Shakespeare and the Gawain-poet

Last weekend, I saw Henry IV at the Folger (a great production, by the way, that's running for about another month), and I have to confess that I went into it with pretty minimal knowledge of most of Shakespeare's histories. It was the perfect time for me to be immersed in one of them though, particularly this one, because I had just written my essay on the Gawain-poet and read a good deal about members of noble households in the late fourteenth century. The play takes place in 1402-3 (near the beginning of Henry's reign) and really brought home for me the sort of martial existence that many English nobles lived. We've talked in class about the fact that warfare was their responsibility in society, but it is sometimes easy to lose track of what that really meant, especially during some of the more lighthearted parts of poems like Gawain. Also, while the play deals pretty minimally with both women and the Welsh, it also really illuminates the complex relationship nobles had to both. On the one hand, the Welsh are sort of demonized, and certainly portrayed as sort of barbaric, but on the other, English nobles intermarried with them, not unlike what we saw in Gawain. The scene in which Hotspur's wife demands to know why he is leaving and he refuses to tell her also really reminded me of the power struggles between Gawain and Bertilak's lady, in that it was difficult to tell who really had the upper hand.

I found it really fascinating that a play written several generations after the turn of the fifteenth century but over 400 years ago still addressed many of the same issues that come up when we read works from that time period, and really enjoyed looking at the era from a slightly different perspective than the one we have now.

Verb Tenses in Medieval Plays

It is interesting that the stage directions of all three plays are written in the future tense, whether using "will" or "shall." Compared to modern stage directions, which are in present tense, these plays carry a pedagogic tone. It is almost biblical: "Then shall Noah shut the window..." "Then Cain will answer..." (592, 638). Also scriptural sounding: "Then let Eve answer Adam..." (637). Although, by the 15th century, as exemplified in "Noah's Flood," the present tense is starting to be used alongside scriptural language: "She takes a swipe at him" (592).

This shift in language could be a ramification of the seemingly increase in popularity of this type of plays. That is, these plays are moving from within the setting of the church to the streets as performances in pageants. This movement could be a start to the use of biblical plays as entertainment. The switch in thinking about the purpose of plays could cause a switch in the language. That is, if a play is written with ecclesiastic didacticism, then it might use future tense to convey the sense of destiny in the actions. On the other hand, if a play is written for entertainment, no matter the characters and plot, then it might use present tense to place the importance on the actions themselves. It is possible that this all could have been done subconsciously.

More specifically, with the 10th century "Quem Quaeritis," the full intention behind putting it on was to pass along the message of Christ. (It might have had an effect of livening the congregation, which could be argued as entertainment. However, the target audience was still that of churchgoers, and it was used as part of the worshipping process to glorify God.) The 12th century "The Service for Representing Adam" was "not liturgical, but it is based on the experience of the liturgy" (626). That is, the play came out of the ecclesiastical tradition, and although it was based off of stories in the Bible, it was not used as a teaching tool. By the 15th century, "Noah's Flood" was performed more for entertainment than for didactic purposes. It drew upon the "story of Noah, a popular subject in medieval biblical drama" for its part in the cycle of biblical pageants from Chester (587). Also, the costumes of "Noah's Flood" were modern clothing of the time, "as with all other biblical drama of the period," compared to the ecclesiastical costumes in "Quem Quaeritis" (587).

**All citations come from

The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: Volume 1, the Medieval Period. Ed. Joseph Black, et al. Vol. 1. Toronto: Broadview Press, 2006.

The Most Boring Poet Ever?

Ever since Professor Wenthe mentioned back in August that Langland is considered by some to be the most boring poet ever (or something to that effect), I've been anxious about reading Piers Plowman. My first impressions were that it was going to be a lot easier to follow than Pearl, which I found sort of difficult at times, but despite the reasons Piers should be a more accessible poem, I can't help but find it, well, boring. I've been thinking a lot about the similarities and differences in the poems and the poets, since I did my bibliographic essay on the Gawain-poet, so I thought I would write about some of the reasons that I expected to like it better, and why I think I don't.

The language Langland uses is considerably easier to understand - there are whole lines that are almost identical to modern English. Of course, his poem doesn't have the same incredibly complex structure as Pearl, so he wouldn't have had to use synonyms to fit his words in the form. But, more than that, the differences in their dialect (Langland's southern vs the Pearl-poet's northern) make Piers Plowman more accessible in that sense. One of the critics I wrote about in my essay (Derek Brewer) wrote that “Chaucer and Langland would have found the Gawain-poet’s dialect difficult.”

In addition, Piers Plowman has more of a physical representation of what it's getting at (the workers in the field, the tower, etc), which seemed to me at first like it would be helpful. So did the fact that his vision is a series of dreams, broken up by waking moments, rather than one long one. Still, at the end of the day, Pearl just appealed to me more because, while it had a bit of a lecture-y tone to it, it was about something we can all relate to: loss. Piers so far seems more like a general translation of religious doctrine into poetry and English: lecture-y without that more human element to make it resonate.

Lewis on Conquest

(Special thanks to Dr. Wenthe for quickly providing a copy of Graham's version of this poem, reproduced below.)

I was struck by the tragic tone of "Erthe Toc of Erthe" the first time we read it. Then when Dr. Wenthe read Jory Graham's version of it in class, it reminded me of something I had read in C.S. Lewis's The Abolition of Man. This entry outlines the relationship between these poems and biblical conceptions of humanity, and how it all relates to Lewis's book.

First, the poem in two versions:

Erthe toc of erthe erthe wyth woh,
erthe other erthe to the earthe droh,
erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh,
tho hevede erthe of erthe erthe ynoh.

--Anonymous


Earth took of earth earth with ill;
Earth other earth gave earth with a will.
Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:
Then earth in earth had of earth its fill.

--Jory Graham

The key to reading these seems to be deciphering the many uses of the word "erthe" (0r "earth", as it were). At any point "erthe" can mean "dirt", "nature", or "human flesh". All are biblical uses of the word. The Genesis author understands human flesh to have been made out of dirt, formed by God himself: "the LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life" (Ge. 2:7). Thus the author of Ecclesiastes can take up the theme: "Remember him--before... the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it" (Ec. 12:6-7). Finally, the book of Revelation uses "earth" in the cosmic sense: "Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea" (Re. 21:1).

These associations encourage a reading of the poems above as both primeval and apocalyptic:

"Earth took of earth earth with ill;"
i.e., the cosmos brought from the ground flesh tainted by evil.

"Earth other earth gave earth with a will."
Women bore to the world men with a will, including a will to dominate.

"Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:"
Humans laid humans in the ground, stiff and cold. Domination resulted in death.

"Then earth in earth had of earth its fill."
This line has at least three meanings. First, humans on earth had their fill of one another. Second, humans on earth had their fill of living (in the cosmos). Third, the land in the cosmos had its fill of humanity (and decided to be done with it, metaphorically speaking).

Interestingly, this is Lewis's reading in his book, The Abolition of Man, although he is not explicit about the fact that he is echoing the poems listed above. But let's take a look.

"Flesh tainted with evil"

"I am very doubtful whether history shows us one example of a man who, having stepped outside traditional morality and attained power, has used that power benevolently" (Lewis, 66). Or, to use Lord Acton's oft-quoted axiom, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely." The point that is overshadowed by Acton's version, but permitted in Lewis's, is that the problem is not power per se, but human nature. In Lewis, the deficit is in human composition, whereas in Acton it is in the power held thereby. Thus Lewis's view holds much more closely to the poems above.

"A will to dominate"

"We reduce things to mere Nature in order that we may 'conquer' them. We are always conquering Nature, because 'Nature' is the name for what we have, to some extent, conquered" (Lewis, 71). These are the words of a man who witnessed industrial buildup, profound scientific advance, and the modernization of society that begat mechanized warfare.

"Domination resulted in death"

"Man's conquest of Nature, if the dreams of some scientific planners are realized, means the rule of a few hundreds of men over billions upon billions of men. There neither is nor can be any simple increase of power on Man's side. Each new power won by man is a power over man as well. Each advance leaves him weaker as well as stronger. In every victory, besides being the general who triumphs, he is also the prisoner who follows the triumphal car" (Lewis, 58). It comes as no surprise that these are the words of a man who has lived through two world wars, and witnessed profound changes in culture--especially in attitudes toward the value of life--as the result of Western modernization. In the face of modern science's will to dominate, Lewis cries, "Is nothing sacred anymore?"

"Then earth in earth had of earth its fill."

For Lewis, to say that "humans on earth had their fill of one another" is the same as saying both "humans on earth had their fill of living" and "the land in the cosmos had its fill of humanity." Consider the first of these in light of the following:

"The price of conquest is to treat a thing as mere Nature. Every conquest over Nature increases her domain. The stars do not become Nature till we can weigh and measure them: the soul does not become Nature till we can psychoanalyse her... As long as this process stops short of the final stage we may well hold that the gain outweighs the loss. But as soon as we take the final step of reducing our own species to the level of mere Nature, the whole process is stultified, for this time the being who stood to gain and the being who has sacrificed are one and the same" (Lewis, 71).

"Having our fill of one another" took its ugliest form in Hitler's Final Solution, mentioned, perhaps, obliquely here (cf., "final stage"). It is in this sort of senseless violence that Lewis sees that our race has had its fill of living. But the most striking conclusion he reaches, also insinuated by the anonymous medieval poet and Jory Graham, is that in exterminating our own kind we bequeath the victory thought to belong to the 'winner' to nature itself:

"At the moment, then, of Man's victory over Nature, we find the whole human race subjected to some individual men, and those individuals subjected to that in themselves which is purely 'natural'--to their irrational impulses. Nature, untrammelled by values, rules... all humanity. Man's conquest of Nature turns out, in the moment of its consummation, to be Nature's conquest of Man. Every victory we seemed to win has led us, step by step, to this conclusion. All Nature's apparent reverses have been but tactical withdrawals. We thought we were beating her back when she was luring us on. What looked to us like hands held up in surrender was really the opening of arms to enfold us for ever" (Lewis, 67-68).

It is a chilling conclusion to reach, and one that accounts for the solemnity of the poems above. It is not insulated from moralism, for that is Lewis's point: we must adhere to the traditional morality which, he argues, cuts across cultures and history (Lewis, Appendix). If we accept the dilemma he has presented, the alternative is dire:

"Nature will be troubled no more by the restive species that rose in revolt against her so many millions of years ago, will be vexed no longer by its chatter of truth and mercy and beauty and happiness" (Lewis, 68).

Spiritual Sexuality and Sexual Spirituality

In light of our discussion of Pearl, it seemed prudent to draw attention to the fact that there is a long tradition, even in works heavily influenced by Christianity, to pay, if not bawdy, then at least an edgy (by Christian sexual ethical standards) kind of attention to sexuality in discussions of spirituality. Indeed, it seems that most today who would call themselves Christians are uncomfortable with the notion that spirituality is sexual in any way, though many would admit that sexuality is decidedly spiritual. While this is not necessarily a contradiction, it seems to indicate that an investigation of the sexualization of spirituality--because it is often considered taboo, or at the very least, in bad taste--is warranted.

Because so much contemporary literature that converses with the medieval period has been influenced by the Inklings, it seems natural to turn in that direction to begin an investigation. For this entry, let's simply focus on C. S. Lewis. Although his works pertaining to Narnia are most popular, The Great Divorce, an allegory on the passage of souls from heaven to hell, speaks volumes more on sexuality and spirituality.

Note first that one of Lewis' characters, a ghost who has a "red lizard" on his shoulder, a lizard that whispers in his ear. Says the ghost to an angel who inquires about the ghost's sudden move to return to hell,

"Yes, I'm off... Thanks for all your hospitality. But it's no good, you see. I told this little chap," (here he indicated the lizard), "that he'd have to be quiet if he came--which he insisted on doing. Of course his stuff won't do here: I realise that. But he won't stop. I shall just have to go home." (Lewis, 99-100)

The angel offers to silence the lizard, to which the ghost readily agrees until he realizes that the angel is really offering to kill the lizard.

At this point, it becomes indubitable that Lewis' intent here is to symbolize lust. First, the entire tableau is preceded by the narrator's discussion of lust with George Macdonald. Second, the lizard happens to be red, which has long been the color of lust and its consequences, e.g., adultery (think Hawthorne, for example). Third, the man's response to the offer to kill the lizard is telling. Although he intimates that the lizard is "embarrassing," he also recoils from the thought of killing it, and goes so far as to make the excuse that he would have "to be in good health for the operation" (Lewis, 101).

Significantly, the lizard begins to talk to the ghost: "[If he kills me] you'll be without me for ever and ever. It's not natural. How could you live? You'd be only a sort of ghost, not a real man as you are now" (Lewis, 102). The appeal to the ghost's manhood here leads the interpretation. But more interesting still is the lizard's subsequent promise. "I know there are no real pleasures now, only dreams. But aren't they better than nothing? And I'll be so good... I'll give you nothing but really nice dreams--all sweet and fresh and almost innocent" (Lewis). To make a short allegory shorter, the ghost allows the angel to kill the lizard, which then turns into a white stallion (the ghost turns into a real man, who is, significantly, naked), and the man rides off on the stallion.

The point of it is simply that Lewis, as a literature scholar, is well aware of a thread in literature that equates sexuality and spirituality. And rather than merely letting sexuality remain a spiritual issue (see his chapter on "Christian Sexual Ethics" in Mere Christianity), Lewis has demonstrated that spirituality is also a sexual issue to some degree.

Gollum's Daisies

I noticed in Lenten is come with love to toune that one line reads “Dayeseyes in this dales.” The first word is unmistakably familiar: “daisies,” but the revelation that arises from the poem is that it is a combination of “day” and “eye.”

In his work, The Hobbit, author and linguist J.R.R. Tolkien addressed this construct in a riddle, given in Gollum’s cave:

“An eye in a blue face
Saw an eye in a green face.
‘That eye is like to this eye’
Said the first eye,
‘But in low place,
Not in high place.’”

The answer is “’Sun on the daisies,’” as Gollum gives it. As such, it constitutes not only the answer to a riddle, but a kind of pun. “Sun” is the “day’s eye.”

Tolkien must have been aware of this. Indeed, a similar name formation arises in his flower, “kingsfoil.” The first half is obvious: “king.” “Foil” is a much more complex term. It may mean something like “to impede,” also “blade.” There is an aspect of it that connotes fragrance, from its root in Latin fullare, “to clean cloth.” Finally, it can mean “leaf.” As such, it stands for a variety of regal elements: a sword, a clean piece of linen, a rebuttal or tactical impediment of some sort (reaching perhaps, but the product of strategy and wisdom in governing; the product of a decree, maybe), a leaf, which is often an element of heraldry. In The Lord of the Rings, kingsfoil is the plant that begets healing to the wounded time and again, and which forms a significant part of (King) Aragorn’s heraldry after the War of the Ring.

Another two-part flower-name construct appears in English in the word “buttercup,” which, according to OED, is thought to be a combination of still two other two-part constructs, “butterflower” and “gold-cup” (or possibly “kings-cup”). Many other flower names I researched arose from Old French. “Rose” is actually from Latin. But there may very well be more English flower names that envelope older words with which we are familiar. Inquiry in this direction might well prove worth the effort.