THE OLD NORSE fornaldarsaga ‘saga of ancient time’ Hervarar saga ok Heidreks includes a number of stanzas of dialogue between a warrior-maiden, Hervǫr, and the ghost of her dead father, Angantýr. Now often known as Hervararkvida or, in the English-speaking world The Waking of Angantyr, these stanzas gained acclaim as a separate poem, the first to be translated from Old Norse into English, in 1705. Although Hervǫr's parting words to her father entreat him to rest peacefully in his mound, poor Angantýr has since then been revived almost relentlessly as part of an ongoing interest in the North and its cultural heritage. The poem's strong female protagonist and supernatural setting have made it particularly attractive, first within the eighteenth-century burgeoning of interest in northern antiquity, the sublime and the gothic, and more recently in the context of social and academic concern with feminism and gender issues, and a cultural fascination with ‘Nordic Noir’.

I have translated the stanzas that make up this poem myself, for the Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages project, and have worked on them with contemporary poets for the project Modern Poets on Viking Poetry. In the former initiative, transparency and fidelity to the original are explicit aims; in the latter, literal translations were given to modern poets as inspiration for new cultural productions, ‘translated’ into their own style and voice. In the past four centuries, Hervararkvida has appeared in forms that fall at just about every point along this spectrum of possibility. This paper examines the full history of the poem's life in English, exploring its versatility through changing literary fashions and the kinds of ‘authenticity’ that matter in these various contexts.

Most of the ‘translations’ considered here are not translations at all, strictly speaking. Many of the poets and others who worked with the material had little or no knowledge of Old Norse, working from extant English translations or via another language such as Swedish or Latin. As such, it is difficult to find adequate terminology to describe the types of works produced.

It is only fitting to return now to the unveiling of the Black Prince statue in Leeds City Square in 1903, and to the questions that it provoked about Edward's image. The inscription on the statue's pedestal praised the Black Prince's heroism at Crécy and Poitiers, his links to chivalry and his triumph at the Good Parliament of 1376. Newspaper articles, letters to the editor, poems, postcards and even a sermon circulating at this time added new and different layers to the story. But, by the early Edwardian period, the statue's celebratory vision of the Black Prince was coming increasingly under attack both in historical writing and in popular culture. While the statue offers a window into the different aspects of Edward's character that were so integral to his popularity as a hero, it represents only one dimension of the Black Prince's story.

This book has used the multiple reinventions of Edward between 1750 and 1914 to offer insight into debates about the uses of the medieval past and specifically the late Middle Ages. It makes the special claim that in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, there was a vibrant royal and popular investment in the images of the Black Prince and in other late medieval figures such as Edward III which was distinct from later Victorian uses of the medieval past. At the root of Georgian fascination with the late Middle Ages was a new focus on the language of chivalry and chivalric character and a developing narrative of the British as a martial people. Piecing together the different strands of Georgian medievalism has revealed the interplay between royal and popular uses of the fourteenth-century past. This book makes a strong case for royal influence in shaping the late medieval revival.

Throughout the eighteenth century, Kameralwissenschaft was understood primarily as a body of writing and teaching related to the economic management of the territorial state. It sought to delineate the practices that would foster the well-being of the population, and hence the strength of the state. As I argue in Governing Economy, the project to establish Cameralism as a science in northern German universities shaped a body of writing that reflects not how the economy of town and country actually functioned, but that was instead more normative: it articulated a conception of good order in state and economy. What we learn from studying the textbooks produced in the course of the eighteenth century illuminates therefore these conceptions of ‘good order’, not whether economic administration and practice was in fact orderly.

Cameralist teaching was developed primarily in North German Protestant universities; as a discourse of Reform and Enlightenment it also found a place in universities of the Austrian territories of the later eighteenth century, as also in Russia and in Sweden. This northern connection to Russia and Sweden ran through the Baltic Sea, which was a major northern trading area both for its coastal states, and for those areas with major rivers flowing into it. This formed a distinct and extensive common Northern European economic space which not only fostered mutual trade, but which was already firmly linked into the Atlantic trading area through the significant presence of Dutch merchants in the seventeenth century, and British in the eighteenth. The British in particular were primarily seeking timber and timber products: pitch and tar, potash, and also the Swedish iron whose production was linked not only to deposits of iron ore, but to vast forests that could provide the charcoal needed to smelt it. Also of significance was flax for rope and cordage, and linen for sailcloth. The significant expansion of the British Navy in the course of the eighteenth century was predicated upon access to the Baltic trades, despite all efforts in the earlier part of the century to source timber and timber products from the American colonies.

During the eighteenth century, therefore, long-distance trading relations linked the Baltic to the Atlantic.

Sixteenth-century Castilian chivalric romances have their origins in medieval vernacular literature. Chivalric romance bloomed in French during the twelfth century. Soon, chivalric romance transcended its geographical and linguistic constraints, developing into one of the central cultural manifestations of vernacular literature in all of Western Europe. A multiplicity of texts and versions of romances were produced and copied during the Middle Ages and beyond this period. To this day, the influence of chivalric romance remains central to a variety of fictional and narrative genres and media, such as novels, films, comic books, and videogames, to name the most evident.

This chapter explores the French origins of medieval chivalric romance and its development in Castile, all the way to the printed sixteenth-century romances of chivalry, started by Amadís de Gaula. Castilian romances of chivalry owe much to Old French Arthurian romance (Alvar 2002). This exploration of medieval romance is not a detailed account of French or medieval romance. Instead, it focuses selectively on those Arthurian romances that allow us to trace the reshaping of the genre. In particular, it emphasises the influence of those romances and cycles in the development of the Castilian romance medieval tradition that eventually led to Amadís. This romance became the first libro de caballerías. It had unprecedented success in its late fifteenth-century version by Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, which encouraged the creation of new romances throughout the sixteenth century. As I will show, Montalvo's Amadís shares many similarities with French Arthurian romances and this work is the result of rewriting aimed at creating a sequel and establishing a cycle, in imitation of the Arthurian cycles. This chapter will provide a point of reference and comparison in the medieval tradition in order to understand the development of intertextual notions, mouvance and practices of rewriting, continuations, and cycles in sixteenth-century Castilian romances of chivalry beyond Montalvo's works.

Medieval French romance and Arthurian romances

The term ‘romance’ derives from the Old French phrase ‘mettre en romanz’, which describes the translation of Latin works, especially heroic accounts, into vernacular languages for the amusement of the nobility (Parkes 1991; Rubio Tovar 1997: 238). Translations of this variety surged in the twelfth century, particularly in French-speaking kingdoms and later all over Western Europe (Wright 1997).

AISLINGE MEIC CONGLINNE is a Middle Irish tale, the main text of which is contained in the Leabhar Breac, and dates to the first decade of the fifteenth century (although the language of the tale dates it to the late eleventh or early twelfth century). The tale has been relatively neglected, but it is difficult to understand why: it is one of the earliest European texts dealing with food-filled fantasy, is hilariously funny, and cynically observes clerical and political life in Ireland in the late eleventh century. There have been two major scholarly editions of the text: Kuno Meyer published an edition with a translation into English in 1892, and Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson published a much improved edition without a translation in 1990. In terms of popular versions, Austin Clarke published a verse drama based on the text called The Son of Learning in 1927. Influenced by Clarke's Dublin Verse-Speaking Society, Padraic Fallon also adapted the text in 1953 for his popular Radio Éireann play ‘The Vision of Mac Conglinne’. As for more traditional translations, there have been three since Meyer's in 1892: Tomás Ó Floinn translated the text into Modern Irish in 1980; Patrick Ford translated Jackson's edition into English in 1999; and my translation into English came out in 2010 with Syracuse University Press. I was able to do what no other translator has done: I replicated the metres of the original Irish verses, as well as some of the rhyme schemes and alliteration, although those latter items were a bit more difficult to simulate. The multiple references to food were one of the biggest challenges to me as a translator, and also possibly one of the reasons the tale may not have been translated recently: the references are often arcane at best, and at worst, the food being mentioned can no longer be identified (worse yet, the reader might wish that some of the images, such as men dressed in corned-beef coats, or rowing a boat through buttermilk streams under trees that drip meat juices, had never been imagined). This chapter focuses on these references to food, the challenges I faced trying to piece together exactly what food was being mentioned, what these food references can tell us about twelfth-century cultural life in Ireland, and why this might matter to a twenty-firstcentury English-reading audience.

From 1750 to 1914 the promoters of Edward's image argued that his identity as a hero rested on his chivalric character, his embodiment of particular qualities that made him an exemplar of virtue and a model for contemporary Englishmen. Yet his construction as a chivalric hero had its roots much earlier in the fourteenth century. The medieval tales from the Chronicles of Froissart and the epic poetry of the Chandos Herald were instrumental in shaping later views of Edward's character. Edward's association with the ethos of chivalry and his status as one of chivalry's greatest heroes made him a popular figure for late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century historians and writers who saw the chivalric prince as a perfect role model for men. By the late nineteenth century, however, Edward's brand of medieval chivalry was losing its appeal, reflecting both the increasingly contested nature of Victorian models of masculinity and a growing ambivalence towards the Middle Ages and its heroes as usable icons for modern times.

This chapter examines how Edward's image shaped changing ideas about character and masculinity. Chivalry was central both to eighteenth-century ideas about gentlemanliness, and, later, to new Victorian ideas about robust manly character. The first part explores the period 1750 to 1830 when interest in Edward as a model of behaviour chimed with emerging ideas about character, masculinity and nationalism. His image was deployed in the eighteenth century in art, literature and histories in order to instruct the aristocracy on proper behaviour; however, by the end of the century, it was also being adopted to educate the emerging middle classes who were keen to use the past to represent themselves as civilised characters. Here, the Black Prince, as the epitome of chivalry, proved an attractive role model. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, the gentlemanly image of Edward was promoted in new media as the market for medieval events, games and exhibitions expanded.

The second part of the chapter explores how images of a polite and gentlemanly prince in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were challenged in the period 1830 to 1860. While educational works continued to stress Edward's inner virtues, new works increasingly focused on his health and body. Chivalry was central to this new construction due to its association with fitness and athleticism and, later, muscular and hardy characters.

SONATAS

Sonata in F major Op. 5 No. 1

AUTOGRAPH SKETCHES

London, British Library, Add. Ms. 29801, ‘Kafka’ Sketchbook, fols. 83v and 142 (May–June 1796), fol. 119 (second half of 1796); see Beethoven, Autograph Miscellany

Deutsche Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven 28, ‘Fischhof ‘ Miscellany, fols. 13, 14v, 43r (May–June 1796); see Johnson, Beethoven's Early Sketches in the ‘Fischhof Miscellany’

AUTOGRAPH

Lost, presumably used for engraving the first edition

FIRST EDITION (IN PARTS)

Vienna, Artaria et Compagnie, plate number 689 (February 1797), with separate cello and piano parts

FIRST EDITION (IN SCORE)

Frankfurt, Dunst, plate number 79 (ca. 1830), with a score and separate cello part

Sonata in G minor Op. 5 No. 2

AUTOGRAPH SKETCHES

Bergamo, Instituto Musicale Gaetano Donizetti (May–June 1796), bifolio; see Holschneider, ‘Unbekannte Beethoven-Skizzen in Bergamo’

London, British Library, Add. Ms. 29801, ‘Kafka’ Sketchbook, fols. 83 and 119v (May–June 1796); see Beethoven, Autograph Miscellany

Deutsche Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven 28, ‘Fischhof ‘, fol. 13v (May–June 1796); see Johnson, Beethoven's Early Sketches in the ‘Fischhof Miscellany’

Folio in private possession, Switzerland (Sotheby's Catalogue of 14 December 1988, Lot 198); see Weber-Bockholdt, ‘Ein neu aufgefundenes Skizzenblatt Beethovens’

AUTOGRAPH

Lost, presumably used for engraving the first edition

FIRST EDITION (IN PARTS)

Vienna, Artaria et Compagnie, plate number 689 (February 1797), published with separate cello and piano parts

FIRST EDITION (IN SCORE)

Frankfurt, Dunst, plate number 79 (ca. 1830), with a score and separate cello part

Sonata in A major Op. 69

AUTOGRAPH SKETCHES (SEPTEMBER 1807–MARCH 1808)

Vienna, Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, A38 B, A41, A59, fol. 8; see Brandenburg, ‘Die Skizzen zu Beethovens Cellosonate Op. 69’

Deutsche Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven Landsberg 10, pp. 47–48 and 49–56

Bonn, Beethoven-Haus, H. C. Bodmer HCB BSk 9/57, HCB Mh 75 and 76

Copenhagen, Kongelige Danske Musikkonservatorium, no call number (SV 332)

Paris, Conservatoire (in Bibliothèque Nationale), Ms. 45; see www.gallica.bnf.fr

London, British Library, Zweig Collection, Ms. 6, bifolio

MANUSCRIPTS

Bonn, Beethoven-Haus, NE 179, autograph score of the first movement (early summer 1808; facsimiles: Lockwood, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata for Violoncello and Pianoforte, First Movement; Brandenburg, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonate für Violoncello und Klavier op. 69…

WHEN IN 1824 Johann Andreas Stumpff, a German instrument maker working in London, traveled to Vienna to visit the deaf composer of the Ninth Symphony and asked through written exchange whom he considered the greatest composer, Beethoven acknowledged neither Haydn nor Mozart (nor for that matter, J. S. Bach) but Handel, adding, in a rare gesture of subservience, ‘to him I bow the knee’. Though Handel is usually not prominent in discussions of influences on Beethoven, there is a trail of evidence to suggest that he should be. Among Beethoven's most prized possessions in his study at the end of his life was Samuel Arnold's first collected edition of Handel's music (1787–97). What is more, Beethoven's Consecration of the House Overture (1822), with its magisterial opening, baroque-like trumpet flourishes, and infectious, energetic fugal counterpoint, was unthinkable without Handel: according to Anton Schindler, Beethoven's amanuensis, the composer himself admitted that his goal was to write in a Handelian style. Even as a young applicant for the post of deputy organist in Bonn, Beethoven contrived as an audition piece a fugue on Handel's The Harmonious Blacksmith. Perhaps we should not wonder, then, why in 1796, during the Berlin sojourn that produced the Op. 5 sonatas, Beethoven also chose for the theme of a set of piano and cello variations the popular chorus ‘See, the Conquering Hero’ from Handel's oratorio Judas Maccabeus. When these variations appeared from Artaria in 1797, the title page bore a French dedication to Prince Lichnowsky's wife, Maria Christiane: ‘À Son Altesse Madame la Princesse de Lichnowsky née Comtesse de Thun’. By then, performances of Handel's music, promoted by yet another patron of Beethoven and intimate figure of the Lichnowskys’ circle, Baron Gottfried van Swieten, had deepened Beethoven's own appreciation of the older master. We may thus sketch the background and common musical interests of three prominent members of the Viennese nobility connected to the history of the Handel variations before taking up the work itself.

Just how early Beethoven developed his taste for Handel is not known, but by 1794 he had certainly found a sympathetic ear for the German-turned-English composer in van Swieten (1733–1803).

SIMILAR TO TANJA DÜCKERS's Himmelskörper, Heimsuchung by Jenny Erpenbeck reflects a postwall shift in German memory discourse, integrating narratives of German wartime suffering into wider reflections on moral and political responsibility. A triumvirate of difficult histories forms the backbone of the novel: the Holocaust, the mass rapes of 1945, and the GDR past. In Erpenbeck's acclaimed novel, these contested pasts are structurally related by the symbol of the closet. During the Third Reich, a young Jewish girl, Doris, hides in a cupboard after the rest of her family has been cleared from the Warsaw ghetto. In 1945, the architect's wife hides from Soviet soldiers in the walk-in wardrobe of her home. Half a century later, the same closet conceals the illegal tenant (who had lost the rights to the property after unification) when an estate agent shows around potential buyers. The closet, like the house of which it is a part, symbolizes the individual's desire for protection and ontological security. These containers condense questions about the sovereignty of the individual subject and his or her relatedness to others, issues that were catalysts of the vast suffering and upheaval of the twentieth century. Germany's totalitarian pasts and its political failings intersect with the suffering of the population on the symbolic stage of the closet. As Gillian Pye notes, the unifying figure of the wardrobe “allows for the juxtaposition of very different historical situations, whilst retaining the uniqueness and discreteness of each moment. The closet or cupboard links the three figures as women, signifying their vulnerability.”

The central narrative symbols of the closet and the house disclose the metaphorical logic that underlies the desire for Heimat (homeland). This longing unites the figures of the novel, many of whom are displaced by the political turmoil of the long twentieth century. The metaphorical and referential aspects of the elusory concept of Heimat meet in notions of “home,” which connotes both a specific place of origin and dwelling and transcendental ideals of belonging and security. For Elizabeth Boa and Rachel Palfreyman, implicit in most usages of the term “is the notion of a linking or connecting of the self with something larger through a process of identification signified by a spatial metaphor.” To use the terms of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Heimat is an ontological metaphor with distinct spatial dimensions.