Allie Draper Professor Paul Remley English 320 10 December 2012

Mutually Interfering Frameworks: Classical, Celtic, Christian, and English Elements in Sir Orfeo

The anonymous Breton lay Sir Orfeo, tentatively dated to the first quarter of the fourteenth century and found in the Auchinleck, Harley 3180, and Ashmole 61 manuscripts, has won the admiration of audiences across time and space (Treharne 550). Rooted in one of the oldest, most archetypal tales that of Orpheus and Eurydice Sir Orfeo combines classical, Celtic, Christian, and English elements to tell a compelling and distinctly medieval story of loss and redemption. Yet the mixture of so many disparate traditions, or mutually interfering frameworks, as Jeff Rider calls them, creates both an evocative medley and a more problematic series of lacunae which no one tradition classical, Christian, or Celtic can reconcile (356). How, for example, did the setting of the classical myth, the Underworld, domain of the dead, become the Otherworld, land of the Fairy King, and for what purpose does he steal Heurodis? Why, after Heurodis is abducted, does Orfeo forego the typical romance quest and choose to exile himself instead? Why does the loss of his wife necessitate the loss of his kingdom and how did the wandering Greek minstrel become an English king in the first place? Though to these questions and many more there are no definitive answers, the scholarship of the last century has yielded a number of persuasive suggestions that this essay seeks to examine. What seems clear is that making sense of this tale will require a firm understanding of not only its component traditions, but also the ways in which they intersect. Profoundly merged, none of the frameworks can now exist independently and examining Sir Orfeo through the lens of any one tradition inevitably produces an incoherent narrative, in which the gaps can only be filled by an understanding of the other component traditions. The incompleteness of Sir Orfeos initial Celtic framework is visible almost immediately in the narrative surrounding the abduction of Heurodis. While the abductor himself is plainly derived from the Celtic tradition, his motivations are not; it is not at all clear why the Fairy King

Draper 2 has decided to spirit her away (he provides no motive), nor is it obvious what led him to Heurodis specifically. True, we are told Heurodis is so lovely that no man may telle hir fairnise (56) but the kings speech is utterly devoid of any hint of lust or seduction, and while he does threaten to tear her limb from limb if she fails to return, there is no mention of rape. Nor can this be the rather rocky beginning to a courtship, for the Fairy King is not looking for a wife; the poet has already provided him with an unprecedentedly beautiful queen. Its unlikelier still that the ruler of the Otherworld simply likes to collect beautiful women for his subjects, though this would be in keeping with the Celtic tradition of a Fairyland that lures or steals the beautiful and desirable; the assortment of humans in his courtyard features both men and women, besides presenting a grisly, not attractive, picture. Why, then, does he abduct Heurodis? Constance Davies posits a return to Orfeos classical roots to explain the Fairy Kings absent motivations. The unknown poet, she suggests, has merged the character of the Fairy King with that of Hades or Dis, classical god of the dead and jailer of the original Eurydice. Her evidence is his lack of purpose itself; the only king who sends for us without stipulating his reason, she argues, is Death, who takes us at his whim (161). As further evidence that the two characters have been conflated she points to Orfeos journey to the Otherworld, which forces him to go in at a roche (347) and underground much as though he were indeed traveling to see not the King of Fairy, but King of the Underworld (162). This melding of Celtic and classical figures also does much to explain the gruesome inhabitants of the Fairy Kings forecourt who, in a scene with no known counterpart in fairy lore (though a great deal in common with Virgils description of Orcuss forecourt), suffer a variety of afflictions in many cases so severe that the humans make much more sense as denizens of the realm of the dead than as occupants of the glittering world of Fairy. As Davies delicately points out, Even when full allowance has been made for the marvelous things which could happen in Fairyland, it is difficult to believe that a person without a head was not dead in the first instance suggesting that the Fairy King comes from a tradition in which he takes not sleepers as the poem claims (402), but the dying (164). How, then, does the apparently healthy Heurodis end up among the dead? Once again, the classical framework supplies a possible, albeit curious, answer. Some scholars point to the recurring ympe-tre (a grafted tree) as not only the site, but perhaps also the agent of Heurodiss abduction / death. It is true that otherworldly encounters beneath trees is a favorite topos of

Draper 3 medieval romance (as tales like Sir Gowther and Tydorel demonstrate), but, as Curtis Jirsa indicates, most of these adventures are erotic in a way that Heurodiss encounter is not, and none of them are fatal as Heurodiss apparently is (143). What is inexplicable in the Celtic and romance traditions, however, becomes much clearer when seen through the lens of classical ones, particularly classical arboreal lore (a significant amount of which may have lingered into the Middle Ages). A number of classical sources, among them Dioscorides, Pliny the Elder, and the Roman poet Lucan, attest to the power of certain trees to cast harmful or even deadly shadows. If this is the case, then Heurodis bears the marks of her death in the same way the mutilated figures that surround her in the Fairy Kings palace do she still sleeps beneath a ympe-tre that, Jirsa argues, suggest[s] sudden death and injury as surely as the associated images of decapitation and strangulation (148). Death by tree-shadow is not the only or perhaps even the most convincing resolution the classical framework offers to the problem of motive for Heurodiss abduction. Davies suggests that the conflation of the Fairy King with the classical Dis may have led to a similar synthesis of Eurydices character with that of Proserpina, citing the abductions temporal setting in the comessing of May (57) as a key parallel to Proserpinas own iconic springtime abduction by the god of the Underworld. The poems silence on the matter of the Fairy Kings motivation is the result of the poets confusion over his heroine: Eurydice should have died, and Proserpina should have been stolen for love Thus the poet, faced with self-contradictory materials, was forced to allow a certain vagueness to invade his plot (Knapp 267). Is there precedent for this merging of identities? Davies answers yes, at least as far as Dis and the Fairy King are concerned. In the Celtic pantheon was a chthonic god similar to Dis, frequently claimed by the Gauls as an ancestor. In later fairy lore he and Dis both became identified with the king of Fairy, if Chaucer is to be believed in The Merchants Tale: Pluto that is the kyng of fairye (983) (Davies 162). These are by no means the only instances of conflation between classical and Celtic elements; a long tradition of blending sheds light on quite a few of the questions raised in Sir Orfeo, particularly confusion within the classical framework itself. Even as it fills gaps created by the uneven incorporation of Celtic traditions, the classical substructure is weakened by its own lacunae. In using the famed classical names (or variants thereof) the poet does not create so much as summon the protagonists of his tale from the myths of the past. With them come audience expectations; it is understood that Orpheus will be an

Draper 4 artist, an incomparable musician, as surely as it is understood that he will lose Eurydice twice to death. It is surprising, then, to find we are wrong on all counts: the wandering and vaguely subversive bard of Greek myth has been elevated to the status of medieval king, a primarily political authority figure with only a secondary emphasis on his musical talents; he does not lose Heurodis to death; and he only loses her once because in a twist unprecedented in classical mythology he successfully recovers her. Thus the classical framework raises questions as serious as the ones it answers: Why doesnt Heurodis die? Why is Orfeo a king? What happened to the nearly two-thousand-year long tradition of a tragic ending? This time it is the Celtic framework that yields a crop of prospective answers. We have already posited that the Otherworld was substituted for the Underworld because of a medieval conflation of the king of Fairy and the classical Dis (and for this reason Heurodis is taken rather than killed). Vital to answering the other questions is an examination of the potential Celtic not classical sources for Sir Orfeo. Familiar elements of the story are found in Culhwch and Olwen, as well as the Vita Gildae, which between them feature abductions in May, the implication of a seasonal cycle (as in the Proserpina-Eurydice-Heurodis synthesis), different kingly ravishers one connected to the underworld and the other to a fairy-like summer region, rescue attempts with armed knights, and even in Vita Gildae the restoration of the wife to her husband (Davies 163). Also frequently regarded as a Sir Orfeo source is The Wooing of tan, where Eochaid, the human hero, is a king (Nicholson 163). Sir Orfeos Christian framework offers equally compelling explanations for deviations from the classical story like Orfeos kingship and his unconventionally happy ending. J. B. Friedman points out that Orpheus and the biblical figure of David are associated frequently from late antiquity onwards, particularly in pictorial treatments where they are portrayed in the same posture, with identical harps or lyres (Nicholson 163). It requires no stretch of the imagination to envision the English Orfeo poet conflating their characters, and thus bestowing kingship where tradition didnt. As for Orfeos recovery of Heurodis, some scholars have suggested that the equally well-documented early Christian interpretation of Orpheus as a Christ-figure, or a good priest with healing powers helped to steer the conventional narrative away from tragic heights and completely altered its emphasis (Kinghorn 360). Thus the Orfeo poets primary conception of Orpheus may not have been a tragic one at all.

Draper 5 The Christian framework also suggests a number of intriguing solutions to the textual problems created by gaps in the Celtic tradition, particularly those surrounding Heurodiss abduction. Friedman, too, notices the seeming absence of motive on the part of the Fairy King, and seeks explanation not in the classically significant location of the kidnapping but rather the religiously significant time. Romances, he observes, are rarely specific about space and time, and so it is odd that the Orfeo poet should repeat the word vndrentide so persistently; all of the Fairy Kings visits to the land of mortals take place at this time, and all of the humans in his forecourt were taken as they slept at this hour. Though there is some disagreement about what vndrentide actually signifies, Friedman makes a strong case for interpreting it as noon (not, as the OED does, morning), and draws significance from the fact that noon was a time of danger in both antiquity and the Middle Ages because man was at his weakest in the heat and demons at their strongest. Thus the Fairy King, in his association with noon, is linked with the Christian Devil a not unprecedented transformation. Over time, Friedman writes, all evil supernatural beings of the Middle Ages came to be thought of as descendants of the fallen angels, including fairies. In this light, the kings abduction of Heurodis makes a great deal more sense, and his noon hunting parties take on a sinister quality; the traditional large game would be found around seven in the morning suggesting he is not looking for animals at all, and maybe explaining why all those in the ghastly forecourt were taken at noon (Friedman 28). Yet the Christian framework, like all the others, is not a consistent key to deciphering Sir Orfeo, and pursuing it further leads to the inevitable discovery of its own internal gaps and contradictions. Primarily, despite a number of intriguing parallels, the Otherworld quickly breaks down as a Christian Purgatory presided over by the Devil / Fairy King. Jirsa observes that none of the unfortunates assembled within the walls of the fairy castle is being actively punished in this otherworld, and, to make matters worse, the poem specifically clarifies that they nare nought dead, but y-nome, or taken (404). Nor does the Fairy King fit the iconography or behavior normally befitting the devil in medieval romance, for he keeps his word and holds to his promise to Orfeo to release Heurodis as a reward for his harping (148). Additionally, lust is the key element Friedman uses to relate devils and fairies in medieval literature and the Fairy Kings behavior is markedly devoid of sexuality. The Celtic sources, too, interfere with this linkage of fairies and devils, for, as Jeff Rider bluntly writes, at least until this moment Faerie was never hell in medieval literature and fairies were never devils in Celtic tradition (357).

Draper 6 There is a fourth, perhaps subtler tradition at work in the poem and though the gaps it both creates and fills are understated, it is nonetheless important to acknowledge the uniquely English or Anglo-Saxon elements that inform the narrative. This framework proposes an interesting answer to one of the most compelling and perplexing plot features of the poem: Sir Orfeos self-imposed exile upon the loss of his wife during which he neither looks for her nor uses the time in the typical romance heros quest for self-improvement (as Chretiens Yvain does when he goes into the wilderness). While other traditions propose solutions most notably the Christian interpretation in which Orfeo renounces his title in an act of penance Dominique Battless examination of the ways in which the fallen kings exile reaches back to the AngloSaxon literary tradition is remarkably persuasive. She argues that Orfeo imitates the circumstances of exile typical of Old English elegy, as seen in The Wanderer, The Seafarer, The Wifes Lament, and the Last Survivor episode in Beowulf. Like the protagonists of these works, Orfeo wanders alone in a wild, hostile landscape cut off from civilization, and like theirs, his exile is a response to the loss of an important relationship (199). Battles observes Orfeos unusual absence of goals as he drifts through the woods, and suggests that this purely retrospective vantage is perplexing in a romance, but common to Old English elegy. For both the heartsick king and the unnamed Anglo-Saxon exiles, banishment is an exercise in remembering in which the exiled person does not look forward in time, and is not searching for or trying to accomplish anything; he simply meditates on his present circumstances by recalling earlier, better times (201). In this context it also makes sense that during his exile Orfeo tends to dwell not on the loss of his wife, but rather that of his community, as this is another theme common to Old English elegy. Finally, the extreme length of his exile ten years is highly unusual for a romance (which typically features an exile of no more than one year), but makes much more sense if the poet was attempting to recreate the permanence of the AngloSaxon exiles plight (202). Considering Sir Orfeo from an English perspective also sheds light on the poems curious emphasis on Orfeos sociopolitical predicament an emphasis so strong it comes at the cost of a more traditional focus on Heurodiss rescue. In answer to this many critics, among them Oren Falk, have suggested that Sir Orfeo may have as much to do with history as myth (249). Falk is not alone in observing that Orfeos difficulties parallel a number of events in England in the 1320s the decade preceding the poems tentative 1330 dating. Sir Orfeos reference to a

Draper 7 parlement (216) at which Orfeos lords are to elect a new king in the event of his death best makes sense in the wake of the revolutionary events of January 1327, when Parliament forced Edward II from his throne (Falk 251). Several scholars have pursued analogies between a martyred Edward II and Orfeo: Edward Kennedy uses Edward IIs misfortune to explain why the loss of Orfeos wife necessitates the loss of his crown, pointing to the fact that this was the reality in Edwards case when he was deposed by his wife Isabella. Strong evidence supporting this connection is uncovered by Ellen Caldwell, who notes that the sixteenth century Scottish poem Sir Orphius and the later ballad King Orfeo (for which Sir Orfeo may have been a source) both occasionally seem to forget Eurydices name and refer to her mysteriously as Isabel (293). The analogies to Edward have also prompted scholars to take a second look at the political situation that precedes Orfeos abdication, a decision some have argued is not the irrational response to grief it seems, but rather an eminently sensible [decision] in light of mounting political strain that results from his very public failures, among them his queens brief bout of insanity and his own inability to prevent her capture (Falk 253). What motivation could the Orfeo poet have had for creating Sir Orfeo in the likeness of the fallen English king? Edward Kennedy suggests the unknown author may have wanted to paint a friendly portrait of a rex inutilis perhaps because Edward, though he failed catastrophically to win the support of the aristocracy, achieved no little popularity among the common people and was a great patron of Welsh musicians (as many suspect the unknown Orfeo poet might have been) (Falk 264). Yet no matter how compelling these interesting interpretations initially seem, nearly every Orfeo scholar of the last century has been forced to confront the fact that looking at Sir Orfeo through the lens of any one paradigm is an effort doomed to failure. For every question the Celtic tradition is able to answer two new problems emerge; all the convincing solutions uncovered by the Christian framework have distinctly non-Christian counterparts; Sir Orfeo deviates from classical foundations as often as it relies on them; and the English hypotheses, though they produce beautiful bridges, build them on shaky ground given that our knowledge of the Orfeo poets identity is speculative at best. How, then, should we read Sir Orfeo when its component traditions are integrated so thoroughly that they can no longer be separated without exposing detrimental gaps in the narrative? Perhaps the question answers itself: we must regard Sir Orfeo as a whole, a creation made unique by amalgamation of the familiar, where worn and perforated layers are patched not by new fabrics, but old ones. In the end it seems these are not

Draper 8 so much mutually interfering frameworks as symbiotic traditions that work to cover the gaps in other frameworks even as the other frameworks cover theirs. Sir Orfeo is a living tale in many senses of the word in its relevance today, in its ability to endure the centuries but perhaps most importantly because it cannot survive broken into pieces and dissected; it must be taken as a whole.

Works Cited

Battles, Dominique. "Sir Orfeo and English Identity." Studies in Philology. 107.2 (2010): 179211. Web. 29 Nov. 2012.

Caldwell, Ellen M. "The Heroism of Heurodis: Self-Mutilation and Restoration in Sir Orfeo." Papers on Language and Literature. 43.3 (2007): 291-310. Web. 30 Nov. 2012. Davies, Constance. "Classical Threads in Orfeo." Modern Language Review. 56.2 (1961): 1616. Web. 29 Nov. 2012. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/3721897>. Davies, Constance. "Notes on the Sources of Sir Orfeo." Modern Language Review. 31.3 (1936): 354-57. Web. 30 Nov. 2012. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/3715049>.

Falk, Oren. "The Son of Orfeo: Kingship and Compromise in a Middle English Romance." Journal of Medieval & Early Modern Studies. 30.2 (2000): 247-74. Web. 29 Nov. 2012.

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Friedman, John Block. "Eurydice, Heurodis, and the Noon-Day Demon." Speculum. 41.1 (1966): 22-29. Web. 30 Nov. 2012. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/2851843>. Gros Louis, Kenneth R. R. "Robert Henrysons Orpheus and Eurydice and the Orpheus Traditions of the Middle Ages." Speculum. 41.4 (1966): 643-55. Web. 29 Nov. 2012. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/2852315>.

Jirsa, Curtis R. H. "In the Shadow of the Ympe-tre: Arboreal Folklore in Sir Orfeo." English Studies. 89.2 (2008): 141-51. Web. 30 Nov. 2012.

Kinghorn, A. M. "Human Interest in the Middle English Sir Orfeo." Neophilologus. 50.1 (1966): 359-69. Web. 30 Nov. 2012.

Knapp, James F. "The Meaning of Sir Orfeo." Modern Language Quarterly. 29.3 (1968): 26375. Web. 29 Nov. 2012. Nicholson, R. H. "Sir Orfeo: A Kynges Noote." Review of English Studies. 36.142 (1985): 16179. Web. 30 Nov. 2012. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/515366>.

Rider, Jeff. "Receiving Orpheus in the Middle Ages: Allegorization, Remythification and Sir Orfeo." Papers on Language & Literature. 24.4 (1988): 343. Web. 30 Nov. 2012. Treharne, Elaine. Old and Middle English c.890c.1450: An Anthology. 3rd ed. Chichester: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2010. 551-66. Print.