum eius cum eis, in arcam; ipsi et omne animal secundum genus suum, universaque iumenta in genere suo, et omne quod movetur super terram in genere suo, cunctumque volatile secundum genus suum, universae aves, omnusque volucres ingressae sunt ad Noe in arcam, bina et bina ex omni carne, in qua erat spiritus vitae. Et quae ingressa sunt, masculus et femina ex omni carne introierunt, sicut praeceperat ei Deus; et inclusit eum Dominus de foris. Factumque est diluvium quadraginta diebus super terram; et multiplicatae sunt aquae, et elevaverunt arcam in sublime a terra. [And of the beasts clean and unclean, and of the fowls, and everything that moves upon the earth,/Two and two went in to Noah into the ark, male and female: as the Lord had commanded Noah./ And after seven days had passed, the waters of the Flood overflowed the earth./ In the six hundredth year of the life of Noah, in the second month, in the seventeenth day of the month, all fountains of the great deep were broken open, and the floodgates of heaven were opened:/ And the rain fell upon the earth forty days and forty nights./ In the selfsame day, Noah, and Sem, and Cham, and Japheth his sons: his wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, went into

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Water and fire the ark:/ They and every beast according to its kind, and all the cattle in their kind, and everything that moves upon the earth according to its kind, and every fowl according to its kind, all birds, and all that fly,/ Went in to Noah in the ark, two and two, of all flesh wherein was the breath of life./ And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him: and the Lord shut him in from the outside./ And the Flood was forty days upon the earth, and the waters increased, and lifted up the ark on high from the earth. Emphasis added.]

In verses 8 and 9, for example, Ælfric omits details which, while not repetitive, are redundant.66 Repetitive sections are cut: Ælfric does not repeat Noah’s age, found in both verses 6 and 11 of Genesis 7; 67 nor does he repeat the details found from verse 13 to half-way through verse 17 in the Latin, the contents of which essentially are present in verses 3, 4, 7, 8 and 12, which he has already translated. Ælfric’s conscious artistry, and attention to interpretative detail, can be seen in his handling of the detail of the closing of the ark’s door. He does not leave verse 16b stranded without a logical context as a remainder of the omitted verses 13–17, but grafts it onto his translation of verse 10, where it fits seamlessly. Ælfric is careful not to omit the detail of God closing the ark from the outside, important for both the logic of the story and because of the mystical meanings given to the Divine action. While Ælfric does not discuss these meanings here, the detail of the closing the ark is one which cannot be lost.68 Not one to leave his readers in peril of theological error, Ælfric provided a reading guide for his Genesis translation in the form of an Old English version of Alcuin’s Interrogationes Sigeuulfi in Genesin; his translation appeared some time before 1002, soon after the translation of Genesis.69 To understand Ælfric’s work it is helpful to turn first to his source, Alcuin’s commentary, which is in the form of a series of questions and answers in ‘dialogue’ with the priest Sigewulf.70 Writing only a couple of generations after Bede, Alcuin has a quite different style and purpose to his commentary. His technique is different too, though Bede is one of the principal sources he draws on.71 Manuscript evidence suggests Bede’s commentary was not popular on the continent, and the structure of Alcuin’s own work suggests that Bede’s form and style were not found useful by teachers and pupils. Alcuin transmits some elements of In

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Genesin, though he is influenced by Bede’s commentary in no more than details. Like Bede, Alcuin’s interest in Genesis is an educator’s, though clearly needs have changed, and he presents more of an extended gloss on the text than a systematic commentary full of cross-reference and allusion.72 While Alcuin has neither the space nor apparently the inclination to develop at length his own thematic interests, his choice of material presents us with an insight into the kind of interpretative problems which needed solving for a priest like Sigewulf. In the case of the Flood, the weighting given to certain questions reveals a range of preoccupations occasionally bordering on the idiosyncratic.73 The section on the Flood covers his questions 95–143, though the Flood is referred to elsewhere in his Alcuin’s work. A seemingly disproportionate number of these questions (95, 96, 139–43) are concerned with Noah’s sons and both their literal and mystical inheritance – in fact, Alcuin begins and ends his comments on the Flood with questions concerning Shem, Ham and Japheth. A large number of answers explain natural phenomena. This strong interest in natural history, and sometimes its mystical significance, is evident in the questions devoted to the animals led into the ark (111–15, 117–18, 120–4); these concern logistical problems in the ark and ‘cleanness’, and sometimes spiritual readings. Some questions in the series point to the problematic intersection of cultures that such a commentary was designed to overcome. For example, 129 asks how an ‘unclean’ animal can be ‘good’, while 130 asks (col. 531): Inter. 130. Cur bos melior est leone? Resp. Quia ejus natura melius convenit hominis necessitati subvenire, propter quem creata sunt omnia animalia. [Question 130: Why is an ox better than a lion? Answer: Because its nature is better for serving the needs of humanity, the reason for the creation of all animals.]

Question 130 clearly has little to do with the text of Genesis, but suggests a problem for the logically – and literally – minded reader in understanding the idea of ‘cleanness’ in relation to other hierarchies in the created order. Such questions are in keeping with the wider interest of Alcuin’s treatment of the Flood, which only occasionally touches on mystical meanings. The coupling of these questions also shows Alcuin is not simply glossing at

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random, but providing a series of answers which demonstrate the unified meaning of scripture available to the sensitive, if not overly sophisticated, reader. When he does move onto higher levels of meaning, Alcuin shows none of the innovation of Bede – who himself had been conservative – adhering simply to the orthodox tradition established by the Fathers. Alcuin prefers to develop the application for his audience in the present life and in terms of the Judgment to come (coll. 531–2): Inter. 133. Cur arcus in signum securitatis datur? Resp. Quia praescivit creator formidabiles hominum animos ne iterum diluvio delerentur, dum saepius inundationes pluviarum cernerent. Inter. 134. Cur idem signum securitatis in coelo positum est? Resp. Ut ab omnibus inspici potuisset; et ut pro quacunque tribulatione oculos cordis ad eum attollamus qui habitat in coelis. Inter. 135. Cur signum illud diversi coloris datur hominibus? Resp. Propter securitatem et timorem: unde et in arcu idem color aquae et ignis [simul] ostenditur, quia ex parte est caeruleus et ex parte rubicundus. Ergo utriusque judicii testis est unius videlicet facti, et alterius faciendi, id est, quia mundus judicii igne cremabitur [nam] aqua diluvii non delebitur. [Question 133: Why was the rainbow given as a sign of security? Answer: Because the Creator knew beforehand the terror for the souls of men, when seeing the frequent floods caused by rain, and made known that the Flood should not return to obliterate them. Question 134: Why is the same sign of security put in the heavens? Answer: So that it can be seen by everyone, and so that in whatever the tribulation of the heart, we lift up our eyes to him who dwells in the heavens. Question 135: Why does that sign given to people have various colours? Answer: On account of security and fear: therefore in the rainbow the colours both of water and fire are similarly shown, because it is partly blue and partly red. Therefore in one colour the judgment is testified which has been manifestly carried out, and in the other what will be done, that is, because at the Judgment the world will be burnt by fire, destroying in the world what the water of the Flood did not.]

Alcuin’s reiterative approach to instruction is evident. The development of ideas follows the same progression found in Bede and

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most other commentators, moving from an explication of the letter of the text, to a moral reading, and from this to an eschatological reading of the rainbow, mystically linking the Flood to the future Judgment and its accompanying flood of fire. Alcuin’s emphasis on the rainbow as a sign sent to reassure humanity that the Flood is not being revisited each time it rains is more intelligible when it is realized, as the following answer points out, that rain itself was a new phenomenon at the time of the Flood, and rainbows previously unknown: Inter. 136. An pluviae ante diluvium essent? Resp. Videtur non esse, quia arcus non erat nisi ex radiis solis et humida nube. Potest autem fieri, ut ex roris et fontium sicut in Aegypto irrigatione terra fecundaretur. [Question 136: Was there rain before the Flood? Answer: Apparently not, because there was no rainbow unless by the beams of the sun and moisture of a rain-cloud. It is possible, however, that things were done this way: so that by the watering of dew-drops and springs (as in Egypt) the earth is made fertile.]

Such literal-mindedness, while not unusual in the Middle Ages, is not a feature of Bede’s treatment, which in its greater sophistication and coherence lays far greater stress on the range of mystical meaning the text suggests. In addition to the practical utility of the Interrogationes, Ælfric’s use of Alcuin’s work represents a deliberate expression of the continuity of the English theological tradition extending back to Bede – but methodologically to Alcuin. The Old English version of the questions omits a great number from the source, and in the process strips away much detail Ælfric seems to have found superfluous. Nevertheless, Ælfric found both the form and character of Alcuin’s work conducive to his own needs as a teacher. In the preface to his Genesis translation, Ælfric indicates his concern that the naked text has the potential to mislead readers who know nothing of the spiritual sense of scripture, and Ælfric’s Interrogationes were produced to clothe part of this naked sense.74 The Interrogationes provided in Old English translation were probably aimed at the same public as the Genesis translation – religiously minded nobility – though clergy whose Latin was not as good as Ælfric’s probably would have found them helpful.75

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A demonstration of the symmetry which unites the Genesis translation and the questions is found in Ælfric’s treatment of the internal structure of the ark. In his question 49 – translating Alcuin’s question 99, which explains the literal meaning of a confusing verse in the Latin text (Gen 6:16) – Ælfric adds a clarification of this internal structure, and the arrangement of the ark’s inhabitants: INT: Hu wæs noes arc gesceapen? RESP: Se arc wæs fyðerscyte þreo hund fæðma lang neoðan. 7 fi ftig fæðma wid. 7 þrittig fæðma heah. 7 wæs fram nyðeweardan oð ufeweardan swa to gædere gestoten. 7 swa genyrwerd þæt he wæs mid anre fæðme belocen ufewerd. swa swa he strengest beon mihte ongean þa stiðlican scuras; He wæs fif flere. 7 hæfde þreo wununga. on þære nyðe mestan fleringe wæs heora gangpyt 7 heora myxen. on þære oðre fleringe wæs heora nytena foda gelogod. on þære þriddan fleringe wæs seo forme wunung. 7 þær wunedon þa wildeor 7 þa reðan wurmas. On þære feorþan fleringe wæs þara tamra nytena steal; On þære fiftan fleringe wæs þara manna wunung mid wyrðmynte gelogod. 7 hi þar wunodon for nean twelf monað ærþan þe þæt flod mihte beon adruwod; [Question: How was Noah’s ark shaped? Answer: The ark was four-cornered, three-hundred fathoms long underneath, and fifty wide, and thirty fathoms high, and was from the lower part until the upper part so ordered together, and so narrowed that it was joined with one fathom at the top, so as it might be strongest against the severe showers. It had five floors, and had three dwellings. On the lowest floor was their toilet and their dung, on the second floor their animals’ fodder was stored, on the third floor was the first dwelling, and there dwelt the wild animals and the fierce serpents. On the fourth floor was the stall of the tame animals; on the fi fth floor was the dwelling of the human beings, arranged with decoration, and they dwelt there for nearly twelve months before the Flood could dry.]

Elsewhere, in his De sex aetatibus, Ælfric refers simply to the wunderlican arc (‘miraculous ark’, line 25); the sense of wonder is absent here, as is the allegory developed in his homily for the twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, discussed above. His explanation of the internal arrangement of the ark, difficult at the literal level, is dependent both on his source and on variant readings of the Latin text.

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In his study of the text of the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England, Richard Marsden has shown that Ælfric used a fairly pure Vulgate text as the basis for his translation.76 A high degree of caution must be exercised when attempting to determine the nature of a Latin original from the text of what is at times a very free Old English translation, transmitted by scribes well removed from the author. As Marsden points out, instances of a variant text are difficult to detect, and it is safer to do so with readings ‘involving exegetical cruces or points of especial typological significance, where it does seem highly likely that pre-Vulgate readings, as used in patristic commentaries . . . influenced Ælfric’s translation.’ One such instance is in Ælfric’s rendering of Genesis 6:16 on the internal structure of the ark.77 Where Jerome’s Vulgate has cenacula et tristega facies in ea, Ælfric’s translation gives 7 ðu macast ðreo fleringa binnan ðam arce. As Marsden notes, the Old English text cannot represent the Vulgate, and seems to owe more to readings such as Augustine’s in De ciuitate Dei (15.26):78 inferiora bicamerata et tricamerata facies eam.79 Ælfric’s choice of biblical text for his translation of Gen 6:16, in the light of his explanation of this variant reading in his question 49, suggests that he has selected the variant for the sake of the clear understanding of his readers, and also the likelihood that from the beginning Ælfric had intended the Genesis translation and the Interrogationes to work together. In this way Alcuin’s discussion, based on the variant reading, itself may have influenced Ælfric’s translation. Ælfric is also maintaining consistency not only between the translation and the Interrogationes, but also with his homily for the twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, in which he had developed his allegory of the internal structure of the ark based not on Jerome’s Vulgate, but the variant reading of Gen 6:16. Such attention to detail across his works suggests not only a unity of purpose on the part of Ælfric, but a meticulous concern not to confuse his closest readers with contradictory material. Ælfric’s shyness in developing the eschatological implications of the Flood in his Catholic homilies is perhaps surprising given that eschatology is a recurrent theme in his works. Indeed, the preface to his first series of Catholic homilies, written about 990, locates his writing in an awareness of the approaching end of the world.80 This aspect of the Flood is developed in his selective translation of Alcuin’s questions, for what must be the nar-

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rower audience implied by the patronage which demanded the translation. In his close adaptation of Alcuin’s question 135 (on the rainbow), Ælfric’s question 55 interprets the significance of the rainbow: 81 INT: Hwi is þæt tacn on tmislices bleos? RESP: On þam tacne is wæteres hiw. and fyres. and þæt is se renboga cymð of þam sun beame. and of wætum wolcne. to þan þæt he sy middan earde to orsorhnysse mid þam wæterigan bleo: þæt wæter us eft ealle: ne adrence. and þæt he sy to ogan mid þæs fyres hiwe. þæt eall middan eard bið mid fyre forswæled on þam micclan dæge; [Question: Why is that sign of various colours? Answer: In that sign is water’s colour, and fire’s, and that is because the rainbow comes from the sun’s beam and from wet clouds, so that it should free middle earth from anxiety with the watery colour, because water will not drown us all again. And for terror it has the colour of fire, because all middle earth will be swallowed with fire on that great day.]

The primary importance of the rainbow, as a sign of God’s promise that the world will never again be destroyed by water (Gen 9:12–17), is inseparable from the significance of the fiery hues it contains, a guarantee of a coming flood of fire. A further link between the Flood and fiery destruction of Sodom is developed in Ælfric’s translation of Alcuin’s question 191, which asks why the two punishments were different: INT. Quare diebus Noe peccatum mundi aqua ulciscitur, hoc vero Sodomitarum igne punitur? RESP. Quia illud naturale libidinis cum feminis peccatum quasi leviori elemento damnatur: hoc vero contra naturam libidinis peccatum cum viris, acrioris elementi vindicatur incendio: et illic terra aquis abluta revirescit; hic flammis cremata aeterna sterilitate arescit. [Question: Why, in the days of Noah, was the sin of the world punished with water, while truly the sin of the Sodomites was punished with fire? Answer: Because the sin with women is by natural desire, likewise it is condemned with a milder element: but truly sin with men is against natural desire, and is punished with the fire, the fiercer element; and likewise the Flood’s water washed and revived the earth, while burning flames make it barren forever.]

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Ælfric’s translation (his question 67) expands Alcuin’s answer, but continues the focus on the sexual sin of the Sodomites, emphasizing it as unnatural and shameless: INT: Hwi wolde God þa ylcan Sodomitiscan mid byrnendum swæfle adydan and on Noes flode wurdon þa synfullan mid wætere gewitnode? RESP: On Noes dagum gewitnode God manna galnysse mid wætere, mid liðran gesceafte, for þan þe hi syngodan mid wifum, and þa Sodomitiscan syngodon bysmorlice ongean gecynd and wurdon forþi mid swæflenum fyre forswælede þæt heora fule galnys wurde mid þam fulan swæfle gewitnod. On Noes flode wæs seo eorðe afeormad and eft geedcucod, and on þæra Sodomitiscra gewitnunge forbarn seo eorþe and bið æfre unwæstmbære and mid fulum wætere ofergan. On Noes dagum cwæð God be þam synfullum, ne þurhwunað min gast on þisrum mannum on ecnyssy, forþon þe hi synd flæsc. Se gast getacnað her Godes yrre. Swylce God cwæde, Nelle ic þis mennisc gehealdan to þam ecum witum, forþam þe hi synd tyddre. Ac ic wylle her on worulde him don edlean heora gedwyldes. Nis na þus awriten be þam Sodomitiscan þe ongean gecynd sceamlice syngodon; forþan þe hi synd ecelice fordemede. [Question: Why did God wish to destroy the same Sodomites with burning sulphur and in Noah’s Flood the sinful were punished with water? Answer: In Noah’s days God punished men’s lust with water, with a gentler creature because they sinned with women, and the Sodomites sinned shamefully against nature and for that were swallowed up with sulphurous fi re, so that their foul lust was punished with foul sulphur. In Noah’s Flood the earth was cleansed and later revitalized, and in the punishment of the Sodomites the earth was burnt and will ever be unfruitful and covered with foul water. In Noah’s days God said concerning the sinful, ‘My spirit will not endure among these people forever, because they are flesh.’ Here the spirit signifies God’s anger. It is as if God said, ‘I do not wish this people held for the eternal punishment, because they are weak. But here in the world I will give them the reward for their folly.’ It is not written so concerning the Sodomites who sinned shamefully against nature, because they are eternally damned.]

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Ælfric’s use of Gen 6:3, referring to the sinfulness of Noah’s generation, is far from conventional. Indeed, his paraphrase implying a hope for the ultimate redemption for those destroyed by the Flood, borders on the heretical. It is possible that his disgust with homosexuality has overtaken his orthodoxy, lightening the sinfulness of the natural lust of Noah’s contemporaries, so as to more convincingly damn Sodomites. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the rhetorical opposition he has built – recalling his preoccupation with sexual sin in his homiletic discussions of the Flood – also suggests a hopeful attitude to the generation of the Flood which has no scriptural basis. Eschatology Ælfric’s relative neglect of apocalyptic Flood typology in his Catholic homilies is made up for by two later homilies, both written in the period after 1002, a turbulent time for the English nation with the increasing intensity of Danish attacks. One, his Sermo ad populum in octavis Pentecosten dicendus, was clearly written for inclusion in the cycle of Catholic homilies, while the other, the Sermo de die iudicii, could be used on any occasion. The sermon in the Octave of Pentecost draws heavily on Latin excerpts from the Prognosticon futuri saeculi, an eschatological work written by the late-seventh-century Spanish archbishop, Julian of Toledo (r. 680–90). These Latin excerpts, found in MS Boulogne-sur-Mer 63, had been made by Ælfric in the 980s.82 The homily discusses the fire of the Last Day, but he does not mention Noah or the Flood in connection with it: 83 Ðonne ofergæþ an fyr ealle ðas woruld, and se engel blæwð þa seofoðan byman, þæt is seo æftemyste, and ealle men arisað þe æfre wurdon on life mid lichaman cuce. [‘Then a fire will cover all this world, and the angel will blow the seventh trumpet, that is the last, and all men will rise who ever lived a bodily life’.]

Ælfric’s omission of Noah’s name here is perhaps surprising given that the link between the coming fire and the Flood of Noah’s day is more carefully articulated in his sourse. This is his own Latin sermon (based on Julian’s Prognosticon), which mentions Noah, the Flood and the fire: 84

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Mutemur et non timebimus. Stipulam ad te congeris, veniet ignis. Non erit iste ignis ut focus tuus, sed sicut precedens iudicium in diebus Noe per diluvium factum est sic erit subsequens iudicium per ignem in adventu Christi. [We are moved and do not fear. You should have recalled the covenant when the fire comes. This fire will not be for your hearth, but as before the judgment was carried out by the Flood in the days of Noah, so it will be at the later judgment by fire at the coming of Christ.]

The comment on the typological link between the floods of fire and water found in the excerpts is Ælfric’s own. Ælfric seems to assume, probably safely, that the monastic audience of the Latin homily is easily familiar with the theme and its biblical foundation. The omission does not suggest reticence on Ælfric’s part, but rather that he has covered the material already, and indeed his Sermo de die iuidicii – also written in the politically troubled period 1002–5, and therefore perhaps before the piece for the octave of Pentecost – discusses the coming flood of fire in great detail.85 The sermon on Judgment Day is a piece with no known homiletic source, but which at the same time bears a general resemblance in parts to exegetical works known to Ælfric.86 The homily opens with a passage, based on Luke 17:20–7, warning that the Day of Judgment will come as suddenly as did the Flood in Noah’s day: Seo halige Cristes boc þe ymbe Cristes wundra sprycð segð þæt ða Sunderhalgan on sumne sæl ahsodan urne Hælend Crist ymbe hys tocyme, and ymbe Godes rice on þam mycclan dæge þe we Domes-dæg hatað; and he hym andwyrde þuss: Ne cymð ne Godes rice be nanre cepinge, ne menn ne cweþað na, efne he cymð nu; for þam þe he cymð færlice, swa swa færlic liget, þe scyt fram eastdæle scinende oð westdæl. And swa swa gefyrn gelamp on Noeys flode, menn æton and druncon and dwollice leofodon, cnihtas wifodon and wif ceorlodan, oðþæt Noe eode into þam arce. Þæt flod þa becom færlice ofer hi ealle, and ealle mancynn adrencte, buton eahta mannum, þe innan þam arce wæron, swa swa hym wissode God.

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Ælfric reworks the essential information from Christ’s own warning in Matthew’s gospel, and the thematic association of the Flood with the destruction of Sodom is retained. The typological link between the future fire and ancient water is implied in the cosmic lightning flash, which Ælfric inserts into Christ’s warning. This connection is made clearer in the association between the destruction of Sodom and the coming fire of Judgment: Se Hælend us sæde soðlice gelicnysse be Noeys flode and Loðes alysednysse; nu wite ge sume hu hit wæs be Noe and be hys flode, ac eower fela nat hu hyt wæs be Loðe; ac we wyllað eow secgan. [The Saviour told us a true analogy concerning Noah’s Flood and Lot’s deliverance; now you know to some degree how it was concerning Noah and his Flood, but not many of you know how it was concerning Lot, but I will tell you.]

Ælfric expects the Flood story to be sufficiently well-known by an Anglo-Saxon audience, and in no need of repeating; he may expect that everyone has heard or read his earlier homilies, though the comment implies a currency for the story outside his own preaching. The same is not true of Lot, though a more focused audience, especially those who had read his Genesis translation and its accompanying questions, would have heard of him.87 After briefly narrating the rescue of Lot and the fiery destruction of Sodom, Ælfric goes on to describe the link between this conflagration and the cleansing fire of Judgment:

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Eall swa bið on Domes-dæge on ures Drihtnes tocyme: þæt fyr cymð swa færlice þæt menn foresceawian ne magon, and mid egeslicum bryne ealne middaneard ofergæð; and menn þonne ne gymað, for þam micclan ogan, æniges oðres þinges butan þæs anes brogan, ne nan mann ne mæg ætberstan þam bradan fyre ahwider; and þæt fyr þonne afeormað þas eorðan, and hi geedniwað to ænlicum hiwe, and heo bið na forburnen, ac bið geclænsod from eallum þam fylþum þe hyre fram frymðe becomon, and heo swa on ecnysse eall scinende þurhwunað. [Just so will it be on the Day of Judgment on our Lord’s return: the fire will come so suddenly that people will not be able to foresee it, and with terrible burning it will cover all middle earth; and people then will not take heed, because of the overwhelming terror, of any other thing except of the great terror, and nor will anyone be able to break free from that broad fire anywhere; and that fire will then purge this earth, and renew it with a singular brightness, and it will not be burnt up, but will be cleansed from all the filth which it has accumulated since the beginning, and it will continue shining like that for all eternity.]

Not only is the story of the Flood well-known, but also its association with the Judgment, so much so that Ælfric does not even bother to explain the link for the same vernacular audience which he presumes is ignorant of the story of Lot. Even considering that as a writer Ælfric is careful to avoid unnecessary repetition across his works, the assumption that the eschatological significance of the Flood is so widely known that it need not be repeated is striking evidence of the biblical story’s popular diffusion in late Anglo-Saxon England. In his warning of the coming end Ælfric is fulfilling his role as a medieval preacher, a role which places him in tradition extending in England back to the preaching and teaching of the first missionaries.88 It is significant the Ælfric does not develop the typology of the flood of fire in his homilies, designed for wide circulation, until the national crisis which emerged after 1002, and given the ubiquity of the motif this apparent reticence is difficult to understand. It may well be that at this time less orthodox opinions concerning the Flood and the Judgment were circulating, and the Niall homilies provide an example of the kind of heterodox

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preaching which Ælfric himself would reject, and may well have tried to counter. While Ælfric hesitates to predict exactly when the awaited flood of fire might come – Christ himself uses the comparison with Noah to show how unexpected the Judgment will be – others were less cautious. Archbishop Wulfstan of York – with whom Ælfric closely collaborated – makes the link between the Flood of Noah’s day and the coming conflagration quite clear in his eschatological homily Secundum Lucam: And witodlice ealswa flod com hwilum ær for synnum, swa cymð eac for synnum, 7 ðærto hit nealæcð nu swiðe georne (‘and manifestly also the flood will come sometime before because of sins, as it comes now for sins, and in this way it will come very eagerly’).89 Wulfstan not only affirms the typological link between past and future floods, but describes the apocalyptic flood as coming very soon. It is fitting that one of Ælfric’s last surviving comments on the Flood develops the apocalyptic imagery of the Flood in a more hopeful way, looking beyond the Judgment and into eternity. His epistle On the Old and New Testaments presents a deeper reading of Noah and the Flood for his lay reader – the nobleman Sigeweard – than any offered before. The work, written in 1005/6, is a comprehensive account of biblical history structured around the six ages of the world. Ælfric quickly runs through the order of events of the earlier chapters of Genesis, declaring his desire not to linger over details of theological exposition:90 We secgað nu mid ofste þas endebirdnisse, for þan ðe we oft habbað ymbe þis awriten mid maran andgite, þa þu miht sceawian, 7 eac ða getacnunga, . . . [I tell now this order with haste, because I have often written about this with greater meaning, which you can look at, and also the significance . . .]

Ælfric does not delay over the meanings suggested by the scriptural narrative, implying a hope that these had already been learnt. In the letter, Ælfric summarizes the typological significance of Noah and the Flood:91 Noe, þe on ðam arce wæs on ðam miclum flode, þe ealle woruld adrencte buton þam eahta mannum, ys gereht requies, þæt is ‘rest’ on Englisc; 7 he getacnode Crist, þe for ðy com to us, þæt us of yðum þissere worulde to reste gebrohte 7 to blisse mid him.

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[Noah, who was in the ark on the great Flood, which drowned all the world except those eight people, is interpreted as requies, that is rest in English; and he signified Christ, who came to us for this, that we might be brought out of the waves of this world to rest and bliss with him.]

In the context of the epistle the typology serves to emphasize the unity of God’s purpose in history, but the particular comment, coming early in an overview of the Old Testament, anticipates not only Christ and the Church, but the fi nal rest of the faithful delivered ‘from the waves of this world.’ Ælfric writes as a careful teacher, introducing Sigeweard (and presumably the wider audience anticipated for his letter) to a mystery in the relationship between Noah and Christ which, for a more educated monastic audience, was probably a commonplace. This mystical anticipation of Christ in the character of Noah is not dependent upon Noah’s virtue – Adam could also be a type of Christ – but the patriarch’s virtue and saving mission undoubtedly made him an appropriate model for Ælfric’s purpose. Conclusion It is difficult to develop a sense of what constituted ‘popular’ cultural perspectives in Anglo-Saxon England. The casual allusion to Noah in the anonymous Old English translation of Paulus Orosius’ World History, made late in Alfred’s reign, suggests not only a similar desire to unify accounts of the past, but also suggests there is no need to rehearse the story of the Flood.92 In the works of Ælfric the modern reader can see what one orthodox teacher wanted his audience to know and think about the Flood, though only rarely can we see how such teaching was received. Occasionally, as in the case of Ælfric’s assumption that his readers and listeners know the story of the Flood, such insights are available. Nevertheless, Ælfric’s orthodox summary of the main themes of patristic teaching on the Flood found an audience in the decades around the year 1000, and formed an important part of the wider implementation of Church reform initiated in the Benedictine revival. On the other hand, the Sunday Letter homilies provide evidence of an alternative, and certainly less orthodox, understanding of the Flood, inseparable from recurrent eschatological

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anxiety. The Niall homilies suggest both authors and audiences with little theological sophistication. The simple understanding of historical events that saw in fire and sword God’s judgment on his sinful people was not only ultimately modelled on the myth of the Flood, but inseparable from it in the medieval religious imagination. While whole nations had to take care not to raise God’s anger through sinful disobedience of God’s commands – and sabbatical rest seems to have been perceived as a particular problem from one end of England to the other in the 830s – kings had more reason to attend to divine law. While for most kings this meant enduring the castigations of churchmen or the occasional visionary, Alfred’s study led him into sophisticated personal reflections not only on his own role as king, but the nature of royal power, an institution which had a problematic historical origin in the foolish giant Nimrod. The wise exercise of Christian kingship, whereby monarchs acknowledged their place as creatures rightly obedient to God, could help avert the kinds of disaster which overtook the primeval giants and ancient tyrants. The thoughts of a king do not exactly reveal ‘popular’ reception, but in the case of the myth of the Flood they emerge from what appears to have been a widespread belief that the ancient deluge established a pattern in the relationship between God and his creatures which was manifest in the punishment and tribulations of sinful nations, and which contained the promise of a future fiery conflagration for the whole world. This ancient pattern also provided a lesson which was to be ignored only to the world’s peril. Notes 1 King Alfred’s West-Saxon Version of Gregory’s Pastoral Care, ed. Henry Sweet, EETS os 45, 50 (London: Oxford University Press, 1871–2), pp. 3–5. 2 See A. N. Doane, ed., Genesis A (Madison, WI, 1978) pp. 36–7. 3 There are four other surviving OE homilies with Sunday letter material, none of which mentions Niall, and there was one other homily which is known to have been lost in the Cotton fi re; see Clare A. Lees, ‘The “Sunday Letter” and the “Sunday Lists” ’, ASE, 14 (1985), 129–51, ‘Apocrypha II. Apocryphal Gospels. Sunday Letter’, in Sources of Anglo-Saxon Literary Culture, ed. F. M. Biggs, T. D. Hill and P. E. Szarmach (Binghamton, NY, 1990), pp. 38–40; Dorothy Whitelock, ‘Bishop Ecgred, Pehtred and Niall’, in Ireland in Early Medieval Europe, ed. D. Whitelock, R. McKitterick and

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5 6

7 8

9 10 11 12

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D. N. Dumville (Cambridge, 1982), pp. 47–68; D. G. Scragg, ‘The Corpus of Vernacular Homilies and Prose Saints’ Lives Before Ælfric’, ASE, 8 (1979), 223–77, at pp. 248, 250. A. S. Napier, ed., Wulfstan: Sammlung der ihm zugeschriebenen Homilien nebst Untersuchungen über ihre Echtheit (Berlin, 1883); Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 51, cites these homilies as Homily A (Napier 43, ‘Sunnandæges spell’, pp. 205–15, Cambridge, MS Corpus Christi College 419, fols. 38–73, Ker, no. 68, art. 2, s. xi 1); and Homily B (Napier 44, pp. 215–26, BL Cotton Tiberius A. iii, fols. 83–7, Ker, no. 186, s. xi med); see also Charles D. Wright, The Irish Tradition in Old English Literature CSASE 6 (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 31, 45, 221–4, 265–7, 274. See Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, pp. 49–50. The text is found in Councils and Ecclesiastical Documents relating to Great Britain and Ireland, ed., A. W. Haddan and W. Stubbs, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1871), vol. 3, pp. 615–16; Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, pp. 48–9, provides a revised text, which is used here. Dorothy Whitelock, trans., ‘Letter of Ecgred, bishop of Lindisfarne, to Wulfsige, archbishop of York’, English Historical Documents, vol. 1 (2nd ed., Oxford, 1979), no. 214, p. 875. Among other notions which the book seems to have suggested was the Manichean belief that the devil had not fallen, but had been created as diabolus; Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 49; the letter also shows one use for the lists of popes which appear in Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. See F. Liebermann, ed., Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, 3 vols. (Halle, 1898– 1916), 1, pp. 194–8, II Edgar, no. 5. See Janet Bately, ‘Old English Prose Before and During the Reign of Alfred’, ASE, 17 (1988), 93–138, at pp. 114–18. Napier, Homilien, p. 205. Homily B has syxtinan fædman hegre (‘sixteen fathoms higher’), which is erroneous; Gen 7:20 gives the height as fi fteen cubits. The exact height of the Flood, curiously retained in this account, appears to have fascinated the Anglo-Saxons; see, for example, F. Kluge, ‘Zu altenglischen Dichtungen’, Englische Studien, 8 (1885), 472–9, at p. 474: Noes fl od wæs feowertig fedmen heh ofer þa hegesta dunen þe on middanearde synden and neorxenewange is feowertig fedme herre þone Noes fl od wæs (Noah’s Flood was forty fathoms high over the highest mountains which are on earth, and paradise is forty fathoms higher than Noah’s Flood was’); p. 477: feowærtig fædma heah wæs Noes flod ofer ða hehstan dune ðe on worulde is (‘Noah’s Flood was forty fathoms higher than the highest mountain in the world’). See also S. J. Crawford, ed., The Old English Version of the Heptateuch (Oxford, 1922), p. 419, no. 3. Napier, Homilien, p. 216, line 20–p. 217, line 14. Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, pp. 51–2. Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 49, Homily B adding ‘not many years ago’: neither displays an awareness of when Niall lived. Whitelock (p. 58) is principally concerned to correct the misunderstanding in R. Priebsch, ‘Quelle und Abfassungszeit der Sonntags-Epistel in der irischen “Cain Domnaig” ’, MLR, 2 (1906–7), 138–54, of the relationship between the Old

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Water and fire English homilies and the Irish Epistle of Jesus. Priebsch had asserted that the Irish text was the source of the Sunday Letter in the two homilies, but Whitelock establishes by a comparison of the texts that in fact a common source lies behind both the homilies and the Epistle of Jesus. This she concludes from the fact that the Irish version and the Pehtred homilies agree in including some things not in other versions of the Sunday letter and lists. Whitelock concludes that Pehtred ‘probably obtained his text in or from Ireland.’ Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 61; compare J. G. O’Keefe, ‘Cain Domnaig’, Eriu, 2 (1905), 189–214, at p. 197, ‘10. “Unless ye observe Sunday,” saith the Lord, “within its proper boundaries, there shall come great tempests, and many fiery lightnings, and thunder, and sulphurous fi re, which shall burn tribes and nations, and heavy stony hail-storms, and flying serpents, and heathens shall come to you from Me,” saith God Himself; “even a race of Pagans, who will carry you into bondage from your own lands, and will offer you up to their own gods.” ’, and ‘13. “Unless ye keep Sunday holy,” saith the Lord, “I swear by My might, and by My only begotten Son, even Christ the Son of God, and by My holy angels, a shower of fi re shall come to you on the feast of John, and it shall kill you all, men, youths, women, and maids, and yours souls shall be in hell thereafter without end.” ’ Which Saint John – Baptist or Evangelist – is intended is difficult to say. Though the raid was infamous, it is perhaps unlikely that there is any connection to the well-documented and particularly brutal Viking assault on Nantes on 24 June 842, the feast of John the Baptist; see Gwyn Jones, A History of the Vikings (London: Oxford University Press, 1968), p. 211. Given the association with the harvest, it may be that the author had in mind John the Baptist’s Decollation (29 August), rather than his nativity (24 June). It is also possible that ‘St John’ is the evangelist, whose feast day is on 27 December. Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 61. Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, p. 52. Whitelock, ‘Pehtred and Niall’, pp. 66, 68; Hom. B, in Napier, Homilien, p. 222, lines 12–13. G. Waitz, ed., Annales Bertiniani, MGH (Hannover, 1883), pp. 18–19; Janet L. Nelson, ed. and trans., The Annals of St-Bertin (Manchester, 1991), pp. 41–8. See above, pp. 85–8. Waitz, Annales, pp. 16–23. Waitz, Annales, p. 18; Nelson, Annals of St-Bertin, p. 41. Charles Plummer and John Earle, eds., Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1892–9), I (E), pp. 55–7. EHD, I, p. 314. Ernst Dümmler, ed., Epistolae Karolini aevi, II, MGH Epist. 4 (Weidmann: Berlin, 1895), no. 16, p. 43, lines 6–15; trans. Whitelock, EHD, I, no. 193, pp. 775–7. Dümmler, Ep. Karolini aevi, no. 16, p. 43, line 16–p. 44, line 34. Nicholas Howe, Migration and Mythmaking in Anglo-Saxon England (New Haven, CT, 1989), pp. 11–47, relates this theme to a pervasive myth of

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29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39

40

41

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migration reflected especially in the historical writings of the AngloSaxons; see also M. Godden, ‘Apocalypse and invasion’, in From AngloSaxon to Early Middle English, ed. Godden, Gray and Hoad (Oxford, 1994) p. 130. Dümmler, Ep. Karolini aevi, no. 20, p. 57, lines 13–15, 18–20, 22–5; p. 58, lines 9–10; trans. Whitelock, EHD, I, no. 194, pp. 778–9. See Godden, ‘Apocalypse and invasion’, p. 154. Alfred, King Alfred’s Old English Version of Boethius’ De consolatione philosophiae, ed. W. J. Sedgefield (Oxford, 1899), p. 34, lines 14–30. King Alfred’s Boethius, p. 98, lines 9–16. King Alfred’s Boethius, p. 98, line 25–p. 99, line 20. See Joseph S. Wittig, ‘King Alfred’s Boethius and its Latin Sources: A Reconsideration’, Anglo-Saxon England, 11 (1983), 157–98, for a discussion of Alfred’s use of Orpheus, and Susan Irvine, ‘Ulysses and Circe in King Alfred’s Boethius: A Classical Myth Transformed’, Studies in Old English Language and Literature: ‘Doubt Wisely’: Papers in Honour of E. G. Stanley, ed. M. J. Toswell and E. M. Tyler (London, 1996), pp. 387–401. Boethius, The Theological Tractates and The Consolation of Philosophy, ed. and trans. H. F. Stewart, E. K. Rand and S. J. Tester (Cambridge, MA, 1978), Book 3, prose 12, lines 69–71. King Alfred’s Boethius, p. 101, lines 8–13; see Irvine, ‘Ulysses and Circe’, pp. 389, 398. King Alfred’s Boethius, p. 99, lines 3–6. See Irvine, ‘Ulysses and Circe’, p. 389. See Schepss, ‘Zu König Alfreds Boethius’, Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, 94 (1895), 149–60, p. 152, and Brian S. Donaghey, ‘The Sources of King Alfred’s Translation of Boethius’s De Consolatione Philosophiae’, Anglia, 82 (1964), 23–57, at pp. 36 and 52 (Appendix A (13)); the increasing popularity of Boethius’ work in the Carolingian world led to the development of a commentary tradition for the elucidation of the text, which broadly falls into two streams: the ‘Remigian’ and ‘St Gall’ types. Augustine, De ciuitate Dei, 16.3, is the source for the discussion of the number of tongues; see King Alfred’s Boethius, p. 98, line 26–p. 99, line 20; Donaghey, ‘The Sources’, p. 52. See also P. Courcelle, ‘Etude critique sur les commentaires de la Consolation de Boece (IXe–XVe siècles)’, Archives d’Histoire Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Age, 12 (1939), 5–140, p. 55. Some of the commentaries provide details of the Titans’ war, probably using the fi rst mythographer. Janet Bately, ‘Those Books That Are Most Necessary for All men To Know: The Classics and Late ninth-Century England, A Reappraisal’, in The Classics in the Middle Ages, ed. Aldo S. Bernardo and Saul Levin (Binghamton, NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1990), pp. 45–78, at p. 55, has suggested that the commentaries are not Alfred’s source for his information on the Titans, as details differ significantly, and she argues his version resembles more those found in Ovid’s Fasti and Metamorphoses, Servius and Isidore. Alfred’s version of Babel perhaps draws on a range of patristic sources, but is of course biblical in origin; see Bately, p. 83n. Kurt Otten, König Alfreds

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43 44

45

46

47

48

49

50 51

Water and fire Boethius (Tübingen, 1964), pp. 130–1, suggests Alfred’s account follows a commentary of the Remigian type rather than St Gall. The book of Baruch, of dubious canonicity, may not have been known in Anglo-Saxon England, though Augustine’s citation would certainly have been; De ciuitate Dei, libri xi–xxii, CCSL 48, ed. B. Dombart and A. Kalb (Turnhout, 1955), p. 492, lines 138–41. Isidore, Etymologiarum, 7.6.22. See Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 79–81, on the Hiberno-Latin poem Altus prosator, which describes these tyrannical giant–kings groaning beneath the waters and cast down by fi re; he notes that the same links are found in discussion of Job 26:5 by Gregory the Great, who draws parallels with Wisdom 14:6, Proverbs 26:16, and Isaiah 26:14. Tradition has it that Bede himself produced translations in the vernacular, though only a short poem in Old English, supposed to be by him – his ‘Death song’ – survives. See Cuthbert’s ‘Epistola de obitu Bedae’, in HE, ed. Colgrave and Mynors, pp. 582–3. See Jonathan Wilcox, ed., Ælfric’s Prefaces, Durham Medieval Texts 9 (Durham, 1994), pp. 66–71, 107–8, 111; see also the discussion of the purpose of the homilies in Malcolm Godden, Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: Introduction, Commentary and Glossary, EETS ss 18 (Oxford, 2000), pp. xxvi– xxxvi. This understanding is found in the anonymous Vercelli homily 7: Witodlice ealle Cristes þa gecorenan þurh geswinc and þurh lare hie wurdon geweorðode þe we nu nemnan magon. . . . Ne mæg se rihtwisa man bion buton geswince gemang þam unrihtwisan. Witodlice Noe ana wæs rihtwis betweox eall manna cynn, 7 he for his rihtwisnesse Gode licode. (‘Clearly all Christ’s chosen, whom we now may take [as an example], were made worthy through toil and through doctrine. . . . The righteous man cannot be so except through toil among the unrighteous. Clearly Noah alone was righteous among all mankind, and he pleased God because of his righteousness.’) D. G. Scragg, The Vercelli Homilies, EETS os 300 (Oxford, 1992), p. 134, no. 7, lines 7–11; subsequent references are to homily and line numbers in this edition. Ælfric’s Lives of Saints, ed. W. W. Skeat, 2 vols., EETS 76, 82, 94, 114 (London, reprint 1966), hereafter LS 1 and LS 2; the Lives are referred to by volume, number and line numbers; and I follow Skeat’s editorial formatting of Ælfric’s rhythmical prose. P. A. M. Clemoes, ‘The Chronology of Ælfric’s Works’, in The Anglo-Saxons: Studies in Some Aspects of Their Literature and Culture, ed. P. A. M. Clemoes (London, 1959), pp. 212–47, at 244, suggests LS 16 was written earlier than LS 13. See Godden, ‘Apocalypse and invasion’. The collection was written 995– 1002, though Godden agrees with Clemoes in dating this piece ‘not long after 995’; see Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, pp. 222–5, and Malcolm Godden, ‘Ælfric’s Changing Vocabulary’, ES, 61 (1980), 206–23, at p. 211. LS 1, 13:30–7; Godden, ‘Apocalypse and invasion’, p. 133. Godden, ‘Apocalypse and Invasion’, p. 134: ‘In his earlier homilies Ælfric had offered much more complex analyses than this, recognizing that there were many reasons why God might allow his people to be affl icted, and anger at them for their sins was only one of those.’

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52 Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The First Series: Text, ed. P. A. M. Clemoes, EETS ss 17 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), hereafter CH 1: Ælfric’s Catholic homilies are referred to by series, number and line numbers; see also Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, Malcolm Godden, ed., Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The Second Series: Text (London, 1979), hereafter CH 2, pp. xc–xciv for a discussion of the circulation of both series, and M. Godden, Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: Commentary (Oxford, 2000), pp. xxix– xxxvi, for their date; Godden, Commentary, pp. 7–13, notes there are no obvious sources. 53 The Anglo-Saxons seem to have been fascinated with the dimensions of the ark, which are preserved in a number of MS notes. One note, in British Library MS Cotton Julius A.ii simply states: Noes earc wæs. III. hundfeðma lang. 7 fi ftig wid 7 þrittig heah (‘Noah’s ark was three hundred fathoms long, and fi fty wide and thirty high’), A. Napier, ‘Altenglische Kleinigkeiten’, Anglia, 11 (1889), 1–10, at p. 5, lines 6–7, fol. 140b of the manuscript. The same note is found in BL MS Cotton Tiberius A.iii, fol. 73, Noes earc wæs þreo hund fæþma lang. 7 fi ftiges wid 7 þritiges heah, Napier, p. 4, lines 1–2; see also BL MS Harley 3271 (Ker 239.7), which excerpts Ælfric’s Interrogationes, no. 49, on the ark’s dimensions. That these measurements were an essential piece of trivia is suggested by the recurrence of such notes, and in the collection of trivia in the Old English prose dialogue of Solomon and Saturn: Saga me hu lang was noes earc on lenge. Ic þe secge, heo was ccc fæðema lang and l fæðema wid and xxx fæðema heah (‘Tell me how long Noah’s ark was. I tell you, it was three hundred fathoms long, fi fty fathoms wide and thirty fathoms high’). J. E. Cross and T. D. Hill, Solomon and Saturn (Toronto, 1982), no. 23 (p. 29), and commentary, p. 88; see also no. 18 (p. 29). 54 Wulfstan’s homily 6, which is based on this work of Ælfric, does not develop the moral lesson found in Noah’s behaviour; see Wulfstan, The Homilies of Wulfstan ed. Dorothy Bethurum (Oxford, 1957), pp. 146, 293, no. 6, lines 56–69; Wulfstan is also using other sources. 55 Gregory’s homily 19 is PL 76:1282–93. See M. Förster, ‘Über die Quellen von Ælfric’s exegetischen Homiliae Catholicae’, Anglia, 16 (1894), 1–61, nos. 51, 92; C. Smetana, ‘Aelfric and the early medieval homiliary’, Traditio, 15 (1959), pp. 163–204, at p. 194, Smetana, following Förster, notes only that Ælfric is using Gregory’s homily 38, and comments that he probably found it in a version of Paul the Deacon’s homiliary; see also Godden, Commentary, pp. 297–8. J. E. Cross, ‘Bundles for Burning – A Theme in Two of Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies – with other sources’, Anglia, 81 (1963), 335–46, at pp. 343–4. 56 See Chapter 2 above, pp. 55, 75–6. 57 See Godden, Commentary, pp. 370–80; Förster, ‘Die Quellen’, no. 79, discusses the sources, as does Smetana, ‘Early Medieval Homiliary’, p. 196; see Bede, Opera homiletica, 1.14, CCSL 122: 95–104; see Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 244, and CH 2, pp. xc–xciv, for a discussion of the dates of the issue and circulation of the homilies. 58 See Chapter 2 above, pp. 71–3. 59 Ælfric has also removed the reference to the meaning of the dove.

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60 This passage is also used by Byrhtferth in his Enchiridion, Peter S. Baker and Michael Lapidge, eds., Byrhtferth’s Enchiridion, EETS ss 15 (London, 1995), pp. 206–7, though the editors suggest he has used Haymo’s version (PL 118:132–3), see note to lines 123–54, pp. 347–8. 61 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 76; Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 244; the translation was produced in the period 992–1002. 62 See H. Magennis, Anglo-Saxon Appetites (Dublin, 1999), pp. 137–43, for a discussion of Ælfric’s treatment of drunkenness. 63 There are three surviving copies of the Old English Genesis, and it is generally agreed that the version found in Cambridge University Library Ii. 1. 33, of the second half of the twelfth century, most fully represents Genesis as translated by Ælfric; see N. R. Ker, Catalogue of Manuscripts Containing Anglo-Saxon (Oxford, 1957), no. 18 (all references are to Ker Catalogue numbers). The transmitted text of this manuscript is unreliable, and must be used in conjunction with British Library MS Cotton Claudius B. iv (Ker, no. 142) of the fi rst half of the eleventh century, which is the base text of Crawford’s edition of the Heptateuch. Clemoes, following Jost, argued that Ælfric’s share of the Old English prose Genesis consists of chapters 1–3, 6–9, 12–22, and that the anonymous compiler of Genesis has revised Ælfric’s version of Gen 23–24:20. Clemoes disagreed with Jost’s suggestion that the compiler has used a lost Ælfrician version in the joining sections, and also asserts that Ælfric has recommenced his translation at 5:32, not 6:1, and so concludes that Genesis 4–5:31, 10, 11, and 24 to the end are the work of another author; see P. A. M. Clemoes, ‘The Composition of the Old English Text’, in The Old English Illustrated Hexateuch British Museum Cotton Claudius B iv, ed. C. R. Dodwell and P. A. M. Clemoes, EEMF 18 (Copenhagen, 1974), pp. 42–53, at p. 44; K. Jost, ‘Unechte Ælfrictexte’, Anglia, 51 (1927), 81–103, 177–219, at pp. 198–200; J. Raith, ‘Ælfric’s Share in the Old English Pentateuch’, Review of English Studies, 203 (1952), 305– 14; Richard Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator: The Old English Prose Genesis’, Anglia, 109 (1991), 319–58, at pp. 328–9. 64 Richard Marsden, The Text of the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England, CSASE 15 (Cambridge, 1994), has refuted claims that the work is uninspired and that Ælfric was concerned only with producing a literal translation, leading, as earlier critics had suggested, to a ‘willingness’ on his part ‘to produce a meaningless text’ (p. 320); H. Minkoff, ‘Some Stylistic Consequences of Ælfric’s Theory of Translation’, Studies in Philology, 73 (1976), 29–41, at pp. 33–7. Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator’, pp. 327–8, discusses the influence of Jerome on Ælfric and others: his main legacy to later translators was ‘the principle of sense for sense translation’; see, for example, Jerome’s Epistola LVII, ‘Ad Pammachium de Optimo Genere Interpretandi’ (CSEL 54: 508); see A. E. Nichols, ‘Ælfric and the Brief Style’, JEGP, 70 (1971), pp. 1–12, on Ælfric’s style of brevitas, articulated in his prefaces, and found across his works; H. Hargreaves, ‘From Bede to Wyclif: Medieval English Bible Translations’, Bulletin of John Rylands Library of the University of Manchester, 48 (1965), 118–40, at pp. 127–8. 65 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 6, lines 1–5. For a discussion of the audience of Ælfric’s biblical translations generally, and the Genesis translation in par-

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ticular, and their use in the night office, see M. McC. Gatch, ‘The Office in Late Anglo-Saxon Monasticism’, in Learning and Literature in AngloSaxon England: Studies Presented to Peter Clemoes on the Occasion of his Sixty-fi fth Birthday, ed. Michael Lapidge and Helmut Gneuss (Cambridge, 1985), pp. 431–62, at pp. 352–62. 66 Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator’, p. 342. 67 This seems to change the sense of the remaining part of the verse, but Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator’, p. 324, suggests this may not be Ælfric’s work: ‘Not all such omissions merely streamline the text. In 7:11, for example, confusion is caused by the omission of a translation of the opening of the fi rst Vulgate colon, “Anno sescentesimo vitae Noe”, on which the sense of the next verse depends. The omission is common to each of the OE manuscripts and may well result from an early transmissional loss.’ 68 He includes this detail in other discussions; see CH 1, 1:190, and God beleac hi bynan þam arce, his homily for the second Sunday after epiphany, CH 2, 4:113–14, and his De sex aetatibus, line 31 (edited in H. Tristram, Sex aetates mundi: Die Weltzeitalter bei den Iren und den Angelsachsen (Heidelberg, 1985), pp. 194–201). 69 G. E. Maclean, ed., ‘Ælfric’s Version of the Interrogationes Sigeuulfi in Genesin’, Anglia, 6 (1883), 425–73, and Anglia, 7 (1884), 1–59; see Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, pp. 244–5; the assumption that the Interrogationes were produced as a companion volume to Genesis is reasonable, but it suggests that Ælfric either must have intended the work as a commentary on the fi rst 23 chapters of Genesis outside the limits of his own translation, or a section of his original work has been lost. As noted above, Clemoes, ‘Composition’, pp. 44–5, suggests that Gen 4:1–5:31, which contains the story of Cain and Abel, is not by Ælfric, though his Interrogationes include three questions on Cain and Abel, nos. 44–6. See also Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, pp. 224–46, and Gatch, ‘The Office in Late Anglo-Saxon Monasticism’, pp. 360–1. 70 O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s Writings’, p. 466, notes that ‘Alcuin’s question and answer form is a time-honoured, if time-worn, device’; see also E. Ann Matter, ‘Alcuin’s Question and Answer Texts’, Rivista di storia della filosofi a, 45 (1990), 645–56, at p. 654; John William Houghton, ‘(Re)Sounding Brass: Alcuin’s New Castings in the Questions and Answers on Genesis’, Proceedings of the PMR Conference, 16/17 (1992–3), 149–61, who argues for a higher degree of authorial artistry in Alcuin’s work than suggested by O’Keeffe. 71 Holder, ‘Bede and the Tradition’, p. 401, notes the esteem in which Bede was held as the last of the ‘authorities’; Alcuin ranks him with the likes of Augustine and Ambrose; see Alcuin, Epistola 213, in E. Dümmler, ed., Epistolae Karolini aevi, MGH Epistolae 4 (Berlin, Weidmann, 1895), 2:357. 72 See Paul G. Remley, Old English biblical Verse: Studies in Genesis, Exodus and Daniel, CSASE 16 (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 51–5, for a discussion of education in the eighth century. McClure, ‘Bede’s Notes on Genesis’, p. 26, notes the ‘weaknesses in the form and content’ of Bede’s commentary as an educational text. 73 O’Keeffe, ‘The Use of Bede’s writings’, pp. 463–5.

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Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 225. Ælfric uses only very few of the questions available to him in Alcuin’s Latin original: Alcuin’s questions 93–143 are directly concerned with the Flood and Noah, while Ælfric has only eight on the topic (PL 100:526–32). O’Keeffe, ‘Three English Writers on Genesis’, pp. 77–8, suggests a clerical audience for the Old English work. 76 See Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator’, pp. 322–8, who disagrees with A. E. Nichols, ‘Awendan: A Note on Ælfric as Translator’, JEGP, 63 (1964), pp. 7–13, who argued that supposed deviations from a close reliance on a pure Vulgate text can be explained by the assumption that Ælfric had used a mixed Vulgate/Old Latin text as the basis for his translation. 77 The only other instance of such a textual crux in the section of the Genesis dealing with Noah and the Flood is found in Gen 8:7, where Ælfric gives: se hrem fl eah ða ut 7 nolde eft ongean cyrran, ær ðan ðe ða wæteru adruwodon ofer eorðan. Jerome’s Vulgate had corrected the negative, introduced in the Septuagint, by returning to the authority of the original Hebrew text. But the Fathers had universally adopted and explained the erroneous negative version, in a crux which would have been familiar to Ælfric. Such an alteration on Ælfric’s part suggests that he is no mindless paraphraser, but is actively engaged in the translation of the text with exegetical, and presumably didactic, purposes in mind. No other comment on the raven survives in Ælfric’s works; see Richard Marsden, ‘Old Latin Interventions in the Old English Heptateuch’, ASE, 23 (1994), pp. 229–64, at pp. 244–5: ‘The correct, positive, version was in most Vulgate manuscripts originally, including the earliest, but there was later emendation in a few, under the influence of patristic versions’; the altered versions include the Codex Amiatinus and three later Alcuinian bibles. See M. McC. Gatch, ‘Noah’s Raven in Genesis A and the Illustrated Old English Hexateuch’, Gesta, 14 (1975), 3–15, for a discussion of the exegetical and iconographic significance of this reading. 78 CCSL 48:494; see Marsden, ‘Ælfric as Translator’, p. 333. 79 For Bede’s discussion of the same question, see Chapter 2 above, pp. 55–7. 80 Milton McC. Gatch, Preaching and Theology in Anglo-Saxon England: Ælfric and Wulfstan (Toronto, 1977), pp. 61, 68; Godden, ‘Apocalypse’, pp. 133–42, suggests a developing political stance in Ælfric’s apocalyptic writings. 81 A similar, but longer, allegorization of the colours of fire and water in the rainbow is found in Bede’s commentary on Genesis; In Genesin, II, 2230–69. 82 See Godden, Commentary, p. xxxi. 83 Homilies of Ælfric: Supplementary Series, ed. John C. Pope, 2 vols., EETS os 259, 260 (London, 1967–8), 1, pp. 407–52, at p. 431, lines 296–301; this homily is full of fyr, mentioned no less than eighteen times; see Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 245. 84 Gatch, Preaching and Theology, pp. 129–46, lines 216–19. 85 Homilies of Ælfric, ed. Pope, 2, pp. 584–612; Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 244.

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86 See Gatch, Preaching and Theology, p. 88, and note 19, p. 231; see also Pope’s notes, Homilies of Ælfric, 2, pp. 590–612. 87 See Malcolm Godden, ‘The trouble with Sodom: literary responses to biblical sexuality’, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, 77 (1995), 97–119, who discusses Ælfric’s disgust at the episode (pp. 102–3). 88 See B. Reicke, The Disobedient Spirits (Copenhagen, 1946), pp. 27–32. 89 Wulfstan, Homilies of Wulfstan, ed. Bethurum, No. 3, p. 123, lines 7–9; see also A. Orchard, Pride and Prodigies (Cambridge, 1995), p. 44. 90 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 22, lines 145–66. 91 Crawford, Heptateuch (London, 1922), p. 24, lines 195–206; this etymology and its typological significance are not discussed elsewhere in Ælfric’s works. 92 See Introduction above, p. 7.

4 Flood, covenant and apocalypse in Old English poetry

The Flood theme is exploited and developed across a range of Old English Christian verse, but it is given special prominence in three longer narrative poems. Two of these, Genesis A and Exodus, draw on the Bible as their principal source; the third, Andreas, is an apocryphal account of events in the life of the apostle Andrew. The three poems differ in character, and while the exact audience of none is known, Genesis A alone would seem intended for a wide audience, of ordained and professed religious as well as layfolk. The poem includes a full account of the Flood in its rendering of the first twenty-two chapters of Genesis. It shows the influence of the commentary tradition, but even if some Anglo-Saxon listeners did not notice this their appreciation would not have been impaired. While Exodus is also a biblical poem, its mode of narration is quite different. In describing the flight of Israel from Egypt, the poem includes a brief account of the Flood in a sudden departure from the principal narrative. In this episode and elsewhere, the poet must have expected his audience to share his understanding of biblical typology if they were to appreciate the allusive style and themes of Exodus. This is true also of Andreas where, despite the fact that neither Noah nor his ark is mentioned, the Flood story and its mystical meaning are a crucial part of the poem’s structure. Elements of the Flood story are recalled throughout the poem, most strikingly in the penultimate scene in which a flood dense with symbolism emerges from a stone pillar and almost overwhelms the pagan cannibals of Mermedonia. Despite their differences, all the poems share an interest in two themes, which emerge from the biblical story of the Flood and its theological interpretation: covenant and apocalypse.

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Genesis A Scholars of Old English poetry generally agree that Genesis A is an early poem, perhaps written as early as the seventh century in the first flourish of a ‘Cædmonian’ school of vernacular verse.1 Very little is known about the earliest composition of Old English biblical verse beyond the story of Cædmon narrated by Bede, our only source for the tradition that this cowherd was singled out by God for the special grace of first composing sacred verse in the Anglo-Saxon vernacular. Nevertheless, Bede’s account gives clear evidence that, by the time he was writing his Ecclesiastical History, such verse existed and it is clearly implied this included the story of the Flood (4:24): Canebat autem de creatione mundi et origine humani generis et tota Genesis historia, de egressu Israel ex Aegypto et ingressu in terram repromissionis, de aliis plurimis sacrae scripturae historiis, de incarnatione dominica, passione, resurrectione et ascensione in caelum, de Spiritus Sancti aduentu et apostolorum doctrina; item de terrore futuri iudicii et horrore poenae gehennalis ac dulcedine regni caelestis multa carmina faciebat. [He sang about the creation of the world, the origin of the human race, and the whole history of Genesis, of the departure of Israel from Egypt and entry into the promised land and of many other stories taken from the sacred scriptures: of the incarnation, passion and resurrection of the Lord, of his ascension into heaven, of the coming of the Holy Spirit and the teaching of the apostles. He also made songs about the terrors of the future judgment, the horrors of the pains of hell and the joys of the heavenly kingdom.]

In addition to attesting to the existence of an inherited body of Old English Christian verse, Bede gives us some idea of its purpose. The poetry incorporated doctrinae sermonem into compositions from sacred history, and it aimed to turn listeners away from sin and ad dilectionem uero et sollertiam bonae actionis excitare curabat (‘arouse in them the love and practice of good works’). The poetry described is clearly not ambitious in its intent: Bede suggests the Old Testament verse is primarily narrative, though informed by Christian doctrine, and meant to delight the audience and bring about moral reform. We do not know if any of this vast body of scriptural and doctrinal verse, which Bede’s

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story informs was being transmitted in his day, has survived in written form.2 Whether or not it is by Cædmon is impossible to prove, but the form and content of Genesis A, the longest of the poems in Bodleian MS Junius 11, evokes the literary and cultural milieu suggested by Bede. His account of angelic intervention invites some doubts from the modern reader, though there is no reason to doubt either the existence of Cædmon (who must have died about the time of Bede’s birth in c.673) or that a body of verse attributed to him was circulating in Northumbria in Bede’s day. The assumption of the earliest modern critics of Old English poetry – that the entire collection of biblical poetry found in MS Junius 11 is the work of Cædmon – has long been disproved, though (given Genesis A’s probable early date, and the unlikelihood that two early poets would have undertaken the monumental task of rendering ‘the whole history of Genesis’ into Old English verse) the possibility remains that this is the poem Bede attributed to Cædmon. The first critics to treat Genesis A as a literary work did not consider its merits very high, though later generations have discerned some sophistication in the poem.3 One major source of disagreement concerns the degree to which patristic commentary has influenced the poet’s recasting of Genesis. Huppé’s systematic reading of the poem as one suffused with the theological and historical ideas advanced in Augustine of Hippo’s De ciuitate Dei has been influential, if controversial; but, while such a major work of historical theology must have had some effect on a poem of the scope of Genesis A, Huppé’s reading is often difficult to substantiate with close reading of the text.4 Support for pervasive patristic influence has come from Doane, the poem’s most recent editor, who does not fundamentally dispute the ‘Augustinian’ approach, though he is critical of the simplicity of its application.5 Wright has more recently noted that most critics who argue for the importance of typological allusions in Genesis A ‘have generally acknowledged that the Genesis A poet treats the biblical narrative primarily as a chronicle of the acts of God within history’.6 At its most literal level of meaning, Genesis A might have served the purpose of explaining to a vernacular audience the origin of creation, with the disobedience of some creatures and

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the loyalty of others.7 The poet’s treatment of the biblical text shows a sensitivity to the range of meanings which had accreted to the story he was telling, and Roberta Frank’s suggestion that the poet has ‘highlighted potentially Christological episodes’ in a poem where his ‘main concern . . . was to narrate the historical truth of Old Testament events’, is useful when approaching his treatment of the Flood.8 The poet influenced by Christian doctrine recounted biblical stories in Old English verse, and simultaneously (or even necessarily) in terms appropriate to the culture he shared with his listeners and in a traditional poetic medium. In this way heroes become heroes in Anglo-Saxon terms, and a villain like Cain endures the exile of an outcast Anglo-Saxon warrior. Furthermore, the casting of the Flood episode in Genesis A, like others in the poem, draws on a specialized poetic vocabulary, which allows the poet to exploit the overlap where words had both secular and religious meanings. Genesis A is a biblical abridgement which places the Flood story at the heart of the poem, framed by creation, exile from Eden and the sin of Cain on the one side, and on the other by the rebellion at Babel, the exile of Abraham and his obedience in the sacrifice of Isaac.9 In Genesis A, as in its biblical source,10 the Flood is sent as a punishment for the many sins committed by the human race in the generations after the expulsion from Eden. The poet follows a commonplace interpretation of Genesis 6:2–6, which sees God’s anger directed particularly at the sinful race of giants, though the poem, like the Bible, does not spell out their sins; but Genesis A does present a more detailed account of Cain’s germinal sin in a careful reworking of the Cain and Abel episode.11 Huppé saw Cain’s sin and subsequent exile as crucial in the extended allegory in Genesis A of a great battle between the sin-bound earthly city and the heavenly Jerusalem. Brockman, however, used the Cain and Abel episode to challenge Huppé’s way of reading the poem, arguing for a retelling of events influenced by more simple secular values.12 Any clear invitation to typological reading is absent, and the poet appears more concerned with the illegality of the killing than its immorality, let alone its mystical meaning.13 The poet characterises Cain’s crime as the killing of a hleomæg (‘cheek-kinsman’, 1007a), one whom he is obliged in Anglo-Saxon custom to protect. A similar attitude is found in Beowulf, where Cain’s close relation-

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ship to Abel is emphasized (1261b–3a): Cain wearð/ to ecgbanan angan breþer,/ fæderenmæge (‘Cain became the sword-slayer of his own brother, his paternal kinsman’). The implied secular ethic underlying the Genesis A poet’s recasting of the episode is also apparent in the description of Cain’s exile (1049b–51a), which resembles the Beowulf-poet’s formulation of the same punishment (Beowulf, 109–10).14 Wright, discussing this episode, has noted ‘even if the image of the evil branches of sin has a possible historical referent in the literal descendants of Cain, . . . the poet’s assertion that these branches “spread widely through the nations” (990b–92b) point[s] to a more universal conception of Cain’s fratricide as the spiritual root of malice and violence in human society’.15 In his exile, Cain’s loss of hyldo, lufu and freode (‘protection/grace’, ‘love’ and ‘peace/friendship’, 1025b–26a) is literally true, but the poet’s vocabulary also evokes Cain’s spiritual loss as a part of a recurrent pattern in the poem of the relationship with God as one that offers peace and protection.16 The sin certainly represents a deterioration of humanity’s relationship with God, one that will reach beyond the Flood to the dispersal of the nations at Babel. In the design of Genesis A, building on structural parallels of the Bible, the Cain-and-Abel episode is tied to two linked episodes after the Flood: the formation of the covenant between God and Noah, and the account of Noah’s drunkenness. As in the Bible, the later episodes in the poem echo the circumstances of Cain’s crime: in both instances a sacrifice is offered, followed by a son’s sin, resulting in a curse.17 Noah, like Abel, demonstrates his virtue by offering a sacrifice. His piety and obedience (1493–5) are emphasized by the preparation of the sacrifice immediately upon leaving the ark (1483–1508a). The poet’s omission of much of Gen 8:15–22 reveals both his interest in the narrative elements he retains and his skill in crafting the episode to reflect his own thematic interests. He removes all reference to the sacrificial animals and fire, and Noah’s offering is described only as coming from the goods the Lord has given him (1499–1500). As a result, the poem presents an expanded description of the preparation for the sacrifice, but not the holocaust itself. The poet’s omission of Gen 8:20–2 serves the stylistic purpose of removing

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the first mention of the promise that no other deluge will be sent to destroy the world, but also any idea that Noah is killing and burning animals, perhaps suggesting some concern on the poet’s part over an uneducated audience’s response to Noah’s example.18 The offering expresses gratitude (gyld on þanc, ‘given in thanks’, 1506a) for God’s blessing, which Noah deserved because of the good works of his youth (1507–8a). In this way Noah enjoys grace and favour before and after the Flood, and in an enhancement of the moral reading of the text, presents a model worthy of imitation. Noah is also heroic, but suggestions that Noah is saved from the Flood for his heroic qualities such as his ellen (‘strength/courage’, 1288b) confuse the vernacular poetic form with its content. Noah’s heroic courage complements his moral qualities: Noe wæs god (‘Noah was good’, 1285a, see also 1346b, ic þe godne wat, ‘I know you to be good’). Descriptions of Noah’s simple virtue – typological implications are ignored here – and the omission of culturally irrelevant detail portray a familiar world and a past which resembles more the Germanic north in the process of Christianization than the ancient Middle East, presenting biblical history in a culturally appropriate and digestible form. After Noah’s sacrifice the terms of the covenant are set out. God promises never to send another deluge and makes three commands to Noah and his descendants: to increase and multiply, to refrain from eating blood, and against murder (1512–42). Noah’s representative role in the covenant is suggested not only by its universal terms, but also by the reference to his eðelstol (‘homeland-throne’, 1514b): in this new homeland, Noah is the ruler who speaks for his people. The hope that humanity’s new beginning will be a happier one than the first is signalled by the poet’s addition that procreation should happen mid gefean fryðo (‘with the gladness of peace’, 1513a), a peace disrupted by Cain’s earlier fratricide.19 The poet’s treatment of the second and third precepts of the Noachic covenant is more complex. The human race will no longer be vegetarian, and Noah is told he may eat any living thing – except meat with blood in it. The accompanying warning that God will require an account of each man’s life-blood is ambiguous (Gen 9:3–6):

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Despite the obscurity of the passage, the connection between the eating of blood and the permission to eat meat is quite clear. This connection is severed, however, in the poem, by the omission of Gen 9:3 (1518–31): Næfre ge mid blode beodgereordu unarlice eowre þicgeað, besmiten mid synne sawldreore. Ælc hine selfa ærest begrindeð gastes dugeðum þæra þe mid gares orde oðrum aldor oðþringeð. Ne ðearf he þy edleane gefeon modgeþance, ac ic monnes feorh to slagan sece swiðor micle, and to broðor banan, þæs þe blodgyte, wællfyll weres wæpnum gespedeð, morð mid mundum. Monn wæs to godes anlicnesse ærest gesceapen. Ælc hafað magwlite metodes and engla þara þe healdan wile halige þeawas [You must never disgracefully eat food with blood at your feast, polluted with sin by the soul-blood. Everyone first deprives himself of the benefits of the spirit, who with the spear’s point forces the life out from another. Nor need he rejoice in contemplation of the reward, for I will seek out the man’s life from the killer more greatly, and from the brother slayer, for bloodshed, the slaying of a man, carried out with weapons, a murder with hands. Man was first made in God’s likeness. Everyone who will keep holy customs will have the appearance of the Lord and of the angels.]

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As with the details concerning animal sacrifice, the poet omits the first part of the dietary law, but does not explain the retention of the second part concerning blood, the meaning of which cannot be the same without Gen 9:3. It is highly improbable in a poem like Genesis A that the poet is depending on his audience’s close knowledge of the source text for an understanding of the allusion to the prohibition on eating blood. Fred Robinson has noted that a range of Anglo-Saxon authors whose works span three centuries manifest ‘an almost obsessive concern with the Old Testament injunction against the drinking of blood.’20 The widespread anxiety over the consumption of blood – the ‘soul-life’ (sawldreore) – in Anglo-Saxon England is evident in the description in Genesis A of those indulging in the practice as doing so unarlice, which may be glossed ‘dishonourably’ or ‘shamefully’, but also ‘in a way lacking grace’. While the poet deftly removes unhelpful references to divinely sanctioned animal sacrifice, the clear prohibition against eating blood is retained and simplified for the audience, and described unequivocally as synn (‘sin’). The historical prohibition valid to the poet’s present day also confirms the continuing binding authority of the Noachic covenant. The Vulgate links the injunction against killing with the prohibition against consuming blood with wordplay and assonance, describing murder in terms of shedding blood (quicumque effuderit humanum sanguinem fundetur). The poem does not refer to murder in the same way, but to the taking of life ‘with the spear point’ (1522b–23a) as the crime which deprives the soul of benefits. This spiritual punishment is inevitable because God himself will exact revenge (1524b–28a). The reference to the crime as broðor banan here deliberately evokes the memory of Cain and Abel, a legal precedent which shows God as judge will indeed take an interest in murder, linking the crime which ultimately led to the destruction of Cain’s race in the Flood to the clear prohibition of murder in its wake. The poet’s choice of words emphasizes the place of Abel’s murder in the world’s early history and in the specific terms of the Noachic covenant, binding on the whole human race. The treatment of the story of Noah’s drunkenness is also part of a closer linking of events around the Flood. As well as introducing a comment on the debilitating mental affect of

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alcohol, the poet comments on the patriarch’s disregard for the shame of nakedness, and recalls the shame of Adam and Eve (1570–84a): Swiðe on slæpe sefa nearwode þæt he ne mihte on gemynd drepen hine handum self mid hrægle wryon and sceome þeccan, swa gesceapu wæron werum and wifum, siððan wuldres þegn ussum fæder and meder fyrene sweorde on laste beleac lifes eðel. Þa com ærest Cam in siðian, eafora Noes, þær his aldor læg, ferhðe forstolen. Þær he freondlice on his agenum fæder are ne wolde gesceawian, ne þa sceonde huru hleomagum helan, ac he hlihende broðrum sægde, hu se beorn hine reste on recede. [Indeed in sleep the mind was constricted so that he could not remember to cover himself with clothing with his hands, to protect his shame, as genitals were among men and women, after the prince of glory locked life’s homeland behind our father and mother with fiery sword. Then came first Cain journeying in, Noah’s heir, where his elder lay, robbed of his mind. There he would not show grace amicably to his own father, nor indeed make good the disgrace to familiar-kinsmen, but laughing he told his brothers how the man rested himself in the hall.]

The standard allegorical interpretation, which saw Noah’s drunkenness as a type of the mockery of Christ,21 is absent, and in context the use of the word rest (1584a), suggests no elaborate play on the etymology of the patriarch’s name: Noah is simply asleep in the hall. But a simple moral lesson warning against the effects of alcohol, and commanding respect for elders, is retained. This social bond, the requirement to honour the hleomæg, runs through this episode in Genesis A from the moment Cain claims no responsibility for his hleomæg (1007a). The new home and hall founded by Noah is for his hleomagum (1556a), within this hall the sin of Ham against his father is classed as a sin

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against his hleomagum (1582a), and for this reason he is cursed to serve his hleomaga (1593–7). The curse does not spring from anger, but in a modification which introduces natural emotion, Noah is sar on mode (‘sorrowful in spirit’) as he curses his son.22 The poet’s interest in creating a parallel between Cain and Ham is also discernible in another modification of the biblical story: in the Bible Ham’s offspring, Canaan, bears the curse (Gen 9:25–7), but the poet transfers this curse to Ham himself (1594– 7). The Cain connection is strengthened not only by this patterning, but also by verbal echoes suggesting the wider spiritual implications of their offences against society. Ham’s rejection of hyldo and treowa (‘protection’/ ‘grace’ and ‘faith’/ ‘covenant’, 1592a) parallels Cain’s loss of hyldo (1025b), and his rejection of ar (‘favour’/ ‘grace’, 1580b) recalls Cain’s condemnation to arleas (‘favourless’, 1019) exile. Here also the poet uses the ambiguities of Old English vocabulary to imply the dual aspect of the crime: both Ham and Cain lose favour, and both lose grace, and the protection of their kinsmen and of God. In Cain’s case his fratricide after the expulsion from Eden led to the evils which eventually provoked the deluge; in Ham’s his disrespect for his naked, drunken father renews the evil of discord in the world after the Flood. The poet does not depart radically from his biblical source to explain the wickedness of the race of Cain, but his modification of God’s speech in Gen 6:3 confirms the diabolical nature of the alliance humanity has entered into (1255–62): ‘Ne syndon me on ferhðe freo from gewitene cneorisn Caines, ac me þæt cynn hafað sare abolgen. Nu me Sethes bearn torn niwiað and him to nimað mægeð to gemæccum minra feonda; þær wifa wlite onwod grome, idesa ansien, and ece feond folcdriht wera, þa ær on friðe wæron’. [‘Now the children of Seth renew the anger in me and are taking to themselves women as their mates from among my foes; there the beauty of females, the appearance of the women, and the eternal fiend have malevolently insinuated themselves into the nation of men who were previously in concord.’ Emphasis added.]

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The interpretation of evil, linking female looks to Satan, is more antifeminist than monstrous, and offers a recollection of and contrast with the innocent beauty of Adam and Eve when created (187b–89a). The content of the speech in Gen 6:3, limiting the years allotted to humanity to one hundred and twenty, is taken away from God’s voice, and becomes part of the poet’s comment on God’s desire to punish ‘the generations of men’ (1263–76a): Siððan hundtwelftig geteled rime wintra on worulde wræce bisgodon fæge þeoda, hwonne frea wolde on wærlogan wite settan and on deað slean dædum scyldige gigantmæcgas, gode unleofe, micle mansceaðan, metode laðe. Þa geseah selfa sigoro waldend hwæt wæs monna manes on eorðan and þæt hie wæron womma ðriste, inwitfulle. He þæt unfægere wera cneorissum gewrecan þohte, forgripan gumcynne grimme and sare, heardum mihtum. [After one hundred and twenty years were counted in the world, the doomed people busied themselves in vengeance, when the Lord wished to impose a punishment on those covenant breakers, and strike down in death giant-kinsmen guilty in their deeds, unlovable to God, the great deadly-killers, hateful to the creator. The Ruler of victories himself saw what wickedness of men there was on the earth and that they were daring in iniquity and full of guile. He meant to punish the generations of men hideously for that, to seize upon the human race grimly and sorely with inflexible strength.]

The poet steers through the considerable exegetical tangles the passage presents in a way suggesting he was aware of these problems, though not interested in engaging with them.23 Knowledge of the tradition that the giants were a distinct race as the offspring of unnatural unions is suggested by reference to them as gigantmæcgas (‘giant-kinsmen’), and describing these as micle mansceaðan (‘great sinful killers’) echoes the presentation of Cain’s descendant Grendel in Beowulf (712, 737, 1339), though the poet is more interested in their moral failings than their mon-

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strosity. In the poem their murder and feuding before the Flood anticipate the laws against both in the covenant after the Flood. This innovation not only enhances the structural balance and framing of the Flood episode, but ties the covenant and its prohibition of revenge more directly to the sin of Cain and his offspring. The vengeance of God, as the poem presents it, also anticipates God’s appropriation of the avenger’s role in the covenant. The description of God’s desire for revenge is amplified from the biblical account, and develops his bellicose character: the Lord wishes to punish (wræce, wite settan) the renegades (wærlogan, ‘covenant-breakers’, 1266a), who ær on friðe wæron (‘were earlier at peace’, 1262b). The thematic importance of wær (‘covenant’, ‘pledge’) in Genesis A is suggested by the extensive use of the word and its compounds at key moments in the poem. The possibility of using the word to refer to either a secular or spiritual pact, however, demands caution. If the word were used only in either a strict theological sense or with a more general secular meaning, it would be easier to understand the sense in which the poet perceives the generation before the Flood as covenant- (or pledge-)breakers.24 In the poem’s presentation of the post-diluvial covenant in Gen 9:9–18, the dependence of the Old English passage on the biblical source suggests a clear theological understanding of wær and a range of poetic synonyms (1535b–42): ‘Ic eow treowa þæs mine selle, þæt ic on middangeard næfre egorhere eft gelæde, wæter ofer widland. Ge on wolcnum þæs oft and gelome andgiettacen magon sceawigan, þonne ic scurbogan minne iewe, þæt ic monnum þas wære gelæste, þenden woruld standeð.’ [‘I give you my pledge of this, that never again will I lead the waterarmy, the waters over the wide land. You may ever and always see a meaningful token of this in the clouds, when I reveal my rainbow, that I will keep this covenant with people, while this world stands.’ Emphasis added.]

Theological truth is cast in heroic terms: God here is very much characterized as a victorious war-leader, who has just led his

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‘water-army’ over the land, now forging a new alliance. The lexical variety employed by the poet makes it clear that the wær, also described as a treow, is the covenant promised to Noah before entering the ark (1329). The protection offered in the ark becomes a sign of the covenant, and represents the peace and favour it offers (1347b–48a). A theological meaning for wær is apparent when it is applied to the covenant forged by God with Abraham (2309, 2374), continued in Isaac (2368) and shared in by Lot (1897, 2598). Lot, like his kinsman Abraham, is wærfæst (1740, 1819, 2026). God is described as the wærfæst metod in his dealings with Noah (1320, 1549) and with Abraham (2587, 2901). The last of these uses comes at the climactic end of the poem, in the sacrifice of Isaac, where God’s blessing of Abraham, and the promise of a covenant offering salvation to all the nations, is confirmed. The term wær is not confi ned to these theologically significant episodes. The poet also describes the treaty forged between Abraham and the pagan king Abimelech in terms very similar to the covenant formed by God both with Noah and Abraham (compare 2816b–31). The application of the term wærlogan to the Sodomites (2411, 2505, 2532) may simply suggest they have failed in their duty of hospitality to Lot’s guests. But the application of the same term to Satan in his revolt against God (36) and to the giant race destroyed by the Flood (1266), and the description of the rebellious angels as wærleas (67, they are also deprived of friðo, ‘peace’, 57, as a result of their betrayal) suggest the poet is using the term in a range of overlapping senses which primarily point in these cases to disloyalty to God. In strict biblical historical terms the first covenant is made between God and humanity after the Flood, but the poet clearly understands the implied relationship between God and all rational creatures (including the angels) in terms of wær, according to which God offers peace and protection to those who remain loyal to him. In this way not only is Abraham wærfæst, having formally entered into a covenant with God, but so also is Abel, described by God as a wærfæstne rinc (‘covenant-fast warrior’, 1011). Cain, in contrast, loses the hyldo and freoðe (1025b–26a) which he had previously enjoyed. The wær between God and the descendants of Seth is broken only when this clan mixes with the line of Cain, sharing in the sin of God’s enemies (minra feonda, 1259b), violating the wær which had previously existed with Seth, and had existed simply

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because he was not Cain (or one of his offspring) and therefore not God’s enemy. The focus on this breach of trust feeds into the characterization of the Flood as part of an ongoing war between God and his enemies. The poem’s sustained focus on relationships defi ned by the term wær is crucial to understanding the fusion of the secular and theological perspectives in the poem. The establishment of the covenant with Noah in Genesis A, the terms of which are discussed above, becomes the restoration of a treaty previously implied between God and humanity, but now defi ned in clear terms. Keeping this agreement and its laws offers as a reward the restoration – not spelled out in the biblical source (compare Gen 9:6) – of the divine and angelic image of Adam and Eve (185b), incorporating the biblical doctrine of man’s creation (1528b–31). The direct benefit of the Noachic covenant is in its restoration of the image of God lost not in the fall in Eden, but in the defection of Seth’s line to the party of Cain, which corrupted the image of God found in his creatures and produced the race of giants. The covenant has a spiritual character, but the emphasis is on the moral and historical rather than typological: anyone who murders ‘with the point of the spear’ will be deprived ‘of benefits of the spirit’. There will be no cause for rejoicing in the spoils of the deed, because God will take over the feud and much more sternly seek requital of a human life from the slayer and the brother-murderer. The language of the poem recalls (as does the Bible) God’s involvement in this kind of feud from the beginning and the idea that the law is his to enforce. The poet expands biblical ideas as he alters their formulation and exploits the potential of his vocabulary to signify the complex character of humanity’s relationship with God which the covenant represents. Noah and his descendants (fromcynne, 1334a) are told to enjoy ara on eorðan – at the same time a promise of ‘favour on the earth’ and ‘grace on the earth’ (1533a). God, the wærfæst metod (1549a) who has delivered them from the Flood, gives a pledge (treowa, 1535b) signalled by the angiettacen (‘sign’, 1539b), that he will not send another Flood as a part of his wær (1542a). Nevertheless, the wider historical and eschatological importance of this wær is found in the promise that it will last as long as the world stands (1542b). The reference here to the future end of the world serves both to include the poem’s audience in the covenant, which has implic-

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itly not expired, and to recall the idea of the Flood as an anticipation of the destruction of the earth on Doomsday. Awareness of this theological application of the Flood is readily suggested by the poem’s language here and elsewhere. Noah’s heroic courage and spiritual virtue fuse secular and religious values, and the language of battle associated with the Flood unites the hero’s valour with the commonplace understanding of the Flood as anticipating the violence to be expected before the Last Judgment. These elements are drawn together in a passage dense with allusions to the interpretative traditions which had accrued to the Flood story (1327–48a): Ða to Noe cwæð nergend usser: ‘Ic þe þæs mine, monna leofost, wære gesylle, þæt þu weg nimest and feora fæsl þe þu ferian scealt geond deop wæter dægrimes worn on lides bosme. Læd, swa ic þe hate, under earce bord eaforan þine, frumgaran þry, and eower feower wif. Ond þu seofone genim on þæt sundreced tudra gehwilces geteled rimes, þara þe to mete mannum lifige, and þara oðerra ælces twa. Swilce þu of eallum eorðan wæstmum wiste under wægbord werodum gelæde, þam þe mid sceolon mereflod nesan. Fed freolice feora wocre oð ic þære lafe lagosiða eft reorde under roderum ryman wille. Gewit þu nu mid hiwum on þæt hof gangan, gasta werode. Ic þe godne wat, fæsthydigne; þu eart freoðo wyrðe, ara mid eaforum.’ [Then our Saviour said to Noah: ‘Most beloved of people, I give you my pledge of this, that you will get under way, and you must transport the beasts’ offspring across deep water for a great many days in the ship’s bosom. Lead under the deck of the ark, as I command you, your heirs, the three chieftains, and your four wives. And take into that sea-hall seven, carefully counted, of each species that should live as food for people, and two of each of the others. Also lead under the wave-board provisions from all the

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earth’s fruits for the troops who must escape the sea-flood with you. Nobly feed the progeny of living things until I wish again to spread food under the heavens for the remnant after the sea-journey. Now get going with your companions into the building, with the troop of spirits. I know you to be good, resolute; you are worthy of protection, of grace with your heirs.’]

The divine speech draws together the recurrent themes of covenant (wær) and Noah’s worthiness of the freoðo (‘protection’, ‘peace’) it offers as the basis of God’s relationship with him. Those in the ark are referred to as the ‘remnant’, a literal fact as they will be the survivors of the cataclysm, but both the loaded context and the reference to ‘our saviour’ extend the terms of this ‘remnant’ to include the Christian faithful, and evoke the Flood’s apocalyptic character. The battle imagery suggested by the reference to the ark as the sundreced (‘sea-hall’, 1335b) and the ‘troops’ in it (1340b), exploits the symbolism of the hall as the focus of the warrior life, emphasizing Noah’s heroic role and associating the battle remnant within the ark-hall, the wudufæsten (‘wooden-stronghold’, 1312a) defended against the Flood. The hall metaphor is fused with the idea of the ark as a precious vessel: a few lines earlier the ark is called a micle mereciest (‘great sea-chest’, 1317a). The idea that this is a ‘treasure chest’ is reinforced with the image of Ararat later receiving this treasure (horde onfengon, ‘received the treasure’, 1439b). While a ship containing all the earth’s surviving animal life could be considered a treasure chest at a more simple metaphorical level, the image again evokes the ark’s ecclesial symbolism. Into this ark-hall Noah leads his ‘troop’, the geogoð and duguð (1370–71a), who are also the eschatological gasta werod (‘troop of spirits’, 1346a). Once the troop is in the ark, God tells Noah the Flood will come (1351–5): ‘Feowertig daga fæhðe ic wille on weras stælan and mid wægþreate æhta and agend eall acwellan þa beutan beoð earce bordum þonne sweart racu stigan onginneð’. [‘For forty days I will prosecute revenge on men and with the wavetroop obliterate goods and their owners that are outside the boards of the ark when the dark storm begins to mount.’]

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The language is overtly martial. God will use his wave-troop (compare egorhere, ‘sea-army’, 1402, 1537) to attack his enemies and settle his feud. The battle begins soon after (1375b–86): Sæs up stigon ofer stæðweallas. Strang wæs and reðe se ðe wætrum weold; wreah and þeahte manfæhðu bearn middangeardes wonnan wæge, wera eðelland; hof hergode, hygeteonan wræc metod on monnum. Mere swiðe grap on fæge folc feowertig daga, nihta oðer swilc. Nið wæs reðe, wællgrim werum; wuldorcyninges yða wræcon arleasra feorh of flæschoman. [The seas climbed up over the shore-walls. He was strong and fierce, he who wielded the waters; he covered and hid the children of middle-earth’s deadly-feud, the homeland of men, with a dark wave; the creator destroyed buildings, malevolently inflicted revenge on humanity. The sea quickly grasped at the doomed people for forty days and also by night. The hate was fierce, slaughter-grim for men; the King of glory exiled the life of the graceless ones from the body.]

The passage is a grim tour de force combining the language of war, death and exile. The Creator as the vengeful destroyer assaults the walls and attacks the homeland of his exiled enemies, the waves simultaneously his weapon and his unrelenting warband. While such imagery might be associated with baptism,25 the emphasis is not so much on the cleansing of the world of wickedness, but the righteous destruction of God’s enemies, the wærlogan (‘treaty-breakers’) who have turned from the freoðo (‘peace’) he offers. This reversal is apparent in the ironic image of protection (wreah and þeahte, ‘covered and hid’) associated with the wave’s destruction. Those whom it kills are banished from the world, and their souls exiled from their bodies. Noah, by contrast, enjoys wær, protected in the ark, and in the promised covenant. Similar imagery is used by the poet in his description of the end of Sodom and Gomorra. In this instance fire rather than water is God’s weapon of choice for paying the wærlogan (2532a) their ironic reward for sin, while Lot enjoys friðe and mundbyrde

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(‘peace’ and ‘protection’, 2530b–31a). The fate of the arleas (‘favourless’, ‘graceless’) is sealed at dawn (lines 2540–50a): Þa sunne up, folca friðcandel, furðum eode, þa ic sendan gefrægn swegles aldor swefl of heofnum and sweartne lig werum to wite, weallende fyr, þæs hie on ærdagum drihten tyndon lange þrage. Him þæs lean forgeald gasta waldend. Grap heahþrea on hæðencynn. Hlynn wearð on ceastrum, cirm arleasra cwealmes on ore, laðan cynnes. [When the sun was up, the peace-candle of the nations went forth, then, I hear tell, the ruler of the skies sent sulphur from the heavens and black flame for the punishment of men, surging fire, because in previous days they had offended God for a long time. The ruler of spirits gave them a reward for that. A high terror gripped the heathen nation. There was tumult in the fortresses, the cry of those without grace at the onset of death, of the hated people. Emphasis added.]

The shared martial tone and the characterization of the fire as ‘surging’ in the manner of water emphasize divine punishment – again there is more attention to destruction than cleansing – and allude to the typological parallel between the two episodes. In the Flood, God is the sigora waldend (‘ruler of victories’, 1365a, 1408a), the commander leading his warrior Noah across the wide land: Gelædde þa wigend weroda drihten/ worde ofer widland (1411–12a, ‘Then the Lord of hosts led the warrior by his word across the wide land’). The language used to describe the exit from the ark continues to represent the Flood as a hostile force in battle (wægþrea, ‘wave-threat’, 1490b), attacking enemies ( þrymme geþeahte, ‘attacked with strength’, 1492a); Noah is saved by God from this attack and, in his casting as a warrior with his troop, participates on God’s side. The battle imagery of the Flood is drawn to a close as the lafe (‘remnant’, 1496b) is led from the ark and victorious Noah steps over the streamweall (‘stream-wall’, 1494a), a word which in this context means much more than ‘shore’, and recalls the fortifying walls of the land which had earlier been attacked by the waves (1376a).

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The poet’s unsystematic approach to biblical typology is inevitable given his fidelity to the course of the biblical story, and presents itself more in the character of a gloss on key passages than as unified exposition of the Flood’s theological meaning. This approach is clearly in evidence in the treatment of the biblical etymology of Noah’s name. Despite omitting the biblical explanation of the patriarch’s name (Gen 5:29), the poet, whose interest in wordplays and etymologies has long been established,26 often dwells on the ideas of ‘rest’ and ‘consolation’. When Noah is ordered by God to prepare the ark he is told he will be a source of rest for many in the Flood (1303b–05): ‘On þam þu monegum scealt reste geryman, and rihte setl ælcum æfter agenum eorðan tudre.’ [‘In that you must make space for the rest of many, and a proper berth for each of earth’s offspring, according to its own kind.’]

The poet develops the idea of the rest provided by Noah in the ark in a passage which intensifies the focus on the related ideas of weariness, rest and comfort towards the end of the tiring journey in the ark, and the exit from it (1424b–35):27 Þær se halga bad, sunu Lameches, soðra gehata lange þrage, hwonne him lifes weard frea ælmihtig frecenra siða reste ageafe, þæra he rume dreah þa hine on sunde geond sidne grund wonne yða wide bæron. Holm wæs heononweard; hæleð langode, wægliðende, swilce wif heora, hwonne hie of nearwe ofer nægledbord ofer streamstaðe stæppan mosten and of enge ut æhta lædan. [There the saint, the son of Lamech, waited a long time for the true commands, when life’s protector, the Lord almighty, should give him rest from the perilous journeys, which he had endured abroad when the dark waves had carried him far on the ocean over the wide ground. The sea was withdrawing. The hero, the wavetravellers, and their wives also, longed for when they might step out from of their constriction over the nailed boards and across the stream-shore and bring their possessions out from confi nement.]

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The fulfilment of this desire for relief is deferred for almost fifty lines, when Noah is told he can lead his family out of the ark to rest from the sea-journey (1486b, lagosiða rest). In the poet’s reworking of the narrative, this restlessness and the satisfaction of the desire for rest frames Noah’s testing of the waters with the raven and doves. The poet adheres closely to the chronology of Genesis, omitting only the redundant verses of Gen 8:13–14, and the account is embellished so as to emphasize the theme of weariness.28 The raven fails to return, having found a feast in the floating carrion, and Noah sends out his first dove (1449–63). This bird cannot fi nd rest (no hweðere reste fand, 1456b), but in the evening searches for the ark ofer wonne wæg, (‘over the dark wave’, 1462a), descending weary and hungry to Noah’s hand. The failure of the dove to fi nd ‘rest’ translates the use of the equivalent word in Latin texts of Gen 8:9,29 but the detailed account of the bird’s tiring journey is an innovation. The description of the reste stowe (‘resting place’, 1465b) found by the second dove, where it rejoices (gefeah bliðemod, ‘rejoiced happy in mind’, 1468b) in the tree branches ‘very weary’ (swiðe werig, 1469b) after its journey, is another addition. The poet also adds an explanation of the meaning for Noah of this dove’s return (1474b–76a): Þa ongeat hraðe flotmonna frea þæt wæs frofor cumen, earfoðsiða bot. [Then the lord of the mariners quickly realized that comfort was come, relief from their toilsome journeyings.]

The poet’s treatment of the account adds realistic and touching detail: the first dove looks for and can fi nd no tree or leaf. Having found a tree, the second dove shakes its feathers before returning faithfully to the ark with the olive branch. That this is the only occasion on which the poet associates Noah with the idea of frofor (‘consolation’) would seem clearly designed to recall the mystical significance of the unfolding event.30 On the third occasion the wild bird will not go back into captivity (under salwedbord, 1481a) once it has found the green groves. The greenness of the reemerging world is another detail added by the poet, contrasted with the darkness of the waters over it,31 a blackness shared by the raven which fails to return (1441b).

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The traditional association of rest with Noah and the ark is developed by the poet and given a new context with the articulation of the desire of those trapped inside the ark to leave it. That this idea fi nds no parallel in the tradition of biblical commentary on the passage is unsurprising, as such a desire is at odds with the full range of interpretations given to the ark.32 Conventional mystical readings fail: Noah and companions cannot desire to leave the Church, avoid the confi nes of baptism or escape the wood of the cross. The desire to leave the ark is understandable on the literal level – a realistic detail given their cramped conditions – but the poet is also creating new metaphoric associations of his own. The sea-travellers’ weariness comes to an end (lagosiða rest, 1486b) at a moment when the poet renews his martial imagery: ‘our saviour’ (nergend usser, 1483b) has saved (nerede, 1491a) him from the wave-troop (wægþrea, 1490b). God gives Noah a homeland, rest and peace (eðelstol, 1485a, rest, 1486b, freðo, 1487b), so drawing together a complex of ideas which characterize his treatment of the Flood. The rest given by God in the new homeland surpasses the rest provided by Noah in the ark, a comparison which recalls the superiority of the rest promised by Christ in Matt 9:28–9, a passage with close links to the theological elaboration of the Flood and the symbolic relationship between Noah and Christ by patristic commentators. The colour imagery exploited in the creation, whereby the green paradise is created from the dark waters, is woven into the poem’s account of Noah’s bird messengers, recalling paradise itself and suggesting not only a new creation after the Flood but the promised new world after Doomsday. The rest desired by Noah and his companions is fulfilled in this new green world, after the annihilation of God’s enemies. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that while the poet is retelling this part of the story he is also developing a series of associations which deliberately evoke the eschatological associations of the Flood, an understanding which is confirmed by his repeated reference to those in the ark as the laf (‘remnant’, 1343a, 1496, 1549). This is not a laboured typology, but a series of allusions which places before the audience a story of the ancient past peppered with language anticipating the events of the end of

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time, when God will fi nally defeat his enemies and the saints will enter into the promised rest of paradise. The Flood account in Genesis A is neither simply literal nor heavily allegorical. The letter of the text is full of historical and moral lessons, focused principally on the covenant between God and the human race: those who breach this covenant are punished. While this moral application emerges easily from the letter, the symbolic use of language in the poem is more complex, but suggests the poet is adapting the story to evoke mystical interpretations available in the commentary tradition. The poet’s technique exploits the character of heroic verse, as witnessed in the martial terms in which the Flood is presented: God is the great war leader, and Noah his brave retainer defending the hall. The poet plays on the eschatological implications of this language, extending the meaning of God’s ancient battle with the giants into his own time and ultimately to the end of time. Exodus The emphasis in the Flood narrative of Genesis A on the themes of covenant and warfare, associated with the typologically charged themes of rest and remnant, is also found in the treatment of the Flood in the Old English Exodus, which follows Genesis A in MS Junius 11. Exodus describes the flight of the Hebrews from Egyptian slavery, from the tenth plague until the crossing of the Red Sea (Exod 12–15). As they are about to enter the sea, the poet interrupts this story, recalling the descent of the Israelites from Noah through Abraham. In the context of this genealogy he tells two stories: the Flood briefly, and the sacrifice of Isaac at length.33 This ‘digression’ or ‘patriarchal narrative’ ends (with the loss of at least one manuscript leaf) with the promise of a multitude of descendants to Abraham. The Flood occupies only fifteen (362–76) of the poem’s 599 lines, but forms an important part of its thematic development. The meaning both of the patriarchal narrative and the abruptness of its inclusion have been widely debated. The genealogy is introduced with reference to an fæder (‘one father’, 353b), identifiable as Abraham, the ancestor promised the landriht (‘land-right’, 354b). Abraham, however, is not the only common

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ancestor of the Hebrews. Israel is the first patriarch mentioned by name in the genealogy, and as the father of the twelve tribes he is also the father of the chosen people (356–61): Cende cneowsibbe cenra manna heahfædera sum, halige þeode, Israela cyn, onriht godes, swa þæt orþancum ealde reccað þa þe mægburge mæst gefrunon, frumcyn feora, fæderæðelo gehwæs. [One of the patriarchs brought forth a race of bold men, a holy people, the nation of Israel, the lawful of God, so that skilfully they told, those who had studied the ancient genealogies most, the distant line of descent, the paternal lineage of each.]

This ancestor gives the people, the Israela cyn, their name, and they inherit the promise through him (onriht Godes, 358).34 Given this recollection of the descent of the tribes from Abraham, and the inheritance which it brings, the shift back to Noah (362) comes as something of a surprise. Until this moment the poet develops the thematic importance of the promised land, the goal of the exodus, an idea associated with the generations after Abraham, who is not named until line 379. The introduction of the Flood story, as a digression within a digression, introduces another ‘father’ of the Israelites (362–76): Niwe flodas Noe oferlað, þrymfæst þeoden, mid his þrim sunum, þone deopestan drencefloda þara ðe gewurde on woruldrice. Hæfde him on hreðre halige treowa; forþon he gelædde ofer lagustreamas maðmhorda mæst, mine gefræge. On feorhgebeorh foldan hæfde eallum eorðcynne ece lafe, frumcneow gehwæs, fæder and moder tuddorteondra, geteled rime mismicelra þonne men cunnon, snottor sæleoda. Eac þon sæda gehwilc on bearm scipes beornas feredon, þara þe under heofonum hæleð bryttigað.

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[Noah journeyed over the new floods, the glorious chieftain, with his three sons, over the deepest of drenching floods which happened in the kingdom of the world. He had the holy covenant in his heart; therefore he led the greatest of treasure-hoards over the ocean currents, as I have found out. He had in life-protection the everlasting remnant of all earthly-kind of the world, the first generation of each, the father and mother of those offspring-makers, counted the number more diverse than men know, the wise sailor. Also the men carried in the bosom of the ship each seed that heroes enjoy under the heavens.]

Noah is the ‘one father’ not only of Israel, but of the whole human race, and his introduction widens the concept of ‘inheritance’ in the poem. The poet alludes to the Flood but provides few details, suggesting his audience was familiar with the story, and allowing a focus on theologically and thematically important elements. Some details suggest a sense of irony: the reference to the depth of Noah’s Flood as ‘the deepest of drenching floods which happened in the kingdom of the world’ (364–5) is ‘historically’ true (Gen 7:20), but the Israelites are about to cross the shallowest of floods, with the seabed dry under their feet. Other details point away from the letter of the biblical text, allowing rather than suggesting spiritual meanings. The poet’s statement that Noah had ‘all earthly races in life protection’ (371–6) has literal biblical authority, as does reference to ‘each type of seed’ (374b), which accounts for the potent description of the ark and its contents as maðmhorda mæst (‘greatest of treasure hoards’, 368a), certainly an appropriate metaphor for all the world’s preserved human and animal life. This particular element and the reference to frumcneow gehwæs (‘each first generation’) point primarily to the Flood’s historical importance, emphasizing Noah’s role as protector of life and as progenitor, and link him to Israel. The literal reading of the passage is not at odds with the reference to Noah’s wisdom (374a), which recalls the book of Wisdom’s recollection of the Flood (Wisdom 10:3–4), and mention of the covenant enjoyed by Noah (hæfde him on hreðre halige treowa, 366) recalls the letter of the Genesis text. While the poet foregrounds historical elements of the Flood story, a mystical reading of the passage is evoked by both its framing in Exodus and certain key expressions. This is seen most

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clearly in reference to niwe flodas (‘new waters’, 362a) and to the ece lafe (‘eternal remnant’, 370b) which Noah protects for all earðcynne (370a). The reference to niwe flodas (362a) is arresting, and no biblical source can be found for it.35 Irving argued that the waters were ‘new’ because they represented an ‘unprecedented aquatic phenomenon’.36 Hall objects to this interpretation, noting that the covering of earth with waters has a precedent at the Creation (Gen. 1:1–10).37 The common understanding that the Flood represented a new start for creation has been discussed in Chapter 1, while Hall argues that this understanding lies behind the poet’s expression.38 This image of renewal is given potency by the context, given the commonplace patristic association of both the Flood and exodus with baptism, especially as both stories feature in the liturgy of the Easter vigil, a liturgical celebration which highlights the typological association of both with Christian baptism and the resurrection of Christ.39 The historical importance of the Flood as a demonstration of God’s protection of his chosen is self-evident, though this also invites mystical interpretation not only through the potently juxtaposed biblical narratives, but also with reference to the ece lafe (‘everlasting remnant’) preserved in the ark. The eternal dimension draws attention away from the world under the heavens (376a), reinforcing alternative, spiritual possibilities of the poet’s diction in the expressions niwe flodas (‘new floods’), maðmhorda mæst (‘greatest of treasure-hoards’) and halige treowa (‘holy covenant’). The ‘greatest of treasure-hoards’ is not simply a metaphor for all animal life, but evokes the traditional typological association between the ark and the Church, with those inside understood as the great treasure of the elect. At the figurative level this image is intuitively, rather than logically, associated with the assembled Hebrews preparing to cross the Red Sea, a moment which in patristic commonplace is also symbolic of the Church. The ece lafe evokes another association of those in the ark with the Church, with the ark anticipating the Christian faithful who will pass through judgment into glory as the eternal remnant.40 The reference to a ‘holy covenant’ which Noah has ‘in his spirit’, framed by the exodus, foreshadows not only the covenant made with Moses, but also anticipates the new covenant in Christ, whose typological association with both figures was a New Testament commonplace (John 1:16–17; 1 Pet 3:18–22).

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The poet’s forþon, ‘therefore’ (367a) makes the connection between Noah’s character and his saving role a logical one. This allusion to Noah’s holiness recalls his election at Gen 6:9, because of his ‘perfection’, a passage which presented commentators with difficulty when read literally, but none at all when Noah was read as a type of Christ. The abruptness with which the patriarchal narrative begins is not noticeable in the transition from the Flood to the sacrifice of Isaac, because the two episodes are linked by a three-line genealogical passage (377–9).41 The long section of the patriarchal narrative which concerns Abraham and Isaac (378–446) has attracted much more scholarly discussion than the brief story of Noah, but a number of important elements tie together the poem’s treatment of the two patriarchs, and link both to the exodus. In the context of the genealogy, Noah and Abraham both obviously marked turning points in salvation history, and any moderately educated Anglo-Saxon would have noticed this transition as the passing of the entire second age of the world. That this historical patterning forms a part of the poem’s structure at this point is further suggested by the fact that the patriarchal narratives are included in the story of the exodus, the event which ended the third age begun by Abraham and which initiated the fourth in Moses.42 In an alternative reading of history, also well known in the Middle Ages, Noah lived before the time of faith initiated by Abraham, an age which ended with the era of the Law, which began with Moses. These three mark turning points in the relationship between God and the human race, but also – drawn together in this way – they give momentum to the narrative and each anticipates the age of grace in Christ, whom they symbolize. The poem builds on these broad links between the patriarchs with verbal echoes and thematic associations. While Noah, whose paternal role is foregrounded, journeyed over niwe flodas, Abraham was given a naman niwan (‘new name’, 381a) by the God of angels, which signified his new universal paternity (Gen 17:5). In Abraham’s case the literal truth is that he is the forebear of only two nations – the Israelites and the Ishmaelites – but the mention of his new name, and the culmination of the sacrifice in the promise of his paternity of all the nations, among them the Anglo-Saxons, recalls his spiritual paternity of the Christian

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faithful. Noah, the ‘life-protector of all life’, is literally the father of the whole human race, and parallels Abraham who has in his protection ‘holy multitudes from far and near’ (381b–3a). Abraham too is a leader, but while Noah led the ‘eternal remnant’ in the ark to protect all life, Abraham leads his ‘dearest’ to slaughter (365a, 384a, 397b; see also 62b). In an ironic twist best understood at the typological level, the parallels between the events are close, focusing on ideas of paternity, protection, covenant and inheritance. Both patriarchs are recipients of a covenant: this is what Abraham fi nds when he climbs the mountain: Wære hie þær fundon, wuldor gesawon,/ halige heahtreowe, swa hæleð gefrunon (‘He found a covenant there, saw glory, a holy high-covenant, so men discovered’, 387– 8). But whereas Noah’s protection of his sons’ lives (363b) represents a biblical historical truth and suggests an eternal one, Abraham becomes the protector of nations (382b) by an obedience which threatens his literal inheritance in Isaac. This irony runs throughout the poet’s longer reworking of the story and is discernible in his play on the word laf. Abraham will use his inherited ‘ancestral sword’ (ealde lafe, 404a) to kill his ‘heir’ (yrfelafe, 403b), an action which is passed on ‘as an inheritance to the peoples’ (leodum to lafe, 405a). This focus on laf deliberately recalls Noah’s protection of the ece lafe in the ark. Isaac, like those in the ark, will survive the ordeal, and – fulfilling the promise to Abraham – Isaac will be the ancestor of Christ, whom (for the Fathers) he typologically represents. Abraham’s obedience, despite appearances, is an act of protection, guaranteeing the promised salvation. This promise has typological dimensions: the promise of salvation for the nations (424–46), as it was interpreted by Christian commentators, results from Abraham’s willing sacrifice of his son, which clearly prefigured the similar sacrifice in fulfilment of the promise on Calvary, and is the climax of the poet’s adaptation of the episode.43 The Flood episode initiates the poem’s perspective on Israel’s historical paternity of the Hebrews, by presenting first Noah’s literal paternity of all nations, an idea developed in Abraham’s spiritual paternity of all nations, won through an obedience anticipating the redemption achieved by Christ in the new covenant and continued in the community of the Church. The poet’s ‘patriarchal digression’ is central to his

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transformation of a foundational event in Jewish history into one event in a series of historical interventions by God, replete with significance for a Christian audience who, as ‘the nations’, are part of this pattern of history. The salvation of the people of Israel in the exodus typologically anticipates the Church, but the poet enhances this parallel in a variety of ways with the stories of the Flood and Isaac. The association of the exodus with the Flood makes clearer the baptismal typology of the crossing of the Red Sea, a sacrament which initiates Christian believers into the Church. The covenant theme binds together the two patriarchal episodes and also links them to the rest of Exodus, where the covenant is the basis of the protection enjoyed by the fleeing Hebrews, guided by the werbeam (‘covenant-pillar’, 487) as they keep their freoðowære (‘peace-covenant’, 306). Not unlike those in the ark, the Israelites are a sælafe (‘sea-remnant’, 585) and the yðlafe (‘wave-remnant’, 586) who survive the crossing while the Egyptians are annihilated. The thematic importance of this laf, reiterated in the last two lines of the poem, identifies them with the ece laf who survived the Flood. The Israelites’ sea journey begins even before they arrive at the Red Sea with the paradoxical description of them as sailors crossing the desert (105, 133, 223, 333, 479) pursued by the Egyptian ‘land-men’ (179).44 The commonplace of the Church as a ship, which lies behind this metaphor, is inseparable from the type of the ark; the transition to the story of the Flood – so abrupt at the narrative level – is much smoother at the metaphoric level, especially in the ecclesial typology evoked by the fleeing Israelites and those in the ark. Earlier references in the poem to Abraham also link the digression to the poem’s wider action: the Israelites are sons of Abraham (18), protected by the eternal God of Abraham (273), and their journey will end in his promised land (353b–6), a commonplace allegory of heaven.45 The metaphoric link established between the Israelites enjoying God’s protection and those saved in the ark, is contrasted in the poem with the fate of the Egyptian host (447–515) destroyed by a crashing flood. In contrast, the story of Noah’s Flood in the poem is focused only on the preservation of life. Nevertheless, the two floods are closely associated in the pattern of aquatic and battle imagery running through Exodus. The whole of the Israelite flight is presented by the poet in heroic

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martial terms, certainly a poetic embellishment of what in the biblical source is a hurried escape. While the Hebrews are presented in a more sympathetic light for an Anglo-Saxon audience – which would have had little sympathy for those fleeing a battle – when the time for fighting comes it is God who acts, and the sea is both his fortress and his weapon. That the war is between God and Egypt is spelled out most clearly by the poet as he brings the episode to a close, stating simply: Hie wið god wunnon (‘They strove against God’, 515b). The idea – familiar from Genesis A – of the sea as a great fortress, around which the battle will take place, is introduced when the Hebrews first arrive at the shore and the waters part (282–98): ‘Yð up færeð, ofstum wyrceð wæter on wealfæsten. Wegas syndon dryge, haswe herestræta, holm gerymed, ealde staðolas, þa ic ær ne gefrægn ofer middangeard men geferan, fage feldas, þa forð heonon in ece tid yðe þeahton, sælde sægrundas. Suðwind fornam bæðweges blæst, brim is areafod, sand sæcir spaw. Ic wat soð gere þæt eow mihtig god miltse gecyðde, eorlas ærglade. Ofest is selost þæt ge of feonda fæðme weorðen, nu se agend up arærde reade streamas in randgebeorh. Syndon þa foreweallas fægre gestepte, wrætlicu wægfaru, oð wolcna hrof.’ [‘The wave is travelling upwards, quickly working the water into a strong wall. The pathways are dry, grey army-highway, the sea cleared away, the ancient foundations, which as far as I know men over this earth have never crossed before, the decorated plains, the confi ned seabeds, which henceforth in eternity, the waves have overspread. The south wind has taken away the bath-way’s blast, the sea is drawn back, the undertow spewed sand. I very well know the truth, that mighty God has made known mercy to you, men who once were happy. Speed is best, so that you get out of the enemies’ embrace, now that their Owner has lifted up the red streams as shield cover. The outer walls are neatly staggered, an ingenious thoroughfare up to the roof of the clouds.’]

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Moses explains the wonder his people see before them: the sea has become a walled fortress (283a), a road for the army (284a), but one which will offer them shield-protection (296b). The walls of the fortress, which are well made and have ancient foundations (285a, 474b), reach up to the sky (oð wolcna hrof, 298b). The poet returns to this fortress image in his description of the annihilation of the Egyptians in a part of the poem which, because of damage to the manuscript, immediately follows the promise to Abraham. Despite the narrative leap, the poem’s imagery is strikingly consistent. The poet retains and develops the biblical innumerability topos: this has just been used to describe Abraham’s descendants (432–46), as countless as the sand on the seashore, and the salt of the waves (line 442), who will occupy the land between the two seas (443).46 After the break in the text we find the Egyptians about to be overwhelmed by the waves, unable to reach the opposite seashore where a multitude of Abraham’s descendants now stand.47 We discover the Egyptian host at the moment the waters begin to wash over them (447–58a): Folc wæs afæred, flodegsa becwom gastas geomre, geofon deaðe hweop. Wæron beorhhliðu blode bestemed, holm heolfre spaw, hream wæs on yðum, wæter wæpna ful, wælmist astah. Wæron Egypte eft oncyrde, flugon forhtigende, fær ongeton, woldon herebleaðe hamas fi ndan, gylp wearð gnornra. Him ongen genap atol yða gewealc, ne ðær ænig becwom herges to hame, ac behindan beleac wyrd mid wæge. [The people were afraid, the flood-terror overcame their miserable spirits, the ocean threatened with death. The bright cliffs were wet with blood, the sea spewed gore, a roar was in the waves, the water full of weapons, the slaughter-mist climbed up. The Egyptians were then routed, they fled terrified, had got a disaster, the battleshy wanted to fi nd their homes, their boasting became more lamentable. The terrible rolling of the waves darkened over them, none of that army came home, but fate ensnared them from behind with the wave.]

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The terror of the Egyptians is emphasized throughout the episode, a fear contrasted with the poem’s two other sea voyages, of the brave Hebrew army and wise Noah travelling over the Flood with the covenant in his heart. The poet’s language is particularly bloody, and what were protecting walls for the Israelites become hostile blood-spattered cliffs, a soaring mist of slaughter. The poet refers twice to the Egyptians’ inability to return home (452–55a, 508–14), an image of exiled despair which frames their destruction, and signals a dramatic exchange of fates with the formerly exiled Hebrews now on their way to the promised homeland. The Egyptians – in particular Pharaoh (503b) – are God’s enemies, and their destruction is ironically his payment of a reward to them (Egyptum wearð/ þæs dægweorces deop lean gesceod, ‘for the Egyptians there was a deep reward for that day’s work’, 506b–7).48 This ironic expression of the punishment for those who break a covenant is anticipated earlier in the poem (148–53): Wæron heaðowylmas heortan getenge, mihtmod wera; manum treowum woldon hie þæt feorhlean facne gyldan, þætte hie þæt dægweorc dreore gebohte, Moyses leode, þær him mihtig god on ðam spildsiðe spede forgefe. [There were surges of hate, constrictions of the heart, the strong passion of men; with false pledges they wanted to repay with treachery that life-reward, so that Moses’s people would have bought that day’s work with blood, if mighty God had given them success on the journey of destruction.]

The poem links this breach of covenant with the destruction in thematic and verbal echoes across the two passages. The rewarding God himself becomes the aggrieved warrior: Se ðe sped ahte/ ageat gylp wera (514b–15a, compare 153b).49 In an appropriately confused metaphor, given the chaos overwhelming the Egyptians, the sea is simultaneously collapsing towers (485a), a proud warrior (459, 474) and God’s weapon (485b, 495). The ‘terrible rolling of the waves’ (456a) and fate’s blocking of their retreat with the wave (457b–8a) lead into the image of the walls of water as an army waiting to rush into battle. The elements of blood

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and water are mixed, and the weallfæsten and meretorras are suddenly transformed into crashing bloody waves of destruction, becoming the weapons in the hand of the mighty one (478–87). The breaking of the Egyptians’ shield-wall signals their hopelessness in the battle, and contrasts with shining shields which belong either to the Hebrews at the edge of the sea, or to the army of water (467), or a fusion of the two. The strength (mægen, 459b, 469b, 500b) of the Egyptians is no match for the flood, and in the crashing spray of slaughter (451b) their weapons are pathetically useless (449–51). The image of the sea as God’s own weapon is developed nowhere more poignantly than at 494b–504:50 flodweard sloh, unhleowan wæg, alde mece, þæt ðy deaðdrepe drihte swæfon, synfullra sweot. Sawlum lunnon fæste befarene, flodblac here, siððan hie on bugon brimyppinge, modwæga mæst. Mægen eall gedreas, ða ðe gedrecte, dugoð Egypta, Faraon mid his folcum. He onfond hraðe, siððan grund gestah godes andsaca, þæt wæs mihtigra mereflodes weard; [the flood-guardian struck the unprotecting way with the ancient sword, so that the troops, the sinful band, perished by the deathblow. They lost their souls, firmly surrounded, the flood-pale army, when they bowed low in the raising of the sea, greatest of mindwaves. Their strength completely perished, those who afflicted, the troop of Egyptians, Pharaoh with his people. God’s adversary quickly found out, when he reached the bottom, that the guardian of the sea-flood was mightier.]

The passage is replete with textual problems, but the point is clear. The Egyptians, faces bleached with fear, are destroyed by God, the sea becoming not only the sword in his hand, but almost a pure expression of the will of the ‘flood-guardian’ (compare 485b–6a, þa se mihtiga sloh/ mid halige hand, ‘there the mighty one struck with holy hand’). Pharaoh, God’s enemy, is obliterated with his army; this is the common end of all tyrants who proudly strive against God in the course of history. This shift to the broad historical perspective is signalled by the earlier inclusion of the story of Noah, and the poet’s allusions to the

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Last Judgment, one of the signs of which is the raging of the sea.51 In a threefold image united in the idea of the destroying flood, the poem associates the sinners of Noah’s day with the Egyptians, and all sinners who will be destroyed on the Day of Judgment. Of these there is and will be no remnant (508b–9), in contrast to God’s chosen who survive the waves and come into their inheritance (585–90):52 Ongunnon sælafe segnum dælan on yðlafe ealde madmas, reaf and randas. Heo on riht sceodon gold and godweb, Iosepes gestreon, wera wuldorgesteald. Werigend lagon on deaðstede, drihtfolca mæst. [The sea-remnant began to share out among the cohorts the ancient treasures on the shore [or ‘among the wave-remnant’], armour and shields. They rightly divided the gold and fi ne cloth, Joseph’s treasure, the glorious possessions of men. The great company of noblemen, the guardians, lay in the place of death.]

A range of images evoke the link between the Egyptians’ doom and that of sinners at the end of time: the flooding waters are simultaneously an apocalyptic flood and a collapsing fortress; the flodegsa (‘flood terror’, 447b) of the Egyptians recalls the intense fear which is a sign of the Judgment; the reddening of the seawaters with blood plays on the name of the Red Sea, but also presents another sign of the coming Judgment, as does the disturbance of the sky (483b, 493a).53 The reference to the sea’s ‘eternal foundations’ (474b) in this context recalls the parting of the waters at creation and the building of the foundations of the earth, which will be shaken at Doomsday. The added reference to a storm (460b) evokes the Flood of Noah’s day, and the comparable death of the Egyptians in the ‘greatest of sea-deaths’ (meredeaða mæst) is appropriate to their flodegsa (‘flood-terror’). The poet’s use of the word flod ties the two episodes together in an anagogical way; mystically the Egyptians are destroyed by the same Flood as the proud giants. Fused with the imagery of Judgment this Flood-weapon also evokes the apocalyptic flood of the end of time.54 In the exegetical tradition, the Flood has a dual symbolism: for the virtuous it represents salvation, but for God’s enemies,

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destruction. The parallel between the destruction of the sinful generation of Noah’s day and the destruction of the Egyptian host in the exodus suggested an obvious parallel to early Christian commentators who saw in both the dual character of the waters of baptism. The Anglo-Saxon poet of Exodus is not oblivious to the link, as his treatment of the drowning of the Egyptians in the ‘bath-way’ (bæðweg, 290a) shows. His sense of the parallel structure of biblical episodes is evident in the structural symmetry of Exodus, which begins with the Egyptians suffering the killing of their heirs and ends with their massacre in the sea. These two cataclysms which befall the Egyptians are also intimately linked to the two episodes in the patriarchal narrative. When describing the death of the Egyptians the poet emphasises not only their bloody end but also their failure as custodians of ancestral wealth (521a), and the fact that none of these guardians of the hoard will return home, either as a survivor or to his inheritance (508–9, to lafe).55 The source of the Egyptians’ wealth is outlined in another significant digression from the biblical narrative earlier in the poem, one which is largely missing owing to the loss of a manuscript leaf, but which presumably told the story of Joseph, another Genesis patriarch. The passage as it survives begins to explain that it was the exiled Israelites who built up the Egyptian inheritance and – after the lacuna – describes the act of betrayal when their hosts wanted the wealth, but not the wær (‘covenant’, ‘treaty’) which brought it (140b–9a): Wære ne gymdon, ðeah þe se yldra cyning ær gesealde *** Þa wearð yrfeweard ingefolca, manna æfter maðmum, þæt he swa miceles geðah. Ealles þæs forgeton siððan grame wurdon, Egypta cyn ymb antwigða: heo his mægwinum morðor fremedon, wroht berenedon, wære fræton. Wæron heaðowylmas heortan getenge, mihtmod wera. [The Egyptians did not keep the covenant, even though the previous king earlier gave *** Then he became the guardian of the inheritance of the citizens, of the treasures of men, so that he pros-

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These elements – treasure, covenant and inheritance – recur throughout the poem, and are key elements in the patriarchal narrative, at both the literal level and the symbolic.56 The Egyptians broke their historical agreement with the Israelites and they ‘ate’ the contract that had earlier fed them at a time of famine. As a result they forego their inheritance, lose custody of their treasures, poignantly described as Joseph’s treasure (Iosepes gestreon, 588b), which are looted by the liberated Hebrews on the shore of the sea (585–9a). Noah and Abraham both enter faithfully into covenants with God. This contrast between the fidelity of the patriarchs to their covenants and the Egyptians’ violation of theirs is exploited in a key idea binding the patriarchal narrative into the structure of the poem. Abraham, in obedience and fidelity, is prepared to sacrifice his son and heir, which simultaneously places his literal inheritance in jeopardy and guarantees the inheritance of his people; the Egyptians violate their covenant, and their sons and heirs are destroyed in the plague which sets the exodus, and their national annihilation, in motion. Noah is also faithful and obedient, and he and his three sons survive the Flood with their treasures that promise new life and an eternal inheritance. The Egyptian covenant breakers, exterminated in the bloody waters of the Red Sea, lose their treasures and cannot come to their inheritance. The poem’s focus on covenant and inheritance, through the frequent repetition of laf and wær, presents the patriarchal narrative as the chiastic focus of the poem, reinforcing both the historical pattern of God’s dealing with the human race, and the eternal rewards these events symbolize. Exodus maintains a balance between the rhetorical demands of a logically coherent narrative recounting a major event of biblical history, and a tangential allusive vocabulary focused on the course of the two armies’ struggle and the reason for their enmity. The betrayal of the Israelites by their Egyptian hosts is avenged by their God, with whom they share a covenant established centuries earlier with their forebear Abraham. Most simply, the exodus told in this way emphasizes for the Christian audience God’s fidelity to his chosen people and his power to intervene in

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history on their behalf. But the poet develops the significance of the story for his Anglo-Saxon audience in other ways, and in a closing comment positively requires of his audience that they read beyond the letter (519b–32): Dægworc nemnað swa gyt werðeode, on gewritum fi ndað doma gehwilcne, þara ðe him drihten bebead on þam siðfate soðum wordum. Gif onlucan wile lifes wealhstod, beorht in breostum, banhuses weard, ginfæsten god gastes cægon, run bið gerecenod, ræd forð gæð; hafað wislicu word on fæðme, wile meagollice modum tæcan, þæt we gesne ne syn Godes þeodscipes, metodes miltsa. He us ma onlyhð nu us boceras beteran secgað, lengran lifwynna. [So still the nations nominate that day’s work, in writings they fi nd each one of those decrees, which the Lord commended to them in true words during that journey. If life’s interpreter, the body’s guardian, wishes to unlock, bright in the breast, the abundant good with the keys of the spirit, the mystery is explained, counsel flows forth; he has wise words in the bosom, should wish earnestly to teach minds, so that we might not be lacking God’s nationality, the Creator’s mercy. He enlightens us more – now scholars explain to us better concerning longer lasting life-joys.]

The meaning of these events for the nations can only be ascertained at the spiritual level of reading, and the enlightened spirit, with God’s grace and the help of Scriptural commentary, can understand these mysteries.57 In addition to the many sparks of allegorical meaning struck by the poet’s careful diction echoing traditional Christian interpretations of the exodus, the poem consolidates and moves beyond the simple mode of historical exemplum with the inclusion of the patriarchal narrative. This ‘digression’ is primarily a recollection of the Hebrews themselves, at a moment of national crisis when a memory of past mercies is entirely appropriate. But while Abraham is father of the Hebrew people literally, he was also understood to be the spiritual father of Christian believers in a commonplace of biblical origin (Gal 3:6–29).

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In Christian interpretation his new name promises the salvation of the gentiles in Christ, a promise reiterated after his fidelity in the offering of Isaac (Gen 17:5, 22:15–18; Gal 3:6–18). Noah was literally father of the human race, but also – before the Law, before Abraham – he was the first Old Testament figure to make a covenant with God. The careful inclusion of these covenants within the poem enhances the Christian allegorical interpretation of the exodus, which is literally the greatest historical moment in the election of the people of Israel and the formation of the Mosaic covenant. The poet does not want his poem simply to tell of a high point of the history of Israel, and one of the ways he refocuses his history thematically is by introducing the patriarchal narrative. The emphasis on the paternity of Noah and Abraham, who enjoyed God’s favour and passed this on to all the nations of the world, serves to include the Anglo-Saxon audience in the action of Exodus, while the poem’s allusions to baptism recall their initiation into the fulfi lment of this promise. This historical and theological point is confirmed and developed in the poem’s multiple typological and anagogical allusions which converge on an image anticipating the cataclysmic flood at the end of time. The ark is one of a number of figures of the Church in Exodus, but in the poem’s scheme the representation of the chosen people as triumphant seafarers draws on the ecclesial typology of the ark passing through apocalyptic waters as one of its key images. The myth of the Flood is a crucial element in this interweaving of ideas, and the audience’s comprehension of its eschatological importance is presumed by the poet. The covenant made with Noah, the father of the whole human race, is a key historical precedent demonstrating the universality of the salvation exemplified in the exodus, while the Flood itself foreshadows, along with the waters of the Red Sea, the apocalyptic flood of fire which will cleanse the world of God’s enemies at the end of time. Andreas Andreas, unlike Genesis A and Exodus, does not recount the biblical history of the Flood.58 It does, however, culminate in a great symbolic flood which overwhelms the pagan city of Mermedonia,

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in an account which draws heavily on biblical typology. Andreas is not a biblical poem, though its hero, the apostle Andrew, appears in the New Testament, and its events purport to take place during the apostolic era; it is a safe assumption that AngloSaxon audiences would have treated the legend as a more or less reliable representation of true historical events. The poem’s ultimate source, the Greek Acta Andreae et Matthiae, mediated through a Latin redaction closely related to the ‘Casanatensis’ recension, is a product of the literary and religious culture of the early Christian orient, and from early on was one of the more popular apostolic legends.59 Nothing is known about the author other than what can be surmised from the poem: he (the poem is decidedly masculine in outlook) certainly knew Latin; he was well educated in biblical exegesis and typology; he had access to an unusual text of the deeds of the apostle, perhaps implying a better class of library; he possibly had a personal devotion to the saint. Devotion to the apostle and knowledge of his life would have been brought to England with the papal mission: Augustine had been prior of Pope Gregory’s own monastery dedicated to St Andrew on the Coelian Hill in Rome. This devotion is evident in two important early church dedications to Andrew, at Rochester and Hexham (HE, 2.3, 5.20). The reservations of Augustine and his companions about their mission across the sea to a barbaram feram incredulamque gentem (‘barbarous, fierce and unbelieving nation’) may even suggest a sympathetic parallel to the reluctance of the apostle faced with the voyage to Mermedonia (HE, 1.23). Andreas follows the essential storyline of the Acta, tracing Matthew’s capture by Mermedonian cannibals, and Andrew’s reluctant mission to rescue him. Andrew is ferried to the pagan land in a boat piloted by Christ in disguise. After a miraculous transportation, he frees Matthew and his fellow captives, aggrieving the starved Mermedonians, who are frustrated by the invisible Andrew in their subsequent attempts to eat one of their own people. Led by the devil, they discover and seize Andrew, and proceed to torture him over three days. He then summons a great flood which washes over the city. The flood drowns some people, including a group of young men, while others try to flee, but an angel overspreads the city with fire, preventing escape. A spokesman acknowledges that Andrew has been treated wrongly, and

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suggests the apostle spoke the truth. Andrew recognizes the change of heart, and walks through the flood dry-shod, causing the waters to recede. He opens the earth, which swallows the fourteen worst Mermedonians with the retreating waters.60 Exhorting the population, Andrew raises some youths from the dead, who then receive baptism. The rest of the people are baptized, a church is built and, after staying to teach the new Christian community for some days, the saint departs. Even from this overview, it is clear that conventional Christian symbolism (the poet also emphasizes the themes of spiritual blindness and hunger throughout) is a feature of an episode where the development of realism is not of great interest to the anonymous author. The style and structure of Andreas embody the fusion of Greek romance narrative conventions with an understanding of Christian theology, strongly influenced by the symbolism of biblical typology. To these elements is added the martial language of the Anglo-Saxon heroic poetic idiom, influencing the casting of characters and events in a way not always pleasing to critics.61 Furthermore, in a critical dispute which has lasted over a century, it has been suggested that in his heroic casting of events the poet has been heavily influenced by Beowulf; this is a question to which I shall return at the end of Chapter 6. The typological mode of symbolic association is a feature embedded in the source used by the Anglo-Saxon poet, and is preserved, and sometimes enhanced, in Andreas. This is evident in Andrew’s torture at the hands of the devilish Mermedonians, an episode where narrative development is almost completely subordinated to the desire to recollect details of Christ’s passion.62 Another set of inter-related motifs draws on nautical imagery found in the Old and New Testaments.63 Andrew’s reluctance to journey to the sinful pagan city recalls the story of Jonah, as does the storm at sea. The symbolic association between Andrew and Jonah, an Old Testament prophet sent to preach to the gentiles, is enhanced when Andrew spends the three days in prison, echoing Jonah’s three days in the belly of the whale and Christ’s time in the tomb, of which it is an Old Testament type (Matt 12:39). Andrew’s sea journey also recalls that of Christ on the stormy Sea of Galilee with his disciples (Mark 4:35–41; Luke 8:22–5), an association hammered home with the revelation that Christ is Andrew’s anonymous pilot.

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Nautical imagery permeates Andreas: once Andrew has committed himself to the journey, we fi nd him with his companions setting out with a burst of energy at dawn, with the heofoncandel blac (‘heaven-candle bright’) rising over the lagoflodas (‘oceancurrents’) in search of a ship to cross the flodes fæðm (‘flood’s bosom’, 243–4, 252). Their journey over the flodes wylm (‘flood’s surge’, 367b) is not an easy one, and as a comfort to the destitute they receive angelic food (367a), a Eucharistic image reinforcing the ecclesial metaphor. The fusion of the storm-tossed ship on the Sea of Galilee, a commonplace image of the Church, with the Old Testament type of Noah’s ark is evident in the emphasis on the comfort and rest given to the travellers (380b–1; 461–78).64 The rest given to the disciples by Christ recalls both Noah in the ark and Christ’s typological association with him, and together these associations leave little doubt that the boat in which Andrew and his companions travel symbolizes the ship of the Church. Like the ark in Exodus and Genesis A, the boat is described as full of treasures (331b, 337–9), in ironic contrast to the evangelical poverty of the travellers (299–304), which suggests a deliberate inversion of the heroic ideal by the poet.65 The pilot’s response to Andrew’s poverty focuses on the deprivation of the journey ahead, and he predicts the lack of comfort in a treasureless journey over the cold seas. Their discussion develops the theme of treasure metaphorically: the only treasure they have is the wordhord (316b), the gospel which the disciples were sent to carry across the world (331b, 337–9), which fuses with the notion that the companions themselves are the treasure (359–69a). After a miraculous transfer to the walls of Mermedonia, Andrew’s speech signalling his recognition of the pilot again echoes the typological associations between ship and Church, and, by emphasising the consolation (frofre) offered by God, continues the link to the type of the ark (903b–9). In a further appeal to Noachic typology, the metaphor of the Church as a ship, as we shall see, also anticipates the emergence of the Church from the flood in the pagan city. This flood, associated with the purgation of the city and the birth of the Church in it, draws on the historical typology of both the Flood and the Red Sea crossing, and the redemption of the city which the flood brings about also anticipates the Last Judgment. This salvation, brought about by the Christ-figure Andrew,

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is the unifying theme of the Anglo-Saxon poet’s source, but one which has been enhanced in Andreas. This is apparent in the poet’s treatment of the climactic flood scene, when the longsuffering Andrew summons a great flood which issues from a wall in his prison. The poet introduces the flood with an aside, complaining he does not have the time to recount fully the saint’s deeds in þære hæðenan byrig (‘in the heathen city’, 1478–91), a comment which serves to draw attention to the climactic deed he will relate. The poet’s rendering of the episode draws on a range of biblical associations, many centring on the ancient Flood, and enhancing the imagery of baptism and judgment.66 This is immediately apparent in the presentation of the stone pillars, one of which is commanded to send forth the floodwaters (1492–1508a): He be wealle geseah wundrum fæste under sælwage sweras unlytle, stapulas standan, storme bedrifene, eald enta geweorc. He wið anne þæra, mihtig ond modrof, mæðel gehede, wis, wundrum gleaw, word stunde ahof: Geher ðu, marmanstan, meotudes rædum, fore þæs onsyne ealle gesceafte forhte geweorðað, þonne hie fæder geseoð heofonas ond eorðan herigea mæste on middangeard mancynn secan. Læt nu of þinum staþole streamas weallan, ea inflede, nu ðe ælmihtig hateð, heofena cyning, þæt ðu hrædlice on þis fræte folc forð onsende wæter widrynig to wera cwealme, geofon geotende. [He saw by the wall, under the wall of the hall, large pillars wondrously firm, columns standing beaten by storms, the ancient work of giants. He formally addressed one of them, wise, wondrously astute, lifted up words for a while: ‘Listen, marble stone, to the counsels of the Creator, before whose face all creatures will become afraid when they see the Father of heaven and earth seeking mankind throughout middle-earth with the greatest of armies. Now let streams well up out of your foundation, a great flowing river, now that the Almighty commands you, the King of the heavens, that you quickly send forth wide running waters, a surging ocean, over this proud nation for the killing of men.’]

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These columns, which appear to be the poet’s innovation, evoke a series of Old Testament types. Linked to Moses, they recall not only the Law, a connection foregrounded by the poet (1509b– 16), but also the striking of the rock at Horeb, whose waters were also commonly identified as an Old Testament type of baptism (Exod. 17:1–7).67 Like the street along which Andrew was earlier dragged, an enta ærgeweorc (‘ancient work of giants’, 1235a), these pillars are eald enta geweorc (1495a). The poet’s use of the formula here, as a great flood is overwhelming a city of cannibals, cannot be accidental, and the description of the pillars as storme bedrifene recalls the Flood that destroyed the ancient race of giants and their works.68 This association might have been more obvious if Andreas had survived intact in the Vercelli Book, its unique manuscript. A lacuna in the text between lines 1024a and 1025b represents the loss of a whole leaf cut from the manuscript.69 Brooks, the most recent editor of the poem, suggests, with reference to the ‘prose version’, that the missing section might have contained ‘some preliminary dialogue in which Andrew speaks of his coming trials’ after which ‘the apostles fi nd the other prisoners, Andrew miraculously restores their sight and reason; they then plan to effect the safe conduct of Matthew and the others back to their own homes, and release them all from prison.’70 However, ‘Casanatensis’, the Latin text closest to Andreas, accounts for the missing material. The lacuna in Andreas corresponds to the latter part of chapter 19, all of chapter 20 and perhaps the beginning of chapter 21. After Matthew and Andrew greet each other (compare lines 1019b–24a), Andrew criticizes Matthew’s inaction in the face of adversity. Matthew defends himself, claiming that a vision had revealed to him that he should wait for Andrew to rescue him, before asking what they should do next. At the beginning of chapter 20, Andrew laments the fate of the prisoners reduced to the state of dumb beasts, before attacking Satan’s role in the mischief: Et converssus andreas cepit increpare satan, dixitque ad eum. Ve tibi satanas, quantas inimicitias exercuisti adversus generis humani inique et perverse, qui es inimicus dei et angelis eius. Quid tibi isti miseri et peregrini mala fecerunt, quod talia iniqua et maligna et pessima in eis exercuisti? O infelix, quamdiu pugnas cum genus humanum, usque quo exalteris super eos? Putridissime tu enim suasisti adam, protoplausto,

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Water and fire et ut eiceretur de paradisi delitias, etiam et fecisti, ut panes qui fuerunt in mensa eius lapides efficerentur. Iterum ingressus es in corde filiorum dei, et fecisti eos concubere cum mulieribus, et facti sunt fi lii eorum gigantes super terram, et iratus dominus intulit super eos diluvium, et delevit omnia peccata, et noe iterum recuperavit. Et nunc autem ingressus es in hanc civitatem, et per iniquas tuas suasiones fecistis homines similes suis, homines conmederet, eorumque viveret sanguinem, ut et ipsi fiant maledictiet in perditione. Tu autem putas, ut deus deleat figmentum suum, inimice non audistis dominum dicentum, iam non mictam diluvium super terram? Omnia vero ista que nunc facis inimicitia generis humani, similia tibi sunt reposita tormenta in die iudicii. [Andrew turned and began to rebuke Satan, saying, ‘Satan, woe to you, how many wars have you waged against the human race, vicious evil one, enemy of God and his angels? What harm have these unhappy pilgrims done to you that you inflict on them such crimes, wickedness and evils? Unhappy one, how long will you fight against humanity? Until you are exalted over them? It was you in your rottenness who tricked Adam, the first man, so he was thrown out of the delights of paradise; you saw to it that the loaves on his table would be turned to stones. Furthermore, you entered the hearts of God’s sons, made them lie with women; and their sons were made into giants on the earth. In anger the Lord brought a flood upon them and destroyed all their sins and then saved Noah. Now you have entered this city and through your wicked encouragement you have made men eat others like themselves and drink their blood; as a result they are cursed and damned. Do you think God will destroy his image? Evil one, didn’t you hear the Lord when he said, ‘I will not send another flood upon the earth?’ For each crime you commit against mankind now, a similar torment is reserved for you on Judgment Day.’] 71

The conflict between the saint and the devil will soon be intensified, when the devil appears among the crowd and directs their rage against Andrew. It is impossible to know if the Old English poem ever contained a passage corresponding to the Latin text’s account of the fall of man, the rise of the giants and the Flood, though the amount of text estimated to be lost could easily have accommodated a rendering of the passage.72 In the Latin, the reference to the eating and drinking of the Mermedonians provides a clear echo of the gospel warning of the suddenness of the coming

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Judgment, which overtook the sinners in diebus ante diluvium comedentes et bibentes (Matt 24:38), and in the complete legend anticipates the flooding of the city in judgment. The poet’s amplification of the same flood scene, and the presentation of it as a drinking party gone wrong, further suggest that the missing passage once contained such an anticipation. Andrew’s words here would certainly have provided a structural balance to the apostle’s visit to the city, which may well have opened with a recollection of the ancient Flood and ended with a latter day reenactment, providing a more meaningful context for the later flood, which purges the city of its most wicked cannibals while not bringing complete destruction, as God had promised. The pagan Mermedonians’ demonic captivity is evident throughout the poem, as they constantly practise the cræft and lar of the devil; just as the great Flood was sent to destroy the demonic crafts of the giants, so this flood will destroy practitioners of the devil’s craft among the Mermedonians. The reference to Moses and the Law at the moment the flood is to break out of the marble stone is perhaps surprising given the harsh treatment the poet – following his source – reserves for the Jewish people. The poem’s focus on the opposition between Jew and gentile centres both on the ongoing question of who is ‘foreign’ in regard to the spiritual homeland, and who is to be numbered among the elect. Many of Andrew’s fellow disciples suffered martyrdom among the ellþeodigra (‘foreign nations’, 6), and in the poem he also will come close to a similar fate on the particular island where as yet ‘none could enjoy the joy of the homeland’. The homeland (eðel) referred to can only be heaven, while the poet’s ‘yet’ sets out the expectation of the conversion of the Mermedonians from the beginning of the poem. This promise of a better homeland leads into an embellished description of the particular depravity of their present homeland (19–39). The reinterpretation of God’s relationship to the elect of the Old Testament is a question discussed at length by Andrew and Christ during the sea-journey to Mermedonia. Andrew explains his mission and its origins: the disciples were chosen as champions, and were sent across the world to preach the bright faith by the Creator, who is the Father of the nations (323b–36). The relationship of these nations to those who were formerly God’s chosen people becomes the focus of the lengthy interrogation of

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Andrew by the disguised Christ, ‘the Prince of nations’ (þeoda baldor, 547b). The discussion begins with a request from the pilot (555–71), which establishes a profoundly anti-Semitic tone. This attitude, and an opposition between the Jewish people and the gentile nations, is established from the outset in Andreas: Matthew, the first apostle we encounter, first preached mid Iudeum (‘among the Jews’, 12) and later among the foreign peoples. Elsewhere, the poet, recollecting God’s creation of the world and the apostolic mission among the Jews and the nations (161–7a), creates a more subtle distinction between Hebrews and Israelites on the one hand, and Jews who practise galdorcræftum (‘magical crafts’, 166) on the other, a distinction which re-emerges in the account of the debate in the temple.73 The poet’s use of the word cræft (‘craft’, ‘skill’) creates an opposition in the poem between the power of God and of the devil. Matthew wrote his gospel through the power of wundorcræft (‘miracle-craft’, 13a), and his hands are bound by the pagans with feondes cræft (‘craft of the enemy’, 49b). God asks Andrew to go to a land ruled by self-eaters who practice morðorcræftum (‘murderous crafts’, 174–7a), with the promise that he also will suffer their beaducræft (‘war-craft’, 219); he is taken there by the macræftige menn (‘more skilled men’, 257a) who are really Christ and his angels, and Andrew unwittingly praises the pilot’s cræft (472, 500). Christ’s miracles were worked through his cræftes miht (‘power of his craft’, 585b) but were rejected as drycræft (‘sorcery’, 765a) by the same Jewish elders who practise galdorcræft. The Father will provide cræft ond mihte (‘skill and power’, 939a) which Andrew will need to rescue Matthew from the devices (searunettum, 943a) of the Mermedonians. The devil in his exchange with Andrew uses feondes cræft (1195b), already associated with those Jews who reject Christ. The Jews, Jesus the pilot declares, would not believe in the liffruma (‘source of life’, 562b), nor in his divinity, nor in his wundra feala (‘many miracles’, 564a); the Mermedonians, in contrast, later come to believe, an opposition emphasized by structural parallels in the miracles shown to the two nations. The blasphemous and arleasan (‘graceless’, 559a) Jews would not recognise the cynebearn (‘royal child’, 566a) who was born among them despite the miracles worked for their benefit, but who was born to hleo ond to hroðre (‘as a protection and comfort’, 567a)

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and for all mankind, for all earth dwellers. The discussion between the pilot and Andrew leads into the apocryphal story – which in the poem diverges from the known Acta – of the amazing events which took place during a visit of Christ with his eleven disciples (Judas is implicitly absent) to the temple (661–5), the seat of power of the Jewish priests. The lying priests (669b–74a) mock Christ and his disciples with the accusation that they have made themselves foreign by putting themselves outside the law of the people and by treading distant roads, an ironic anticipation of their apostolic mission to the nations (676–82a): ‘Hwæt, ge syndon earme ofer ealle menn! Wadað widlastas, weorn geferað earfoðsiða, ellþeodiges nu butan leodrihte larum hyrað, eadiges orhlytte æðeling cyðað, secgað soðlice þæt mid suna meotudes drohtigen dæghwæmlice.’ [‘Indeed, you are wretched before all men! You tread distant paths, undergo a multitude of harsh journeys, you now listen to the teachings of a foreigner outside the people’s law, without a share of happiness you make known a prince, say with the semblance of truth that you live daily with the son of the Creator’.]

This mockery of the apostolic life as a form of shameless exile is followed by a questioning of Christ’s divine ancestry. This ridicule is answered on a second visit to the temple, during which Christ performs a miracle designed to show the blasphemers the truth, and which will reveal his true parentage and lineage (729–34). An ancient stone (frod fyrngeweorc, ‘wise ancient work’, 737a) is commanded by Christ to leap off the wall, anticipating the ancient stone which will provide the miracle of the flood later in the poem, uniting both in their function as evangelical signs. The stone obeys the command of the Saviour, describing his lineage in the broadest terms, explaining that he was the Creator at the beginning (729–50), and the God who made a covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (751–8a). The hearts of the priests, like the leaders of the Mermedonians (19b), are inhabited by the devil (761–2) and are morðre bewunden (‘wrapped in murder’, 772b). While there is no mention yet of the Mosaic covenant or Law – this is referred to only as a prelude

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to the Mermedonian conversion – the Jewish elders are simply referred to as wærlogan (‘covenant-breakers’, 613a).74 Unlike the Mermedonians who come to believe, the priests reject the wyrd (‘destiny’, 758a) which is now among them and dismiss the miracle as drycræft (‘sorcery’, 765a). As the testimony of the stone proves insufficient, Christ commands it to go to Mambre and raise his human ancestors Abraham, Isaac and Jacob from their tombs to attest to his divine pedigree. The resurrection of the three anticipates the later resurrection of the Mermedonian youths after the flood, a structural link emphasised by the added detail that the patriarchs receive their youth when raised (782). The three walk through the land like apostles, proclaiming the truth that Christ is the divine son of the Creator (800–6). The focus on these patriarchs, and Abraham in particular, is not accidental, and typological associations recall the collocation of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob/Israel with the flood story in Exodus. Abraham made a covenant with God promising salvation to all the nations of the world, making him their father in faith (753–60): ‘He Abrahame ond Isace ond Iacobe gife bryttode, welum weorðode, wordum sægde ærest Habrahame æðeles geþingu, þæt of his cynne cenned sceolde weorðan wuldres god. Is seo wyrd mid eow open, orgete, magan eagum nu geseon sigores god, swegles agend.’ [‘He shared gifts with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, honoured them with wealth, and first told to Abraham in words of the nobleman’s legacy, that from his kindred the God of glory would be born. This destiny is plain and obvious among you, with your eyes you may now see the God of victory, the Ruler of heaven.’]

After preaching this truth the three are allowed to secan mid sybbe (‘to seek with peace’, 809a) the promised rest of heaven, the spiritual homeland alluded to at the beginning of the poem. The association between the heavenly homeland which is the fulfilment of the promise made to Abraham is also suggested by the poet’s earlier description of the risen patriarchs leaving their landreste (781a), a word unique to Andreas. As in Exodus refer-

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ence to Abraham is used to Christianize the idea of covenant and extend salvation to the nations, though in Andreas the displacement of the Jewish people is far more aggressively asserted. Similarly, the climactic flood will be used to recall Noah’s universal covenant, emphasizing the promise of salvation to the nations. The covenant theme is given renewed emphasis upon Andrew’s arrival in the pagan city. At a turning point in the Mermedonians’ history, and unknown to them, the invisible Andrew walks cheerfully among the assembled pagan nation in the expectation of his battle for their stronghold (1058–67). At this key moment the poet poignantly describes them as the wærleas werod (‘troop without a covenant’, 1069a). Andrew’s own relationship with God is defined in terms of a covenant, and his initial reluctance to travel to Mermedonia is fi nally overcome when the mission is demanded in terms of the wær which exists between him and God (211–14a), a pact which included all the disciples, champions (324) sent across the world to preach to the nations (329b–36). This same covenant is to be offered to these nations, bringing with it God’s protection and peace. After the offer of passage by Christ the pilot (also the wærfæst cyning, 416a), Andrew blesses him for the sybbe gecyðed (358). During the storm that follows, Andrew enjoys a protection close at hand of which he is ignorant (380b–1). The pilot acknowledges the difficulties of navigating the flodwylm and recognizes Andrew as a thane of God (531b–6): Hærn eft onwand, aryða geblond. Egesa gestilde, widfæðme wæg. Wædu swæðorodon seoðþan hie ongeton þæt ðe god hæfde wære bewunden, se ðe wuldres blæd gestaðolade strangum mihtum. [The ocean then was still, the stirring of the oar-waves. The terror, the broad-breasted wave, was stilled. The waters subsided when they understood that God had wrapped them in his covenant, he who established by mighty powers the life of glory.’ Emphasis added]

It is in this context the wæges weard (‘guardian of the wave’, 601a, 632a) observes that the wretched wærlogan (‘covenantbreakers’, 613) led the Jewish people astray by the devil’s coun-

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sels (deofl es larum, 611b). In contrast, the Saviour’s teachings are a comfort for the spirit (fyrhð frofre, 638a) of anyone who hears them. Andrew later enters the city enjoying the protecting covenant with God (984b, 988b), while the crowd he liberates from the prison enjoys the same protection (1045a). Matthew, Andrew’s treowgeþofta (‘trusty-companion’, but also ‘covenantcompanion’, 1050a), disappears from the story, while Andrew returns to the street and sits beside an iron pillar (1062b), contemplating the wærleas werod (1069a, 1089a). In contrast to the pagans, Andrew is a wærfæstne hæleð during his days of torture by the Mermedonians. The theme of covenant is continued in the response of se atola gast (1296b) to the nation’s prayer: the fiend is a wærloga (1297a), who continues his false teaching (1297b), while the wærfæst Andrew is taken back to his cell (1310a). The specific claim of Christ the lareow (‘teacher’, 1321b) that is rebuked by the devil is his right to all the nations, which (it is implied) have been the devil’s dominions until the arrival of the gospel (1316–23). Like the Jewish priests, the devil rejects Christ’s divine origin along with his teaching. Andrew’s fi nal victory over the devil in the conflict between the two for the custody of the nation is signalled by the destruction of idols after the flood, when Andrew replaces the devil as their teacher (1636–42):75 Þa gesamnodon secga þreate weras geond þa winburg wide ond side, eorlas anmode, ond hira idesa mid, cwædon holdlice hyran woldon, onfon fromlice fullwihtes bæð dryhtne to willan, ond diofolgild, ealde eolhstedas, anforlætan. [Then men throughout the happy city from far and wide gathered in a crowd of people, single-minded men and their ladies with them, said they would faithfully listen, boldly receive the bath of baptism by the Lord’s will, and utterly abandon devil worship in the old temples.]

The acceptance by all of the baptism already conferred on the resurrected youths, and symbolized in the typological flood in which they were immersed, includes the formerly pagan nation in the covenant foreshadowed by Noah’s covenant (1630–2a):

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Onfengon fulwihte ond freoðuwære, wuldres wedde witum aspedde, mundbyrd meotudes. [They received baptism and the peace-covenant, the pact of glory released from punishments, the Creator’s protection.]

The force of the typological symbolism converges on this moment, the climactic salvation of the pagan nation. A crucial element of this is the inclusion of these pagans into the freoðuwære with God, the culmination not only of the theological tension between Jew and gentile running through Andreas, but a wider concern for defi ning the relationship between God and his chosen in terms of the covenant they enjoy. The flooding of the city The Flood typology initiated in the symbolism of the ship becomes central to the poet’s description of the saint’s torture, and forms part of the anticipation of the later flood and the redemption it will bring to the pagan nation. Andrew is promised by Christ that his blood will flow like a flood (wættre geliccost faran fl ode blod, ‘[your] blood flow most like water in a flood’, 954b–5a), the fi rst of the two floods which will save the Mermedonians, as the whole point of the Christ-like suffering is the promised conversion of many in the city (973–6). The poet’s expression blod yðum weoll (‘blood surged in waves’, 1240b) fuses the typology of the Flood with its patristic application to the baptismal Flood issuing from Christ’s side, all of which are part of symbolic fabric of Andrew’s redemptive work in Mermedonia. The image of the blood of the wærfæst hæleð (‘covenant-fast hero’, 1275b) welling in waves is repeated on the second day of his torture, this time accompanied by a surging stream of tears (1278b–80). Andrew’s speech over the stone which pours out the floodwaters expressly links the flood with the Last Judgment (1498–1502). The reference to God as the judge of all creation, who on the Day of Judgment will come with an army to search out the whole human race across the world, imparts a martial character to the present flood which, with Anglo-Saxon poetic flavouring, attacks the hall of the pagan nation.

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The Mermedonians’ hall had been introduced earlier in the poem as a desolate place of cannibalistic feasting. After Andrew’s arrival in the city, the heathen army (1070a) realize in despair they have been deprived of their meal of foreigners (1073a), the ‘strange-speakers from the distant nations’ (1080b–1a).76 The poet presents the image of their empty hall, literally empty because they cannot have their feast, but also a metaphor of the spiritual condition of their nation, ravaged by se ðeodsceaða (‘nation-destroyer’).77 The next time the image of the hall is developed in the poem is in the flood episode, when the poet employs the image of a drinking celebration as a metaphor of destruction (1522–35): Næs þa wordlatu wihte þon mare þæt se stan togan. Stream ut aweoll, fleow ofer foldan. Famige walcan mid ærdæge eorðan þehton, myclade mereflod. Meoduscerwen wearð æfter symbeldæge, slæpe tobrugdon searuhæbbende. Sund grunde onfeng, deope gedrefed. Duguð wearð afyrhted þurh þæs flodes fær. Fæge swulton, geonge on geofene guðræs fornam þurh sealtne weg. Þæt wæs sorgbyrþen, biter beorþegu. Byrlas ne gældon, ombehtþegnas. Þær wæs ælcum genog fram dæges orde drync sona gearu. [Then there was not a single moment wasted in obeying those words, so that the stone split asunder. The stream surged out, flowed over the earth. With the coming of day the foamy crests covered the earth, the sea flood increased. After the feasting day the mead-pouring came about, the armoured warriors shook off sleep. The sea seized the ground, troubled in the deep. The old troop was terrified because of the flood’s sudden attack. The doomed died, the battle rush took the young in the ocean, by the salty wave. That was a sorrowful brew, a bitter binge of beer. The cup-bearers and stewards did not delay. There was enough for each one, a drink quickly ready, at the beginning of the day.] 78

The image of the flood as a bitter drink represents a truth at the literal level, though the poet earlier had gone out of his way to point out that there is no feasting for the Mermedonians. The

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bitterness of the drink also recalls the depravity of the cannibals whose potion reduced their victims to a bestial state (19–39). The poet combines the imagery of a sudden battle (guðræs fornam) – an image associated with a divinely sent flood in both Genesis A and Exodus – with that of warriors being woken after the feast day, and so alludes to Christ’s warning of the suddenness of the future judgment, which will interrupt eating and drinking as it did in Noah’s day; here these associations are all recast in the vernacular heroic code. The nation that was previously without even water (22b) now suffers from an ironic abundance of drink. The feast they get is one they did not expect, one which cleanses the hall and the nation it represents of wickedness, destroying those doomed to die and bringing no joy to those damned for their iniquity. The few who are swallowed by the abyss in Andreas are presumably to be identified with the ‘wise men’ of the nation who, after the frustration of their attempts to eat a boy, go into secret counsel (1161–9). The ‘searching’ characteristic of the water-army (1501b–2) fuses the image with an aspect of the Flood also found in Old English judgment poetry, a bellicosity which joins the AngloSaxon heroic ideal with biblical expectation of a fi nal apocalyptic battle between God and his enemies. The poet is concerned not only with Mermedonia, and alludes to a flood covering the earth, in a self-contradictory way. The expansiveness of the flood suggested by the description of the waters as ‘wide-running’ (1507a) is hardly true at the literal level as the flood covers the city only – presumably we should imagine it filling up the space inside the city walls. However, the logic of the text is subordinated to the imagery of judgment whereby the city has come to represent the whole world. Here, as in Genesis A and in Exodus, the waters are associated with God’s righteous army seeking out his proud (fræte, 1506a) enemies for destruction. The martial imagery is exploited throughout the flood episode as the seasoned pagan troop (duguð, 1529b) attempts to desert the battle in fear to higher ground while the water-army gains the upper hand (1536–53): Weox wæteres þrym. Weras cwanedon, ealde æscberend; wæs him ut myne, fleon fealone stream, woldon feore beorgan, to dunscræfum drohtað secan, eorðan ondwist. Him þæt engel forstod,

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This flight is to no avail as an angel prevents their escape, covering the city with a blacan lige (‘blazing flame’, 1541), a hatan heaðowælme (‘hot battle-blaze’, 1542a) which blocks escape from the cruelty of the beating ocean (1543a). The association of these flames with the great surging of the waves of the flood (flod yðum weoll, 1546b), and with the pervasive fear and the impossibility of escape, unites the picture of the judgment on this city with the expectation of the inescapable future universal conflagration at the Last Judgment. The imagery of flood, fire and battle are commonly found together in Old English poetry on the Last Judgment. Caie has argued that what appears to be the poet’s confusion of the terrors of the Flood and the torments of hell with those of the apocalyptic fire in the Old English poem Judgment Day I, can be explained by the poet’s understanding of time, and a concentration on the ‘ever-present apocalyptic moment’.79 The poem begins with a

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description of a flood which is simultaneously of water and fire, and climaxes with the apocalyptic fire of Doomsday. This flood will kill everyone on earth (Judgment Day I, 1–21): Ðæt gelimpan sceal, þætte lagu floweð, flod ofer foldan; feores bið æt ende anra gehwylcum. Oft mæg se þe wile in his sylfes sefan soð geþencan. Hafað him geþinged hider þeoden user on þam mæstan dæge, mægencyninga hyhst, wile þonne forbærnan brego moncynnes lond mid lige. Nis þæt lytulu spræc to geheganne. Hat bið onæled, siþþan fyr nimeð foldan sceatas, byrnende lig beorhte gesceafte; bið eal þes ginna grund gleda gefylled, reþra bronda, swa nu rixiað gromhydge guman, gylpe strynað, hyra hlaforde gehlæges tilgað, oþþæt hy beswicað synna weardas, þæt hi mid þy heape helle secað, fleogað mid þam feondum. Him biþ fyr ongean, droflic wite, þær næfre dæg scineð leohte of lyfte, ac a bilocen stondeð, siþþan þæs gæstes gryre agiefen weorþeð. [It will come to pass that the sea will flow, a flood over the earth; it will be the end of life for everyone. He who wants to can often ponder this truth in his own mind. Our Chieftain has appointed when he will come here on that greatest day, as highest PowerKing, then the Prince of mankind will burn up the land with flame. That will not be a small assembly to hold. Heat will be kindled, once fire, the burning flame, has seized the earth’s surface, the bright creation; all this wide plain will be full of coals and cruel firebrands, as now grim-minded men amass glory, procure laughter from [or for] their Lord, until the sin guardians betray them, so that they go down to hell in droves, fly with the devils. They will head towards the fire, torment in torture, where day never shines with light from the sky, but ever remain imprisoned, after the soul’s dreadful sentence is pronounced.]

The poem is not narrative but homiletic, and connects this expected ultimate destruction with the wicked lives people lead presently in the world. In sentiments echoing the need for the

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Mermedonians’ conversion in Andreas, the poet exhorts his readers to soð geþencan ‘contemplate the truth’ (4b) so as to avoid the grievous journey (25) to hell. Following a reflection on the choices laid out before humanity, the poem returns to a closer description of the terrors of the last day when earthly glory will be destroyed (52). The guardian of light will send mighty flames, blood will flow and earthquakes destroy the earth with roaring noise (52b–9), evoking the signs of Doomsday and the tradition which associates the type of the Flood with an apocalyptic fire.80 On Judgment Day all these will disappear except the roar of the sea (nymþe wætres sweg, 38), a common feature of apocalyptic writing, but here tied to the earlier description of the flooding of the earth.81 The Old English Judgment Day II, the direct source of which is Bede’s De die judicii, opens in a lonely grove, in the perfect season of the earthly paradise, an enclosed garden evoking the hortus conclusus of Song of Songs 4:12. This transient beauty quickly gives way to the earth-shattering Judgment, in which a great flood follows the melting of the cliffs and mountains (99–103): Eall eorðe bifað, eac swa þa duna dreosað and hreosað, and beorga hliðu bugað and myltað, and se egeslica sweg ungerydre sæ eall manna mod miclum gedrefeð. [All the earth will tremble, also the hills will perish and fall, and mountain cliffs will give way and melt, and the awful roar of the raging sea will greatly afflict the minds of all men.]

The terror of the accompanying roar and fear at the coming Judgment are also features of the scene in Mermedonia, and prompt the response of conversion.82 Judgment Day I rhetorically contrasts passing worldly glory with the eternal, as this tir (‘glory’, 52b) will be wiped away by the fyr (‘fire’, 54b). A flame, like an army, will wipe out all before it (55–6). This flood of fire becomes personified in Christ III 972–1006, where it also will seek out evil in the earth’s hidden corners. In both Judgment Day I and Christ III the flames of Doom are the weapons of the judge and under his control, much like the destructive waters in Genesis A, Exodus and Andreas. In Judgment Day I the speaker goes so far as to invite his listeners to recite a reminder that fire must come at the

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Judgment ‘over all the bright dwellings’ (ofer eall beorht gesetu, 117). In its immediate context in Andreas the miraculous flood is a sign to the Mermedonians that they were wrong about who was powerful and whose teaching they ought to follow. The fact that Andrew was right is articulated by the destitute man who acts as a spokesman for the people in a speech defi ning the moment of the Mermedonians’ conversion (1554–68). He points out that through the flood, the wyrd (‘fate’, ‘destiny’, 1561b) which is crushing them, they might know the truth, that they mid unrihte (‘against what was right’, 1559a) had locked this man in prison. Their change of heart is signalled by this humility, converting the pride against which the flood was sent, and Andrew acts to save them from the flood which, with a degree of melodramatic tension, is now up to the chests and shoulders of the survivors (1572b–5a). Andrew leaves the prison as a courageous warrior (cene collenferð, ‘brave resolute one’, 1578a) and walks across the dry ‘field of victory’ (sigewang, 1581a); he is surrounded by parting waters in an image which can only recall the exodus. The fissure into which Andrew orders the waters to recede recalls omnes fontes abyssi magnae (‘all the fountains of the great deep’, Gen 7:11), but also the abyss of hell as the fourteen most wicked Mermedonians disappear into its depths. The expectation of slaughter and judgment in the flood (1595b–1600) is appropriately disappointed with a new hope as the people confess their faith in the Creator, whose servant has helped their nation by his cræft (‘power’) and ar (‘grace’, 1601–6). Not all those killed in the flood are damned, and Andrew resurrects a number of drowned youths. The apostle responds to the confession of faith with words of comfort and warning (1607–12), and prays that God, ‘counsellor of the nations’ (1622b), might raise the youths drowned in flodes fæðm (‘flood’s embrace’, 1616a). The baptism of the youths (1624a–32a) fully exploits the symbolism deployed by the poet: their baptism is foreshadowed by the typological symbol of the flood, as they die to sin and rise to a new life; their death and resurrection in the conflagration develops the apocalyptic symbolism of the flood, anticipating the Last Judgment when baptized believers will rise to everlasting life. The dual character of the waters is drawn out in both cases as, like the waters of the Flood and the Red Sea, they destroy the

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wicked and save the elect. The typological symbolism of the lifegiving waters is developed further when a church is built on the source of the flood, the exact place where the young men rose. The other survivors are also baptized (1640b, 1643b), embrace God’s law (1644b) and eagerly listen to the new lar (‘teaching’, 1653a). Their timely plea for aid when the flood is about to destroy them is answered (1566–8) and, having been included in the new covenant offered in Christ, these gentiles will experience the consolation, peace and protection the covenant relationship with God will bring, preparing them for the coming Judgment. The poet, in an aside, comments that God will always extend this eternal freod (‘friendship’, 1154a) to those who can fi nd it, drawing his audience into the pattern of protection articulated in the poem. The covenant formed after the receding of the flood recalls Noah’s covenant after the ancient deluge, as well as the typological expectation of Judgment it evokes. The flood episode and its outcome draw together a range of themes developed throughout Andreas, and principal among these is the place of the pagan nations in salvation history. The Mermedonians are one of the many nations of the world seduced by the devil into idolatry, and the process of winning them back to the truth requires direct conflict with the devil. For this reason the poet attaches great significance to the overthrow of their idols, signalling the defeat of the devil (1641b–2a). The importance of this aspect of the conversion (which has long since displaced Matthew’s rescue as the governing motive of the poem) is demonstrated in the poet’s summary of Andrew’s mission (1687–94), which contrasts the misery of the defeated Satan – no longer worshipped at helltrafum (‘hellish temples’, 1691) – with the comfort of the Holy Spirit (frofre gast, ‘comforting spirit’, 1684b) enjoyed by the Mermedonian nation, who now praise a God and king whose power is known throughout the world (1717–22). Conclusion The three poems discussed in this chapter share common traditions – both a traditional Christian understanding of the Flood and an Anglo-Saxon poetic idiom in which this is expressed. Differences in genre and conception mean that the thematic emphases inherited from the orthodox theological tradition are

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developed in different ways. Genesis A is a poem which rarely adds to the biblical narrative being abridged beyond the requirements of translation from Latin into Old English poetic idiom, and therefore offers the reader only those theological reflections which adhere closely to the biblical text, and these in a highly allusive way. While it is difficult to determine the extent to which the poet is guided by a reading of the Fathers, to deny the influence of the patristic tradition on the casting of the narrative would be churlish, especially given Bede’s comments on the crafting of doctrine into vernacular biblical poetry in his day. This is particularly so in the case of the Flood, where the poet’s word choices suggest a familiarity for both author and audience with what were probably commonplace associations of the ark with the Church, and the Flood’s waters with baptism. However, these are not the ideas foregrounded by the poet, who is much more interested in developing the theme of covenant. This idea has an obvious theological dimension, but fi nds expression in the simple notion that human beings must be loyal to God and obey his will. The characterization of God casts him very much as an Anglo-Saxon war-leader who commands absolute fidelity, and nowhere more so than in the story of the Flood, presented as a battle with those who rebel against him. This bellicose treatment is tied in the poem to an eschatological understanding of the Flood which the poet again assumes is familiar to at least part of his audience. The casting of the giants as God’s murderous enemies at the beginning of the poem’s account of the Flood anticipates and gives added meaning to the battle imagery, and their defeat extinguishes their race from the earth. Once the imagery of battle has been set in motion, the poet combines this extended metaphor with the traditional association of the ark as the Church, the great hall and treasure-chest, in such a way that this ancient battle comes to anticipate the future destruction of God’s enemies at the end of time, a future also anticipated in the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra. The anger of God is avoided in the poem by those who are faithful to him and his wær. The treaty and pledge of peace broken by Cain’s offspring is granted anew to Noah, and through him to the whole human race, including the poem’s Anglo-Saxon audience, whom the poet carefully includes in the wider historical perspectives the biblical history

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evokes. In the wider context of the poem this is confirmed in God’s covenant with Abraham, which promises salvation for all nations of the world. In Exodus the same themes are found. The poem presents a series of covenants: God’s with Noah, with Abraham and his descendants, and with Moses. In contrast the Egyptians are presented as breaking their covenants both with God and his people. The covenant-breaking Egyptians are rewarded by a warrior God with a flood which is structurally paralleled with Noah’s, and this is replete with the eschatological imagery which associates the Flood and the future Judgment. The typology implied by the association of Flood and exodus points the reader to the fulfilment of both types in the antitype of baptism, and its faithful communities in the ark and the exodus recall the Church. Andreas mentions neither Noah nor the ancient Flood (though it once may have), but presents a narrative in which typological allusion to the Flood forms an integral part of the poem’s development. Again covenant is important, though here Old Testament types are fully realized and completely subordinated to an aggressive evangelical theme: the pagan nations are to be brought to the salvation in Christ and the Church which the Jewish people rejected. This new covenant is offered to the Mermedonians in a narrative full of symbolic allusion to the ancient covenants with Noah and Abraham, and to an extent with Moses. The moment of conversion fuses the type of the Flood with a miraculous manifestation of waters which purify and destroy, passing judgment on sinners and rescuing the pagan nation from eternal damnation. The poet’s introduction of overtly martial language into the episode is in keeping with the rest of the poem, but the casting of the flood as a vengeful army presents a striking parallel to the treatment found in both Genesis A and Exodus. These three poems are all the more striking when considered beside the various treatments of the Flood and its meaning for Christian audiences that were examined in Chapter 3. In the anonymous Niall homilies and Ælfric’s programme of preaching, it is clear that even though lay audiences have heard of the Flood, it is presumed that without careful instruction they have no idea of its typological implications. This is also the case when Ælfric is writing for the most senior members of the nobility: it would seem that to Sigeweard the idea that ‘Noah’ means ‘rest’ is an

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entirely new idea. It is difficult to imagine such audiences understanding anything more than the letter of the three poems studied in detail in this chapter, and in the case of Exodus and Andreas, the letter of the text may well have presented some confusing details. Certain conclusions can be drawn from this: first, references to the Flood would readily be understood by lay audiences – of all social classes – at the literal level, while typological readings would probably lie beyond reach; second, it is almost certain that their original authors did not intend these poems – with the exception of Genesis A – for lay audiences, but rather for those who would appreciate their theologically complex undercurrents; third, the motif of the Flood as a cosmic battle, absent in homiletic treatments of the Flood, is an integral part of its treatment in Old English verse. These conclusions will be important when I turn to a detailed discussion of the presentation of the Flood in Beowulf, which in all likelihood was designed for a lay audience, and also presents the Flood in terms of a great battle. But first a digression is necessary into a more literal historical understanding of the significance of the Flood myth for the Anglo-Saxons, who like all medieval Christians, believed themselves to be descendants of Noah. Notes 1 See Chapter 2 above, p. 48. 2 Manuscripts of the HE preserve one poem by him, known as Cædmon’s Hymn; see Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe, Visible Song: Transitional Literacy in Old English Verse CSASE, 4 (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 23–46. 3 See A. N. Doane, Genesis A (Madison, WI, 1978), pp. 38–42, for discussion of early scholarship on the poem; this edition is cited and quoted, with some unnoted alterations to minor punctuation. Unless otherwise noted, references to Old English poetic texts are to ASPR. See L. N. McKill, ‘The Artistry of the Noah episode in Genesis A’, English Studies in Canada, 13 (1987), 121–35, at pp. 121–3, for a summary of early opinions on the literary merits of the poem. John Gardner, The Construction of Christian Poetry in Old English (Carbondale, IL, 1975), pp. 30–2, argued the poem’s rhetorical merits in terms of its patterning of words and images. See Francis Lee Utley, ‘The Flood Narrative in the Junius Manuscript and in Baltic Literature’, Studies in Old English Literature, ed. Stanley B. Greenfield (Eugene, OR, 1963), pp. 207–26, at p. 213. 4 Bernard F. Huppé, Doctrine and Poetry: Augustine’s Infl uence on Old English Poetry (Albany, NY, 1959). 5 See Doane, Genesis A, pp. 42–3; his notes to the text (pp. 225–325) draw attention to a broad range of patristic works which may have influenced the

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7

8 9

10

11 12 13

Water and fire poet’s treatment of various points of the Genesis story. See Nina Boyd, ‘Doctrine and Criticism: A Revaluation of Genesis A’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen, 83 (1982), 230–8, for a discussion of the role and meaning of treasure and wealth in the poem. Charles D. Wright, ‘The Blood of Abel and the Branches of Sin: Genesis A, Maxims I and Aldhelm’s Carmen de uirginitate’, ASE, 25 (1996), 7–19, at p. 8, notes that the Her of line 112, which signals the beginning of world history, is reminiscent of the her opening of entries in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. See also T. D. Hill, ‘The ‘Variegated obit’ as an Historiographic Motif in Old English Poetry and Anglo-Latin Historical Literature’, Traditio, 44 (1988), 101–24. P. G. Remley, Old English Biblical Verse (Cambridge, 1996), p. 57, alludes to one possible context for the performance of such verse; the Synod of Clofesho explicitly forbade the use of secular forms of verse in Church services, ‘strongly suggesting that vernacular alliterative verse was on occasion recited paraliturgically before 747.’ Roberta Frank, ‘Some Uses of Paronomasia in Old English Scriptural Verse’, Speculum, 47 (1972), 207–26, at p. 215. For a discussion of envelope patterning in Old English verse, see Adeline Courtney Bartlett, The Larger Rhetorical Patterns in Anglo-Saxon Poetry (New York, 1935), pp. 9–29; see also Constance B. Hieatt, ‘Divisions: Theme and Structure of Genesis A’, NM, 81 (1980), 243–51. Remley, Old English Biblical Verse, pp. 140–3, has argued that the poet’s treatment of the Flood narrative in Genesis A resembles the abridging of lections for the Easter Vigil, noting that this is where the greatest omissions and rearrangements of material appear, but notes that ‘the poem generally seems to refl ect this liturgical knowledge at the level of style rather than meaning.’ Remley provides evidence for the correspondence of omissions from the Genesis narrative between the poem and surviving examples of lectionaries (for which the Gallican Lectionary of Luxeuil provides the most striking parallels), though other excisions made by the poet are not matched in the liturgical tradition. Remley (p. 143) notes there are no parallels among the lections for the poet’s reversal of the order of topics treated in Gen 6:17–18 and 6: 14–16 (Genesis A 1296–1310a), nor for poet’s ‘ambitious confl ation of the partly redundant matter of widely separated biblical verses’, and that ‘the account of the Flood is the only episode of the Latin text of Genesis that is regularly subjected to such liturgical abridgement – so much so that recognition of the phenomenon has become a commonplace of scholarship on the baptismal liturgy.’ Wright, ‘The blood of Abel’. Bennett A. Brockman, ‘ “Heroic” and “Christian” in Genesis A: The Evidence of the Cain and Abel Episode’, Modern Language Quarterly, 35 (1974), 115–28. Brockman, ‘ “Heroic” and “Christian” ’, p. 121, points out that allegorical interpretation of the poet’s presentation of the episode hinges on the word unræden (982, ‘ill-advised’), and suggests elaborate theological interpretations are perhaps ‘rather heavy freight for the one word to carry’.

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The edition cited and quoted (with some unnoted modifications to minor punctuation) is Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, ed. F. Klaeber, 3rd ed. (Lexington, MA, 1950). 15 Wright, ‘The Blood of Abel’, p. 9. 16 Brockman, ‘ “Heroic” and “Christian” ’, p. 125. 17 L. N. McKill, ‘The Offering of Isaac and the Artistry of Old English Genesis A’, The Practical Vision: Essays in English Literature in Honor of Flora Roy, ed. Jane Campbell and James Doyle (Waterloo, ON, 1978), pp. 1–11, at p. 4, discusses the pattern of sacrifices running through Genesis A, linking this to echoes in the poem’s opening of the Preface to the Canon of the Mass; see also F. Holthausen, ed., Die ältere Genesis (Heidelberg, 1914), p. 91, and L. Michel, ‘Genesis A and the Praefatio’, MLN, 62 (1947), 545–50. 18 Compare Bede’s careful insistence that Christian tradition never included animal sacrifices (In Genesin III, 1393–1420); see C. W. Jones, ‘Some Introductory Remarks’, Sacris Erudiri, 19 (1969–70), p. 130. In addition to a possible wariness of depicting sacrifice, the poet’s excision of the animal sacrifice removes reference to an ancient practice of no benefit to the Christian, a stance echoed in his description of the God who receives Noah’s undefi ned offering as nergend usser (‘our Saviour’, 1504a); compare the treatment of Abraham’s sacrifice at Gen 15:8–11, omitted by the poet (see lines 2215–16). 19 The reference to the green earth (1517a) is clearly literal, though may have been designed to recall the greenness of paradise, and the promise of heaven; see Hugh T. Keenan, ‘Exodus 312a: The Green Street of Paradise’, NM, 71 (1970), 455–60. 20 Fred C. Robinson, ‘Lexicography and Literary Criticism: A Caveat’, in Philological Essays, ed. James L. Rosier (The Hague, 1970), pp. 99–110; see also A. Orchard, Pride and Prodigies (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 64–5. 21 See Doane, Genesis A, pp. 277–8. 22 Compare Abraham’s sadness at the expulsion of Ishmael, line 2792a. 23 See Doane, Genesis A, p. 257. 24 The poet uses the word treow in a similar way, though not as extensively as wær; treow has a similar dual application both to agreements between God and humanity (1535, 2118, 2376, also treowræden, 2307) and among people (2018, 2037, 2046), and in the related sense of favour or grace (1592, 2518). 25 One point at which baptism is more clearly evoked is in the sealing of the ark by God, as reported in Gen 7:16: et inclusit eum Dominus de foris, an action interpreted by many commentators as referring to baptism. The poet reiterates that scyppend usser (‘our creator’, 1367a) and nergend usser (‘our saviour’, 1391a) segnade (‘sealed’ or ‘signed’, 1365b, 1390a) the ark. The repeated use of this verb, which can also mean ‘to bless with the sign of the cross’, and the identification of ‘our’ God, clearly recall baptism. However, the poet is just as interested in the letter of the text at this point, and the sealing of the ark with the mysterious natural substance of bitumen, which is referred to twice (1320–6, 1309b–10a); the poet is simply explaining, as do many commentators, the literal meaning of a difficult passage. Mention of pitch may have alerted those aware of its spiritual association with the

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34 35 36

Water and fire anointing which accompanied baptism, but the same would be true for an educated Anglo-Saxon reading the original biblical text. Interest in the strength of the ark is genuinely remarkable, and repeated reference to its nailed boards (1418, 1433b) suggests an interest in this kind of detail; see Doane, Genesis A, pp. 264–5. See Fred C. Robinson, ‘The Significance of Names in Old English Literature’, Anglia, 86 (1968), 14–85; Frank, ‘Some Uses of Paronomasia’. The poet, following Gen 8:4, describes the ark coming to rest on the mountain of Armenia, curiously not translating requieuitque arca (‘and the ark rested’) in terms of rest, but instead he describing the ark as sitting (gesæt, 1421b) on the mountain. The poet does not simply look for words on which to hang ideas. Remley, Old English Biblical Verse, p. 140, notes that the allusions to victims of the Flood (Gen 7:21–2) and the chronology of the catastrophe (Gen 8:13–14) are greatly curtailed or omitted altogether (see Genesis A 1399b– 1406, 1482ff.). The last omission has the effect of placing greater emphasis on the dove’s failure to return. Doane, Genesis A, p. 148, suggests the Old English is closer to the Old Latin version here; the Old Latin uses the noun, requiem, the Vulgate the verb (requiesceret). While rest is used throughout the poem, it is primarily associated with Noah; frofor (‘comfort’) is used only once in relation to Noah, line 1475. The search for consolation does not end with Noah; see lines 2176, 2219, 2311, where frofor is associated with Abraham’s desire for an heir and the promise of the covenant. See lines 1301a, 1379a, 1430, 1462a; this darkness recalls the land and the waters at the beginning of creation, when the earth was græsungrene (103– 19). The creation is associated with driving away this dark shadow (133b–4). See Doane, Genesis A, p. 270, who tentatively suggests the poet may have in mind Gregory the Great’s allegory of the ark where ‘there highest and fewest saints figured in the narrow upper story, eager to lead out the fruits of the Resurrection into Salvation’: Gregory the Great, Homiliae in Euangelia, ed. R. Étaix, CCSL 141 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), Homily 38, p. 367, U. 187–209 (PL 76:1287A). Irving and Lucas both suggest that the inclusion of the genealogies was probably inspired by the frequent recollection of genealogies throughout the Pentateuch, Kings and Chronicles. Another biblical influence is probably Christ’s genealogy in Luke 3:21–38. Matt 1:1–17 also traces Christ’s descent, but begins with Abraham, while Luke recounts Jesus’s ancestry at the moment of his baptism; given the baptismal overtones of this section of the poem Luke is a more likely influence. The poet is playing on Jerome’s etymology of Israel, ‘rectus Domini’; see Robinson, ‘The significance of names’, at pp. 25–6. See D. Anlezark, ‘Connecting the patriarchs: Noah and Abraham in the Old English Exodus’, JEGP, 104 (2005), 171–88. See E. B. Irving, Jr., ‘New Notes on the Old English Exodus,’ Anglia 90 (1972), 289–324, at p. 313.

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J. R. Hall, ‘ “Niwe flodas”: Old English “Exodus” 362’, NQ, 220 (1975), 243–4. Hall, ‘Niwe flodas’, p. 243, notes the Genesis A poet’s use of fl od to refer to both primeval waters and Noah’s Flood. The conventional typological association of the Flood with baptism has been noted in Chapter 1 above , pp. 33–4; the link was first argued by J. W. Bright, ‘The Relation of the Cædmonian Exodus to the Liturgy’, MLN, 27 (1912), 97–103; see also James W. Earl, ‘Christian Traditions in the Old English Exodus’, NM, 71 (1970), 541–70; Stanley R. Hauer, ‘The Patriarchal Digression in the Old English Exodus, lines 362–446’, Studies in Philology, 78, no. 5 (1981), 77–90; see Remley, Old English Biblical Verse, pp. 168–230, for a comprehensive review and discussion of the question. For a discussion of the misreading of this passage in recent scholarship, see Phyllis Portnoy, ‘Lexical Figments and Fallacies: The Case of Old English lâf’, Anglia, 119 (2001), 237–48, at p. 244. The poet presumably counts to the generation of Abraham’s father Terah for alliteration; the counting of the generations echoes this stylistic feature of Matthew’s genealogy of Christ, which as noted does not include the generations before Abraham. That this historical framework is a part of the poet’s casting of events is further indicated by the lengthy reference to the building of the temple by the sunu Dauides (‘son of David’, 389–96). In some schemes of the six ages, the fi fth age begins with David, conqueror of Jerusalem, in others with the destruction of Solomon’s temple and the exile. In both schemes Jerusalem and the temple are the locus of the events marking the transition from the fourth to the fi fth age. See Hauer, ‘The Patriarchal Digression’, pp. 87–8. See Earl, ‘Christian Traditions’, p. 561. J. Daniélou, From Shadows to Reality (London, 1960), passim. See Remley, Old English Biblical Verse, pp. 190–4. The missing section presumably corresponded to Exod 14:23–6, and would have told of the successful crossing of the sea by the Hebrews, and the entry of the Egyptians into the sea. See P. J. Lucas, Exodus (Exeter, 1994), p. 77n, on handlean, ‘handreward’. Lucas, Exodus, p. 141, notes that the verb ageotan is used only once elsewhere in Old English with the sense of ‘destroy’, though in his opinion the verb retains much of its basic sense ‘pour out’: ‘Thus men’s vows are poured out of the wounded and dying like drops of blood’. However, given the poet’s persistent use of the image of blood mixed with water (e.g., fl od blod gewod, 463b), it is possible the intended meaning intensifies another meaning of the verb, ‘sprinkle’: ‘He who had success spattered the boast of men.’ The passage presents textual problems; I follow the Irving, Exodus, reading of wæg as ‘way, road’, though Lucas’s reading as ‘wave’ or ‘wall’ also gives a reasonable sense. See G. D. Caie, The Judgment Day Theme in Old English Poetry (Copenhagen, 1976), p. 143.

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52 Even Irving, ‘New Notes’, p. 324, who resists figurative reading where the letter of the text suffices, suggests these last two lines of the poem allude to the sea yielding up its dead at the Judgment (Rev 20:13, Et dedit mare mortuos.) 53 See R. M. Trask, ‘Doomsday Imagery in the Old English Exodus’, Neophilologus, 57 (1973), 295–7. 54 N. Howe, Migration and Mythmaking (New Haven, CT, 1989), 84–6, has argued that the poet reserves the use of the word fl od to mean ‘the’ Flood, a meaning fi rst generated in the Noah passage. 55 See P. Portnoy, ‘Ring Composition and the Digressions of Exodus: The “Legacy” of the ‘Remnant” ’, ES, 82 (2001), 289–307. 56 J. F. Vickrey, ‘Exodus and the Treasure of Pharaoh’, ASE, 1 (1972), 159–65. 57 See D. Haines, ‘Unlocking Exodus lines 516–532’, JEGP, 98 (1999), 481–98. 58 The date of the poem’s composition is not known; previous efforts at dating Andreas have tied it to the date of Cynewulf’s works. Recent attempts to place these in the later part of the tenth century have not proved decisive; see Patrick Conner, ‘On Dating Cynewulf’, Cynewulf: Basic Readings, ed. Robert Bjork (New York: Garland, 1996), pp. 23–55; John M. McCulloch, ‘Did Cynewulf use a Martyrology? Reconsidering the sources of The Fates of the Apostles’, ASE 29 (2000), 67–83, p. 71. Andreas cannot have been written later than the second half of the tenth century, the date of the Vercelli Book, the unique manuscript (N. R. Ker, Catalogue of Manuscripts (Oxford, 1957), no. 394). See also K. Brooks, ed., Andreas and the Fates of the Apostles (Oxford, 1961), pp. xviii–xxii, and R. D. Fulk, A History of Old English Meter (Philadelphia, 1992), pp. 61, 64. 59 See C. Schaar, Critical Studies in the Cynewulf Group, Lund Studies in English 17 (Lund, 1949), p. 23, and Brooks, Andreas, pp. xv–xviii, for a discussion of the origins of the apocryphon and its dissemination. Two Old English prose versions survive – a fragmentary text among The Blickling Homilies (no. 19, ed. R. Morris, EETS os 58, 63, 73 (reprinted as single volume Oxford, 1967), pp. 229–49), and another in Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 198 (edited by J. W. Bright, An Anglo-Saxon Reader (3rd edition, New York, 1894), pp. 113–28). The two prose texts are based on shorter Latin versions, and omit a number of episodes common to longer Latin versions. The text of Andreas bears a close relationship to two Latin recensions, the Recensio Casanatensis (closer to the Greek legend) and the Recensio Vaticana; see Franz Blatt, ed., Die lateinischen Bearbeitungen der Acta Andreae et Matthiae apud anthropophagus (Giessen, 1930). The Old English poem presents episodes and details in a way which demonstrates that neither is the direct source. 60 The detail is not biblical in origin, but may suggest the influence on the original source of popular Greek traditions, reported by Pausanius, concerning the receding waters of Deucalion’s flood; Pausaniae Graeciae descriptio, ed. M. H. Rocha-Pereira, Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et Romanum Teubneriana (Leipzig, 1973), 1.18.7.

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63 64

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67 68 69 70 71 72

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See E. B. Irving, Jr., ‘A reading of Andreas: the poem as poem’, ASE, 12 (1983), 215–37, notes the occasional crassness of the poet’s treatment of the heroic ideal; see, for example, pp. 218–19, on Andreas, lines 147–51. See ‘Casanatensis’, in Blatt, ed., Acta Andreae, chs 27–8; the text is translated in M. B. Allen and D. G. Calder, Sources and Analogues of Old English Poetry: the Major Latin Texts in Translation, ‘The Acts of Andrew and Matthew among the Cannibals’ (Cambridge: Brewer, 1976), pp. 14–34. See F. M. Biggs, ‘The passion of Andreas: Andreas 1398–1491’, Studies in Philology, 85 (1988), 413–27. Compare Blatt, ed., Acta Andreae, chs 6–9; Allen and Calder, ‘The Acts of Andrew’, pp. 18–20. The image of the sea journey as spiritual journey is also explored at length in the Old English poem, The Seafarer (and referred to at the opening of The Wanderer) where the hardships of life at sea are endured in the hope of ecan eadignesse (‘eternal blessedness’, 120). Despite the eschatological expectation on which the poem ends, the focus is on the individual’s spiritual journey, rather than the corporate sea journeys which more directly evoke ecclesial typology, such as in Andreas. See Irving, ‘A reading of Andreas’, p. 221. See M. M. Walsh, ‘The Baptismal Flood in the Old English “Andreas”: Liturgical and Typological Depths’, Traditio, 33 (1977), 137–58; Irving, ‘A Reading of Andreas’, p. 236, proceeds carefully when discussing the poem’s typology, but allows that in the episode of the flood ‘the action is of course typological’, and that the ‘symbolic’ associations of baptism and resurrection have come to the fore. Walsh, ‘The Baptismal Flood’, p. 141. See Chapter 6 below, p. 343. See Ker, Catalogue, no. 394, 6; G. P. Krapp, ed., The Vercelli Book, ASPR 2 (New York, 1932), p. 116, note to line 1024. Brooks, Andreas, p. 96, note to 1024–5. Krapp, Vercelli Book, also refers the reader to the Old English prose life to make up the gap in the narrative, p. 116. Blatt, ed., Acta Andreae, c.20, lines 8–25; Allen and Calder, ‘The Acts of Andrew’, pp. 26–7. The missing leaf has left just over a half line of text (1025) with very uncertain context: gewyrht eardes neasan (‘attack the work(s) of the land with affl iction’(?)), which seem to correspond to Andrew’s threat to the devil in the closing words of ch. 20, nunc facis inimicitia generis humani. See T. D. Hill, ‘Hebrews, Israelites, and Wicked Jews: an Onomastic Crux in “Andreas” 161–7’, Traditio, 32 (1976), 358–60. See lines 71a, 108a, and 1297a, where the devil is also a wærlogan. For the opposition of divine and devilish lar see 138–42, 709b–11, 1220a, 1290a, 1321b, 1424. Irving suggests the poet’s representation of the Mermedonians is not completely hostile, noting the poet’s comment that the people are now legitimately worried about hunger, as they nyston beteran ræd (1088b); in a

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significant addition the poet alludes to a famine in that ‘homeland of heroes’ (20–1). 77 The communal and representative character of the gathered crowd is emphasised by the poet: like the Jews in the temple they are at a formal gathering of their nation (mæðelhegende, 1096b, þingstede, 1098a). In their unredeemed state they play with the powers of hell (hluton hellcræftum, 1102a); when an ironically brave warrior is selected in a perverse and wholly appropriate reverse typology he offers his son to be eaten in his place, recalling Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, and the promise of salvation which it brings to the pagan nations. 78 This passage is discussed further in Chapter 6, pp. 348–50. 79 Caie, The Judgment Day, p. 95. 80 Caie, The Judgment Day, pp. 100ff., notes Irish and Norse analogues for this watery end of the world. 81 Caie, The Judgment Day, p. 104. 82 Caie, The Judgment Day, p. 143.

5 Planting Noah’s seed

The Christian Anglo-Saxons knew that all the nations of the world descended from Noah, as the universal deluge had destroyed all those outside the ark (Gen 9:18–19): Erant ergo filii Noe, qui egressi sunt de arca, Sem, Cham, et Jafeth . . . Tres isti filii sunt Noe, et ab his disseminatum est omne genus hominum super universam terram (‘And the sons of Noah who came out of the ark were Shem, Ham and Japheth, . . . these three are the sons of Noah, and from these the whole human race was spread over the face of the earth’). Noah’s own ancestry, outlined in the Liber generationis Adam (as it is called in Gen 5:1), provided the only line back to Adam for the whole human race. The new point of origin which Noah represents is articulated in the chapters following the account of the Flood (Gen 10–11), where the descent of the nations of the world from the patriarch through his three sons is briefly outlined. In the works of the Fathers, this biblical passage found an ampler interpretation, with each of Noah’s three sons conventionally assigned a continent of descendants.1 From Shem descended the inhabitants of Asia, from Ham those of Africa, with Japheth the ancestor of all Europeans. Of particular concern to both scriptural and patristic authors was the line of descent from Shem, the ancestor of Abraham, and so the Jewish people, ultimately leading to Christ himself. As we have seen, in the Old English Exodus the genealogy recounted at the crossing of the Red Sea makes no direct reference to Adam – only descent from Noah is reckoned. The poet emphasizes Noah’s historical familial links to Abraham, which are recalled during the entry of the people of Israel into the Red Sea (353b–379). In Exodus, genealogical considerations provide a key for the appreciation of the historical pattern of promise and

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fulfilment of God’s covenant with a chosen people of common stock, a nation which includes Moses and from which Christ himself would ultimately emerge (Luke 3:23–38). In Exodus, remembering and counting these generations is described as a task for the elders of the community, who defi ne the collective identity of the people – here an identity with typological significance – by recounting their ancestry and the feats of the heroes from whom the nation descends (359–61): swa þæt orþancum ealde reccað þa þe mægburge mæst gefrunon, frumcyn feora, fæderæðelo gehwæs. [so that skilfully they told, those who had studied the ancient genealogies most, the distant line of descent, the paternal lineage of each.]

Noah is clearly the apex of this genealogy – antediluvian ancestors are not mentioned.2 He and his three sons form the basis of the faithful remnant preserved by God. Noah is also the father of the first covenant, and therefore the first to receive a promise of mercy from God. Both ideas relate to the wider thematic concerns of Exodus, anticipating as they do both the faithful of the Church and the new covenant in Christ, motifs which are drawn together in the context of a genealogy. The inclusion of the reference to the Israelite genealogy in Exodus serves to demonstrate the ways in which this type of historical record could be understood and applied. At a moment of national crisis, and in anticipation of battle, the elders of the community defi ne the identity of both the people and their ruler Moses in relation to their national past. The literal truth of the Hebrew genealogy for the early medieval reader harmonized with its symbolic truth: Noah, Abraham, Moses and Christ were connected not only in their roles as mediators between the human race and God, but this mystical link was complemented by a genetic one. A similar symbolic and genetic relationship could be seen in the cursed line of Ham, the ancestor of Nimrod, first king of Babylon. This dual genealogical and symbolic understanding lies behind Alfred’s comments on Nimrod in his version of Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae.3 Alfred is familiar with classical pagan accounts of the world’s early history, but it is the biblical version of events which is understood as

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providing a true account of the conflict between the giants and God. Alfred demonstrates a particular concern to contextualize Nimrod’s folly in relation to his genealogy, tracing his descent back to Noah through Ham. Nimrod’s genealogy can be seen to function in two important ways. Primarily, while the authority of biblical history is asserted over the rival pagan account, the possibility is recognized that extra-biblical tradition has preserved a version, however confused, of an episode in the early history of the world. Secondly, the genealogy functions to defi ne post-diluvial events in terms of their genealogical propriety – any lapse of virtue in the post-diluvial world is ultimately to be identified with the maledict line of Ham, as Cain’s progeny have been extinguished by the Flood. Alfred’s treatment of classical pagan legend and its distorted preservation of the memory of events of the ancient past is not entirely consistent, and other pagan stories are easily incorporated into his version of Boethius. In one instance he shows a preference for Germanic paganism over classical, musing over the fate of Weland’s bones, not Fabricius’s.4 This syncretic treatment of the pagan legend of the north and south, and the biblical past, fi nds a counterpart in the links forged between the early patriarchs of Genesis and figures from northern paganism in the extensions of royal genealogies produced for the house of Wessex during his reign. The Anglo-Saxons’ awareness of their cultural and racial affiliation with their continental cousins is well attested, as is their interest in the earliest migrations of their ancestors to the British Isles from the homelands of northern Europe. The names of the founding figures who led those migrations across the North Sea were preserved by oral tradition well into the Christian period, and these names entered the historical record when Christian missionaries introduced the technology of writing.5 The AngloSaxons knew where they had come from, and their rulers could trace their descent in Britain with some kind of historical accuracy, often preserving a faithful record of evolving dynastic configurations in the century and a half after settlement – though these tend to be king-lists rather than true lines of descent.6 In one of the earliest extant genealogies, Bede provides the barest account of the origins of the leaders of the first migration, with a brevity suggestive of early oral tradition: Erant autem filii

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Uictgisli, cuius pater Uitta, cuius pater Uecta, cuius pater Uoden, de cuius stirpe multarum prouinciarum regium genus originem duxit (‘They were the sons of Wihtgisl, son of Witta, son of Wecta, son of Woden, from whose stock the royal families of many kingdoms claimed their descent’).7 Such accounts of the origin of kings presumably served their uncomplicated ideological purpose well. The king, descended from the god, derived power and social prestige from his ancestors, as much as from his own military prowess. Obviously Bede did not believe Woden was a god, but a mythical hero of the same name could easily be accommodated in a royal pedigree.8 With the passing of time and the consolidation of power, the rise of more complex political structures was accompanied by a desire for more elaborate genealogies, and it is no accident that the earliest of the longer pedigrees are the products of the eighth century. Offa’s hereditary title could be traced back to the kings of Angeln and he had a pedigree to rival those of continental kings. Eighth-century genealogists may have been encouraged to elaborate the royal line of descent under the influence of continental or other insular models, and Wallace-Hadrill has suggested that the circulation of scriptural codices with ornately decorated genealogies, especially that of Christ at the opening of Matthew’s Gospel, might have provided some of the impetus.9 Such artistic representations certainly testify to the importance of genealogies to the Anglo-Saxon imagination. In the extension of royal pedigrees, however, the Bible came to present a challenge to Anglo-Saxon genealogists, as any pedigree would eventually lead back to the early history of the world. The book of Genesis offered a detailed account of the descent of the Hebrew people, but provided no specific explanation of the origin of the Anglo-Saxons or other Germanic peoples, and it was to this problem that West Saxon genealogists of the ninth century applied their skill. Roberta Frank has suggested the inclusion of ancestors like Scyld, Sceaf, Beaw, Heremod and Hwala is in line with a contemporary cultural trend also witnessed among continental peoples. These ‘Germanic’ additions to the genealogy allow the house of Wessex to acquire ‘not a little mythological depth and perhaps even some political legitimacy by claiming descent from the gods and rulers of the heartland of northern Europe.’10 But these heroes, in the context of the newly extended genealogies, also serve the purpose of bridging the gap between the

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‘northern heartland’ and the immediate post-diluvial world. The genealogies represent not only an interest in Germanic pagan legend, but a desire to locate and legitimize both the mythical heroes and their descendants in relation to the one truly authoritative version of the world’s early history. Genesis’s silence on the origins of the Anglo-Saxons presented a gap which an imaginative genealogist could fill. The key figure in this integrating strategy in Wessex is the elusive Sceaf, who appears in the genealogies as the ark-born son of Noah. This singular Anglo-Saxon invention is found in regnal lists and genealogies tracing AngloSaxon royal descent back to Adam, making his earliest appearance in the genealogy of Æthelwulf, king of Wessex, in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 855 (= 857). The genealogies The evidence of genealogies, which I shall review, suggests that the incorporation of Sceaf is a West Saxon innovation and draws on West Saxon tradition, and that his transformation into the ark-born son is the product of Alfred’s reign.11 This will be followed by a discussion of the possible sources of the apocryphal idea that Noah had a fourth son, and a survey of reactions to the unorthodox notion that the West Saxons and their kings claimed exclusive descent from an otherwise unknown son of Noah. Kenneth Sisam, in the first serious study of the Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies, noted the agreement of the genealogies of British Library, Cotton Tiberius B.v (s. xi1), and the B, C and D versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle against the genealogy of Æthelwulf in A (the Parker Chronicle, Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 173, fols. 1–56, s. ix/x–xi2), Asser’s genealogy of Alfred, and the genealogy outlined by Æthelweard in his Latin Chronicle.12 Sisam also demonstrated that it was the version in Tiberius B.v that was most often copied in Scandinavian texts, citing its agreement with the Prologue to the Prose Edda, with the implication that Sceaf at least was unknown in Scandinavia before he was imported from England.13 The Scandinavian copies agree with B.v against Textus Roffensis, a later manuscript containing two genealogies which include mention of an ark-born son.14 The collection of the material which forms the ‘common stock’ – Plummer’s ‘æ’15 – of the Chronicle from its beginning at 60 bc

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down to a point in the early 890s, was the work of several scholars associated with the circle around Alfred.16 It is in the Chronicle version circulated during this latter part of Alfred’s reign, about the year 892, that the ark-born son first appears, but Sceaf seems to have made his appearance in the royal genealogy a little earlier and without this apocryphal origin. Despite the fact that it post-dates the 890s version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, it is generally agreed that the genealogy in the Latin Chronicon of Æthelweard, which traces the ancestry of the royal house of Wessex back to Sceaf, represents an earlier tradition than the one found in the Alfredian Chronicle.17 Æthelweard’s Chronicon, written in the last quarter of the tenth century, is mainly a translation of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and presents the pedigree of Æthelwulf given under the year 855.18 Æthelweard shows a general concern in his Chronicon to record not simply the bare bones of history, but also to emphasize links with the past, particularly the links between Anglo-Saxons and their Germanic past, integrated into a wider historical perspective which includes Biblical history. His opening address to his kinswoman Matilda outlines some of his concerns: De notitia equidem communis prospiae, generis quoque et migratione, ut ante breuiter per epistolam insinuauimus tibi, nunc cooperante de ab ipsius principio mundi annalem sumentes ritum (‘Just as we have previously informed you by letter about what is known of our common family and also about the migration of our nation, it is now desirable, with the help of God, employing the annalists from the beginning of the world’).19 After surveying the six ages of the world, from its creation down to the present, Æthelweard moves on to describe the migration to Britain of the Anglo-Saxons under the leadership of Hengest and Horsa, grandsons of Woden, whom the Danes and others mistakenly honour as a god.20 Later he offers a version of the genealogy of West Saxon monarchs, providing a version which suggests he is using a source independent from, and pre-dating, the Alfredian Chronicle. Not only is Scyld described as the son of Sceaf, a tradition suggested elsewhere only in Beowulf, but Æthelweard contains no reference to an ark-born son of Noah by any name, and indeed terminates his genealogy with Sceaf himself.21 Æthelweard provides a unique account of Sceaf’s mysterious origins, though it bears some

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similarity to the account of Scyld’s arrival at the beginning of Beowulf: Ipse Scef cum uno dromone aduectus est in insula oceani que dicitur Scani, armis circundatus, eratque ualde recens puer, et ab incolis illius terræ ignotus. Attamen ab eis suscipitur, et ut familiarem diligenti animo eum custodierunt, et post in regem eligunt; de cuius prosapia ordinem trahit Aðulf rex. [And this Sceaf arrived with one light ship in the island of the ocean which is called Skaney, with arms all around. He was a very young boy, and unknown to the people of that land, but he was received by them, and they guarded him with diligent attention as one who belonged to them, and elected him king. From his family King Æthelwulf derived his descent.] 22

Sisam suggests that Æthelweard’s failure to mention the biblical names cannot lead to the assumption that they were absent from his copy of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: ‘He may have preferred family tradition to a written Chronicle for the part beyond Geat. Besides, he was a great patron of the revival of religion and learning that marked the second half of the tenth century, and scholarly friends like Ælfric would not encourage belief in the fabulous birth in the Ark of an ancestor of Sceaf.’23 This may be so, but it is far from certain that at the time of the composition of his Chronicon Æthelweard had come under the influence of Ælfric, and indeed Sceaf himself is usually the ancestor supposed to have been born in the ark. Furthermore, as Meaney points out, genealogies once lengthened are not shortened.24 Also, Æthelweard’s Chronicon is the only version to open with a description of the ages of the world, and a link back to Adam through Noah would have fitted comfortably into his universal outlook. Descent from an apocryphal son of Noah cannot have been worse than descent from a false god: Ælfric certainly would have approved of neither.25 Meaney has argued that the version of the Chronicle used by Æthelweard occupied a position midway between the earliest version evidenced – that used by the St Neot’s compiler – and the common archetype (Plummer’s ‘æ’) of all the extant versions of the Chronicle in Old English, for two reasons: it has the chronological dislocation St Neot’s lacks, but has on the other hand various features which appear more original than the Old English

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versions.26 One such feature is the length of Æthelweard’s genealogy of his ancestor Æthelwulf, which is shorter than that in the Old English Chronicle, and ‘as a rule, shorter genealogies are older than longer ones: once a prestigiously long set of ancestors has been claimed, none of them is likely to be discarded deliberately – only by accidental omission’.27 As Meaney has suggested, the inclusion of the names from Heremod to Bedwig in the generations between Scyld and Sceaf took place at a stage after Æthelweard’s hypothetical exemplar (perhaps related to the St Neot’s Chronicle) and before Plummer’s ‘æ’. Æthelweard carefully numbers his ancestors, nineteen generations from Æthelwulf to Sceaf, and these must have been included in the genealogy sub anno 855 by the genealogist of Æthelweard’s pre- ‘æ’ Chronicle. The ultimate extension back through the ark-born son to Adam seems to be the work of genealogists of Alfred’s reign.28 Despite a degree of confusion, there is general agreement among the surviving versions of the Old English Chronicle genealogy of Æthelwulf in naming this ark-born son as Sceaf.29 The C text, from Abingdon (London, British Library, Cotton Tiberius B. i, s. ximed.–xi2 ; Ker, no. 192). includes the genealogy of Æthelwulf sub anno 856, which concludes: Geatt Tætwaing, Tætwa Beawing, Beaw Scealdwaing, Scealdwa Heremoding, Heremod Itermoning, Itermon Haðraing, Haþra Hwalaing, Hwala Bedwiging, Bedwig Sceafi ng. Id est fi lius Noe, se wæs geboren on þære earce Noes, Lamech, Matusalem, Enoh, Iared, Malalehel, Camon, Enos, Seth, Adam primus homo et pater noster id est Christus.30 [Geat son of Tætwa, Tætwa son of Beaw, Beaw son of Scealdwa, Scealdwa son of Heremod, Heremod son of Itermon, Itermon son of Haþra, Haþra son of Hwala, Hwala son of Bedwig, Bedwig son of Sceaf. He is the son of Noah, who was born in Noah’s ark, Lamech, Methuselah, Enoch, Jared, Cainan, Enos, Seth, Adam the first man and our father, that is Christ.]

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The B text (British Library, Cotton Tiberius A. vi, s. x2 ; Ker no. 188, art. 1.), another Abingdon version of the Chronicle, agrees with C.31 The D text (British Library, Cotton Tiberius B. iv, s. ximed–xi2 ; Ker no. 192) agrees with B and C in naming the arkborn son as Sceaf, though with minor differences in the spelling of his name and other names found in this part of the genealogy: Geat Tætwaing, Tætwa Beawing, Beaw Scealdwaing, Scealdhwa Heremoding, Heremod Itermoning, Itermon Haðrahing, Haþra {Hwalaing}, Hwala Beowung, Beowi Sceafi ng, id est fi lius Noe, se wæs geboren on þære arce Nones.32

However, the A text, which represents the earliest manuscript of the Chronicle, and so also the earliest extant reference to the ark-born son, suggests another name for him:33 Geat Tætwaing, Tætwa Beawing, Beaw Sceldwaing, Sceldwea Heremoding, Heremod Itermoning, Itermon Hraþraing, se wæs geboren in þære earce; Noe, Lamach, Matusalem, Enoh, Iaered, Maleel, Camon, Enos, Sed, Adam. primus homo et pater noster est Christus, Amen.34

The implication here seems to be that Hraþra was Noah’s son born in the ark, with the names of Hwala, Bedwig/ Beow and Sceaf, and the comment id est filius Noe missing in this version. This is not the only version naming Hraþra as the apocryphal son: the badly damaged, and very closely related, British Library, Cotton Otho B.xi (Winchester, xmed.–xi1; Ker no. 179) version agrees.35 Sisam suggested that this was the result of one scribe carelessly copying the mistakes of another, which nobody had

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bothered to correct.36 It would seem that the Parker scribe has missed at least a whole line of text in his copying, and that the manuscripts with the longer genealogy naming Sceaf as the arkborn son represent the original link to Noah. The genealogies found in the versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle have close relatives which survive separately as royal genealogies.37 The West Saxon genealogy, which comes at the end of a series of royal genealogies in Tiberius B.v (Ker no. 193), traces the royal pedigree back to Adam through Noah. This West Saxon genealogy works its way back to Christ, the ‘father of all’: Haec sunt genealogiae regum Occidentalium Saxonum ... Eat Beawing, Beaw Scealdwaging, Scealwa Heremoding, Heremod Itermanning, Iterman Haðraing, Haðra Bedwiging, Bedwig Sceafi ng. Se Scef wæs Noes sunu, 7 he wæs innan þære earce geboren. Noe wæs Lameches sunu, Lamech Maþusalemys, Maþusalem wæs Enoches, Enoch, Lared, Malalehel, Caino, Enos, et Adam, primus homo, et pater omnium qui est Christus.38

According to Ker (no. 193a), this text of the royal genealogy is nearly identical to those found in the Textus Roffensis. This statement should be treated with caution in relation to the ark-born son of Noah. The Textus Roffensis (Ker no. 443, art. 7) contains genealogies of both the West Saxon and Anglian royal houses, and it is this Anglian genealogy which uniquely offers the possibility that the character of Sceaf the ark-born son has an independent textual life outside Wessex. There is, however, a curious difference between the two concerning the ark-born son: in the Anglian genealogy ‘Scyf’ is the son of Shem, while in the West Saxon ‘Sceaf’ is son of Noah. The Anglian list begins: Ðis ys Angel Cynnes Cyne Cynn þe her gemearcod is. Adam wæs se æresta man. 7 he gestrinde Seð. 7 Seð gestrinde Enos. 7 Enos gestrinde Kainan. 7 Kainan gestrinde Malaleel. 7 Maleel gestrinde Iared. 7 Iared gestrinde Enoch. Æfter Enoch wæs Matusalam. þa wæs Lamech. þa wæs Noe. þa wæs Sem.

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þa wæs Scyf. se wæs in ðam arken geboran. Ða wæs Bedwig. ða wæs Hwala. ða wæs Haðra. ða wæs Iterman. ða wæs Heremod. ða wæs Sealdra. ða wæs Beaw. ða wæs Teþwa. ða wæs Geata. ðene ða hæþena wurþedon for god.39 [This is the royal descent of the Anglian people which is set out here. Adam was the first man, and he fathered Seth, and Seth fathered Enos, and Enos fathered Cainan, and Cainan fathered Maleleel, and Malaleel fathered Jared, and Jared fathered Enoch. After Enoch was Methuselah, then was Lamech, then was Noah, then was Shem, then was Sceaf, who was born in the ark. Then was Bedwig, then was Hwala, then was Hathra, then was Iterman, then was Heremod, then was Sealdra [Scealdwa], then was Beaw, then was Tetwa, then was Geata, whom the heathen honoured as a god.]

The West Saxon genealogy in the Textus Roffensis, found in the manuscript immediately following the Anglian list, concludes: Eata Teþwafi ng. Teþwa Beawing. Beaw Scealdwaging. Scealwa Heremoding. Heremod Hermanning. Herman Haþraing. Haðra Hwalaing. Hwala Bedwining, Beadwig Sceafi ng, Se Scef wæs Noes sunu, 7 he wæs innan ðære earce geboren. Noe wæs Lameches sunu. Lamech Maþusalemys. Maþusalem wæs Enoches. Enoch Iared. Malalehel. Caino. Enos. Et Adam primus homo. Et pater omnium qui est Christus.40

According to Dumville this manuscript was written at Rochester in the first half of the twelfth century, probably soon after 1122,41 and Page has suggested, on the basis of evidence from accompanying episcopal lists, that the two manuscripts, Textus Roffensis and Tiberius B.v, may derive from a common exemplar.42 The Anglian regnal list in Tiberius B.v (not the genealogy) reaches back only as far as Frealaf, suggesting that the ark-born son and the patriarchal extension to the genealogies were added later. The Tiberius B.v list would appear to have been compiled in the time of Sigeric, Archbishop of Canterbury 990–4, though the manu-

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script is half a century later. This provides the earliest terminus ad quem for a common exemplar of the Anglian material.43 It would seem likely then, that Scyf, the ark-born son of Shem, does not represent a separate Anglian tradition, but a mutated borrowing from the West Saxon royal genealogies. Another text which must be included in an investigation of the Anglo-Saxons’ line of descent from Noah is Asser’s Life of King Alfred. At the beginning of his biography, Asser traces Anglo-Saxon royal descent back to Adam, but in a way which presents problems in the search for the origins of an ark-born son. Where the Old English Chronicle had provided a pedigree of Alfred’s father Æthelwulf that included the ark-born son, the Life traces the ancestry of Alfred back to Adam by a slightly altered route. Accepting Sisam’s conclusion that the genealogy of Æthelwulf was added to the Chronicle in the version circulated around 892,44 the Life, a document contemporary with or postdating this genealogical invention, not only omits ark-birth as a characteristic of this fourth son, but renames him as ‘Seth’, son of Noah: Ælfred rex, fi lius Æthelwulfi regis; . . . qui fuit Geata, quem Getam iamdudum pagani pro deo venerabantur. . . . Qui Geata fuit Tætuua; qui fuit Beauu; qui fuit Sceldwea; qui fuit Heremod; qui fuit Itermod; qui fuit Hathra; qui fuit Huala; qui fuit Beduuig; qui fuit Seth; qui fuit Noe; qui fuit Lamech; qui fuit Mathusalem; qui fuit Enoch; {qui fuit Iared;} qui fuit Malaleel; qui fuit Cainan; qui fuit Enos; qui fuit Seth; qui fuit Adam. [King Alfred was the son of King Æthelwulf, . . . the son of Geat (whom the pagans worshipped for a long time as a god). . . . Geat was the son of Tætwa, the son of Beaw, the son of Sceldwa, the son of Heremod, the son of Itermon, the son of Hathra, the son of Hwala, the son of Bedwig, the son of Seth, the son of Noah, the son of Lamech, the son of Methuselah, the son of Enoch, [the son of Jared], the son of Mahalaleel, the son of Cainan, the son of Enos, the son of Seth, the son of Adam.] 45

Sisam accounts for this variation of Seth for Sceaf as a scribal error, which is probably the case. He claims that making Seth a son of Noah is ‘unlikely’ to have been Asser’s own work, but argues it represents scribal confusion involving Japheth: ‘a careless scribe may have substituted Seth for Sceaf’.46 Sisam only touches on the problem, and does not endeavour to explain how

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such confusion could have arisen.47 Lapidge and Keynes discuss Asser’s genealogy in more detail, noting that while it is based on the genealogy of Æthelwulf in the Chronicle (sub anno 855), ‘Asser seems to have used a version that was significantly different from the versions in the manuscripts of the Chronicle that have survived, or to have made his own modifications to the version in front of him in the light of other information.’48 However, the statement that ‘Asser’s “Seth”, son of Noah, corresponds to the “Sem” of Luke iii, 36–8 (cf. Genesis v. 32)’ needs qualifying, as it is more likely that the Anglo-Saxons, and the Welsh, would have named Japheth, the progenitor of the Europeans, as their ancestor.49 The confusion over the identity of Sceaf may well be that of the Welsh Asser, perplexed by the inclusion in early biblical history of a figure who most probably derives from Anglo-Saxon legend. Whether this confusion was present in Asser’s original, or represents the alteration or error of a later scribe, is impossible to say. Despite the confusion surrounding the identity of the arkborn son, the evidence of the majority of surviving genealogies suggests that he was originally identified as Sceaf. The surviving written records also suggest, as Meaney has argued,50 that Sceaf was recast as Noah’s ark-born son in Wessex towards the end of the ninth century, at a time when the royal house of Wessex was emerging as the unifying authority for those areas of England not under Viking control.51 J. M. Wallace-Hadrill has noted the probable motivation for the growth of genealogies up until the 890s: the budding Anglo-Saxon royal houses needed to vindicate their status with an impressive ancestry as much after, as before, their conversion.52 Germanic ancestors could no longer be identified as gods, so they settled on men of the same name. But this was a gradual process, and the ultimate extension during Alfred’s reign of his own ancestry beyond these heroes, back through a righteous and redemptive figure such as Noah to Adam and ultimately Christ, the ‘father’ of all, took place long after the conversion.53 Clearly the majority of names imported into the most remote sections of the genealogies were borrowed from Germanic mythology so as to enhance the status of the kings who claimed descent from them. Both Scyld and Sceaf may have had mythological or folk origins, as their names suggest, and at least the simple meanings of these names probably would have been apparent to any

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Anglo-Saxon.54 No obvious evidence survives of a folk tradition associating the harvest with a hero named ‘Sheaf’ among the Anglo-Saxons, though there is evidence of various customs focused on the harvested sheaf, including one which associated it with a shield.55 Widsith records the name ‘Sceafa’ for a king of the Lombards (Sceafa Longbeardum, 32b), suggesting there may have been poetry associated with the name which could have made a link with Noah more (or less) obvious to an Anglo-Saxon who read this name in the genealogies.56 The Lombards themselves seem to have been unaware that they had been ruled by a king called Sceafa, though Paul the Deacon records that they believed themselves to have originated in Scandinavia.57 But where did the genealogists of the house of Wessex fi nd the tradition of an ark-born son of Noah, and why did they identify him with Sceaf? While it is probable that the royal genealogists borrowed the figure of Sceaf from an Anglo-Saxon tradition, the problem remains of how it was that he became the ark-born son of Noah, and how this otherwise unknown apocryphal role was invented by the genealogists as an ancestor for their royal masters. Such an invention clearly contradicts explicit biblical authority – the book of Genesis is unequivocal on the number of sons Noah had before and after the Flood, and leaves little room for those who would imagine the birth of another during the Flood. It might be supposed that the Anglo-Saxon invention of a fourth son born in the ark would rest on some Christian tradition, however unorthodox. Thomas Hill has suggested that the ark-born son has his origin in the apocryphal fourth son of Noah found in the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, a work found in Latin and Greek versions.58 Hill notes that the Anglo-Saxons knew the Pseudo-Methodian Apocalypse, as it is cited by name in some late Old English and Latin notes in the Old English Hexateuch, and argues that this fourth son, named Jonitus in Latin, ‘was created to fill some special role for which the biblical sons of Noe were not eligible.’59 This figure of Jonitus is described as a son of Noah who was sent by his father to the east. He therefore was not implicated in the building of the tower of Babel and he received esoteric wisdom directly from God. Hill quotes from the Latin translation of Pseudo-Methodius describing Jonitus’ journey to the east:

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CCCmo vero tempore de trium milium annorum dedit Noe donationes fi lio suo Ionito et demisit eum in terram Eoam et post obitum Noe DC et XC anno in eosdem trium milium annorum ascenderunt fi lii Noe de terra Eoam et aedificaverunt sibi turrem in terra Sennahar, et illuc divise sunt linguae et disperse sunt super faciem totius terrae. Ionitus autem, fi lius Noe, introivit in Eoam usque ad mare, qui vocatur hiliu chora, id est regio solis, in quo solis ortum fit et habitavit ibidem. Ionitus accipit a Deo donum sapientiae, qui non solum hoc tantum, sed et omnem astronomiae articulum factusque inventor. Ad huc discendens Nebroth, qui fuit gigans, et eruditis ab eo accipit ab illo consilium, in quibus regnare coepissent hiroum; qui fuit fi lius Sem et ipse primus regnavit super terram.60 [In the 2300th year from Adam [the 300th year of the third millennium] Noe gave gifts to his son Jonitus and sent him into the land of Eoam, and after the death of Noe in the 690th year of the same third millennium of years, the sons of Noe ascended from the land of Eoam and built for themselves a tower in the land of Sennahar; and there were the languages divided, and they were scattered over the face of the earth. Jonitus, however, the son of Noe, entered into Eoam as far as the sea, which is called hiliu chora, that is the region of the sun, in which the sun rises, and he lived there. Jonitus received from God the gift of wisdom, [he] also [received] not only this, but also every division of astronomy and became its inventor. Descending to that one, Nebroth, who was a giant and taught by him, received counsel from him among whom they [Nebroth and Jonitus?] began to reign. This one [Nebroth] descended from the sons of heroes; he was a son of Shem and the first to reign on the earth.]

Hill argues that the significance of the inclusion of this fourth son of Noah in the genealogy rests on the ideological implications of his friendship with Nimrod: ‘an Anglo-Saxon genealogist could have seen in a passage of this sort an authoritative extrascriptural text which implied that the first king derived his authority from a son of Noe whom the Bible does not mention.’ However, this argument for Jonitus as the source of the ark-born son, resting on the significance of the royal connection in the mind of an Anglo-Saxon genealogist, is not thoroughly convincing.61 Such a notional link assumes close knowledge of the text, a fact not at all verified, or verifiable, for the late ninth century.

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A more serious difficulty is encountered when the passage in question is re-examined. Immediately before describing Jonitus’ journey eastwards, Pseudo-Methodius makes quite clear the timing of his birth in relation to the Flood: Iam in trium milium annorum, postquam exivit Noe de arca, aedificaverunt fi lii Noe novam possessionem in exteriora terra et appellaverunt nomen regionis illius Thamnon secundum nuncupationem numeri qui exierunt de archa, id est VIII. C. autem anno de terciam chiliadam natus est Noe fi lius secundum ipsius similitudinem et vocavit nomen eius Ionitum [Now in the third millennium, after Noah went out from the ark, the sons of Noah built new estates in the outer world and called that region Thamnon, according to the reckoning of the number of those who came out from the ark, that is eight. In the hundredth year of the third millennium a son was born to Noah, exactly like him, and his name was Jonitus].62

Not only would an Anglo-Saxon genealogist have had to identify Jonitus with Sceaf, he would have knowingly contradicted this alternative, apocryphal authority, which clearly states he was not born on the ark. The prospect of ark-birth is further precluded by the careful enumeration of those who left the ark. Furthermore, it is unlikely that the apparently amicable relationship of such an ancestor with Nimrod would be considered prestigious among the Anglo-Saxons. It is improbable that Alfred, or any other Anglo-Saxon, would have wanted to associate his kingship too intimately with such a questionable character as the archetypal necromancer and idolater, a king described by Alfred himself as ‘foolish’.63 The valuable contribution of Hill’s argument that Noah’s fourth son, Jonitus, influenced the appearance of the ark-born son of Noah in Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies, is that ‘the conception was current’.64 Stephen Gero has discussed the background to the legend of Noah’s fourth son in rabbinic literature, where his character was already problematic.65 The idea that Noah had more offspring than the three sons described in Genesis is found in the Ethiopic Book of Adam (3:13), where after the Flood Noah marries another wife who bears him six children.66 But it was the Book of the Cave of Treasures, a sixth-century Syrian work based on a fourth-century account of biblical history,

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which introduced to Christian audiences Yonton (Jonitus), teacher of wisdom and astronomy to Nimrod. The Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius is a Latin version based on a later Greek recension of this text.67 The account of the fourth son found in the Book of the Cave of Treasures differs slightly from the Greek and Latin versions: And in the days of Nimrod, the mighty man [or Giant], a fire appeared which ascended from the earth, and Nimrod went down, and looked at it, and he established priests to minister there, and to cast incense into it. From that day the Persians began to worship fire, [and they do so] to this day. . . . And Nimrod went to Yokdora of Nodh, and when he arrived at the Lake [or Sea] of Atras, he found there Yonton, the son of Noah. [A marginal note in BL MS Add. 25875 adds, ‘Noah begot this Yonton after the flood and he honoured him in many things, and sent him to the east to dwell there.’] And Nimrod went down and bathed in the lake, and came to Yonton and did homage to him. And Yonton said, ‘Thou art a king; doest thou homage to me?’ And Nimrod said unto him, ‘It is because of thee that I have come down here’; and he remained with him for three years. And Yonton taught Nimrod wisdom, and the art of revelation [divining?], and he said unto him, ‘Come not back again to me.’68

The Syrian original was conceived by its author as a book of genealogical history, designed to explain clearly descent from the Old Testament patriarchs, and is also entitled ‘The Book of the order of the succession of Generations’.69 Only in the much altered Greek version does it take on a predominantly apocalyptic character. The marginal note mentioned in Budge’s translation (the only one available in English) specifying the fourth son’s postdiluvial birth superficially seems to agree with the text of the Pseudo-Methodian Apocalypse. However, Budge’s text is unrepresentative: it is made from a single Syrian manuscript, British Library, Add. 25875, which was made only in 1709.70 Carl Bezold’s German translation and edition helps to place this marginal note in its correct context.71 British Library, Add. 25875, collated as ‘A’, is only one of eight manuscripts used by Bezold for his edition, and he observes that, of the eight, only ‘A’ contains this marginal note.72 The timing of Yonton’s birth after the Flood is

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clearly stated in the Latin Pseudo-Methodian Apocalypse, and in its Greek source, a version often only very loosely based on the Syrian. It is probable that the Syrian original did not specify that Noah’s fourth son was born after the Flood, and that the marginal note in British Library, Add. 25875 represents the influence of the Greek textual tradition, found in Pseudo-Methodius, on the Syrian. One of the problems encountered in establishing the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius as the source for the ark-born son of Noah in the genealogies is the fairly late appearance of this text in an Anglo-Saxon manuscript. Twelfth-century marginal notes do not establish close knowledge of the text among ninth-century royal genealogists.73 However, it is possible that the notion that Noah had a fourth son could have come to Anglo-Saxon England much earlier, and not through the Latin Apocalypse, but from knowledge of the original Syrian Book of the Cave of Treasures. This is not to suggest that a copy of this work itself ever came to England in the period, or that any Anglo-Saxon ever read this work in the original language. However, knowledge of some of the details found only in this work is indicated by biblical commentaries associated with the Canterbury School, and suggests that Archbishop Theodore himself was acquainted with it.74 It is possible, and perhaps probable, that Theodore knew Syrian, and he certainly knew Syrian biblical traditions, which he would have brought with him to England in the seventh century.75 One such tradition, which he may have introduced into Anglo-Saxon England, was that Noah had a fourth son, an idea originally encountered in a text concerned with genealogies and racial origins, and one which did not specify when this fourth son had been born or what had become of his descendants, and which also suggested a less friendly relationship between this fourth son and Nimrod. Such a notion may have gained currency in AngloSaxon England, and evolved – divorced from its original setting in the Book of the Cave of Treasures – until the reincarnation of the fourth son as Sceaf, the ark-born son of Noah.76 A degree of artistic licence would have been needed for an ark-born son to be included under the name of Sceaf in the genealogies, a licence not at odds with the purpose of the genealogies themselves. They were not documents designed for asserting either theological truth or scientific history. As Dumville has

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noted, ‘ideology is an essential aspect of the genealogist’s trade: to discover the nature of his ideology is to acquire both useful historical evidence and a vital weapon in the historical criticism of pedigrees and king lists’.77 To examine what possible meaning descent from the ark-born son/Sceaf character could have conveyed, it will be helpful to consider aspects of the meaning of both sides of this double personality as son of Noah and royal ancestor. Hill’s discussion of the cultural role of genealogies emphasizes the separateness they establish for kings: ‘the WestSaxon royal genealogy claimed that their kings were born outside the normal Biblical genealogical order, from “Scef” or some other figure born on the ark. There are anomalies and difficulties in these lists, but the essential content of the etiological myth which they summarize so succinctly is clear. The West-Saxon kings are indeed descendants from Noah like the rest of mankind; but unlike the rest of us they are not descendants from Shem, Iafeth, or Ham, but from a fourth son of Noe, whose name (whatever it may be) is not recorded in the Bible.’78 This idea is complemented in Hill’s view by the idea that at least after the conversion ‘it was necessary to integrate the traditional Germanic genealogies into the larger perspective which Biblical history suggested.’ However, by the 890s the Anglo-Saxons and their kings had been Christian for quite some time; generations of Christian kings had been untroubled by their pagan ancestry, and even its elaboration. The earlier extension, which took the genealogies back to a figure such as Geat, scarcely reveals an impulse to include the perspective of biblical history.79 The shift back to the world’s early history through the ark-born son is not a cultural development associated with the conversion, but rather with the ideological programme of the reign of Alfred, when the biblical names first appear in the genealogies. Furthermore, a restricted view of the genealogies as defi ning descent of aloof kings ‘set apart from the families of the people’ by a distinct pedigree ignores the wider function of genealogies as demonstrating a pure and legitimate line of descent of a royal house from ancestors shared with the rest of the nation. Davis has pointed out that what made a king’s descent from common ancestors more important than that of his tribal subjects was ‘the direct and demonstrable descent from divinity’.80 The relationship of the king to

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his people was evocatively expressed in his title, the etymology of which cannot have been lost on his Anglo-Saxon subjects: he was cyn-ing.81 A figure such as the ark-born son would have been particularly important to his royal descendants, but also to the whole nation to which the king belonged and which he governed. The concept of an ark-born son, in preference to a more conventional, and biblically acceptable, explanation of descent from Japheth, was deliberately chosen not to separate the king from his people, but because of the significance of shared communal descent from this figure; nevertheless, status is retained by the royal family who can trace this line of descent. Indeed, the genealogies’ inclusion of heroes associated with other Germanic peoples invites the interpretation that these too shared this ‘exclusive’ descent.82 Few certainties emerge in the search for the origins of the ark-born son of Noah, known to us only from brief references in Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies. These pedigrees certainly served the purpose of legitimizing the power of the kings whose ancestry they claimed to trace. But as the more fabulous characters in the more extended versions of the genealogies are encountered, the nature of this claim to legitimacy has certainly moved well beyond its earlier function in the oral culture of a Germanic tribe.83 The introduction of literacy, and with it the possibility of transmitting accurate records, to Anglo-Saxon society with the advent of Christianity had made possible the consolidation of the royal genealogies and their great enlargement across several generations. The question which remains difficult to answer is why the genealogists chose to introduce the apocryphal figure of the ark-born son to establish their kings’ descent from Noah. Royal genealogists in other early medieval societies, such as those in Wales and France, felt no need for such an invention when they desired to make a connection to early biblical history – the universally accepted convention was that European peoples were descended from Japheth, one of Noah’s blessed sons, and ancestral ties to him were easily invented.84 There was clearly a potential for an imaginative link between the character of Sceaf (as described in the Chronicon of Æthelweard), who according to tradition mysteriously arrived in ‘Scani’ from across the waters, and the story of Noah’s Flood.

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Other traditions, now beyond reach, may have made such a link more or less obvious. A degree of caution is necessary when tracing the flow of ideas between two cultures, especially two as closely related as Anglo-Saxon and early Scandinavian. The assumption that otherwise unattested traditions concerning Sceaf are Danish in origin should be regarded as simply that: an assumption. Beowulf, the only other Anglo-Saxon text with a story similar to Æthelweard’s, offers a different version of events, and describes Scyld’s – not Sceaf’s – arrival from across the waters in Scedeland.85 Meaney, following Chambers, suggests one possible reason for the transformation of Sceaf into a son of Noah in the Chronicle genealogies: ‘Sceaf himself stands effectively where he did in Æthelweard’s copy of the Chronicle at the head of the genealogy, but with his provenance strangely changed: Bedwig Sceafing, id est filius Noe, se wæs geboren in þære earce Noes – a statement which surely proves that the motif of the hero coming over the sea as a child must here belong to Sceaf, or what would have been the point of his transmogrification?’86 Meaney has sought to establish that Beowulf represents a distorted version of events; this is perhaps probable, but not certain. Her argument partly rests on the genealogical link between the maritime Sceaf and his diluvial double. The underlying assumption of the argument advanced by Meaney and others is the potency of the myth centring on the character of Sceaf himself as providing the link to Noah in Anglo-Saxon perception.87 But such speculations should be treated with caution. The ark-born son’s varying name, and even parentage, suggests that Sceaf’s legendary identity may not have been immediately obvious, even in Anglo-Saxon England, at any great remove from the West Saxon genealogists who connected his watery origins to Noah. It seems Sceaf himself was not as important to subsequent copyists as the unique link to Noah provided by the ark-born fourth son, whatever his name. I would suggest that in the minds of the royal genealogists, while the mythological Sceaf must originally have held some significance in their original grafting of the Germanic past onto the Biblical story of Noah, it was his function in providing the privileged descent through an ark-born son which continued to be of paramount importance.

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Sceaf and Wessex The curious mixture of complementary and contradictory detail in Æthelweard’s and Beowulf’s genealogies – which place Scyld and Sceaf at the head of the line of descent – is puzzling. Given the scarcity of records, it is difficult to ascertain how the two texts might be related. However, the story is also told by William of Malmesbury well after the end of the Anglo-Saxon literary tradition. His story of the arrival of Sceaf, son of Sceldwa, it has been argued, is based on the Chronicon of Æthelweard, but this is merged with a longer pedigree derived from either Asser or a corrupted version of the longer West Saxon royal genealogy: Ab hoc Anglorum Cronica sursum uersus usque ad Adam lineam generationis regum texunt, sicut Lucam euangelistam a Domino Iesu factitasse cognouimus. Quod si etiam ego fecero, fortasse non erit superuacaneum, quamquam timendum sit ne barbaricorum nominum hiatus uulneret aures desuetorum in talibus. Ethelwlfus fuit filius Egbirhti . . . Beowius Sceldii; Sceldius Sceaf. Iste, ut ferunt, in quandam insulam Germaniae Scandzam, de qua Iordanes historiographus Gothorum loquitor, appulsus naui sine renige puerulus, posito ad caput frumenti manipulo dormiens, ideoque Sceaf nuncupatus, ab hominibus regionis illius pro miracula exceptus et sedulo nutritus, adulta aetate regnauit in oppido quod tunc Slaswic, nunc uero Haithebi appellatur. Est autem regio illa Anglia Vetus dicta, unde Angli uenerunt in Britanniam, inter Saxones et Gothos constituta. Sceaf fuit fi lius Heremodii, Heremodius Stermonii, Stermonius Hadrae, Hadra Gwalea, Gwala Bedwigii, Bedwegius Strefii; hic, ut dicitur, fuit fi lius Noae in arca natus. 88 [From Æthelwulf the English Chronicles gave the line of royal descent upwards as far as Adam, as the evangelist Luke is known to have done for the Lord Jesus. If I too do the same, it may perhaps be not without its uses, although it is to be feared that the uncouth barbarous names will wound the ear of those to whom such things are unfamiliar. Æthelwulf was the son of Ecgberht . . . Beow of Sceld; Sceld of Sceaf. (This Sceaf, they say, landed on an island in Germany called Scandza mentioned by Jordanes the historian of the Goths, as a small child in a ship without a crew, sleeping with a sheaf of wheat laid by his head, and hence he was called Sheaf. The men of that country welcomed him as something miraculous and brought him up carefully, and on reaching manhood he ruled

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a town then called Slaswic but now Hedeby. The name of that region is Old Anglia, and it was from there that the Angles came to Britain; it lies between the Saxons and the Goths.) Sceaf was the son of Heremod, Heremod of Stermon, Stermon of Hathra, Hathra of Hwala, Hwala of Bedwig, Bedwig of Strephus; who, it is said, was the son of Noah born in the ark.].

The grafting together of two genealogies has produced two Sceafs – one the father of Sceldwa, the other of Bedwig, the latter with his name corrupted as ‘Strephus’, making him his own great-great-great-great-grandfather. William’s laconically sceptical reference to the ark-birth of ‘Strephus’ (ut dicitur) reflects not only his doubt about the story, but probably also the changing needs of royal ideology; William certainly shows a contempt for Anglo-Saxon royal names which might not have been wise some centuries earlier. The treatment William gives the ark-born son reveals the lost vitality of the legend as a part of the sustaining myth of a royal house. William appears not to represent a separate authority on the royal genealogies,89 and his confused double inclusion of the character of Sceaf shows that he is dealing with a genealogical tradition that was losing much of its social context and ideological relevance. This development saw the ark-born son, under any of his names, disappear from royal genealogies in the later Middle Ages.90 While William is following his sources for the names in his genealogies, is it safe to say Æthelweard is his source for the details of the story of Sceaf? On some points there is clear agreement, though verbal similarities are absent in the Latin. In both versions Sceaf arrives at a Scandinavian island (Æthelweard: Scani; William: Scandzam), and in both the child is received and cared for by the inhabitants, until he becomes a ruler. If Æthelweard is William’s source, the later writer is working freely with his material, enhancing the story with geographic details (the identification of Hedeby), reflecting political changes (Æthelweard’s Sceaf is elected king – in regem eligunt – William’s simply reaches manhood and rules), and by interpreting events (William adds the detail of belief in divine providence – pro miracula – to the locals’ acceptance of the boy). One detail on which the accounts differ, presenting not an enhancement but a disagreement, is on what accompanied the mysterious foundling Sceaf on his arrival. Æthelweard has him arrive surrounded by

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weapons (armis circundatus), but William mentions no weapons, instead describing a sheaf of wheat at the sleeping boy’s head (posito ad caput frumenti manipulo dormiens). William’s etymologizing may account for the change, alerting his Anglo-Norman rather than English readers to the significance of the child’s name. Such an explanation for the alteration is not fully adequate for two reasons: the removal of weapons (apart from the removed reference to the election of kings) presents the only substantial omission from Æthelweard’s version, and we might also wonder whether William’s audience would be sufficiently interested in the meaning of this legendary figure’s name to justify the substitution of wheat for weapons. William’s alteration seems more innovative still, given the degree of agreement found in the arrival of Scyld Scefing (not Sceaf) at the beginning of Beowulf, and Æthelweard’s account with weapons. The account of the arrival in Beowulf is allusive, but his funeral, to which the manner of his coming is compared, is more detailed (3–11, 36b–52): Oft Scyld Scefi ng sceaþena þreatum, monegum mægþum meodosetla ofteah, egsode eorlas, syððan ærest wearð feasceaft funden; he þæs frofre gebad, weox under wolcnum weorðmyndum þah, oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra ofer hronrade hyran scolde, gomban gyldan. Þæt wæs god cyning! [. . .] Þær wæs madma fela of feorwegum frætwa gelæded; ne hyrde ic cymlicor ceol gegyrwan hildewæpnum ond heaðowædum, billum ond byrnum; him on bearme læg madma mænigo, þa him mid scoldon on flodes æht feor gewitan. Nalæs hi hine læssan lacum teodan, þeodgestreonum, þon þa dydon, þe hine æt frumsceafte forð onsendon ænne ofer yðe umborwesende. Þa gyt hie him asetton segen gyldenne heah ofer heafod, leton holm beran, geafon on garsecg; him wæs geomor sefa,

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murnend mod. Men ne cunnon secgan to soðe, selerædende, hæleð under heofenum, hwa þæm hlæste onfeng. [Often Scyld Scefi ng seized mead benches from many tribes, hosts of enemies, terrified the earls, after he was first found destitute; he received comfort for that, he grew up under the clouds and flourished in honour, until each of the surrounding nations, over the whale-road had to obey him, yield him tribute. That was a good king! . . . There many treasures and trappings from distant paths were loaded; I have not heard of a more lovely boat adorned with battle-weapons and war-gear, blades and armour; in its bosom lay many treasures, which should travel with him far in the flood’s possession. Not at all did they furnish him with fewer gifts, national treasures, than did those who at the beginning sent him forth alone over the waves when he was an infant. Then further they set a golden standard high over his head, let the sea carry him, gave him to the ocean; for them the heart was sad, the mind mourning. People do not know how to say truly, not hall-counsellors, not men under the heavens, who received that cargo.]

Trusting the narrator’s comment that the funeral gifts match those he brought as an infant, the destitute child is seen to have arrived with treasures, including weapons, not wheat (paralleling Æthelweard); the child prospers in his adoptive land (Scedelandum, line 19), until he becomes king. Furthermore, in the version of events found in Beowulf, there is no possibility of a link between the child’s name and wheat, because here his name is Scyld, son of Sceaf (or ‘of the Scefi ngs’), suggesting William’s account is well removed from the tradition inherited by the Beowulf poet. Another account of a mysteriously floating ‘sheaf’ is found in the Chronicle of Abingdon Monastery.91 In the course of a dispute with local noblemen over the ownership of a certain field, and after three days in prayer, the desperate monks are inspired by a divine plan:92 Quod dum servi Dei propensius actitarent, inspiratum est eis salubre consilium, et (ut pium est credere,) divinitus provisum. Dei etenim statuto mane surgentes monachi sumpserunt scutum rotundum, cui imponebant manipulum frumenti, et super manipulum cereum circumspectæ quantitatis et grossitudinis. Quo accenso, scutum cum manipulo et cereo, fluvio ecclesiam prætercurrenti committunt, paucis in navicula fratribus subsequentibus. Praecedebat itaque eos scutum et quasi

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A general parallel between this account and the Scyld Scefi ng episode in Beowulf has long been noted, and its presence in a thirteenth-century chronicle should not be seen as lessening its usefulness in a discussion of early traditions concerning Sceaf. The author’s claim is that the extraordinary event took place in the reign of Edmund (941–6), and certain elements, such as the round shield and the early form of the place name Gifteleia (Iffley), point to a pre-conquest date. There is no strong reason to doubt the authenticity of the claim to the antiquity of the account, and in any case, if it were a latter-day forgery (not unknown in monastic land disputes) it would attest to the availability to the chronicler of a vibrant folk tradition concerning the floating of a sheaf and shield beyond the conquest and well into the thirteenth century.93 Any attempt to defi ne the relationship of the Abingdon account to the references to Sceaf in the royal genealogies, Æthelweard’s Chronicon, William’s History and Beowulf, faces a range of problems. The general similarity to Beowulf is suggested by the pairing in the poem of two characters called ‘Shield’ and ‘Sheaf’, paralleling the shield and sheaf used by the Abingdon monks. Tolley has recently suggested a further parallel may be contained in the name of the meadow, Beri, suggesting this probably means ‘barley isle’, inviting a link to Scyld’s successor in Æthelweard’s genealogy, and probably in Beowulf as well.94 However, the parallels do not end here. In Beowulf, Scyld Scefi ng arrives in a time of crisis, and his good kingship is defi ned in terms of his subjugation of neighbouring tribes; the monks of Abingdon, after a long dispute and days of prayer use the shield and sheaf to gain an enduring legal ‘victory’ over hostile neighbours. In both Æthelweard’s and William’s versions Sceaf arrives at an island; at Abingdon the shield and sheaf defi ne ownership of an island. In the royal genealogies ‘Sheaf’ the father of ‘Shield’ becomes Noah’s son born in the Flood; at Abingdon the shield and sheaf float down a flooded Thames. The Abingdon account frames the whole episode as an act of miraculous divine intervention, recognized by all present; only William characterizes the arrival of Sceaf as guided by Providence.95 The number of people present at Beri, and the fact that the otherwise obscure ritual is considered by all present to have settled the dispute is telling, and suggests that the monks’ action was not an innovation. If

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there is any innovation in their rite, it may well be in the addition of the candle, a traditional element of Christian ritual, and which is not found in any other account.96 Unless most of these elements are coincidences, and some may be, collectively they provide evidence of a folk tradition, and perhaps a legal ritual, concerning a floating shield and sheaf in Anglo-Saxon England, and which was vital as late as the mid-tenth century. Is it possible to define the relationship between these various accounts? If we treat the Abingdon ‘miracle’ as a story of ‘Sheaf– Shield’, it would seem to stand at the nexus of the tradition as it has survived in conflicting accounts. In Abingdon the shield and the sheaf together float along the flooded river, and together settle the dispute. All the other accounts arrange Sceaf and Scyld – here floating together across the water – in genealogical succession; among these only Beowulf has Scyld, not Sceaf, arriving across the water. It is probably significant that Beowulf presents, from the Anglo-Saxon perspective, the least developed genealogy – Scef–Scyld–Beow(ulf) – and that this threefold genealogy, reminiscent of oral tradition, heads a similarly brief Danish royal pedigree to which it is only loosely connected (56b–7a). While Beowulf disagrees with the royal genealogies, and also with Æthelweard and William, by allocating the water-borne arrival to Scyld, the poem is not inconsistent with the water journey of the sheaf and shield on the Thames. Nevertheless, the royal genealogists, Æthelweard and William, also agree with the Abingdon account by describing a ‘Sheaf’ crossing the water. If it is accepted that the Abingdon account represents a folk custom pre-dating its use by the monks – and it is hard to see why their opponents would accept the outcome otherwise – this pairing of Sceaf and Scyld stands at the head of a tradition which saw two figures previously paired in folklore, subsequently arranged chronologically in a genealogy. The Beowulf poet, creating the shortest of pedigrees, placed them at the top of his genealogy, giving Sceaf seniority, and loosely attached them to the Danish royal house, allocating their previously shared watery arrival to Scyld.97 This is to be expected in a poem which for much of its narrative is concerned with the Danish Scyldings. The possibility that the habit of calling the Danes ‘Scyldings’ was a ninthcentury innovation does not sit easily with Danish ignorance

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concerning Sceaf.98 The Abingdon story may suggest that the connection between the ‘Shield/Scyld’ who opens the poem and the ‘Scyldings’ in it is, like his genealogizing of a folk ritual, the poet’s own clever innovation based on a serendipitous presence in the two traditions of the name ‘Scyld’. The same genealogical reflex, perhaps influenced by Beowulf itself, and aware of the folk tradition the poet was borrowing, placed the two at the head of the genealogy of the royal house of Wessex, but allocated the arrival to Sceaf – if this development occurred at the same time as the invention of the ark-born son, it would necessarily be the elder of the two who was allocated the watery arrival. This stage of the developing tradition is probably attested to by the version of the genealogy found in Æthelweard’s Chronicon. The inclusion of weapons in the Chronicon version, within a digression from the genealogical list, is puzzling. Unless we count the shield itself as a weapon, Abingdon makes no mention of weapons, and it is highly unlikely that the monks are inventing a ritual. It is even less likely that they are doing so based on a reading of Beowulf, which mentions no weapons in connection with Scyld’s arrival; but in describing his funeral, the poet has the Danes provide Scyld with gifts (certainly not wheat) and implies that weapons accompanied his arrival. The fact that the genealogy presented by Æthelweard includes weapons may therefore also point to the influence of the poem on his account.99 The description in Æthelweard of Sceaf’s arrival should not necessarily be regarded as a part of the original genealogy, and may represent his own addition. The West Saxon royal genealogy, which clearly builds on a version like Æthelweard’s, includes no such digression, but does include a brief account of Sceaf’s ark-birth. Both digressions present a stylistic parallel to Asser’s digression on Geat in Alfred’s genealogy. The Flood connection provides a striking similarity to the flooded river in the Abingdon account, and would seem to point to an awareness on the part of the genealogist of the folkloric tradition underlying this part of the invention. The agricultural link may also have formed part of the genealogist’s inspiration in creating Sceaf as the son of the farmer Noah (Gen 9:20), who had preserved the world’s seed from the Flood (7:3), and who afterwards divided its lands among his sons (10:32).

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William of Malmesbury, the last contributor to the tradition before references to Sceaf in royal genealogies became a simple matter of mechanical copying, presents a more complex case. Writing his History at Malmesbury in the first half of the twelfth century, William would seem to be at the opposite end historically of the tradition which first borrowed Sceaf and Scyld from folklore into pedigree, and yet he alters his source, Æthelweard, to include a sheaf (frumenti manipulo), returning the genealogy to its apparent folkloric origins. William’s discussion of the etymology of Sceaf’s name may suggest this is purely coincidental, but the possibility that William was aware of the folk tradition should not be ruled out. I have suggested that for the purpose of this investigation it is irrelevant whether the Abingdon chronicler’s claim that his monastic forebears floated a shield and a sheaf down the Thames in the 940s is true or not. The chronicler himself indicates that the story entered into local oral tradition, such was the amazement at the miracle, while his use of the archaic spelling Gifteleia points to the use of a written source. If the thirteenth-century chronicler had invented the story, he could only have been drawing on local tradition, or the coincidences between his account and pre-Conquest records of Sceaf would defy probability. It is more likely that the account is not a forgery, but based on an earlier document. The existence of a written record is crucial to the question of William’s inclusion of the sheaf and his characterization of Sceaf’s arrival as a miracle. William travelled widely to fi nd sources for his history, and visiting Abingdon he would have found not only a local tradition, but a written record of a miraculously floating sheaf on a shield, which could have provided him with a curious story presenting similarities to the story of the arrival across the water of a figure called Sceaf, mentioned in any number of royal genealogies, and two other texts he knew well, Æthelweard’s Chronicon and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the authority of both of which he contradicts concerning Sceaf. We cannot know with certainty if the monks of Abingdon invented their own ritual to justify ownership of a piece of land, but – if they did – evidence suggests they did so based on a more widely known folk tradition. Indeed, we may also have some evidence of how widely the tradition of Sceaf and Scyld was

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known. I have suggested that the inclusion of ‘Sheaf’ into the royal genealogies was a West Saxon innovation, and that making him Noah’s ark-born son is best associated with the reign of Alfred (a man clearly interested in the foundations of kingship), though Æthelwulf’s presence at the head of the genealogy may point to the later part of his reign. Anglian genealogies borrowed Sceaf from Wessex, perplexed by his link to Noah, while no Danish scribe could recognize his name; it is also likely that Asser found his name confusing. This shared confusion outside Wessex is fascinating, given the common geographic origin of the texts which include Sceaf and reveal no confusion concerning his association with water. The genealogies which included Sceaf and then made him Noah’s son were West Saxon; Sceaf’s fi rst appearance as forebear to Anglo-Saxon kings is found in the pedigree claimed by Æthelweard, a West Saxon ealdorman. Abingdon, a West Saxon town, lies on the Thames, the ancient border between Wessex and Mercia; Malmesbury, not far from the headwaters of the Thames, also lies within Wessex.100 If the folk tradition around ‘Shield and Sheaf’ continued after the conquest, William may well have had access to it independent of contact with Abingdon. That this tradition and its associated texts are West Saxon in origin, and that there is evidence that Sceaf was originally unknown outside Wessex, has important implications for our understanding of the provenance and dating of the genealogical prologue in Beowulf. I have suggested that the tripartite genealogy at the head of the royal pedigree in Beowulf should be located early in this process of assimilation, representing a different interpretation of the watery progress in the sheaf–shield tradition to that found in the longer royal genealogies. The implication, therefore, is that this tradition of watery arrival was probably incorporated into Beowulf in Wessex. It is possible, however, that the land dispute at Abingdon is pointing to a more specific association between Scyld, Sceaf and the Thames. The scant narratives which survive around the tradition in Æthelweard, the Abingdon Chronicle and Beowulf tell us that it was centred on the ownership of land, whether over a field on the other side of the river in Mercia, or over the land of the Danes. Some time in the ninth century, Sceaf and Scyld became

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ancestors of the West Saxon kings; by the end of the century Sceaf provided a link back to Noah in a pedigree for a royal house which controlled Mercia beyond the upper Thames, as well as London. The land beyond the lower Thames, however, remained under the control of the Danes. The fusion of the heroic Germanic past with the world of the biblical patriarchs which the invention of Sceaf as the fourth son of Noah suggests is certainly an ideological innovation appropriate to the reign of Alfred. His personal interest in the biblical past is well documented, and the impact it had on his regal imagination was arguably his most profound inspiration.101 Of course, earlier Anglo-Saxons had both a reverence for Scripture and an awareness of their connections to the continental Germans.102 But this would not have been an awareness, particularly in the earlier period of evangelization, which would have embraced too many recently demoted pagan gods as shared ancestors, and Bede’s implied scepticism on royal descent from Woden may not have been widespread.103 By the ninth century, however, royal genealogists did not hesitate to borrow the names of by-now thoroughly human Germanic heroes to enhance their masters’ pedigrees. Roberta Frank has suggested there was even a positive trend in this direction at the time, and Alfred himself clearly shared an interest in the ‘Germanic’ past of the English.104 Whatever the original inspiration behind the incarnation of Sceaf as Noah’s ark-born son, this genealogical creation suggests that at least the West Saxon genealogists desired to create for their kings – and implicitly for the Anglo-Saxons and all those who shared their common origin – a unique relationship with Noah, the second father of the human race. The implicit extension of this sense of uniqueness to include their Germanic cousins, who like the Anglo-Saxons themselves are not accounted for by the ‘true’ version of early world history found in Genesis, claimed for the West Saxons a privileged place among the northern peoples. Their genealogies make the prior claim to exclusive descent, with their own traditions preserving a memory of racial origins concerning which biblical history is silent, and other northern peoples were ignorant. It is difficult to be certain how significant the geography of the surviving traditions around Scyld and Sceaf is. But if the border region of the Thames was

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where they had their home, then the claims of Alfred’s genealogists included a claim not just to shadowy figures of the past, but to the rule over the lands occupied by their descendants in the present. Reactions In the decades after the invention of Sceaf as Noah’s fourth son, born in the ark, the idea that the Anglo-Saxons could trace their descent to this apocryphal figure undoubtedly received broad circulation in England. Wherever a text of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was found, in the authoritative Alfredian version, belief in the historical veracity of Noah’s fourth son, and the nation’s privileged descent from him, might also be found. It is not likely that all Anglo-Saxon scholars, particularly in the new intellectual climate fostered by the Benedictine revival, would have found such a belief acceptable. Ælfric, a West Saxon educated at Winchester, was one such scholar, and his concern for rooting out apocryphal error is well documented.105 Noah and the Flood, a man and an event of pivotal significance in the history of the world, are frequently mentioned in the works of Ælfric which have been discussed in Chapter 3. A point not made then is that, in the many texts in which he discusses the Flood, Ælfric consistently takes care to include and emphasize one particular detail among all others: the number of people saved in the ark. This concern, emphasized in some of his earliest works, is found even in his briefest references to the Flood. Ælfric’s first series homily De initio creaturae provides an overview of the major events of salvation history, and offers a detailed treatment of Noah and the Flood. The sermon moves directly from the fall of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from the Garden on to a description of the Flood. In the account of the deluge provided by Ælfric, Noah’s role as progenitor is implied in the wording of God’s command to him to gather his family into the ark (CH 1, 1:183–5): Ac ic wille gehealden þe ænne and þin wif. and þine þry suna. sem. and cham. and iafeð. and heora þreo wif. for ðon þe ðu eart rihtwis. and me gecweme (‘but I will protect you alone, and your wife, and your three sons, and their three wives, because you are righteous and acceptable to me’). The careful enumeration of the members of Noah’s family who

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will be passengers in the ark is Ælfric’s own summary, conflating God’s less numerically precise command found in Gen 6:18, and the description of the entry into the ark found in Gen 7:13. His version of God’s command makes clear at the outset the number of people who went into the ark, and in a biblical account crowded with mystically significant numerical details, the numbering of the four men and four women is one of the few retained by Ælfric.106 A more cursory treatment of the Flood is found in Ælfric’s Dominica XXI post Pentecosten, which expands Gregory the Great’s exposition of the parable of the wedding of the king’s son (Matt 22:1–14). As a part of the development of the spiritual meaning of the text, Ælfric outlines some significant details, including the number of those saved in the ark (CH 1, 35:264–6): On þære þriddan fleringe wunede noe mid his wife and his þry suna mid heora þrim wifum (‘On the third floor dwelt Noah with his wife and his three sons with their three wives’). This careful enumeration is one of the few details not found in this section of Gregory’s homily outlining the allegory of the ark, but has been inserted here by Ælfric. Ælfric’s second series homily Dominica II post Aepiphania Domini is based on Bede’s homily for the same occasion, and develops the allegory of the jars at Cana as representative of the six ages of the world. Noah’s role in salvation history is presented in clear terms, stressing the patriarch’s key role in the universal regeneration after the Flood, which marks the turning point between the world’s first age and the second (CH 2, 4:111–29): on ðære oðre ylde þissere worulde wearð eal middaneard mid flodes yðum adylegod for synna micelnysse. buton ðam rihtwisan Noe anum. and his seofon hiwon. þe on ðam arce belocene wæron to anes geares fyrste. and hi siððan eal mancyn gestryndon. [In the second age of this world all the earth was destroyed for the greatness of sins, except the righteous Noah alone and his seven relatives, who were locked in the ark for the duration of a year, and afterwards they propagated the whole human race.]

Ælfric, however, has altered Bede’s comment here: Secunda aetate saeculi inchoante deletus est aquis diluuii mundus ob peccatorum magnitudinem, sed solus Noe est propter iustitiam cum domo sua liberatus in archa (‘As the second age of the world began, the

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world was destroyed by the waters of the Flood because of the great number of sinners, and only Noah, together with his household, was delivered in the ark on account of his righteousness’).107 Ælfric adds the numerical detail in his version, not only placing a greater emphasis on Noah’s progenitorial role, but also drawing further attention to his concern for the number of people saved in the ark. Whatever Ælfric’s motivation, Noah and his seven relatives are more clearly and firmly locked in Ælfric’s ark than in Bede’s. This concern for the number of those in the ark becomes an emphatic insistence in his treatise dedicated solely to discussion of the six ages of the world, where Ælfric again focuses on the cosmic significance of the Flood. This text, his own composition from a variety of sources, presents a summary of the details which Ælfric considered most important in the Flood story (lines 15–45): Ðeos is seo forme yld. þissere worulde. fram Adame. oð Noe. to þam cwæð ure drihten ðe ic sceowode. ætforan me rihtwisne. on þissere mægðe. gemaca nu forþig ænne mycelne arc eall gerefedne. ic wylle adrencan and adydan eall þis mennisc mid wætere. buton þe 7 þinum þrim sunum. 7 eowrum sinnhiwum; Ge eahta sceolon wunian on þam arce [. . .] 7 of eallum nytenum ic gegaderie into eow. þæt ge magon to fostre æfter þam flode [. . .] 7 þæt eall þeos woruld ne wurðe adylegod; Noe þa geworhte þone wunderlican arc [. . .] him oninnan. ær þam þe þæt flod come mid his þrim sunum; Sem. Cham 7 Iafeth 7 eac mid his gebeddan. 7 his bearna wifum. ... þæt flod ða weox under þam fleotendan arce. 7 adrencte endemes ælc þing cuces buton þam eahta mannum þe on ðam arce wæron. 7 buton þam orfcynne þe binnan wæs. of þam com syþþan eall þæt nu cucu is; Noes sunan ða syðþan gestryndon twa 7 hundseofontig sunana.108 [This is the first age of this world, from Adam until Noah, to whom our Lord said, I have beheld you righteous before me among this generation. Therefore, make a great ark now, completely fi xed, and

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Water and fire I will drown and destroy the entire human race with water, except you and your three sons, and your companions. You eight will dwell in the ark [. . .] and I will gather every kind of beast for you, so that you can prosper after the Flood [. . .] and so that this world might not be completely annihilated. Noah then made the wondrous ark [. . .] before the Flood came he [went] inside it with his three sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, and also with his wife, and his sons’ wives . . . The Flood then rose under the floating ark, and drowned entirely all living things except the eight people who were in the ark and the beasts which were inside. And from those descended all which is now living. Noah’s sons later fathered seventy-two sons.]

Ælfric is concerned here to emphasize, and re-emphasize, not only the salvation of the eight in the ark, but also carefully to defi ne Noah’s relationship to the seventy-two nations descended from his three sons. Ælfric takes particular care here to stress only certain aspects of the Genesis account. The sinfulness of the antediluvian world, associated with Adam, is contrasted with Noah’s piety. Only certain numbers are mentioned: the salvation of eight (and only eight) people in the ark is mentioned three times; the origin of the seventy-two nations in Noah’s three sons. The only number without genealogical significance preserved from the Genesis account is the forty days of rain, mentioned only once. Ælfric’s concern on each occasion when mentions the Flood to stress that only eight people were saved in the ark is paralleled by a similar concern to articulate in certain terms how the nations of the world descended from these eight. These facts from biblical history are straightforwardly set out in question 56 in Ælfric’s Old English version of Alcuin’s Interrogationes Sigeuulfi in Genesin: INT: Hu wæs þes middan eard todæled æfter þam flode? RESP: Se yldesta noes sunu sem gestrynde mid his sunum seofon 7 twentig suna. 7 hi gebogodan þone east dæl middaneardes þe is gehate asia. Se oðer noes sunu cham gestrynde mid his sunum þrittig suna. 7 hy gebogodan þone suðdæl þe is gehaten. affrica. Se þridda noes sunu iafeth gestrynde mid his sunum fiftyne suna. 7 þa gebogodan norðdæl. þe is gehaten europa. þas ealle togædere syndon twa 7 hund seofontig þeoda. 7 swa fela leorning cnihta sende crist to bodigenne þone soðan geleafan ealne middaneard;

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[Question: How was the earth divided after the Flood? Answer: Shem, Noah’s eldest son, fathered twenty-seven sons, and they turned to the eastern part of the earth which is called Asia. Noah’s second son, Ham, fathered thirty sons, and they turned to the southern part which is called Africa. Japheth, Noah’s third son, fathered fi fteen sons, and they turned to the northern part, which is called Europe. Altogether this makes seventy-two nations, and Christ sent out the same number to preach the true faith to all the world.]

Ælfric has modified his source in a couple of ways. Alcuin’s question 141 had simply listed the three sons of Noah, while Ælfric suggests a ranking by age.109 A second, minor detail that Ælfric has added, and which seems a logical expansion of Alcuin’s list of continents, is the direction of the dispersal, which leaves Japheth’s descendants occupying the norðdæl (‘northern part’). This interest in specifying the northern descendants of Noah is found in another of Ælfric’s works. His Letter to Sigeweard is a text concerned with the details of salvation history.110 The epistle suggests the desire on Ælfric’s part to articulate the details of Noah’s historical role from the point of view of both biblical history and ethnography, including details of humanity’s slide into sin after the fall of Adam and Eve, leading to the Flood: and Caines ofspring, þe him of com, siððan eall wearð adrenced on þam deopan flode, þe on Noes dagum adydde eall mancinn buton þam eahta mannum, ðe binnan þam arce wæron, and of þam yfelan teame ne com nan ðing siþþan. . . . Noe and his wif and heora þri suna, Sem, Cham and Iafeth mid heora þrim wifum [and Cain’s offspring, who were descended from him, were all destroyed later in the deep Flood, which in Noah’s day destroyed the whole human race except the eight people who were in the ark, and from that evil line nothing else came afterwards . . . Noah and his wife and their three sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, with their three wives].111

Ælfric has discussed these issues elsewhere,112 but the details which he considers it necessary to include here in his quick summary are not accidental: eight survived the Flood in the ark to continue the human race. Noah, his wife, and their three sons and their wives survived, and every living creature outside the ark was destroyed. Not only does Ælfric mention that there were

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only eight people in the ark, but he also describes who they were. Again, these are the only numbers mentioned. Ælfric turns to the meaning of these events soon after, once again taking particular care to mention that eight were saved in the ark, while all others perished. He also explains how the seventy-two nations, the whole of the post-diluvial population of the world, descend from them: Noe, þe on ðam arce wæs on ðam miclum flode, þe ealle woruld adrencte buton þam eahta mannum, ys gereht requies, þæt is ‘rest’ on Englisc; . . . Nu segð us seo boc be Noes ofspringe, þæt his suna gestrindon twa and hundseofontig suna (‘Noah, who was in the ark during the great Flood, which drowned all the world except those eight people, is interpreted requies, that is ‘rest’ in English; . . . Now the book tells us concerning his offspring, that his sons fathered seventy-two sons’).113 Theological considerations, similar to those found elsewhere, necessitate the articulation of the pure Hebrew line which leads to Abraham, and eventually to Christ.114 When discussing the descent of nations other than the Hebrews, based on a commonplace patristic elaboration of the genealogies of Genesis 10, Ælfric also offers an aside presenting a unique, and apparently superfluous, detail in the context of the orthodox tradition which he is transmitting: Of Cham, Noes suna, com þæt Chananeisce folc, and of Iaphet, þam ginstan, þe wæs gebletsod þurh Noe, com þæt norðerne mennisc be þære Norðsæ, for þan þe ðri dælas sind gedælede þurh hig, Asia on eastrice þam yldstan suna, Affrica on suðdæle þæs Chames cynne, and Europa on norðdæle Iapheþes ofspringe (‘From Ham, Noah’s son, came the Canaanite nation, and from Japheth, the youngest, who was blessed by Noah, came the northern people beside the north sea, because the three parts are divided by them, Asia in the eastern kingdom for the eldest son, Africa in the southern part to the family of Ham, and Europe in the northern part for Japheth’s offspring’).115 The affirmation that Japheth was blessed follows appropriately after the mention of Ham and his cursed Canaanite descendants. The almost tautological description of Japheth, the proto-European, as the ancestor of the ‘northern’ people by the ‘north-sea’, the continental Germanic peoples from whom the Anglo-Saxons descended, is a logical inference. But the insistent repetition of this detail in Ælfric’s composition brings together what emerge as two pervasive concerns: eight people

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survived the universal deluge in the ark, and one of them, Japheth, was the ancestor of all the peoples of northern Europe, including those by the northern sea.116 In his translation of Genesis, Ælfric completely omitted the extended genealogical section (Gen 10–11).117 He may have believed it was unnecessarily confusing, as these two chapters provide a complex account of the origin of the nations, which without glossing would fail to account for the origins of the Anglo-Saxons and other Europeans.118 The account of racial origins found in the Old English Interrogationes, which perhaps should be understood as Ælfric’s replacement for the genealogies of Gen 10–11, was composed earlier than that in the Letter to Sigeweard. This, written in 1005–6, presents emphases not found in Ælfric’s earlier, more compact account written in 992 × 1002. Indeed, his treatise On the Six Ages of the World, with its emphatic treatment of the unique salvation of Noah and his family in the ark, is from the same late period.119 In the light of this evidence, it is possible to detect an insistence on orthodoxy in Ælfric’s discussion of the question of descent from Noah and his three sons, which becomes more emphatic in his later writings. In this detailed scheme there is no room for doubt: the peoples by the northern sea, including Ælfric and his Anglo-Saxon audience, descended from Noah’s son Japheth. This is a clear contradiction of the account offered in the royal genealogies. It has been noted that these texts are not concerned with orthodox theological truth, but more with political ideology. For other writers, including Ælfric, theological concerns were primary, and it is not likely he would have approved of such a notion as an apocryphal son of Noah, though it would be surprising if he did not know of the tradition. But it is unlikely that he would have chosen to do more than emphasize the orthodox position. An overt contradiction should not be expected from a Winchester-educated West Saxon such as Ælfric, a subject of beleaguered West Saxon kings who believed in their unique line of descent, writing at a time of renewed Viking attack, and when the ideology expressed by Noachic descent through the apocryphal son may still have held some potency. A reaction against the notion of Anglo-Saxon descent from an ark-born son can also be detected in a textually corrupt note in British Library, Cotton Tiberius A.iii, fols 43–4, a mid-

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eleventh-century Canterbury compilation of monastic texts, prognostics, prayers and notes.120 The note is uncompromising in its tone, suggestive of controversy in relation to the number of people saved in the ark, and the total number of Noah’s offspring: Noe se heah fæder hæfde þry sunu þa wæron þus hatene. sem. cham. iaphet. 7 of þam þrim sunum wearð onwæcnad. 7 awridad eall manna cynn wearð on besenced 7 þær næfre to lafe ne wearð ma þonne him eahtum. ac hit eall se gifra flod forswealh. 7 forgrinde. 7 he eac þa gyt nolde urne drihten for his myldheortnesse þæte ðes middangeard nære ortydre manna cynnes. ac ascyrede to lafe þæt þæt we eft of awocon þurh þæs halgan heahfæderes geearnunga noes 7 his goddra dæda mycelnesse. 7 of him þrim eft wearð awridad twa 7 hund seofontig þeoda ealdorlicra mægða. 7 swa fela is eac manna gereorda 7 heora gespæc todæled. þonne awoc ærest of iafeðe noes suna .xv. mægða ealdorlicere 7 micel. þonne onwocon. of chame. xxx. theoda mycelra 7 eac þæt cynn wæs geseald fram urum drihtne þam oðrum cynnum twam on heaftnead. 7 on þeowdom. 7 þæt wæs forþon swa gedon þæt he getælde his fæder noe þær he on his sceape locode 7 his to bismere hloh. Ðonne onwoc fram þam ðriddan suna seme 7 se wes heora geongost wæs þeh hwæðere on wisdome yldost seofon 7 twentig þeoda 7 þanon wæs awæcnod þæt æþeluste cynn 7 þæt betste. þæt wæs forþon þe he his fæder noe na getælde 7 untweogendlice of þysum þrim mannum noes sunum þæt eall þes middangeard wearð eft onwæcnod þeh hye drihten on þreo streonde 7 swa sibbe cneordnesse to dælde. 7 þæt he todælde for þære tælnysse þe hy heora fæder tældon noe þæt he on ðreo to wearp þa cneordnysse. þæt wæs wælisc. 7 oncyrlisc cynn. 7 on gesyðcund cynnd. for þyssum gyltengum þe we nu gehyrdon wæron þa gesyblingas þus to dælde.121 [Noah the patriarch had three sons who were called thus: Shem, Ham and Japheth. And from these sons sprang forth and were born the whole human race. [All] were drowned and there survived no more than the eight, but the greedy Flood swallowed and destroyed them all. And still, he also, our Lord, did not wish in his compassion that this world be empty of humanity, but separated as a remnant those from whom we later descended, according to the merits of the holy patriarch Noah and the greatness of his good deeds. And from the three afterwards sprang forth the seventy-two principal [or ‘authentic’] nations, and into so many also are the

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languages and speech of humanity divided. Then arose first from Noah’s son Japheth fi fteen nations, excellent and great; then arose from Ham thirty great nations, and those people were also separated by our Lord from the other two peoples by compulsion and in slavery, and that was done because he insulted his father Noah when he looked at his genitals, and laughed in mockery. Then arose from the third son Shem, and although he was the youngest of them, he was eldest in wisdom, twenty-seven nations, and from them arose the noblest nation and the best. That was because he never shamed his father Noah. And without a doubt it is from these three men, Noah’s sons, that this whole earth was populated, even though the Lord divided them into three and so divided the kin into races. And he so divided [Ham’s race] because of the insult with which they shamed their father Noah, so that he cast the generation into three; that was a servile and very churlish race, and exiled. For these sins we have now heard the siblings were so divided.]

The assertion that Shem was the youngest of the sons seems to be based on the ordering of the genealogies in Genesis 10, where the sons are listed in the order Japheth, Ham, Shem. But this is no firm basis for a ranking of ages: in all other places in the story of Noah the order is Shem, Ham, Japheth (Gen 6:7; 7:13; 9:18). But it is not the relative ages of Noah’s sons which are of primary interest to the author of the note. His insistence that þær næfre to lafe ne wearð ma þonne him eahtum and strong denunciation of those who would suggest otherwise does more than indicate a wish to dispel confusion in the minds of others over how many sons Noah had. Such insistence also suggests that Ælfric’s careful pattern of enumeration is more than coincidental.122 One of the impulses behind the invention may have been the realization by a royal genealogist that floating waifs had great status as founders of great nations in biblical and classical tradition. Moses was plucked from the Nile by a princess and eventually became his nation’s greatest leader (Exod. 2:3–6), while Livy, not an obscure author in the early Middle Ages, reports that Romulus went on to found Rome after being washed up onto the shores of the Tiber and being reared by a she-wolf.123 Whatever the original ideological motivation of the royal genealogists, it is apparent that later scribes and authors found the idea of an ark-born son of Noah too much of an unorthodox invention to be tolerated. This may point more to the waning of the power of a myth than theological fastidiousness. The rejection of, and

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perhaps confusion caused by, such a curious creation manifests itself in a variety of ways. The scepticism expressed by William may already lie behind changes to the text of the Anglian genealogy found in the Textus Roffensis, re-fashioning the ark-born son as the son of Shem, though ignorance of the significance of Sceaf may also have contributed to the change. The differences may represent a scribal error, but could just as easily be understood as an attempt by the scribe to present a less unorthodox origin for Sceaf. As an ark-born son of Shem, Sceaf presents fewer problems of harmony with the biblical text: Shem was traditionally accorded 27 sons, not all of whom are named in Genesis.124 Even so, Japheth would have been a better candidate for a scribe concerned with orthodoxy. The now-lost manuscript of Asser’s Life of King Alfred diverged from the Chronicle genealogies in presenting ‘Seth’, whose birth is not discussed, as a fourth son of Noah.125 This scribal ‘confusion’ may also have its roots more in scribal scruples than carelessness. A scribe unfamiliar with the idea of Sceaf as the ark-born son of Noah, or one who considered the idea as unacceptably unorthodox, could well have substituted the name Seth, leaving an apocryphal fourth son, but not one born in the ark. Conclusion There can be no doubt that in the Anglo-Saxon Christian imagination, the descent of all people living in the post-diluvial world from Noah was a historical fact. The text of the Bible makes this quite clear. Nor can there be any doubt that Ælfric was familiar with the idea that the kings of Wessex claimed descent from Noah’s ark-born son, just as there can be no doubt that he rejected the notion. The difference in approach to Noachic descent of the late-tenth-century West Saxon Ælfric and the late-ninth-century West Saxon royal genealogists owes much to the differing intellectual, and to a degree political, climate of their times. The manner in which the extended genealogy of Æthelwulf claims legitimacy reflects the interest in Alfred’s circle, and probably the king’s personal interest, in harmonizing legendary accounts of ancient history with the biblical record. This took place against the background of a revived interest in the early history of northern Europe. The fact that at times during his reign Alfred expe-

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rienced only a tenuous hold on power can only have enhanced his interest in laying claim to an ancestry extending back through Noah to Christ, and one which privileged the West Saxons among the English and all northern peoples. Until they were connected to the history of Noah the royal genealogies were ideological documents creating prestige for contemporary kings by tracing lines of descent that disappeared into the mists of mythical time. Making the connection to Noah transformed the genealogies, historicizing the mythic past of the peoples of northern Europe, as well as presenting an ideological foundation for West Saxon kings by embedding de-mythologized Germanic ancestors – already incorporated in the pedigree – in a family tree that could go back no further. A century later, when the ideology of kingship and the role of kings had been transformed, and in the renewed intellectual climate of the Benedictine revival, a writer like Ælfric could be equally interested in the question of descent from Noah, but from a perspective which gave a higher priority to theological orthodoxy and biblical authority. Ælfric’s interest in the question of the descent of the peoples of the north suggests a tension between his concern for theological orthodoxy at the turn of the millennium and the ideology of kingship evoked by the artistry of the late-ninth-century West Saxon genealogists. It is no surprise that the orthodox opinion expressed by Ælfric, that Noah did have only three sons, and that from these descended all the nations of the world, was the view which prevailed. Such a radical departure from the letter of the biblical text as the arkborn son represents could not survive very long outside the cultural circumstances which generated him. Notes 1 See H. Sauer, ‘Die 72 Völker und Sprachen der Welt: Ein mittelalterlicher Topos in der englischen Literatur’, Anglia, 101 (1983), 29–48. 2 See Chapter 4 above, pp. 195–6. 3 See Chapter 3 above, pp. 132–4. 4 See King Alfred’s Boethius, ed. W. J. Sedgefield (Oxford, 1899), p. 46, lines 16–17. 5 The seminal article on the subject is K. Sisam, ‘Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 39 (1953), 287–348. 6 See D. N. Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, Early Medieval Kingship, ed. P. H. Sawyer and I. N. Wood (Leeds, 1977), 72–

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8 9

10 11

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Water and fire 104, at pp. 88–93; J. M. Wallace-Hadrill, Early Germanic Kingship in England and on the Continent (Oxford, 1971), p. 44. HE, 1.15. That more elaborate genealogies of the gods were still known in England is suggested by the comment of Daniel of Winchester in his letter to Boniface: deos utpote alios ab aliis generatos coacti didicerint (‘their gods had a beginning since some were begotten by others’); see Introduction above, p. 13. See Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, pp. 78–9 and 86–8; and Richard North, Heathen Gods in Old English Literature, CSASE 22 (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 111–32. Wallace-Hadrill, Early Germanic Kingship, p. 112, closely associates the movement towards the enlargement of the genealogies with Offa’s reign, an assertion questioned by Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, p. 93; see also A. Faulkes, ‘Descent from the gods’, Mediaeval Scandinavia, 11 (1982 for 1978–9), 92–125, at p. 103, n. 42. See R. Frank, ‘Germanic Legend in Old English Literature’, The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (Cambridge, 1991), 88–106, at pp. 92–5. F. Magoun, ‘King Aethelwulf’s biblical ancestors’, MLR, 46 (1951), 249– 50, at p. 249, suggests that the genealogy in Luke 3 is the more likely source for the biblical section of the royal genealogies than Gen 4–5. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 320, was not particularly interested in the biblical connection. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 290. The E-version, the Peterborough Chronicle (Bodleian, Laud Misc. 636, s. xii1–xiimed, Ker no. 346), does not contain the genealogy sub anno 855. As a replacement copy made long after the passing of West Saxon hegemony, the genealogy may have been considered superfluous in this context by the copyist; see C. Plummer and J. Earle, eds. Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel (Oxford, 1892–9), p. 67. See Ker, no. 193, who dates this manuscript to the fi rst half of the eleventh century. It is, in part at least, a Christ Church, Canterbury, compilation of the time of Archbishop Sigeric (990–4). This is not to say that British Library, Cotton Tiberius B.v was their direct source; see Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 290; A. C. Murray, ‘Beowulf, the Danish Invasions, and Royal Genealogy’, The Dating of Beowulf, ed. C. Chase (Toronto, 1981), pp. 101–12, at pp. 105–6, suggests Scyld and Scef are fi rmly Danish in Anglo-Saxon minds, and believes a Danish source lies behind Æthelwulf’s pedigree; but the evidence of the Danish copies of the genealogies, where ‘se Scef’ is mistakenly copied as ‘Seskef’, suggests that the name and character were unfamiliar; see Faulkes, ‘Descent from the Gods’, pp. 99–101. See R. W. Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, 3rd edition (Cambridge, 1959), p. 203; for further discussion of these lists and others, see D. N. Dumville, ‘The West Saxon Genealogical Regnal List: Manuscripts and Texts’, Anglia, 104 (1986), 1–32, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, pp. 72–104, ‘The Anglian Collection of Royal Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, ASE, 5 (1976), 23–50; R. I. Page, ‘Anglo-Saxon Episcopal Lists’, Nottingham Medieval Studies, 9 (1965), 2–24.

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16 17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

30 31

32 33

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See Chronicles, ed. Plummer, pp. lxiv, lxx, lxxxii, xci, xciv and cii; also see A. Meaney, ‘St Neot’s, Æthelweard and the compilation of the AngloSaxon Chronicle: a survey’, Studies in Earlier Old English Prose, ed. P. E. Szarmach (Albany, NY, 1986), pp. 193–243, at p. 201; for an alternative theory of the development of the Chronicle, see J. Bately, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: Texts and Textual Relationships, Reading Medieval Monographs 3 (Reading, 1991). See S. Keynes, ‘A Tale of Two Kings: Alfred the Great and Æthelred the Unready’, TRHS, 5th Series 36 (1986), 195–217, at pp. 196–7; Sisam, ‘Royal genealogies’, p. 298. The Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. A. Campbell (London, 1962), p. 32. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 314; Æthelweard shares the chronological dislocation of the Old English Chronicle. Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. Campbell, p. 1. Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. Campbell, pp. 7, 9. See A. Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng and the Dating of Beowulf – again’, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, 71 (1989), 7–40, at p. 13; none of the Scandinavian sources indicates that Scyld/ Skjold came over the sea as a child; whether the tradition was originally English or Danish, or a common one, is a matter for conjecture. Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. Campbell, p. 32. Sisam, ‘Anglo-Saxon Royal Genealogies’, p. 320. Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 18n; Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. Campbell, p. xiii. See Ælfric’s comments on the northern gods in his homily De falsis diis, which present his barely concealed contempt for the errors in the Danes’ accounts of the gods, Homilies of Ælfric, ed. Pope, II, pp. 682–8. Meaney, ‘St Neot’s, Æthelweard’, pp. 201–3. Meaney, ‘St Neot’s, Æthelweard’, p. 13. Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 18; Meaney disputes the dates of some common archetypes, but this does not affect the present argument. A. M. Bruce, Scyld and Scef: Expanding the Analogues (New York, 2002), has gathered a list of the appearances of the two characters in medieval texts, but it is difficult to follow his argument that any ongoing cultural importance in the Middle Ages for characters such as Scyld or Sceaf is established by the sporadic copying of ancient lists by later medieval historians, especially in the light of much early confusion about Sceaf; Bruce does not attempt to explain the records’ many inconsistencies. The C-Text of the Old English Chronicles, ed. H. A. Rositzke (BochumLagandreer, 1942), p. 29. Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, p. 202, ‘. . . Geata Tætwaing, Tætwa Beawing, Beaw Scealdweaing, Scyldwa Heremoding, Heremod Itermoning, Itermon Haðraing, Haðra Hwalaing, Hwala Bedwiging, Bedwig Sceafi ng, id est fi lius Noe, se wæs geboren on þære earce Noes.’ Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, p. 202. For a full discussion of the palaeography and date of this manuscript, see M. B. Parkes, ‘The Palaeography of the Parker Manuscript of the Chronicle’, ASE, 5 (1976), 149–71, and D. N. Dumville, Wessex and England from

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38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

Water and fire Alfred to Edgar (Woodbridge, 1987), ch. 3; and his ‘English Square Minuscule Script: The Background and Earliest Phases’, ASE, 16 (1987), 147–79, at p. 148. Chronicles, ed. Plummer, pp. 66–7. See also Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 298. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, pp. 315–16. Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and regnal lists’, pp. 83, 86, has discussed both the similarities and differences in the character of genealogies and regnal lists: the former describe royal succession in terms of a pedigree, while the latter simply narrate transitions of power across political generations without necessarily relating these generations in patrilineal succession. T. Wright and J. O. Halliwell, Reliquiae Antiquae: Scraps from Ancient Manuscripts, 2 vols. (London, 1841–3), I, pp. 172–3. Textus Roffensis, ed. T. Hearne (Oxford, 1720), pp. 59–60. Textus Roffensis, ed. Hearne, pp. 61–2. Dumville, ‘The Anglian Collection’, p. 28. Page, ‘Episcopal Lists’, pp. 81–2. Dumville, ‘The Anglian Collection’, pp. 24–5. See Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 321. Asser’s Life of King Alfred, ed. W. H. Stevenson (Oxford, 1904), pp. 2–4; Simon Keynes and Michael Lapidge, trans., Alfred the Great: Asser’s ‘Life of King Alfred’ and other Contemporary Sources (Harmondsworth, 1983), p. 68. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, p. 316. The comment by M. Hunter, ‘Germanic and Roman Antiquity and the Sense of the Past in Anglo-Saxon England’, ASE, 3 (1974), 29–50, at p. 45, that for Asser ‘Seth . . . could be identified with the Germanic Sceaf’ sidesteps the problem. Nor does the discussion of T. D. Hill, ‘The Myth of the Ark-Born Son of Noah and the West Saxon Royal Genealogical Tables’, Harvard Theological Review, 80 (1987), 379–83, at p. 380, explain the change: ‘The error might have resulted from a conflation of the biblical “Sem” and the name “Scef” which is found in most of the other lists’. The more likely product of such a conflation, as opposed to confusion or a deliberate substitution, would be either ‘Scem’ or ‘Sef’. See Keynes and Lapidge, Alfred the Great, p. 229; Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, pp. 301–2; Dumville, ‘The Anglian Collection’, pp. 34, 37. Keynes and Lapidge, Alfred the Great, p. 229. Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 18. Keynes and Lapidge, Alfred the Great, pp. 37–41. Wallace-Hadrill, Early Germanic Kingship, pp. 44–5; C. R. Davis, ‘Cultural Assimilation in the Anglo-Saxon Royal genealogies’, ASE, 21 (1992), 23–36, at p. 23. See Davis, ‘Cultural Assimilation’, pp. 28, 31. See Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 15, on possible folk origins of names of Sceaf and Scyld. See Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, pp. 79–84, 301–4; H. M. Chadwick, The Origin of the English Nation (Cambridge, 1924), p. 278.

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56 See Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 16. 57 Pauli Historia Langobardorum, ed. L. Bethmann and P. Waitz, MGH (Hannover, 1878), pp. 53–4; also see Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 16. 58 See Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 380; Hill suggests the identification of Hraþra as the ark-born son is a scribal error in the Parker Chronicle. 59 Hill, ‘Ark-born son’, pp. 381–2; the text of the Old English notes is in S. J. Crawford, ed., The Old English Version of the Heptateuch (Oxford, 1922), pp. 418–22; Ker, no. 142. 60 Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 382. 61 Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 383, does not force the argument: ‘At any rate, an Anglo-Saxon antiquarian would not have had to invent the concept that Noe had a fourth son; the conception was current. And such an antiquarian, perhaps influenced by the story that Scef or Scyld was brought to his people as an infant in a boat, hypothesized that the fi rst ancestor of their kings was indeed born(e) on a boat – the ark of Noe.’ 62 Sibyllinische Texte und Forschungen – Pseudo-Methodius, Adso und die Tiburtinische Sibylle, ed. E. Sackur (Halle, 1898), p. 63. 63 See Chapter 3 above, pp. 132–4. Other descriptions of Nimrod are even less flattering; see, for example, Bede, In Genesin, ed. C. W. Jones (Turnhout, 1967), III, 100–59. 64 Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 383. 65 S. Gero, ‘The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah’, Harvard Theological Review, 73 (1980), 321–30, at pp. 321–2. 66 See Gero, ‘The Fourth Son of Noah’, p. 322, note 12. 67 See Sibyllinische Texte, ed. Sackur, pp. 10–18, 25. 68 E. A. W. Budge, ed. and trans., The Book of the Cave of Treasures (London, 1927), pp. 142–3. 69 Budge, Cave of Treasures, pp. 15, 43. 70 Budge, Cave of Treasures, p. xii. 71 Carl Bezold, Die Schatzhöhle (Leipzig, 1888). 72 Bezold, Schatzhöhle, pp. v–vi; 1883, p. 78, n. 115. 73 See Ker, Catalogue, no. 142; Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 418. 74 Berhard Bischoff and Michael Lapidge, Biblical Commentaries from the Canterbury School of Theodore and Hadrian, CSASE 10 (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 236–7, discuss two details which appear in the Canterbury commentaries and suggest the acquaintance. Lapidge notes that the possibility of the influence of the Syrian work ‘cannot easily be argued away’. 75 Bischoff and Lapidge, Biblical Commentaries, p. 237; this is not to suggest that he brought Syrian books with him to England. 76 See Ruth Mellinkoff, ‘Cain’s Monstrous Progeny in Beowulf: part I, Noachic Tradition’, ASE, 8 (1979), 143–62, at pp. 158–9, who notes: ‘Uncanonical materials may have been preserved as whole tracts or in portions, as individual stories or items. Moreover, materials were transmitted orally as well as in writing.’ 77 Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, p. 72. 78 Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, pp. 380–1. 79 Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, pp. 309–11, 321. 80 Davis, ‘Cultural Assimilation’, pp. 28, 31.

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Joseph Bosworth and T. Northcote Toller, Anglo-Saxon Dictionary (Oxford, 1898), s.v. Faulkes, ‘Descent from the Gods’, p. 94, notes the ease with which AngloSaxon pedigrees became attached to different Scandinavian royal houses. See Dumville, ‘Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, pp. 76, 79, 83, 86. See Faulkes, ‘Descent from the Gods’, p. 103, n. 42. S. Newton, The Origins of Beowulf and the Pre-Viking Kingdom of East Anglia (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 74–5, discusses the significance of the use of this apparently more ancient Old English form in Beowulf. Meaney, ‘Scyld Scefi ng’, p. 19; Davis, ‘Cultural Assimilation’, p. 30; J. M. Kemble, Ueber die Stammtafel der Westsachsen (Munich, 1836), pp. 8, 10– 11, 15, long ago offered a retrospective interpretation of traditions associated with Sceaf in the works of post-conquest writers and German folk traditions; see also see also K. Müllenhoff, Beovulf – Untersuchungen über das angelsächsische Epos und die älteste Geschichte der germanischen Seevoelker (Berlin, 1889), pp. 5–11. See Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 383; Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, p. 80. See William of Malmesbury: Gesta Regum Anglorum: The History of the English Kings, 2 vols., ed. R. A. B. Mynors, R. M. Thomson and M. Winterbottom (Oxford, 1998–9), 1, pp. 174–7, II, pp. 88–9; on William’s sources and style, see A. Gransden, Historical Writing in England c.550 to c.1307 (London, 1974), pp. 169–74. Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, pp. 318–20. There are other reasons for the decline in the popularity of the ark-born son; Brutus came to dominate the myths of British origin as dynastic politics, ideology and literary taste changed across the centuries; see Kemble, Stammtafel, pp. 8, 11–12, for an account of the character’s later development; on William’s sources, see Sisam, ‘Royal Genealogies’, pp. 318–20. See Chambers, Beowulf: An Introduction, pp. 83–4, 302–3; Chadwick, The Origin of the English Nation, pp. 260–1. Abingdon, re-founded under the patronage of Athelstan, was an important house as a royal residence. See F. M. Stenton, The Early History of the Abbey of Abingdon (Reading, 1913); and Alan Thacker, ‘Æthelwold and Abingdon’, in B. Yorke, ed., Bishop Æthelwold: His Career and Infl uence (Brewer, 1988), pp. 43–64. Chronicon Monasterii de Abingdon, vol. 1, pp. 88–90. See Andy Orchard, A Critical Companion to ‘Beowulf’ (Cambridge: Brewer, 2003), pp. 102–3. C. Tolley, ‘Beowulf’s Scyld Scefi ng Episode: Some Norse and Finnish Analogues’, Arv, 52 (1996), 7–48, p. 11. It is implied in Beowulf that Scyld Scefi ng’s arrival among the Danes is providential, and the birth of Scyld’s son, Beow(ulf) I, is certainly so, 13b–14a: þone God sende/ folce to frofre (‘God sent him as a comfort to the people’).

82 83 84 85 86

87 88

89 90

91

92 93 94 95

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96 But compare also the segen set high over Scyld Scefi ng’s head in the bosom of the funeral ship (Beowulf, 47b). 97 The early stage of this development is also suggested by the non-inclusion of Heremod in the Beowulf genealogy, even though he appears in the poem as an antecedent king (898–915; 1709b–24a). It is possible that the reader should imagine Heremod as having ruled before Scyld, but this would not account for him being a ‘Scylding’ himself (1710b). 98 See R. Frank, ‘Skaldic Verse and the Date of Beowulf’, in The Dating of ‘Beowulf’, ed. Chase, pp. 123–39, at pp. 128–9. 99 See Bately, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: Texts and Textual Relationships, p. 93, n. 315. 100 See F. M. Stenton, Anglo-Saxon England, 3rd edition (Oxford, 1971), pp. 257–60. 101 Keynes, ‘A tale of two kings’, pp. 209–10; Asser frequently comments on the king’s reverence for scripture, particularly the psalms, see Life of King Alfred, ed. Stevenson, chapters 24, 76, 88, 99 and 103. 102 See N. Howe, Migration and Mythmaking (New Haven, CT, 1989), pp. 126–7. 103 See Hunter, ‘Germanic and Roman Antiquity’, p. 31. 104 See Frank, ‘Germanic Legend’, pp. 94–5. 105 See P. Clemoes, ‘Ælfric’, in Continuations and Beginnings: Studies in Old English Literature, ed. E. G. Stanley (London, 1966), pp. 176–209, at p. 184. 106 This assertion is carried over into Wulfstan’s homily 6, based largely on Ælfric’s De Initio Creaturae; Wulfstan, Homilies of Wulfstan, ed. Bethurum (Oxford, 1957), p. 46, lines 56–69. 107 1, 14:152–3; Bede, Homilies on the Gospels, trans. Martin and Hurst (Kalamazoo, MI, 1991), p. 140. 108 H. Tristram, Sex aetates mundi, (Heidelberg, 1985) lines 15–45. 109 Tristram, Sex aetates mundi, p. 39: De Japhet nati sunt filii quindecim. de Cham triginta. de Sem viginti septem (‘From Japheth were born fi fteen sons, from Ham thirty, from Sem twenty-seven.’) See Alcuin, Interrogationes et responsiones in Genesin, no. 141, PL 100:532. 110 See Virginia Day, ‘The influence of the catechetical narratio on Old English and some other medieval literature’, ASE, 3 (1974), 51–61, at pp. 56–9. 111 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 22, lines 145–6. 112 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 22, lines 163–4, we oft habba ymbe is awriten (‘we have often written about this’). 113 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 24, lines 195–214 . 114 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 25, lines 239–42; Tristram, Sex aetates mundi, lines 58–9. 115 Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 27, lines 274–84. 116 This geographic statement may also allude to other beliefs about the descent of the peoples of the north, especially the Vikings; see Abbo’s Life of St. Edmund in M. Winterbottom, ed., Three Lives of English Saints (Toronto, 1973), p. 72.

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Crawford, Heptateuch, pp. 81–143. See Chapter 3 above, pp. 150–1. Clemoes, ‘Chronology’, p. 245. Ker, no. 186, art. 8a; see Hill, ‘Ark-Born Son’, p. 383. A. S. Napier, ‘Altenglische Kleinigkeiten’, Anglia 11 (1889), pp. 2–3, lines 36–65. 122 The simple orthodox position is outlined in a number of much shorter notes in Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, such as the one in British Library, Cotton Caligula A.xv, fo. 139v, a manuscript of the second half of the eleventh century, probably a short time after 1073 (see Ker, Catalogue, no. 139A/t), Napier, ‘Altenglische Kleinigkeiten’, p. 7, lines 31–4: Noe hæfde .iii. suna þus wæron hatene. Sem. cham. Iafeð. of þam þreom awocan 7 forð coman .lxxii. þeoda. fram Iafeðe .xv. 7 fram chame .xxx. 7 fram Seme .xxvii (‘Noah had three sons who were called Sem, Ham and Japheth. From these three are descended seventy-two nations; from Japheth fi fteen, and from Ham thirty, and from Sem twenty-seven’). See also the note in Ker, Catalogue, no. 133, art. 2, which outlines the genealogy and ages of patriarchs, and two notes in Crawford, Heptateuch, pp. 420–1, nos. 17, 18; and J. E. Cross and T. D. Hill, eds., The Prose Dialogues (Toronto, 1982), pp. 27–8, nos. 13 and 17. 123 Livy, Books I and II, ed. and trans. B. O. Foster (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919), pp. 18–19, 1.4.4–6. 124 See Genesis 10; compare Bede, De temporum ratione, CCSL 123B, 468–9, and Augustine, De ciuitate Dei, CCSL 48:501–4. 125 Wanley dated the manuscript c.1000; see Keynes and Lapidge, Alfred the Great, pp. 224–5.

6 Beowulf and the myth of the Flood

The mythological element in Beowulf has presented problems of interpretation for well over a century.1 Nineteenth-century efforts at reading the poem as a confused meteorological myth, with Grendel and his mother representing spring floods, have long been regarded with a healthy scepticism.2 More persuasive for some have been readings which link myth and ritual, tracing the hero’s journey from youth to adult maturity through the potent metaphors of his struggles with Grendel in the hall, and his mother under the mere; attempts to read these struggles as a psychohistory of the Anglo-Saxons have been less convincing.3 Despite the light such readings might cast on the poem, it is sometimes difficult to know how they might be integrated into a comprehensive reading of Beowulf in all its complex detail. It is difficult to deny that the poem – with its structural emphasis on youth and age – incorporates the transition of the young warrior into adult status, and that this hinges on Beowulf’s victories in the hall and the mere. But Beowulf also reveals his maturity in his exchanges with the coast guard and Hrothgar, and his verbal duelling with Unferth, and shows shrewd political perception in his report of the proposed marriage of Ingeld and Freawaru. For the latter part of the poem, his maturity is a given. The widespread myth of the hero defeating the serpent – echoing Apollo’s overcoming of Python and Thor’s contest with the Midgard serpent – can be compared to Beowulf’s dragon fight, though it is unlikely there is any closely defi nable relationship between these myths and the poem. The possibility of a relationship between Thor and Beowulf has proved more inviting to critics, though – given the ubiquity of this type of myth – defi ning a connection is difficult. Indeed, Christine Rauer has recently

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argued in detail that the shape of the dragon fight reflects the influence of this universal myth through another channel, that of the Christian saint’s life.4 A part of the problem in defi ning the role of any mythical element of Beowulf lies in the relationship between form and content. The poetic and literary background of the battles with the Grendel-kin and the dragon is difficult to defi ne, as is its significance for an ‘original’ audience’s understanding of the action: is the poet simply drawing on a narrative stock which provides him with structures for his episodes large and small, or is he also encouraging his audience to draw meaning from parallel narratives such as saints’ lives? Does the multitudinous array of analogues suggested for elements of the poem present a set of meaningful intertexts (some of which will not have been texts as such), readily available to the Anglo-Saxon audience, forming a backdrop against which the poem’s action might be understood? Or is the poet at times deliberately, sometimes unconsciously, drawing on stories from the Germanic or Christian tradition which he has heard, or read, or heard read, as well as a range of narrative material derived from the poetic story-telling tradition, which he might not have expected his audience to know? The juxtaposition of Beowulf’s victory over Grendel with the singing of the story of Sigemund clearly invites from the listener or reader a comparison – favourable or not – between the two heroes, a comparison which can be carried to Beowulf’s own dragon fight. How far should this concept of an interpretative context be taken? Given that there is disagreement even over what an Anglo-Saxon audience might have understood of the poet’s references to Hrothulf, it would seem unsafe to speculate too much on the meaning for the same hypothetical audience of any relationship Beowulf might have had to Thor.5 Nevertheless, does the invitation to draw parallels extend to structural similarities, and should the attentive audience read any significance into the similarities between Beowulf’s dragon fight and the structure of a saint’s life? Such problems have dogged Beowulf criticism for decades, and are of particular concern in an investigation of the poem’s mythological background. The oppositions of light and darkness, water and fire, youth and age, and ultimately life and death, locate the poem somewhere on the vast cultural continuum which saw the transformation of mythic

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projections of the collective subconscious into the self-conscious artistry of literary creation. However, the poem remains a textual artefact which is the ultimate product of a self-reflexive oral poetic tradition, and is more appropriately treated as a work of art, deliberately incorporating this mythic inheritance in a way which fully develops the rhetorical potential of the oppositions that myth creates. There can be little doubt that the myth of the Flood has an important place in the imagination of the Beowulf poet who, at the climactic moment of the hero’s return from the monster mere, refers directly to the destruction of the giants in the primeval deluge. The story of the Flood is almost certainly one that he could trust his audience would know, and constitutes one of those overt intertexts that the audience is invited to adopt as a guide to understanding Beowulf’s action. Reference to the universal Flood is tangibly, and most potently, focused in Beowulf on the giant sword, the hilt of which Beowulf presents to the Danish king Hrothgar (1677–99). This hilt describes the ancient struggle which culminated in God’s destruction of the giant race þurh wæteres wylm (‘by surge of water’). Ælfric’s comments suggest that the story of the Flood was well known to vernacular audiences around the turn of the millennium, and the Sunday Letter homilies’ reference to Noah confirm this assumption.6 Whitelock has suggested 750 as the date by which the poet could trust his audience to be familiar with the Flood story in sufficient detail to make his references meaningful; this may have been possible earlier, as Daniel of Winchester’s advice to Boniface implies that recounting the early history of Genesis in the mission field was an important part of the strategy of overturning the old gods and their cosmology.7 The use of the same tactics in England would mean that the myths of creation and the Flood began to replace whatever myths the Anglo-Saxons had previously held well before 750. Indeed, given the probable courtly audience of Beowulf, and the focus of missionary efforts on rulers, it is safer to assume that the direct references to the Flood are no guide to the dating of the poem at all.8 Any discussion of the place of the history of the Flood in Beowulf is related to the question of the religious and historical perspectives which the poem suggests. The debate over Christianity in Beowulf and the extent to which it affects the presenta-

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tion of the poem’s action and characters has proved difficult to resolve.9 There should be little doubt that the author of the poem in its present form was a Christian, whether a layman or a cleric, though this should not be taken to imply any direct interest in theological questions. Some have argued for a complex theological purpose informing the composition of the poem, have interpreted Beowulf in relation to a range of patristic works and ideas, and have even found in Beowulf’s descent into the mere allusions to the typological association between the defeat of the giants in the Flood and baptism.10 However, this approach – with its indulgence in allegorical readings of the poem – has failed to persuade the majority of Beowulf’s readers that the poet, whatever his education, was primarily interested in questions of theology, and such a comprehension, or even interest, would be surprising among any courtly audience of Beowulf. Others, often in reaction to less than subtle theological readings of the poem, are positioned at the opposite extreme, scarcely admitting anything other than an accidental (or interpolated) influence of Christianity on Beowulf.11 The related question of the problematic nature of the religion attributed to the characters in Beowulf is one which has also attracted and polarized critical debate.12 One of the greatest puzzles presented by religion in the world of the poem is in the contradiction between the idolatry of the Danes and the expression of an undefi ned monotheism throughout the rest of the poem.13 It is generally recognized that scriptural allusion in the poem is exclusively to the Old Testament, and there is no mention of Christ, the cross, the virgin or the saints, though the poet’s Christianity is evident in references to judgment and hell.14 Furthermore, the reference to the Old Testament, with the possible exception of the ‘Song of Creation’ in Heorot, would seem to be outside the knowledge of the characters of the poem: their point of view is split from that of the Anglo-Saxon audience which is able to assess the action of Beowulf against the backdrop of biblical events.15 This serves to create an atmosphere in the world of the poem which is not precisely pagan (without grace), or Old Testament (under the Mosaic Law), or Christian (enjoying grace). Attempts to interrogate the poet’s ‘theology’, if such a notion is even admissible, are complicated by the poem’s apparent

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inconsistencies in relation to complicated theological questions. As Irving notes, Beowulf is not an overtly theological poem:16 when confronted with theological issues that might impinge on his narrative, the poet seems interested only in deflecting attention away from them. His forthright condemnation of idolaters (175–88) suggests not only a rigid orthodoxy on this question, but a desire not to speculate theologically. Scyld Scefing is committed to the ‘Lord’s protection’ (frean wære, 27b), yet no man can know where Scyld will end up (50b–2). Similarly the poet’s statement that Beowulf went to the ‘judgment of the righteous’ after his death has probably been given too much weight by scholars who wish either to damn or to save the hero, especially when the poet himself devotes so little time to Beowulf in the afterlife. That modern criticism can read the expression in so many ways in itself points away from any original desire for theological precision, to a deliberate ambivalence that leaves the problem to the judgment of the audience.17 If the poet were interested in the salvation of the righteous pagans, Beowulf’s death might have been a good moment to indicate this in terms as clear as the condemnation of idolatry more than two and a half thousand lines earlier. Given such contradictions and ambiguities, what is the import of the poet’s use of biblical material? The question of religion is tied to the representation of the past in the poem, not only in relation to the process of the conversion of the English nation from Germanic paganism to Christianity, but also in terms of how early audiences might have understood the historical context of the poem’s action. Modern readers of Beowulf are able to date Hygelac’s reign to the early sixth century with a precision perhaps unavailable to Anglo-Saxon poet or audience.18 Some knowledge of events in Scandinavia at the time when the Anglo-Saxons were migrating across the North Sea must have been carried by an oral tradition that took on an independent life in the new English homeland – Hygelac was certainly known to the compiler of the Liber monstrorum (I.2); this narrative tradition might have been augmented through contact with Scandinavia over the next five centuries.19 In time, these traditions provided some of the narrative frame of Beowulf, into which would be woven allusion to legendary heroes such as Sigemund and Weland, the monstrous creations of Grendel and his mother, and the feats of the hero Beowulf; given

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the complete absence of any reference to Beowulf outside the poem it is difficult to determine whether or not his genesis is tied to the creation of the poem. Included in the narrative mix are stories derived from the Bible. It is doubtless significant that the these stories come from the earliest and most mythological part of Genesis, dealing with universal origins and cosmic events. At the completion of Heorot, the poet sings of the creation of the world and the fi xing of the heavenly lights in the firmament; the creation of the human race is told in a way which reveals a certain debt to the Bible, though not a close relationship to the biblical text. Cain’s killing of Abel, mentioned twice in the poem, seems to have held a special place in the Anglo-Saxon poetic imagination, and the Beowulf poet is not alone in dwelling on this mythic fratricide as an important moment in the descent of human society into murderous hate.20 The Flood is an event on a cosmic scale, cast in Beowulf in terms of a defi ning battle in a great war between God and the kin of Cain – giants and other monsters – who defy the Maker’s sovereignty and pervert creation and its God-given order. These events can be associated with the first age of the world, which the Flood brings to an end, though the scheme of the six ages does not seem to have exerted much influence on the composition of Beowulf. Beowulf reveals an interest not in the course of biblical history, but in the relationship between the mythic biblical past, Germanic legend and national history.21 Through the character of the hero the poem presents a world in which legend and history are curiously blended. Beowulf’s heroic deeds compare with Sigemund’s, which lie in the poem’s legendary hinterland, as do the origins of some of the characters’ arms and accoutrements (452–5). In the historical foreground, wars are fought and alliances forged. While the poem is about the northern Germanic past, the action is not overtly designed to present the AngloSaxon audience with a myth or account of their own tribal origins or ancestral figures; a possible exception may be Sceaf and Scyld, probably incorporated into dynastic genealogies after the creation of the prologue in Beowulf, and certainly long before the surviving copy of the poem was made around the year 1000.22 While it has been argued that East Anglian dynastic affiliations explain the poem’s interest in the Geats, the first part of Beowulf

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is not focused on the mythic origins of the East Angles or any other Anglo-Saxon tribe, but is concerned largely with their sometime continental neighbours, the Danes.23 In contrast, the allusion to the biblical creation myth, and reference to the stories of Cain and Abel and the Flood, account for the origins not only of the poem’s characters, but also of the poet and Anglo-Saxon audience. The fact that in Beowulf the legendary Germanic past and primeval biblical myth seem largely reconciled does not tell us much about the poem’s date, but only that the poet and audience share a culture whose origin myths combine these strands. The poet’s careful use of Scripture points both to a reflection on the relationship of the distant to the more recent past, and to an awareness of the layering of universal myth and national history in the Bible. It is unlikely that an Anglo-Saxon poet would have understood myth as anthropologists do, but the way in which the layered past of Beowulf alludes to events from early in the book of Genesis points to a mythic imagination which saw in these primeval acts a pattern of human life in the world. This mythic past is the ancient past of the Danes and Geats – about which they know little or nothing – and accounts for the paradigm of good and evil within which their lives are lived. The mythic patterning of events lies under historically mundane wars, alliances and marriages. Stripped of the marvellous deeds of Beowulf, and the Cainite Grendel and his mother (and in the later part the dragon), the poem presents an idealized version of a more or less realistic life lived in the centuries before the Anglo-Saxons joined the Christian world. Within the poem human creative efforts and attempts at imposing constructive order, such as the building of Heorot, echo and re-enact the creation of the world from primal chaos, just as the force of chaos – manifest in the fratricide of Cain – echoes through time in the vengefully destructive discord of feuding nations.24 In the Bible’s account, Cain’s crime and the following discord led directly to the Flood, the great myth of creation from watery chaos for a second time. An appreciation of the influence of the myth of the Flood on the poem’s presentation of past and future is crucial for an understanding not only of Grendel and the dragon, but also the treatment of Beowulf himself. The place of the myth of the Flood in

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the poem is complex, and must be investigated from different points of view. I shall examine the climactic reference to the Flood, at Beowulf’s mid-point, in the hero’s destruction of Grendel with the giant sword, simultaneously an object linked materially to the giants and a sign of their destruction. This metonymic sword found in Grendel’s fenland home brings about the demise of the monster, and reiterates the destruction of all such creatures. The significance of the mere will be discussed in the contexts of the elemental patterning of the poem and the range of associations the place suggests. This attempt to understand the poet’s use of the myth of the Flood will include a discussion of the difficult and under-studied poem Solomon and Saturn II, the monster lore of which suggests a relationship to Beowulf, with a like interest in mythography and giants. I shall also focus on the elements of water and fire throughout Beowulf, intertwined in the medieval imagination with the cosmological myth of the Flood.

Creation to Flood After the building of Heorot, the scop sings of the work of creation, attributed to a deity very similar to the one found in the first chapters of Genesis.25 This song is introduced to the reader with the image of the ellorgæst (‘alien-spirit’) Grendel listening outside (86–102): Ða se ellorgæst earfoðlice þrage geþolode, se þe in þystrum bad, þæt he dogora gehwam dream gehyrde hludne in healle; þær wæs hearpan sweg, swutol sang scopes. Sægde se þe cuþe frumsceaft fira feorran reccan, cwæð þæt se Ælmihtiga eorðan worh[te], wlitebeorhtne wang, swa wæter bebugeð, gesette sigehreþig sunnan ond monan leoman to leohte landbuendum, ond gefrætwade foldan sceatas leomum ond leafum, lif eac gesceop cynna gehwylcum þara ðe cwice hwyrfaþ. Swa ða drihtguman dreamum lifdon, eadiglice, oð ðæt an ongan fyrene fre[m]man, feond on helle.

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[Then the strange spirit wretchedly suffered for a time, he who dwelt in shadows, because every day he heard loud rejoicing in the hall; there was the sound of the harp, the poet’s clear song. He who knew how to do so told of the remote beginning of men, said that the Almighty made the earth, the radiant plain, so that water embraced it, victoriously set up the sun and moon as beams to light up for the land-dwellers, and decorated the plains of the earth with branches and leaves, and also shaped life for each kind of living creature which moves. So the noble people lived in joy, blessedly, until one began to carry out his crimes, a fiend in hell.]

The poet juxtaposes the recollection of the mythic creation of the world with Hrothgar’s construction of Heorot, suggesting not only that this act of human creativity is an extension of the Creator’s work, but adding a cosmic dimension to the struggles with Grendel’s destructive evil.26 The elements the poet retains from Genesis are significant, as are the oppositions they create. The earth, a place of light and beauty, is surrounded by and opposed to the waters; the setting up of the sun and moon as heavenly lights for the ‘land-dwellers’ signals a cosmic victory. With this account of the creation the poet inaugurates a series of allusions which establish a parallel between early world history, from the Fall to the Flood, and events unfolding at Heorot. By deferring the identification of the feond in helle as Grendel, this ‘alien spirit’ is for a brief time associated with the original intrusion of sin into creation brought about by envious enmity of Satan.27 The allusion to the Fall leads into a direct reference to Abel’s murder by Cain, and the fratricide’s consequent malediction and its consequences (102–14): wæs se grimma gæst Grendel haten, mære mearcstapa, se þe moras heold, fen ond fæsten; fi felcynnes eard wonsæli wer weardode hwile, siþðan him Scyppend forscrifen hæfde in Caines cynne – þone cwealm gewræc ece Drihten, þæs þe he Abel slog; ne gefeah he þære fæhðe, ac he hine feor forwræc, Metod for þy mane mancynne fram. Þanon untydras ealle onwocon, eotenas ond ylfe ond orcneas, swylce gigantas, þa wið God wunnon lange þrage; he him ðæs lean forgeald.

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Water and fire [The grim guest [or ‘spirit’] was called Grendel, the great borderwalker, he who held the moors, fen and fastness; for some time the unhappy man guarded the land of the monster-race, after the Creator had condemned him among the race of Cain – the eternal Lord avenged that killing, when he slew Abel; he did not rejoice in that feud, but He exiled him far from the human race, the Maker for the crime. From there awoke all misborn creatures, giants and elves and zombies, also the gigantas, those who strove against God for a long time; he gave them a reward for that.]

In an echo of the creation account, the age leading up to the Flood is characterized as the culmination of an extended battle, where the Flood (not directly mentioned) is the ironic reward for their evil given to the gigantas, the race its waters destroyed. The potently ambiguous link between Grendel’s exile and Cain’s (106–7a) creates an achronological and mythical connection between the monster’s northern exile and Cain’s primeval banishment. This mythic and genetic link is expanded later in the poem, after Grendel’s death, as his mother advances on Heorot in her revenge attack (1258b–68): Grendles modor, ides aglæcwif yrmþe gemunde, se þe wæteregesan wunian scolde, cealde streamas, siþðan Cain wearð to ecgbanan angan breþer, fæderenmæge; he þa fag gewat, morþre gemearcod mandream fleon, westen warode. þanon woc fela geosceaftgasta; wæs þæra Grendel sum, heorowearh hetelic, se æt Heorote fand wæccendne wer wiges bidan. [Grendel’s mother, lady she-monster, remembered the misery, the one who had to occupy the cold streams, after Cain became the sword-slayer of his own brother, his paternal kinsman; then he went stained, marked with murder, fleeing human joy, and inhabited a wasteland. From there awoke many fated spirits; Grendel was one of them, a hateful cursed assailant, who at Heorot found a vigilant man waiting for battle.]

The poet makes no attempt to explain how Grendel’s descent from the antediluvian brood is possible in the aftermath of the

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Flood, but is more interested in the meaning of this descent for the interpretation of Grendel’s re-enactment of Cain’s evil. The poet’s recollection of the age before the Flood and the tracing of Grendel’s criminality to it, establish the monster as the representative in a later age of his primogenitor’s rebellion against God in the murder of his kinsman. This creation of mythic associations is paralleled by the poet’s use of the biblical Latin (ultimately Greek) loan-word, gigant. The poet’s description of the diverse giant brood early in the poem suggests not only that the gigantas were one of many species of Cain’s monstrous progeny, but imply that only the gigantas were fully eradicated by the Flood; as much is stated by Isaiah 26:14 – gigantes non resurgent (‘the giants shall not rise again’). Other monsters, significantly those able to dwell under water, are clearly imagined by the poet to afflict the world of Beowulf. How Grendel could have descended from Cain is not dwelt upon by the poet, and the problem probably would not have troubled early medieval audiences.28 The mythical, rather than the historical, interest in Cain as the origin of fratricidal evil is evident in the medieval tendency to conflate the biblical characters Cain, son of Adam, and Ham (Cam), son of Noah, a confusion of spelling, and perhaps of identity, found in the Beowulf manuscript.29 This conflation is found even in the work of Alcuin of York, whose close familiarity with the text of Genesis cannot be doubted. Orchard notes that Alcuin describes the postdiluvial offspring of Shem and Ham in terms commonly used for Seth and Cain (Interrogationes et responsiones 96; PL 100:526):30 Filias hominum, progeniem Cham; et fi lios Dei sobolem Sem appellare scriptura voluit . . . sed postquam fi lli Sem concupiscientia victi ex filiabus connubia jnuxerunt, et tali conjunctione homines immenso corpore, viribus superbi, moribus inconditi, quos scriptura gigantes nominat procreati sunt. [Scripture intends the daughters of men to signify the kindred of Ham, the sons of God the seed of Shem . . . but after the sons of Shem were smitten by desire for the daughters of Ham and joined with them in marriage, from such a joining were produced men with huge bodies, proud in might, rough in manner, whom Scripture calls giants.]

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It is unlikely that Alcuin is confused: his rhetoric equates Seth with Shem and Cain with Ham for a reason. His deliberate syncretism manipulates biblical style in a formulaic way to suggest that evil in the world after the Flood continued the pattern of evil before it. This rhetorical play points to an interest in the mythic truth of scripture – in accounting for the continued existence of giants and their evil – over the letter of scripture, which does not account for this continuity. The medieval commentator was faced with the problem noted by Bede: Genesis clearly describes the Flood eradicating the race of giants, but many later books of the Bible also describe giants. Furthermore, the later existence of giants was also a part of the folklore, mythology and ‘natural history’ of many peoples, not least in the Germanic north. Alcuin’s rhetoric skilfully fills the etiological vacuum, while others simply assume a continuity. Other events at Heorot also echo the course of early biblical history. In particular, Grendel is associated with the giants of the time of the Flood by his cannibalism.31 In a tradition that gained wide currency, I Enoch associated this practice with the ante-diluvial cannibalistic giants.32 The Danes are terrorized by Grendel, a fear coupled with their (and the poet’s) revulsion at his consumption of his victims, flesh, bone and blood (739–45). The poem also loosely echoes the structure of I Enoch by paralleling the advent of the Cainite monster with the appearance of idolatry in the poem, mentioned directly in Beowulf only in the context of the Danes’ response to Grendel’s attacks. In I Enoch idolatry is one of the dark arts taught to humanity by the fallen angels before the Flood, the knowledge of which was supposedly preserved by Ham–Cam, Noah’s cursed son.33 The Danes’ desperate action is condemned unequivocally by the poet as a product of their ignorance or forgetfulness of God (175–88): Hwilum hie geheton æt hærgtraftum wigweorþunga, wordum bædon, þæt him gastbona geoce gefremede wið þeodþreaum. Swylc wæs þeaw hyra, hæþenra hyht; helle gemundon in modsefan, Metod hie ne cuþon, dæda Demend, ne wiston hie Drihten God, ne hie huru heofona Helm herian ne cuþon, wuldres Waldend. Wa bið þæm ðe sceal

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þurh sliðne nið sawle bescufan in fyres fæþm, frofre ne wenan, wihte gewendan! Wel bið þæm þe mot æfter deaðdæge Drihten secean ond to Fæder fæþmum freoðo wilnian. [At times they prayed at heathen shrines, honouring idols, prayed in words, that the spirit-slayer should assist them against the cruel invasion. Such was their custom, the hope of the heathen; they recalled hell in their minds, did not know the Creator, Judge of deeds, they did not know the Lord God, nor did they know the protector of the heavens, Ruler of glory. Woe for the one who must through cruel hate shove his soul into the fire’s embrace, not expect comfort, not change at all! Well for the one who after death-day can seek the Lord and at the Father’s bosom fi nd peace!]

The author of the Book of Wisdom juxtaposes the rise of idolatry with the ancient destruction of the giants (Wisdom 14:6), creating an associative link rather than a logical one. The emergence of idolatry is characterized as possibly well-intentioned, but foolish nevertheless (Wisdom 14:8–10, 21–2): Per manus autem quod fit maledictum et ipsum et qui fecit illud, quia ille quidem operatus est, illud autem cum essat fragile deus cognominatus est. Similiter autem odio sunt Deo impius et impietas eius, etenim quod factum est cum illo qui fecit tormenta patietur. . . . Et haec fuit vitae humanae deceptio, quoniam aut adfectui aut regibus deservientes homines, incommuncabile nomen lapidibus et lignis inposuerunt; et non sufficerat errasse eos circa Dei scientiam sed et in magno viventes inscientiae bello, tot et tam magna mala pacem appelant. [But the idol that is made by the hands is cursed, as well as he that made it: he because he made it; and it because, being frail, it is called a god. But to God the wicked and his wickedness are hateful alike. For that which is made, together with him who made it, shall suffer torments. . . . And this was the occasion of deceiving human life, for men serving either their affection, or their kings, gave the incommunicable name to stones and wood. And it was not enough to err about the knowledge of God, but while they live in a great war of ignorance, they call so many and so great evils peace.]

In succumbing to idolatry in the hope of relief, the pagan Danes – trapped in the war of ignorance – follow the pattern set

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out by other heathen nations, and their ignorantly futile search for peace, as Wisdom points out, is hateful to God. Bede, following an alternative commonplace tradition, associates the beginning of idolatry with the separation of the world’s nations after Babel – an event associated with giant rebellion – as does Ælfric:34 and hi ða toferdon to fyrlenum lande on swa manegum gereordum swa þæra manna wæs. On þære ylcan ylde man arærde hæðengild wide geond þas woruld (‘and they scattered each to a distant land with as many languages as there were men. In the same age heathen worship was established wide throughout this world.’) Such loose affi nities do not signal that the action of the earlier part of Beowulf is ‘set’ in the time immediately following the Flood. Rather, the action of the early part of the poem suggests parallels with those parts of Genesis which account for the shared origins of the human race. In a work describing the pagan North Germans in the time before the gospel found them, the poet draws on these myths to explain the origins of the world in which his characters fi nd themselves. The creation story explains the origin of the world’s goodness and order, the myth of Cain the world’s violent enmity. The myth of the Flood mediates this mythic opposition between creativity and destruction, and embodies the ongoing conflict between order and chaos in the Creator’s intervention in the world in his war with giants. Ancient work of giants Malcolm Godden has noted that ‘as Grendel is introduced by a reference to the Old Testament legend which described the origin of monsters, so his end is announced by an allusion to the biblical myth of their destruction.’35 This reference to the giants’ destruction is focused on the giant sword discovered by Beowulf in Grendel’s hall (1557–62). The hero uses this sword to bring the conflict between the Grendel-kin and the human race to an end. Beowulf removes Grendel’s head with a weapon which, like the monster himself, represents an anachronistic continuity with the early history of the world. The hilt, which Beowulf later presents to Hrothgar in Heorot, has ‘written’ on it the origin of the ancient struggle (1677–98):

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Ða wæs gylden hilt gamelum rince, harum hildfruman on hand gyfen, enta ærgeweorc; hit on æht gehwearf æfter deofla hryre Denigea frean, wundorsmiþa geweorc; ond þa þas worold ofgeaf gromheort guma, Godes andsaca, morðres scyldig, ond his modor eac, on geweald gehwearf woroldcyninga ðæm selestan be sæm tweonum ðara þe on Scedenigge sceattas dælde. Hroðgar maðelode – hylt sceawode, ealde lafe, on ðæm wæs or writen fyrngewinnes, syðþan flod ofsloh, gifen geotende giganta cyn, frecne geferdon; þæt wæs fremde þeod ecean Dryhtne; him þæs endelean þurh wæteres wylm Waldend sealde. Swa wæs on ðæm scennum sciran goldes þurh runstafas rihte gemearcod, geseted ond gesæd, hwam þæt sweord geworht, irena cyst ærest wære, wreoþenhilt ond wyrmfah. [Then the golden hilt, the ancient work of giants, was given into the hand of the old warrior, the grey-haired battle leader; after the fall of the devils it came into the possession of the lord of the Danes, the work of wonder-smiths; and when the grim-hearted man, God’s enemy, guilty of murder, gave up this world, and his mother too, it passed into the custody of the best of world-kings between the two seas, of those who dealt out the wealth in Scandinavia. Hrothgar spoke, gazed on the hilt, the ancient heirloom, on which was written the origin of the ancient struggle, when the Flood, the flowing ocean, slew the race of giants – they behaved audaciously, that was a nation alien to the eternal Lord; the Ruler gave them a fi nal reward for that through the water’s surge. So it was with runestaves correctly written on the plates of shining gold, set out and said, for whom that sword, most excellent of iron, was first made, the hilt twisted and serpent-decorated.]

Exactly how the hilt presents the story of the Flood is unclear: either an inscription or graphic representation on the hilt refers to the fi nal destruction of the generation of giants which had offended God and become a nation alien to him. There is no

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doubt, however, that the Flood is recalled as the end of an ancient period of hostility (fyrngewinnes), and the wæteres wylm (‘surge of water’) is simultaneously both God’s own weapon of victory in this battle and his ironic ‘fi nal reward’ (endelean) paid to those creatures who ought to have been loyal to him.36 Beowulf’s action in killing Grendel is associated with God’s victory over the giants in the Flood, by a verbal echo which casts both acts as ironic rewards.37 Early in the poem, in the context of his introduction of the monster Grendel, the poet alludes to the destruction of Cain’s kin in the Flood as the reward given to them by God for their disloyalty: he him ðæs lean forgeald (‘he gave them a reward for that’, 114b). Later, Beowulf pays Grendel his ironic reward with the sword potently associated with the giant race and the Flood, and the poet frames the recollection of Grendel’s crimes with this idea of reward (1577a, ‘ac he hraþe wolde/ Grendle forgyldan’, ‘but he intended to compensate Grendel quickly for that’; 1584b, ‘he him ðæs lean forgeald’, ‘he gave him a reward for that’). The recurrent expression of Grendel’s killing as a reward clearly echoes the same ironic motivation in God’s ancient destruction of the gigantas. The association is reconfi rmed soon after in the description of the hilt (1692b–3): him þæs endelean þurh wæteres wylm/ waldend sealde (‘the Ruler gave them the fi nal reward for that through the surge of water’). Beowulf characterizes his punishment of Grendel in the same way in his account of the battle to Hygelac (2093–6a):38 ‘To lang ys to reccenne hu ic ðam leodsceaðan yfla gehwylces ondlean forgeald, þær ic, þeoden min, þine leode weorðode weorcum’. [‘It would take too long to recount how I paid the final reward to the nation-ravager for each of his evils, where I, my prince, honoured your people in deeds’. Emphasis added.]

This way of describing the Flood as an ironic reward for rebels against God suggests a familiar understatement in a heroic culture which rewarded loyalty. The Flood is described in exactly the same way in Genesis A (2546): Him þæs lean forgeald/ gasta waldend (‘The Ruler of spirits paid them a reward for that’). The deep flood which destroys pharaoh and his army in Exodus is also

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God’s deeply ironic reward (Egyptum wearð/ þæs dægweorces deop lean gesceod, ‘for the Egyptians there was a deep reward for that day’s work’, 506b–7). Ælfric’s reference to the ironic reward God intended to give to the sinners of Noah’s day, in his expanded version of Alcuin’s Interrogationes question 191 (Ælfric’s question 67), would seem to confirm that this ironic way of representing divine punishment, particularly in the case of the Flood, had been incorporated into Old English idiom: Swylce God cwæde, Nelle ic þis mennisc gehealdan to þam ecum witum, forþam þe hi synd tyddre. Ac ic wylle her on worulde him don edlean heora gedwyldes. (‘It is as if God said, “I do not wish this people held for the eternal punishment, because they are weak. But here in the world I will give them the reward for their folly”.’) The ‘origin’ of the ancient struggle is also the origin of the struggle with Cain’s offspring in which Beowulf participates and, in the case of the Grendel-kin, brings to an end. The description has suggested to a number of commentators that the hilt actually describes the Flood with a runic inscription or pictorial representation, which in itself seems to preclude an antediluvian origin.39 The inscription of a narrative of the Flood before it took place might be conceivable, since the apocryphal I Enoch, which purports to be written before the Flood, not only describes the origins of the giants in the mating of the ‘Watchers’ with the daughters of men, but also contains a prophecy of their destruction by water.40 It is also possible to imagine an inscription added some time after the sword’s manufacture, recalling the event.41 When the weapon is first brought to the hero’s attention, it is described as both ealdsweord eotenisc (‘giantish ancient-sword’, 1558a) and giganta geweorc (‘work of giants’, 1562b), and the poet emphasizes that the weapon would be too large for any man other than Beowulf to handle (1560–1). This origin of the weapon is reiterated and refined by the narrator when the hilt is placed in Hrothgar’s hands: it is an ancient heirloom (1688a) and an enta ærgeweorc (‘ancient-work of giants’, 1679a). The poet uses three of his terms for ‘giant’ (ent, eoten, gigant) to describe the makers of this sword, but while other swords in the poem are made by entas (1679, 2717, 2774), or are eotenisc (1558, 2616, 2979), only this one is associated with gigantas. The poet distinguishes this sword from all others, dating it from the time when gigantas walked the earth. While it is possible to account for a ‘prophetic’ inscription

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if the influence of I Enoch on the poem is accepted, it is more likely that the poet is heir to a tradition which was not troubled by such chronological discrepancies, and was more concerned simply to associate the sword with the Flood and the race destroyed by it. Given the reflexive association between the ancient Flood of water and the future fire of judgment in the medieval Christian imagination (as well as the widespread association of the two in myths throughout the world), it can be no coincidence that the giant sword discovered by Beowulf in Grendel’s home exhibits properties of both water and fire. In the confusion of semidarkness the hero is seized from the waters of the lake and dragged into the cave by Grendel’s mother (1512b–17): Ða se eorl ongeat þæt he in niðsele nathwylcum wæs, þær him nænig wæter wihte ne sceþede, ne him for hrofsele hrinan ne mehte færgripe flodes; fyrleoht geseah, blacne leoman, beorhte scinan. [Then the man understood that he was in some hostile hall, where no water could harm him at all, nor could the current’s sudden grip reach him because of the hall roof; he saw fire-light, a clear beam shining brightly. Emphasis added.]

Ironically freed from the flood’s grip by the grasp of Grendel’s mother, Beowulf sees a ‘fire-light’ (fyrleoht, alliterating with flodes), a ‘light-beam’ (leoma), his first glimpse of the light cast by the radiant weapon he will later use to decapitate Grendel. The identification of the ‘fire-light’ with the weapon is invited by the association of ‘light-beams’ with swords in the poem: a hildeleoma (‘battle-beam’, 1143b) is placed in the lap of the son of Hunlaf; the ineffective Hrunting, the borrowed sword Beowulf is carrying, is also a beadoleoma (‘battle-beam’; 1523a).42 Beowulf’s inability to harm Grendel’s mother is overcome only after he catches clearer sight of the giant sword among the treasures (1557–62): Geseah ða on searwum sigeeadig bil, eald sweord eotenisc, ecgum þyhtig, wigena weorðmynd; þæt wæs wæpna cyst, buton hit wæs mare ðonne ænig mon oðer to beadulace ætberan meahte, god ond geatolic, giganta geweorc.

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[He saw there among the armour a victory-blessed blade, an ancient gargantuan sword, doughty in its edges, noteworthy of warriors; that was the choicest weapon, but it was greater than any other man might carry into the play of battle, good and valuable, the work of giants.]

After Beowulf has used the weapon to kill the mighty merewif (‘lake-woman’, 1519a) the poet explains how it was the hero could see the blade (1570–2a): Lixte se leoma, leoht inne stod, efne swa of hefene hadre scineð rodores candel. [Light stood within, the beam radiated just as the sky’s candle shines brightly from heaven. Emphasis added.]

The reference to the fiery light of the leoma frames the hero’s battle with Grendel’s mother, from his first glimpse of its fiery light as she grabs him with her hand, until the moment he holds the shining blade in his, wet with her blood (1569a). At this climactic moment of victory the mysterious light is explained as emanating from the sword itself, not reflecting light from any fire, but shining as bright as the unreflected light of the sun. However, after the sword is used to cut off Grendel’s head, its glowing blade succumbs to the poisonous heat of the monster’s blood (1607b–11, 1615b–17): Þa þæt sweord ongan æfter heaþoswate hildegicelum, wigbil wanian. Þæt wæs wundra sum, þæt hit eal gemealt ise gelicost, ðonne forstes bend Fæder onlæteð, onwindeð wælrapas, se geweald hafað sæla ond mæla; þæt is soð metod. [. . .] sweord ær gemealt, forbarn brodenmæl; wæs þæt blod to þæs hat, ættren ellorgæst, se þær inne swealt. [Then the sword, the war blade, began to dissolve in battle-icicles in the battle-blood. That was a certain wonder, that it all melted, most like ice, when the Father releases the bond of frost, unwinds the pool-ropes,43 who has the power over times and seasons; that is the true Creator. . . . the sword had earlier melted away, scorched off the twisted pattern; the blood was too hot, the strange spirit who died in there more toxic.]

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From fiery battle-blade the sword has been metaphorically changed into a cool battle icicle, a transformation that mimics the alternation of heat and cold used in a sword’s manufacture, but furthermore deploying the seasonal image of melting ice to evoke the symbolic renewal of life that the destruction of the murderous Grendel-kin signals. The giant’s blood dissolves the weapon, product of the perverted creativity of the ancient giant brood, whose corruption of creative skill was traced to the generation before the Flood.44 In a poem which dwells on the symbolism and destructive power of water and fi re, the convergence of these two elements on the giant-killing sword of giant manufacture, whose hilt narrates the ancient destruction of the rebellious giants, is no accident. The linking of the dual character of the weapon to the power of the Creator over the natural world, in both the candle of heaven and the melting of the frost, not only reaffi rms the creative power the unnatural giants rejected, but aligns the hero’s action with the Creator’s party in the ancient strife with Cain’s descendants. This interpretation underlies Beowulf’s own account of the battle (1661–6a): ac me geuðe ylda Waldend, þæt ic on wage geseah wlitig hangian eald sweord eacen – oftost wisode winigea leasum –, þæt ic ðy wæpne gebræd. Ofsloh ða æt þære sæcce, þa me sæl ageald, huses hyrdas. [‘but the Ruler of men granted to me that I saw hanging beautiful on the wall the ancient potent sword – most often he has guided the friendless –, so that I drew the weapon. I then slew the guardians of the house in the strife, when the moment was given to me’.]

Beowulf sees both the sword and victory as gifts from the ruler of men, who also governs times and seasons, and who shielded him in his underwater battle (1658b). The metaphor of the sun evoked by the sword recalls the Creator’s original triumph over the dark chaos of the waters, recounted by the scop after the building of Heorot (92–5):

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se Ælmihtiga eorðan worh[te], wlitebeorhtne wang, swa wæter bebugeð, gesette sigehreþig sunnan ond monan leoman to leohte landbuendum, [the Almighty made the earth, the radiant plain, so that water embraced it, victoriously set up the sun and moon as beams to light up for the land-dwellers. Emphasis added.]

The waters which rightly surround the world later surged over the giants, marking a second victory. The light of the giants’ sword might imitate the sun, but the creative might of the God of seasons cannot be rivalled, and it is his leoma which is more powerful. The sword becomes a shifting symbol: its hilt, described later, tells of the Flood; its makers were of the perverse generation destroyed by the Flood; its properties mimic those of the Flood, but are also associated with victorious light. Bede, when discussing the crafts of the antediluvian generation, notes that no object is inherently evil, only its use might be.45 In the hands of the hero, what was made by those who rebelled against God is put to good use, and in a series of overlapping associations aligns his victory in the watery abyss with God’s ancient victory in the surging waters of the Flood. Grendel’s mere The fact that Grendel has not been killed by the hero in the hall, but flees doomed to his watery retreat, allows the poet to extend the revenge taken on the monster into this second location – the hall under the lake, where Beowulf also confronts and kills the monster’s mother. By bringing the final destruction of both monsters into this place the poet envelops their demise in a series of associations – focused on the mere and the giant sword it contains – of aspects of the poem’s action with the myth of the Flood. A wide range of analogues have been suggested for the mere, and some for the dwelling which is reached through its waters. Among the more striking parallels are those between the Grendel-kin’s hall and analogues from the Old Norse tradition, not least the cave behind the waterfall in Grettis saga, which includes a reference to a sax (short sword) looted from among other accoutrements by Grettir, and his conflict with the draugr

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Kárr.46 It seems churlish to dismiss the similarities, whatever their significance, but the differences are important. This sax is in no way associated with ancient strife between the gigantas and God, and whether the reader can discern a waterfall in front of a cave in Beowulf or not, the Grendel-kin home in Beowulf is accessible only after Beowulf has descended into a lake previously deemed unfathomable (1366–7).47 If the Beowulf poet is working with scenery derived from a common Germanic narrative stock, he is doing so with originality. One pervasive element in Old Norse analogues of the Grendel-kin hall, best exemplified in Grettis saga, is the association of such places with the undead (draugr), inhabiting tombs that also contain grave-goods. Into what appears to be a northern folk tradition of these haunted places, the poet has introduced a weapon linking the place with those rebellious primeval giants that he mentioned in the family tree of monsters when introducing Grendel earlier in the poem. The giants’ war with God is not an explicit element of the Genesis account, though (as has been seen) Anglo-Saxon poets were interested in this aspect of the Flood story; nevertheless the giants’ bellicose character is more in evidence elsewhere in the Bible. Light is cast on the association of the sword in Beowulf with the gigantas – and with the resting places of the dead – by Ezechiel 32:27, which describes a group of terrifying ‘strong ones’, resting with weapons in the underworld: Et non dormient cum fortibus cadentibusque et incircumcisis qui descenderunt ad infernum cum armis suis et posuerunt gladios suos sub capitibus suis et fuerunt iniquitates eorum in ossobus eorum quia terror fortium facti sunt in terra viventium. [And they will not sleep with the strong ones and with those who fell uncircumcised, who went down to hell with their weapons and laid their swords under their heads, and their iniquities were in their bones, because they were the terror of the strong in the land of the living. Emphasis added.]

This enigmatic comment comes in the context of the prophet’s description of the fate awaiting pharaoh and his forces at the hands of the Chaldean armies of Nebuchadnezzar. As with the Egyptians, so also with the Babylonians who in their turn will be greeted in hell (Isaiah 14:9–15):

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Infernus subter conturbatus est in occursum adventis tui; suscitavit tibi gigantes omnes principes terrae, surrexerunt de soliis suis omnes principes nationum; universi respondebunt et dicent tibi et tu vulneratus es sicut nos nostri similis effectus es; detracta est ad inferos superbia tua concidit cadaver tuum, subter te sternetur tinea et operimentum tuum erunt vermes . . . ad infernum detraheris in profundum laci. [Hell below was in an uproar to meet you at your coming: it stirred up the giants for you, all the princes of the earth are risen up from their thrones, all the princes of the nations. All shall answer and say to you: “You also are wounded like us. You have become like us.” Your pride is brought down to hell, your carcass is fallen down. Under you shall the moth be strewn, and worms shall be your covering. . . . But yet you shall be brought down to hell into the depth of the pit.]

This passage, closely related to Ezechiel 32:27, was well known throughout the Middle Ages as it accompanies what then was understood as the Old Testament’s only clear reference to Lucifer’s fall, and was often cited by medieval authors, including the Anglo-Saxons.48 The Septuagint text of Ezechiel 32:27 is less ambiguous about the identity of the ‘strong ones’, who are identified simply as γ ιγα′ντων (‘giants’). It is possible the variant was known in an Old Latin text of Ezechiel, though the reading could have been known anyway, as it is noted by Jerome in his commentary on the prophet (fortibus, siue gigantibus, ‘with the strong ones, or with the giants’), a work probably known to the Anglo-Saxons.49 Jerome suggests an allegorical reading of the passage, and interprets the ‘strong ones’ as heretics, and their arms as their sins. However, the reference to the ‘strong ones’ or ‘giants’ in Ezechiel 32:27 has a simple literal meaning in context – that the giants destroyed in the ancient conflict (like the fyrngewinnes in Beowulf, implicitly the Flood) evoked by Isaiah and Ezechiel (and also in Wisdom 14:6), took their weapons, and specifically their swords, with them to hell. The reason for this ancient punishment is perhaps unsurprising, but not without relevance for the characterization of Grendel: quia terror fortium facti sunt in terra viventium (‘because they were the terror of the strong in the land of the living’). Grave goods were certainly familiar to the Beowulf poet, but the giant sword is clearly different from other grave goods in the

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poem. Furthermore, it is a commonplace of folktales worldwide that monsters cause terror, but Ezechiel 32:27 is the only biblical passage that attributes this characteristic to the ancient giants, as well as noting their opposition to those ‘strong in the land.’ The þyrs Grendel is associated by his genealogy, and by his possession of the sword, with the rebellious giants, and the terror he brings to the strong ones in the land of the Danes is brought to an end only by the strongest of men (196, 789, 1543). Ultimately, and ironically, this end is brought about by the giant sword itself. Given the paucity of biblical reference in the poem, it is difficult to know how well the Beowulf poet knew the Bible, though the scarcity of scriptural citation in itself may suggest a degree of care in the use of the Bible. But it is probably unnecessary to speculate on whether or not a variant reading of Ezechiel 32:27 was known either in Anglo-Saxon England or to the poet. Traditions concerning the ancient giants certainly were, and the parallels between the passages in Isaiah and Ezechiel already suggest the identification between Ezechiel’s ‘strong ones’ and Isaiah’s ‘giants’. Someone interested in giant lore and biblical descriptions of the pit of hell could easily have made the link. The biblical presentation of the giants in the underworld as dead, but also capable of greeting new arrivals, corresponds with an alternative tradition available to the literate Anglo-Saxon, though the question of the Beowulf poet’s familiarity with Latin literature remains unresolved. Whether or not the Beowulf poet knew Virgil’s Aeneid is difficult to say, but the work was certainly known in Anglo-Saxon England. After crossing the waters to the gates of Hades, Aeneas descends into the Underworld and sees the fallen giants (VI.577–84): tum Tartarus ipse bis patet in praeceps tantum tenditque sub umbras quantus ad aetherium caeli suspectus Olympum. hic genus antiquum Terrae, Titania pubes, fulmine deiecti fundo uoluuntur in imo. hic et Aloidas geminos immania uidi corpora, qui manibus magnum rescindere caelum adgressi superisque Iouem detrudere regnis. [Then Tartarus itself yawns sheer down, stretching into the gloom twice as far as is the far sky’s upward view to heavenly Olympus. Here the ancient sons of Earth, the Titan’s brood, hurled down by

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the thunderbolt, writhe in the lowest abyss. Here, too, I saw the twin sons of Aloeus, giant in stature, whose hands essayed to tear down high heaven and thrust down Jove from his realm above.]

In Chapter 3 we saw that – at least in King Alfred’s imagination – these Titans, cast into hell for their rebellion against Jupiter, could be associated with the rebellious giants who strove against God at Babel under the leadership of Nimrod.50 Furthermore, the two episodes of giant rebellion in Genesis, before the Flood and at Babel under Nimrod, were easily linked in the Anglo-Saxon historical imagination as one age of discord between the giants and the God who cast them down. The picture suggested by the prophets Isaiah and Ezechiel – of the rebellious giants confi ned to hell – would also suggest a parallel between the biblical and classical versions of the ancient past, and the resultant occupation of hell by the giants, despite differences of detail. The giants’ resting place in hell as described by Ezechiel is not one of its inferior regions, but one passed on the way further down (see Ezechiel 32:18). The classical giants, however, are confi ned to the deepest pit of hell – a pit reached by crossing a poisonous lake (VI.236–41) – at the foot of a precipice, which would itself become a feature of medieval descriptions of the infernal regions.51 Grendel and the underworld There is no doubt that the poet associates the giant Grendel with hell, his obvious spiritual home. In the Middle Ages locating hell literally in the underworld was not unusual, and the poem’s association of Grendel and hell suggests that the line between the literal and metaphoric is not clear. The poem refers to hell in two generally distinguishable contexts. The three references to hell in Beowulf which do not concern Grendel evoke a Christian doctrine of hell as a place of future punishment or retribution for particular crimes: the heathen for worshipping hellish idols (179– 86a), Unferth for his fratricide (587–9), or for the disturber of the ‘Last Survivor’s’ treasure in the terms of the curse laid on it (3069–75). However, the relationship between Grendel and hell presented in the text is not so much eschatological as etiological; he is undoubtedly a ‘sinner’, but as a forscrifen (‘condemned’, ‘proscribed’, 106b) member of the race of Cain hell is his destiny because of his nature, not any moral choice.

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The first reference to Grendel comes before he begins his attacks on Heorot, when he is described as a feond on helle (‘fiend in hell’, 101). Soon after he is classified among the mysterious helrunan (‘those familiar with hell’s secrets’) whose wanderings men do not know (159–63): ac se æglæca ehtende wæs, deorc deaþscua, duguþe ond geogoþe, seomade ond syrede, sinnihte heold mistige moras. Men ne cunnon hwyder helrunan hwyrftum scriþað. [But the awesome one, a dark death-shadow, was persecuting the troop, young and old, waited and ambushed, in unending night he held the misty moors. Men do not know where those familiar with hell’s secrets meander.]

Here Grendel’s knowledge of hell is associated both with his exile status, recalling his share in Cain’s curse, and his occupation of the marginal lands, the misty moors. The sense that Grendel is somehow ‘in’ hell (helle hæfton, ‘captive in hell’, 789a) even before his death is reiterated in the context of his fight with Beowulf, at the moment when the monster realizes things are not going well. Grendel’s opposition to God is also associated with his hellishness in the poem’s recollection – during the approach of the monster’s mother to Heorot – of Beowulf’s victory over the son (gehnægde helle gast, ‘he humiliated the hell spirit’, 1274a). This identification of Grendel as ‘from hell’ is complemented by the characterization of his return to the mere as a return to hell. He journeys home from Heorot, mutilated and dejected, after his defeat (847–52): Ðær wæs on blode brim weallende, atol yða geswing eal gemenged, haton heolfre, heorodreore weol; deaðfæge deog, siððan dreama leas in fenfreoðo feorh alegde, hæþene sawle; þær him hel onfeng. [There was the lake surging in the blood, terrible swell of waves all mixed together with hot gore; it hid the death-doomed, when without joy in the fen-safety he lay down life, the heathen soul; hell received him there.]

The surging waves of the brim, which more often means ‘ocean’ or ‘sea’ than ‘lake’, associate Grendel’s death with that of his

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ancient giant kindred, just as they confine him to hell with them. This association is developed in the symbolic giant sword later used to behead him, which bears the inscription of the wæteres wylm (‘surge of water’) which had destroyed the ancient giants. Grendel’s return to the hellish lake can also be read soteriologically: as the place where the eternally damned Grendel dies, the lake is where he will be received by hell. But the full locative force of þær evokes a more literal identification of his home as hell, or an entrance to it. The poet has already described Grendel’s desire for escape, some one hundred lines earlier, as a wish to flee Heorot and secan deofla gedræg (‘to seek the company of devils’, 756a). In context this can be no death wish – a desire to die and fi nd this company in hell – and the implication is that he wants to fi nd this company in his fenland refuge. The correlation the poet establishes between hell, as the place of the damned, and Grendel’s lakeland home, is striking, especially as his refuge has well-established literary associations with hell. The most important and long-acknowledged analogue suggesting the association of the mere with hell is found in Blickling homily 16, which refers to a Vision of St Paul as the source for its description of hell. Charles Wright has noted this represents an alternative redaction in the Old English vernacular to any which survives in Latin:52 Swa Sanctus Paulus wæs geseonde on norðanweardne þisne middangeard, þær ealle wætero niðergewitað, and he þær geseah ofer ðæm wætere sumne harne stan. and wæron norð of ðæm stane awexene swiðe hrimige bearwas, and ðær wæron þystrogenipo, and under þæm stane wæs niccra eardung and wearga. and he geseah þæt on ðæm clife hangodan on ðæm isigean bearwum manige swearte saula be heora handum gebundne. and þa fynd þara on nicra onlicnesse heora gripende wæron, swa swa grædig wulf. and þæt wæter wæs sweart under þæm clife neoðan. and betuh þæm clife on ðæm wætre wæron swylce twelf mila. and ðonne ða twigo forburston þonne gewitan þa saula niðer þa þe on ðæm twigum hangodan, and him onfengon ða nicras. Ðis ðonne wæron ða saula þa ðe her on worlde mid unrihte gefyrenode wæron, and ðæs noldan geswican ær heora lifes ende. [So Saint Paul was looking towards the northern region of the earth, where all waters pass down, and he saw there above the water a hoary stone; and north of the stone had grown very rimy woods,

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Water and fire and there were dark mists; and under the stone was the dwelling place of monsters and execrable creatures; and he saw hanging on the cliff in the icy woods many black souls with their hands bound; and the enemies in the likeness of monsters were seizing them like greedy wolves; and the water under the cliff was black. And between the cliff and the water there were about twelve miles, and when the twigs broke, then down went the souls who hung on the twigs and the monsters seized them.]

The mention of tumbling souls in Blickling homily 16, rather than bodies, suggests an entrance to hell that fuses the spiritual and physical, made tangible not only by its geographic location (towards the polar region), but also by the binding of the hands of these souls and the physicality of the monsters which grab them.53 In early medieval cosmography, the waters surrounding the earth were imagined as the great world ocean, and this body of water which had destroyed the ancient giants is presented in the Vision of St Paul, transmitting the classical conception of the Oceanus as a division between this world and the next.54 Grendel’s mere with its monstrous inhabitants certainly suggests some close parallels to Blickling 16, not least in the shared use of the unusual word nicor for ‘water-monster’ (1355b–65):55 No hie fæder cunnon, hwæþer him ænig wæs ær acenned dyrnra gasta. Hie dygel lond warigeað, wulfhleoþu, windige næssas, frecne fengelad, ðær fyrgenstream under næssa genipu niþer gewiteð, flod under foldan. Nis þæt feor heonon milgemearces, þæt se mere standeð; ofer þæm hongiað hrinde bearwas, wudu wyrtum fæst wæter oferhelmað. [They knew of no father, whether before him any such mysterious spirit had been born. They inhabit a secret land, wolf-cliffs, windy headlands, dangerous fen-paths, there a mountain stream goes down under the darkness of cliffs, the stream under the earth. It is not far from here measured by miles that the mere lies; over that place hang frosty groves, the wood deeply rooted overshadows the earth.]

This first description of the mere in Beowulf is followed by another soon after, as Beowulf’s party arrives (1408–17):

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Ofereode þa æþelinga bearn steap stanhliðo, stige nearwe, enge anpaðas, uncuð gelad, neowle næssas, nicorhusa fela; he feara sum beforan gengde wisra monna wong sceawian, oþþæt he færinga fyrgenbeamas ofer harne stan hleonian funde, wynleasne wudu; wæter under stod dreorig ond gedrefed. [Then the son of princes went over the steep rock cliffs, the narrow ascent, a tight track, an unknown way, towering headlands, many a water-monster’s home; he went ahead with a few wise men to gaze at the plain, until suddenly he found mountain trees leaning over grey stone, a joyless wood; water stood there, bloody and disturbed.]

The poem shares with the homily’s description of hell’s entrance the lofty cliff, frosty grove, and monsters teeming in waters underneath. Whether Grendel’s mere is hell or hellish is difficult to say, though comparison with Solomon and Saturn II – a poem with elements that some critics have cautiously associated with Beowulf – is informative.56 Solomon and Saturn II contains a description of hell which suggests associations with both the Vision of St Paul text underlying the Blickling homily’s vision of hell, and so also with Grendel’s mere. In a passage that has received little scholarly attention, Solomon provides, in response to a question by Saturn about fate and suffering, a description of the fall of the angels and the hell into which they are cast (441–66):57 ongan wyrcan ðurh dierne cræftas segn and side byrnan, cwæð ðæt he mid his gesiðum wolde [. . .] tydran him mid ðy teoðan dæle, oððæt he his tornes geuðe ende ðurh insceafte. Ða wearð se æðelra ðeoden gedrefed ðurh ðæs deofles gehygdo; forlet hine ða ofdune gehreosan, afielde hine ða under foldan sceatas, heht hine ðær fæste gebindan. [. . .] ðæt hie ec scoldon a ðenden hie lifdon wunian in wylme, wop ðrowian,

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Water and fire heaf under hefonum, and him helle gescop, wælcealde wic wintre beðeahte, wæter in sende and wyrmgeardas, atol deor monig irenum hornum, blodige earnas and blace nædran, ðurst and hungor and ðearle gewin, egna egesan, unrotnesse; and æghwylc him ðissa earfeða ece stondeð butan edwende a ðenden hie lifigað. [[he] began to make for himself a standard and broad armour through secret crafts. He said that with his companions he wished . . . to procreate himself with the tenth part, until through this inbreeding he could give his anger an end. Then the chief of princes was disturbed by the devil’s thought, caused him to fall down, brought him then under the surfaces of the earth, ordered him to be bound fast there. . . . so that they also, forever while they lived, must dwell in the surge, suffer sorrow, lamentation under the heavens; and he made hell for them, a place of deadly cold covered in winter, sent water in there, and snake-pits, and many terrible beasts with iron horns, bloody eagles and black adders, thirst and hunger and severe fighting, sorrowful things, terrible for the eyes; and for each of them these torments remain forever, without alteration, forever while they live. Emphasis added.]

Traditions concerning the fall of the angels in Anglo-Saxon England are complex and overlapping ones. This idiosyncratic account shares some features with most Anglo-Saxon versions but, as I have suggested elsewhere, its unusual formulation of these ideas points to a closer relationship with Christ and Satan than any other in Old English.58 Certain features of this description also resonate with elements associated with the demonic in Beowulf, and in particular with Grendel’s mere. The description of hell in Solomon and Saturn II (459–66) presents a curious mixture of commonplace and unusual detail: the wælcealde wic wintre beðeahte (‘a place of deadly cold covered in winter’), the wyrmgeardas (‘snake pits’), the blace nædran (‘black adders’) and fi nally the ðurst and hungor and ðearle gewin,/ egna egesan, unrotnesse (‘thirst and hunger and severe fighting, sorrowful things, terrible for the eyes’) are generally attested elsewhere in Anglo-Saxon hells.59 Given the long-standing scholarly suspicion that I Enoch, with its account of the wicked generation before the Flood, lies

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somewhere in the background of Beowulf’s casting of the monstrous and gigantic progeny of Cain, the presence of any comparable motifs in Solomon and Saturn II take on wider significance. The dierne cræftas (‘secret crafts’, 443b) which are employed in the making of war equipment by the rebellious angel probably originate in the legend in I Enoch 8, where the discovery by the evil angels of metals and magic arts leads to the manufacture of weapons.60 If I Enoch 8 is an ultimate, or direct, source for Solomon and Saturn II, either the poet or the tradition to which he is heir has transferred the acquisition of this skill to the time before the fall: here the standard raised is a sign of his rebellion in heaven, and the armour is to be used in it. In Beowulf the magical sword itself, the product of giant manufacture and associated with their rebellion, recalls this tradition.61 No source has been determined for the enigmatic detail in Solomon and Saturn II of Lucifer’s desire to procreate; the text is not only obscure, but damaged at this point, though the sense of the desire to tydran (‘procreate’) by insceafte (‘incest’?, 446–7a, a hapax legomenon) is clear enough, and certainly unnatural (compare Beowulf 111, untydras, ‘monstrous offspring’).62 I Enoch 4 describes the fallen angelic watchers having sexual intercourse with the daughters of men and so producing a monstrous race, and it is possible that there is a link between the Book of Enoch’s miscegeny, after the fall, and the idea that Lucifer propagated before the fall. The giant Grendel’s descent from Cain clearly echoes the descent of a whole race of monsters produced by unnatural sexual unions, while in Solomon and Saturn II this unnatural procreation explicitly involves angels. There is a curious parallel in the conception of Grendel’s mere in Beowulf, also a deadly place covered in winter, and the hell described in Solomon and Saturn II with its lapsed angels falling into a watery monster-filled pit. The water poured into hell in Solomon and Saturn II seems incompatible with hell’s fires – though these are not clearly referred to by the poet, whose wylm (‘surge’, 457a) could imply either water or flame, or a fusion of the two. Water is an unusual element to co-exist with fi re, and I have been unable to fi nd any other direct reference to God pouring waters into hell specifically as a punishment for the fallen angels.63 The idea that the underworld might be full of water is certainly implied in the accounts of creation and the

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universal deluge of Noah’s day (Gen 1:6–7, 9; 7:11), but the waters under the earth are not normally associated with hell itself in Christian tradition. The fusion of fire and water is much more clearly stated in the case of Grendel’s mere, in the nightly sight of ‘fire in the stream’, a sinister aspect of the lake associated with its great depth (1366–8, 1373–6a): Þær mæg nihta gehwæm niðwundor seon, fyr on flode. No þæs frod leofað gumena bearna, þæt þone grund wite. [. . .] Þonon yðgeblond up astigeð won to wolcnum, þonne wind styreþ, lað gewidru, oðþæt lyft drysmaþ, roderas reotað. [There each night a frightening wonder can be seen, fire in the stream. There is none so wise who lives among the children of men that he knows the depth. . . . The clashing waves climb up from there dark to the clouds, when the wind drives the violent storms, until the sky itself droops, the heavens groan. Emphasis added.]

This mysterious feature, coupled with the location of Grendel’s mere by the ocean, may point to the close influence of yet another motif found in the Vision of St Paul tradition. One Latin redaction describes the merging of the rivers of hell: Et erat flumen igneum et feruens; fluctus autem eius exaltat se super usque ad nubes et ad celum . . . et alia tria que confluunt sicut in eum (‘And there was a fiery and boiling river; its wave-surge mounts up to the clouds and to the heavens . . . and the other three rivers there flowed into it’). Both the poem’s references to Grendel’s home as hell, and details that its description shares with hell in Blickling homily 16, suggest that in Beowulf Grendel’s mere is literally associated with hell, and may be imagined as an entrance to it. That the Anglo-Saxons could understand such a place in such a way is confirmed by a number of manuscript illustrations of hell. The Utrecht Psalter, an illustrated early-ninth-century Carolingian manuscript, which was in England by the late tenth century, shows a flaming lake – clearly hell – four times (fols 3r, 9r, 14v, 16v); this manuscript is the source of the illustrations in

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BL MS Harley 603, which faithfully presents the scenes.64 As Sarah Semple has shown, in these images and others in the manuscripts, the fiery lakes and other openings to hell are depicted as very much a part of the landscape, alongside other illustrations of souls in hell’s torment shown in cavernous ‘gravelike’ spaces underground.65 Wulf’s field The unnatural fusion of fire and water in the abyss is not the only ingredient that the hell in Solomon and Saturn II shares with Beowulf, and which both share with the tradition of the Vision of St Paul. In Beowulf a series of associations – between the Cainite giant Grendel, the ancient destruction wrought by the Flood, and the mere in which the mysterious giant sword is found – create a context in which the flood and fire recall hell and the giants’ ancient destruction. Furthermore, the mysterious fusion of fire and water inevitably anticipate the coming Judgment. It is a striking coincidence that these elements also run through Solomon and Saturn II, and are focused on the history of a mighty dragon-slayer called Wulf. The passage in Solomon and Saturn II most often linked to Beowulf concerns the character of weallende Wulf (‘surging Wulf’), whose name and career very loosely echo Beowulf’s. The dragon-slaying Wulf, described as a friend of archetypal giant rebel Nimrod, is reported enigmatically by Saturn to have died in a wasteland – a place shunned, like Grendel’s mere, by ordinary creatures (203–15): 66 Saturnus cuæð: Se mæra was haten sæliðende weallende Wulf, werðeodum cuð Filistina, freond Nebrondes. He on ðam felda ofslog fif and twentig dracena on dægred, and hine ða deað offeoll, forðan ða foldan ne mæg fira ænig, ðone mercstede, mon gesecan, fugol gefleogan, ne ðon ma foldan neat. Ðanon atercynn ærest gewurdon wide onwæcned, ða ðe nu weallende

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Water and fire ðurh attres oroð ingang rymað. Git his sweord scineð swiðe gescæned, and ofer ða byrgenna blicað ða hieltas. [Saturn said: ‘The great seafarer was called surging Wulf, known to the peoples of the Philistines, a friend of Nimrod. On that field he slew twenty-five dragons at dawn, and then death felled him, because no man can seek that land, no one the border-land, nor bird fly there, more than any beast of the earth. From there fi rst arose poisonous kinds of creatures, spread widely, those which surging now through poisonous breath make spacious the entrance. His sword shines yet, highly polished, and its hilt gleams over the graves.’]

The association of Wulf and Beowulf as dragon-slayers provides a suggestive parallel between the texts, though it is not clearly stated that Wulf, like Beowulf, was killed by a dragon; given the ubiquity of ‘Wulf’ as a component of Anglo-Saxon personal names, it is impossible to say if their stories are related.67 The enigmatic deadly place associated with Wulf resembles Grendel’s deadly mere in several ways, though not always closely. Both are border zones – Grendel is a mearcstapa (‘border-walker’, Beowulf, 103a), Wulf falls in a mercstede (‘border-land’, Solomon and Saturn II, 209). Wulf’s battlefield is apparently flat and unwooded (felda, ‘field’), whereas Grendel’s mere is clearly at the foot of a wooded precipice; however, Grendel’s home is also described as a wong (‘field’, ‘plain’, 1413). While the mere in Beowulf is full of monstrous creatures, the place in Solomon and Saturn II is described not only as infested by atercynn (‘poisonkind’) but as the point of origin of all such poisonous creatures (ærest . . . onwæcned, ‘first . . . arose’). The locale in Solomon and Saturn II is much more clearly associated with creatures specifically described as poisonous than Grendel’s lake, though both places are associated with wyrmmas, and the poet may well equate ‘poison-kind’ with ‘serpent-kind’. Serpents are a feature of Grendel’s lake (1422–32a), which is inhabited by wyrmcynnes fela (‘many kinds of serpent’, 1425b). Human beings and animals are understandably reluctant to approach Grendel’s mere, though this is still possible for Beowulf and those who examine the slain water-monster. Even the stag, it would seem, is able to approach the waters, but chooses (wille) not to seek safety in them (1368– 76a). In Solomon and Saturn II there is no mention of a lake,

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and not bird nor beast nor man is able (mæg) to approach the place. Tombs are found on Wulf’s field, though it is unclear whether or not Wulf is buried there. The underwater hall in Beowulf implicitly becomes the resting place for the bodies of Grendel and his mother, though more relevant is the Grettis saga analogue, which presents two creatures comparable with Grendel and his mother, and draugr inhabiting tombs; such folk traditions may also have contributed to the poet’s presentation of their home. Beowulf’s own tomb certainly has nothing to do with the geography of the first part of the poem. The most striking detail shared by the two places is of a mysterious sword – in Solomon and Saturn II, Wulf’s sword is still to be seen gleaming over the burials, and the giant sword glows among the searwum (‘wargear’) in Grendel’s hall. It is significant that both poems recall the manufacture of weapons in the age before the Flood. The densely allusive description of this place in Solomon and Saturn II is clearly the product of a complex tradition and a milieu which enjoyed deciphering such enigmatic verse. It most probably depends on more than one source and, if the poem was to have meaning for anyone other than the author, it is less than likely to be pure invention.68 The poem expressly fuses the Judeo-Christian tradition in the character of Solomon, and in its allusion to Nimrod and biblical events, with the classical pagan, most obviously represented by the Titan Saturn; a third cultural tradition – the Germanic – is probably represented by the dragonslaying Wulf, an element reflected in the poem’s later discussions of questions such as Fate (434–40).69 That the poet is interested in synthesizing these traditions is evident not only from the historically impossible dialogue between Solomon and Saturn, but by the association of Wulf with the Philistines, who (we are told) knew him well, and his friendship with Nimrod. The association with the Philistines may represent the poet’s assumption of the correlation between these original inhabitants of the land of Canaan, descendants of Ham–Cam, and Nimrod’s descent from this same son of Noah. The association with Nimrod suggests a dark side to this dragon-slayer: he was well-known among the Philistines, a race which produced giants, the best known of whom, Goliath, was killed by Solomon’s father David. Wulf is a friend of Nimrod the

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giant and his career is described by Saturn (identifiable as a giant), in a story that opens the poetic account of a contest between himself and the son of a famous giant-killer; though it is not stated, we might suppose Wulf himself was a giant.70 This may also be suggested by the description of Wulf as a mæra sæliðende (‘great sea-traveller’), which recalls a defining feature of ancient giants in the West Saxon Liber monstrorum (I:54):71 Gigantes enim ipsos tam enormis alebat magnitudo ut eis omnia maria pedum gressibus transmeabilia fuisse perhibeatur. Quorum ossa in litoribus et in terram latebris, ad indicium uastae quantitatis eorum, saepe conperta leguntur. [Indeed giants used to grow to such an enormous size that it is said that all the sea was passable to them on foot. And their bones are often found, according to books, on the shores and in the recesses of the world, as a mark of their vast size. Emphasis added.]

Given his exploits against Breca and his return from Frisia (506– 81a, 2359–62) Beowulf himself could also be described as a great sea-traveller; there is no suggestion that Wulf walked through the sea, and Beowulf certainly does not.72 The description better applies to Grendel – whose great head requires four men to carry it (1635–9), and who is a giant (þyrs, 426; eoten, 761). Grendel implicitly has no trouble travelling through water, his dwelling (and fi nal resting-place) is under a lake near the sea, and it could certainly be characterized as a latebra, a word with a range of meanings, and connoting the idea of ‘hiding place’.73 The syncretic mythography of Solomon and Saturn II reveals an interest in drawing together classical pagan, Christian and Germanic traditions of the early world. The range of coincidences between this unusual poem and Beowulf point to the influence of the same Anglo-Saxon school of thought, directly or indirectly, on both. The date of neither text is certain, but a similar cultural fusion is found on the Franks Casket, produced some time in the first half of the eighth century by an unknown Northumbrian craftsman. The casket’s whalebone panels depict, among more cryptic scenes, Romulus and Remus, Titus’s sacking of Jerusalem, and the birth of Christ juxtaposed with Weland’s revenge.74 However, both Beowulf and Solomon and Saturn II present a sharper focus on the past, on the mythical earliest ages of the cosmos, and in Beowulf at least a world is conjured up still terrorized by the hellish relics of primordial chaos. In Chapter

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4, I discussed King Alfred’s treatment of biblical and classical myth in his account of the rebellion at Babel under the leadership of Nimrod, a story which the confused pagans remembered as the war of the Titans; reference to Nimrod by Saturn recalls Alfred’s treatment of the episode at more than a superficial level. Solomon and Saturn II and Beowulf recall an age when giants rebelled against God, and were punished for it. In Solomon and Saturn II the association between ancient rebellion and future Judgment conspicuously evokes the Flood myth (314–22): Saturnus cwæð: Sona bið gesiene, siððan flowan mot yð ofer eall lond, ne wile heo awa ðæs siðes geswican, sioððan hire se sæl cymeð, ðæt heo domes dæges dyn gehiere. Salomon cwæð: Wa bið ðonne ðissum modgum monnum, ðam ðe her nu mid mane lengest lifiað on ðisse lænan gesceafte! Ieo ðæt ðine leode gecyðdon: wunnon hie wið dryhtnes miehtum, forðon hie ðæt worc ne gedegdon. Ne sceall ic ðe hwæðre, broðor, abelgan; ðu eart swiðe bittres cynnes, eorre eormenstrynde. Ne beyrn ðu in ða inwitgecyndo! [Saturn said: ‘It will soon be seen, when the sea, a wave, can flow over the land, it will never stop its advance, when its time has come, so that it hears the roar of Doomsday.’ Solomon said: ‘Woe then to these proud men, those who here now with evil live longest in this transitory creation! Your people made that known long ago: they strove against the Lord’s might, therefore they did not complete that work. However, I shall not make you angry, brother; you are of a very bitter nation, an angry and mighty race. Don’t you conform to that wicked nature!’]

Patrick O’Neill has argued persuasively that here Solomon is identifying Saturn with the fierce and bitter Chaldean race, and that this passage recalls the crime of the proud Chaldeans at Sanere feld (‘the field at Shinar’), whose recollection introduced Saturn’s account of Wulf (198b–202).75 Though the poet’s style is characteristically evasive, the use of history here is clear: at the judgment the proud ones who live longest in the world will be

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destroyed, as were those of Saturn’s race who long ago strove against God. Those who live longest might well be giants, whose longevity was legendary,76 and it is possible that the poet – through Solomon – is identifying Saturn’s race as the giants. Such an understanding is confirmed by Solomon’s earlier comment that Saturn is entering into his verbal duel so that he may boast at home that he has bettered ‘the children of men’ (197–8a), indicating he himself is not quite human (195–201a): Wat ic ðonne, gif ðu gewitest on Wendelsæ ofer Coforflod cyððe seccan, ðæt ðu wille gilpan ðæt ðu hæbbe gumena bearn forcumen and forcyððed. Wat ic ðæt wæron Caldeas guðe ðæs gielpne and ðæs goldwlonce, mærða ðæs modige, ðær to ðam moning gelomp suð ymbe Sanere feld. [‘I know then, that if you travel across the River Cofor into the Mediterranean to seek home, you intend to boast that you have overcome and outwitted the children of men. I know that the Chaldeans were so boastful of their skill in war and proud of their gold, arrogant of power, that they were sent a warning there in the south around the field at Shinar.’]

This passage also recalls what Saturn has told us of Nimrod and Wulf. The ‘work’ not completed ‘long ago’ (319b–20) is most probably the Tower of Babel, a suspicion confirmed by Saturn naming its builder Nimrod as Wulf’s friend. The recollection of the giants is implicit in the associative logic of the poem, because Solomon’s warning against defying God follows Saturn’s description of the Doomsday flood covering the land. Saturn anticipates the fi nal flood God will visit on the proud; Solomon recalls the ancient punishment of the giants, from which in the mytho-logic of the Flood it is inseparable. In Beowulf, the gigantas, ‘those who struggled against God for a long time’ (þa wið God wunnon/ lange þrage, 113b–14a) received their reward in the great Flood which swept over them.77 In Solomon and Saturn II, remarkably similar in wording and in recalling their ancient rebellion against God, the punishment of those who ‘struggled against the Lord’s might’ (wunnon hie wið dryhtnes miehtum, 322a) serves as a reminder of the coming flood of judgment. Solomon’s interest in the Flood and giants would not be surprising from the medieval point of view: as the supposed

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author of the Book of Wisdom, his reflections on the beginning of the world when the ‘proud giants perished’ (Wisdom 14:6) would have been known to the author of Solomon and Saturn II, and may well have been the inspiration for the poet’s exploration of the theme. The advice of Solomon, the archetypal wise king, to Saturn, invoking the example of those who long ago struggled unsuccessfully against the Lord, curiously parallels the scene in Beowulf in which the wise king Hrothgar offers similar, though more expansive, advice. After gazing on the giant sword hilt, which narrates the story of the ancient defeat of the giants in the Flood, Hrothgar lectures the young hero on the wisdom needed by a king if he is to rule wisely. Hrothgar invokes the negative example of Heremod (1709b–24a): Ne wearð Heremod swa eaforum Ecgwelan, Arscyldingum; ne geweox he him to willan, ac to wælfealle ond to deaðcwalum Deniga leodum; breat bolgenmod beodgeneatas, eaxlgesteallan, oþþæt he ana hwearf, mære þeoden, mondreamum from, ðeah þe hine mihtig god mægenes wynnum, eafeþum stepte, ofer ealle men forð gefremede, hwæþere him on ferhþe greow breosthord blodreow. Nallas beagas geaf Denum æfter dome; dreamleas gebad þæt he þæs gewinnes weorc þrowade, leodbealo longsum. Ðu þe lær be þon, gumcyste ongit. Ic þis gid be þe awræc wintrum frod. [‘Heremod was not like that to the sons of Ecgwala, the HonourScyldings; he did not mature for their happiness, but for destruction and for the murder of the Danish people; enraged in mind, he cut down his board-companions, those who stood by him, until he, the famous prince, turned away alone from human joys, although mighty God had exalted him in joys of power in strength, advanced him over all men, yet in his spirit grew a bloody-hungry breast-hoard. He did not at all give the Danes rings for their glory; he persisted joyless so that he suffered misery for that strife, an enduring national affl iction. Learn from this, understand virtue! I, wise in years, have told you this as an example for yourself.’]

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With his reminiscence of the ancient rebellion of Saturn’s people against God, the wise king Solomon does not wish to abelgan (‘enrage’) Saturn and warns him not to succumb to anger. In Beowulf, Hrothgar holds up for the audience an account of the rebellion of the giants and the reward they received for it in the Flood, recalling the failure of the bolgenmod (‘enraged in mind’) Heremod as a king, sagely advising the hero not to conform to the same course, but to properly use the power that God gives to rulers – and indeed Beowulf acknowledges his subordination to divine power (see, for example, 685b–7).78 Heremod’s crimes echo Grendel’s, and his psychological association with the giants might even be presented more literally in the poem, with the reference to the king’s ultimate exile among the eotenum (‘giants’ or ‘Jutes’, 902b); the ambivalence of the expression was presumably as potent for the Anglo-Saxon audience as it is for modern philologists.79 The ideology that associated tyranny and the folly of the rebellious giants of antiquity was widespread in the early Middle Ages and is shared not only by Solomon and Saturn II and Beowulf, but also by the wise King Alfred in his version of Boethius’ De consolatione. The wide diffusion of this cultural logic makes it impossible to determine whether or not Alfred’s discussion has influenced Hrothgar’s reflections on kingship, or even Saturn’s recollection of Nimrod.80 However, the curious parallels between Solomon and Saturn II and Beowulf would appear to be much closer. The two dragon-slayers and the two glowing swords, and the association of these with primeval giant rebellion, have long been seen as pointing to a relationship between the two poems. That both poems also present a sage king advising a mighty man not to succumb to rebellious rage against divine power, and in the context of a reflection on the giants’ ancient rebellion against God, suggests this relationship is a close one. That the two poems share a common textual – rather than simply cultural – tradition is made more likely by their shared debt to the lost insular Vision of St Paul suggested by Wright. The echoes of this text, attested by the hell vision in Blickling homily 16, are certainly stronger in the description of Grendel’s mere than in the hell into which the angels are cast in Solomon

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and Saturn II. But another element points more emphatically to this shared background. Immediately after the description of hell in Solomon and Saturn II, and in answer to Saturn’s anxiety about premature death (compare Beowulf 1761b–8), Solomon explains that the individual is caught between two spirits who each day draw the individual to good or evil (472–501). The same motif, derived from the Vision of St Paul tradition, of good and evil angels contending over souls is found in both Vercelli 4 and Napier homily 46; 81 neither of these homilies presents a description of hell, though in Vercelli 4 the account of the contending angels is preceded by a Judgment scene in which the devil and his angels are consigned to the ece fyr (‘eternal fire’). The Blickling 16 account of good and bad spirits which syngallice feohtan sceolan (‘must continuously fight’) over souls shows the description of hell was probably associated with the contending spirits motif in the (lost) insular Vision.82 In both Blickling 16 and Solomon and Saturn II 489a, the devil is presented as ‘fighting’ against the soul; in Vercelli 4, this martial imagery is developed at length in allegorical terms (4:341–2): Þonne hæfð þæt dioful geworht bogan and stræla. Se boga bið geworht of ofermettum, and þa stræla bioð swa manigra cynna swa swa mannes synna bioð (‘Then the devil made a bow and arrows. The bow is made of pride, and the arrows are of as many kinds as there are of man’s sins’). The close link between Solomon and Saturn II’s stylenan helle (‘steely hell’, 480b), from which the devil proceeds to his attack, and Vercelli 4’s þe of þære stylenan helle cymð mid his scearpum strælum us mid to scotianne (‘who comes from the steely hell with his sharp arrows to shoot us with’) has long been noted.83 This association makes sense of the curtailed lament of the angel in Solomon’s account who has failed in his defence of the soul (495–6): ‘Ne meahte ic of ðære heortan heardne aðringan stylenne stan; sticað him tomiddes’ [I could not pull out the hard steel stone from the heart, it sticks in his middle.]

The arrow is too well lodged, and the soul will succumb to yrre (‘anger’, 488b), with eyes full of malice (487), and the soul here

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seems not to have the necessary weapons to defend itself from the awirgdum gastum (‘cursed spirits’, Vercelli 4:351–2). The coupling of a description of hell and the fallen angels with the contending spirits motif derived from the Vision of St Paul converge in Solomon and Saturn II in the address of the wisest of kings to a mighty man who is warned of the dangers of succumbing to pride as did the giants long ago. It is striking that a similar convergence is also found in Beowulf. Still contemplating the giant sword hilt, and immediately following his admonition to Beowulf not to follow the example of Heremod, the wise king Hrothgar warns the young man of what can happen to the complacent ruler (1740–7): Oð þæt him on innan oferhygda dæl weaxeð ond wridað Þonne se weard swefeð, sawele hyrde; bið se slæp to fæst, bisgum gebunden, bona swiðe neah, se þe of flanbogan fyrenum sceoteð. Þonne bið on hreþre under helm drepen biteran stræle, him bebeorgan ne con wom wundorbebodum wergan gastes. [Eventually his share of pride grows and flourishes while the guardian sleeps, the soul’s shepherd; the sleep is too sound, bound up with preoccupations, the slayer very near, he who shoots with sins from his bow. Then he is struck with a bitter dart in his heart under the helmet, he can’t defend himself from the perverse mysterious promptings of the cursed spirit. Emphasis added.]

The contending spirits – the weard and the bona – show the debt of this passage to the contending spirits tradition associated with the Vision of St Paul. The description of the slayer shooting ‘with sins’ from his bow parallels Vercelli 4 (where the ‘cursed devil’s’ bow is made of ofermetto), and the failure of the soul’s protector presents a suggestive link to the particular presentation of this motif in Solomon and Saturn II; the dart stuck in the defenceless heart described by Hrothgar echoes in a general way the arrows shot by Vercelli 4’s devil, but again more closely the ‘steel stone’ – presumably an arrowhead – which cannot be dislodged from the proud one’s heart in Solomon’s warning to Saturn. The tradition of contending spirits is a common one, and it appears that the motif was associated within some versions of the ramified tradition of the Vision of St Paul with descriptions of hell. That

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this pairing is found in Solomon and Saturn II and in Beowulf – Hrothgar’s sermon follows Beowulf’s return from Grendel’s hellish mere – reveals a common debt to one unusual strand of this tradition, as does their shared imagery within their accounts. But both poems integrate this tradition within an extended and fi nely developed reflection on the ancient rebellion of the giants with their gleaming swords, and the warning this presents for those powerful in the world, and looking forward to the Judgment to come. This reveals not simply a debt to the Vision of St Paul, but a common intellectual milieu in which such reflections were informed by a common textual base. This intellectual and sapiential tradition sought to create a unified mythological past out of the traditions of the age around the Flood, a past which defi ned not only the origins of the physical world, but also its moral order. How far removed the two poems are within this cultural tradition is difficult to say. Solomon and Saturn II is much more self-consciously a textual artefact than Beowulf; the first announces the superiority of book learning, the latter necessarily mentions no books in the old pagan north. The striking exception to the self-conscious orality of the poem is the giant sword hilt itself with its mysterious inscription. Certainly Beowulf incorporates book learning alongside legendary material derived from the oral tradition – the Flood would be unknown otherwise – but conclusive evidence of direct book learning, rather than that inherited through listening to preaching, has proven evasive. I would suggest that Solomon and Saturn II does not owe a debt to Beowulf: there is no evidence of this in their vocabulary or rhetoric, and any borrowings from the superior poet would probably show. Whether Beowulf was influenced by Solomon and Saturn II, within a milieu which shared other literary traditions, is impossible to say. The dragon The action of the first part of Beowulf is focused on Beowulf’s conflict with the Grendel-kin, a war overtly linked to the ancient conflict between God and the giants and to the primeval deluge; in the latter part of the poem the narrative thrust is towards the unknown, to which is coupled the expectation of Judgment.

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Whereas Grendel – a monster whose origins and destruction the poet associates with the Flood – is associated elementally with water, the action of the latter part of the poem is focused on the dragon and fire. The dragon episode in Beowulf has recently been explored in great detail by Rauer, who notes a number of structural affi nities between the hero’s dragon fight and those available in saints’ lives.84 Such parallels suggest that the poet drew on a range of sources when fleshing out the dragon episode, including saints’ lives and legendary material such as the story of the dragon-slayer Sigemund (874b–97). The link between dragons and fire might seem commonplace, but Rauer has noted that, though the ‘association of a dragon with fire is well-attested in other texts’, it ‘is not usually given the same prominence as in Beowulf’.85 In the complex pattern of grievance and revenge which runs through Beowulf, the Geats at the end of the poem fi nd themselves expecting the destruction of their tribe at the hands of the Swedes, the predicted result of generations of warfare involving their nations. This expectation of a revenge attack comes in the wake of another, that of the dragon aggrieved at the plundering of a solitary cup from his treasure hoard, an attack which leads to the death of Beowulf, the Geats’ king and protector. The troubles with the Swedes are presented in terms of a broad historical verisimilitude, but are interwoven with – and in the death of Beowulf intersect with – the more symbolic presentation of the dragon’s vengeance. The dragon, as has long been acknowledged, is a monster of a very different kind from Grendel and his mother. The dragon’s attack on Beowulf’s hall is not, like Grendel’s violence in Heorot, the inbred response of the pre-ordained exile to the social joy from which he is eternally excluded, but a focused act of revenge responding to the theft (2302b–23): Hordweard onbad earfoðlice oððæt æfen cwom; wæs ða gebolgen beorges hyrde, wolde se laða lige forgyldan drincfæt dyre. Þa wæs dæg sceacen wyrme on willan; no on wealle læg, bidan wolde, ac mid bæle for, fyre gefysed. Wæs se fruma egeslic

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leodum on lande, swa hyt lungre wearð on hyra sincgifan sare geendod. Ða se gæst ongan gledum spiwan, beorht hofu bærnan; bryneleoma stod eldum on andan. No ðær aht cwices lað lyftfloga læfan wolde. Wæs þæs wyrmes wig wide gesyne, nearofages nið nean ond feorran, hu se guðsceaða Geata leode hatode ond hynde; hord eft gesceat, dryhtsele dyrnne, ær dæges hwile. Hæfde landwara lige befangen, bæle ond bronde, beorges getruwode, wiges ond wealles; him seo wen geleah. [The hoard-guardian waited wretchedly until evening came; then the keeper of the barrow was enraged, the hateful one wished to reward the precious cup with flame. Then to the serpent’s delight the day passed; it did not linger on the wall or wish to wait, but went with the furnace, ready with fire. The beginning was terrible for the people in the land, so not too soon it would be ended in sorrow for their treasure-giver. Then the guest began to spew flames, to burn the bright buildings; burning light towered in terror for the men. The hateful sky-flyer wished to leave nothing alive there. The serpent’s battle was visible from afar, the cruel malice near and far, how the battle-ravager hated and shamed the people of the Geats; afterwards it shot back to the hoard, the hidden noble hall, before daytime. It had engulfed the land-dwellers in flame, bonfire and brand, trusting in the barrow, in walls and ramparts; that hope deceived him.]

Despite obvious differences, the dragon’s attack shares certain elements with Grendel’s attacks on Heorot. The giant’s attacks also take place at night, a flame-like light emanating from his eyes (727). Grendel and the dragon are also linked metaphorically by their shared opposition to the communal joy of the hall. In Grendel’s case his invasion of the hall precedes his inversion of the joy of feasting as he devours the sleeping warriors and drinks their blood. The dragon’s hoarding of wealth, reminiscent of Heremod’s failure to share out hall-treasure (1719b–20a), represents the perversion of hall-joy in a different way. It is no accident that the piece of treasure stolen by the thief – which he intends to

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return to the economy of the hall as a gift to his lord (2281b– 3a) – is a cup, simultaneously a symbol and means of the joyful cohesion of warrior society. In an echo of the poet’s ironic reference to Grendel’s non-participation in the economy of reward and recompense in the hall – he is a guest who cannot approach the gifstol (164–9), a killer who will not pay compensation (156– 7) – the dragon now comes to pay compensation. In a dense play on the image of heroic boasting over the ceremonial cup before battle, and in a development of the earlier ironic play on rewards, the dragon’s battle fire is the Geats’ reward: wolde se laða lige forgyldan/ drincfæt dyre (‘the hateful one wished to pay the reward with fi re for the precious drinking cup’, 2305–6a). This symbolic opposition to the heroic ideal is complemented, as in the case of Grendel, by a tangible attack on the hall. But whereas Grendel’s strength could not destroy Heorot, made strong with fi re-bonds (722), the dragon’s fiery destruction of Beowulf’s kingdom culminates in the speedy incineration of the royal hall. A fiery destruction is also anticipated for Heorot (81b–5), a motif which invites reflection on the metaphoric association between the two buildings, the primary focuses of monstrous attack. The poet’s description of the building of Heorot takes on proportions which extend to the whole world, not only in the craftsmen who come to build it (74–6), but in the scop’s opening song within its walls, which metaphorically aligns the building of the hall with the building of the world at creation (89b–101). The cosmic benevolence of the creation myth is coupled with the allusion to the origins of universal evil, personified in Grendel, descendant of the mythic Cain, who ushers hereditary fratricide into the human community. Just before the monster is presented to the audience, the hall’s end is anticipated (81b–5; see also 781b–2a): 86 Sele hlifade, heah ond horngeap, heaðowylma bad, laðan liges; ne wæs hit lenge þa gen þæt se ecghete aþumsweorum, æfter wælniðe wæcnan scolde. [The hall towered, high and horn-gabled, it awaited hostile surges, flame of enmity; but it was not yet time that the sword-hate among those bound by oaths should awaken after cruel slaughter.]

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Even before Grendel’s arrival the Danes are presented as susceptible to the violence which disrupts all human society. Heorot is not Eden, but part of the fallen world; Grendel is a manifestation of homicidal evil, not its initial cause. The poet’s reference to the future fire is neither idle speculation nor an expression of a brooding pessimism – in the framing of the narrative the creative act of building the great hall is coupled with the expectation of an ultimate fiery disintegration. This foreshadowing is fulfilled within the pattern of the poem with the burning of Beowulf’s own hall. The use of the hall as a metaphor for both the world and the transitory nature of the life and joy which both contain is a familiar one in the writings of the Anglo-Saxons. The most famous use of the hall as a metaphor for the transience of life is in Bede’s account of the conversion of King Edwin of Northumbria, where the building’s light and warmth emblemize the compass of human existence (HE 2.13). Bede’s account may well have been drawing on a vernacular poetic tradition which deployed such imagery, and his own use of the analogy was probably not without influence in turn. The cosmic embrace of the hall is developed in a different way by the poet of The Wanderer (73–7, 94–8), where the transience of hall joys is linked to the transience of the building. The melancholy picture of the loss of the hall and the life lived in it focuses on the crumbling wall and its foundation (wealsteal, 88a). This is expanded by the poet into an image of cosmic annihilation, when eal þis eorþan gesteal idel weorþeð (‘the foundation of this earth will become completely void’, 110). These reflections on the transience of the world and its edifices frame a reference to the destruction not of a hall, but a city (85–7): Yþde swa þisne eardgeard ælda scyppend oþþæt burgwara breahtma lease eald enta geweorc idlu stodon. [In this way the Creator of men destroyed this city, until the ancient work of giants, deprived of joy, stood idle.]

Paradoxically, it is the Creator who destroys, and more specifically the Creator of men who destroys the city that is the ancient work of giants. In a detailed discussion of the expression enta geweorc in Old English poetry, Frankis has noted the link to the Flood the expression evokes, while suggesting that the observer

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in The Wanderer is contemplating Roman ruins in the AngloSaxon landscape.87 This may have been the case, but the poem is clearly more interested in eschatology than archaeology, and it foregrounds the works of the giants overthrown by the Flood. This is potently evoked by the destruction of their city by the Creator himself, and the implicit opposition between the men whom he created, and the giants whose works he destroyed. The poet’s choice of words is significant. The verb yþan (‘destroy’) closely resembles the verb yþian (‘wash over with a wave’), with which it can be homonymous in the past tense singular.88 The passage allows either reading and, given the apocalyptic tone of the fi nal movement of The Wanderer, the recollection of the giants’ watery destruction is entirely appropriate. A similar collocation is found in Beowulf (420b–2a): þær ic fi fe geband, yðde eotena cyn, and on yðum slog niceras nihtes [I bound five there, harried the race of giants, and in the waves slew sea-monsters by night. Emphasis added.]

Here yðde cannot mean ‘destroyed with a wave’, but the recollection of Beowulf’s giant-killing power among the waves, anticipating his destruction of Cainite Grendel, associates this battle with God’s war against the giants in the Flood. In The Wanderer the poet’s nihilistic reflection on this world’s works moves from the departure of the warrior from the hall in death, to the desolation of the hall beside which warriors fell, through contemplation of the ancient destruction of the city of the giants, to the fi nal dissolution of the foundation of the earth.89 The drift towards apocalyptic expectation is reinforced by the evocation of the ancient destruction, and the two are linked by the repetition of the word idel (‘idle’): after the Creator’s wave, the giants’ works stood idlu, and in the end this world will also stand idel. The pattern in Beowulf is similar: a great hall is built with a recollection of the cosmic creation, while its destruction is anticipated, and the latter part of the poem the transience of earthly life and works moves to the fore. The hall in both poems is invested with a significance far beyond that of a single building; Beowulf’s own hall, as much as Heorot, is an inseparable part of this pattern of creation and destruction.

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The burning of Beowulf’s hall evokes this apocalyptic dimension in a number of ways. The dragon’s attack comes soon after the reference to Beowulf’s accession to the Geatish throne (2207–9), though the audience is informed that some fifty years have passed under his rule before the fiery onslaught. The aged king’s first reaction to the dragon’s attack is emotional and pensive (2324–35): Þa wæs Biowulfe broga gecyðed snude to soðe, þæt his sylfes ham, bolda selest, brynewylmum mealt, gifstol Geata. Þæt ðam godan wæs hreow on hreðre, hygesorga mæst; wende se wisa þæt he wealdende ofer ealde riht, ecean dryhtne, bitre gebulge. Breost innan weoll þeostrum geþoncum, swa him geþywe ne wæs. Hæfde ligdraca leoda fæsten, ealond utan, eorðweard ðone gledum forgrunden; him ðæs guðkyning, Wedera þioden, wræce leornode. [Then the news of that disaster was quickly brought to Beowulf that his own home, the best of buildings, the gift-throne of the Geats, had melted in the burning waves. That was a pain in the heart for the good man, the greatest anguish; the wise one supposed that he had bitterly offended the Ruler, the eternal Lord, against the old law. His breast welled with dark thoughts, which was not his custom. The fire-dragon had obliterated with flames the fortress of the nation, the stronghold, from outside the island; the war-king, chieftain of the Weders, studied how to avenge that. Emphasis added.]

Grendel’s death-wail shook Heorot almost to bursting point (782b–8a), but he could not approach its throne; the dragon simply reduces the throne of the Geats to ashes. Beowulf sees his seat of power melt away in a flood of fiery waves, a melting which echoes the disintegration of the blade he had used to extinguish the Grendel-kin, and also the Flood imagery prevalent in the earlier confl ict. After his initial sorrow, Beowulf resolves to take his revenge on the dragon, though not before pausing for a moment of moral reflection, wondering what he has done to offend God by acting contrary to the ‘ancient law’.

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The exact significance of ealde riht here is unclear, and I do not wish to enter into the controversy over the meaning of the expression.90 It would seem from the looseness of the phrase that the poet is less interested here – as in most instances where his heroic material intersects with religious perspectives – in providing his audience with an understanding of which ‘ancient law’ Beowulf might have in mind, than in emphasizing the king’s reaction to the dragon’s fiery assault. In the wider narrative this reflective moment provides a turning point in the poem, after which the elderly king’s intermediate years are recalled, though this does not have the character of an examination of conscience. Interest in the exact meaning of ealde riht should not divert attention from the complex moral reflex suggested by Beowulf’s moment of introspection. Why should the blame for the devastation of the kingdom fall on Beowulf and not on the thief who has disturbed the dragon? And indeed, why search for culpability beyond that of the vengeful dragon itself? It would seem that the national calamity represented by the dragon’s attack, which anticipates the expected Swedish invasion, demands moral reflection on the part of the nation’s leader. This reaction recalls those, discussed in Chapter 4, provoked by the Viking attacks in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. In the case of Lindisfarne, Alcuin’s response was not to dwell on the wickedness of the Vikings, but to suggest that the attack was the result of general sinfulness among the people of Northumbria, and specifically of the moral failings of the royal house. The fornication and incest, which had spread since the reign of Ælfwold, and the persistence of ‘avarice, robbery, violent judgments’ in Ethelred’s own time were understood as the real cause. Any of these, Alcuin suggests, might be the ‘unheard-of evil practice’ which had provoked God into sending evil-doers to visit their wickedness on the kingdom. The whole of history, especially the Old Testament, shows how God chastises his people when they stray. In this light Beowulf’s reaction appears anachronistically as that of a Christian king with a well-formed conscience, though he has no helpful churchman to castigate him. The poet is not retrospectively making Beowulf a Christian king, but presenting his interaction with divine governance in ‘contemporary’ terms with a moral reflex that became a commonplace in Anglo-Saxon

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political thought in the wake of the first Viking attacks, themselves presaged by fiery dragon-flights.91 The subsequent silence on whether or not the king has infringed implies a negative answer, and so places both the dragon’s attacks and the expected Swedish invasion in a context which makes it impossible to read them as Divine retribution directed at Beowulf himself. Beowulf’s meditations on a possible offence against the ‘old law’ do not lead to the discovery of any sin, but quickly give way to action. After preparing his iron shield, designed to ward off the dragon’s flames, Beowulf and his companions are led by the thief to the dragon’s dwelling (2409–12a): He ofer willan giong to ðæs ðe he eorðsele anne wisse, hlæw under hrusan holmwylme neh, yðgewinne. [He alone knew where the earth-hall stood, an underground cave near the sea-surge, the wave-battle. Emphasis added.]

The cave by the sea recalls Grendel’s own watery dwelling, under a lake similarly occupied by serpents. The characterization of the sea in a state of warfare with itself by the dragon’s home is not only a striking visual image, but recalls the only other use of the compound, unique to the poem, in the description of Grendel’s mere at the moment a Geatish warrior kills one of the serpents inhabiting its warring waters (yðgewinnes, 1434a). The parallels between the two places are most evident in their surging waters, which echo the surge of flame that has engulfed the Geats’ hall (brynewylmum, 2326b), itself a distant echo of the battle surge expected for Heorot (heaðowylma, 82b). Where Beowulf’s courage is rewarded in his battle with Grendel, a sense of impending and inevitable doom is created by the poet around the later encounter (2417–24). Wishing well to his heorðgeneatum (‘hearth-companions’), Beowulf sits to survey the scene, as had the troop some fifty years earlier at Grendel’s lake (1424b), when despite the expectations of the Danes his luck had held. In his heroic boast before the fight Beowulf again submits himself to the force of destiny (2510–37), waiting for the heaðufyres hates (‘hot battle-fire’, 2522) outside the dragon’s lair. The poet’s description of the stream issuing from

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the barrow fuses the waters with the dragon’s surging flames (2542–9): Geseah ða be wealle – se ðe worna fela, gumcystum god, guða gedigde, hildehlemma, þonne hnitan feðan – stondan stanbogan, stream ut þonan brecan of beorge. Wæs þære burnan wælm heaðofyrum hat; ne meahte horde neah unbyrnende ænige hwile deop gedygan for dracan lege. [He saw then by the wall – he who had survived a great many conflicts, good in manly virtues, the crash of battles when foot soldiers clashed – stone arches standing, and a stream shooting forth from the barrow, its surge was hot with deadly flames, and near the hoard he could not survive for very long unburnt, before the dragon’s flame.]

The fusion of the properties of fire and water is reinforced by the poet’s careful play on words: the boiling surge of the stream (burnan) promises Beowulf will not be unburnt (unbyrnende). The scenery deliberately recalls Grendel’s mere – here again by the surging sea we have a cave, a stream and a cliff (stancleofu, ‘stone-cliff’, 2540a). It appears the waters are boiling, but the poet’s ambiguity also invokes a parallel to the mysterious fire in the waters emerging from the cliff at Grendel’s mere (fyr on flod, 1366a). A relationship between the two is also suggested by the description of the mysterious construction of the barrow (2715b–19): Ða se æðeling giong, þæt he bi wealle wishycgende gesæt on sesse; seah on enta geweorc, hu ða stanbogan stapulum fæste ece eorðreced innan healde. [Then the nobleman went so that he sat on a seat by the wall. On that work of giants he gazed, saw how stone arches and sturdy pillars held up the inside of that ancient earth-hall. Emphasis added.]

The giants are again associated with the cave in the description of the treasures taken from the barrow (2773–7a):

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Ða ic on hlæwe gefrægn hord reafian, eald enta geweorc, anne mannan, him on bearm hladon bunan ond discas sylfes dome; segn eac genom, beacna beorhtost. [Then, as I have heard, the hoard was looted, ancient work of giants, by one man alone, he piled in his arms cups and plates, whatever he wanted, he took the ensign too, brightest of beacons. Emphasis added.]

While other objects in the poem are described as giant-ish, only the barrow and its treasures, like Grendel’s giant sword, are the giants’ work (enta geweorc). Of the eight uses in Old English verse of the formula enta geweorc (or slight variations of it), three are found in Beowulf (1679a, 2717b, 2774a). The boiling waters of the dragon’s cave, with its arches, columns and long-dead race (though not its coastal location) might echo the context of the enta geweorc at Bath in The Ruin (2b), but in Beowulf the expression is carefully used to form part of a pattern. The works of the giants are associated first with the ancient Flood and their destruction, and secondly with an ancient structure from which emerges the fiery devastation of Beowulf’s kingdom and his own death. The expression is found twice in Andreas, at 1235a to describe the streets along which the saint is dragged and at 1495a to describe the columns from which issues the allegorical flood, purging Mermedonia of its cannibals. The relationship of these two uses to Beowulf will be discussed below, but suffice it to say that in Andreas the ancient work of giants is associated with two floods: the flood of redemptive blood which he pours out on the streets of Mermedonia, and the eschatological flood which washes and saves the city. In The Wanderer, the destruction of the works of the giants evokes the ancient Flood and is associated by the poet with the future annihilation of the world. These six references to the giants’ works draw on the historical recollection of the Flood which destroyed them in contexts charged with the expectation of future destruction.92 Beowulf’s death Beowulf does not have to wait long before the dragon attacks with fire, and the apocalyptic element evoked by the fiery attack on

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his kingdom is reinforced by the metaphoric alignment in the language of the poem between the dragon’s fire and the surging of the flood. This imagery, anticipated in the poet’s description of the fiery stream, is intensified in the second and third of the dragon’s attacks (2669–72): Æfter ðam wordum wyrm yrre cwom, atol inwitgæst, oðre siðe fyrwylmum fah fionda niosian, laðra manna, ligyðum for. [After these words the worm came in anger, terrible wicked spirit, a second time, scorched with surging flames, seeking out his enemies, the hated men, came in flame-waves. Emphasis added.]

As Beowulf’s sword fails, his ebbing life-blood joins the wave imagery: he geblodegod wearð sawuldriore,/ swat yðum weoll (‘he was bloodied by his mortal wounds – blood gushed in waves’, 2692a–3).93 The battle does not go well for Beowulf, and wyrd does not grant him victory in the face of the flame (2569–75a). The hero’s death is individual, but death is universal, and inevitable for each human being: þonne he forð scile/ of lichaman læded weorðan (‘when he must be led forth from the body’, 3176b–7).94 In the same way fate has also swept away all Beowulf’s kinsmen to their unknown destiny: Ealle wyrd forsweop mine magas to metodsceafte, eorlas on elne; ic him æfter sceal (‘Fate utterly swept away all my kinsmen by the Maker’s decree, warriors in their courage; I must go after them’, 2814b–16). Despite the exceptional circumstances of Beowulf’s death, the poet emphasizes death’s universality (2589–91a): sceolde ofer willan wic eardian/ elles hwergen, swa sceal æghwylc mon/ alætan lændagas (‘he was forced against his will to fi nd a place of rest elsewhere – just as every one of us must give up these loaned days.’) King Beowulf as a monster-killing hero is hardly an everyman figure, but he is a man and he must die. The elderly king’s death, which some have argued reflects his vainglorious folly, is in the end as unavoidable as anyone’s.95 This reflection is wrapped in the poem in the language of flood and fire, recalling the waters which wait to surge once again across the earth, and the great fire which on the last day will engulf the whole world. This will serve as the prelude to the judgment which Beowulf himself awaits (2817–20):

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Þæt wæs þam gomelan gingæste word breostgehygdum, ær he bæl cure, hate heaðowylmas; him of hreðre gewat sawol secean soðfæstra dom. [That was the last word of the old warrior, his fi nal thought before he should choose the pyre, the hot surging fl ames – from his breast flew his soul to seek the judgment [or glory] of the truth-fast.]

Beowulf’s seeking of the flames of the funeral pyre may recall the damning of the heathen to hell’s fires at the beginning of the poem, but also anticipates the ‘judgment of the truth-fast’.96 The difficult word, soðfæstra, coupled with dom, has led to the suggestion that the poet is damning the pagan hero with vague praise. Indeed, the poem’s fi nal word presents a sting in the tail, describing the now cremated Beowulf as lofgeornost (‘most eager for praise’, 3182b), a term which evidence suggests is ambiguous, and may be taken as a condemnation of his proud desire for glory.97 But the meaning of the word, despite its significant placement, is something of a moot point: it is his hearthcompanions who are passing comment here in a subtle extension of the poem’s fire imagery. The poet’s reference to Beowulf’s heorðgeneatas (‘hearth-companions’, 3178) – who should not necessarily be identified with the sons of princes riding around his pyre – as they sing his praises in the poem’s last lines is grimly ironic. Beowulf’s virtue as a king in his hall is expressed in terms of his loyalty to his hearth-companions (2180), and he addresses his heorðgeneatas at the dragon’s cave (2418). The contrast is almost bitter: those closest to him would sit around the hall fire with him and receive his gifts, but for fear would not approach the dragon’s fire with him, and are left to mourn him around the fire which has consumed his body, where noble words of praise contrast with lack of action. We should not be surprised that his people who had deserted Beowulf in his battle with the dragon, and who now face their enemies without him, should mix praise of his virtues with recrimination. By giving the last word on his hero to the hearth-troop, the poet maintains reticence on the fate of his hero after death – souls are committed to God’s judgment, not man’s. However the reference to Beowulf’s dom is read, the thrust here is clearly forward, anticipating judgment, and this eschato-

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logical expectation is coupled with fire. Beowulf’s own pyre, when he comes to it, is all-consuming. A bæl can simply be a ‘funeral pyre’ or ‘bonfire’, but in Christ II, it is used by Cynewulf to signify that fire which will at the end of time consume the whole world (807b–14): Þonne frætwe sculon byrnan on bæle; blac rasetteð recen reada leg, reþe scriþeð geond woruld wide. Wongas hreosað, burgstede berstað. Brond bið on tyhte, æleð ealdgestreon unmurnlice, gæsta gifrast, þæt geo guman heoldan, þenden him on eorþan onmedla wæs. [Then the treasure must burn in the fire; bright the swift red fire will rage, swiftly it will turn widely throughout the world. The plains will sink, cities explode. The flame will charge, without remorse, the greediest of spirits, will devour ancient treasure which formerly men held while earthly vanity was theirs.]

The mood is echoed at the close of Beowulf – his stronghold has been destroyed by flame, and the useless ancient treasure long hoarded by the dragon is mixed with the ashes of the king’s body and armour (3137–40; 3160a–8). Wiglaf’s fidelity to his doomed lord in distress cannot prevent Beowulf’s death. The appeals to the honour of Beowulf’s fearful troop fail, and Wiglaf’s rallying speech – recalling in detail the feasting, boasting, and the gifts of battle-gear bestowed by the king in the hall (2633–60) – and his later reminder of their failure (2864–91) serve to recall that this life has already gone up in flames. Wiglaf’s words are not hollow, and he fulfils his own boast that he is ready to die in the ‘grim fire-terror’ (gledegesa grim, 2650a), but the attempt to fi x the warriors’ minds on the worthiness of the heroic life of the hall in the wake of its annihilation becomes only a more poignant reminder of the transience of earthly glory. His two speeches envelop the account of the king’s own death before the dragon’s flames, winning a treasure which has no hall to go to, and no troop which has merited it. In the end this hoard, already associated with the universal passing of hall joys in the speech of the ‘last survivor’ (2247–67), who himself was swept up in the ‘flood of death’ (deaðes wylm, 2269b), is consigned to ashes. The attempts of those who had cursed the treasure to impart some permanence even to the wealth of the

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dead proves futile as a dragon takes it over, a thief plunders it, and fi nally it is returned to the dirt.98 With a mood of sombre fi nality the Geats, anticipating their own destruction in the cycle of war and feud, set fire to Beowulf’s body (3143–56b). The poem that began with infant arriving over ocean ends with an old man, dead, watching over it, his tomb a beacon to those travelling on the flod (2802–8, 3158). The extinguished fire-dragon is unceremoniously pushed over the cliff wall into the same flood, which encircles the poem and the world, where the waves take him (3131b–3): Dracan ec scufun, wyrm ofer weallclif, leton weg niman, flod fæðmian frætwa hyrde. [They also pushed the dragon, the worm over the cliff-wall, let the waves take him, the flood embrace the guard of the treasure.]

The ends met by the two protagonists emphasize the transience of creation in mythic terms: the flood, water and fire, are allembracing and ultimately all-destroying. Beowulf and Andreas The Anglo-Saxon audience of Beowulf might have speculated on the ultimate destination of Beowulf’s sawol (‘soul’) – modern audiences certainly have – but this is set out in terms far more ambiguous than Scyld Scefi ng’s earlier journey to the ‘Lord’s protection’ (frean wære, 27b). The allegorical application of the Flood myth elsewhere in the works of the Anglo-Saxons is not prominent in Beowulf, a story with no baptism and no Church. If the poem touches on the question of the salvation of the gentile nations, a prominent element in other Anglo-Saxon treatments of the Flood story, this link is left for the reader to make. Authors with a clearer theological interest draw out these implications carefully, and none more emphatically than the Andreas poet. The convergence of Flood imagery in the two poems is curious, given the relationship between Andreas and Beowulf has vexed criticism of the two poems. Metrical and lexical evidence suggests a close relationship, and the broad parallels between elements of their stories, such as the unusual element of cannibalism, add weight to arguments suggesting that one of the poets was aware of and influenced by the work of the other.99 For those who

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accept the existence of an inter-relationship, the consensus is that the Andreas poet owes a debt to Beowulf, which served him as a hoard of words and poetic formulae that – perhaps with occasional clumsiness – have been incorporated into an Anglo-Saxon heroic recasting of the Byzantine legend. A recurrent focus in discussion of the relationship between the two poems has been the shared formulaic expression of terror: the Danes’ fear at the roar of the battle between Grendel and Beowulf, and the Mermedonians’ terror at the flood which is overwhelming their city, characterized as an ironic flood-drink. In Beowulf the expression is opaque (767–9a): Dryhtsele dynede; Denum eallum wearð, ceasterbuendum, cenre gehwylcum, eorlum ealuscerwen. [The noble hall dinned; to the Danes, the city-dwellers, to each of the brave men it was an ale-share [or ‘pouring’]. Emphasis added.]

In Andreas, the metaphor of the drink is more obvious (1526b–8a; 1532b–5): Meoduscerwen wearð æfter symbeldæge, slæpe tobrugdon searuhæbbende. . . . . . . Þæt wæs sorgbyrþen, biter beorþegu. Byrlas ne gældon, ombehtþegnas. Þær wæs ælcum genog fram dæges orde drync sona gearu. [After the feasting day the mead-share [or ‘pouring’] came about, the armoured warriors shook off sleep . . . That was a sorrowful brew, a bitter binge of beer. The cup-bearers and stewards did not delay. There was enough for each one, a drink quickly ready, at the beginning of the day. Emphasis added.]

However, the expression is still ambiguous and the metaphor which lies behind it unclear. If ‘ale-share’ is a variant of ‘meadshare’, as seems probable, then Beowulf, like Andreas, is developing an association, the roots of which are obscure, between drinking in the hall and the terror of death; the metaphor is not found elsewhere in the Old English corpus.100 The question of the significance of the parallel has proven a difficult one to settle, and though it has been tacitly accepted that

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the scenes described present quite different events, viewed in the wider context of both poems shared elements emerge. The Danes’ terror grows (782b–8a): Sweg up astag niwe geneahhe; Norðdenum stod atelic egesa, anra gehwylcum þara þe of wealle wop gehyrdon, gryreleoð galan godes ondsacan, sigeleasne sang, sar wanigean helle hæfton. [The roar climbed often anew; among the North-Danes stood a awful terror, for each one of them who heard the cry through the wall, God’s enemy chanted a grisly-song, sang defeated, hell’s captive lamented his pain. Emphasis added.]

Until this moment the Danes had thought that only liges fæþm (‘the embrace of fire’, 781b) could swallow their hall. The Mermedonians see both water and fire devouring their city (1545–53): wægas weoxon, wadu hlynsodon, flugon fyrgnastas, flod yðum weoll. Ðær wæs yðfynde innan burgum geomorgidd wrecen, gehðo mænan forhtferð manig, fusleoð galen. Egeslic æled eagsyne wearð, heardlic hereteam, hleoðor gryrelic. Þurh lyftgelac leges blæstas weallas ymbwurpon, wæter mycladon. [the waves grew, the surf roared, sparks flew, the flood welled in waves. There in the city the sung lament was easily found, many frightened hearts bemoaned grief, keened for those on the way of death. The terrifying fire was easily seen, grievous devastation, the gruesome sound; blasts of flame wrapped around the walls through the whirlwind; the waters grew great. Emphasis added.]

In both poems not only is there fear, but also songs of lament, unbearably loud noise and fear of overwhelming destruction. In the wider context, other parallels emerge. In Beowulf the poet uses the ealuscerwen metaphor to describe the pagan Danes’ terror of destruction in the fight with the cannibalistic Grendel, whose demise is intimately associated with the giants in the

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Flood. In Andreas, a group of pagans, cannibals themselves, are terrified as their hall and city are washed clean by a flood, which is associated with the Flood in a complex typological metaphor. In Beowulf, Heorot is cleansed by the destruction of the devilish cannibal, and in Andreas the Mermedonians’ hall is similarly purified of devilish cannibals. It is most unlikely that these parallels are coincidental, and just as unlikely that all are a part of the ‘ale/mead-share’ metaphor. The parallels between the two scenes are focused on roaring noise and the fear it inspires. In Beowulf this detail is naturalistic; in Andreas, however, the water, fire and roar are all directly related to the poem’s clearly developed eschatological theme centred on the myth of the Flood.101 The parallels are probably not accidental, and it would seem that the Andreas poet owes more than a rhetorical debt to Beowulf at this point. The borrowing of the drinking metaphor does not represent the empty taking-over of a convenient form of expression (no longer so clear), and the Andreas poet seems conscious of a range of parallels between the two scenes, which he develops to their fullest eschatological potential. The convergence of Flood imagery across the two poems is striking. In Beowulf the full theological typology of the Flood is not developed, though without doubt the myth of the Flood is a crucial one among the many threads from which the poem is woven. The mythical Flood is an ancient archetypal event, a universal cataclysm inseparable from the sins of Cain and his descendants, and ultimately the means and symbol of their defeat in their war with God. This war forms the backdrop to the Danes’ problems with the Cainite Grendel, and it is within the parameters of this mythological contest that Beowulf’s own defeat of the Grendel-kin is presented. But Beowulf is not God, and at the end of the poem this great pagan hero, unlike the mighty men of old, is not venerated as one.102 The same humanity which is emphasized in his defeat by the dragon is shared by the poem’s audience, and while they might not be able to emulate his monster-slaying, they fi nd themselves living within the same universe defi ned by the contest of good and evil, creation and destruction, life and death. The typology of the Flood has influenced the composition of Beowulf in both the contest with Grendel and in the eschatological drift with which the poem draws to a close. The surge of fire – represented most clearly in the dragon – promises the ultimate fulfilment of an expectation

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of a universal fiery destruction embedded in the Flood myth, after which all of humanity will hope for the judgment of the righteous. In the poem the Flood is the cosmic myth of recreation and destruction: the typology of baptism and Church is absent entirely. While the Beowulf poet was not interested in full-blown biblical typology, the Andreas poet was almost obsessed by it. In Chapter 4, I discussed in detail the key role of Flood typology in Andreas, and the climactic flood which both symbolizes and brings about the conversion and baptism of the wicked city. The flood, which is described as a meoduscerwen in line 1526, is introduced by a passage which we need to examine once more (Andreas, 1492–1508a): He be wealle geseah wundrum fæste under sælwage sweras unlytle, stapulas standan, storme bedrifene, eald enta geweorc. He wið anne þæra, mihtig ond modrof, mæðel gehede, wis, wundrum gleaw, word stunde ahof: ‘Geher ðu, marmanstan, meotudes rædum, fore þæs onsyne ealle gesceafte forhte geweorðað, þonne hie fæder geseoð heofonas ond eorðan herigea mæste on middangeard mancynn secan. Læt nu of þinum staþole streamas weallan, ea inflede, nu ðe ælmihtig hateð, heofena cyning, þæt ðu hrædlice on þis fræte folc forð onsende wæter widrynig to wera cwealme, geofon geotende. [He saw by the wall, under the wall of the hall, large pillars wondrously fi rm, columns standing beaten by storms, the ancient work of giants. He formally addressed one of them, wise, wondrously astute, lifted up words for a while: ‘Listen, marble stone, to the counsels of the Creator, before whose face all creatures will become afraid when they see the Father of heaven and earth seeking mankind throughout middle-earth with the greatest of armies. Now let streams well up out of your foundation, a great flowing river, now that the Almighty commands you, the King of the heavens, that you quickly send forth wide running waters, a surging ocean, over this proud nation for the killing of men. Emphasis added.]

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The poet continues his description of the columns in a way which links them to a series of Old Testament types focused, as is all the typology in the poem, on the salvation of the pagans. But the passage also evokes, for the reader of Beowulf, another set of associations. Most striking among these is the convergence of imagery around the scene of the hero, seated by a wall. The passage in Andreas echoes two in Beowulf, both of which describe the old king outside the dragon’s barrow – the first before his battle, the second exhausted after a great battle – gazing on an ancient structure supported by columns (Beowulf, 2542–9, 2715a–19): Geseah ða be wealle se ðe worna fela, gumcystum god, guða gedigde, hildehlemma, þonne hnitan feðan, stondan stanbogan, stream ut þonan brecan of beorge. Wæs þære burnan wælm heaðofyrum hat; ne meahte horde neah unbyrnende ænige hwile deop gedygan for dracan lege. [He saw then by the wall – he who had survived a great many conflicts, good in manly virtues, the crash of battles when foot-soldiers clashed – stone arches standing, and a stream shooting forth from the barrow, its surge was hot with deadly flames, and near the hoard he could not survive for very long unburnt, before the dragon’s flame. Emphasis added.] Ða se æðeling giong, þæt he bi wealle wishycgende gesæt on sesse; seah on enta geweorc, hu ða stanbogan stapulum fæste ece eorðreced innan healde. [Then the nobleman, wise-thinking, went so that he sat on a seat by the wall. On that work of giants he gazed, saw how stone arches and sturdy pillars held up the inside of that ancient earth-hall. Emphasis added.]

The similarities between the scenes again extend beyond formulaic expression, and the Andreas poet is doing much more than recasting his saint in derivative heroic terms. The poet’s debt to Beowulf is very close, and the convergence of language and the situation in which the heroes fi nd themselves is striking: in the

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latter passage, Beowulf has just been wounded by the dragon, while Andrew’s torture, led by the devil, has just ended. The reference to the enta geweorc takes the association further. Not only are the structures similar in their columns, but where in Beowulf a steaming flood of dragon-fired water surges from the barrow, in Andreas a stream is to be summoned that, joined with an angel’s covering fire, will convert the city and prepare it for Judgment. The recollection of the ancient giants, an integral part of the Beowulf poet’s pattern of allusion to the Flood, is carefully taken over in Andreas, where the typology of the Flood is brought to the fore. The heroes are drawn together – and implicitly compared by the Andreas poet – by the close parallels between the scenes. Each hero faces a crisis as he sits by the wall. The uniquely shared expression again points to careful borrowing on the part of the Andreas poet. In both poems the heroes bleed waves of blood in the suffering which leads them to their shared moment of recollection by the wall: swat yðum weoll (Beowulf, 2693b; Andreas, 1275b). Beowulf’s wounds – inflicted by the dragon – show his valour, but signify his death. Like the surging fiery stream issuing from the dragon’s cave, the tide of death will overtake him, and he will go off to face judgment. It is difficult to know if the Beowulf poet intended his dragon to represent the devil, but the Andreas poet, who delights in biblical symbolism, would easily have seen this side of the dragon’s character. The saint’s torture in his allegorical battle is led by the devil, but, while Andrew’s wounds also show valour, they signify life. His wounds are miraculously healed before the flood comes out of his ‘giant’ wall, and his blood is symbolically Christ’s, which washes the pagans clean. However, Andreas is not a Christianized Beowulf, any more than Beowulf is an allegory of salvation. It would be fanciful to imagine that the Beowulf poet’s construction of the scene in which his elderly hero is seated by a cavernous ruin, gazing on a boiling stream, is designed to evoke a full-blown typological allegory of the flood. In a naturalistic detail, Wiglaf sprinkles water on the dying king’s burning wounds (2720–3), but he does not and cannot baptize him. By the same token, however, it would be fanciful to imagine that Andrew sitting by his pillared wall is not designed to evoke a full-blown theological typology of the Flood in the

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water that emerges from it. This flood does indeed ‘baptize’ the pagan city – a baptism which from the Andreas poet’s Christian perspective might have done the pagan Beowulf some good in the moment before his death. The description of the stream emerging from the wall in Andreas as a geofon geotende (‘surging ocean’) is strikingly unrealistic. In Beowulf, however, the sole allusion by the poet to the sea as the ‘surging ocean’ is found at the heart of the passage which forms the nexus of the pattern of the poem’s Flood imagery, and which contains the only direct reference to the waters of the ancient Flood in the entire poem (1687–93): Hroðgar maðelode – hylt sceawode, ealde lafe, on ðæm wæs or writen fyrngewinnes, syðþan flod ofsloh, gifen geotende giganta cyn, frecne geferdon; þæt wæs fremde þeod ecean Dryhtne; him þæs endelean þurh wæteres wylm Waldend sealde. [Hrothgar spoke, gazed on the hilt, the ancient heirloom, on which was written the origin of the ancient struggle, when the Flood, the surging ocean, slew the race of giants – they behaved audaciously, that was a nation alien to the eternal Lord; the Ruler gave them a fi nal reward for that through the water’s surge. Emphasis added.]

The Andreas poet uses the word geofon (‘ocean’) frequently (393a, 489a, 498a, 852b, 1508a, 1585b, 1624b), and occasionally in contexts suggesting an almost obsessive preoccupation with the ocean and seas: in one passage in which geofon is used twice, the poet also refers directly to the sea thirteen times in the space of eighteen lines (487–504). While geofon is not an unusual poetic word meaning ‘ocean’, the formula geofon geotende is less common, and throughout the Old English poetic corpus found only in Beowulf and Andreas. In Beowulf the formula is found only once (gifen geotende, 1690a); in Andreas it is used twice (393a, 1508a), and in a third instance the two words are used in a close collocation (1585b, 1590a). The first of these is in a context charged with typological allusion to the image of the ship of the Church afloat on the waves of this world. In a speech (384–95) also potent with Eucharistic imagery

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(heofonlicne hlaf, ‘heavenly loaf’, 387a), Andrew thanks the anonymous pilot for the sustenance he has given on the ‘surging ocean’ (393a); at the literal level the reference to the ‘surging ocean’ is not inappropriate. This is not the case in the second use of the formula at line 1508a, describing the Mermedonian flood, and as these waters recede they are again described as a surging ocean (1585b–90; see also 1624b): Geofon swaðrode þurh haliges hæs, hlyst yst forgeaf, brimrad gebad. Þa se beorg tohlad, eorðscræf egeslic, ond þær in forlet flod fæðmian, fealewe wægas, geotende gegrind; grund eall forswealg. [By the saint’s command the ocean subsided, the storm listened, the sea-road abated. Then he opened in the hill a terrible earthcave, and let it embrace the fallow waves, the surging crash; the abyss swallowed everything. Emphasis added.]

The reference to the ‘surging ocean’ in the flooding of Mermedonia cannot include the literal sense it had earlier, and the poet’s recurrent use of the expression suggests a relationship to the geofon geotende in Beowulf. In a poem with repeated reference to the sea, the Andreas poet reserves use of this shared expression for two moments when Flood typology is brought to the fore. In the first the literal sense is clearly present, but subsumed in an appeal to the commonplace association of the ark and the Church; in the later passage the letter of the expression is overwhelmed by metaphor, evoking the baptismal and apocalyptic typology which the Flood presents. It is more than tempting to see in this parallel not the artless borrowing of an inferior poet, but in the case at least of the poems’ shared use of the symbolism of the Flood, a careful pattern of borrowing by which the Andreas poet incorporates and transforms the rhetoric of Beowulf. Beowulf is not overly concerned with the question of the salvation of the pagans; in Andreas we have a poem concerned with little else. Nevertheless, Beowulf presents more virtuous pagans alongside damned idolaters, as does Andreas. Beowulf has presented generations of scholars with the problem of understanding the poet’s attitude to the Anglo-Saxons’ pagan past, and, in the case of the Danes, a possible pagan Viking present.

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In her classic essay on the subject, Whitelock argued that what she saw as the poem’s sympathetic treatment of the Danes was incompatible with any period when the Viking menace would have hardened attitudes to the pagan invaders.103 Just how sympathetic a treatment of the Danes Beowulf offers has been one of the critical discussions generated by Whitelock’s investigation, as has the question of Anglo-Saxon attitude to the Vikings for the centuries after their first attacks. One extreme, and scholarly, opinion is expressed by Abbo in his introduction to the Danes in his Passio S. Eadmundi, written during his stay at Ramsey in 985–7 (chapter 5, lines 8–25):104 Nec mirum, cum uenerint indurati frigore suae malitiae ab illo terrae uertice quo sedem suam posuit qui per elationem Altissimo similis esse concupiuit. Denique constat iuxta prophetae uaticinium quod ab aquilone uenit omne malum, sicut plus aequo didicere, perperam passi aduersos iactus cadentis tesserae, qui aquilonalium gentium experti sunt seuitiam: quas certum est adeo crudeles esse naturali ferocitate ut nescient malis hominum mitescere, quandoquidem quidem quidam ex eis populi uescuntur humanis carnibus, qui ex facto Greca appellatione Antropofagi uocantur. Talesque nationes abundant plurimae infra Scithiam prope Hyperboreos montes, quae antichristum, ut legimus, secuturae sunt ante omnes gentes, ut absque ulla miseratione pascantur hominum cruciatibus . . . Vnde iam inquietando Christocolas pacem cum eis habere nequeunt. [And it is not surprising, that they have come hardened by cold with their malice from that polar land above, from where he put his seat who desired through arrogance to be like the Most High. At length it says in the foretelling of the prophet that from the north comes all evil, as those who have experienced the savagery of the northern peoples, experts in cruelty, have learnt all too well: it is certain that the cruel ones are fierce by nature so that the evil men cannot know how to be mild, since indeed some of these people feed upon human flesh, who for this reason the Greeks call Anthropophagi [cannibals]. And this kind of nation abounds more among the Scythians near the Hyperborean Mountains – whence the Antichrist, so we read – they are fearless before all nations, so that without any mercy they feed upon tortured men . . . Whence now they come disturbing the worshippers of Christ, who are unable to have peace.]

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Abbo’s literary sources are Jeremiah 1:14, Isidore’s Etymologies (9.2.132) and Revelation 20:4, but it is impossible to determine the source of Abbo’s severe attitude; his reference to the Antichrist suggests a millennial expectation, though the martyrdom he describes occurred in 869. Abbo leaves the reader in no doubt about his attitude to the Danes in the mid-980s, and his comments are all the more striking given the link between Beowulf and Andreas. In Beowulf we fi nd an account of ignorant yet noble pagans in the ancient north suffering cannibalistic attacks from a hellfiend, while in Andreas the saint is sent to deliver not only Matthew from the captivity of the pagan Mermedonians, but the cannibalistic Mermedonians from their captivity to the devil. Whereas in Beowulf the pagans are not cannibals, in Andreas we find a race very much like the demonic northern monsters characterized by Abbo. It is impossible to know if Abbo was the first to align the Danes with Scythian monsters, or whether the Andreas poet could have been familiar with his Passio – such an assumption would not be at odds with the date of the Vercelli Book (s. x2), though it would extend this to its later limits. While it is not possible to determine the attitude to the Danes and other northern pagans expressed in Beowulf, Abbo’s opinion is certainly clear. The Andreas poet also takes an interest in cannibals captive to the devil, though his attitude of patient evangelical suffering for the pagans’ salvation is quite the opposite of Abbo’s demonization. Given the awkwardness with which the characterization of Andrew as warrior hero is carried out, it is highly unlikely that the poet is simply borrowing a range of ‘suitable’ expression from Beowulf in an attempt to make his saint sound like a warrior. Is there, then, a purpose underlying the parallels between the texts, and what can they tell us about the genesis of Andreas? In the unusual longer version of the Acta, which he chose to turn into verse, the Andreas poet would have found a race very much like Abbo’s ‘Scythian’ Danes, but in a narrative of conversion a different response to such pagans. In the legend the cannibalistic nation is one to be pitied and called to salvation by an albeit reluctant Andrew, not anathematized. In Beowulf, a poem he seems to have known so closely that we must suspect this knowledge was textual (and, given the distribution of their shared for-

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mulae across Beowulf, from a copy of the poem very similar to the one surviving), the Andreas poet would have found Grendel, a northern cannibalistic monster with whom the idolatrous Danes shared geography, but from his point of view little else. The poet would also have found in Beowulf a poem in which the hero’s great deeds are aligned with the mythic event of the Flood; he would also have found the same in the legend of the saint. It is within this convergence of attitudes and ideas, I would suggest, that the peculiar poem Andreas emerges. Conclusion Andreas does not offer any resolution to the question of whether or not Beowulf, as a virtuous pagan, is ‘saved’. As an overtly religious poem, Andreas’s approach to those who are captive to sin and the devil is more straightforward: they must repent and be baptized. It is no coincidence that Andreas, exhibiting a close familiarity with the text of Beowulf, is also directly concerned with the evangelization of the pagans. Close textual parallels in scenes which are thematically related suggest a careful pattern of borrowing and allusion on the part of the Andreas poet. Given the earnest nature of the evangelical subject matter, it is not likely that Andreas is simply an Anglo-Saxon exercise in intertextuality designed to delight the author alone. For his poem to have its full impact, it must have been aimed at an audience which not only knew Beowulf, but also knew the poem well. Such a suggestion is doubtless contentious; however, given that we know almost nothing about the circulation of vernacular poetry in late AngloSaxon England, and the size of the original intended audience of a poem like Andreas, it should not be assumed that it was necessarily intended to travel far beyond the milieu in which it was written – most probably a religious community where complex theological typology was appreciated (and a book like the Acta available). If the Andreas poet knew Beowulf, in text or oral tradition, those in his community must surely have known it too, either in their library or from the Andreas poet’s own mouth. This audience, like the poet, would also have been aware of a range of attitudes to their pagan neighbours.

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The Andreas poet exploits the intersection of Flood symbolism in the ancient Anglo-Saxon epic and Byzantine saint’s life neither to speculate on the virtues of pagans nor simply to recast the apostle in heroic terms, but to state more firmly the promise of salvation to the righteous of all nations. I have argued that the symbolism of the Flood is crucial to an understanding of Beowulf, and that this symbolism was incorporated by a poetic imagination which appreciated fully the mythic significance of the Flood in human life, society and history. The same great metaphor lies at the heart of Andreas, but the poet’s understanding and use of it is quite different. In Andreas, Beowulf’s mythology is transformed into theology, and legendary pagans are transformed into gentiles whose spiritual destiny is fulfilled in the saving waters of the Flood. Notes 1 For a comprehensive review, see John D. Niles, ‘Myth and history’, in A Beowulf Handbook, ed. Robert E. Bjork and John D. Niles (Exeter, 1997), pp. 212–32. 2 See Karl Müllenhoff, ‘Der Mythus von Beovulf’, Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum, 7 (1849), 419–41; despite some afterlife, his argument was fi nally laid to rest by W. W. Lawrence, ‘Some Disputed Questions in Beowulf Criticism’, PMLA, 24 (1909), 220–73. 3 See, for example, J. M. Foley, ‘Beowulf and the Psychohistory of Anglo-Saxon Culture’, American Imago, 94 (1977), 153–84; J. Vaught, ‘Beowulf: the fight at the center’, Allegorica, 5 (1980), 125–37. More recently Howe, Migration and Mythmaking, 143–80, has argued persuasively that a ‘myth of migration’ informs the historical understanding of a range of Anglo-Saxon authors in their representations of the Anglo-Saxons as a Christian nation, and that this myth has informed some aspects of Beowulf. While there are points of intersection between my discussion and his, Howe’s focus on an ‘historical myth’ of national origin does not directly address the question of primeval myth in Beowulf; my hope is that this discussion complements, rather than contradicts, his. 4 See U. Dronke, ‘Beowulf and Ragnarøk’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society for Northern Research, 17 (1969), 302–25; Christine Rauer, Beowulf and the Dragon: Parallels and Analogues (Cambridge: Brewer, 2000). 5 See, for example, K. Sisam, The Structure of Beowulf (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), pp. 34–9. 6 See above, pp. 160, 112–21. 7 See above, pp. 13–14. 8 See Patrick Wormald, ‘Bede, Beowulf, and the Conversion of the Anglo-Saxon Aristocracy’, in Bede and Anglo-Saxon England: Papers in

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Water and fire Honour of the 1300th Anniversary of the Birth of Bede, Given at Cornell University in 1973 and 1974, ed. R. T. Farrell, British Archaeological Reports 46 (London, 1978), pp. 32–95. See E. B. Irving, Jr., ‘Christian and Pagan Elements’, in A Beowulf Handbook, ed. Bjork and Niles, pp. 175–92; and his ‘The nature of Christianity in Beowulf’, ASE, 13 (1984), 7–21. See, for example, A. Cabaniss, ‘Beowulf and the Liturgy’, JEGP, 54 (1955), 195–201; V. Black and B. Bethune, ‘Beowulf and the Rites of Holy Week’, Scintilla, 1 (1984), 5–23; M. Goldsmith, The Mode and Meaning of ‘Beowulf’ (London, 1970), in a more careful reading of the ‘theology’ of Beowulf warns against making such ‘exact allegorical correspondences’ (p. 121). For another type of allegorical reading, see B. Huppé, The Hero in the Earthly City: A Reading of ‘Beowulf’ (Binghamton, NY, 1980). See Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, ed. Klaeber, pp. l, civ; R. E. Bjork and A. Obermeier, ‘Date, Provenance, Author, Audiences’, in A Beowulf Handbook, ed. Bjork and Niles, pp. 13–34, at pp. 28–30. See K. P. Wentersdorf, ‘Beowulf: The Paganism of Hrothgar’s Danes’, Studies in Philology, 78 (1981), 91–119. For alternative views see, for example, E. G. Stanley, ‘Hæþenra Hyht in Beowulf’, in Studies in Old English Literature in Honour of Arthur G. Brodeur, ed. S. B. Greenfield (Eugene, OR, 1963), pp. 136–51; and A. G. Brodeur, The Art of Beowulf (Berkeley, CA, 1971), pp. 182–219. See F. A. Blackburn, ‘The Christian Coloring in the Beowulf’, PMLA, 12 (1897), 205–25, at p. 216; Brodeur, Art of Beowulf, p. 184. See Marijane Osborn, ‘The Great Feud: Scriptural History and the Strife in Beowulf’, PMLA, 93 (1978), 973–8, at pp. 973–4. Irving, ‘Christian and Pagan’, p. 189. See John D. Niles, ‘Beowulf’: The Poem and Its Tradition (Cambridge, MA, 1983), p. 47. If the Hengest mentioned in the Finn episode (1071–1159a) was understood by Anglo-Saxon audiences to have been one of the leaders of the invasion of Britain, they could well have been aware of the relative chronology of events. For a discussion of Hengest, see John D. Niles, ‘Locating Beowulf in Literary History’, Exemplaria, 5 (1993), 79–109, at pp. 98–101. Liber Monstrorum, ed. Orchard, in Pride and Prodigies, pp. 254–320. See M. Lapidge, ‘Beowulf, Aldhelm, the Liber Monstrorum and Wessex’, Studi Medievali, 3rd series, 23 (1982), 151–92, who proposes a date of c.650 × c.750, and West Saxon provenance. There is no clear evidence that names of persons or places in Beowulf have been borrowed from Old Norse in the period of Danish occupation. See Roberta Frank, ‘Skaldic verse’, in The Dating of ‘Beowulf’, ed. Chase, pp. 123–39, and E. G. Stanley, ‘Some doubts and no conclusions’, in The Dating of ‘Beowulf’, ed. Chase, pp. 197–211. Stanley’s plea that the purely English forms of Scandinavian names point to a poet ‘unusually good at comparative Germanic philology’ (p. 207), rather than an independently preserved English transmission, should be questioned. Despite Frank’s suggestion (p. 124), there is no reason to presume the poet would have depended on Danish knowledge of Hygelac.

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20 See Wright, ‘The blood of Abel’. 21 The hero of the poem is ultimately placed, as Niles has noted, in a complex net of temporal interdependencies that range from the beginning of Creation to the fi nal dissolution of time at Doomsday; see Niles, ‘Beowulf’, pp. 179–96. 22 Ker, no. 216, s. x/xi. The limits of the possible date of the manuscript have provoked controversy; see K. S. Kiernan, Beowulf and Beowulf Manuscript (Ann Arbor, MI, 1981, revised ed. 1996), pp. 13–63, and his ‘A Long Footnote for J. Gerritsen’s “Supplementary” description of BL Cotton MS Vitellius A. XV’, ES, 72 (1991), 489–96; D. N. Dumville, ‘Beowulf come lately: some notes on the palaeography of the Nowell Codex’, Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, 225 (1988), 49–63; D. N. Dumville, ‘The Beowulf Manuscript and How Not to Date it’, Medieval English Student’s Newsletter, 39 (1998), 21–7; J. Gerritsen, ‘British Library MS Cotton Vitellius A.xv – A Supplementary Description’, ES, 69 (1988), 293–302; J. Gerritsen, ‘A Reply to Dr. Kiernan’s Footnote’, ES, 72 (1991), 497–500. 23 See Newton, The Origins of Beowulf. 24 See Osborn, ‘The Great Feud’. 25 See Klaeber, Beowulf, p. 131, note to lines 90–8. 26 See J. R. R. Tolkien, ‘Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 22 (1936), 245–95, reprinted in An Anthology of Beowulf Criticism, ed. L. E. Nicholson (Notre Dame, IN, 1963), pp. 51– 104, at pp. 78–9; C. B. Hieatt, ‘Cædmon in Context: Transforming the Formula’, JEPG 84 (1985), 485–97; W. Helder, ‘The Song of Creation in Beowulf and the Interpretation of Heorot’, English Studies in Canada 13 (1987), 243–55. 27 See Osborn, ‘The Great Feud’, pp. 974–5. 28 See S. Bandy, ‘The Giants of Beowulf’, Papers on Language and Literature, 9 (1973), 235–49, at pp. 240–1; R. Mellinkoff, ‘Cain’s Monstrous Progeny in Beowulf: Part II, Post-Diluvian Survival’, ASE, 9 (1981), 83–97; see also Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 58–79. Bandy, ‘The Giants of Beowulf’, suggests the poet preserves a distinction between the antediluvian gigantas of the Old Testament, and the entas and eotenas of northern mythology, though there are occasions in the poem when the poet’s allusive style obscures this distinction; see Fred C. Robinson, Beowulf and the Appositive Style (Knoxville, TN, 1985), pp. 31–3. 29 P. Pulsiano, ‘ “Cames cynne”: Confusion or Craft?’, Proceedings of the PMR Conference, 7 (1982), 33–8. 30 Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 78–9. 31 Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 102–3. 32 See R. E. Kaske, ‘Beowulf and the Book of Enoch’, Speculum, 46 (1971), 421–31, at pp. 423–4. See Ælfric, ‘De sanguine’, ed. F. Kluge, Englische Studien, 8 (1885), pp. 62–3. 33 See Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 67–8; see also Crawford, Heptateuch, nos. 11, 12, 15. 34 Ælfric, On the Old and New Testaments, in Crawford, Heptateuch, pp. 24–5; see also Ælfric’s ‘De Falsis Diis’, Homilies of Ælfric, ed. Pope,

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35 36 37

38 39

40

41 42 43 44

Water and fire 2, pp. 680–2, lines 72–105, and De sex aetatibus, lines 52–70; CH 1, 1:203– 23; see also Wulfstan’s ‘De Falsis Diis’, which follows Ælfric closely on the origins of paganism (Bethurum 12, p. 222). See also Bede, In Genesin, III:1126–9; O’Keeffe, ‘Three English Writers on Genesis’, p. 73. See Malcolm Godden, ‘Biblical Literature: the Old Testament’, in The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (Cambridge, 1991), p. 216. Noah is not mentioned by name anywhere in the poem, which names only two biblical characters – Cain and Abel – but there is no mistaking which Flood the poet is referring to. S. H. Horowitz, ‘The Ravens in Beowulf’, JEGP, 80 (1981), 502–11, at pp. 504–6, argues that the raven which announces the dawn on the day of Beowulf’s departure from Denmark (1801) may also suggest a link to Noachic tradition, where the raven’s failure to return was associated with its feasting on the Flood’s carrion (compare Genesis A, 1442–7); the role of the raven here, however, seems quite different. Compare lines 1541–4, where Grendel’s mother attempts to give Beowulf his reward (andlean forgeald). See R. J. Schrader, ‘Language of the Giant’s Sword’, NM, 94 (1993), 141–7, at pp. 142–4; Osborn, ‘The Great Feud’, pp. 977–8; H. R. E. Davidson, The Sword in Anglo-Saxon England: Its Archaeology and Literature (Oxford, 1962), pp. 135–42; S. Lerer, Literacy and Power in Anglo-Saxon Literature (Lincoln, NE, 1991), pp. 170–7; J. Koeberl, ‘The Magic Sword in Beowulf’, Neophilologus, 71 (1987), 120–8, at pp. 121–2. This work was known in Anglo-Saxon England, as the fragment BL MS Royal 5.E.xiii, fols 79v–80r, suggests; see M. R. James, ed., Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments, Texts and Studies: Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature II.3 (Cambridge, 1893), pp. 140–50; Bede also refers to the work, In epistolas VII catholicas, CCSL 121, p. 340, at lines 220, 226–7, but may simply be borrowing the reference from Augustine; see also Kaske, ‘Beowulf and the Book of Enoch’; Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, p. 65; D. N. Dumville, ‘Biblical Apocrypha and the Early Irish: A Preliminary Investigation’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 73C (1973), 299–338, at pp. 330–1; F. R. Biggs, ‘I Enoch’, in Sources of Anglo-Saxon Literary Culture, ed. Biggs, Hill and Szarmach, pp. 25–7; Helmut Gneuss, Handlist of Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts: A List of Manuscripts and Manuscript Fragments written or owned in England up to 1100 (Tempe, AZ, 2001), no. 459. See also E. Coatsworth, ‘The Book of Enoch and Anglo-Saxon Art’, in Apocryphal Texts and Traditions in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. K. Powell and D. G. Scragg, Manchester Centre for Anglo-Saxon Studies (Cambridge, 2003), 135–50. I thank the anonymous reader for MUP for this suggestion. Compare Finnsburh, lines 35b–6: Swurdleoma stod,/ swylce eal Finnsburuh fyrenu wære (‘The sword-gleam stood, as if Finnsburh were completely on fi re.’) See Orchard, Critical Companion, p. 201. See Chapter 2 above, p. 77.

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45 See Chapter 2 above, p. 77. 46 See M. Fjalldal, The Long Arm of Coincidence: The Frustrated Connection between Beowulf and Grettis Saga (Toronto, 1998), pp. 67–78; and Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, 140–68, and his Critical Companion, pp. 123–5. 47 Beowulf’s account of Grendel’s death reports that he ‘sank to the sea-floor’, (‘meregrund gefeoll’, 2100b; see also 1449a); Grendel is also described as the grundhyrde (‘guardian of the abyss’, 2136b). 48 The passage is cited, for example, by Bede, In Genesin, I, 58–61; in Vercelli 19:15–19; by Ælfric in CH 1, 1:29–34; for a full survey see Fontes Anglo-Saxonici Project, ed., Fontes Anglo-Saxonici: World Wide Web Register, http://fontes.english.ox.ac.uk/. 49 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem libri xiv, ed. F. Glorie, CCSL 125 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1954), p. 464, line 933; see Gneuss, Handlist, no. 662; and Fontes Anglo-Saxonici. 50 See Chapter 3 above, pp. 132–7. 51 See also Aeneid, VI.133–6, VI.391–4; Orchard, Critical Companion, pp. 28–30. 52 See Visio Sancti Pauli: the History of the Apocalypse in Latin together with Nine Texts, ed. T. Silverstein, Studies and Documents 4 (London, 1935), for an overview of the tradition and variant texts. Blickling Homilies, ed. Morris, pp. 208–11. The homilies have been renumbered since Morris’s edition, so that his 17 is now numbered 16; see Rudolph Willard, ed., The Blickling Homilies, EEMF 10 (Copenhagen, 1960), pp. 38–40. Wright, The Irish Tradition, pp. 133–6, for a discussion of the connections of Blickling 16 and Grendel’s mere in Beowulf to the Visio S. Pauli tradition, and the possibility of a lost vernacular version of the Visio; an Old English translation which has survived, but represents an alternative textual tradition, is The Old English Vision of St. Paul, ed. Antonette Di Paulo Healey, Speculum Monographs 2 (Cambridge, MA, 1978). 53 Tolkien, ‘Monsters’, Appendix (a), 88–91. 54 This is also referred to at the opening of Christ and Satan, 5b, stream ut on sae; Thomas D. Hill, ‘Apocryphal cosmography and the Stream ut on sæ: A Note on Christ and Satan, Lines 4–12’, Philological Quarterly, 48 (1969), 550–4, discusses the relationship of that passage to the Visio S. Pauli; see Apocrypha Anecdota, ed. James, p. 28, and Wright, The Irish Tradition, pp. 127–8. 55 See Orchard, Critical Companion, 33–4, for the very limited use of this word – only in three texts – in surviving Old English records. Orchard suggests the use of the word in the Old English Alexander’s Letter to Aristotle may point to the influence of Beowulf on the translator; Blickling homily 16 presents the only other use. Grein, Sprachschatz, s.v., includes nicor in the Old English poetic vocabulary, but it is perhaps unlikely that the homilist is borrowing a poetic word. Given the close parallels between Blickling 16’s hell and the mere in Beowulf, the shared use of nicor in these two texts suggests the influence of either Blickling or a close vernacular relative on the poem, rather than that of Blickling’s supposed Latin source. This does not rule out the possibility of Beowulf’s influence on the Letter, but how ‘poetic’ nicor is remains questionable.

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56 See Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 82–5. 57 R. J. Menner, ed., The Poetical Dialogues of Solomon and Saturn (New York, 1941); I have incorporated the readings of R. I. Page, ‘A Note on the Text of MS. CCCC 422 (Solomon and Saturn)’, Medium Ævum, 34 (1965), 36–9; see also T. A. Shippey, ed., Poems of Wisdom and Learning in Old English (Cambridge, 1976), pp. 98–100, 146. D. Donoghue, Style in Old English Poetry: The Test of the Auxiliary (New Haven, CT, 1987), p. 105, suggests the two Old English dialogue poems involving Solomon and Saturn are by the same author; Wright, The Irish Tradition, p. 233, treats the question of authorship as an open one. Patrick P. O’Neill, ‘On the date, provenance and relationship of the “Solomon and Saturn” dialogues’, ASE, 26 (1997), 139–68, at p. 165, suggests that they are Alfredian or post-Alfredian. 58 See D. Anlezark, ‘The Fall of the Angels in Solomon and Saturn II’, in Apocryphal Texts and Traditions, ed. Powell and Scragg, pp. 121–33. Edition of Christ and Satan from G. P. Krapp, ed., The Junius Manuscript ASPR 1 (New York, 1931). 59 Compare Christ and Satan 27–8, 30, 39; for the cold of hell see Christ and Satan 131a; I Enoch 14:13 describes a hell ‘as hot as fi re and cold as ice: there were no delights of life therein’; ‘thirst’ recalls Luke 16:24; serpents are found in Christ and Satan 134b–5a. 60 Menner, Solomon and Saturn, 140. See further Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, I, 125; V, 153–61. 61 See Kaske, ‘Book of Enoch’, pp. 421–31, Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, p. 65. 62 See Page, ‘A Note on the Text’, pp. 36–9. Menner, Solomon and Saturn, 140, discusses some of the editing difficulties of this page, and notes the unique occurrence of the word insceafte, but offers no source. 63 It is possible that the poem’s reference to the ‘surge’ also refers to waters. 64 E. Temple, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts 900–1066 (London, 1976), pp. 81–3; F. Wormald, English Drawings of the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries (London, 1952), p. 21; S. Semple, ‘Illustrations of damnation in late Anglo-Saxon manuscripts’, ASE, 32 (2003), 231–45, at p. 235. 65 Semple, ‘Illustrations of damnation’, p. 236. 66 See also lines 198–201, 318–22; see Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 82–5; R. J. Menner, ‘Nimrod and the Wolf in the Old English Solomon and Saturn’, JEGP, 37 (1938), 332–54; Menner, ed., Solomon and Saturn, 121– 6; Shippey, Poems of Wisdom and Learning, 136–7. 67 However inviting, it is unlikely that this Wulf has anything to do with Lycaon (‘Wolf’), the cannibal whose provocations incited Jupiter to punish the world with a flood. See Introduction above, p. 9. 68 In a forthcoming article I will discuss the possible sources of the passage. 69 See Menner, ed., Solomon and Saturn, 62–6. 70 See 1 Sam 17:4–5; Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, p. 78. 71 Liber Monstrorum, ed. Orchard, in Pride and Prodigies, pp. 286–7; the comment is of unknown provenance.

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72 See Orchard, Critical Companion, pp. 125–8, for a comprehensive overview of the significance of Beowulf’s aquatic feats. 73 Anglo-Saxon records gloss latebra variously as loca occulta, heolstor, or þeosterfullness, reflecting two references to Grendel’s dwelling in Beowulf: at the fi rst reference to the monster, se þe on þystrum bad (line 87b), and at the moment he wishes to return to the safety of home from his fight in Heorot wolde on heolster fl eon, . . . fl eon of fenhopu (lines 755b, 764b). See, for example, L. Goossens, The Old English Glosses of MS. Brussels, Royal Library 1650, Letteren en schone Kunsten van Belgie, Klasse der Letteren, 36 (Brussels, 1974), no. 2871, latebra loca occulta heolstrum; no. 3382, latebras tenebrias þestrefulnysse. 74 See Leslie Webster, ‘The Frank’s Casket’, in The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture AD 600–900, ed. Leslie Webster and Janet Backhouse (London, 1991), pp. 101–3. 75 O’Neill, ‘On the date, provenance and relationship’, p. 148, suggests the poet has in mind Belshazzar’s warning in Daniel 5. Even allowing for the poet’s free chronology, it is unlikely that he would have Solomon alluding to a future event in which the vessels of his destroyed temple were to be desecrated. 76 Compare Augustine, De ciuitate Dei, 15.9. 77 For the collocation of this expression with imagery of Flood and Judgment see Christ III 1525b–6, where those who ær wiþ gode wunnon (‘formerly strove with God’) are cast into the abyss (grund) at Judgment, and Exodus 515b, where the Egyptians who wið god wunnon are destroyed in the flood (see Chapter 4 above, p. 202). 78 On the theme of wisdom and power in Beowulf, see R. E. Kaske’s important though dated paper, ‘Sapientia et Fortitudo as the Controlling Theme of Beowulf’, Studies in Philology, 55 (1958), 423–57. 79 See R. E. Kaske, ‘The eotenas in Beowulf’, in Old English Poetry: Fifteen Essays, ed. R. P. Creed (Providence, RI, 1967), pp. 285–310; J. Stuhmiller, ‘On the Identity of the eotenas’, NM 100 (1999), 7–14; Orchard, Critical Companion, pp. 112–13. 80 See Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 77–85. 81 Vercelli 4:308–47; Homilien, ed. Napier, pp. 232–42. For previous discussion of the association see Wright, The Irish Tradition, pp. 128–9, 134–5, 260–1; Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 49–53. 82 Visio Sancti Pauli, ed. Silverstein, pp. 209–10; see Anlezark, ‘Fall of the Angels’, pp. 130–1. 83 Vercelli 4:341–2; see Menner, ed., Solomon and Saturn, p. 143. 84 Rauer, Beowulf and the Dragon, pp. 89–124; this is not to suggest that Beowulf is cast in the role of a saint like Samson of Dol. 85 Rauer, Beowulf and the Dragon, p. 33. 86 Beowulf’s audience may also have been familiar with Heorot’s future problems, hinted at in Widsith 45–9. 87 P. J. Frankis, ‘The thematic significance of enta geweorc and related imagery in The Wanderer’, ASE, 2 (1973), 253–69. 88 A group of similar words shares overlapping meanings: Iðan, ‘to lay waste, desolate, destroy’; hyðan, ‘to despoil, plunder, lay waste, pillage, ravage’;

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89 90

91 92 93

94 95 96 97 98 99

100

101

Water and fire see Bosworth and Toller, Dictionary, s.v.; cf. Crawford, Heptateuch, p. 102, Gen 7:10: ða yðode ðæt fl od ofer eorðan. The destruction of the hall feasting will also be brought about by the apocalyptic flood in Judgment Day I, (symbelgal, ‘wanton feasting’, 79); see Caie, Judgment Day Theme, p. 98. See Morton W. Bloomfield, ‘Patristics and Old English Literature: Notes on Some Poems’, Comparative Literature, 14 (1962), 36–43, at p. 40, who argues the expression suggests the poet has in mind the ‘natural law which was implanted even in the hearts of pagans’; see also Orchard, Critical Companion, p. 131. See Chapter 3 above, pp. 127–9. Beowulf’s moral reflex does not help to date the poem, as the reaction would have been as appropriate in Æthelred’s reign in the late tenth century as Ecgfrith’s in the eighth. The other use of the expression is in Maxims II, 2a; see Frankis, ‘Thematic Significance’, p. 267. The imagery of the ‘surge’ is also used in the death of the ‘last survivor’, whose treasure is taken over by the dragon (2267–70a): Swa giomormod giohðo mænde/ an æfter eallum, unbliðe hwearf/ dæges ond nihtes, oððæt deaðes wylm/ hran æt heortan. (Unhappy sped both days and nights, until the surge of death broke upon his heart. Emphasis added.) J. E. Potter, ‘ “Wylm” and “weallan” in Beowulf: A Tidal Metaphor’, Medieval Perspectives, 3 (1988), 191–9, discusses some aspects of this imagery. See Niles, ‘Beowulf’, pp. 246–7. See Stanley, ‘Hæthenra Hyht’, p. 148; Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 53–7. On Beowulf’s death and funeral see G. R. Owen-Crocker, The Four Funerals in Beowulf and the Structure of the Poem (Manchester, 2000), pp. 85–113. Orchard, Pride and Prodigies, pp. 56–7. Compare the expression of the futility of grave goods in The Seafarer, 97–102. See Orchard, Critical Companion, pp. 163–6; H. Schabram, ‘Andreas and Beowulf: Parallelstellen als Zeugnis für literarische Abhängigkeit’, Nachrichten der Giessener Hochschulgesellschaft, 34 (1965), 201–18; L. J. Peters, ‘The Relationship of the Old English Andreas to Beowulf’, PMLA, 66 (1951), 844–63; A. R. Riedinger, ‘The Formulaic Relationship between Beowulf and Andreas’, in Heroic Poetry in the Anglo-Saxon Period: Studies in Honor of Jess. B. Bessinger, ed. H. Damico and J. Leyerle, Studies in Medieval Culture 32 (Kalamazoo, MI, 1993), pp. 283–312; A. M. Powell, ‘Verbal Parallels in Andreas and its Relationship to Beowulf and Cynewulf’ (PhD dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2002). The exact meaning of the expression is not directly relevant to my discussion; on this question, see, for example, Bruce Mitchell, ‘Literary Lapses: Six Notes on Beowulf and its Critics’, RES, 43 (1992), 1–17, at pp. 4–7; J. Rowland, ‘OE ealuscerwen / meoduscerwen and the Concept of “paying for Mead” ’, Leeds Studies in English, ns 21 (1990), 1–12. See Chapter 4 above, pp. 223–6.

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See Fred C. Robinson, ‘The Tomb of Beowulf’, in The Tomb of Beowulf and Other Essays on Old English, ed. Fred C. Robinson (Oxford, 1993), pp. 3–19. 103 D. Whitelock, The Audience of ‘Beowulf’ (Oxford, 1951), pp. 24–6. 104 Abbo, ‘Life of St Edmund’, pp. 65–87.

Conclusions

Discussion of the Flood myth in Beowulf has been twofold. One line of argument, that the Flood myth forms an important backdrop to Beowulf’s action, is less contentious than the suggestion that the poem can be located within a literary tradition in AngloSaxon England, revealed in Solomon and Saturn II, which sought a fusion between the Germanic, classical and biblical accounts of the earliest ages of the world. The claim that the Beowulf poet was interested in the relationship between the deeds of his hero and the myth of the Flood is difficult to dispute – the references to the Flood cannot be gratuitous. One simple parallel emerges: where God used the great weapon of the Flood to destroy the primeval giants, Beowulf also engages in warfare against offshoots of this monstrous brood, taking up a weapon mysteriously identifiable with the same ancient giants and the Flood. This same sword exhibits the properties of water and fire, elements inseparable in the medieval understanding of the myth of the Flood with its promise of a fiery annihilation at the end of time. But just as all waters are not the Flood’s waters, so all fire is not hell: this great flood of fire is not to be identified with the hellfire to which the poet confi nes idolaters, and nor should the flames which engulf the hero’s body read in these terms. Beowulf is not a Christian hero, but a hero for the poem’s Christian audience. Beowulf’s engagement with the Bible is not theological, but mythological; it is concerned not with the moral nature of events, but their mythical patterning. Fratricide is certainly a crime, and Beowulf reminds Unferth that he will burn in hell for it. The poet’s choice to concentrate on Cain’s crime, not Adam’s, in his presentation of the origin of evil not only focuses attention on the problem of murder in Germanic

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society, but locates the crime within the mythic pattern of the Creator’s war against the monstrous chaos embodied in the giants and their moral like. Beowulf’s participation in this struggle on the side of God is clear, however ignorant of the gospel he is. The poet can hardly have expected that the hero’s monster-killing would provide a simple model of virtuous conduct for his audience to imitate, and his sophisticated treatment of royal power shows the poem is not designed as a simple tale of wondrous deeds. The hero is presented in a world the parameters of which are defi ned by the mythic event of the Flood, the same world in which the audience fi nds itself, and one in which destructive chaos, the inevitable product of murder, was at war with creative order. For an Anglo-Saxon poet not all violence is bad: the violence which extinguishes evil, such as God’s destruction of the giants, re-enacted in Beowulf’s destruction of Grendel, is good. From this perspective, Beowulf is a worthy model of imitation. Like Hrothgar, whose wisdom he listens to, Beowulf is at war with chaos, a nation-builder, a creator of a hall and a society within it; the danger of going the way of Heremod is present, but not realized, by a king who keeps his rage for his people’s enemies and whose dying wish is that his treasure be shared out. That society proves imperfect and that its bonds prove weak is not Beowulf’s fault – the tendency to murder and destruction present in the myth of Cain is to be found even in Hrothgar’s Heorot, and undoubtedly was there in the hall of every Anglo-Saxon Christian ruler. The poet’s presentation of the myth of the Flood does not articulate any law code or any offer of salvation, though the simple terms of the Noachic covenant inform the poet’s horror at Grendel’s violation of both its precepts in his meaningless killing and his consumption of blood. More simply, though, the myth defi nes an underlying pattern of events in all societies, and which will continue as long as the world stands. The cyclic pattern of creation and destruction, which the flood myths of all cultures present, is complemented for the Anglo-Saxon Christian by the belief in a linear view of history and in fi nality, an assertion that action can be decisive and meaningful. Within the cycle of violence, Beowulf’s fi nal victory over Grendel and his mother is associated with the renewal of nature in the spring

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thaw and the renewal of society in the repair of Heorot. Such a renewal is at the heart of the biblical account of Noah. The expectation of the flood of fire, inseparable from the ancient water, affirms this fusion of the cyclical and the linear. Ultimately the Creator who is also the Destroyer will obliterate this world with fire, when God’s own victory will be complete, and, as Bede often reflects, all creation renewed. An enduring problem in Beowulf criticism is one of how to locate the poem within Anglo-Saxon literary culture. The poem’s manuscript context can point to its reception around the year 1000. However, the fragmentary survival of Old English heroic narrative verse makes it difficult to compare Beowulf with other Anglo-Saxon heroes; Widsith provides only a list, while the state of Waldere and Finnsburh preclude close discussion. The exploration of the Flood in the literature of the Anglo-Saxons which I have presented is aimed at providing an alternative approach to the problem of literary context. Bede’s comments on the mystical meaning of the Flood have little to do with Beowulf – where typology has become myth – despite the efforts of some to read the hero’s struggles as an extended Augustinian allegory. Nevertheless, Bede’s In Genesin presents some interesting parallels, not the least of which is the literary association he establishes between Cain’s fratricide and Noah’s Flood, the two biblical events which constitute book II of the commentary. The eschatological theme, a part of the inherited Christian tradition, is given renewed emphasis in this theological work which deliberately locates itself at a moment of fundamental cultural reorientation, designed as it is to educate into the new Christian faith those who have recently abandoned the old religion. The imaginative impulse which looks back to the origins of the world in the myth of creation and recreation, and forward to is fiery destruction, at a time of cultural transition is shared by both Bede and the Beowulf poet, each of whom is concerned in his own way with the place of the English in God’s plan of history. Beowulf’s presentation of the Flood as a battle, and its waters simultaneously as God’s weapon, his army and a pure expression of his will, is strikingly paralleled in Genesis A, Andreas and Exodus. The degree of correspondence would suggest not serendipity within a poetic tradition which readily deployed the language of battle, but a shared understanding among a diverse

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group of poets of what the Flood signified about the nature of the relationship between God and creation. The representation of the Flood as a war between heaven and a rebellious earth is not a strong element in the Genesis account, though both Ezechiel and Isaiah invite this interpretation. However, classical accounts of the world’s first age, available in Anglo-Saxon England, give great emphasis to this confrontation. Alfred’s almost capricious inclusion of the Titans’ war with the gods in his translation of Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae, a conflict which he believes is a confused account of Babel, suggests not only an interest in classical myth, but a desire to harmonize this authority with the greater authority of the Bible. This desire for a synthesis of early world history incorporated Germanic legend, and Alfred also believed that the authority of Germanic myth equalled or trumped classical accounts. Alfred’s reflection on the ancient past in his translation of De consolatione philosophiae creates a fusion of historical perspectives, whereby the Flood has become a part of a great historical struggle of all proud rebels against the Creator, and in particular the giants who rebelled at the beginning of the world. I have argued that the presence of Nimrod the giant and his friend Wulf in Solomon and Saturn II is not only underpinned by the same desire, but presents a range of parallels to Beowulf which suggest the two share a common textual background and intellectual milieu. The same interest in parallels between classical and biblical myth is found in the Old English translation of Orosius’s World History, a text contemporary with Alfred’s version of Boethius’s De consolatione, with its interest in the parallel accounts of Noah and Deucalion. The dating of Solomon and Saturn II to the Alfredian or immediately post-Alfredian period might suggest that Beowulf, in something like its present form, is a product of this same time and the same intellectual environment, which looked to the mythical past for an understanding of the historical present; this shared time frame is further suggested by their shared use of an unusual Insular tradition of the Vision of St Paul. In this context the incorporation of the world of ancient Germanic heroes into the myth of the Flood in the royal genealogies of the house of Wessex sometime after 855, and most probably during the reign of Alfred, is of great significance.

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It is difficult to know whether or not audiences of Beowulf would have understood the presence of Sceaf and Scyld at the opening of the poem as evoking an age in the aftermath of the Flood. At the time of this inclusion the link to Noah was probably not firmly established, and by the time of the surviving manuscript may have been slipping from the popular imagination. The possibility that their presence in Beowulf influenced the creation of the literal link to Noah and the age of the Flood by a mythologizing West Saxon genealogist remains. Exactly why the genealogists of the house of Wessex should choose to give their masters a unique and, to say the least, theologically dubious connection to Noah is probably not so mysterious, given that the desire to create a unified sense of the early history of the world by incorporating the Bible and the pagan mythological inheritance was in the air. In the historical imagination of the Anglo-Saxons, looking back to the ancient past recorded in biblical tradition and in classical accounts, and to a degree through their own legendary or mythological traditions, this past could be seen as one, and was of immediate importance in the present. Where the Bible is silent, any alternative tradition would seem to have had equal claim to veracity, and relative chronologies were not always of great importance. The mention of Noah in the Old English Orosius has an air of antiquarianism; Alfred’s interest in the Flood does not. His reference to Babel is an integral part of extensive reflections on the early history of the world, a time when the proud were punished in the fall of the angels, in the Flood and at Babel, showing for all time how God would deal with those who reject his authority. Alfred is writing at a time when England was emerging from a moment of severe national crisis in the face of the Viking invasions. His reflections on kingship and power in the wake of the failure of kingdoms was not idle musing, and his own monarchy was one which had been re-established after near total disaster. The importance in Alfred’s political project of asserting English history and cultural identity is a commonplace, but his own reflections of power led him to understand historical rule in the light of the mythic contest for power in the age of Noah. This same reaching back is found in the articulation of his kingly genealogy, and in the contest between King Solomon the Wise and Saturn in Solomon and Saturn II. That these three texts and

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the Old English ‘Orosius’ can be dated to the period in and around the 890s is doubtless significant. Beowulf itself is a poem notoriously difficult to date, but there is a great deal of overlapping interest in these four texts and Beowulf. While the poem’s account of noble Germanic life before Christianity suggests some nostalgia, its incorporation of Germanic myth and legend serves not only to give veracity to the portrayal of life in the pre-Christian hall, but to emphasize the continuity between life ‘then’ and the audience’s life ‘now’; in the historical continuum both are the one audience of shared stories. The myth of the Flood serves the same purpose in a different way. With the incorporation of biblical myth into AngloSaxon cosmology, the primeval biblical past became not only the true past for Anglo-Saxon Christians, but also the true past for all the Germanic peoples, however ignorant of it they were or had been. This ancient mythical time, before the division of the nations at Babel, saw not only the creation of the cosmos, but also gave rise to mythical struggles which would form the pattern of human life in the world, until the world itself would be engulfed in the fi nal consummation of this mythic template. This was as true for the ignorant pagans who strove against chaos as it continued to be for the more enlightened Christians who continued in the same war, despite what might have appeared as a great cultural disruption in the conversion to Christianity. But the Flood in Beowulf is also about rule and power, and the kingship idealized in Hrothgar’s admonition to Beowulf, like Alfred’s and Solomon’s reflections, contains one simple mythical reflection: do not be like the giants. This ideational concord, and the shared textual inheritance of Beowulf and Solomon and Saturn II, also points to the casting of Beowulf in its present form in the same period. For the Beowulf poet, as for Alfred, the great lesson taught by the past is that kings must rule wisely: in Beowulf it is this wisdom which gives the character of the pagan Hrothgar an exemplary quality both for the young Beowulf and for Christian audiences. In both Alfred’s ‘Boethius’ and Beowulf the warning for the powerful is not to be foolish like the giants. Heremod succumbed to this danger; I would argue Beowulf does not. It would be surprising if Beowulf’s Christian audience – probably aristocratic, certainly Christian – was unaware of the

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other implications of the Flood story, containing the promise of salvation, a theme inseparable in other Old English poetry from the war the Flood represents. But it would be equally surprising if any poet would expect such an audience to understand complex biblical typology, and there is no strong evidence to suggest that this mode of interpretation is embedded in the poem. It is possible that in Andreas we have a Christian response to this element of Beowulf, but one which is certainly removed from the cultural and intellectual environment for which the poem was created. For the greater part of Beowulf, and certainly at the critical moment of Beowulf’s death, the poet draws back from theological controversy, let alone complex theological metaphor. This is evident in his treatment of his pagans: he shies away from any positive statement about what the promise of salvation the Flood story contained might have meant for the virtuous pagan, though the fate of ignorant idolaters is clear. Nevertheless, the incorporation of the Germanic world within the myth of the Flood affirms for Beowulf’s audience a dual continuity, which parallels the historical succession traced by the West Saxon royal genealogies: the promise of salvation represented by the Flood had never left the Germanic peoples, and nor had the mythic contest between the wise God’s sovereign power and chaotic folly of rebellion which the myth embodies. Both Grendel’s demise in the watery abyss and Beowulf’s own end in the destructive flames affirm the mythic truth of the Creator’s victory and power over all creation.

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Index

Abbo, of Fleury 356–7 Abel see Cain Abingdon 248 see also Chronicle of Abingdon Monastery Abraham 28, 48, 65, 177, 186, 195–6, 199–201, 203, 208–10, 219–21, 241 Acca 46–8, 62 Adam and Eve, Book of 39 Ælfric 16, 113–14, 138–64, 232, 247, 273–9, 281–3 De initio creaturae 141–4, 273 De Sex aetatibus 154, 275–6, 279 Dominica II post Aepiphania 146–7, 274–5 Dominica XXI post Pentecosten 144–5, 274 Genesis translation 148–50, 170n63, 279 Interrogationes Sigeuuilfi in Genesin 150–8, 171n69, 276–7, 279 Letter to Sigeweard 162–3, 277–8 On the Memory of the Saints 140 On the Old and New Testaments see Letter to Sigeweard

Prayer of Moses 140 Sermo de die iuidicii 159–60 Æthelweard, Ealdorman 148 Chronicon 246–8, 260, 262–5, 267–71 Æthelwulf, King of Wessex 126, 245–8, 252 Ages of the World 67–73, 146–7, 154, 199, 237n42, 246, 275–6, 279, 296 Alcuin, of York 16, 43n56, 112– 14, 127–30, 138–9, 150–8, 301–2, 340 Alfred, the Great, King of Wessex 3, 16, 113–14, 131–8, 163–4, 242–3, 245–6, 252–3, 259, 272–3, 282–3, 315, 327, 330, 371–3 Ambrose, of Milan 39, 48 Andreas, Old English poem 17, 19, 174, 210–30, 343, 347–59, 370, 374 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 126, 245–50, 261, 273 Annals of St-Bertin 121–6, 130, 138 ark 15, 21–4, 31–40, 53–77, 89–93, 103–4, 154, 169n53, 186, 188–98, 200–1, 213, 231, 258–9, 275–6 Asser 245, 252–3, 282

394 Augustine, Archbishop of Canterbury 211 Augustine, Bishop of Hippo 35–9, 47–8, 50, 81, 100, 136, 176 Babel 48, 132–7, 178, 242, 254, 304, 315, 328, 371–2 Babylon see Babel Basil, of Caesarea 48 Bede 14–15, 44–113, 139, 148, 150–3 commentary technique 46–52 De natura rerum 47 De schematibus et tropis 49 De tabernaculo 50, 78–9 De temporum ratione 109n70 Ecclesiastical History (Historia ecclesiastica) 14, 45, 104, 175–6, 211, 337 Expositio Apocalypseos 49, 78 homilies (Opera Homiletica) 62–4, 71–3, 146–7, 274–5 In epistolas VII catholicas 49, 80, 96–9 In Genesin 15, 47–104, 370 In Proverbia 111n95 Beowulf, Old English poem 12, 18–19, 177–8, 184, 212, 247, 262, 264–5, 267–71, 292–359, 368–74 see also Danes, in Beowulf; dragon; giants; Grendel; hall, image of; Hrothgar; Hygelac; Sigemund; swords Bible see New Testament; Old Testament Blickling homilies no 16, 317–19, 330–1 Boethius, De consolatione philosophiae 113–14, 131–7, 242–3, 330, 371

Index Boniface, Archbishop of Mainz 13–14, 293 Brutus 288n90 Cædmon 175–6 Cain and Abel 21, 48, 76–7, 102, 104, 114, 177–87, 231, 296, 299–302, 307, 310, 315–16, 321, 336, 350, 368–70 cannibals 211, 224, 302, 347, 349–50, 357 Cave of Treasures, Book of 256–8 Christ II, Old English poem 346 Christ III, Old English poem 228 Chronicle of Abingdon Monastery 12, 20n28, 265–71 Clement, of Rome 36 covenant 24–6, 82–4, 104, 143, 174, 178–87, 198–201, 204, 207–8, 219–23, 231–2, 235n24 Danes, in Beowulf 297, 302–4, 329, 337, 348–50 see also Vikings Daniel, Bishop of Winchester 13–14, 81, 293 Darwin, Charles 4 Deucalion 7, 9–11, 238n60 Doomsday see Judgment, Day of dove 6, 24, 39, 56, 61–4, 102, 193–4 dragon 19, 291–2, 297, 324, 333–47 Easter 6, 234n10 Ecgred, Bishop of Lindisfarne 115–16, 124 Edda, Prose 11, 81, 245 Edmund, King of England 12 Edwin, King of Northumbria 14, 337 Egyptians 195, 201–8, 232

395

Index Enoch 26, 76–7 Book of Enoch (1 Enoch) 101, 302, 307, 320–1 Ethelred, King of Northumbria 127–9, 340 Exodus, Old English poem 17–18, 174, 195–210, 213, 220, 225, 228, 232–4, 241–2, 306–7, 370 Franks Casket 326 genealogies 18, 104, 195–7, 236n33, 241–73, 372 Genesis A, Old English poem 17–18, 114, 174–95, 202, 213, 225, 228, 231–4, 306, 370 giants 18, 30, 99–103, 132–9, 164, 184, 206, 215–16, 231, 296, 298–315, 321, 325–33, 337–8, 342–3, 351–4 Gilgamesh, Epic of 4, 7 Gregory I (the Great), Pope 50, 144–5, 236n32 Grendel 19, 184, 291–2, 295, 297–302, 304, 306, 315–17, 326, 333–6, 339, 358, 369, 374 Grendel’s mere 308–9, 311–25, 330, 341–2 Grendel’s mother 297, 308–9, 316, 334 Grettis saga 311–12, 325 hall, image of 182, 188–90, 195, 224–5, 299, 335–9 Ham see Noah, biblical sons of Heremod 244, 248–52, 262–3, 289n97, 329–30 Higbald, Bishop of Lindisfarne 129–30 Hrothgar 291, 293, 304, 307, 329–32, 369, 373 Hygelac 295, 306

Isaac see Abraham Japheth see Noah, biblical sons of Jerome 35, 37, 81 see also Vulgate Jews 56, 75, 93–5, 125, 217–23, 232, 241 Jonitus 254–7 Joseph, Old Testament patriarch 207–8 Judgment, Day of 15, 28–40, 73–84, 87, 105, 115, 120–1, 130, 144–5, 152–3, 155–62, 188, 206, 214, 216, 226–9, 327–8, 333, 344–6 Judgment Day I, Old English poem 226–9 Judgment Day II, Old English poem 228 Julian, Archbishop of Toledo 158 Jupiter 7–10 Justin Martyr 35, 37–8 Lamech 23, 35, 76–7, 84, 192 Liber monstrorum 326 Livy 281 Lot 32, 137, 141, 156–8, 160–1, 186, 190–1, 231 Lycaon 9 Mermedonia see Andreas, Old English poem Moses 198–9, 203–4, 215, 217, 219, 242, 281 New Testament Acts of the Apostles 10:13, 93; 15:29, 9 1 Corinthians 6:11, 90; 10:11, 51 Galatians 3:6–29, 209 Hebrews 11:1–7, 26–7, 85 James 1:8, 61

396 John 1:16–17, 198; 2:19, 58; 14:2, 58 Luke 3:21–38, 236n33, 242; 3:36, 26–7; 5:34, 71; 8:22–5, 212; 12:49, 110n84; 17:26–37, 31–2, 74, 159; 24:38, 73 Mark 2:19, 71; 4:35–41, 212; 16:15, 93 Matthew 1:1–17, 236n33; 3:16, 6; 9:15, 71; 11:28–9, 86–8; 12:39, 212; 13:17, 98; 27: 24–7, 53; 19:17–21, 55; 22: 1–14, 144, 274; 24:35–9, 31, 77–9, 120, 217; 25:10–12, 70; 28:19–20, 65, 93 1 Peter 3:18–21, 33–4, 58–9, 97, 198 2 Peter 2:4–9, 32, 96; 3:5–10, 33, 79–80 Revelation 14:4, 91; 20:4, 357; 20:9–15, 21:8, 33 Niall 16, 112–21, 124, 130, 139, 161, 163–4, 232 Nimrod 132–7, 164, 242–3, 255–8, 315, 323–8, 371 Noah 4, 10, 14–16, 21–40, 48, 52–4, 56, 59–60, 63–8, 70, 72–5, 77–80, 84–99, 104, 114–21, 129, 131, 139–51, 157–63, 178–83, 186–201, 204–10, 213, 221, 225, 231–2, 241–3, 245–63, 273–83 biblical sons of 23, 25, 37, 94–5, 104, 142, 151, 182–3, 200, 241, 243, 260, 273–83, 301–2, 325 drunkenness of 25, 36–7, 94, 178, 181–3 etymology 23, 85–8, 162–3, 192–4, 232 Offa, King of Mercia 244 Old Testament Chronicles 1:4, 26

Index Deuteronomy 2:20, 100 Exodus 2:3–6, 281; 12–15, 195; 17:1–17, 215 Ezechiel 14:13–20, 29; 32:27, 312–14 1 Ezra 3:2–3, 89 Genesis 1:1–10, 198; 1:6–7, 67–8, 322; 1:27–9, 24; 4:9, 102; 5:25–9, 23, 35, 84, 192; 5:32, 23; 6:1–3, 23, 60, 99, 114, 158, 183–4; 6:4, 99–100; 6:5–7, 22, 87, 102, 281; 6:9, 23, 35, 199; 6:11–12, 22; 6:13– 14, 52–4, 58, 73, 86, 91, 101, 143; 6:16, 54–7; 6:18–7:5, 24; 6:17–18, 59–60, 274; 7:6, 24; 7:8–17, 148–50; 7:10–11, 24; 7:10, 87–8; 7:11, 67–8, 322; 7:12, 24; 7:13–15, 87, 274, 281; 7:16–17, 68, 70; 7:18–19, 101; 7:20, 88, 197; 7:24, 88; 8:4, 110n85; 8:6–12, 61–4, 193; 8:15–18, 24, 65; 8:20, 24, 89; 8:21–2, 24, 79, 91; 9:1–3, 24, 68, 93, 179–81; 9:4, 24, 101–2; 9:5–7, 24; 9:6, 102; 9:8–11, 24–5; 9:12–15, 25, 82, 185; 9:18–19, 25, 241, 281; 9:20–5, 25, 35, 94; 9:24–9, 25; 9:27, 94–5; 9:28–9, 96; 11:1–10, 25; 14:18–24, 89; 17:5, 199; 21:9–10, 47 Isaiah 24:18–21, 30; 26:14, 30, 168n44, 301; 54:9–10, 28; 14:9–15, 312–13 Jeremiah 1:14, 357 Job 22:15–16, 29 Jonah 212 Proverbs 19:13, 102; 17:25, 102 Psalms 28:3–10, 29; 35:6, 83; 65:12, 82; 103:3, 29 2 Samuel [2 Kings] 24:18–25, 89; 21:18, 100; 23:13, 100

397

Index Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 44: 17–19, 26 Song of Songs 4:12, 228 Wisdom 10:3–5, 27, 197; 11:21, 49–50; 12:24–14:31, 28, 303; 14:6, 27, 168n44, 313, 329 Origen 35, 54–6, 80–1 Orosius, Paulus 7, 163, 371–3 Ovid, Metamorphoses 8–10 Paul the Deacon 254 Pehtred 113, 114–16, 119–21, 124, 126, 130 Pharaoh see Egyptians Philo, of Alexandria 8, 37, 39–40 Pseudo-Methodius, Apocalypse of 254–8 Pyrrha see Deucalion Ragnarøk 81 rainbow 25, 82–4, 152–3, 156 raven 39, 43n56, 64, 193–4, 362n37 Romulus (and Remus) 326 see also Livy Ruin, The Old English poem 343 sacrifice 24, 89–91, 94, 178–9, 199–200, 235n18 Saturn 323, 325–7, 332, 372 Sceaf 12, 18, 244–54, 260–72, 282–3, 296 Scyld 244, 285n29, 295–6, 347 see also Sceaf Seafarer, The, Old English poem 239n64 Shem see Noah, biblical sons of Sigemund 292, 295 Sigeric, Archbishop of Canterbury 139, 251

Sigeweard, Ealdorman 162–3, 232 Sodom and Gomorra see Lot Solomon 102, 325, 328–9, 331–2, 372–3 Temple of 54, 58 Solomon and Saturn II, Old English poem 18–19, 319–33, 368, 371–3 Sturlasson, Snorri see Edda, Prose Sunday Letter see Niall swords 200, 205, 293, 298, 304–14, 324–5, 330, 344 Temple see Solomon Thames River 266, 268, 271–2 Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury 258 Thor 291–2 Titans 132–9, 167n41, 314–15, 325, 327 typology 351 of Baptism 17, 33–40, 53, 57–69, 72–3, 83, 88, 90, 95, 146–7, 190, 198, 207, 210, 222–3, 229–31, 235n25, 294, 353–5 of Church 15–17, 31–40, 53–77, 83, 89–94, 101, 103–4, 144–7, 189, 194, 198, 200–1, 210, 213, 294, 354–5 see also Bede, commentary technique Utrecht Psalter 322–3 Vercelli homilies no 7, 168n47; no 4, 331–2 Vikings 112–13, 117, 121, 126–30, 140–1, 158, 271–2, 279, 340–1, 355–8 Virgil, Aeneid 314–15, 330–3

398 Vision of St Paul 317–22, 371 Völuspá 81–2 Vulgate 25, 49, 155 Wanderer, The, Old English poem 239n64, 337–8, 343 Widsith, Old English poem 254 Wiglaf 346 William of Malmesbury 262–5

Index Woden 244, 246 Wulf 323–8 Wulfsige, Archbishop of York 115–16 Wulfstan, (the Homilist) Archbishop of York 42n39, 162 Yonton see Jonitus